Latest Posts by snow-that-is-in-colour-red - Page 6

"When you fight you are like the light.

You shine so bright that we can't do anything but look.

And we see how you're born, and we see how you grow, and we see how you die.

But we fight like the shadows.

You never pay us attention even when you know we are there.

We never seem to have won nor do we seem to be defeated. We never seem to have gain nor lose anything.

And so you don't look at us, and so you forget about us.

And it is only in your final moments, when you see how we remain the same while you are dying that you realise. We've won, we've survived, we are the last ones standing."

Midnight rambling

I love her like i love the salt in my food

(Yes this is a reference to a little story)

I love her like I love the music that plays in my house in the middle of the night

(It’s usually Queen or Coldplay)

I miss her like I miss my grandfather

(He is someone I’ve never met)

I miss her like that book I never found again

(It was a story about a little fox)

I hate her like I hate the taste of fish

(I sometimes throw it into the trash can when my parents aren’t looking)

I hate her like I hate social gatherings

(I always suffer panic attacks)

I miss the version of myself that exists when I’m around her but i hate it too.

I only care about 1 (one) comic panel

me: okay time to go to slee-

my brain: in the sign of the four, holmes professes decisively that he will never marry, lest it clouds his judgment, nor will he ever love. in later stories, however, we see him saying things like "should i ever marry" or "should i ever have a son". he seems to have become quietly more open to the possibility of love ever since his relationship with watson flourished because watson makes holmes believe in love

me, crying: fuck you

i know i talk about this at least once a week but… holmes/watson has so much more potential than johnlock. johnlock is like insults and belittling and condescendingness 99% of the time and kindness and sweetness and tenderness the other 1%. nineteenth-century romance between a brave and kind doctor and a brave, kind coked-up detective on the other hand?? imagine. the language. the gestures. something like (and i’m just spitballing here) “in the soul i fear i have neglected, the mind i cherish above all my other qualities, and the heart i did not know i had before you graced my life with your presence, you may believe me to be, my darling, very sincerely yours, for as long as we both do live”. where are you going to find shit like that if not in the 1800s??? i like bbc sherlock i really do but it needs to get off its high horse akljfkfa

me: okay time to go to slee-

my brain: in the sign of the four, holmes professes decisively that he will never marry, lest it clouds his judgment, nor will he ever love. in later stories, however, we see him saying things like "should i ever marry" or "should i ever have a son". he seems to have become quietly more open to the possibility of love ever since his relationship with watson flourished because watson makes holmes believe in love

me, crying: fuck you

consider: sherlock teasing john for his bad poetry, not realizing the love poems are about him 

Blond people (2)

The second time that he hated blond people was when he discovered that Germania was his father. He had just been captured by Rome. He had just seen his mother bleed to death.

He was sitting in one of the cells of the coliseum when he saw him. With a blond hair just like his. And he knew, he didn't had to ask, he didn't had to think for long. And then he hated him, he hated him with more passion that he had ever hated anyone, even himself. And he blamed him, he blamed everything that had happened on him. He blamed on him that his brothers didn't love him. He blamed on him that he could never have a family. He blamed on him that his mother was dead. He blamed on him that Rome had captured him. He blamed on him everything that happened and that didn't. And then he hated him even more.

Blond people

The first time that England hated blond people was also the first time that he hated himself. He was running, trying to catch his brothers and he wondered "is this the meaning of family?" "helplessly trying to be loved?". He got his answer hours later when they try to drown him for the first time. That is when he saw it. His reflection on the river. He saw his green eyes, his pale skin and his blond hair. He saw everything that he wasn't and everything that he should be. And then he hated himself. And then he blamed himself. He blamed on himself that his brothers didn't love him, he blamed on himself that he could never have a family, he blamed on himself that his mother always looked at him pity. And then he hated his brothers. And then hated what it meant to live.

America: Scotland! Hey dude, I just wanted to get your permission for me to marry England?

Scotland: What is this, the dark ages? You know what? Since you asked me, no you can't. Beat me in a duel first.

12 museums that you can visit online

www.hermitagemuseum.org

britishmuseum.org

www.louvre.fr

www.museodelprado.es

collections.vam.ac.uk

www.moma.org

www.khm.at

www.digitalsculpture.org

www.tnm.jp

artsandculture.google.com

collections.lacma.org

collections.rom.on.ca

Just seen your post about what Holmes saw in Watson, but what did Watson see in Holmes?

I mean, Watson himself has more than a bit to say on the subject. But I would say:

Watson was depressed and anxious and lonely. Holmes is enthusiastic, he’s eager, he’s brilliant, he’s unselfconscious; he talks to Watson the way you talk to a friend from the moment he sees him. He’s a mess. He forgets to eat. He needs picking up after. He makes Watson feel better about his own messy existence.

He’s passionate and principled and anarchic and endlessly unexpected. He is mysteries within mysteries. He’s BEAUTIFUL.

He notices Watson; respects Watson. He wants him around. He teases him and praises him. He pays attention to him, plays for him when he’s weary, takes him out, tucks him up, walks with him, begs for his company in everything.

He looks after Watson, grounds him. He talks about him constantly as “my boy, my dear doctor, my Watson,” and someone who calls you “mine” is a revelation to someone as alone in the world as John Watson.

He is chaotic. He undermines the prevailing opinion of society by not giving a damn about it. He pursues what fascinates him, fights for what matters to him, and thumbs his nose at anyone who expects his respect for their position alone. He looks at everything upside down and sideways. He makes the world seem less bound to be the way it is. He gives Watson a new life that’s less about solid career choices and more about magic, at a time when the world had started to seem terribly, crushingly unmagical.

He trusts Watson. He believes in Watson in all the ways he needs most to be believed in: that he is a good man, a decent man, a brave and a capable one, a good doctor and a friend. He believes in other things, things that Watson might have lost sight of somewhere in Afghanistan–justice, kindness, mercy, an underlying love evident in the loveliness of the world. People looking out for people just because they can.

He’s tenderhearted; he blushes and tears up when he’s praised, asks forgiveness when he fails, starts to shake when Watson’s wounded. He gets depressed, and lonely, and admits it; he tells Watson when he needs him.

He makes beautiful things; music and truth. And he loves, could love, no one else in the world as he loves John Watson.

Blond people

The first time that England hated blond people was also the first time that he hated himself. He was running, trying to catch his brothers and he wondered "is this the meaning of family?" "helplessly trying to be loved?". He got his answer hours later when they try to drown him for the first time. That is when he saw it. His reflection on the river. He saw his green eyes, his pale skin and his blond hair. He saw everything that he wasn't and everything that he should be. And then he hated himself. And then he blamed himself. He blamed on himself that his brothers didn't love him, he blamed on himself that he could never have a family, he blamed on himself that his mother always looked at him pity. And then he hated his brothers. And then hated what it meant to live.

Awkward question, but what do you think Holmes saw in Watson?

Oh, my goodness. Well, he was everything Holmes needed; wry, and kind, and occasionally snarky, generous with his praise, and honest about his own flaws without being too hard on himself. He loved music and knowledge and beauty. He knew how to live through hardship with dignity and how to enjoy good things when they came without becoming dependent on them. He was adventurous. He was incessantly curious. He was a wonderful listener, and intelligent, and quick to comprehend, and enjoyed being taught. He never let himself be bullied or overawed. He was confident in what he knew. He was compassionate. He was deeply sincere. He knew how to keep others’ secrets, and respect their limits and their privacy and their humanity. He despised cruelty. He didn’t judge by class, but by character. He was a hopeful realist. He was quick to defend Holmes, even from himself. He valued truth and justice above even the law, which is an essential trait in a passionately fair man’s partner. He was capable of instant obedience or of acting promptly on his own instincts, whichever was necessary. He was absurdly brave. And he was a flaming bisexual.

sherlock gets bored between cases (lonely, mrs hudson thinks, but he scoffs when she tells him so), and he starts tinkering with things around the flat. even though he makes a mess, she generally doesn’t mind because when he’s done pulling things apart, he usually puts them back together again, mostly in the right order. and on occasion things even end up put together a little better than before. the latch on the sitting room door no longer sticks. the tap in the bath no longer drips. the door on the oven no longer squeaks.

but then lestrade calls while the pieces of the kitchen lamp are still strewn across the table and the worktop, while dark wires still snake down from the ceiling, precarious and ready to bite. sherlock’s only halfway done with the tinkering and not at all done with the putting back together, but there’s a case, and it’s a beautiful one–a body in a place it wasn’t meant to be, a piece of evidence that leads them in a circle rather than in a straight line to a suspect, a motive, an arrest–and sherlock has no interest in the inner workings of kitchen lamps when he has the inner workings of a murder to pull apart instead. 

it takes days to even begin to solve, and every time mrs hudson comes up to dust or to trade out a fresh sandwich for the untouched one she’d left the day before, she presses the switch out of habit and is greeted by a shower of angry golden sparks. sherlock holmes, she demands around the drum of her heart against her fragile ribs, but he’s too caught up in the labyrinth of the case, in the sticky mire of his own head to even hear her. so she does what any sensible landlady would do when faced with the aftermath of a bored consulting detective: she gets a man in. 

she plucks his name out of the telephone directory because she knew a watson once, and he was a solid and dependable sort. when she phones, the voice on the other end of the line is a little distant, a little sad perhaps, but cordial enough, and he agrees to come round today if she doesn’t mind that it might not be until late. she tries to warn sherlock, but she’s sure he hasn’t heard. at least with a case on, there’s only a slim chance he’ll be sheet-clad when the electrician arrives–they don’t need a repeat of the plumber incident. still, she thinks, the fright would serve sherlock right for leaving her kitchen in such a state. nevertheless, when the man knocks on the door at half four, she leads him upstairs herself, sure to step in all the places that squeak, to knock, to open the door slowly so sherlock isn’t caught unaware. she half-expects him to still be nearly catatonic in his chair, knees tucked up under his chin, a habit that makes him look so endearingly young. but instead she finds him at the window, the afternoon light warming his skin and streaking the dark smudge of his hair with fiery mahogany. oh, sherlock dear, she says as the electrician limps up the last of the stairs, this man’s here to see about the–

sparks. 

the word slips out of john watson’s mouth on a whisper of breath as he stutters to a stop in the doorway. mrs hudson’s brow wrinkles, yes exactly, that’s what… she turns back to sherlock to find him similarly frozen and wide-eyed, a gentle blush blossoming in his cheeks. …i was going to… and back to john just as he starts to come back to himself, pulling his shoulders back and his spine up straighter, looking almost as if he doesn’t even need the cane in his hand.

right, she says, the hint of a smile curling around the word. i’ll just… she slips around john watson, throwing a glance back over her shoulder as sherlock flutters into motion, hurrying off toward the kitchen and offering to clear away some of the mess gathered there. her feet are light on the steps as she continues back down to her flat, the grin across her mouth growing bolder. she shuts her door tight and turns up the telly.

sherlock holmes and john watson. 

sparks indeed.

things sherlock holmes has canonically done:

scrapbooked the hell out of his newspapers

put on a hat that was too big for him 

giggled

cried because lestrade was nice to him

got all sappy and romantic by smelling a rose

let a puppy lead him on adventures

“impish mood”

lit his pipe with an ember from the fireplace because he thought it looked cool

feel free to add to this

someone: sherlock holmes is a machine, haven’t you read the books—

me, opening up my ornate copy of acd’s sherlock holmes, with its tender illustrations, pointing blindly to any line holmes says: he’s a sweet boy

Hoy me duele Lima

Hoy me duele Lima,

y hoy me duele Italia.

Hoy me duele Argentina,

y también Australia.

Hoy me duele las vidas que no llegué a vivir.

Hoy me duelen las mentiras que no llegué a decir.

Hoy me duelen las noches por las que he llorado.

Hoy me duelen las tardes en que me he alegrado.

Hoy me duele Lima, la Lima con esplendor.

Hoy me duele Lima, la Lima con amor.

Hoy me duelen las noches estrelladas.

Hoy me duelen los días y las tardes desoladas.

Hoy me duele Lima, pero la Lima que me ha amado,

no la que nunca estuvo de mi lado.

What if Sir Arthur Conan Doyle had written about John Watson? Everything is the same, except that we are reading Sherlock Holmes’s observations about his new flatmate Doctor Watson.

Things start out impersonal, intellectual, but fall right off that cold, craggy cliff before the first page is done with. The detective deduces the doctor from top to toes but by the second paragraph he’s forced to admit having a blush surprised out of him by Watson’s unlooked-for wonder and admiration. For accuracy’s sake and perhaps with a pinch of pride, he details everything that Watson had said in his praise, and ends up confessing to the pages how very agreeable it was to be met with applause instead of derision and doubt for once.

Holmes is later pleased to be written about in turn, but disgusted with the overly romantic tone Watson’s tale-telling takes. In a pique, he begins a paper on the man’s latest conquest, intending to show his flatmate how the wrong tone can ruin a story by using a cold, scientific tone to describe a passionate scene. Alas, the great brain meets a puzzle it cannot solve. Try as he will, his prose will not stay unmoved by its subject. Watson’s looks, Watson’s manners, Watson’s honesty and humor and curious mixture of humility and hubris; they poison Sherlock’s pen with admiration, and he throws the papers into the fire in the end, and tells himself it is proximity to the flames that heat his cheeks.

Doctor Watson has regular hours, but illness and injury do not. Holmes watches his flatmate dash away at all hours and in all manner of weather, leather satchel in hand and shoulders set for battle. He amuses himself by deducing the difficulties the doctor has ahead of him and predicting the hour he will return. If he foresees a particularly trying case for his friend, he ensures that Mrs. Hudson will send refreshments up at the proper time, and that he himself will be in the middle of playing one of Watson’s favorite airs to welcome him home. Between cases, Holmes assists by deducing diagnoses from symptoms related to him, and sometimes even accompanies Watson when he admits that an additional set of hands will not be unwelcome.

Their vocations even overlap now and again. Both Watson’s books and Holmes’s notes will at times mention the same names and places, with the doctor stitching up a man’s leg while the detective interrogates the other end of him. Their lives, their work, their stories grow more deeply intertwined as time passes, and what began as a scientific observation ends up as what can only be called a love letter.

Death

When Russia mentions death there is an imperceptible flinch in the room. He does it causally. Why wouldn’t he? He has died so many times.

           America’s hand still flutters up, aimlessly, as though to touch an old scar, but there are too many. He is still young, and he moves unconsciously. His is the age of bullets, explosions, and distant violence. He knows well the pain of a gunshot. That doesn’t mean anything anymore. He knows what it is to become nothing at the touch of a button; the feeling of fire before the force of scientific progress strips flesh from bone. You still come back from nothing, when you’re not human. He always came back.

           England knows these things. He knows fire more intimately. After what feels like an eternity it stops hurting. The powerful belief of his people drove him back. You can come back from ash. He never felt like a phoenix.

           France knows defeat when bringing blade against blade. The piercing is symbolic; his heart beating itself to shreds as though he could really die when he never does. He falls to his knees, not animated by blood or a heartbeat. You recover from mortal wounds. He still fights as though he can die because others can.

           Spain, God knows, has drowned more times than he can remember. It burns when the water fills his lungs. Salt water is worse. You can still get back to shore, even if it takes hours. He doesn’t need to breath.

           Germany, Italy, and Japan died in that grand war. They did not make their pact to lose. They could have died and never come back, the stakes they gambled. The stroke of a pen can cease the driving force that brings you back and back and back… They knew death dearly enough to dare to risk their lives.

           China is older than all of them. He knows death in nearly every form. He almost knows rebirth. He could laugh at most of the stories the others tell; that though does not cross his mind. They may all argue but there is one thing they understand.

           Russia has mentioned death. There was an imperceptible flinch in the room. All of them thought of it, briefly, in flashes and moments without words, but none dwell. Why would they? They have all died so many times.  

Vino y sangre

La música suena. Los invitados bailan. Los hombres ríen y las mujeres cantan. Se escucha un disparo, la sangre corre, las mujeres gritan, los hombres luchan. El enemigo ha llegado, con pistolas, bombas y sed de sangre. El palacio ahora está cubierto de sangre y vino, el bello color azul de las cortinas ahora esta manchado por un hermoso carmesí. El enemigo se ríe, sabe que todo se ha acabado, sabe que acabo la guerra y que él es el ganador. Ya no hay nadie que luche, nadie que le recrimine por la sangre en el suelo, ya no hay nada.

La chica llora, sabe que la encontraran, sabe que el enemigo está cerca y que pronto deberá luchar. Pero también sabe que no podrá hacer nada. Reza por su hermano y por su padre. No le importa el hecho de que no va a ganar cuando luche, mientras sea tiempo suficiente para que su familia escape. Agarra el cuchillo con fuerza y se pone de pie. El enemigo ha llegado. Y el momento de luchar también.

“The Proof is in the Soup”

A slightly different take on that chicken soup scene in Releves. For @messy-scandinoodle

Hannibal generally isn’t one to argue with himself. He knows his own mind, he knows what he hopes to achieve, and he knows how to either get what he wants or how to adjust any situation so that it is more advantageous to getting what he wants. If he doesn’t get what he wants, he can still at least amused by the process.

Except…

There is now the Will Graham issue to contend with.

Where Will Graham is concerned, Hannibal does find himself second-guessing some of his choices. There are too many choices, or not enough of them. Hannibal wants certain outcomes more than others, and he doesn’t think he’ll be satisfied with just amusement at the process.

So as he prepares the soup he intends to bring to Will’s bedside table, Hannibal wonders how best to approach a recipe he’s recreated many times.

Should I leave the dates whole, or chop them? Might they infuse the broth with too much sweetness? What if Will doesn’t like dates?

Have you thought of that?

And the star anise…surely Will  knows not to eat them. Perhaps you should remove them after they’ve imparted their flavor.

Even on the way to the hospital, with the soup done and packed in its carrying case, Hannibal frets over how best to introduce the meal.

Make it sound artistic and complex. Impress him with the exotic components, like a composer showing off rare instruments.

But what if he sees the truth? What if he sees your true intentions?

He won’t. He’ll be dazzled by the ingredients.

In the hospital room, Will stirs from sleep as soon as Hannibal begins unpacking the meal.

“Smells delicious,” he says, hair tousled and eyes still drowsy.

“Silkie chicken in a broth,” Hannibal explains. He decides on a small history lesson. “A black-boned bird prized in China for its medicinal values since the seventh century. Wolfberries, ginseng, ginger, red dates, and star anise.”

Will’s eyebrows go up. A cartoon light bulb practically goes on over his head.

“You made me chicken soup?”

Hannibal freezes in place. His inability to respond lasts only a split second, but it feels like ages. His mind screams at him.

HE KNOWS. WILL GRAHAM KNOWS WHAT YOU’VE DONE. HE HAS SEEN THROUGH YOUR ARTISTIC RUSE.

Time slows to a crawl, nearly stops entirely.

YOU FOOL. YOU FOOLISH FOOL.

Will’s expression bores into him like a tunneling electron microscope, ferreting out the purest essence of the truth.

HE KNOWS YOU HAVE MADE FOR HIM THE NUMBER ONE ILLNESS REMEDY MADE FOR LOVED ONES SINCE TIME IMMEMORIAL. CHICKEN SOUP! CHICKEN SOUP! WHEN YOU LOVE SOMEONE, YOU MAKE THEM CHICKEN SOUP!!!!

Hannibal forces himself to remain outwardly calm and waits for time to begin moving again.

“Yes,” he finally says, his tone curt.

CHANGE THE SUBJECT, YOU FOOL.

“The nurses tell me you’ve been wandering, Will,” he says, and hopes the burning he feels inside cannot be seen from the outside.

(end)

the thrilling saga

"What is so wrong with me that I love you to the point that I want to be the only thing that hurts you?"

Please tell me, I don't want to make you cry any longer

y'all ever notice how Hannibal can’t seem to look Will in the eye when he admits “for both of us?” Like, when he says “this is all I ever wanted for you, Will” he looks straight at Will, because this is something that Will already knew, he isn’t admitting anything. But this seems to be the first time that he admits to Will that he wants them to be together, to kill together and do other stuff together, he’s looking down away from Will as if he’s afraid of the reaction he’s going to get.

And then, after that “it’s beautiful,” you see, in those famous Lecter microexpressions, the relief that Will feels the same, and he looks at him with this sort of wonder, his mouth opens, like he can’t quite believe it.

And when Will hugs him, and pulls him close, his eyes close in disbelief that after so long, he’s finally able to do this, before he leans in close to nuzzle Will.

"If the world is really dying, would you kiss one more time?"

"Only if you promise me that it won't be the last"

Por favor no le digas a mi padre

Por favor no le digas a mi padre.

No le digas que he visto un cadáver,

no le digas que fui a admirarlo,

no le digas que quise tocarlo.

Por favor no le digas que me vi

en sus ojos reflejada,

no le digas que fui su mano a tocarla

y que fría aún no estaba.

Por favor no le digas

que no llamé a la policía

que solo me quede admirando

mientras la noche aún seguía.

Por favor no le digas que me fui

mientras este ahora sonreía

ya que por fin

se ponía a enfriar.

"I am the world's worst man. I have killed, kidnapped and tortured millions only for money and power. I have looked to the world's misery in the face and I have taken all that they had left and yet here you are with a smile in your face and your eyes, calling me kind, polite, sweet and noble, showing me love even when I don't deserve it. Do you know how much pain it causes me? That you love me even when there are a hundred reasons of why you shouldn't, that you kiss me and smile to me even when I don't deserve it. Do you know how much it makes me want to love you back?"

Part of a story that I will never write ;-;

How do you kill a God?

Aphrodite laughs, head tossed back with stars in her hair, ‘We are immortal. We are ageless. We will never die.’ 

How do you kill a God?

Hera sighs, ‘You rob them of love and loyalty. They will be alone and unhappy, and eternity will seem like a punishment, but it is not death.’ 

How do you kill a God?

Zeus declares, rather confidently, ‘You deny them their power. Poseidon nods his head in agreement. ‘They will be weak and defeated, perhaps even chopped up into pieces, but it is not death.’ 

How do you kill a God?

Apollo closes his eyes. ‘You strip them of their senses. Their eyes, and they cease to see. Their ears, and they are rendered silent. They will be in the dark, conscious and cut off for millennium, but it is not death.’

How do you kill a God?

Hades whispers, though still his voice carries, ‘With another God. An immortal for an immortal. Era for an Era. A celestial being to strip another’s soul. He pauses, the rest are silent. ‘A God for a God.’

L.H.Z // How do you kill a God?