#i figured why not share another small excerpt | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

catominor · 11 days

Note

Hi! I am looking forward to the cato yaoi (I personally think the triumvirs should be involved) but did you have any more furius/martinus excerpts you could share? I know it's still very much a work in progress. I just love your work ❤️

hehe thank you... i need to do evil things to cato as soon as i . get around to it and actually decide on like . an actual idea of what to write lol.

also yeah sure! i honestly don't have that much actual writing about them that i can share, but yknow what . why not ill share this prospective first meeting scene i wrote over the summer.

---

Lucius Furius Camillus’ house was the most beautiful on the Palatine. Or, at least, this was what Gaius Martinus had heard; he had little eye for such things. And yet all the same, he had been curious when the invitation came; he had noticed him before, spoken to him, very briefly, a couple of times, yet did not know much about the man.

He followed Furius’ dignified form into the atrium. He was tall (though not as tall as Martinus) and straight, and thin as a rail. He moved with a pronounced limp; the result, Martinus had heard, of some long-past war wounds which had left him in more or less a permanent state of illness. Martinus glanced up, noticing the wax masks of ancestors hung near the entryway; a practice of patrician and illustrious plebeian families Martinus had always found somewhat foreboding. Furius coughed (this was another affectation of his old injuries) and continued on at a leisurely pace, falling back to walk beside Martinus.

Martinus could hardly picture Lucius Furius in the army, much less in battle; to him the image seemed comical. Tall and stately though he was, he looked fragile, like a slight gust of wind could have easily borne him off. He was around the same age as Martinus (in fact, a little younger, although anyone looking at the two men would never guess); around forty-five, his short black hair peppered with silvery grey.

The walls of each room of the house were decorated with frescoes; he noticed these were mainly composed of scenes of gardens, which were filled with all manner of exotic birds. Finely painted, indeed, although they were old and rather faded. In a corner of the atrium there was a shrine to the lares of the house; its candles flickered in lanterns and cast a soft glow onto the little silver figures. There were flower petals scattered at their feet. The house was quiet save for a faint clattering from the kitchen, the lamps already lit as the bluish evening light diminished.

There was a faint chill in the air; Martinus shivered, and noticed Furius did too, but he did not move to put an arm around the man as he might have for others. Something in his gut told him the gesture would run the chance of offending his patrician sensibility. And he did not want to seem over familiar, anyway. They passed into the peristylium and its beautiful garden. Furius wore relatively simple clothing for the likes of a wealthy aristocrat of his time, but it was clean and clearly the best he owned. On his right little finger he wore a seal ring of gold and blue chalcedony, which bore the image of Juno; on his left index finger an iron senator’s ring.

He turned toward the garden. “I designed it myself.” he explained. Clearly he was particularly proud of this area of the house. “I selected plants so something is always in bloom; right now it’s the narcissus. I specified that the earth be laid out in these hills, so that it might look more natural than a usual peristyle-garden; I cannot afford and have no interest to leave Rome to go to the country; and I need to have something to myself.”

Martinus did notice it was quite unusual. A few trees ringed the outside; oranges, olives, figs, something else he didn’t know. Large bushes of rosemary and lavender clustered around a small fountain, and blobs of thyme crept over rocks. Thick vines just leafing out climbed some of the columns and up onto the tiled roof. The rest was a sort of collection of grassy hills divided by paths, various shoots coming up at this time in the spring to add to the hyacinths already in bloom. The scent of the place was otherworldly.

The narcissus huddled at the roots of the trees in heavy clusters, winking at them like stars in a dark field. A couple of statues stood in the garden; they looked old, the paint on them long since worn away, and never refreshed. Furius motioned toward a bench near the little fountain. He sat down nearest the orange-tree, sheltered under its new-green leaves and doubly illuminated in the bluish evening tinge and by the little stone lantern on the ground next to the pool. He leaned over, lifted one of the flowers’ heads and studied it, still not looking at Martinus. He could detect some nervousness in his posture.

“I… Invited you here because I have a problem. I want to become consul.” Martinus was not particularly surprised. “Oh?”

Lucius Furius finally turned to him, looked at him intensely with his large dark eyes. “I know you want this too. I want us to run together.”

Martinus was a little surprised. “Really? Are you sure our interests are so aligned?”

Furius’ expression was hard to read; maybe a little apprehension. “They are aligned enough.” He paused, perhaps considering his sell. “You’ll never get anywhere without patrician support. And I” he sighed. “I can’t afford it on my own. I’m sure you know my family has not achieved much in the realm of politics for quite some time.”

Martinus looked at him for a moment, thinking. It was true, he had trouble winning over the patrician segment of the political elite. Being an Italian nobody with only a few generations of wealth and one senate seat behind you would do that. But the simple fact was: “Why me?” he asked Furius.

Furius thought for a moment. “Because I think you’re the most well-off man in Rome whom I can stomach allying myself with, as well as being in a position to stand for consul with me. I don’t know you, yet, but I’m not throwing away my idea because of that. …Are you a good man, Gaius Martinus?” Again the eyes fixed him. Stern, inscrutable. Lucius didn’t really believe he was.

“I believe I have brought much glory to Rome.”

Lucius Furius hummed assent. “Mmm…” A flicker of …sadness? In his eyes.

“...Your own military career?” Said Martinus.

Furius looked a little pained. “I suppose not all are constituted for such a life. I was one of those… not constituted.” A faint dusting of pink passed over his face; as befitted a man so pale, even his faintest emotions were written brightly on his cheeks. Martinus decided to change the subject.

“Your reputation as a voice for good sense in the Senate is unimpeachable, at least. Everybody respects you.”

“Everybody also makes a pastime of coming up with vaguely insulting nicknames for me, and giggling about me behind my back. Gods forbid I spend my free time reading the greatest works of philosophy and literature in the world instead of hanging around in stinking, sordid taverns, generating adultery scandals, and frequenting brothels.” He said, bitterly. He had Martinus, an incurable tavern-and-brothel-frequenter, there. Martinus laughed.

Lucius Furius looked up, fixing Martinus with his dark eyes again. “That won’t stop them voting me in as consul, though. I know it. And censor after that. Especially with you, the military man, behind me. You would win glory for Rome on the battlefield, and I would restore glory to Rome here.” Martinus smiled. “You know, I’m starting to like this idea. But… I’d still like to know you better. Come to my house tomorrow afternoon.”

“I shall, Gaius Martinus.” Lucius Furius said firmly, proferring his slender hand and looking down his nose at Martinus. Martinus shook it.

#ficposting #asks #i hope it's not too bad ourgh... but . its fun to show their dynamic before they actually get to know each other #under a cut cause it's not too short lol

15 notes · View notes

shrekgogurt · 4 months

Text

Greetings loves I know it’s late and not many folks have posted but I have things to share. I feel like I had a breakthrough on IKABIKAM Ch. 9 and might be able to get it out in the next few days!!!! This means I get to let y’all know the song/chapter title to!!!!!

Actual excerpt + bonus below the cut!

Baz POV, present

I stare at the shape of the ceiling fan whirring because Snow overheats.

“I’m sorry if I’ve made you uncomfortable.”

He sits up very quickly, but I don’t turn my head. I can feel his eyes boring holes into me without squinting through the dark to confirm it.

“You haven’t!”

He says it too fast and his body language begs to differ. But, because I’m not him, I don’t press.

I burrow further into my covers, blaming it on being cold and not my desire to be impervious to his perception. I want to ask why he asked about my love life but I’m scared of the answer.

“Okay,” my voice is as small as I feel.

Snow falls back onto his mattress with a small thud. Another uncomfortable pause fills the space between us and we can’t pretend the other is asleep this time.

“Baz?”

I hold my breath, “Yeah?”

“I’m sorry I’ve made you think you’ve made me uncomfortable.”

Okay and the real reason why I wanted to do a wipsday is because I figured out what I wanted to do for the piano in the chorus of my Labyrinth cover

thanks for tagging me @youarenevertooold now tagging mainly so y'all see and not to make y'all have to write anything if I'm going full transparency uhhhhh @alexalexinii @artsyunderstudy @brilla-brilla-estrellita @captain-aralias @confused-bi-queer @cutestkilla @ebbpettier @excalisbury @facewithoutheart @fatalfangirl @forabeatofadrum @gekkoinapeartree @hushed-chorus @iamamythologicalcreature @ic3-que3n @ileadacharmedlife @ivelovedhimthroughworse @jasonfunderberkerthefrogexists @jbrrring @j-nipper-95 @larkral @letraspal @martsonmars @messofthejess @ninemagicks @onepintobean @palimpsessed @prettygoododds @raenestee @rimeswithpurple @stitchy-queerista @theearlgreymage @theimpossibledemon @thewholelemon @upuntil6am @valeffelees @wellbelesbian @whogaveyoupermission @yellobb @youarenevertooold @you-remind-me-of-the-babe

#Spotify #the world's beefiest wipsday for no reason #hello out there lovlies #ikabikam #more labyrinth

15 notes · View notes

thegrayascendancy-if · 1 year

Text

A 1000+ followers celebration snippet

Wow. Seeing the follower count grow is ever the amazing feeling, and I am happy to have you all here! As a ✨thank you✨, I wanted to share a little excerpt f something that has been playing on my mind for quite some time, and I decided to write it down.

A version of this, albeit allowing for player input and variation, will likely end up in the game build at some point as a flashback. At the same time, chronologically, this already took place by the start of the game and shows the MCs first waking moments in the Tower. Presented as two nearly identical snippets for immersion purposes: one for Yves and one for Yvette.

Yves

The glow is soothing.

Then you wake up with a pop—and it is gone.

An onslaught on sensations: when a sliver of light slips between your lashes it explodes in a ball of white fire, serrated knife brought to your eyes; a whimper tugs at your throat, a dry sound trapped within dry walls; your fingers crack out of ice, solid and then slowly yielding, scrapping some soft padding.

"Right. Will do," you hear. Voice ripping through the fog with effort, distorted but decisive.

Is it good news for you? A voice that has left you alone.

For now.

It is light, chill and dry in here. Smells like herbs when you are left craving for the biting taste of salt on your lips. A surface hugs the line of your spine, supports the lifeless limbs you try to move but find it hard to. Soft. You could be cold, but you are not feeling it.

Your movement, small as it is, sends vibrations out. There is sudden stillness, you fighting through the fog to see. Strain sits around your neck, pushing down, revolting against your need to make yourself heard, against your need for answers.

"You are awake." Another voice, it seems. Scruffier. Deeper. Older. "Good."

He does not specify, but does he need to? With you prone, the only good there can be is his. Or his companions'—he is not alone.

The thought is uncomfortable: more thrashing, ceiling swimming out to meet you like a lake floor in a dive. Your eye prickle.

"You ought to be at ease." He notices. You halt, if only to hear better. "You are not hurt, your body simply needs some time."

He speaks as if you were fragile, but you are not—except…you feel like you are. Cracked and stitched together, folds and seams still raw, untested. Tender. Most of all in your head.

Someone clears their throat, not to rush you, perhaps, but your eyes clear up nonetheless. Neck rusty, a prickling ball rolls around in your throat.

Three on one. Such unfortunate odds. But maybe?.. Could someone here be on your side?

Would they?

You look at the faces, hazy as they are, at the figures. All standing up in attention that should be, by their design, non-imposing, but when you are the only one lying down it is anything but. There is one in the far corner, perched on a desk, white so close to their face it stings. They move when you scowl, a tilt of their head and a scrutinizing gaze you cannot help but feel. Maybe it should ring the alarming bells, but it doesn't.

Something rustles.

A man in a weathered cloak—that's two, you follow with your eyes alone—outstretches a hand from between the folds of his garment, effortlessly, like it was him that placed it here in the first place, finds a jug and pours water into a mug. The streaming sound is almost as pleasant as a thought of water cracking down the ashen walls of your throat.

He hands the cup to a man, one who has been standing hunched in a corner, odd with his unkempt beard; carefully holding the bottom, he slowly places it in the unsuspecting hands.

The man is poor of sight, you guess, if he has it at all.

Why him then?

You briefly look back at the younger man, only to find him returning the attention. The sharp lines of his face are clearer now, with him coming closer, hair falling around his face in untended strands. Something sizzles in those eyes, and you hope for it to be mere curiosity. He has a look of a traveler to him, maybe of a person that found you.

Found you where?

Found…wh—

The other man blocks your view, bringing you the coveted water. You take a closer look at his unfocused eyes. Another stranger. At least his manner is gentle, as if he knows, as if he can tell about the ripples moving through your body as you instinctively reach to support the mug. There is no rush, not from him.

He lets you go when you are done and lingers by your side. Your mind is swarmed with questions, but only a strangled cough escapes your lips, which is not all that bad given how you started.

"Would you tell me your name?" he asks, taking your silence for confusion.

Huh.

A hectic breath rushes to your defense, the ifs and shoulds completely occluded by the rapidly fizzing thought that locks your tongue. You should know. Even if you choose not to answer, you should know. But the place where you search is unbelievably fuzzy, a white slog that your attempts sink into with alarming ease. That spot is soft, softer than your cot even, terrifyingly soft.

"I don't…" Admittance escapes from your heavy chest.

You hear a quiet, weary sigh like it comes from another life.

Yvette

The glow is soothing.

Then you wake up with a pop—and it is gone.

"Right. Will do," you hear. Voice ripping through the fog with effort, distorted but decisive.

Is it good news for you? A voice that has left you alone.

For now.

"You are awake." Another voice, it seems. Scruffier. Deeper. Older. "Good."

He does not specify, but does he need to? With you prone, the only good there can be is his. Or his companions'—he is not alone.

The thought is uncomfortable: more thrashing, ceiling swimming out to meet you like a lake floor in a dive. Your eye prickle.

"You ought to be at ease." He notices. You halt, if only to hear better. "You are not hurt, your body simply needs some time."

He speaks as if you were fragile, but you are not—except…you feel like you are. Cracked and stitched together, folds and seams still raw, untested. Tender. Most of all in your head.

Someone clears their throat, not to rush you, perhaps, but your eyes clear up nonetheless. Neck rusty, a prickling ball rolls around in your throat.

Three on one. Such unfortunate odds. But maybe?.. Could someone here be on your side?

Would they?

Something rustles.

A woman in a weathered cloak—that's two, you follow with your eyes alone—outstretches a hand from between the folds of her garment, effortlessly, like it was her that placed it here in the first place, finds a jug and pours water into a mug. The streaming sound is almost as pleasant as a thought of water cracking down the ashen walls of your throat.

She hands the cup to a man, one who has been standing hunched in a corner, odd with his unkempt beard; carefully holding the bottom, she slowly places it in the unsuspecting hands.

The man is poor of sight, you guess, if he has it at all.

Why him then?

You briefly look at the woman, only to find her returning the attention. The sharp lines of her face are clearer now, with her coming closer, hair falling around her face in untended strands. Something sizzles in those eyes, and you hope for it to be mere curiosity. She has a look of a traveler to her, maybe of a person that found you.

Found you where?

Found…wh—

The man blocks your view, bringing you the coveted water. You take a closer look at his unfocused eyes. Another stranger. At least his manner is gentle, as if he knows, as if he can tell about the ripples moving through your body as you instinctively reach to support the mug. There is no rush, not from him.

He lets you go when you are done and lingers by your side. Your mind is swarmed with questions, but only a strangled cough escapes your lips, which is not all that bad given how you started.

"Would you tell me your name?" he asks, taking your silence for confusion.

Huh.

"I don't…" Admittance escapes from your heavy chest.

You hear a quiet, weary sigh like it comes from another life.

#the gray ascendancy #tga if #smol teaser #ch: jax #ch: y #ch: mort #this was a 200th post too what do you know!

52 notes · View notes

writingmaidenwarrior · 6 months

Text

OC Description Tag

I was tagged by @tabswrites

Rules: Share an excerpt from your WIP that describes one of your OCs.

Since pheita sort of nags me to continue Moon Daughter, I picked the first encounter of Mika and Connor.

Tagging @eternalwritingstudent @writerfae @sunset-a-story @captain-kraken @cljordan-imperium no pressure everyone.

Two days of watching the female alpha Connor slowly got an idea how to approach her. In the meantime, Danika took the car and scouted the closer area and was already successful. How she managed to find a family without a pack would be her secret, but she gave them the number of the elders and the position of the pack. The rest was up to them.

The homeless siblings she picked up were a different story. If Connor ever got a hold of the parents, they were in for a lecture but for now the teenagers were save with Danika and he could concentrate on the woman before him.

The last days told him a lot about her. She was restless, had to be active all the time and if she didn’t find the time to go for a run she would burn through her overflow of energy with sex. Nothing he hadn’t seen before with an alpha without a pack. It amazed him there was no difference between the genders. Some of those habits he had seen in Neil already on a smaller scale, or more growing now since the pack had no alpha. Could be interesting to bring both together. His phone distracted him. It was a message from Danika. She found a small group of wandering wolves that left their old pack and send them down the way. The way she put it; the old pack must have been one of these idiotic ones with almost military hierarchies since she stated the group was excited to hear there are packs with a more family-oriented take on living together. Depending on the size of the group it would help fill their ranks of adults to raise the kids and care for the old ones in a good way.

The sound of a door falling close pulled Connor back to his task. The woman he was observing just left for another run, just like the days ago. He sprinted over to her and hoped by all means she wouldn’t take it as an attack.

“Hi, excuse me, Miss”, he called out.

She stopped, her body language changed towards ready to attack. There was no mistake anymore. This woman was an alpha. Even if she was almost a head smaller than him and as average as possible, she radiated strength and something that made him budge. His wolf wanted to cower to show the peaceful intention.

“Yeah?”

“I am Connor, and I know you might think I mean harm, but I can promise you, I don’t. Deep down you know this, probably even feel like you know me.”

Connor held his hands in front of him to show he came in peace. She narrowed her eyes at him, her stance loosening slightly.

“You watched me the last days.”

“I am sorry for this, and I apologize if I scared you, but I tried to figure out how to approach you.”

“The black woman with the purple braids belongs to you, right?”

“Yeah, that’s my wife Danika”, Connor smiled.

“I am Mika”, she replied.

Again Mika’s body language became more relaxed but still guarded.

“Nice to meet you, Mika.”

With a smile Connor reached out to shake hands. After a short delay Mika shook it.

“So, can you explain why you and your wife feel familiar to me?”

A snickered escaped him.

“This is a long story. Do you know a good cafè close by?”

“Mind a short jog?”

“Not at all.”

She snorted surprised and started running without another word, fully expecting him to simply follow. Connor could only shake his head about her. Mika wasn’t aware of it yet, but she already behaved like an alpha without knowing it.

#writblr #wynne talks #oc description tag #moon daughter wip

4 notes · View notes

seek--rest · 1 year

Text

2022 Year in Review

Thanks for the tag @starkravinghazelnoots

1. Number of stories posted to AO3:

2. Word count this year:

761,576

3. Fandoms I wrote for:

Black Panther

First Kill

High School Musical: the Musical: the Series

Marvel Universe

Spider-Man 616

Spider-Man Fusions (MCU, 616, Insomniac blends)

4. Pairings: (keeping it romantic since the platonic list would be too long)

PeterMJ

Calliope Burns/Juliette Fairmont

Ricky Bowen/Gina Porter

5. Stories with the most:

Kudos:

Solo

Lost in Translation

Collab

Desperate Measures

Bookmarks:

Solo

Lost in Translation

Collab

Desperate Measures

Comment threads:

Solo

from the sidelines

Collab

the slowest moving train

Word count:

Solo

from the sidelines

Collab

the slowest moving train

6. Work I’m most proud of (and why):

a treacherous gain

It’s not the first “fix-it” I (co) wrote but it’s one of my favorites because it took all the details and meta that had been circling around and made it into a fic that 1) deals with the ramifications of the memory spell and not so subtly addresses frustrations with fandom/meta about the end of NWH 2) made it clear that neither Peter nor MJ and Ned were utterly lost without each other and 3) added in the PS4 game in a way that makes me scream.

7. Work I’m least proud of (and why):

If I wasn’t proud of it, I wouldn’t post it??

8. Share or describe a favorite review you received:

This comment from when you help someone, you help everyone that so perfectly GOT it.

9. A time when writing was really, really hard:

It’s felt like the Spider-Man fandom all but dried up and died post NWH (which is eminently fascinating to me since it made a bajillion dollars and it felt like the entire world was obsessed with it but we move). That being said, I didn’t come to fandom for anyone else so even in times of drought, I don’t stay for anyone else. But it IS nicer when others want to create too.

(Even if they don’t, that’s okay. I love Spider-Man.

I’ll outlive everything you love.)

10. A scene or character you wrote that surprised you:

The entirety of should’ve known better was a surprise. Read the Giant Sized Gwen Stacy and had big feelings Darius LeClerc. I’m still the only person on ao3 that’s written him BUT SO HELP ME I WONT BE THE LAST.

11. A favorite excerpt of your writing:

This bit from into the dark:

“I really thought this one would work,” Peter says, as if no one’s spoken to him– staring off into the side as he softly shakes his head. “I thought I’d finally figured it out, how to make it work, how to keep you all safe and it just…”

He trails off, May frowning and the other Peter looking confused– looking to both her and Ned for help as she puts her hand on Peter’s shoulder.

“Peter?”

“I was so close,” he says, looking over to her with a smile. “Maybe this’ll be the last one then.”

12. How did you grow as a writer this year:

I wrote for fandoms that weren’t marvel related! Look at me go!

13. How do you hope to grow next year:

To continue to write to my exact, specific whims 😌

14. Who was your greatest positive influence this year as a writer (could be another writer or beta or cheerleader or muse etc etc):

This is gonna sound cheesy as hell but the commenters who stuck with it. Our fandom is small but mighty. We are in this TOGETHER.

15. Anything from your real life show up in your writing this year:

Put a lot of my own grief into when you help someone, you help everyone. I’ll never shut up about NWH and never stop being annoyed at the whiny complaints of how it’s “too sad” and “too depressing” and “lacking hope” — what a profound show of privilege to have never lost nearly everything and be faced with the crippling decision to fall into despair… or get back up.

No Way Home you will always be famous.

16. Any new wisdom you can share with other writers:

Write what you want and enjoy what you write!

17. Any projects you’re looking forward to starting (or finishing) in the new year:

without a trace with my beloved prem

finishing the midnights series

Famous!Peter and Publicist!MJ obvi

the finale of my irondad but make it MJ series

continuing I Almost Do

several MTH fics

a special crossover (or two)

my long suffering Kraven fic

about a dozen more WIPs in various stage of completion

18. Tag some writers whose answers you’d like to read:

@promiseofthepremise @weezly14 @abc2411 @watsonmj @bluepinstripes @momentofmemory @novasforce @kitausuret

#seek speaks #petermj #spideychelle #rina #first kill #Shuri #I used to not do these because I was told it made people feel bad #I’ve decided that the insecurities of others are no longer my problem #WHY diminish myself to make YOU feel better #I’m proud of what I’ve done actually!#your lack of confidence will no longer dictate how I express my own!

20 notes · View notes

writernopal · 8 months

Note

Happy (late) STS! How much do you describe your characters? Do you leave their appearance intentionally vague or go into intricate detail? Something in between? As a bonus, how is your MC(s) described? You can share an excerpt or just otherwise describe!

Happy late STS, Karkki!

How much do you describe your characters? Do you leave their appearance intentionally vague or go into intricate detail? Something in between?

So I'm quite bad at this lol. I struggle to imagine faces or body types so they might have one or two defining features and that's it. So I'll say oh, this character is old, or they have blonde hair, or they have a crooked nose and nothing more haha. For me it's more about their personality, aura, and vibes so physical description is really only mentioned when it complements one of those things and is relevant to that part of the story. They're literally just little blobs to me. It's part of why I commissioned art for the main cast because one day I was like okay, I need to really figure out how these guys look lol.

As a bonus, how is your MC(s) described? You can share an excerpt or just otherwise describe!

Okay I am going to add excerpts here because I'm quite proud of them!

Mariel

I gave the room another pass when my body tightened nervously, and the breath departed my chest. Just along the back wall was a short human woman, adjusting a sheer pink shawl over her shoulders. Her hair, a soft sandy brown. Her skin, a pale olive color. And her waist…yes, small and pinched. Could it be…Miss Frère? No, it couldn’t be... She flipped her fan open and turned to look in my direction. My heart pounded hard in my chest. If it was her— No. No. It couldn’t be. I waited, like a fish gasping for life on the end of a fisherman’s hook, as her eyes lifted to meet mine. Through her lashes, I spotted a pale blue color, not at all like the gentle and warm almond of Miss Frère’s. And her face was all wrong too. Her features were too handsome. Miss Frère wasn’t ugly by any stretch of the imagination, but her face was not…well, it just wasn’t like that. She had a softness to her as if she were always being seen through fogged glass. One’s eyes could easily roll back and forth across the gentle slope of her cheeks and the tiny bow of her lips.

Axtapor

His lavender scales were lit beautifully by the low firelight in my tent and seemed to have a sheen to them of the most lovely violet. He was dressed as one might normally find him—in well-fitted trousers, a loose shirt, and a coat. Many trinkets dangled from him, though he seemed completely unarmed and his eyes, which I had only seen to hold ferocity, looked almost tender, making the whole of him appear dashing... But he, by contrast, looked to be handsomely carved of marble by some forgotten master. There was something easy about taking in his features… And the light in this place seemed to agree as it reveled upon the high points of his face and the shadows seemed to melt and fall asleep comfortably in his contours. At this distance, I could observe his eyes more closely than I’d ever had the chance to, and despite being the eyes of a predator, they were altogether enrapturing. He blinked, and a series of thin white eyelids moved under his outer one to perfectly frame the smoke-gray eye within them. His pupil was a vertical one with a thin ring of bronzy yellow just around it, and in their dark reflection, I could see myself.

Fay

She was leaning against one of the masts and somehow managed to look imposing and enchanting at the same time. Her face was long and elegant, each feature upon it well-defined and distinguished. Her eyes were a golden color that stood out against her skin and hair; both appeared the color of rain-dampened soil, rich and dark. There was something about how the very rigid quality of her nose contrasted with the easy nature of the waves in her hair that almost seemed like she could be nobility, but the rest of her told a different story. She was tall for a human woman, probably standing close to six feet, and was lean-looking in build. She had no overt fullness anywhere, though that was not to say that she had no curves to mark her shape out, just that even with them, she appeared more like a racing dog or a wildcat. She was not armed from what I could see, but I took no comfort in that notion; she was plenty dangerous even without such implements. I gathered her to be a witch, as they were the only regular practitioners of rune inscription I knew of, and given our previous encounter, it was something she was clearly well versed in. Though now that I looked at her more closely, her fingers seemed to be blackened on the ends, and the nails upon them were long and sharp-looking. A sign that she wasn’t just any witch but one that practiced the dark arts.

Wilkes

His scales had become almost translucent but still managed to capture the light like some finely cut gem, and just underneath, I could see millions of tiny red veins chasing after one another. Even his eyes seemed to be alight with more fire than usual, smoldering like his own pair of setting suns. The opalescent sheen of his scales, the sealike swell of his sloped horns, and the feathery mane upon his head, all of him was beautiful as if he had been born for the sole purpose of being admired. And what wasn’t his by nature felt alive with his spirit all the same, for that ruby upon his forehead even thrummed with the frantic life of a third eye.

#thanks for the ask!#nopal answers #aasoaf #mariel #axtapor #fay #wilkes #sts #my writing

2 notes · View notes

avatarskywalker78 · 11 months

Note

🌹😂💔

🌹 Share your most poetic line.

Nearly everyone thought Henry a murderer and his son naïve for believing in him, someone to be pitied for his hopeless quest to find the weird and the impossible in the world – and yet one look at Malcolm, at the expression on his face, showed that he was sincere, that he really did believe Henry was innocent and that the real murderer, whoever or…whatever he might be was still out there.

This is from my Henry & Malcolm fic for Cobalt Blue and The Flash - this part takes place five years before the main events of the series, early in Malcolm and Barry's friendship (but post-burnout) and Malcolm is covering for Barry on a prison visit. And has just dropped the bomb that he thinks Henry's innocent which, as you can imagine, has stunned him given he barely knows the kid.

😂 Share your funniest line (or dialogue exchange).

“Why’d you show up here anyway? You know where I live.”

“Cos Robby told me you were, in his words, ‘being even more of an idiot than usual cos you’d run into your old rival’ and that you’d reopened the snake dojo.”

“That was months ago.” He said, and Gemma cracked up again.

“I’m—I’m sorry, I couldn’t resist! No, I’ve just got a break from things and I figured I’d come down and see you lot.”

“And give me a heart attack in the process.” He grumbled.

“Please, if you can eat junk food for thirty years and still manage to do karate, I think you’re doing just fine.”

“Thanks, Gemma.”

(There is no sympathy in this dojo)

This is from my Gemma Laura McKinney AU - where Johnny has more relatives and has a far better relationship with his son as a result. Gemma isJohnny's first (and much younger) cousin who takes great delight in trolling him - and Robby as well, though they're just as likely to team up against him.

💔 Share your most heartbreaking line.

But her own parents didn’t care, and some small part of her hadn’t been surprised when they sent her to one of her aunts when she was six and for the next couple years Nicky had just been shunted around to various family members, aunts and uncles and cousins who either mainly focused on their own families or just weren’t interested in raising a kid at all.

She didn’t ever know what she’d done wrong, why no one seemed to like her, but it hurt – even finally settling at Aunt Charlotte’s hadn’t helped with that, because even she didn’t seem entirely sure about her, though to date she’d never called Nicky a burden like some of the others had, hadn’t told her that her parents were much better off without her.

…Nicky couldn’t help but feel that was a low bar, all things considered.

This is for the Nicky Connors, Cobra Adjacent series and full background - this initially started off as a flufftober fic for last year for the prompt 'Accidents Don't Just Happen Accidently' but I couldn't really find the inspiration to make it for that event. I kept it, though, because I do wanted to expand on it.

It's going to be set on July 10th 1982, Nicky's fifteenth birthday, except birthdays have never really been something to be celebrated because of the aforementioned family problems, so she's been moping the last few days - Johnny, who picked up on it (though not why because she hasn't told any of the Cobras it IS her birthday) comes around and they have another beach hangout and a talk which ends up more emotional and revealing than either of them planned...

Wip excerpt ask game

#Answering my asks #Thanks for asking!#Henry Allen #Malcolm Thawne #Cobalt Blue and The Flash #The Flash #OC: Gemma Laura McKinney #Johnny Lawrence #Cobra Kai #OC: Nicky Connors #The Karate Kid

2 notes · View notes

beardedmrbean · 2 years

Note

Hey, I'm the french guy that was complaining about job requirements being useless, and got denied a job because my name was the same as the company's. Turns out I have another fun story to share.

A while ago I applied to a job titled "Bilingual administrative assistant", the job was literally just handling the phones but with an english requirement, being able to use Office, and having knowledge of financial mathematics to be able to assist management and/or accounting. I have a degree specifically in financial mathematics, so this should be perfect, right ?

An hour ago I got a thinly veiled condescending response saying "Hi, thank you for applying, however your profile does not match the job description because of your lack of experience" (they wanted 1 year on a similar job, which they all do, so that kinda defeats the point)

... So I sent an equally thinly veiled condescending response basically saying "Hi, you're a moron", but 1. fully in what they'd call "professional english", and 2. in a whole ass essay. Here's a small part :

"I am, of course, not asking for a second chance. Considering you went through my resume (or didn’t, in which case that’s on you) and decided that I was not a good enough candidate, I have reason to assume I am well past that point. Furthermore, I would refuse the job even if I was accepted, due to the obvious fact that this company is unthorough and has very little respect for job seekers. What I am doing, is making sure that my abilities are actually seen for what they are, and not what the very standardized and dehumanizing process of job applications will show an apathetic HR rep who will not bother looking further."

I don't know why I was so furious about it, there's something about not just asking, but DEMANDING a year of experience on a similar job that just gets to me. Especially when 1. Everyone does that. There's not a single company out there that will hire a secretary, sorry, "billingual administrative assistant", without asking for that 1 year experience (meaning that whatever "high value" candidate you wanted is gonna be applying to literally every other job out there) and 2. 1 year experience doesn't mean anything, when I've been hired as a programming consultant for developing HMIs, to replace someone... with 3 years experience, who couldn't figure out how to use the thing. The only reason to demand a year of experience is to keep out the new graduates & people entering the job market.

All that made me want to burn their company to the ground (figuratively) so instead of that I compromised by sending an essay telling them their HR rep is an idiot (if the idiot can even read it lmao), and doing what I can to screw them over on the internet.

So, uh, yeah, very productive afternoon I guess.

That excerpt was wonderfully passive aggressive, great skill to have being able too communicate like that.

As for the experience thing, I remember someone commenting on a job listing that wanted, I can't remember so i'll just say 5 years experience with a particular computer language or something like that, problem was that particular language was only 3 years old.

My numbers are wrong, but you get the idea.

Whole thing at this point is lunacy, I get that they don't want to have to contend with the learning curve for something like that but someone has to eventually.

That or people are going to just start lying, which if that's the route they take should probably say it was for some non profit that's gone belly up so nobody can confirm one way or the other.

wink wink

#anonymous

8 notes · View notes

for-the-ninth · 2 years

Text

Thanks @noire-pandora for the tag! IT'S BEEN SO LONG SINCE I POSTED ANYTHING I'm so pleased to share a snippet from chapter 14 of The Life That Left Me. You can find the other chapters here. You can also find previous excerpts under the "my writing" tag.

This is a much lengthier "snippet" than usual. Shout out to @nirikeehan for giving me feedback on the first iteration!

CW: PTSD flashback, self-injury, mention of suicide.

Prev chapters: Cullen was confronted by survivors of the Kirkwall Annulment who demanded he be held accountable for his crimes. As a result, he resigned from his post as Commander. The Inquisitor gave him a choice between taking a small stock of lyrium and going his own way, or quitting lyrium and being reassigned. He chose the latter, and voluntarily imprisoned himself for the duration of his withdrawal.

Despite her disdain for him, Shielan knew Cullen's survival could prove quitting lyrium (and leaving the Order permanently) was possible for all, and went to great lengths to keep him alive. At the tail end of his withdrawal, Cullen had refused food for three days, and found himself stuck in a hallucination that blurred the past and present. Convinced Uldred had returned to claim him, he attempted to take his own life. Shielan intervened, and he then attempted to kill her too (idiot lmaoooo).

Shielan used magic Cullen hadn't seen before to dispel the hallucination. While healing his injuries, she unwittingly revealed a secret about her identity so precious she threatened to murder him and what remained of his family (slowly) should he ever tell another soul (and she meant it).

The following day, he was reassigned to kitchen work. But as soon as he took a knife in hand, his faculties were overtaken by a flashback to that night and his attempt to murder the Inquisitor.

Enjoy 😈

Cullen froze. His mouth hung open and silent, lips trembling as he observed himself from a bird’s eye view. Blurred memories of the dungeon—remnants of the days-long hallucination—tumbled over themselves in his mind. His awareness of time and place faded into an unsettling vision of his past self. It was happening again.

He watched, helpless and horrified as that self dragged a dull blade across the tender flesh of his bony arms over and over again, because no matter how much pressure he applied he just wouldn’t die—and he desperately wanted to die. The demon, an amalgamation of every abomination his wretched memory could recall, approached, and it mocked his fear, raking hungry eyes over his bloodied arms, and he cut faster and deeper, but it didn’t matter. Figures he vaguely recognized floated in and out of the shadows, calling his name and shouting, Stop! But their words held no meaning, and their cries twisted into a hellish cacophony, ringing shrill in his ears—until she arrived.

Her voice was familiar, but distorted, and her gestures were predictable, but she moved in a body he couldn’t place. She was the Inquisitor and she was Uldred, and she was his comrade and his enemy, and she barked orders but he would not heed them, lest this monstrous entity hold him captive like the time before. He couldn’t hurt her, but he had to kill it.

“Cullen? Are you al—”

“What’s happening? Why is he—”

“—just breathe—”

Voices reached him like echoes from beyond, and firm hands grasped his shoulders and shook, but it changed nothing. He was stuck.

“Cahir, get the Inquisitor—quickly.”

Cullen’s back hit something wooden—hurried footsteps, objects falling and clattering, more shouting—but it felt unreal. He watched himself move in slow motion, blade bared and aimed for Shielan. Voices in his head argued amongst themselves, some begging him to stop and others urging him to kill, reminding him of what happened when he let his guard down. The tip of the knife pricked her skin, and Maker—what had he done?

Frigid water coated his skin and the world before him came into view. His frantic eyes darted around the kitchen as he tried to make sense of his surroundings again. The vision felt so real, but it had to have been his imagination, for Diedre, Cahir, Bonnie and the others loomed over him, staring with wide, worried eyes. He scanned his arms for blood and found none. The knife he’d been holding—moments, minutes, or hours ago?—lay at his feet, clean and bloodless alongside a mess of produce spilled from their crates and the scattered contents from sacks of rice and flour. But no demon. No demon, no dungeon, and seemingly, no injuries—unless his pride were to be counted.

He should say something, anything. An explanation was the least he owed them. But what do you say when you see things that aren’t there and make a mess of the boss’ kitchen on your first fucking day of work? Even if he knew, the violent trembling of his body inhibited coherent speech.

Shielan burst through the door and squeezed between Diedre and Cahir. Panting, she looked Cullen up and down, and threw her hands up. “I was gone for five minutes! How could you possibly have fucked it up this bad in five goddamned minutes?”

Cahir puffed his chest up and stepped between them. “It’s not his fault!” Diedre jabbed him with her elbow, and he lowered his voice. “Wh-What I mean to say is, he didn’t do it on purpose, Lady Inquisitor.”

“Cut the formalities, kid. I believe you.” Shielan dug her gloved fingers into her temples and sighed. “Just…give me a list of what needs to be replaced. Josephine will handle it.”

“I-I’m sorry,” Cullen said, and despised his voice for the way it shook. “I’m so sorry,” he said, again and again as Cahir and Shielan dragged him out of the kitchen on weak, wobbling legs, because it was all he could think to say.

Tags: @nirikeehan @a11sha11fade @oxygenforthewicked @barbex @rakshadow @roguelioness @charmcity-jess @emerald-amidst-gold

#my writing #wip wednesday #dragon age inquisition #dragon age fanfiction

7 notes · View notes

xtruss · 5 months

Text

Chapter One: The Kind of Problem Poverty Is

— Excerpted from Poverty, by America by Matthew Desmond. Copyright © 2023 by Matthew Desmond. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

I recently spent a day on the tenth floor of Newark’s courthouse, the floor where the state decides child welfare cases. There I met a fifty-five-year-old father who had stayed up all night working at his warehouse job by the port. He told me his body felt heavy. Sometimes when pulling a double shift, he would snort a speedball—cocaine mixed with benzodiazepine and morphine, sometimes heroin—to stay awake or dull his pain. Its ugly recipe was laid bare in the authorities’ toxicology reports, making him look like a career junkie and not what he was: an exhausted member of America’s working poor. The authorities didn’t think the father could care for his three children alone, and their mother, who had a serious mental illness and was using PCP, wasn’t an option either. So the father gambled, surrendering his two older children to his stepmother and hoping the authorities would allow him to raise the youngest. They did. Outside the courtroom, he hugged his public defender, who considered what had happened a real victory. This is what winning looks like on the tenth floor of Newark’s courthouse: giving up two of your children so you have a chance to raise the third alone and in poverty.

Technically, a person is considered “poor” when they can’t afford life’s necessities, like food and housing. The architect of the Official Poverty Measure—the poverty line—was a bureaucrat working at the Social Security Administration named Mollie Orshansky. Orshansky figured that if poverty was fundamentally about a lack of income that could cover the basics, and if nothing was more basic than food, then you could calculate poverty with two pieces of information: the cost of food in a given year and the share of a family’s budget dedicated to it. Orshansky determined that bare-bones food expenditures accounted for roughly a third of an American family’s budget. If a family of four needed, say, $1,000 a year in 1965 to feed themselves, then any family making less than $3,000 a year (or around $27,000 at the beginning of 2022) would be considered poor because they would be devoting more than a third of their income to food, forgoing other necessities. Orshansky published her findings in January of that year, writing, “There is thus a total of 50 million persons—of whom 22 million are young children—who live within the bleak circle of poverty or at least hover around its edge.” It was a number that shocked affluent Americans.

Today’s Official Poverty Measure is still based on Orshansky’s calculation, annually updated for inflation. In 2022, the poverty line was drawn at $13,590 a year for a single person and $27,750 a year for a family of four.

As I’ve said, we can’t hope to understand why there is so much poverty in America solely by considering the lives of the poor. But we need to start there, to better understand the kind of problem poverty is—and grasp the stakes—because poverty is not simply a matter of small incomes. In the words of the poet Layli Long Soldier, that’s just “the oil at the surface.”

I met Crystal Mayberry when I was living in Milwaukee and researching my last book, on eviction and the American housing crisis. Crystal was born prematurely on a spring day in 1990, shortly after her pregnant mother was stabbed eleven times in the back while being robbed. The attack induced labor. Both mother and daughter survived. It was not the first time Crystal’s mother had been stabbed. For as far back as Crystal can remember, her father beat her mother. He smoked crack cocaine, and so did her mother; so did her mother’s mother.

Crystal’s mother found a way to leave her father, and soon after, he began a lengthy prison stint. Crystal and her mother moved in with another man and his parents. That man’s father began molesting Crystal. She told her mother, and her mother called her a liar. Not long after Crystal began kindergarten, Child Protective Services, the branch of government tasked with safeguarding children from maltreatment, stepped in. At five, Crystal was placed in foster care.

Crystal bounced around between dozens of group homes and sets of foster parents. She lived with her aunt for five years. Then her aunt returned her. After that, the longest Crystal lived anywhere was eight months. When she reached adolescence, Crystal fought with the other girls in the group homes. She picked up assault charges and a scar across her right cheekbone. People and their houses, pets, furniture, dishes—these came and went. Food was more stable, and Crystal began taking refuge in it. She put on weight. Because of her weight, she developed sleep apnea.

When Crystal was sixteen, she stopped going to high school. At seventeen, she was examined by a clinical psychologist, who diagnosed her with, among other things, bipolar disorder, post-traumatic stress disorder, reactive attachment disorder, and borderline intellectual functioning. When she turned eighteen, she aged out of foster care. By that time Crystal had passed through more than twenty-five foster placements. Because of her mental illness, she had been approved for Supplemental Security Income (SSI), a government income subsidy for low-income people who are old, blind, or who have a disability. She would receive $754 a month, or a little over $9,000 a year.

Crystal was barred from low-income housing for two years because of an assault charge she received for fighting in the group home. Even if she had not been barred, she would still have found herself at the bottom of a waiting list that was six years long. Crystal secured her first apartment in the private market: a run-down two-bedroom unit. The apartment was located in a majority-Black neighborhood that ranked among the city’s poorest, but Crystal herself was Black and had been turned down for apartments in the Hispanic and white areas of town. Crystal’s rent took 73 percent of her income, and it wasn’t long before she fell behind. A few months after moving in, she experienced her first official eviction, which went on her record, making it likely that her application for housing assistance would be denied. After her eviction, Crystal met a woman at a homeless shelter and secured another apartment with her new friend. Then Crystal put that new friend’s friend through a window, and the landlord told Crystal to leave.

Crystal spent nights in shelters, with friends, and with members of her church. She learned how to live on the streets, walking them at night and sleeping on the bus or in hospital waiting rooms during the day. She learned to survive by relying on strangers. She met a woman at a bus stop and ended up living with her for a month. People were attracted to Crystal. She was gregarious and funny, with an endearing habit of slapping her hands together and laughing at herself. She sang in public, gospel mostly.

Crystal had always believed that her SSI was secure. You couldn’t get fired from SSI, and your hours couldn’t get cut. “SSI always come,” she said. Until one day it didn’t. Crystal had been approved for SSI as a minor, but her adult reevaluation found her ineligible. Now her only source of income was food stamps. She tried donating plasma, but her veins were too small. She burned through the remaining ties she had from church and her foster families. When her SSI was not reinstated after several months, she descended into street homelessness and prostitution. Crystal had never been an early riser, but she learned that mornings were the best time to turn tricks, catching men on their way to work.

For Crystal and people in similar situations, poverty is about money, of course, but it is also a relentless piling on of problems.

Poverty is pain, physical pain. It is in the backaches of home health aides and certified nursing assistants, who bend their bodies to hoist the old and sick out of beds and off toilets; it is in the feet and knees of cashiers made to stand while taking our orders and ringing up our items; it is in the skin rashes and migraines of maids who clean our office buildings, homes, and hotel rooms with products containing ammonia and triclosan.

In America’s meatpacking plants, two amputations occur each week: A band saw lops off someone’s finger or hand. Pickers in Amazon warehouses have access to vending machines dispensing free Advil and Tylenol. Slum housing spreads asthma, its mold and cockroach allergens seeping into young lungs and airways, and it poisons children with lead, causing irreversible damage to their tiny central nervous systems and brains. Poverty is the cancer that forms in the cells of those who live near petrochemical plants and waste incinerators. Roughly one in four children living in poverty have untreated cavities, which can morph into tooth decay, causing sharp pain and spreading infection to their faces and even brains. With public insurance reimbursing only a fraction of dental care costs, many families simply cannot afford regular trips to the dentist. Thirty million Americans remain completely uninsured a decade after the passage of the Affordable Care Act.

About Poverty, By America

#1 New York Times Bestseller • The Pulitzer Prize–winning author of Evicted reimagines the debate on poverty, making a “provocative and compelling” (NPR) argument about why it persists in America: because the rest of us benefit from it.

“Urgent and accessible . . . Its moral force is a gut punch.” — The New Yorker

A Best Book of the Year: The New Yorker, The New York Times Book Review, NPR, Oprah Daily, Time, Chicago Public Library

Winner of the Inc. Non-Obvious Book Award • Longlisted for the Andrew Carnegie Medal

The United States, the richest country on earth, has more poverty than any other advanced democracy. Why? Why does this land of plenty allow one in every eight of its children to go without basic necessities, permit scores of its citizens to live and die on the streets, and authorize its corporations to pay poverty wages?

In this landmark book, acclaimed sociologist Matthew Desmond draws on history, research, and original reporting to show how affluent Americans knowingly and unknowingly keep poor people poor. Those of us who are financially secure exploit the poor, driving down their wages while forcing them to overpay for housing and access to cash and credit. We prioritize the subsidization of our wealth over the alleviation of poverty, designing a welfare state that gives the most to those who need the least. And we stockpile opportunity in exclusive communities, creating zones of concentrated riches alongside those of concentrated despair. Some lives are made small so that others may grow.

Elegantly written and fiercely argued, this compassionate book gives us new ways of thinking about a morally urgent problem. It also helps us imagine solutions. Desmond builds a startlingly original and ambitious case for ending poverty. He calls on us all to become poverty abolitionists, engaged in a politics of collective belonging to usher in a new age of shared prosperity and, at last, true freedom.

Praise:

“A searing, essential book . . .[that] solidifies Desmond’s status as a remarkable chronicler of our times.”—Vulture

“The passion, eloquence, and lively storytelling that made Evicted a Pulitzer Prize–winning bestseller are back in force as Desmond continues to speak on behalf of America’s most hard-pressed. Desmond is our national conscience.”—Oprah Daily

“Desmond’s new book is short, smart, and thrilling. The thrill comes from the sheer boldness of Desmond’s argument and his carefully modulated but very real tone of outrage that underlies his words.”—Rolling Stone

“[Desmond’s] arguments have the potential to push debate about wealth in America to a new level. . . . The brilliance of Poverty, By America . . . is provided by effective storytelling, which illustrates that poverty has become a way of life.”—The Guardian

“Poverty, by America is a searing moral indictment of how and why the United States tolerates such high levels of poverty and of inequality . . . [and] a hands-on call to action.”—The Nation

“A fierce polemic on an enduring problem . . . [Desmond] writes movingly about the psychological scars of poverty . . . and his prose can be crisp, elegant, and elegiac.”—The Economist

“Provocative and compelling . . . [Desmond] packs in a sweeping array of examples and numbers to support his thesis and . . . the accumulation has the effect of shifting one’s brain ever so slightly to change the entire frame of reference.”—NPR

“A data-driven manifesto that turns a critical eye on those who inflict and perpetuate unlivable conditions on others.”—The Boston Globe

“Urgent and accessible . . . It’s refreshing to read a work of social criticism that eschews the easy and often smug allure of abstraction, in favor of plainspoken practicality. Its moral force is a gut punch.”—The New Yorker

“A compact jeremiad on the persistence of extreme want in a nation of extraordinary wealth . . . [Desmond’s] purpose here is to draw attention to what’s plain in front of us—damn the etiquette, and damn the grand abstractions.”—The New York Times Book Review

“[T]hrough in-depth research and original reporting, the acclaimed sociologist offers solutions that would help spread America’s wealth and make everyone more prosperous.”—Time

“Desmond’s book makes an urgent and unignorable appeal to our national conscience, one that has been quietly eroded over decades of increasing personal consumption and untiring corporate greed.”—Claire Messud, Harper’s Magazine

“[Poverty, by America is] a book that could alter the way you see the world. . . . It reads almost like a passionate speech, urging us to dig deeper, to forget what we think we know as we try to understand the inequities upon which America was built. . . . A surprisingly hopeful work.”—Minneapolis Star Tribune

“Desmond’s electrifying pen cuts through the usual evasions and exposes the ‘selfish,’ ‘dishonest’ and ‘sinful’ pretence that poverty is a problem that America cannot afford to fix, rather than one it chooses not to.”—Prospect

“A powerful polemic, one that has expanded and deepened my understanding of American poverty. Desmond approaches the subject with a refreshing candidness and directs his ire toward all the right places.”—Roxane Gay

“Passionate and empathetic.”—Salon

“This book is essential and instructive, hopeful and enraging.”—Ann Patchett

— About Matthew Desmond: Matthew Desmond is a Professor of Sociology at Princeton University. After receiving his Ph.D. in 2010 from the University of Wisconsin at Madison, he joined the Harvard Society of Fellows as a Junior Fellow.

0 notes

teriwrites · 3 years

Text

The Funeral

The chapel was already overflowing with people when they arrived.

Winnie's parents were sitting in the front row, surrounded by family, friends, and acquaintances, all offering their condolences. They had decided against visitation the night before, a choice that had been intended to gently discourage other townsfolk from overwhelming the family with their chatter. Instead, it had merely held them at bay.

Leslie was quick to disappear into the crowd, which Winnie appreciated silently. With a deep breath to steady herself, she stormed forwards, unrepentant as she nudged and pushed people aside. The mass was resistant, at first, but began to part when they realized who was coming through.

Mrs. Pewitt shifted to offer Winnie a place to sit and wrapped an arm around her daughter. As Winnie settled her head against her mother's shoulder, Mrs. Pewitt whispered, "Thank you."

The gratefulness extended not only from Winnie's punctuality, but also due to the effect her presence had on the crowds. They immediately began to disperse following her arrival, though whether this was due to their refusal to cross the young woman on such a delicate morning, or because Pastor Glynn made for the pulpit wasn't clear.

The minister cleared his throat when he reached the front of the chapel, though there was no need. His chapel had never been so packed, or so eerily silent. Every pew was filled, and still dozens of others stood in the back, tightly pressed to take up any vacant space along the wall. Winnie had taken them in at the entrance. Every resident of Bildenbey must've been present for Bran's funeral, even those she knew by face but not by name.

It should have been an honor, but their eager preying on the social gathering turned the solemnity into more of a spectacle. As though Bran was some tragic figure and not a missing child.

#my writing #writing #writeblr #writers on tumblr #teriwrites #beneath alder creek #bac excerpt #i finally returned to write a bit more of my draft tonight #and to celebrate getting something done after Months #i figured why not share another small excerpt #i'm not gonna say i'm about to become active again #but #if all goes according to plan #this may not be the last time i show up with something to share #[side eyes emoji]

4 notes · View notes

donaweasley · 3 years

Text

Their Little Secret

Pairing: Loki x Fem!Reader

Plot: This can be read as a sequel to What If or even as a solo.

The reader and Loki have been best friends for long, but eventually realised that it was more than just friendship. As they secretly step into a new world, the entire team, unbeknownst to it all, makes it their mission to make the love birds realise and confess what they feel for each other.

Warnings: Fluff, slight angst in relationship, a happy ending! Oh! And late-night hazards and a long read. Sorry!

Read time: ~26 mins

“(Y/N), could you please take a look at this once?”

Loki waltzed in through (Y/N)’s door with a file in his hand. She was reading a book, when he knocked.

“It’s pretty late. I thought you said you’d go straight to bed. What are you doing with this poor old piece of rat-food now?”

“I did. But then I couldn’t sleep. So...I thought of doing something boring enough to lull me to sleep. But this old file actually turned out to be quite interesting,” he explained animatedly. “I just couldn’t understand one part. So, here I am!”

She eyed him suspiciously as he spread his arms to accentuate his royal presence.

“That, or you wanted to see me, and this file is a flimsy excuse,” she drawled.

“Come on, darling! I’m fond of you but not to the extent that I’ll have to make lame excuses to see you. Besides, why would I need to lie to you?”

After taking a moment to consider his words, she stepped beside him and asked him to show the file.

“It is here - this part,” he pointed at a chunk of printed information.

“This one is…” She pondered aloud. “That doesn’t make sense! Loki, w-where did you get this from? That doesn’t look like any mission report or anything. It looks like...an excerpt...from...a book?”

Before she could register, a kiss landed on her cheek. It was immediately followed by Loki excitedly wishing her, “Goodnight, darling,” and vanishing into a green glow.

She stood stunned for a while. Gradually, the tingling sensation where Loki’s lips had caressed her skin began to spread like wildfire through her face, and soon she was blushing and smiling like an idiot.

“Idiot!” She cursed him as she flopped back on the bed.

After a few seconds of fiddling with the bookmark, and staring at blurred lines on the page, she closed the book, and decided to call it a night. After what Loki just did, nothing else could compare to a happier ending to the day.

As she closed her eyes, sunny memories started flooding her mind.

It had all started hardly two months ago, when they were having their usual midnight snacks, casually talking the day’s stress away, talking nonsense - just the usual best buddy night.

But then something happened: a childish game of “what-ifs”.

It was fun, for the most part, until Loki had asked her about her intentions if she met the love of her life the next day. Already stained with painful memories of past relationships and with the hopelessness about her love life, she tried her best to evade the question. But Loki, being Loki, kept proding her until she gave him a genuine reason for her frustration.

And everything changed after that. Because in trying to save the other from falling down the emotional cliff, they had saved each other. They had found each other.

She laughed softly as she remembered the hesitancy in both their hearts as they had crossed the threshold of friendship.

That was the first time that she had kissed him. On the cheek. And that was even before she had fully realised that her feelings for him were no longer platonic.

That was the first time Loki had put an arm around her and pulled her close to him.

Another giggle escaped her as she remembered the moment when the soft morning light, and a stiff back had awakened her from her sleep.

Both were still sitting in almost the same position as they had been when they were chatting.

She had found herself cocooned in the arms of Loki, her legs tangled with his, both of them safe under the thin blanket that Loki had picked while preparing for their night. Her head rested on his chest, while his rested on the top of her head.

The last thing that she remembered from the previous night was them promising each other that no matter how things turned out, they’d always be beside one another. And then Loki had pulled her closer, and gently laid her head on his throbbing chest.

It was now peacefully moving up and down with his sleepy breaths. Before opening her eyes to reality, she stole a few moments to let this feeling sink in.

When she had closed her eyes the night before, there was an excitement so high in the air that Thor’s thunder would have been ashamed. It was the hammering of Loki’s heart that had eventually put her to sleep.

The morning brought a peaceful rhythm beneath her ears. It was beautiful, it was calm, it was...reassuring. She loved it more than the thrill of the past few hours.

But no matter how long she tried to soak herself in the feeling, the incidents of the night before still seemed somewhat unbelievable. How could something months long change overnight? Was it all a mirage then, cast by the treacherous night?

The darkness of the night sets the mind free to imagine anything, take any decision. But the clarity of the day brings logic to the forefront, which sometimes turns out to be good but sometimes not so good.

But...it had felt right. She took a deep breath to clear her mind. It still felt right. That was all the assurance that she needed for the moment.

As she turned in her bed, she remembered the raspy voice in which Loki had wished her a good morning.

The close proximity, the husky, sleep-laden voice, the sudden change in the air - everything made blood rush to her cheeks and ears. Loki had sleepily chuckled at her flushed state, though he was only slightly better than her in hiding his own flustered state.

Ever since, not a single day had passed when the two of them hadn’t thanked the stars.

She used to think that she loved Loki’s friendship more than anything. She was happy to be proven wrong when she experienced Loki’s courtship.

A different flower everyday, sometimes inside her room, laid carefully near her door, sometimes on her bedside table, and on some mornings, beside her pillow.

She was used to going out with her best friend Loki, but going out with her boyfriend Loki was an experience on a whole new level. Light brushes of the fingers, sometimes an arm around her shoulder, intertwining of fingers, occasional brushes of his lips on her temple, and not-very-occasional blushes that tinted both their skins.

Every day, before parting for the day, she was blessed with bear hugs from him - something that she had never expected him to be fond of.

It was the best time of her life! Almost every doubt that she had about this relationship not working out had evaporated long ago. It was - she dared to say - perfect!

Except for one small hiccup: they had to keep everything off the radar.

For one, they were still testing the waters. No matter how happy and confident they were with one another, their newfound relationship was still at its infancy, and they didn’t want to declare anything to the rest of the team right away.

Second, everybody in the compound had been teasing both (Y/N) and Loki about “getting a room” for a long time. They didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of knowing that they were finally correct. Well, figuratively.

Unfortunately, the team did not know that they had already confessed their feelings to each other. And so, they were desperate to make the love birds see the truth of their emotions. The Avengers, tough and stubborn as they were, never gave up. And Loki and (Y/N) simply decided to play along.

For instance, around a month and a half ago, Tony had thrown one of his usual parties at the compound, and had brought a line of apparent suitors for (Y/N) and a host of gorgeous ladies and lads to introduce to Loki.

Though the new couple was initially confused at the unbridled attention, they eventually understood what was going on: Tony Stark had decided to use the age-old recipe of jealousy to crack either one or both of them.

It was fun, they both admitted later, to dance to the tune, and give the host a frowning face when he realised that neither were biting the bait. Instead, both seemed to be enjoying themselves flirting or dancing with their respective “baits”.

What escaped the eagle eyes of the team were the furtive looks that both (Y/N) and Loki threw at each other from time to time. It wasn’t easy to masquerade those longing glances with playful teases that two friends might share. But they had to.

Late into the night, after the party was over, Loki teleported into (Y/N)’s room. The security cameras were still a threat to their little secret.

“Hello beautiful!” Loki purred when she didn’t turn all her attention towards him as she usually did, but kept herself apparently busy in making the bed.

“Is this my consolation prize for all your flirting this evening?” She tried to keep it casual but her displeasure seeped into her tone.

“Ooh, someone sounds jealous,” he drawled.

“Speak for yourself, God!”

Loki stepped towards her, and gently caught her hand, putting a pause to her actions.

“Look at me. Please?”

She smiled as she faced him, but he could easily catch the facade.

“I know what you're trying to do. You can’t fool me, (Y/N).”

“And what is it that I’m doing?” She tried to question with the same casualness but her voice kept betraying her.

“You are trying to make it look like it didn’t affect you - me being with all those lovely people. But in reality, you are hurt, even if it is a tiny bit.”

Her smile faltered. Of course, she couldn’t fool the God of Lies!

Closing her eyes, she shook her head, “I don’t know why you’re saying this Loki. I’m perfectly fine! Why would I-”

“You and I understand each other perfectly,” Loki gently cut her off. “Or did you forget that?”

He reminded her of the one line - of the one realisation - that had triggered the tiniest thoughts of them being possibly together, if at all.

Realizing that all doors were closed for her, she tried to turn away from him, only to be stopped by the trickster.

“If it makes you feel any good,” he resumed, “it did burn me a bit, too, to watch you dance and laugh with those clowns.”

At this, she burst into laughter. Loki was glad at the change of mood, and allowed a few happy creases around his eyes as well.

“Is that true,” she asked, “or are you simply trying to make me feel better?”

He shrugged, “What do you think?”

“I’d like to believe that it’s true,” she confessed shyly.

“It is.”

“Well then,” she said after suppressing a wild grin that tried to crack its way through, “I guess that makes us even.”

“Guess so.”

“I’m sorry, Loki,” she sighed, “I lied earlier because I didn’t want to put any kind of pressure on you or anything. I mean...jealousy? That’s the first stage of obsession. And...I don’t want you to think that...”

“Hey,” Loki held both her hands in his, “your feelings for me will never suffocate me. On the contrary, they help me breathe. You have given my life a new purpose. I thought I was happy being your best friend. But this...this is even better. Never think that you’re putting any kind of pressure on me. None of those men or women out there, or anywhere for that matter, can bring me what I feel with you, for you.”

Words seemed insufficient for what she wanted to say. So, she simply nodded, and wrapped her arms around his torso.

“Thank you,” she murmured into his chest.

He chuckled as he ran his hand on her head, “Being jealous actually makes you look cute.”

She unwrapped herself from him just enough to look at his face, “Says the man who just confessed being jealous himself!”

“I never said I don’t look cute,” he shrugged again.

Shaking her head and laughing, she pulled his face down, and placed a warm kiss on his cheek.

“Go now, before I punch that cute face of yours.”

“When you say ‘punch’,” Loki drawled, “do you mean…’kiss every inch of’...?”

Blushing furiously, she pushed him towards the door.

“Shut up, and just go!”

Loki laughed as he wished her a lovely night, and disappeared into his usual green glow.

---------------

But the Avengers were not the ones to give up.

Not many weeks later, Natasha planned an evening at one of her favourite nightclubs. While Steve, Vision and Bucky backed out of the plan, given their previous not-so-delightful interactions with the loudness and the crowd, Thor and Tony were adamant on dragging Loki with them.

“We thought you liked a little fun! Since when did you start wearing grandpa’s knickers?” Tony snorted.

“C’mon, brother, don’t embarrass me,” Thor’s voice boomed in Loki’s room. “(Y/N) has embarrassed me enough. She didn’t want to go either. Said she’d rather sleep than be tormented by the blasted noise.”

She said what? That means she’s going to stay back-

“Wait, what?” Tony turned towards Thor with a perplexed look, “She said that?”

He turned around to face Loki again, “Are you two planning something or have you both become boring?”

No, no, no! They’ll add up…

“I am not boring!” Loki declared. He decided to stay quiet on the other option that Stark had mentioned.

“Well, then join us,” Tony shrugged.

With a dramatic roll of his eyes, Loki agreed.

Needless to say, his eyes went wide when he saw (Y/N) dressed up and ready for the outing when he was expecting her in her pajamas. When she silently questioned him, he immediately realised that he had been tricked.

I have to be more careful.

The team’s plan soon became obvious when, after a few rounds of shots, everyone made a beeline to the dance floor, leaving behind a string of excuses, and Loki and (Y/N) at the bar. Even through the crowd, the duo’s trained eyes could catch glimpses of their teammates shadowing them.

“Do they really think getting drunk will make us confess?” She shouted over the sound of the music.

“I’m a God,” he shouted back. “Midgardian liquor doesn’t affect me anyway.”

“Well, it affects me,” she shrugged and drained another shot down her throat, “and I love it!”

Last one.

She had started feeling dizzy. Getting wasted could be saved for another moment when she wasn’t being spied on.

A few minutes passed in silence as neither was fond of shouting to communicate. (Y/N) bobbed her head to the music while Loki eyed the mass of bodies swaying and moving with the beats.

“Would you-” Loki began but stopped midway.

While her eyes questioned him, he silently slipped from the stool, and came to stand almost behind her.

His hot breath, dipped in a faint whiff of alcohol, hit the shell of her ear as he purred, “Would you like to dance with me?”

She was rendered immobile for a while. A small corner of her mind wondered if Loki knew what he was doing to her.

I bet he knows what he’s doing.

“I’d have loved to!” She drawled. “It’s a shame there isn’t room for a waltz here, and I wouldn’t want a God like you to hop like teeangers in the crowd.”

She felt his chest brush against her back.

“I was actually hoping that you’d be up for that dance,” he pointed at a section of the crowd where bodies were gliding against each other in the most provocative ways.

Her breath hitched again. She didn’t need to turn her head to know that Loki was smirking at his achievement.

But this time, she wouldn’t squeal, she wouldn’t push him away with a timid smile. Diffidence and boldness both tugged at polar ends of her heart until boldness won the war.

Not this time. Two can play the game, darling.

“So, what’s stopping you?” Her lips almost brushed his earlobe as she tilted her head to whisper in his ear.

Where did that come from?!

Loki wasn’t prepared for this.

It was usually him who threw mildly suggestive comments which she pushed away with a shy gesture. He never expected the tables to turn so quickly.

She did not even have enough shots to get drunk yet, he noticed.

“What happened, did the cat get your silver tongue?” She smirked.

“I-I...uh...”

While Loki continued to gape at her, an inkling of panic nudged her chest.

Did I take it too far? He obviously wasn’t ready for this, but…

It all must have been another prank for him, and I…

No!

With a cackle, she sliced the apparent tension in the air. “So, finally got you, ha? Mischief!” She winked.

Turning towards the bartender, she ordered another shot.

Loki’s brain was still trying to decipher her behaviour.

Did she really mean it…? It didn’t look like a joke though…

As she focused on her drink, he thought he saw a flicker of disappointment cross her face, but the incessant dance of light and shadows made her features almost unreadable.

“You should get back to your seat, y’know?” She told him with downcast eyes.

“What?”

“The team might notice and...they might know.”

Did her voice just...tremble?

Loki hated the place: the noise, the dim lights, the secrecy - he hated the way everything seemed to veil her from him.

“I think I’ll go find them.”

Downing another drink, she hopped off her seat, and disappeared in the crowd, leaving Loki to his thoughts.

Once they were back in the compound, Loki went straight to (Y/N)’s room. This time he did not sneak into her room using magic; he knocked on her door. This wasn’t the moment to play a game of cat and mouse. If the entire compound was prying on him, he would gladly allow them to. Well, maybe not gladly.

“Hey! Hi, Loki!”

Her smile was as bright as ever.

Was it all in my mind then?

“Are you alright?” He tried to sound calm but his anxiety turned out to be more stubborn than him.

“Yes, I am. What- Come inside first.”

She stepped aside, allowing him to stride into her room, and flump down on the bed.

“I’m sorry,” he began honestly, “I thought...I thought you were upset. At the club… I thought I saw you...sad? I’m not sure. I just had this feeling that you’re probably not okay, and-”

“Loki,” she held his shoulders and gently hushed him, “I’m fine.”

Her assurance enabled him to breathe normally again.

Caressing his face, she placed a light kiss on his forehead.

“Thank you, Loki! For everything. For caring so much about me.”

“(Y/N),” he held her hand, “are you hiding something? From me?”

He didn’t miss the way she gulped before replying.

“Why would you say that?”

“Look, I’m sorry if I cross the lines sometimes. I know I tease you but those are… I’m sorry if I’ve ever made you uncomfortable or have hurt you.”

“You are an idiot! Do you know that? You’ve never hurt me or made me uncomfortable. Now, get these stupid thoughts out of your little brain, and give me that devilishly charming smile of yours.”

Despite all her compliments, his eyes did not light up as they usually did.

“Are you sure?” He asked her.

“Absolutely!”

“You’ll tell me if you’re upset, won’t you? Promise me.”

He took note of how she licked her lips before nodding.

Something is not right.

“Come here,” he pulled her in his arms, and buried his face in the crook of her neck. “And I’m not an idiot. I am smart.”

---------------

The next few weeks turned out to be more and more challenging as the team was now hell-bent on getting them exposed. What made them so sure of their relationship was still a mystery to the couple.

“Are we that obvious?” (Y/N) asked Loki one day.

“I don’t know,” he shrugged. “It is said that it shows on the faces of those in love. So, I guess...”

The words, coming from him, filled her with warmth. If that be true, and if everyone could see that they were in love only by looking at them, then she’d happily trade their secrecy for more obviousness.

But every time they came close to taking the relationship to the next level, she would find Loki backing away. Every time they had the opportunity to reveal their beautiful secret to the team, he would quickly shield both of them.

Why, Loki? Do you not want us?

---------------

It was a rainy evening when Tony had gathered everyone in the living room. At first (Y/N) thought that it was an urgent meeting for a new mission. But when she knew the actual reason behind it, she couldn’t prevent the snort that escaped her.

“Excuse me?” Tony pointed at her. “You got some problem, princess?”

“Truth or dare? Like, how old are we? Twelve?”

Tony spread his arms as if to silently make a point. “Since when did you start categorizing fun into ages? Ever since you started dating Rock of Ages?”

“Hey!” Loki made a tiny protest at his nickname.

“We are not dating,” (Y/N) deadpanned.

“And there goes my question,” Wanda sighed from across the room.

In response, (Y/N) simply rolled her eyes, and grumbled, “Kids!”

Once the game started, the team wasted no time in getting to the point: (Y/N) and Loki.

The first one to get attacked was Loki.

“No, no truth for you,” Sam chimed in just as Loki sucked in a breath to choose “truth”.

“He’s the God of Lies!” Sam announced, “He can easily slip away with any lie!”

“The bird’s got a point!” Tony agreed, followed by everyone else. “‘Dare’ for you!”

“This is not how it works,” Loki protested.

“Did you play this on Asgard? Thor?”

“No, we had never even heard of it until we came here,” the big brother responded.

“But-”

“Nah-ah!” Tony didn’t let him finish. “This is exactly how it is played. Who wants to give the God of Mischief a mischievous dare?”

(Y/N) wanted to protest; she wanted to tell Tony that he was bending the rules to get to them. But any word of support would further corner them both. All she could do was play along.

“Kiss (Y/N). And you know where I mean.”

Nat’s voice yanked her out of her thoughts. She watched in horror as Loki’s expressions changed from shock to anger while the entire team cheered.

“Nat!” (Y/N) jumped up from her seat, “do you even hear yourself? He’s my best friend! We can’t just...”

“Why not?” Sam questioned with a smirk. “You seemed to be enjoying it when I was asked to kiss Buck. He’s my best buddy.”

“Speak for yourself,” Bucky mumbled.

“C’mon, it’s just a game! Don’t be a spoilsport.”

Steve?? Et tu?

Rubbing her eyes, (Y/N) tried to find a way out of it. She knew well that if Loki kissed her, she’d melt into it. Everything would become obvious.

No, no, no!! This can’t be. They can’t just expose us like this. Loki would be so....

Wait, why isn’t he saying anything?

She opened her eyes to see Loki standing. His expression was unfathomable.

Oh no! Is he going to…

“This is outrageous!” Loki snapped and turned on his heels to walk out of the room.

Oh!

For reasons she did not want to explore then, (Y/N)’s heart dropped several feet. She was expecting a similar reaction from him but wasn’t hoping for it.

Quickly gravitating back to the situation in hand, she stammered an excuse or two for his behaviour, and followed his tracks to check on him.

Once both of them were out of earshot, Tony leaned towards the group, “Did we save it or kill it.”

“Looks like we killed it,” Sam sighed.

“Trust me,” Wanda smiled, “we saved it.”

“Vision? What do you think?”

“I still do not understand why you have to torment them like this. Let them come out when they want to. It’s-”

“Okay!” Tony interrupted him. “Sorry I asked! My bad!”

The door to Loki’s room was half open when (Y/N) arrived. Gingerly, she admitted herself inside.

Loki was standing at the window, with his back towards her. His head was bowed but his hands were curled into fists on both sides of his body.

“Loki?”

The name came out so softly that she couldn’t be sure if he had heard it, given that he did not move at all.

But before she could call him again, he spoke.

“I did not want this to happen,” his voice bore that particular kind of seriousness that usually preceded an unwanted or unhappy revelation.

What?

“I am sorry, (Y/N).” He turned towards her, and she realised in an instant that he wasn’t fooling around.

“What are you talking about, Loki? What did you not want to happen?”

Her chest felt tighter with every passing second.

Please, not what I’m fearing.

“This,” his hand vaguely gestured towards the hallway. “Whatever happened just now. I knew they would come down to this one day. I never wanted-”

“It’s okay,” she interjected. “I did not like that either. Although they meant no harm. It was just for fun… And I understand if you're having second thoughts. This entire thing between us was just something… y’know, a spur of the moment kind of thing. I totally understand if-"

"(Y/N)! Where is this coming from? What are you even talking about?"

She couldn’t make herself look at him, for if she did, he could clearly see the moisture pooling in her eyes. She needed to appear strong.

“Loki, you’ve always been my best friend. And I’ve loved that. You know it. And it’s okay if this new turn in our relationship does not turn out to be something that you had hoped for. It happens. It’s okay-”

“It’s not okay for me,” Loki grasped her hands. “What are you saying? Why? A-are you not happy with me? Have I done something wrong? Did I offend you in any way?”

What is he saying? I thought…

As she looked up at him, a couple of drops ran down her cheeks and on her shirt.

“(Y/N), please tell me. You had promised to tell me anything and everything that upsets you. So, tell me what happened. Why do you speak of our relationship as if it was a mistake?”

“It never was a mistake for me,” she breathed, “I thought you felt...I thought you...”

“What?”

The shaky way in which the question came out of him stung her more than any thought of Loki not wanting this relationship. It was then that she realised how badly she had hurt him.

He never wanted to leave! He always wanted me? Us?

She didn’t know what to say.

“I’m sorry,” she finally managed. “I thought that you...didn’t want...this. Us. I-”

“Why would you even think so? Why would you bear such thoughts when I love you with every fiber of my being?”

Her head snapped up.

“You love me?” Her own voice became shaky.

“Of course, I do,” he gently placed a hand on her cheek, “always have. At first I thought it was a love for friends until that night, when I realised that I wanted to be more than just friends with you.”

More tears fell down her cheek as she rejoiced in the moment. Loki wiped them all, and placed soft kisses on each cheek.

“And all this time, I was afraid that you’re having second thoughts,” she confessed.

“And why is that?”

“Because...”

How do I say that it’s because you haven’t kissed me yet? And ran away from the one moment we had today, albeit in a not-so-comfortable situation?

“Because I haven’t kissed you yet?” Loki asked her.

Her heart beat so violently, she could have sworn that Loki could hear it. Her tongue felt too heavy to speak.

“I didn’t think you were ready,” he admitted. “That is the reason why I did not dance with you in the club either. I was teasing you, yes, but when you responded I was definitely taken aback. I wasn’t sure if it was you or the ambience talking. So…

You have always shied away from any comments that I make, and...I did not want to push anything on you.”

“Oh, Loki!”

She hugged him so hard that even the Asgardian had to take two steps back to balance himself.

“I’m so, so sorry,” she wept into his shirt. “I misunderstood your actions for… I pushed you away. I thought you weren’t ready for this relationship. I’m sorry!”

Tears of both apology and relief flooded her. He tried to sush her as he rocked her slowly from side to side.

After taking a moment to compose herself, she stood straight. Loki looked at her red-eyed, tear-stained face and tutted.

“Doesn’t suit you, darling. Show me your crazy, grinning face.”

With a chuckle, she gave him a funny face-splitting smile, making both of them laugh.

“(Y/N), I didn’t want to kiss you because of a game or under the watchful eyes of that insufferable bunch of imbeciles. But if you will allow me now, I-”

“Just stop being so polite for a change, and kiss me,” she tugged at the collars of his shirt.

Loki didn’t need to be asked twice.

---------------

In the hall, the Avengers were busy speculating the outcome of their little plan, when the couple in discussion walked in. Hand in hand.

“Yes, we had changed our relationship status around six months ago,” (Y/N) announced to a stunned audience.

“And yes, we kissed. Just now. And I hope you know where I mean,” Loki added before dragging his love away towards the elevator.

“What was that?” She whispered as she was being whisked away.

“What?” Loki asked innocently, although his eyes stated otherwise.

“You didn’t need to declare that we just kissed!” She laughed as the doors of the elevator closed.

He shrugged while jabbing at a button. “They wanted us to kiss anyway. So, I gave them the satisfaction of knowledge. Besides, they need to know who you belong to now.”

“Aha! Possessive?”

“No! I also made it clear who I belong to now.”

He smiled as the doors opened to the hallway that led to his room. And once again, his words had rendered her speechless.

Silver tongue!

***

-----------------------------------------------

You can read the backstory here.

And here's a song to sing along and keep the mood floating...

youtube

319 notes · View notes

deancasbigbang · 3 years

Text

Title: There Are Roads Left in Both of Our Shoes

Author: sidewinder

Artist: JavocJovian

Rating: Explicit

Pairings: Dean Winchester/Castiel, Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester (background), Kaia Nieves/Claire Novak (background), Cesar Cuevas/Jesse Cuevas (background)

Length: 95000

Warnings: No archive warnings apply, canon-typical violence

Tags: Post-Episode AU: s15e19 Inherit the Earth Season 15/finale fix-it emotional hurt/comfort angst dreams and nightmares road trip first time Top/Bottom Versatile Cas/Dean soul bonding domestic Dean/Cas

Posting Date: October 22, 2021

Summary: When Cas suddenly appears at the bunker—out of the Empty, human, and very much alive—Dean can’t believe it. In the time since Chuck’s defeat and Jack vanishing into thin air, he’s lost all hope of ever seeing his angel again. Everything is perfect—or at least, as close as it has ever been for him. Without the fate of the universe to worry about and freed from God’s machinations, Dean can finally and openly reciprocate Cas’s love. They can begin to share the joys of this new life and be happy together in ways neither has allowed themselves in the past. Cas is having trouble sleeping, though, nightmares clinging to him like the inky darkness of the Empty itself. Dean figures it will pass with time, and he begins to allow himself to dream and plan for a future where they can leave monsters and hunting behind for good. Only Cas’s nightmares are growing worse, not better. And Dean faces the possibility that he may lose Cas yet again to an enemy who won’t let go—not unless they can find a way to bind Cas to this Earth, this existence. To Dean.

Excerpt: “Wait. Before you go, I have one more favor I’d like to ask. It’s a quick one,” Cas reassured her, sensing impatience. “And I have another gift if you choose to help me.” The promise of an additional shiny object gave her pause. He nodded toward his truck. “If you won’t let me give you a ride, then sit inside with me for a moment and I’ll show you.” Anael followed him, taking a seat on the passenger’s side. He opened the glove compartment and removed a small velvet pouch. From it he revealed an intricately carved turquoise scarab, as brilliant blue as the Mediterranean Sea on a clear day. “What’s this?” she asked with wide-eyed admiration. “A present to me from the Djinn queen. I’m...apparently married to her now under their law. She keeps sending me these tokens of appreciation.” “Djinn queen? Didn’t think that was your style, Castiel. Kinky.” “Not really. It’s...complicated.” “Everything always is, with you. But this is beautiful.” “It’s yours if you’ll help me. You’re the only angel I can trust with this request.” He didn’t completely trust her, either. But they’d never tried to kill one another, which was at least something. “I know I’ve been focused on Jack’s soul today. But I was hoping...I’d like you to check if I have a soul.” She blinked at him and laughed. “I’m sorry, you want me to do what?” “When Metatron stole my grace and I became human, he mentioned that when I died, my soul would go to Heaven. Yet the last time I died, after my grace was restored, I ended up in the Empty.” “That’s because angels don’t have souls. Simply removing our grace doesn't automatically create one in its absence.” “I realize that. But since then I’ve wondered...did he know or see something I didn’t? Maybe it’s been there long before then. It might explain why I was always prone to acting against orders I felt were wrong. The mere fact I have these...feelings that do not seem to fit what we angels are supposed to feel.” She didn’t look convinced, but appeared intrigued enough to keep listening. “When I didn’t have my grace, I had to sleep,” he continued. “I felt guilt and despair and love with an intensity we should not. I still do. When I have encountered soulless humans, they do and they feel none of these things.” Sam, in his post-Hell soulless state, as well as the prophet Donatello came to mind. Jack, and his changing behavior and demeanor as well. “Yes, but...soul or no soul, what difference does it make?” she asked. “It’s a painful and risky thing to check, if just to satisfy some kind of curiosity. You can’t exactly swap your soul out—if you have one—for Jack’s, either.” “I know that,” Cas told her. “But for other reasons, it might be of some use to me later on to know.”

DCBB 2021 Posting Schedule

#dcbb 2021 #fic preview #2021 promo #deancas #destiel

87 notes · View notes

writing-in-april · 3 years

Text

My Knight in Shiny Armor

Spencer Reid x Gender Neutral Reader (Spencer POV)

Summary: Reader is a fantasy novelist and writes Spencer into their story.

A/N: Heyy heyyy- this is my entry for the SFW fic swap that @imagining-in-the-margins organized! (Can y’all tell how much I love fic swaps I might have to organize one myself one day) This is a super fluffy little fic for @thekatherinewinchester! Hope y’all enjoy and my entry for the NSFW fic swap will be coming soon! If you have any requests they are open and I’m looking for requests for my next event- 30 fics in 30 days for April 2021 (I’ll make up a better title soon I promise) thanks for reading!

Warnings: this is so fluffy there’s no warnings 🥰- unless you don’t like the secret relationship trope

Main Masterlist Word Count: 1.2k

Garcia came up to me with a giddy look on her face as I was pouring sugar into my next cup of coffee. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed that she was holding a book that looked similar to a novel that I was extremely familiar with. A blush on my face immediately formed and I forgot that I was still pouring sugar into my cup, though I’m sure that I’d still like the excessive amount of sugar I put into my coffee. As Garcia had said before, it was my ‘brand’, whatever that means.

I cleared my throat in preparation for the interrogation I was about to face, “What’s up Garcia?”

Instead of point blank telling me what she was all giddy about she opened the hard covered novel in her hands with green binding that I had seen numerous copies of.

“The mysterious man was taller than the rest of us by far, with fluffy brown hair that his helmet tried in vain to hide. It wasn’t just his handsome looks that drew me to him, it was also his intellectual abilities. He was far superior in intellect to any other man I had met in the world. The rousing conversations I had with him also made me feel respected by him which was much more than I could say compared to the other men I had met. The name of the mysterious knight in the shiny armor that had invaded all my thoughts as of late was named, Spencer.”

Once she finished the excerpt of the book she shut it dramatically then raising her eyebrows, I knew exactly what she was asking with her nonverbal cues, “I’m friends with the author…”

The look on her face after I trailed off told me that she wasn’t buying my lie. I was about to say something more convincing, but Garcia was not impressed with my attempts to get out of this ‘interrogation’.

“Oh- no no no, you aren’t getting away with it that easy, boy wonder. The blush on your face isn’t fooling me.” Her calling out my blush only served to make my face an even deeper shade of red, I could tell just from how hot the room suddenly felt. She continued on despite my deepening cheek color, “I want to know how you got your New York Times Best Seller partner, tell me everything.”

I figured there was no way to deny it now, the way I fidgeted and the blush on my cheeks gave it away easily. Even though Garcia wasn’t trained to study human behavior she wasn’t stupid and I wasn’t a good liar. So, I proceeded to tell her the story of how we met.

Of course as soon as I finished the story of how we met at a coffee shop Garcia bombarded me with more questions and brought the rest of the team to ask. She even got Morgan to say he’d read the book because he wanted to know “what does pretty boy look like in shining armor?” Which Garcia of course had to correct, as she had read the rest of the book.

As I was riding the metro after work my mind decided to wander about what had happened today. At first I was excited to share with Y/N about what happened today, but then I started to worry. What if they didn’t want to tell anyone?

We hadn’t really discussed telling everyone about our relationship besides passing comments in conversation. I worried that maybe they wouldn’t want to tell everyone because maybe they’d be embarrassed to be seen with me. Maybe that’s why they hadn’t brought up me telling the team much.

Once I had gotten back to my apartment I opened the door and was immediately greeted with the smell of Y/N’s cooking. Normally, I’d be super excited that they decided to pop in my apartment, but my anxiety about what had happened today was taking over my mind. I was rooted to the floor in front of my door, not wanting to have to admit to them that I had told everyone.

“How’s my favorite genius?” Their melodic voice called out from the kitchen. There was no way I could avoid it now, they’d probably be able to immediately tell that I was anxious. They were good at being able to tell exactly what I was thinking, and it wasn’t even their job. I often joked with them that their ability to read my behavior was as good as mine.

I decided I better get this over with.

As I walked over to my small apartment kitchen I prepared my explanation in my head. When they spotted me they opened their mouth to speak and I just started to rant, “I may have told the team about you. I got cornered by Garcia in the break room and she happened to have your book and read the parts where you wrote a character based on me- and”

“Slow down, baby.” They cut my ranting off once they had gotten her bearings. Normally being cut off makes me annoyed, but in this case I could tell I was in a swirling anxious mind set that I wouldn’t break out of unless an outside force helped me stop. I took a deep breath, which did help slow down my racing thoughts. Once I had slightly refocused my thoughts I noticed that they were looking over at me from where they were standing over the pot of pasta at the stove with a look of concern, which surprised me.

“You’re not mad?”

They turned the oven off as the pasta was definitely done now, making their way over to the other side of the kitchen where I stood. Bringing their warm hands up they cupped my cheeks and then asked with sweetness, “Why would I be mad.”

I couldn’t help but start to spill my thoughts into another rant to try and explain my reasoning, “Well- I didn’t really talk about telling them with you and I know that communication is important in a relationship from what I’ve read. And it felt like I made a mistake because I wasn’t communicating properly and I’m an idiot, I’m sorry you have to date someone who doesn’t know anything about relationships.”

“Spencer, it’s ok I promise. I was going to ask if maybe you wanted to introduce me to them soon anyway and- you aren’t stupid I promise, baby. You’re a genius, remember?

After we ate the dinner they had cooked they brought out their book to read to me, specifically the part in reference where my fictional counterpart came to save the day.

“You’re my knight in shiny armor.” They said with fondness, this was my favorite line in the book.

“Shiny armor? Why not shining armor?” I had asked this question numerous times since I had seen the same line in their book. I knew the conversation in the novel like the back of my hand and every time we read the book together we enacted the conversation. They acted out the protagonist’s lines perfectly, which was not surprising since the protagonist was partially based on them from their own admission.

“I don’t know, I just think it sounds cuter,” Their words were as sweet as honey, making me want to lean in to kiss them, but they needed to finish the line, “and in my book, you’re cuter than all other knights in shining armor.”

—-

Tag list (message me if you want to be added):

All works:

@shotarosleftpinky @oreogutz @90spumkin @kyra-morningstar

Spencer Reid/CM:

@calm-and-doctor @destiny-tsukino @safertokiss @slutforthegubes

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fluff #matthew gray gubler x reader #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds #spencer reid fanfic #mgg #matthew gray gubler #mgg x reader

198 notes · View notes