#which is valid! I have things saved for the morning to reblog. but still. go to bed y'all get some sleep

[swinging-stars-from-satellites]

everyone STOP going insane. you should be going to BED

#it is ONE AM or later or slightly earlier in the US. GO SLEEB GUYS #Lu rambles #... #fall out boy #so much for (tour) dust #this is a general statement but it was inspired by the fact that the few fob accounts I follow are currently still going insane #which is valid! I have things saved for the morning to reblog. but still. go to bed y'all get some sleep #we can all be insane together in the morning <3

[free-pool-trash]

dancing with our hands tied - peter maximoff

here it is you guys... the ✨very spicy✨ sequel to delicate which can be read here <3 (had to keep the rep song title theme going here)

please for the love of god let me know how this is I’ve never written smut before so please go crazy with the asks/comments/reblogs on this one I’d really appreciate it😩😓

word count: 4k 😳 (it’s not all smut dont get too excited)

warnings: +18 content, sexy times, unprotected wrap it before you tap it, swearing, i tried to keep vulgarity on a low level but i decided to just commit towards the end lmao, insinuation to sex from the beginning , some fluff and a tiny bit of angst sprinkled in there too, wandavision spoilers

You can definitely read this as a stand alone but it’ll make more sense if you read delicate first !! enjoy <3

masterlist

The days you spent in WestView had been tiring. Wanda seemed to be losing her composure with each day that passed, you watched how she became more and more skeptical of Peter and found yourself growing all the more anxious with the situation you’d run head first into. But, you were with Peter, your mind and his mind were free of Wanda’s influence and she’d been kind enough to appoint the pair of you your own house in the neighbourhood, a few doors down from her own, so, you couldn’t complain too much.

Today was a relatively quiet day, but you had a feeling that just meant you were in the calm before the storm. Tonight was, apparently, Halloween. Despite the fact that it was nowhere near October, you were more than happy to play along with Wanda’s over the top festivities.

Peter and Tommy had just zoomed into your and Peter’s bedroom, sporting matching outfits and excited expressions as they looked at you expectantly, “Well? What’d ya think?” Peter asked, motioning between himself and Tommy. The littlest speedster awaited your answer with wide, hopeful eyes, wanting validation from his cool uncle’s even cooler ‘friend’.

Yeah, you’d made out on Wanda’s couch but you still hadn’t addressed the question of where exactly your relationship stood. It felt as though the pair of you were both actively avoiding the awkward conversation, opting instead to simply fall into bed together every single night and completely disregard the boundaries of friendship in favour of hearing each other moaning until the early hours of the morning.

With a smile you let out a low whistle, “Looking good boys. I gotta say, Tommy, I think you’re outshining your uncle right now.”

You had to laugh when Tommy smirked triumphantly at Peter, “I told you she liked me more than you.” He boasted proudly and your laughs grew louder when Peter huffed angrily. He crossed his arms over his chest and jutted his bottom lip out childishly.

“Y/n, tell him you like me more.” Peter demanded, again, childishly.

You only grinned, “No comment.” You told him airily, making your way to your closet and hesitantly pulling out the latex costume Wanda created for you off of the rail, holding it by the hanger skeptically.

It was Peter’s turn to let out a whistle when his eyes scanned the skimpy looking leotard suspended by the hanger. The fabric mimicked the design of Peter and Tommy’s outfits although it seemed Wanda had gone out of her way to make yours ever so slightly sexier. The leotard was strapless with a sweetheart neckline and a silver lightning bolt ran through the light blue material. The only saving grace was the silver tights that hung from the hanger as well, at least you’d have some kind coverage. With one last peek into the closet, your eyes landed on a pair of white, knee high gogo boots.

“Christ…” You muttered, eyebrows furrowing at the thought of wearing the ensemble out in public, if it was cold tonight Wanda would be in for an aggressive telling off. With a deep sigh you turned to the two speedsters who were both staring at you, waiting for you to say something. “I guess we’re all gonna be matching tonight.”

“Sweet!” Tommy exclaimed while Peter only smirked. Peter, with a lot of effort, moved his attention from your costume to his nephew.

“Why don’t you go hang out with your brother for a while? I gotta talk to Y/n for a sec.” Tommy welcomed the suggestion, only nodding his head before he had sped out of your house and back to his own.

A gust of wind hit your face as Peter sped himself in front of you, the man didn’t hide his intentions as he gripped your hips and pulled you flush against him. Swaying his body against yours and bringing his lips to the exposed skin of your neck. He trailed his lips up your neck, sucking and nipping, smirking when you let out small noises of approval. When his lips reached the spot behind your ear, he gave a final, harsh suck which had your breath hitching and whining when he pulled away.

To be honest, you’d love to be able to call him your boyfriend and be certain that he thought of you as his girlfriend, but at the moment you were perfectly happy with whatever the fuck the two of you had going on if it meant you could keep feeling him against you like this.

“I cannot wait to see you wearing that.” He all but groaned against your ear, his voice deep and gravelly. The butterflies in your stomach went feral at his words and you had to pull your bottom lip between your teeth to keep from letting out a moan from his tone of voice alone, not to mention the fact that his crotch was pressed up against yours, he was excited to say the least.

Your hands slid up his chest and settled on either side of Peter’s neck, you gently pulled his head out from the crook of your nape and teasingly raised an eyebrow at him, “Maybe later I’ll let you help me get out of it.”

A wicked grin spread across his lips, he squeezed your hips in response, tugging you into him even further for some kind of relief then pressed his lips to yours briefly, murmuring against them, “That’s definitely a plan I can get behind.”

Giving him one last kiss, you pried his hands from your hips and pushed him away, “Alright, get lost I need to get ready.”

“Meet me at Wanda’s?” You nodded at his question, letting out a deep sigh you hadn’t noticed you’d been holding when he finally sped out of the room.

After a second of cooling down, you pulled on the outfit and you’d be the first to admit; Wanda knew what she was doing with this one. You looked incredible, albeit a little stupid in the costume, but still incredible.

When you made your way over to Wanda’s to meet up with the others, you let out a laugh seeing as Wanda was essentially wearing the same outfit as you, only with the added extras of a cape and gloves.

“Hey! Why are you dressed the same as Uncle P and Tommy?” Billy asked you curiously, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion as he glanced between you and Peter for answers. The speedster in question was smirking proudly, his arm finding a spot wrapped around your shoulder.

“Because she’s totally obsessed with me.” He lied with an over dramatic sigh, causing Tommy to laugh.

You rolled your eyes, elbowing him in the ribs playfully before focusing your attention onto Wanda, “I think it’s safe to say that Wanda and I will be winning best couples costume.” Wanda gave you a knowing grin and a not at all subtle wink in response to your statement.

“Only the best for the best.” She replied, walking forward and linking her arm with yours, stealing you away from Peter who whined in protest, “Oh hush, you can have her back later.”

Telepathy definitely had its perks, one of those perks being you could tell there was more to Wanda than just being an evil puppeteer. The two of you got along extremely well, you were actually growing to see her as a friend. It helped that you knew her story, though. You sympathised with her, knowing full well that if you lost the love of your life you’d probably create a false reality to be with him too. You’d already followed him into a fake reality so you supposed it wasn’t really too much of a stretch to imagine yourself in Wanda’s position.

As the night went on, yourself, Wanda and Peter were sitting around in town square, the twins having run off somewhere. Tensions were high between the interreality siblings at the minute, Peter seemed to be having the time of his life getting on Wanda’s last nerve, poking and prodding at her lifestyle choices.

“Lay off, Pete.” You warned quietly, your stare serious as you felt Wanda becoming impatient with the mutant. Your breathing stopped for a moment and you let put a horrified gasp, your hand clapped over your mouth as you stared at the image in front of you.

Peter’s skin was grey, his eyes were milky and he was littered in what you could only assume to be bullet holes- he was dead- no, you realised as you caught Wanda’s pained expression, he was Pietro.

Wanda regained her composure after a few seconds but the sight of Peter dead was enough to shake you to your very core and you found yourself shaking where you stood.

You didn’t even have a chance to regain your composure before shit had hit the fan. It had happened in a blur, Billy and Tommy were frantic and worried about Vision being in trouble and next thing you knew Wanda was sending Peter flying with a ball of energy after he made a smartass comment about Vision not dying twice.

Quickly, you ran to Peter’s side, he was groaning in pain and looking up at you through squinted eyes, “What the hell was that all about?” He grumbled, hiding his head in your lap when you got down on your knees beside him.

With a sigh you let your body fold against his, wrapping your arms around him and letting your head rest against his shoulder, the image of him bleeding out still too fresh and real in your mind. You could berate him for his brash behaviour another time, for now though; you just needed him close.

“Come on, dumbass. Let’s get you home before you decide to cause more trouble.” You mumbled, pulling him up with you. Ignoring his whining while you led him home, your arm remained firmly around his waist the whole way despite the fact he’d recovered from the blast Wanda dealt him after only a few minutes.

When you got back to the house that Wanda had deemed yours upon your arrival, you finally allowed yourself to breathe. Peter was staring at you with a guilty expression as you released a heavy breath through your nose and shuffled into the kitchen, the heels of your boots scraping on the hardwood as you walked.

Like a lost puppy, Peter followed you. Once he reached you lent against the sink he wrapped his arms around you from behind. He knew you weren’t angry at him by the way your arms immediately moved to grip his and tug them tighter around you.

“You know, her real twin- Pietro… he died,” Peter’s face contorted in confusion when you began to speak, he listened with concern as he could already hear your voice beginning to shake, absentmindedly he caught himself tucking you closer against his chest. “For a second… you must have said something that hit a nerve but for a few seconds…” Your voice hitched and you shook your head in an attempt to knock the image out of your mind, though you had a feeling it would haunt you for as long as you lived. When Peter noticed you’d started chewing at your bottom lip, as you always did when something was causing you anxiety, he gently turned you around in his arms so that he could look at you, his arms remaining firmly around you, yours finding a place resting against his chest.

“What happened, sweetheart?” He cooed, his eyes very much alive and staring into yours.

Swallowing thickly you answered, “You looked like him. You were dead.” You told him quietly and he was sure the look of grief on your face, brought on by the thought of him dying, would haunt him for a lifetime.

Your eyes watered as you took in his face. Scanning every part of it, his brown eyes that made you melt, the dimples that could still be faintly seen even when he wasn’t smiling, the lips that took up the vast majority of your thoughts and that tiny furrow between his brows as he looked down at you with worry.

You loved him.

Of course, you’d known this for years. But you needed him to know, and even though you were already well aware the overwhelming feeling is mutual, you needed to hear him say it.

His thumb running under your eye pulled you from your thoughts, “I’m not going anywhere, baby.” He whispered softly, his hand cupping your cheek as his thumb ran back and forth over your cheek bone. Your stomach flipped at the pet name and you nuzzled against his touch.

“Good. I don’t want to lose you ever again.” You confessed, looking up at him through your lashes fondly as his lips formed an almost sad smile.

Gently, he brought his lips down to meet yours, pouring his heart into the kiss, hoping it would make up for the turmoil he felt responsible for causing you. Too soon, he pulled away.

“Believe me, I’m never leaving your side. I mean come on, I’m without you for like three days and I end up being mind controlled by my sister who isn’t even my sister.” He chuckled out, a grin growing on his face as you began to smile too. He let his eyes close blissfully when you brushed your nose against his, a toothy smile on your face.

“You, Peter Maximoff, are completely hopeless.” You whispered through your smile as he opened his eyes to look at you. His own face sporting an adoring smile.

Your heart skipped a beat the second his next words passed through his smiling lips, “Without you, Y/n L/n, yes I am.” Within a second your arms were around his shoulders and your lips were moving frantically against his. Peter’s hands wasted no time in sliding down to your thighs, gripping them and propping you up onto the kitchen counter.

Your legs automatically wrapped around his waist and your hands got lost in his hair, keeping him as close as humanly possible while his lips migrated to your jaw.

An appreciative hum left your throat as he lapped at the underside of your jaw, leaving a mark before trailing his lips back to your mouth. His tongue licked at your bottom lip as he kissed you, moving it into your mouth the first chance he got. Peter moaned into your mouth when you gave his tongue a light suck.

You grinned at the sound and leaned your weight forward so you were primarily resting against his body, your arms and legs wrapped tightly around his body, your ass barely resting on the counter by that point. Welcoming your movements, Peter’s hands glided up from your thighs to grip your ass and pull you from the counter completely.

He carried you clumsily through the halls of the house, bumping into furniture and pausing to press your body against walls, his eyes closed and lips never separating from yours. You were about a foot away from the stairs when you felt your back make contact with the plaster behind you, your chest heaving when Peter abandoned your lips in favour of littering wet kisses across your chest, no doubt leaving a trail of hickeys in his wake.

You let your head fall back against the wall, enjoying the sensation of Peter nipping and licking at your skin, the man diving back to your neck as soon as he realised that your head thrown back made it entirely exposed to him. You released a breathy moan when his lips ghosted over a sensitive patch of skin, he moved his tongue frantically and you shuddered at the feeling of his hot breath hitting your bruised skin.

“Peter…” You whined when he pushed his crotch up against yours, pressing you further into the wall smirking against your neck when you called his name.

“Yes?” He asked teasingly, rutting his hips against yours once more, deliberately attempting to pull another moan from you, he obviously succeeded. His smirk broadened when you let out a huff and tugged his hair so he’d look at you.

Peter swore he was in heaven when his eyes met yours again, your face was red and your eyes were half-lidded, pupils blown wide with lust as your chest heaved. He could’ve exploded on the spot when you tugged your bottom lip between your teeth and looked at him innocently, all the while grinding your hips slowly and firmly against his. Peter clenched his jaw and let his eyes fall shut, his hands gripping your hips so tightly that you were pretty certain the area would have bruises come tomorrow. You were struggling to care about that though, focusing your energy on the man who had you pinned against the wall.

You brought your lips to Peter’s neck, repaying the favour, not detaching until you left a dark, albeit small, purple bruise on the underside of his jaw. Deciding to prolong the teasing for a little while longer you moved your lips up and let them hover by his ear and you began to let out soft little moans in response to his grinding, the action caused Peter’s movements to become more frantic and your lips to form in a smirk as you felt him hardening against you.

His breath was laboured when he murmured, “Let’s take this upstairs, yeah?” Before you could even answer he had sped the pair of you to the bedroom and you let your feet return to the floor.

As he stood in front of you, you took him in, swollen lips and Halloween hair completely tossed, not to mention the tent in his trousers that was very visible despite the layers of his costume. When your bodies collided again, it was a frenzy of hands, the both of you practically tearing the fabric off the other until you were in nothing but your underwear, kissing sloppily and stumbling towards the bed.

Peter’s lips attached to your chest again the second your back hit the mattress. He groped at your right breast while his tongue sucked on the other, swapping over before you pulled him back up to you.

The way he slotted between your legs and how his forehead rested on yours felt so perfect, you couldn’t help but grin.

“You’re gorgeous, sweetheart.” He muttered between kisses against your lips, his hands kneading your breasts as he did.

You were practically dripping by the time his hand slid down your stomach and under the band of your underwear. For someone with super speed he was moving agonisingly slow at the moment, his hand rubbing languidly over your wet core while he swallowed your moans.

“Fuck- God, Peter please.” You whined, your hips bucking into his hand, desperate for more friction than he was giving you.

The sound of your voice, so needy for him, was all he needed before he was pulling your underwear off, tossing the thin material over his shoulder haphazardly and shimmying out of his own boxers, clumsily kicking them away from his ankles, earning a giggle from you.

When he kneeled on the bed between your bent and separated knees you sat yourself up, sliding one hand up his bare chest and resting it against his shoulder while the other slid downward, only stopping once it was wrapped around his shaft. Peter sucked in a harsh breath when your began pumping him softly, the man completely losing it when your thumb swiped over his tip collecting the precum that had gathered and using it to wet the length of his dick as you continued to fuck him with your hand.

As much as Peter was loving the image and feeling of you jacking him off, he knew if you carried on he wouldn’t be able to last much longer. Still, he didn’t have the heart to pull your hand away when you were making him feel so good. His head found it’s favourite spot in the crook of your neck and he groaned out against the skin that was littered with little purple and red marks from his earlier work, which he’d be sure to admire later, “Shit, Y/n-“ He croaked through a moan, hands gripping your hips as he fought the urge he had to thrust into your hand, “M’not gonna last much longer if you keep doing that.” He groaned out, almost reluctantly, not truly wanting you to stop while simultaneously craving more.

You stopped your motions at his statement, giggling when he let out a strangled noise of disappointment at the sudden lack of pleasure. Doing the honours, you lined him up with your entrance, letting him take over when his lips connected with yours.

Peter gently pushed you back until your head was resting against your pillow and your back was flush with the mattress. His lips continued to mesh with yours as he pushed into you inch by inch until he bottomed out. The deep groan he released was music to your ears and your hands gripped his biceps when he began to thrust in and out.

A symphony of moans filled the room as Peter had managed to set a steady pace, trying his best not to let his mutation get the best of him, as much as he wanted to just go to town he was determined to make you feel as good as you made him feel and judging by the way your head was thrown back and his name fell from your lips like a prayer; he guessed he was doing an okay job.

In only a few minutes Peter had you gasping and clutching onto him like your life depended on it as he picked up speed, one of his hands reaching down between your bodies to rub your clit, his hips snapping against yours. Soon enough, you felt the pressure in your stomach release, your walls clenching around Peter’s dick as your back arched and you released around him. After only a few more staggered strokes, Peter moaned your name against your lips, finishing inside of you and thrusting lazily, riding out his high and subsequently helping you ride out yours.

You let out a blissful sigh when Peter pulled out and rolled over to lay on his back beside you, his chest heavy and his blonde hair sticking slightly against his forehead.

“That- that was awesome.” He mumbled, intertwining his fingers with yours, holding your hand by his side.

Over the last couple of nights you and Peter had, admittedly, ended up in a similar position but neither of you intended for it to happen. It’d usually start off innocently enough, with cuddling or just talking and then one of you would move in just that little bit closer and things would escalate. But there was something about this time that felt a lot more emotional than the few times before. “It was.” You agreed with an airy giggle, squeezing his hand affectionately.

A gust of air shook you from your haze. Peter had taken it upon himself to clean up the mess the pair of you had left between your legs, a pair of his boxers and one of his t-shirts now adorned your body matching him as he wore the same.

He was on his side facing you, his arms holding you against his chest securely the same way they had the night you’d shown up in WestView and urged him to kiss you. When he took you in, he kicked himself for missing out on so much of you for so long.

He was certain, one of these days he’d actually speak the three words that followed him around whenever he thought about you, but as he watched your eyes flutter closed, he decided the words would be best spoken some other time. He was well aware you already knew, just as he was well aware that you loved him, it needed to be said. Eventually, but not quite yet.

#peter maximoff #peter maximoff x reader #peter maximoff smut #peter maximoff imagine #wandavision x reader #wandavision spoilers #pietro maximoff #pietro maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x reader

[nightwingmyboi]

Hey so I was wondering about Dick's Romanian heritage. Is it mentioned a lot in comics or media? Is he dark skinned in any adaptations? Is it true he originally went to Juvie after his parents died? Where would I go to find this stuff out? Thanks!

Sure! So, Dick’s heritage is a pretty complex topic. I think it’s best to leave the explanation to [this post]. Since I know not everyone will click the link, just to briefly clarify something: Dick is Romani, not Romanian. Being Romanian means being from the country of Romania. Romani people are scattered across the world. Also, Dick is typically depicted with light skin in canon...him being Romani would not conflict with this, because the Romani people have a large range of skin tones. Not at all opposed to him being depicted with darker skin, but just so that you know. Very, very strongly recommend checking out the post for the whole story (edit: and checking the reblogs for the counterpoint to said post!!) 

Robin (1993) Annual #4

As for your other question...in one version of Dick’s origin story, following his parents’ deaths, Dick was sent to Gotham’s Youth Center. This center was essentially a juvenile detention center; most of the kids were sent there for committing what are described in comic as “adult crimes.” It was a very rough environment for Dick, especially in the aftermath of his parents’ deaths. 

Dick going to the center after his parents died is technically a retcon of his origin (ie it was something added later). I know for some reason certain people hear the word retcon and immediately are like “then it doesn’t count!!!” but I think that is very much the wrong approach. True enough, some retcons are bad--that is, those that completely ignore previously established characterizations or plot points, and in doing so often radically change the story for the worse. It’s fine if people want to ignore those bad retcons, I do so myself. But, that’s not true for every retcon lmao. I’d say the juvie origin retcon is a great example of a good retcon. It really helps to clarify and enhance the original story, and I don’t think it should be dismissed. Hear me out here: 

1.) The juvie origin doesn’t replace any previous origin story--it really only adds to and improves upon the timeline of Dick’s original origin. 

For the most part, in previous tellings of the story, Dick’s origin went pretty much straight from his parents dying to him and Bruce in Wayne Manor. It’s a pretty sudden, jarring jump; the in-between was largely left to the reader’s imaginations or implied to not exist at all. And I’ll be real...the pacing and immediacy of events is pretty wonky and unreasonable. In one of the most extreme speed runs through Dick’s origin I’ve seen, Dick’s parents die and Batman immediately swings down from the rafters and tells Dick that he’ll solve the case...while Dick’s parents’ bodies are still cooling a couple feet away (Batman #436). Yeah, that is absolutely ridiculous lmao, as is the idea that Bruce just immediately adopted Dick the day his parents died. I think that the juvie origin very nicely slows things down and helps to organically fill in the gap of time that would and should exist between Dick losing his parents and being taken in by Bruce. 

2.) The juvie origin helps to rationalize Bruce’s reasoning for taking Dick in. 

In previous origin stories, Bruce’s main motivation for taking Dick in is that he saw his own suffering reflected in Dick and wanted to help him. I dig the parallels between Bruce and Dick...but this is very flimsy reasoning to adopt someone lmao. With all the tragedy that occurs in Gotham, you cannot tell me that Bruce had not run across some orphans before. Bruce sympathizing with Dick certainly should be part of what motivates him, but there needed to be something more. If there is not some immediate, urgent reason to adopt Dick, then it makes zero sense that Bruce would try to raise him honestly. Why would Bruce tear Dick away from his remaining family and friends at the circus? Why would Dick want to leave? And even if Dick could no longer remain at the circus, why wouldn’t Bruce allow Dick to go to a good foster home, especially since Bruce is so laser focused on his solo crusade against Gotham’s crime that he doesn’t even allow himself to have a steady girlfriend half the time? Lots of plot holes here!

The juvie origin fixes a lot of these issues! Staying at the circus is not an option for Dick, not because Bruce just snatches him away, but because legally Gotham Juvenile Services says that the circus is an inadequate environment for raising a child. Dick is sent to juvie, and the comic makes a point of showing Dick nearly being beaten to death almost immediately upon arriving. 

Dick is in danger and he’s lost in the system, so there is no longer a possibility for him to land in a good home. Initially, when Bruce goes to find Dick, he’s still tracking him down only with the intention of getting justice for Dick by solving his parent’s murder. But Bruce is a good person at heart. When Batman finds Dick trying to escape from the juvenile hall, beaten to hell, he intervenes. The next morning Dick is taken in by Bruce Wayne. 

So now, taking in Dick isn’t Bruce tearing Dick away from the chance of having a loving family and throwing him into the dangerous life of a crime fighter; taking Dick in is Bruce saving Dick from a horrible situation, possibly even saving his life. The only way to get Dick out of the potentially deadly situation he was in quickly was for Bruce to take him in as a foster parent. Bruce’s actions actually make a lot of sense! And Bruce is forced by necessity to take on a fatherly role that he does not feel suited or prepared for, rather than him adopting Dick on a whim. The juvie origin gives this scenario the urgency and necessity that it desperately needed. 

3.) The juvie origin has been around for a long time, and pretty successfully adds nuance to Dick’s character without completely altering or changing who he is. 

The juvie origin is a retcon that has been established for about 25 years, fyi. Robin Annual #4, which is where this idea first came into play, was released in 1995. There are also references to this origin story in Nightwing Vol. 2, and that comic series ran from 1996 to 2009, so it’s not like the juvie origin is completely baseless or totally removed from the narrative. 

Nightwing (1996) #11

Also...Dick Grayson has been around for 80 years. In DC comics, I’m pretty sure he is predated only by Superman and Batman. You are inevitably going to have to add nuance to his character as time goes on. The juvie origin adds a very interesting complexity to the character and his fight against crime, considering he himself has been in the system...there’s so much untapped potential there!! So yeah, I feel like the juvie retcon is a very valid addition to Dick Grayson’s origin story. Plus, Robin Annual #4 is just a very well written and well thought out comic book that really fleshes out Bruce, Dick, and Alfred’s initial relationships to one another in a realistic way, and more people should check it out. 

What I’m saying...is that more people need to get on board and accept the juvie origin guys!! It’s my favorite origin for Dick, hands down. Thanks for giving me an excuse to talk about it anon. 

As for where to go for more info…well, you can always check out Dick’s DC wiki, or anyone else’s, for basic summary info. For me, I always like going straight to the source. You could find a comic rec list that focuses on what you’re interested in and just dive in and build your knowledge that way. Sometimes if you google around, you can find neat creator interviews that address questions like the ones you asked. If nothing else, I’m sure there are people on tumblr (like me :D) or elsewhere online who are willing to help you out and point you in the right direction if you’re curious about something in particular. Idk if other people know of a good resource for things like this?

#thanks for the ask anon! #ask #dick grayson #robin #bruce wayne #batman #alfred pennyworth #juvie hall #meta #romani #romani dick grayson

[sabrinaacarpenters]

tumblr tag game

thank you so much for tagging me @fredy-carter ❤️

1. Why did you choose your url?

after reading six of crows last year i absolutely fell in love with miss Nina Zenik so I had to have her as my url and we haven’t parted ways since <3 (and this spelling was the closest canon i could get, whoever has nina-zenik saved i would love you forever if you’d grace me with it) 

2. Any side blogs?

i’m a member at @dailybridgerton and besides that I have another main blog that i haven’t updated in forever but it’s always funny to go back and see what i reblogged and posted as an edgy teen haha

3. How long have you been on tumblr?

i think i made my personal blog in 2011 and i created this one in 2013 but i wasn’t always active on it

4. Do you have a queue tag?

only a ‘q’ because i can’t be bothered typing out anything longer 

5. Why did you start your blog in the first place?

i dont even remember exactly to be honest but i think i just wanted to keep up with the fandoms i was in at the time and participate 

6. Why did you choose your icon/pfp?

sour has been playing 24/7 since it came out so it only made sense to have miss Olivia as my icon

7. Why did you choose your header?

i wanted something very simple with a quote that i love and this one resonated with me so much when i read crescent city

8. What’s your post with the most notes?

this text post which somehow reached 200k people despite only having bellarke as a hashtag lmao 

9. How many mutuals do you have?

i have no idea to be honest since i’ve been here so long, there are a lot of people that we don’t even share fandoms with anymore but we still follow each other <3 

10. How many followers do you have?

i’m almost at 2,9k which i’m incredibly grateful for <3 

11. How many people do you follow?

372

12. Have you ever made a shit post?

i think half of my original posts here are shit posts lmao

13. How often do you use tumblr a day?

i basically open it anytime im bored and browse it like its the morning newspaper

14. Did you ever have a fight/argument with another blog?

yes lmao. but lately i’ve been just blocking people instead of trying to argue, they aren’t worth the energy

15. How do you feel about the ‘you need to reblog’ posts?

as a gifmaker i completely agree that if you like something you should reblog it. none of us get paid to be here and create content, spend hours from our free time creating things, be it gifs, fanfics, fanart, playlists, icons, headers or anything else. and seeing 80%-20% like/reblog ratio can be really disheartening, so i understand why so many creators just gave up on it or lost motivation. for me the biggest motivator is seeing people reblog my creations because that means they liked it and while i dont make then for validation it still feels great to know that someone likes what you do so much that they want to show it to others as well. but of course no one has to reblog anything, and i’ll never block anyone just for only liking something (which i’ve seen some people do but i think its rather extreme)  also if you really want to make someone’s day just leave any personal message in the tags, i know i always check them and its an instant serotonin boost when someone say they really love a set

16. Do you like tag games?

yes, even if i forget to do them sometimes, but just know that if you tagged me at anything i’ll love you forever

17. Do you like ask games?

i love them, it’s always great to talk to all of you who follow me <3

18. Which of your mutuals do you think is tumblr famous?

all of you that get random anon messages, asking about your opinions, you are all celebrities in my eyes

19. Do you have a crush on a mutual?

crush? im in love with all of you jk

20. Tags!

@vanserrasvalkyrie @starbornvalkyrie @ladyvanserra @yazthebookish @teamnick @hopemikaelsson @tylorswft @starkkov @helion-ism @arielle-reads @catalinabaylors @oversizedbats @patel-dev and anyone who wants to do it <3 

#tag game

[pulledpurplecurtains]

all the odd ones for the fic questions pls and thank you pepster

all the odd ones, meaning 1, 3 etc right? oh BOY are we gonna be here for a while (and i love it 🥰)

it’s morning right now so let’s see how long throughout the day this is gonna take me sdfghjk let’s do it!!

1) what was the first fandom you got involved in?

hmmmm. i wanna say harry potter, more than a decade ago? specifically dramione and scorose

3) what is the best fandom you’ve been involved in?

for all that it has given me i have to say bechloe

5) which fandoms have you written fanfiction for?

so far just for bechloe

7) list your NoTPs from each fandom you’ve been in

i’m only gonna list pairs i have strong feelings against and from only the fandoms i’ve been most involved in

harry potter: snape and hermione

frozen: elsa and hans (no but for real. why)

pitch perfect: beca and jessie, chloe and chicago

marvel: hm hm surprisingly nothing comes to mind

the haunting of bly manor: same as for marvel

9) what are the best things about your current fandom?

having a space where i can fully be myself, expressing myself freely through my writing, meeting so many wonderful people, having a previously unexplored side of myself revealed to me, finding and delving into characters that make me feel less alone, and so much more. it’s been a real blessing, having this fandom in my life

11) who is your current OTP?

bechloe

(this was the point where tumblr lost me ALL MY ANSWERS FROM QUESTIONS 13 TO 33 so let’s do this again SHALL WE??? i’ll be saving each answer as we go dear god)

13) any NoTPs?

already answered!

15) is there an obscure ship which you love?

hmm i don’t think so? none that comes to mind at least

17) who was your first OTP and are they still your favorite?

my first OTP, before i even knew what an OTP was, was scorpius and rose from harry potter. it’s not still on top of my OTP list, but always has a special place in my heart

19) is there a ship which you wished you could get behind, but you just don’t feel them?

not really? i mean, there are popular ships that i don’t support, like hermione with bellatrix or natasha with wanda for example. i can see their appeal and i get why people like them. they’re just not for me and i’m okay with that

21) what was the first fanfic you ever wrote?

ah my accidental multi chap baby sdfghjkdfg

All is Fair in Love and War was posted as an one shot, and that was all it was supposed to be. it was my first finished written piece. and then a couple of people in the comments were really nice abt sharing thoughts of where the story could go next and what they’d like to see happen, and they were very enthusiastic abt wanting to see more of that story. so the second chapter was born

sooo one thing led to the other and before i knew it that fic had become an 8 chapter, over 60k words story sdfghjkdf i’m amused and grateful to this day

23) name a fic you’ve written that you’re especially fond of and explain why you like it

how can you ask a mother to pick her favorite of her kids HUH

no but for real, i love all of my stories equally. i’m a perfectionist, so nothing gets posted before it’s perfect in my eyes. plus, all my stories are my babies. each has its flaws and imperfections, each in their own ways. but they’re all beautiful and meaningful to me

what i will say is, i have a particular soft spot for (wondering if you knew) i was enchanted to meet you. i truly think my writing peaked in that story, in all the parallels and tiny but very important things that are in there

25) what’s your most popular fanfic?

based on views and kudos, it’s All is fair in Love and War

ofc that’s a multi chap, so maybe the numbers aren’t exactly equivalent to popularity

my most popular one shot, by a very large margin at that, is (i’ll let you in) and baby, that’s when

27) what do you hate more: coming up with titles or writing summaries?

i honestly love coming up with titles

writing summaries, on the other hand, is the bane of my existence

29) do you have a beta reader? why/why not?

i don’t, and it’s bc i’m literally incapable of taking any kind of critique over anything unfinished. once it’s posted and out in the world it’s fair game; but until then? that’s a big no for me

31) what’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said about your writing?

i honestly can’t answer this question bc every comment is so so special and important to me. i often go back and read them all. even right now while writing this there are so many different comments swirling around in my head. i appreciate and am grateful for all the kind words always 💜

33) do you write one shots, multi chapters, or huge epics?

sdfghjkk definitely not huge epics

i’ve written both of the other two. in the beginning i preferred and wanted to write multi chapters. however nowadays and for the past year or so, i lean more heavily towards one shots

35) do you write drabbles? if so, what do you normally write them about?

i am physically and mentally incapable of writing short things sdfghjkd so no, i don’t write drabbles

37) first person or third person? what do you write in and why?

always third person. idk the idea of first person narration always seemed weird to me. plus, i see my stories as me retelling the events the characters have confided in me. so third person makes sense and it’s also why i use past tense in my stories

39) what is your greatest strength as a writer?

describing and narrating emotions and using metaphors

41) list and link to five fanfics you’re currently reading

my reader’s block has been going strong, so i’m not reading anything currently unfortunately

43) is there anyone in your fandom who really inspires you?

my squirrels 💜

45) what is your all time favorite fanfic?

i have to say Experimentation i just have to

i also love Perdition, what an incredible piece of writing

47) ao3, ff.net or tumblr - where do you prefer to post and why?

definitely ao3, i just love its interface i guess?

49) do you care if people comment on/ reblog your writing? why/why not?

okay so here’s the deal. ofc i care. every artist who shares their work, every creator, cares; at least to a degree. it’s why we share. we want people to see and love and appreciate our work, we want it recognised and celebrated even. we want people to engage with it, show it to their friends, talk abt it, have thoughts abt it. it’s only natural and ofc i’m absolutely no exception

with that said. i’ve always tried to remind myself that kudos/likes are also engagement. that even just reading is engagement. that everyone’s limit or ability for engagement isn’t the same, and that ultimately it’s their choice how or if they’ll engage with my writing. i try to, and i do, value everyone who even just reads my stories. i share something with the world for free and it’s my choice to do and continue to do so. what happens after that isn’t up to me

so yes i do care a lot abt reblogs and comments. they make me very happy, they validate and encourage me. but people have no obligation, in my eyes at least, to engage with my works a specific way. just like i have no specific obligation to provide a certain type of content on set periods of time or with a set limit of words or to continue to provide stories; or literally any other obligation. no one can police my actions and choices up until i’ve posted a story and i can’t police anyone’s actions or choices after i’ve posted it. and that’s the beauty of fandom for me - we’re all here bc we want to and bc it makes us happy, with no expectations or obligations

ending this with an essay seems only suitable sdfghjkd thank you my egg for giving me the opportunity to talk abt myself in such length 😌💜

#ask #snowonebutyou #ask game #i don’t even know if i did this right sdfghj #but i loved it #btw it’s 6:30pm right now lmao

[shenanigans-and-imagines]

We’re The Bad Guys: Part 7

We’re the Bad Guys: Masterlist

Poe Dameron x Reader (eventually), First Order!Reader

Summary: From the day you were born, you were taught the rebels and their New Republic were the bad guys. But, after you crash land on a remote moon with only the Resistance’s poster boy for company, things begin the change.

Based off of this drabble and headcanon

A/N: Look at me having another part up within the next week instead of the next three months. Sorry, no Poe in this chapter either, but he will be back in Part 8, pinkie promise.  And as usual COMMENT AND REBLOG IF YOU LIKE THIS! I NEED VALIDATION TO LIVE!!!

Word Count: 2.0K

          Getting to Takodana was easier than one might expect for a member of The First Order.

          For troopers or lower ranking officials, landing anywhere closer than the outermost rim of the galaxy was near impossible without clearance.  But for a Commander, slipping in and out of First Order space did not take much imagination.  A switched ship here, a bribe there and one could get as close as the inner rim if they put their mind to it.  Of course, most officers took it as a chance to visit a pleasure planet or two without word of a scandal getting sent up the ranks.  For your purposes, however, you risked a lot more than personal embarrassment. 

          You had started by taking leave on a small base not far from Rakata Prime.  It was a place common for officers in search of some relief from the stress and monotony of space travel.  It also was the perfect jumping off point to the outer rim.  The security was notoriously lax if not outright corrupt.  The right amount of credits in the right hand could get you just about anywhere.  

          It didn’t take long for you to track down a cadet willing to recommend a lovely little spaceport on some planet you never heard of. Apparently it had some of the best underground gambling one could find this side of Hutt Space, which meant pilots, but more importantly, pilots in need of fast, no questions asked, credits.  

          The cadet dropped you with the promise to pick you up in three days.  There was no need for him to follow. What you did while on planet was your business. The fact you had even left the base was blackmail enough. No doubt he was going to factor that into your service fee for the trip back. 

          After that, it was easy.  Within a few hours you were able to track down another ship heading in the direction of Takodana. Like any pilot bordering the Unknown Region, you couldn’t be sure where exactly the captain’s loyalty’s lay.  It meant a small risk every time money exchanged hands, but it also ensured anonymity.  

          You haggled a place in the cargo hold and by the next morning, you were walking down the ramp onto the forest planet. 

          It was beautiful.  Any word less would be a disservice.  The lush greens of the forest and clear shimmering lake water served as another stark reminder of where you came from.  

          No polished blacks.  No filtered air.  Just green and life. 

          You were so caught up in the moment, you almost forgot why you had come. A hard push from one of the crew members snapped you back to reality. Your eyes followed his path to the infamous castle just off in the distance. There was no going back now. 

          Securing the cloth placed over your nose and mouth, you kept your head low and followed. 

          The bar was just as crowded as you had expected with an assortment of humans and aliens from every point in the galaxy.  You would give this to Maz Kanata, despite her castle’s reputation for being a safe haven for pirates and explorers, the place was shockingly bright and clean. Cluttered and eclectic, but open and generally lacking the layer of grim that seemed to stain all spaceports along the mid and outer rim.  It left the impression that one could keep their blaster securely in their holster and actually enjoy a drink without fear of being taken off guard.  Still, you knew better.  This was a neutral space for Resistance and First Order alike.   Any one of the patrons could be a spy for either side.

          Making sure not to make eye contact with anyone, you made your way to the bar. 

          “I’m looking for Maz Kanata,” you said, in a low tone.  “I need to speak with her.”

          The bartender, an Artiodac, rumbled something in their native language you couldn’t understand. But, the dismissive laughter that followed was universal. 

          “It’s urgent,” you insisted.  “Commander Dameron sent me.” 

          “What trouble has that boy gotten into now?” a voice asked. 

          You turned around and immediately had to look down. 

          A small orange alien of a species you couldn’t name stood before you. Their head was huge compared to their small frame, wrinkles for days and eyes enlarged by giant magnifying goggles. 

          “Maz Kanata?” you asked. 

          “That’s my name, don’t wear it out,” she replied dryly. She then turned her attention to the Artiodac.  “Table five needs three more of the same.”

          The other alien nodded and quickly busied themselves with their task. 

          “Now,” Maz said.  “What trouble has Dameron brought to my door?”

          “No trouble,” you said. “I just need to get a message to him.”

          “Do you, now?” she asked, skeptically. 

          “Yes.”

          “And who are you, exactly?”

          “I’m a friend.” 

          “A friend who covers their face?” 

          Your hand went instinctively your mask.  Maybe it hadn’t been the best idea.  

          Maz gave a dry laugh. “Do you have a name at least?”

          You shifted uncomfortably. This was not going how you had pictured.  You had hoped to be half way off this planet by now. 

          “Not one he would know,” you admitted. 

          She raised an eyebrow. “Not much of a friend then.” 

          And with that she walked passed you out of the main room into the back. She must have assumed that meant an end to your conversation, but you hadn’t come all this way to be turned away now. She barely made it two paces before you followed after her. 

          “Fine, not much of a friend,” you said, “but certainly an ally.”

          “An ally?” she scoffed. “For what cause?”

          “To put an end to The First Order.”

          She paused. It wasn’t enough for her to turn to face you. She kept going about her task, moving a few crates, but you did get her attention. 

          “Bold words,” she said, “but why should I believe you?”

          “Because--”  You stopped.  

          Why should she believe you? Who were you, really?  A Commander for The First Order? A child solider? A pawn? Who were you to her? To The Resistance? To Dameron? 

          And that’s when you remembered. 

          “Because, I’m Pilot.”

          She turned to you, the surprise evident in her eyes. 

          “I’m Pilot,” you repeated, bolder this time. “The Pilot.”

          She stared more openly at you then, carefully examining your features.

          “Dameron’s Pilot?” she asked. 

          You shrugged, unsure how to feel about being called Poe Dameron’s anything. Still, it wasn’t entirely unpleasant. 

          Maz nodded in understanding.  Setting down the crate she was carrying, she silently indicated for you to kneel. 

          You felt a tug of uncertainty in your gut, but knew better than to question her orders.  You sunk down to your knees conveniently landing at the alien’s eye level. 

          She stepped closer to your, peering directly into your eyes. 

          You didn’t dare blink as she performed her examination, even adjusting her goggles to a higher intensity until the eyes reflected in them took over her entire face. 

          For a long moment neither of you spoke.

          “I see why he likes you,” Maz said, warmly as a wide smile spread across her face. “You have stars in your eyes.”

          You frowned, unsure of what to make of her comment.  Nobody had ever called your eyes anything before, let alone filled with stars. It made you think of naive thinking and childish dreams, neither of which you had associated with yourself at any time of your life.  But for some reason, you didn’t think that was what she meant. 

          Maz stepped back, her expression once again all business.

          “What’s the message?”

          You blinked, allowing yourself a moment to come back to reality.  Reaching down, you pulled the data card from your pocket.  

          “This is everything I had access to,” you said, handing the card to her. “Tie patrols, base coordinates, supply lines, everything. Make sure this gets to Resistance and...tell Commander Dameron that we’re even.” 

          She took the card, frowning slightly.  “Why don’t you tell him yourself?” 

          “I’m not joining The Resistance.”

          Her brows furrowed. “But you are leaving The First Order.” 

          “Yes.”

          “So what are you planning to do?”

          You shrugged, rising to your feet. “I’m a pilot.  I’m sure I can find something.” 

          Maz Kanata said nothing, but it was clear from her expression she wanted to say a lot of things.

          “You disapprove,” you stated rather than asked.  

          “Let’s just say, I don’t think the smuggler’s life is for you,” she said, dryly.

          Your lip pressed into a fine line. “And what do you propose? I’ve spent my whole life fighting a cause that wasn’t my own.  You would ask me to do the same thing, but for the other side?” 

          “It’s not the same thing if you choose to fight it.”

          “And what if I’m tired of fighting?”

          She shook her head, chuckling lightly.  “No. You were born to fight.”

          A sudden flash of anger fired in your heart.  It was a familiar feeling. The same one you felt towards Dameron when he had made certain presumptions about your family.  Of course, he had been right.

          “It wasn’t my choice,” you said, tightly.

          Maz shook her head again.  “No Pilot. Even if you were raised by peaceful monks, you would find a way to fight.  Maybe not by hopping in an X-Wing and blowing things up, but still fight.  You’re fighting The First Order right now.”

          “I’m settling a debt.”

          “By fighting,” she insisted. “You said it yourself; you are an ally to put an end to The First Order.” 

          She held up the card, waving it for emphasis. “With this alone you’ve just saved countless lives and struck a harder blow against The First Order than the entire Republic Senate has done in a year.” 

          “And now I’m done.”

          Maz let out a sigh, her bright expression fading to one of disappointment. 

          “Then you still fight for The First Order.” 

          “I’m fighting for myself,” you snapped.  

          “If one knows there is evil in the world and does not oppose it, that does not make them neutral,” Maz said, calmly. “There is no neutral stance.  Indifference, selfishness, this is what allows The First Order and all others like them to prosper.”      

          “So is every person going about their lives as bad as The First Order.” you said, sardonically. 

          “No. Most don’t have the power, or the means to fight.  But you do.”

          You scoffed. “So, I still don’t have a choice.”

          “Of course you do.  Everybody had a choice. But, it’s important to keep in mind that no choice is still a choice, just not an obvious one.” 

          You let out a sigh. This was what it was about, wasn’t it? Having a choice? It was proving to be a lot more trouble than people let on. 

          “Why are you so insistent I join The Resistance?” you asked. “You don’t know me.”

          She smiled then.  It was a knowing smile, like she was in on a secret; not one she was trying to keep, but one she was dying to tell. 

          “Like I said, you have stars in your eyes. Clouded over, faded, but still there; begging to shine.” 

          For the second time that day, you didn’t know what to make of it. You knew better than to ask.  Maz Kanata seemed exactly the type of person to answer anything as cryptically as possible. 

          “Seems to me Pilot, you have three options,” she continued. “Number one, you go back out there and ask if anyone needs a co-pilot.  You go off into the Outer Rim and nobody hears from you again.  Number two, you take this back and deliver it to Commander Dameron yourself.”

          You fought the urge to roll your eyes. “And number three?” 

          “You choose to fight in your own way.” 

          “By what? Freelancing as a fighter pilot?” 

          She shrugged. “As I said, there are more ways of fighting than hopping in an X-Wing and blowing things up.” She held up the data card with that same knowing smile.  “More effective ways.”

          You half expected her to hand the card back to you, but instead she tucked it into her vest and picked up the crate she had been carrying earlier.  

            “It’s your choice Pilot,” she said.  “It always has been.”

          And with that she left, leaving you alone with your thoughts and your choices.  

#poe dameron x reader #poe dameron #poe x reader #poe #star wars imagine #star wars #poe imagine #poe dameron imagine #the force awakens #the last jedi #the rise of skywalker

[ears-awake-eyes-opened]

Now or never

(Hayffie ff ❤️. I initially shied away from this prompt because I didn’t think I could write it in a way that felt interesting. But I ended up having a great time with it, so much fun that this became one of my longest one-shots. — I make no apologies for the length of my posts in the feed or in the tags. I don’t apologize for any aspect of my free expression. For personal reasons, I write on my phone using the tumblr app, and the limitations are what they are. Like the limitations of my disabled body are what they are. For prompts, I reblog the prompt along with the link to my fic in case anyone wishes to reblog something shorter. — I write for myself, for my love of the characters and the process. When people comment on, like, or reblog my posts, I view those interactions as unexpected gifts. I have such love for writing that I’d do it old-school like Anne Frank, without any audience beyond my journal itself. This blog has been that for me for over 5 years, my space for coming of age and processing intensities in a strained and oppressive midlife. — I’m inspired now by prompts much more than I have been in past fanfiction efforts. So, thank you to everyone who offers them. And when people are willing to slog through my long fics and other posts, that is fabulous devotion to the characters/issues that are important to me, and I feel good to know I’m not caring alone. — 💛 Kim)

***

His facial hair was rough against her lips. The sensation triggered fantasy which played out more readily if she didn’t have to look at him. So she kissed him with her eyes closed whenever they fucked around. He was the same height as Haymitch. When she wore 5-inch heels, those added to the feeling of intimacy. It wasn’t entirely real, but it felt better than loneliness.

Their relationship was discrete, of course. Mutual discretion was a condition she established before getting involved with anyone, especially someone as high-profile as Seneca Crane.

As far as Capitol society was concerned, their connection was primarily professional, with occasional dinners at expensive restaurants. It was an image they’d been comfortable projecting, and it wasn’t far from the truth.

In moments that weren’t overly physical, she enjoyed his eyes. Blueish-grey with a streak of emotion, they were familiar enough to help her pretend. That’s why she’d first invited Seneca up to her apartment in the fall — to have sex with Haymitch in fantasy.

The sex was good enough. He was gifted with his hands, though he smelled too much like her. She wondered if he wore the same cologne as she did. And his body frame was smaller than the one she actually wanted intimacy with. By November, they’d become a regular *good enough* thing.

A dozen years earlier, they’d been schoolmates at the Academy. He graduated two years before her. She was softer then but already a force to reckon with. He was shorter in those days, sharp, obsessed with tech design. Ambition was an attribute they shared, perhaps the only one.

By 30, he’d become one of the youngest Head Gamemakers in history. He enjoyed the rush of adrenaline he experienced when executing the Games, and he relished the opportunity for artistry. The thrill and beauty he saw in death made Effie uncomfortable, but she viewed it as part of the job. He carried out the president’s wishes, though he confided in her that he didn’t fully agree with the way Snow ruled Panem.

On an evening in late December, they walked along a garden path covered in trellises draped with strands of fairy lights. Effie kept her hands warm in her pockets. It had been a long day, and she was ready to be home in bed, asleep, alone.

“What do you think about marriage?” he asked. The question was slightly more inspiring than if he’d asked her what she thought about the weather.

“I haven’t given it much thought,” she answered honestly, leaving out her occasional ludicrous fantasies about having babies with tiny purple wigs and predispositions for alcoholism.

“A union could be advantageous for both our careers. The publicity could improve your chances of promotion to escort for an inlying district.”

“And what do you stand to gain from a *union*?”

“You’re iconic, Effie. You represent the Capitol with style and positivity, and you execute your work flawlessly. You’re in good favor with the president. You could be a wonderful ally for me,” You could be a buffer for me, he didn’t say.

“Is there anything more?”

“Like what?”

“Really, Seneca, is THIS how you’re proposing??”

“Well, our families would support us. And there’s the matter of sentiment.”

“Sentiment?”

“I like you. I care for you, of course.”

She thought of Haymitch’s words from last summer, the night they almost... but didn’t.

‘I like you too much,’ he’d said, ‘I can’t fuck around with you and pretend it’s nothing. And that’s how it would have to be. That’s the only way it could be.”

Venia and Octavia insisted Haymitch loved her, but she believed that was still a pipe dream. She could keep waiting in vain, or she could choose a more sensible path.

“And there’s this...” From his coat pocket, Seneca pulled a black velvet box and flipped it open. Effie’s jaw dropped. The diamond was huge. It was far and away the loveliest ring she’d seen. She looked in those blueish-grey eyes that reminded her a bit of everything she wanted that wasn’t accessible to her.

Seneca pressed, “Say yes, and the wedding can be one of the biggest events of the year, rivaling even the Games.”

She imagined what her dress would look like. He was saying the right words to tempt her. They didn’t love each other, but maybe she could look past that inconvenient reality. Sometimes people married for other reasons.

“The press would go crazy,” he continued, “There would be red carpet interviews. We could invite everyone who’s anyone: stylists, victors, even Snow.”

Victors... Would he show up to watch me get married? 6 months ago, Haymitch had asked her what she wanted. He’d unzipped her dress and touched her body. He’d taken off his shirt and shown her his scars. Then he effectively told her a relationship between them was never going to happen, and he held her hand as she fell asleep.

Damn him.

She took her left hand out of her pocket. “Let’s see how it fits.”

Seneca had investigated her ring size, so the fit was perfect.

“Let’s show him,” she said.

“Show who?”

“Them. Let’s show them all.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes. Let’s get married. ...This spring.” She could plan a wedding in 5 months, no problem. Isn’t this the time couples usually cry and leap into one another’s arms? Shouldn’t this occasion call for a show of passion?

“This spring it shall be then.” When Seneca kissed her, she closed her eyes and embraced the same fantasy as usual.

***

Haymitch rarely received mail beyond his compensatory income from the government. In March, when the post delivered an envelope addressed to him in gold ink, he almost tossed the thing straight into the trash, recognizing it as an invitation to a Capitol party. Then he saw the name “Trinket” and the return address of Effie’s family home.

What’s this? He opened it right there on the porch with uneasiness gnawing at his stomach.

“You are cordially invited to celebrate the marriage of

Euphemia Rosalind Trinket -and-

Seneca Lucius Crane

Saturday, the first of May

At 3 O’Clock in the afternoon

Palazzo Annaeus”

What the hell is THIS! His stomach churned, and he vomited up a pint of white liquor on the ground beside the porch.

Memories flooded in... tracing up the seams of her stockings, unhooking her garters, feeling her body without a corset, running his fingers through her hair as she curled up in bed, so soft. So damn soft. Fear had screamed warnings about getting attached to her. Fear was always screaming.

When those Games were done, he’d left the Capitol with a strained sadness between them, like a rubber band stretched too long. Today it snapped and smacked him in the face. He felt the sting of annoyance and regret.

Damn her.

He couldn’t fix this. The only thing left to do was decide whether or not he was willing to watch it happen. He would have burned the invitation in the fireplace if not for the P.S. in her obnoxiously perfect handwriting.

***

Seneca had been right about one thing. Effie’s parents were thrilled that she’d decided to marry one of *the Crane boys,* especially the Head Gamemaker. Historically the Cranes had been part of the old guard of the wealthy from the Capitol, and they’d successfully diversified their financial interests in the years following the Dark Days.

Her parents spared no expense for *the wedding of the decade.* Effie spent the winter so caught up in the comfort of validation and the thrill of event planning that most of the time she evaded the sense of dread that nagged her when she startled awake in the mornings.

When she’d addressed the invitations, she considered adding a postscript to Haymitch’s, either “Fuck you” or “I love you.” Both feelings were nonsensical and nonetheless true. In the end she’d written,

“H — Please come. — E”

She checked the mail each day for his response card among hundreds, but it never showed up. Figures. He probably threw it away.

She didn’t need anyone to *rescue* her from the fate she’d chosen. If she wanted to call off the wedding, she’d simply come up with a logical explanation to save face; she’d apologize to Seneca and her parents; she’d put a stop to all plans, and that would be that.

The phrase “Mayday mayday mayday” was a distress signal used by Capitol troops during the Dark Days. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d subconsciously scheduled her wedding on the first of May because, apart from the fine details, opulence, and attention, her heart wasn’t in this.

***

“We’re here at Pallazo Annaeus,” Claudius reported from the red carpet which had been rolled out along the walkway to the galleria of the Crane family mansion. “Just a short time from now, fashion icon and District 12 escort, Effie Trinket, will wed two-time Head Gamemaker, Seneca Crane.”

“Isn’t this exciting!!” Caesar was in typical form. “The air is positively electric!”

“So much so that my hair is standing on end!”

“As is mine!! Thank goodness for hair products.”

“And wigs! We’re seeing all of the ABOVE as the guests arrive. What a crowd!”

Their interviews with attendees were concise, asking which stylists designed their gowns and suits, and if they had particular wishes to share with the couple.

“Now here comes... Is that?... It is! Haymitch Abernathy, victor of the second Quarter Quell.”

“How touching. One advisor for District 12 supporting the other on her special day.”

“I LOVE it!! Haymitch, do you have any words for the happy couple?”

Haymitch stomped past them without pause. He hadn’t entirely sobered up from the bottle of whiskey he drank on the train, and he didn’t even try to resist flipping Caesar off when asked the question.

“A man of few words,” Claudius covered for a shocked Caesar. “We never know what to expect from that one.”

“He certainly does keep us on our toes.”

“Well, it’s a good thing we have stylish shoes!”

“Indeed!” Each of them spun around on tiptoe, and the cameras zoomed in on their footwear as a distraction from Haymitch’s persistent middle finger.

Just beyond the entryway, the galleria was packed already. Guests were dressed in yards of fabric and large hats. Floral arrangements lined marble walls covered with paintings, some of which were probably older than Panem itself. Haymitch slipped into the first empty chair he spotted, ignoring the usher who asked him, “Are you here for the bride or the groom?”

The question pestered. The bride. Shit. I’m here for the bride.

***

With every detail attended to, Effie curled her fingers around her father’s arm in the vestibule. Flower girls and bridesmaids entered the galleria first, then it would be her turn.

“My princess is getting married in a palace.” Her father kissed her cheek.

“Daddy! Careful of my makeup. Photos aren’t being taken until afterward.”

“Of course. It’s YOUR perfect day.”

Effie had certainly made everything perfect, except for this unrelenting nausea and desire to run away. She forced herself to breathe slowly. The last thing she needed right now was to throw up, ruin her white gown, and have the press start a false rumor about pregnancy. She had no desire to have children with Seneca. She’d made that clear, and he agreed.

“Are you alright, sweetheart?”

Her father calling her “sweetheart” made every discomfort worse. Clearly she thought of Haymitch.

“I’m trying to be alright... but I don’t know,” she confessed.

Her father wasn’t sure what to say. “It’s almost time to walk down the aisle. Is that what you want to do?”

He asked it like she had a choice, but it was too late for choices.

“Let’s go pay the piper!” As Effie started down the aisle on her father’s arm, she didn’t notice the splendor and fullness of the room, nor the oohs and aahs from standing friends and family. She didn’t notice the rose petals on the floor, nor her fiancé sweating like a pig about to be roasted alive with an apple in its mouth.

All she saw was Haymitch.

He stood at the edge of the aisle, in the middle of the room. In the years that she’d known him, he’d been clear about his disdain for Capitol events, yet here he was, no RSVP and very much himself in his regular clothes from District 12. She’d probably be irritated if she hadn’t missed him so much. He was standing right here, and she was still missing him. It took every ounce of restraint to not tell him so.

“Great dress, sweetheart.” He offered a subdued smile as she passed.

She looked back at him once, and her eyes felt like old glass, holding tears too hardened to fall. Then there was nothing to do but look forward.

***

Fear was screaming different words now at Haymitch. Stop this. This wedding. Stop this!

As she walked away from him, he could see that her dress had an open back from her waist to the top of her shoulder blades. The gap was bordered in ornate jewels, stitching, and fancy shit. But he couldn’t take his eyes off her skin, and he couldn’t stop thinking about touching her.

She glanced at him again as she handed her bouquet to a bridesmaid. Her eyes were pleading. He knew the look because of all the times he’d tried to ignore her feelings for him ...and his feelings for her.

The officiant addressed the audience, “We are gathered here today to join Effie and Seneca in matrimony. Family, friends, and honored guests, do you support this union and affirm that these two should be married today?”

Haymitch looked around as the audience responded in unison, "We do."

I don’t.

The officiant continued, “Will you surround this couple in love, offering them the joys of your friendship? Will you support this couple in their relationship? At times of conflict will you offer them the strength of your wisest counsel and the comfort of your thoughtful concern? At times of joy, will you celebrate with them, nourishing their love for one another?”

The automatons responded together again, "We will.”

Like hell I will.

“If any of you has a reason why these two should not be married, speak now or forever hold your peace."

Haymitch sighed and shook his head. Someday he’d be the death of her, or she’d be the death of him. Maybe today was that day.

This felt like now or never. The bit of whiskey still in his veins helped it be now. He stood up and moved quickly down the aisle to the sound of gasps and murmurs all around him.

***

“What are you doing?” Effie was stunned as he gripped her wrist.

“Excuse us,” Haymitch said directly to Seneca, then he pulled Effie out of the room down a long hallway.

She went willingly, chastising him in hushed tones along the way. “Haymitch! This is highly inappropriate!”

“More inappropriate than us having this conversation in front of the entire Capitol?”

“What conversation?”

He pulled her into a room down the hall.

“Not so tight!”

He loosened his grasp on her wrist but didn’t let go.

“What are you doing, Effie?”

“Do I need to state the obvious?”

“Marriage?? Why are you even WITH him?”

“I don’t owe you explanations — or anything else for that matter.”

She was right. She owed him nothing. His edge softened, and he stroked her wrist with his thumb. “Why are you marrying somebody you didn’t even look at as you walked down that aisle?”

“I LOOKED at him.”

“For about five seconds, and what did you see?”

She hesitated, “He’s wearing a tie, not an ascot. We had a dispute about it this week, and I insisted he wear the tie.”

“That’s what you’re thinking about on your wedding day when you see the man you’re about to marry — a goddamn tie?”

“Why are YOU giving ME the third degree! What are YOU thinking about on my wedding day?”

“I’m thinking about how much I hate Seneca Crane. I don’t want him marrying you. I don’t want you fucking him.”

“Well, that ship sailed! We’ve been having sex for months, not that it’s any of your business!”

“Not my business?”

“Absolutely not!”

He was burning with a mix of emotions: anger, jealousy, frustration, confusion, desire, fear. “If it’s not my business, then why did you ask me to ‘please come’ today? What am I doing here? ...If it’s not my business, then why did reading your wedding invitation make me puke. Why can’t I stop thinking about you? ...If it’s not my business, then why do I want to be the one to take this dress off you. I keep holding your wrist because if I let go, I’m gonna touch you, and what would your *fiancé* think about that? What would YOU think about that?”

He’d never confessed so much to her all at once, and she was in a mild state of shock about it. “Last summer you told me if we ‘fucked around’ then you’d have to pretend it means nothing. You told me you can’t pretend that, so where does that leave us?”

“I don’t know, honey.”

“I think you do. ...Let go of my wrist.”

“I told you what’s gonna happen if I let go.”

“Then let it happen.”

In a duality of reluctance and eagerness, he let go of her wrist and caressed her through the open back of her dress. She shivered and leaned into him. He wrapped his arms around her, touching every inch of skin he could reach.

The wig she wore resembled her actual hair color, light golden, like wheat before harvest. In this moment, she was an angel. He’d kiss her if she’d just shut up, but she had things to say too.

“If it’s not your business, then why am I still here with you instead of out there marrying Seneca?” Her tone softened. “Why do I close my eyes and picture you every time I kiss him and every time we have sex? ....If it’s not your business, then why do I miss you so much?”

“Jesus, Effie. What are you doing to me?”

“I don’t know, honey.”

“I think you do.”

***

From the doorway, Seneca cleared his throat. He’d been listening awhile. Effie tried to pull away from Haymitch, but first he had to untangle himself from the back of her dress.

“This isn’t quite what it looks like,” Effie laughed nervously.

“It looks like unfinished business,” Seneca said.

“Then it IS what it looks like,” Haymitch told him.

“Will you please excuse us?” Seneca asked, proper as fuck. “Effie and I have some things to discuss.”

“I’m not leaving.” Fear and desire for her wouldn’t budge.

“I’ll handle this,” she insisted. “Please wait in the hall.”

This was the Gamemaker’s house, his wedding, and his girl for god sake. What else could Haymitch do? Pull out his knife and slit the guy’s throat?? This was Effie’s world, not his. Without another word, he stepped out of the room, and he hated that she closed the door behind him.

Seneca confronted her, “I’ll say this quickly because our guests have already waited long enough. A marriage of convenience is prudent when the motivations for such a union are stronger than the desire for love. I’ve realized that’s not the case here. For me, and apparently not for you either.”

“Are you in love with someone else?”

“Someone my family regards as unsuitable. I’m sorry I didn’t speak about it sooner. I was afraid you wouldn’t understand.” He glanced at the door, “But I see that you do. Frankly, this interruption is an enormous relief.”

Effie was slightly miffed to realize that Seneca would not be pining for her, but the interruption did lift her feeling of dread. “I apologize as well. I haven’t been forthcoming with you, or with myself. What do we do now? The Capitol is expecting a wedding.”

“The Capitol is expecting a show, and they’re getting that. Let’s walk out there together and announce that we’ve decided to cancel the nuptials and move straight to the reception. It can still be the party of the year.”

“But my parents...”

“I’ll reimburse your father for his investment in this. It’s the right thing to do. I do care for you, Effie, but I should never have discussed marriage as a hypothetical, let alone proposed and let it get this far.”

He held out his hand. “Shall we? Before any more time passes.”

She threaded her fingers with his in solidarity.

When the door opened, Haymitch was still there in the hall, fuming now at the sight of them holding hands.

“Seneca, give me another minute,” she said.

He let go of her and took several steps away.

She touched Haymitch’s arm and spoke into his ear, “The wedding is off. But we need time to appease our families and everyone else. Meet me at 9 o’clock at The Popina on 6th St. Do you know the place?”

He’d never been there, but it was a good call. He doubted the press would look for him at a swanky wine bar. “I know the one.”

She whispered, “I said I don’t owe you anything, and you don’t owe me anything either. Regardless, this feeling between us isn’t going away.”

Seneca told him, “Keep following this hallway as it bends to the right. You’ll eventually reach a side door you can take out of here if you want...”

Haymitch didn’t trust him and didn’t want to leave.

“...Unless you’d prefer a walk back down the red carpet with the other guests.”

I don’t.

Effie urged him to go. “I need to set this right. Please don’t make this harder for me than it already is.”

“I don’t wanna run out in the middle of a pile of shit.”

“Language! This wedding is not a pile of anything. It’s an event we need to finish differently than expected. Will you trust me?”

“Fine.” He answered without conviction, turning away so he wouldn’t have to watch them link hands again. Holding the handle of the knife in his pocket, he followed the hallway to the side door and left all that nonsense behind him. Did he trust her?? If she walked into that bar tonight without a rock on her finger, then maybe he just might.

***

Afterward, the red carpet commentary indeed made for a more interesting show.

“The only thing more exciting than a wedding,” said Caesar, “Is a kiss at the altar between the bride and groom after they’ve CALLED OFF the ceremony!”

“You may now kiss the woman in white who is no longer your bride!”

“Oh, Claudius, you’re so cheeky!”

“I can honestly say I’ve never seen a couple more happy to be NOT married.”

“Did somebody bring the sun INSIDE the palace? Because they were positively glowing.”

“The reception is still on, and did you hear their words about it?”

“Caesar, I was on the edge of my seat, and I couldn’t miss them, but say them again.”

“Seneca began, ‘May 1st, May Day, is not just one of folktales. Mayday was a cry of distress during war, terrible war. The Capitol responded and transformed that distress into peace.’

“Then...”

“Then Effie continued, ‘Instead of celebrating a wedding, we’ve decided to transform the reception we’d planned into a festival honoring the glory of the Capitol. Panem today, Panem tomorrow, Panem forever.’”

“Don’t you just love that?”

“I DO! I absolutely do!”

“Well, that’s the only ‘I do’ that we’ll be hearing this afternoon!”

Hysterical laughter ensued between the two.

“Claudius, the question on everyone’s mind revolves around the influence of a certain mentor from District 12.”

“Yes. Haymitch Abernathy interrupted the ceremony.”

“He pulled Effie away, and Seneca followed. When the couple returned hand-in-hand, they called off the wedding. The mystery is, what happened in between?”

“As you said earlier, we never know what to expect from Haymitch. That one is a wildcard.”

“We’ve been waiting for him to emerge from the palace so we can ask him, but as we noted before, he is a man of few words.”

“Maybe we’ll catch him at the reception.”

“The festival!”

“The festival, of course!”

***

By 10 o’clock, Haymitch had read the sign on the wall a hundred times. “Hedone says, ‘You can drink here for one; if you give two, you will drink better; if you give four, you will drink Falernian.”

‘Hedone’ he recognized as the Roman goddess of pleasure. He thought pleasure would be a fine devotion if it wasn’t pursued at the cost of other people’s lives or pursued to chase away demons. He was already chasing one bottle of Falernian with another. “Damn Capitol wine doesn’t get you drunk unless you chug two bottles. And this is the best they’ve got?”

He’d been there a couple of hours. During that time, his attention was divided between that sign reflecting on hedonism and the screen showing footage of Effie’s non-wedding reception.

They were *saving face* alright. Haymitch had rarely seen Effie kiss anyone, and tonight he’d watched her kiss her *former* fiancé every time someone clinked a glass. The kisses were pecks mostly, a game they were probably playing to host a fun party and show the Capitol there were no hard feelings between them. But as the kisses added up, Haymitch’s dislike for Seneca Crane became more palpable.

“Slide a bit,” she said, showing up beside him. She was hiding in a simple dress and a light layer of makeup. Her hair was pulled back beneath a scarf instead of a wig.

He scooted over, making room for her at his booth in back. “You’re late, sweetheart. Did Crane kiss all that makeup off your face?”

“And you’re drunk.” She caressed the back of his neck, content to be with him right now, drunk or not.

“Wasn’t drunk an hour ago after the first bottle of this Falernian shit. But the more you drink, the better it tastes.”

She drank from his glass, and he didn’t object. From his perspective right now, she could drink straight from his mouth or off his body.

He encircled her waist, pulling her as close as the setting allowed. He was relieved to see that she wasn’t married. His inhibitions were reduced, so she could do just about anything to him right now, and he wouldn’t object. He tried not to think about her having that kind of power.

She stroked his arm wrapped around her. “There’s a rumor circulating about you.”

“Oh yeah? What is it?” He kissed her neck after each question. “Do they think I’m fucking you?”

She giggled because the hair on his face tickled her skin and because she was anticipating his response. “Not quite, honey.”

“What then?”

“They think you’re fucking Seneca.”

“What the hell?!!”

“Caesar and Claudius predicted ‘the mentor from District 12 is having a torrid affair with the Head Gamemaker,’ and you pulled me away from the wedding in the hopes of taking my place at the altar.”

“They’re lunatics.”

“It’s a risky move breaking up a wedding. Who knows what people will say.”

“What do YOU say?”

“I say you look at my breasts far too often for you to be interested in Seneca Crane,” she chuckled.

“And what do you say about me breaking up your wedding?”

As she looked into his eyes, there was no approximation, no almost. It was a relief to not have to *pretend* that he was the one she wanted, but to just KNOW it. “I say, thank you. ...Sweetheart.”

What fantasies and real desires would be accessible with him? She’d know more in time.

#hayffie #hayffie fanfiction #effie x haymitch #haymitch x effie #haymitch abernathy #effie trinket #seneca crane #thg #thg fanfiction #the hunger games #hunger games #claudius templesmith #caesar flickerman #the capitol #pre-74th hunger games #may day #mayday #slide a bit nancy lee #HayffieFics

[florenceandthemachine]

@jacksonstilinskis​ I deleted your ask because I am a dumb lmao but if I recall correctly it was about stackson and photos right?? oy I have feels.

and I have feels because stackson is always feels but I digress. YES Jackson and his cute butt would be fucking Tumblr famous in like six days and it would start off as an accident. 

have some really cute things after the mess that was my last reblog.

stiles would just be fucking around with his phone one day (probably in college, me thinks? sharing a terrible dorm together after Jackson divorces himself from his parents) after waking up one morning, looking over at the love of his life, and deciding he needed to see Jackson every day always. Jackson is sleepy and soft and the sunlight from the window behind him is giving him a full glow with his adorable hair and his ridiculously attractive face.

there’s even a little bit of chest hair showing, which stiles loves (getting Jackson to stop waxing was a fucking miracle of a chance—apparently Lydia had loved the smooth skin, and Jackson had just kept it up out of habit. Stiles was 100% here for not ripping out your hair, especially when Jackson told him it hurt even more as a fast-healing wolf) and his leg is stuck out, because even though Stiles does not doubt at all that “monsters under the bed” are real anymore, Jackson is confident he could take one on and apparently leaves his fucking leg out to tempt them all, because he is an asshole. an asshole that stiles is in love with.

and Stiles snaps the picture right as Jackson starts waking up, and saves it, and his heart melts every time he looks at his phone. 

he decides to post it on a whim. he’s a member of a few online communities based on abuse survivors (of the human and paranormal), some LGBT support groups, that kind of things, and he’s definitely not well known, so he doesn’t think twice about it—he edits the photo a little, cropping out most of Jackson’s face because people are creepy online, and posts it with some caption like “u guys my boyfriend is so cute I love him so much I can’t even handle it send help” to his Tumblr and then goes about his merry way, turning his phone off before his next exam, expecting maybe three or four replies from his closer online friends.

needless to say when he turns his phone back on, he only has a moment to appreciate Jackson’s face as his wallpaper before his phone is literally bombarded with notifications. like, over a thousand in three hours. stiles had never had a thousand notes in the span of a month, let alone a day, and he’s initially nervous when he tells Jackson what he did (”I know it’s creepy but I cropped most of your face out except your cute sleepy smile but everyone loves it so much this was so weird I am so sorry for invading your privacy”).

Jackson, of course, loves it. sure, it might be a little bit weird to have his picture on the internet like that, but the fact that Stiles posted it makes up for it. he's fine with it, and tells stiles that much, just asks that they go over any future pictures together. 

(of course, what he loves the most is that stiles posted it bragging about how cute his boyfriend was—not how hot, or how sexy, and he preens at that. at the same time, he realizes Stiles basically told everyone online that he knows that he loves Jackson, and he feels warm about that too.)

Stiles posts a few more pictures of Jackson, only sharing the candid shots he takes, no matter how badly Jackson wants to basically flood the internet with terrible photos of himself (stiles loves Jackson very much but Jackson has TERRIBLE taste in staging a photo. no one wants to see you supermanning on the beach, you ironic fuck). they're all VERY artsy. Jackson in soft lighting, Jackson’s body beneath a single sheet, Jackson bending over the counter as he brushes his teeth in a ratty pair of boxers. 

He’s still amazed that each photo garners more and more notes, to the point where he actually has a decent sized following on his blog now—he would feel weird about it, but now when he signal boosts an abuse helpline or a coming out safety list, he’s actually reaching more people, and he can’t be mad about it. 

what he CAN be mad about, though, is how badly Jackson wants to get a picture of Stiles on the internet. he fights it tooth and nail, going as far as hiding his head in his shirt whenever Jackson has his phone even moderately aimed in his direction. he’s not hot, okay? he knows it. it’s a wonder that Jackson finds him attractive. he doesn’t need the people of the internet to confirm that he is basically a troll dating an adonis.

Jackson, of course, gets around it, by being an asshole. he steals Stiles phone while he sleeps and snaps what he will later tell Stiles was a selfie, and posts it to his blog. there’s about a fifth of Jackson’s smiling face in the corner of the photo—stiles is front and fucking center, laying on his stomach in bed, on top of all of his sheets, superman pajama pants low on his hips, hair wild and pale, dotted skin on full display. Jackson captions it with “the photographer becomes the photographeee.” that’s it, no tags, no grabbing at validation, nothing. 

stiles is almost mad about it when he sees the photo that is getting more notes than anything on his blog ever has. people are obviously blind if they’re telling him he is cuter than Jackson. Jackson is smug, so fucking smug. 

one year after the first photo was uploaded, Jackson takes another photo (they've invested in some equipment—a tripod, a real camera, nothing fancy) of he and Stiles both in bed, bare chested, with Jackson’s left arm around Stiles as they spoon, matching rings catching the flash perfectly.

Stiles phone overheats and dies with the notifications that come in for nine days straight.

(also I can’t remember if you mentioned nudes or not, but stiles approaches the subject of tasteful nudity months into the photo experience, thinking along the lines of “posing like a live art drawing”. Jackson immediately posts a shower selfie, and Stiles lectures him for three hours about what constitutes a “tasteful nude” and what absolutely fucking does nOT. Jackson is laughing too hard to listen.)

#stackson #stiles stilinski #jackson whittemore #teen wolf #fluff #i love my gay son #and his gay boyfriend #flospeaks

[pancakesfor2]

Followed - b.b.

Summary: You lose track of time while working in the studio and now you have to walk across campus in alone in the dark.

Pairing: Bucky x reader

Word count: 1.3k+

Warnings: pretty equal balance of fluff and angst

Note: I haven’t written in a while, but schools out so I have time to get things done. I wrote this whole thing in one sitting so it might suck but plz reblog it anyway bc i need validation ;)

Masterlist

“Fucking finally!” The sound of your voice cut through the silence in the empty studio where you were finishing up one of the final pieces for your exhibition. You’d had a day off of classes and decided to spend it working in the art room on one of your larger paintings that had been giving you trouble all week, but needed to be done before your next class. If you didn’t finish it, you wouldn’t be able to submit it for official peer reviews, which would alert your teacher to the fact that you were behind on your work, which was something that absolutely could not happen.

You’d come in just after lunch, when there were three or four other people also working on their pieces, but by the time you were done, they’d all gone home; the last guy, Steve from your art history class, had left at around seven pm but not before asking you if you needed a ride home. You’d thanked him for his offer, but declined. You had been determined to finish your painting tonight even if it killed you.

Without realizing it, you’d worked until it was almost midnight, and you were finding it getting harder and harder to keep your eyes open. Luckily, you were finally satisfied with the way the painting had turned out and began to put away the materials you’d been using. You grabbed your bag from the hook by the door, and locked up the studio with they key you’d gotten from your professor at the start of the semester.

The studio was pretty much on the opposite end of campus from where your dorms were, and the walk was fine during the day, but you’d never had to make it this late on your own. You had to get home though, and you weren’t about to waste the small amount of money you had on a cab. I should’ve taken Steve up on his offer, you thought, but then you wouldn’t have finished your painting, and who knew when you’d have this much time to work on it again.

You pulled out your phone, punched in 911, and positioned your finger over the call button. With that in one hand, and your keys clutched between the fingers on your other, you nudged the strap of your tote bag up with your shoulder and set off towards where you lived on the other side of campus.

You’d made it about a quarter of the way home without any trouble, when the familiar chill crept up your back. You were being followed. You didn’t want to make it obvious that you’d noticed, but you couldn’t resist slightly turning your head and taking a peak at the person out of the corner of your eye. It was a guy, probably another student. He stood somewhere around six feet tall, and was pretty well built. There was something about him that made you shiver with unease and you hoped that he’d go into one of the buildings or cross the street.

He followed you for five minutes, and then five minutes turned into ten and you got desperate to shake the stranger who’d become your shadow. You tried to remember what they’d taught you at the self defense class you’d taken when you started college, but all you could really recall was that if you had to go somewhere alone at night, it was best to walk on the parts of the sidewalk that were lit by the streetlamps. You’d been doing that, but lighting wouldn’t make a difference if the stranger decided murder you in the empty street.

You saw one of the campus gyms up ahead, and made out the shape of a person going down the steps. It was dark, but the streetlight reflected off the metal of his arm and you let out a sigh of relief. Bucky Barnes lived across the hall from you, and was good friends with Steve. The two of you weren’t close, but you’d interacted enough for him to recognize you. You figured that if you walked with him, the other guy would get off of your tail and go home. You hoped the guy up ahead actually was Bucky, and that you weren’t just hallucinating about his arm from your lack of sleep.

You jogged a little to catch up with the guy, who you were relieved to see was Bucky, and once you reached him, you jumped up and wrapped your arms around his torso. He tensed up and started to recoil when you whispered, “Please just go with it, this guy’s been following me for the past 15 minutes and I don’t think it’s because we live on the same block,” you relaxed your grip on his body, but left your hand resting on his right arm, the one that wasn’t made out of metal.

He did the same thing you’d done earlier, and took a quick peek at your shadow who’d stopped in his tracks and seemed to be watching the two of you quite intently. “Yeah of course,” he whispered back, and then “Hey babe! I missed you today!” Bucky was being loud on purpose, so that the guy would get the message and leave the two of you alone. What he did seemed to work, because the stranger turned into the next alley he passed, making it so you and Bucky were the only people in the street.

“What are you doing out so late?” you asked him.

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“I was at the art studio finishing up one of my paintings before the exhibition next week. Your friend Steve was there earlier, I think he was working on one of his pencil drawings of Brooklyn.”

“Yeah, he was telling me about those the other day, but he usually isn’t there this late.”

“I’m not either,” you laughed, suddenly a lot more carefree, “but this piece in particular was a real pain in the ass. I got it done though! Which is really all that matters, who needs sleep anyway?”

“You by the looks of it,” he smiled, reaching out to steady you as you tripped over nothing at all.

“Okay, but you still haven’t told me why you were out this late. I showed you mine and now you gotta show me yours,” you wiggled your eyebrows up and down suggestively. All the tension from before had melted away, leaving you sleepy and slightly delirious. You took a hold of his hand, and when he didn’t flinch or push you away, you intertwined your fingers with his.

He laughed at your comment and explained “Sometimes when I can’t sleep I come down to the gym and work myself really hard so that I get tired enough to sleep out of sheer exhaustion if nothing else.”

You gave his hand a sympathetic squeeze, and realized that while you’d been talking you’d made it to the building where you both lived. Because your dorms were right across the hall from each other, you didn’t have to part ways just yet. You spent the elevator ride up to the fourth floor in a comfortable silence.

You unlocked your door, but before going inside you leaned up against it and said, “Thanks again for saving me back there.”

He turned around from where he was unlocking his room and smiled “Anytime doll, I’m always here if you need something.”

“Well actually…”

“Yeah?”

“I might need someone to go out for coffee with me tomorrow?”

“We can’t have you going out all alone now can we?” he laughed, pushing his door open just enough so that you could see that he’d forgotten to turn the lights off before he’d left. “I’d love to go out with you tomorrow, but first I think we both need to get some sleep.”

“Night, Bucky.”

“G’night doll.”

Once inside your room, you leaned against your closed door and sighed in contentment. It was almost one in the morning, and you were about to pass out, but you couldn’t feel more awake. You had a date tomorrow.

fin.

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[calligraphist-artemisia]

Harry Potter and the Best Summer (5 | An Unwelcome Visitor)

Summary: AU - canon divergence. Harry had barely been back at the Dursley’s for two weeks, when an unexpected visitor arrived at the door. He quickly finds himself spirited away back to the wizarding world and learns some secrets that have long been kept from him.

A sequel to Of Family and Unexpected Friendship. Also posted on AO3 under the username Kishirokitsune.

And for anyone who’s interested, I made a Harry Potter discord server! Introducing, Virtu Alley! (like “virtually”, get it?) Feel free to pop by and chat if you’d like. (https://discord.gg/AUq3eXY)

[Sorry for the lack of hyperlinks, but my posts have once again stopped showing up when I search for them when I include them. I will reblog later to include links at the bottom of the post.]

- - - - - - -

5 | An Unwelcome Visitor

If Harry thought his first day at Oakstone Manor was hectic, it was nothing compared to the next morning, when he awoke to a loud crash coming from the hall, quickly followed by a stream of apologies from Nymphadora Tonks (who threatened to hex him if he dared called them by their full first name) and Andromeda's much quieter admonishment.

Harry found himself grinning despite the rude awakening. It was so much better than getting woken up by Aunt Petunia.

He'd met Tonks the night before when they arrived just as dinner was being arranged on the table. The very first thought he had was that they were the embodiment of everything the Dursleys hated. Short, bright pink hair was shaved on either side of their head and the length on top was gently spiked upwards. Several piercings dotted their ears and whenever they gestured with a wild flourish Harry could see that their fingernails were painted pink to match their hair.

“Wotcher, Harry,” they said with a wink and their hair shifted from pink to purple to blue and then back again.

Harry thought they were brilliant.

Andromeda's husband – Ted Tonks – was a cheery and friendly man who engaged Harry in effortless conversation about growing up in the muggle world and how shocking it was to be thrown into the magical one. He spoke only a little of his work in the pediatric ward of St. Mungo's, instead choosing to focus on learning more about Harry, as well as catching up with everyone else.

Altogether they were the picture of a healthy, functioning family.

Morning flew by and all Harry could do was sit back out of the way and watch everyone rush around in preparation for the rest of the day. Ted was the first to leave, kissing Andromeda on the cheek before flooing away to St. Mungo's. A short while later, Tonks headed out the front door, giving an explanation that they were meeting their mentor in a secret location. Harry watched as they spun on their heel and vanished with a popping sound.

Andromeda sat them all down for lessons after that. She gave Leona and Aquarius worksheets to do and then cast a silencing charm around Harry's chair so she could verbally quiz him and help fill in any blanks in his basic knowledge. He was pleased when he remembered most of what Leona had taught him, but faltered when it came to naming other Heirs he attended school with.

From there he listened with rapt attention as Andromeda covered the current active Lords and Heirs of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, of which House Black was one.

Their studies took up the rest of the morning and it was only after lunch that Harry was saved from going back to it.

Remy went with him to St. Mungo's for his appointment, only stepping out of the room for the examination and vaccinations and returned once Harry said it was okay. He wasn't terribly surprised when his healer – Adam Rue – told him that he was undernourished and that his eyeglass prescription was out-of-date.

“I am prescribing a nutrient potion for you to take with dinner each evening. I understand you'll be going back to Hogwarts in September and I will make arrangements to inform Madam Pomfrey that you are to take one each day,” said Healer Rue.

Harry fidgeted, a little worried about his schoolmates finding out he needed potions. “Do I have to take it in the Great Hall?”

“If you truly wanted to, you could always travel down to the hospital wing each evening however, the way we typically handle potions like this is to simply charm it into your goblet so that no one else is aware. The house-elves of Hogwarts are quite talented when it comes to matters of secrecy,” Healer Rue said with a reassuring smile.

He then told Harry and Remy that they could visit the offices just down the hall to either update Harry's eyeglasses or have his vision corrected completely.

“Mr. Potter, I don't mean to make assumptions about your care growing up, however I'd also like to recommend visits with one of our mind healers for the rest of the summer,” Healer Rue told them. “If for no other reason than to ease your transition into a wizarding household. All of our mind healers are sworn to keep the secrets of their patients, but if you are still uncomfortable with speaking to someone in Britain considering your status, you could hire a private healer from overseas. I would be happy to recommend a few who I have personally worked with in the past.”

“Healer Rue, can I ask about the damage left by the Magic Block?” Remy asked.

“We have removed it, of course, and taken the time to examine the damage from the curse scar. It seems that the block prevented your magic from fully cleansing it, Mr. Potter, and now that it is gone you'll see a significant ease in using your magic. That being said, our recommendation is a minimum of two weeks before you cast any spells in order to give your core time to adjust to the influx of power. A month, if you can manage it,” said Healer Rue.

Harry nodded. It wasn't like he was allowed to use his magic during summer anyway. He was sure it would be easy to go another month without casting.

Remy asked a few more questions about Harry's health and then Healer Rue handed her the prescription for the nutrient potions, which was signed and marked with his magical seal to prove its validity, as well as a list of recommended mind healers. He then guided the two of them down the hall to the office which specialized in eye-care, stepping inside to inform the receptionist that they were there for a thorough exam.

While they waited for one of the healers to become available, Harry got the chance to browse through the different frames that were available and, at Remy's urging, tried on a few to see if he liked any.

Each one was an improvement on the cheap, circular frames the Dursley's had “graciously” given him.

Remy chuckled as she glanced over a selection of frames catering to the older crowd. “Your father was always fond of horn rims. He thought they made him look rather smart. Your mother always said it made him look like more of a ponce than he already was.”

“She really said that?” Harry asked, looking away from a pair of frames that was continually shifting colors.

“Well, at first,” Remy corrected herself. “Your father was a good man and a good friend, Harry, but as a teenager he was... well, a bit entitled. Sirius was as well. I imagine it comes from being part of an old pureblood family. It all made it so your mother was less than impressed by him which only made him try harder. He came around by our sixth year, but I'll have to tell you more about it later.”

She nodded towards something over Harry's shoulder and he turned to find a woman in soft green robes walking towards them. Her badge bore the name Healer Agatha Newmark.

“You must be Harry,” she said in a chipper tone. “I'm Aggie. You can both come with me and I'll get you sorted out.”

Harry and Remy followed her back to a smaller room, where Harry sat down in a chair that faced a poster with differently sized numbers and letters. She first had him remove his glasses and attempt to read the lowest line, which he found impossible. He couldn't fully make out any letter until the third line down, but even that was blurry enough that he struggled.

A few waves of her wand had an enchanted quill scratching out the details of his eyesight and once it finished, Healer Newmark went into detail on the options available to him. Harry could get a new pair of frames with his updated prescription, charmed unbreakable and scratch resistant for up to two years, or he could get his vision corrected completely and no longer need glasses.

“Everyone is a little different and I know just as many people who like the way they look while wearing glasses as I do people who jumped at the first opportunity to have the correction done,” said Healer Newmark. “The correction is, of course, more expensive than a pair of frames, but we do have a finance program for anyone who prefer a staggered payment.”

“Harry, it's up to you,” Remy said quietly.

He didn't think about it for long. From the moment he first heard there was a chance he wouldn't have to deal with his glasses any longer, he hoped it was true. No more crooked frames. No more feeling around for his glasses every morning. No more worry about a bludger knocking them from his face and leaving him completely blind.

“I'd like to get it corrected.”

- - - - - - -

Harry expected that they would be heading home after he was finished at St. Mungo's but instead, Remy whisked him away into wizarding London to a street near Diagon Alley named Asymetric Alley, which looked like a village out of a history book, with rough, winding cobblestone streets and old timber-framed shops all pressed close together.

It gave a cozy, warm vibe that Diagon Alley didn't have, giving the impression that loitering was welcome on the streets and stopping to chat with those you walked past was a way of life.

Harry didn't spare that more than a passing thought, too busy marveling over the clarity with which he was able to see the world. There were so many details that he hadn't been able to see before! Things that he'd come to accept as being blurry around the edges suddenly had sharp outlines and signs that he once had to squint just to read he only had to glance at and know what they said!

Remy treated him to ice cream and then they were off to visit a number of shops where Harry was asked to pick out clothing, new shoes, and then helped pick out ingredients for dinner that night so Cici could make his favorite meal. Their last stop was a used bookstore, where Remy picked up an order that was waiting for her and she encouraged him to take a look around.

Harry wasn't terribly interested until he spotted a small book titled Fallacies of the Rankings of the Sacred Twenty-Eight and after reading the back cover thought that if it turned out to be something he didn't like, Hermione was likely to find it fascinating.

He was about to turn to go when a heavy thump stopped him. When he looked, he saw a dark green book laying face-up on the floor. Swooping gold lettering informed him that it was called The Magical Court of Camelot – The Truth Behind the Legends and that it was written by someone named ML Black. He picked it up and took it to the counter.

“Aunt Remy, look at this,” he said, holding up the book for her to see.

Remy examined it with interest, her eyes lingering longest on the name of the author. “ML Black... It's not a name I'm familiar with, but it Andy might know it. Would you like to get it?”

Harry nodded. “And this one too,” he said, as he passed to her Fallacies of the Rankings of the Sacred Twenty-Eight.

She seemed a bit amused by the second book but didn't say a word against it, quickly passing it off to be rung up. Remy paid for it all and even got Harry a tote bag to carry them in and then they were off once again.

“I think it would be best to side-apparate on our way back. Floo travel is more difficult when you're carrying packages,” said Remy.,

She explained what it was and how it worked as she lead him towards a sectioned off area marked: Apparation Point. One side was designated as Arrival and the other Departure, which Harry supposed helped keep things more orderly. He felt a little nervous as he looped his arm around Remy's and squeezed his eyes tightly shut as she directed him to spin on his heel with her. Harry felt the weight of pressure all around him and his stomach roiled uncomfortably, and then it was over and they were on the road just outside of the gate to Oakstone Manor.

“Unpleasant, isn't it?” Remy asked, sounding apologetic. “I know it's not a comfort right now, but you will get used to it as you get older. By the time you learn to apparate, the most you'll feel is that pressure around you.”

Harry didn't know how to respond to that and simply shrugged his shoulders before following her through the gate (which opened at their approach) and back into the manor.

“Evie?” Remy called out.

There was a popping sound and then a new house-elf in gray and blue appeared. She immediately bowed, which caused the bright yellow kerchief to start slipping off her head until it got caught on her massive ears. When she straightened up, she beamed at the sight of the bags in Remy's arms. “Do you need Evie to take them to your room, miss? And put them away?”

“That would be wonderful. Only the books go to my room. Everything else will go to Harry's,” Remy told her.

Evie nodded quickly and turned her attention to Harry. “Evie will organize them very nicely, young sir! If it's not to your liking you can call for Evie or Cici and we'll come help!”

“Oh, um, thank you, Evie. I'm sure you'll do great.” Harry wasn't sure if that was the right thing to say, but Evie didn't look upset as she bounced over to take the bags. Once she had them in her arms, she popped away without another word.

“Tonight I think we'll burn your hand-me-downs,” Remy said conversationally. “But for now, you deserve a chance to rest and do whatever you'd like until dinner. Leona still has another hour of tutoring to get through, but Aqua should be free by now. She'll be in the library, if you'd like to find her.”

Harry needed a refresher on how to get there and once Remy gave him directions on the easiest path to take – up the main staircase to the second floor, take a left and go to the end of the hall, where you take another left, and enter the second door on the right – he set off to find Aquarius.

Just like Remy said, she was sitting in the library in a squishy armchair beneath one of the windows, a heavy looking book open in her lap. Aquarius looked up when she heard the door open and beamed when she spotted Harry peeking inside.

“You're back! And you're not wearing any glasses?”

Harry grinned at her as he stepped fully into the library. “I don't need them anymore.”

“Brilliant!” Aquarius responded. “You have a letter, by the way. Butternut brought a response from your friend while you were away.”

Harry looked to the side table where she gestured and saw a envelop sitting there. When he walked over and picked it up, he found himself recognizing Hermione's tidy handwriting and eagerly ripped it open to see what she wrote.

Dear Harry,

I'm so glad to hear you're alright! Ron and I were terribly worried that something awful happened to you once you got home. Please thank Aquarius for sending me the letter saying that you're safe with her and Leona. She says that you're not going back to your muggle relatives. Is it true? Did they do something to keep you from receiving letters? I know you are all looking into what happened, but I think I'll do some research of my own and see what I can find. I'll keep you updated!

I've talked to my parents about visiting you this summer and they have agreed to it, though they'd like to talk to Leona's mum about it first. I think they want to make sure it's alright with her. Will Ron be joining us as well? He hasn't mentioned any visiting, but it does sound like the Weasley's have a full house anyway and I would hate to add to that. I think meeting up at Diagon Alley would be a far better idea, especially since it would let my parents meet the Weasley's. They didn't get much time to talk at King's Cross.

It probably won't surprise you but I've done quite a lot of reading so far this summer. Most of my homework is already complete, except for that essay on goblin wars that Binns assigned. I must admit, even I find it a bit droll and difficult to complete. All I can hear is his voice droning on. If you'd like, we can review our summer studies together when I visit! And please tell Leona that I've finished the books she recommended. I suppose I should just write a letter to her instead of using you as a personal owl.

What's Oakstone Manor like? It must be exciting to see a wizarding home!

Hermione's letter carried on like that as she wrote about whatever came to mind. She spoke a little of her parents and how excited they were to hear about her first year at Hogwarts and then went into more detail of how she spent her summer when she wasn't studying or reading. Every now and then she'd circle around to ask him a question about what it was like living with Leona. Was there a library? Had he had time to do any of the summer homework?

There was only one reference to Professor Quirrel, who had disappeared sometime before the End-of-Term feast, and that was to say there was a small article in the prophet about there being a warrant for his arrest and how any sightings should be immediately reported to the DMLE.

Harry wondered if Tonks knew anything about that. Would they be able to tell him anything if they did?

He folded up the letter and stuck it into his pocket, resolving to answer Hermione when he had time later. “Reading anything interesting, Aquarius?”

She silently tilted her book so he could read the cover and Harry was delighted to find he could see the words without having to squint. The Complete Beginners Guide to Potion Brewing was the name of her book and Harry wondered just how in-depth it went to make it so it was at least five centimeters thick.

“Leo says that Professor Snape will probably look for any reason to take points from me or give me detention, so I thought if I start studying now then he won't be able to find as many,” she explained with an easy shrug.

There was something about the idea of Snape harassing Aquarius that rankled Harry. She was a ten-year-old girl who hadn't done a thing wrong and she was already prepared to be utterly humiliated by one of her professors, who took issue with who her parents were.  It was bad enough that Snape targeted him and Neville – though he still didn't know why he demonstrated such loathing towards Neville.

Instead of saying anything, Harry left Aquarius to her reading and took a seat in a nearby chair to check out his two new books. The first one he grabbed was the one on Camelot, which reminded him of a question he had.

“Hey, Aquarius? Do you know of anyone called 'ML Black' who might be related to you?”

“Not in recent history,” Aquarius said slowly. “It does sound familiar, so there must be someone with those initials on the family tree. Why do you ask?”

“They wrote this book I found. The Magical Court of Camelot – the Truth Behind the Legends,” Harry told her.

Aquarius marked her page and set it aside, her eyes alight with interest. “And it's written by a Black?”

Harry nodded.

“Follow me!” Aquarius said, hopping up out of her chair.

Feeling a little bewildered, Harry left his things in his seat and got up to follow her through the tall shelves of the library and to a spot tucked away in a back corner. There was a heavy, navy blue curtain hanging across an elaborate archway and stepping through revealed a rounded alcove. Candles on either side of the arch lit themselves when they stepped through, illuminating the nearly black walls to reveal a massive tree painted in silver ink, its branches rigid and following a clear structure.

Most notably, it was upside down, with the base of its trunk resting where the wall met the ceiling.

“This is the Black Family Tree, which dates back to our earliest magical ancestor, Ambroise Fabron,” she said, pointing up to the top. “They were blacksmiths. He brought his knowledge of the craft to the magical world and then applied enchantments to make it even better. His greatest achievement was a charm embedded within cookware that made it easier to clean without repeatedly using scourgify.”

Harry's brows knitted together. “But that means... he was muggleborn?”

“If you go far back enough in a pureblood line, you'll find many muggleborns. It just didn't matter as much back then,” Aquarius said. She reached out and placed her hand on the wall, waiting for the space to light up silver before dragging her hand down. As she did so, the tree scrolled down until the trunk was nearly eye-level with them and the rest of the branches danced across the floor.

“Ambroise had three children. Two were girls who married into other lines and the other was a son, Michel, who continued the name Fabron and took up his father's work...” Aquarius continued to move down the three, explaining a little more about what little they still knew about their ancestors, until she came to Michel's third son, Célestin, who moved to the UK and changed his surname to Black before going on to revolutionize the production of cauldrons. “Oh! Harry, here she is! Mnemosyne Lucinda Black! She married Célestin! No wonder the name sounded familiar!”

“There could be another ML Black somewhere,” Harry pointed out.

“There could be,” Aquarius agreed. “But considering she was born in the seven-hundreds, I think it's probably her. It's too bad the tree doesn't list maiden names. I would have loved to know which family line she came from but I don't think any of our records have it listed. We can always ask Leo or Andy.”

Harry almost wanted to continue looking at the family tree to see if there was anyone else, but there were so many names. Not to mention Aquarius had a good point about the timeline. Mnemosyne would have been born close enough to the era of King Arthur's reign that she could gather correct details about that period. Maybe the book itself would have something in it to confirm his thoughts.

Aquarius released the magic that lowered the tree, allowing it to move back to its correct location across the wall. “I bet the Potter manor has a tree showing all of your ancestors too. You must be excited to go see it.”

“I hadn't thought much about it, to be honest,” Harry admitted. “Haven't had the time.”

There was a lot he suddenly had to think about and he wished he had the first clue where to start. Maybe if he had a moment to himself, he could slow down to think things through.

“If you want some time to yourself, you don't need to stay here with me in the library,” Aquarius said, sounding sympathetic.

“You don't want to look at the book?” Harry asked.

Aquarius shook her head. “It's yours to read first. I may take a look around and see if we have a copy on one of the shelves. Its likely, since it was written by a Black.” She pushed the curtain aside and then walked through, continuing to hold it for Harry as he followed.

After a bit of thought, Harry remained with Aquarius in the library and the two sat silently read their books until Leona came to fetch them for dinner.

“Hey, bookworms, it's time to eat!”

She grinned at the pair of them when they looked up, both surprised at how much time had passed. While Aquarius marked her page and set her book aside to read later, Harry put his back in his bag so he could take it to his room after dinner.

“How were your lessons, Leo?” Aquarius asked.

“Dull,” Leona responded with a groan. “Andy has me practicing with old speeches so I know how to properly present myself during Wizengamot meetings. It's important, sure, but I can't think of anything more boring.”

“History of Magic,” Harry responded immediately.

“The Annual Yule Ball at Malfoy manner,” Aquarius supplied cheekily.

“Brats,” Leona said affectionately. “Yeah, you might be right. Those are both pretty boring as well.”

Harry almost asked about the Yule Ball, wondering what it was and whether or not he'd be expected to attend it as well, but Leona changed the subject before he could say anything.

“Mum and Andy say that you'll officially start lessons tomorrow, Harry. She wants to go over a few things before you go back to Gringotts and talk to the holder for the Potter accounts. Mostly etiquette and stuff so you don't accidentally insult someone. Easy stuff,” Leona said with a shrug.

Harry hoped she was right about that. There was so much he felt like he didn't know. Stuff that Leona and Aquarius spent their entire lives learning and experiencing. He felt hopelessly behind compared to them.

Was it the same at school? How many of his peers had he unintentionally affronted with his behavior and language? It never seemed to matter that much in Gryffindor, but was that because he spent most of his time with Ron and Hermione?

Harry resolved to do better.

- - - - - - -

Andromeda smiled as she watched her family merrily converse over dinner.

Ted and Remy were in the middle of a rousing discussion on experimental medicines; a topic she hadn't expected Remy to show much interest in knowledge in, but the younger woman seemed to be holding her own even as Ted delved into more advanced potions.

The kids were all at the other end of the table with Leona and Nymphadora leading most of the conversation while Aquarius made comments and Harry primarily listened. Every now and then laughter would break out and Harry would grin, bright and carefree, and Andromeda was reminded of the way he was treated by his relatives and how glad she was to have gotten him out of there.

Dinner went well until just before dessert, when Milla popped into the room and got Andy's attention with a single tap on the arm.

“A guest has arrived, Miss. Milla be telling them it is rude to intrude over dinner but they insisting.”

“Thank you, Milla,” Andromeda said as she gently set aside her utensils. She patted her mouth with a cloth napkin and then excused herself from the table with a soft apology. She briskly walked to the foyer and made sure to compose herself before entering the room.

Standing near the door was an old man with a long beard and twinkling periwinkle robes.

“Albus,” Andromeda cordially greeted. “It is considered rude to visit during dinnertime.”

He met her aloofness with a polite smile. “I do apologize, Lady Tonks, however there was no other time I could get away and there is something of grave importance that I must discuss with you.”

Andromeda arched one eyebrow. “Oh? And what is so important that you would arrive completely unannounced and interrupt a family meal?”

“It has come to my attention that you removed Harry Potter from the care of his Aunt and Uncle. You have to understand how important it is that he remain with them,” Albus told her. “There are blood wards in place around their residence. So long as he calls Privet Drive home, he will be protected from those in our world who would do him harm.”

Andromeda had a myriad of choices before her. She could play along with his little game, letting him try and garner sympathy for his actions. She didn't doubt that he genuinely thought he was doing the right thing, but she wouldn't stand there and allow him to speak up in defense of those horrid muggles.

“Harry will not be returning to that place and especially not by your hand.”

“My dear-”

“No,” she interrupted firmly. “You have no right to determine where he lives. You had no right to send him to those people; the only people who Lily herself specified he was never to go to. We have heard their Will, Albus. The boy will stay with his Magical Guardian and there is nothing that you nor anyone else can do to change that.”

Andromeda stepped back, never once taking her eyes off of Dumbledore. “Bastion!”

With a pop, a house-elf appeared. He was clad in the same gray and blue as the others, but he bore the Black Family shield across the back of his shirt and carried a tiny dagger on the belt around his waist. He bowed to Andromeda.

“How may Bastion help?”

“Please escort the Headmaster from the property and place a ban on the wards to prevent him from returning without permission,” Andromeda instructed.

Albus looked pained by her words, but politely inclined his head and went without a fuss, leaving Andromeda to stand in the foyer by herself. A few minutes later she felt a slight shift in the wards. Only then did she feel comfortable returning to the table.

“Everything alright?” Ted quietly asked as she sat down.

Andromeda nodded. “Nothing to worry about, dear. Just an issue that needed to be handled sooner rather than later.”

She would tell him and Remy more about their guest later. For the moment, she wanted to sit and enjoy dessert with her family.

#harry potter #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter au #HP and the traditions of the magical world

[lovexdejun]

a/n: uhh technically this ain’t angst but it was requested from the angst prompt i reblogged? this SO FUCKING FUN to write. i love these kinds of scenarios so. much. i guess this is like a thriller/crime blurb? i hope you enjoy it as much as i did! (also, in no way, shape or form do i think like this, it’s just what i think serial killers would think like.)

requested by @hyucksxx from this prompt list

56. “I could have died and you couldn’t have cared less.”

60. “Don’t hate me for this. You would have done the same.”

warnings: uh mention of death and serial killings?

middle of the desert, 1:03am

sometimes you wonder what your life would have been if you’d never met hyuck. probably boring; probably that same old 9 to 5 desk job, takeout every night, and standstill traffic on the 101. it wouldn’t surprise you if you’d spent over half your adult years trapped on that stupid freeway.

but then he came along, and everything got fun. he went by haechan when he met you, wouldn’t tell you his real name until he could “trust you.” you can imagine how surprised he was when you rolled into the bar the next night and called him donghyuck���that 9to5 sure had its perks. that’s probably about the time that he fell head over heels for you, and needless to say, you were already very very intrigued by the boy. but no matter how much you loved each other, you were both still pretty selfish.

no one in the world could convince you to throw yourself under the bus for them, even donghyuck. if it came down to it, between you and him, you’d always protect yourself—and you had no doubt he felt the same.

so you definitely weren’t surprised when you saw donghyuck slowly drop his shovel and sprint off back toward the hidden jeep over the detective’s shoulder. it kinda hurt though, knowing you weren’t about to get caught with your partner in crime. you always thought you’d get got together, and it would be like bonnie and clyde... or something. even though you’d probably pin the whole thing on him, and him on you. still, it would have been fun for you guys to look at eachother and know you did all of this together.

but no, you were in this alone, just like you’d expected.

“i finally caught you in the act.” said the exceptionallly dressed man. he’d been trailing you for a whole year now, and you could have kicked yourself for not keeping an eye out. he was obsessed with you! ever since that murder last spring—your wallet had been found at the scene, but you could easily explain it away as theft because she was a transient and, well, you were the perfect, sweet girl next door.

detective kim doyoung, however, didn’t buy it. you think he just got out of a bad relationship and needed some validation and that’s probably why he was stalking you at clubs and restaurants to try and catch you doing something illegal. but when you found out he was doing it of his own accord, you decided to take part in his game. you filed a police report on his “harassment” and got him fired—and maybe pissed him off a bit.

so there he stood in the pitch black, the only thing illuminating the area being the flashlight he held under his drawn firearm. you’d be lying if you said your heart wasn’t bouncing around in your rib cage, but you kept a poker face, leaning on your shovel like you were talking to a neighbor.

when you spoke, it was with a mocking type of humor, “i wondered when you would—took you long enough.”

he played along, chuckling himself. “you didn’t make it easy.” he confessed. “which is gonna make it so much sweeter when i can take you in and put you on display for all those fuckers who didn’t believe me.”

this made you go weak in the knees, but not in a good way. there was no way you’d let this crazy guy take you alive, and if you could help it, you definitely didn’t wanna die any time soon. suddenly you found yourself wishing for haechan—and not just so you could throw him in the line of fire. you wanted him to be there to just hold your hand.

your distraction must have been evident because detective kim made a point of calling you out on it.

“no one is gonna help you now, sweetheart. it’s just you and me.” he sounded so cocky, so confident. he didn’t realize he’d just screwed himself by giving you an idea.

you let out a laugh that was almost too evil before you spoke with a voice that dripped with sweet venom.

“that’s where you’re wrong, detective.” you cooed, shifting your eyes just behind his head. you made sure it was noticeable, but not an obvious ploy, and called out into the nothingness, “came to save me, baby?”

maybe his overconfidence got the best of him, maybe he was too excited; doyoung knew he made the wrong decision just as he went to spin around. but it was way too late. you had already lifted your shovel, and in a split second it was creating a sickening metallic thud against his head. you could feel the vibrations flooding back up your arms and into your spine, and it felt painfully good.

you heard him let out a low, weak groan, and clicked your tongue, shaking your head then going to search for his weapon.

you found his gun in the dim flashlight beam and sighed before firing a shot into his back. it was much much louder than you had anticipated, yet you shrugged, and fired one more round into his skull—just for good measure. you stood for a moment to admire your work, then quickly recovered the casings and kicked the detective’s flimsy corpse into the hole containing your initial half-buried murder victim. it was quick work to fill the grave, a newfound energy coursing through your veins. maybe it was because this time you killed someone with a real life—someone who actually had family and friends and a job to wake up to in the morning. it filled you with anxiety, but also gave you a kind of thrill that your usual victimology had stopped giving you. the fear of getting caught was beautiful. you wanted your heart to race like that every time you made kill.

once you assured that you’d covered your tracks, you set off to find your boyfriend and give him a piece of your mind. it wasn’t too long of a walk to the jeep hidden behind a large rock and some brush, however, you weren’t sure it would even be there by the time you got back.

much to your luck, it was—engine off and lights out. you peeked into the black interior to see haechan gripping the steering wheel, his forehead pressed into the leather. it almost looked like he was crying.

with a tap on the passenger window, you held up his discarded shovel and motioned for the startled boy to unlock your door. once you had thrown your tools in the back and climbed into the passenger seat, you ignored his bloodshot eyes and flushed cheeks. mostly because he was clearly trying to hide it, but also because it caused these horrid feelings deep in the pit of your stomach and somewhere in your chest.

“so what happened?” he questioned, his voice thick with emotion though he acted unphased.

you crossed your arms, pressing against the back of the seat and looking to the window out into nothing. “i killed him, obviously.” pause. “you could have helped me, you know? hit him from behind or something.”

he sighed, palming his face and leaning his head against the headrest. “i panicked.”

“bullshit!” you tightened your crossed arms. “i could have died! and you couldn’t have cared less.”

now he was rolling his eyes and turning his body to face you. you almost flinched at the sincere regret behind his features.

“don’t hate me for this.” he whispered. “you know you would have done the same.”

there was a moment of silence that was so loud it made you wanna crawl out of your skin. you let his words soak in. he was right, obviously. you would have gone out there and arrested him yourself if it meant you were off the hook.

“yeah,” you agreed. “i would have.”

another lapse of silence came, then heachan reached over to take your hand in his own. “when i heard those gunshots, i wanted so badly to get out of the car and run to you.

“my heart felt like it was ripped out and all i wanted was to be holding your hand and saying i love you until they didn’t feel like real words anymore.”

you felt your chest tighten at his words. neither of you were ever this sappy with eachother, and honestly, it wasn’t as bad as you thought. you leaned over and pressed your lips to his, kissed him until you saw stars. you kissed away the tears that had spilled over his cheeks and giggled when he cupped your face to do the same.

“i love you so much.” you said through your happy crying.

“i love you too.” he smiled, holding your cheeks and letting his eyes wander your face. “god, my girlfriend is such a badass.”

#haechan blurb #haechan scenario #haechan timestamp #haechan request #haechan reaction #haechan crime au #donghyuck blurb #donghyuck drabble #donghyuck timestamp #nct blurb #nct au #nct 127 #nct dream

[barnesnmrnoble]

The Little Things

Main Masterlist - Clint Barton Masterlist - 

Bucky is still a bit hesitant to be open about his relationship with Clint. He loves him but privacy is hard to come by as an Avenger and Bucky wants to keep some of his life private. 

Alternatively, Clint is a lovesick puppy that cannot, and will not stop staring at Bucky’s ass.

Word Count: 2892

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Clint Barton (Winterhawk)

Warnings: None, just lots of fluff

A/n: I hope you all enjoy! If you do, leave a like and a reblog or comment! I’d love to hear what you think and honestly I need the validation. (Mistakes are mine!)

Read on AO3!

It’s the age of technology and social media, and as Bucky was coming to understand, that all meant little to no privacy. Of course, his status as an Avenger (and the newest addition) meant even less privacy. He understood that the public wanted to know what the avengers got up to in between saving the world, that they wanted to be apart of the lives they lead but there were parts of himself he didn’t want to be public information. So, in order to keep a semblance of privacy, Bucky pulled out the best of his spy skills to keep this piece of him, private. 

He hates the way his heart clenches with sadness as he throws back the covers of the immensely comfortable bed, and maybe that’s because of who is in the bed, not the bed itself, but either way he hates leaving. There is a groan that sounds from beneath the mound of covers, a pair of hands reaching out to reach for the last vestiges of warmth left by him. The sun is just high enough to reach over the tree line on the edge of the compound. He is cutting it closer and closer each day, he really should’ve left an hour ago but he couldn’t force himself to do so, but he has at least left himself enough time to sneak back to his room before Steve is up for his morning run. 

He’s shucking his pants up his legs, pulling on a shirt he is 98% sure is his when he hears the loud whine from behind him, “Baby, don’t go.” Bucky rolls his eyes, but does relent (because how could he resist that?) and crawls back in the bed. He’s careful to not slip beneath the covers, if he does he really won’t leave. --And then the whole relationship will be out in the open, and they really aren’t ready for that. Well, Bucky doesn’t think he is.-- “Clint,” His tone is warning, there isn’t any heat behind it, just a reminder of why he has to leave without actually saying it. “Stay.” Clint whispers the word into Bucky’s neck, wrapping his arms around Bucky and clinging to him, trying to persuade him to stay today. (Like it’d take anything more than his pouty face. Bucky is a sap.)

“Let them find out. Don’t you think it’s time?” Careful fingers brushed back Bucky’s hair, pushing it back behind his ear with a delicate touch that no one with arms like him should be able to do. Bucky huffed out a sigh. It probably was time, he wanted to be the one to hand Clint his coffee in the morning, be the one to kiss him after that first sip and taste the bitterness of his coffee on his lips. He wanted to curl into Clint’s arms and tangle their legs during movie nights, he wanted to be able to dance around the kitchen making dinner with the man he loved. He wanted all of it. But there was a part of him that was still afraid, that had held onto the idea that loving a man was not okay, and it wasn’t that he was afraid of what the team would think, Steve had known pretty much as long as Bucky did and it had never changed anything. He was just afraid that if they were privy to the information, so would the public. 

It was just a little more than he was ready for, and he just couldn’t let himself lose one of the few things that made him happy. (They were a bit hard to come by these days.) And bless Clint, the man was so understanding of it all. He just kissed Bucky soundly, seeing his emotions cross his face like he was reading an open book. “It’s okay if you don’t. We can wait until you’re ready. No issue.” God, Bucky can’t put into words how much love he has for Clint. His head drops against Clint’s collar bone, and Clint can feel his smile, feel his teeth nip at the skin in a silent thanks. He likes the feeling of them like this, soft and warm and sleepy and he really does wish Bucky would stay, but he knows what it’s like to want to keep that part hidden, to be afraid of people’s opinions. So, he doesn’t push because if people know, or they don’t know doesn’t change the fact that he loves Bucky with everything in him. Nothing would ever change that.

---

He laughs a little to himself when Bucky comes down to the kitchen the next morning. His hair is pulled into a higher than normal bun, pieces falling out, which is really un-fucking-fair because Bucky knows how hot Clint is for the bun. He just wants to sink his fingers into it, and kiss him until his lips are red and swollen and he has that punch drunk haze in his eyes. But it’s not just his hair that has Clint stifling his urges to just take Bucky right then and there.

 It’s everything about him.

Cause apparently Bucky Barnes wanted to be an asshole this morning and make Clint have to awkwardly shuffle from the room and take an ice cold shower. He also threw on the black joggers that cling to his ass like a second skin -- You could seriously bounce a quarter of it, okay?-- and makes Clint want to do nothing but bite into it. (Yeah, Steve has America’s ass? Clint strongly disagrees about that, but then again… he might be a little bit biased.) But then to make matters worse for Clint, he wore a new smedium t-shirt, that stretched across him like it was about to bust at the seams. And for god sakes, it was purple. 

He was going to fucking die. 

--

“Where the hell is Barton? He better not be late again.” Even as one of the most consistently tardy people known to the human race, Tony is still annoyed because Clint hasn’t made it downstairs yet and Tony just wants to go to this gala and have a peaceful night. (Which wasn’t going to happen, but hey a man could dream.) Bucky offers to go get Clint’s ass in gear, extra emphasis on the ass. Well, at least in his mind. He’s been dressed and ready to go for hours, nerves coursing through him all night because he did something for Clint, it’s a really little thing but it’s another small step into him gaining the confidence to come out with their relationship. Baby steps, right?

He doesn’t even bother knocking on Clint’s door. Honestly, he doesn’t think  he’s done anything of the sort for the last 6 months of their 7 month relationship. Clint is standing next to his bed, looking fine as hell and a little more. He finishes buttoning his last button before he looks up, but promptly collapses back to the bed when he sees Bucky. “Good god, Buck. You try’na kill me?” Bucky looks at him innocently, like he doesn’t know he is wearing yet another pair of black pants that stretch across his ass like they were painted on. But then he sees the deep purple, almost black tie he is wearing, and Clint can feel his eyes morphing into hearts. To be completely fair, Bucky is looking at him the same way, but they are both lovesick puppies so, whatever. 

Clint makes to grumble about why he was late, moving to pull Bucky in for a kiss, grabbing at his wrists but stops with wide eyes. Which, it freaks Bucky out a little lot and he thinks he’s messed something up. But he hasn’t, not even in the slightest. Clint doesn’t form the words, can’t really, so he just kisses his boyfriend and runs his fingers over the bow and arrow cufflinks Bucky was surprising him with. It’s a little reminder that they are together, a subtle nod to them even though Bucky hasn’t found the courage to come out with it yet. He is getting there, though. 

Clint breaks away rather abruptly and Bucky gives him a sad puppy look. Since knowing Clint, it has gotten much better and nobody has been able to resist it. Especially not Clint. So he runs back to Bucky and presses a chaste kiss to his lips and. “Hold on just one second. Okay?” Bucky nods and watches with a find smile as Clint goes racing back into his closet. Clint comes out with a new tie on and it’s black and white plaid, his tie clip red with a simple black star on it. 

And yeah, they end up being pretty late, but they blame it on issues with his suit, even though the only issue with his suit was getting it back on in hurry. (And traffic because Tony’d gotten so annoyed he left them to take a cab by themselves.)

--

It’s been a hell of a week, and Bucky is exhausted, even if he’s downed at least 3 pots of the extra caffeinated coffee Stark buys. And yet, despite his best efforts to wriggle out of it for a week, Tony has demanded mandatory attendance at this weeks movie night. Nobody knows why, but he’d threatened anyone who skipped out would be relegated to cooking and cleaning for the next week. So, yeah Bucky was here because nobody wanted to clean up after a team dinner night. It was like cleaning up after 3 Thanksgiving dinners.

But the movie hasn’t even officially started yet and he can feel his eyes drooping. Luckily for him, he is smashed between Clint and Steve, so if he falls asleep it wouldn’t look weird if he fell onto Clint’s shoulder. And he does, his head bows about 30 seconds in, once Tony hits play. Unluckily for Clint, his head lulls over to Steve’s shoulder. He tries to not be disappointed, schooling his face so he doesn’t show his hurt. He debates “accidentally” elbowing Bucky so he wakes up and Clint can shift so that Bucky is leaning more towards him and will fall onto his shoulder.

 Fortunately for Clint, Steve pushes Bucky’s head from his shoulder, shooting Clint a look, asking him if it’s okay to move Bucky to his shoulder because he is making Steve hot. Clint just nods and tries not to smile and rest his head against Bucky’s when he shifts a little and nuzzles his face into Clint’s shoulder. 

--

Bucky doesn’t remember how he got to bed last night, he doesn’t remember anything but Steve pushing him down to the common area to the movie night, so he didn’t bail out. He is still incredibly tired, barely enough energy to open his eyes but when he does, he notices he is in fact not in his room, but Clint’s. He isn’t mad about it. What he is mad about, is the absence of his boyfriend in the bed. He rolls over with a huff, he just wants his early morning cuddles. Sappy, he knows. The issue is that its not early morning. It’s not even morning anymore. Bucky balks at the clock on his beside table, red numbers displaying a time of 12:07pm. Shit. 

There is no way he can get from Clint’s room to his own without being seen. Everybody is up and about at this time, and even with Friday’s help, he wouldn’t be able to avoid everyone. Well. he could maybe use Clint’s favorite tactic of evasion, using the vents could work but he’d have to crawl over Steve and Natasha’s rooms and he can’t crawl through there without a sound like Clint can. So, that’s not an option. 

Shit.

He heads to the bathroom to fix his bedhead hair, he could probably think of a plausible lie as to why he spent the night in Clint’s room. Nightmares, maybe? Yeah, he could say nightmares because it doesn’t invite a lot of questions and it’s a universal understanding that you don’t push for answers. He throws it up into that high bun he knows Clint likes, again letting the stray pieces fall forward. He heads back out and pulls on his discarded sweats from last night and snatched his shirt off the floor, pulling it over his head. He curses himself for not putting the shirt on first because now he has to redo his bun or it’s going to look like he’s got sex hair. And that’ll definitely invite a lot of unwanted questions. 

He heads for the door, chuckles a bit to himself when he sees a folded piece of paper stabbed to the wall with an arrow. “I’m making breakfast this morning, your favorite. ;) (also, sorry about your shirt.) -CB” Bucky makes a face at the last little bit. What the hell happened to his shirt? Also, wasn’t he wearing his shirt? A quick look proves he is fact not wearing his shirt and had picked up Clint’s (He is unashamed of his ownership of this shirt) purple target and paw prints t-shirt and Bucky’s shirt is in shreds in the trash can, but he can still still a few pieces on Lucky’s bed. Damn, good thing he loves that dog.  

It’s that turn of events that finally clicks it in Bucky’s head. He tosses the arrow on the bed, tucks the note into his pocket and thinks “Fuck it.”. He walks down to the kitchen with a pep in his step, a new confidence and a little bit of adrenaline at his decision. When he rounds the corner, he almost chickens out. He sees the whole team gathered around the island counter waiting patiently for Clint to flip the pancakes onto their plates. Nobody is actually standing next to him, it became a game to see if Clint could always make it to the plate. (He always did. No surprise there.) But that explained why Tony was running to the far side of the room with his plate. Get him in the right mood and he was like a kid, it was kind of sweet. 

Bucky takes another deep breath, and walks across the room with the same purpose he did walking to the kitchen. Tasha is the only one to spare a glance at him, murmuring a soft, “Oh, murder strut.” Bucky can clearly hear it and just rolls his eyes. He is on a mission and doesn’t care about anything else but Clint right now. Clint, is still flipping pancakes and pouring new batter into the pan, completely oblivious to the hulking man barreling at him. He only becomes aware when his coffee cup is taken out of his hand and placed in the counter, he drops his spatula to yell at whoever would dare take away his cup of coffee while he was making them breakfast but he never makes it that far. 

Bucky grabs his chin with a deceivingly soft and gentle grip, and pulls his gaze to look at him and before Clint has even a moment to process the chain of events Bucky’s lips are on his. Soft and warm and pouring every ounce of his feeling into it. He licks at Clint’s bottom lip, tugging at it when Clint digs his hands into his bun, messing with it and pulling on the short hairs at the back of his neck. Clint, himself, takes a moment to go into action, his brain a little frozen with the sudden lack of blood flow to it, everything quickly directing south. 

He pulls back after a minute, (a legitimate minute) kissing Bucky’s nose once and placing his hands on his hips before stepping back to gauge Bucky’s reaction. He knows this was a big moment for him, that he’d been building up to this for a long while. Clint just wants to make sure this was actually what he wanted, not they could really go back now. Bucky seemed to pick up on it and gave a slight nod and a blindly bright smile. Clint’s actually pretty sure it’s the biggest smile Bucky’s ever had. He preens at the fact he was the reason for it. It’s a tender moment between the two of them, and Clint can see that Bucky is also holding himself a little taller, a little bit of a weight lifted from his shoulders.

A moment like this, sweet and tender, never lasts long here. And it’s of course Tony, still one the opposite side of the room, who breaks it. “Fucking finally. I thought you’d never stop sneaking around.” Clint laughs at that, of course they knew. And Bucky, well, he blanches a little. “You guys knew?” Steve’s laughing now, he smacks Bucky upside the head but then brings it down to rest on his shoulder. “Well, you guys weren’t exactly subtle. I knew the minute you wore that purple shirt for the first time. You’ve never worn purple in your life, Buck.” 

Bucky chuckles a little bit now, his tension easing again and his eyebrows raising, “That’s fair.” He doesn’t even try to contain the whine when Clint steps away from him, his hands leaving Bucky’s hips. He runs over to a closet nearby, and comes back tossing things at everyone. 

“Have some earplugs everybody. I’m gonna go fuck my boyfriend now.”

#winterhawk #Clint Barton #deaf clint barton #deaf!clint barton #deaf clint #Clint Barton x Bucky Barnes #Clint x Bucky #fluff #marvel fanfiction

[tenacityblitz]

all the numbers u haven't done

roleplaying habits questions.

1. what’s a grammar rule you find yourself breaking or ignoring a lot?

Offhand I can’t really think of anything?? English is my first language so I don’t knowingly break any grammar rules anyway. Unless possible excessive use of commas counts bc I use commas a lot.

2. are there any languages besides english in which you think you could comfortably roleplay?

Unless Gibberish counts bc I learned that stupid crack language back when I was a kid but good lord I would not have the patience to actually type out a reply like that. 

3. how often do you reach for a synonym dictionary when writing? how about mentally?

Sometimes but not too frequently. Depends on how flowery I’m trying to write something or if I’m thinking of a word but I don’t like the first descriptive word that came to mind for what I’m trying to express.

4. how often do you need to translate your own or the other’s writing with a dictionary or google when writing and reading replies?

Never tbh. Especially since I don’t RP in any other languages, all my RP partners have a good enough grasp on English that I can always tell what they were at least trying to say in their reply.

5. do you listen to music while your write?

I used to need music playing in the background to help me focus on doing drafts, but nowadays I need more silence than anything to help focus and produce what I think is a quality response to a longer thread. Short one or two liner things idc what’s in the background. 

6. do you have ideal writing circumstances when you can do a lot of drafts or tackle really long ones very easily?

I can fluctuate with when I best write. Typically I write better at night when the house is quiet and any noise happening in the house is a noise I make, but I’ve had writing inspiration hit me at any time of the day before.

7. are you a morning, day, evening, or night writer?

Bold of you to assume I’m awake during morning hours that don’t include 5 AM bc I’m still awake haha. When I’m not swamped with commissions to do I typically write better during the day or at night when I’m the only person awake in the house and I don’t have any outside distractions from a person IRL.

8. how does tiredness affect your writing?

Not overly so sometimes, I know there’ve been times in the past where I powered through replies even though I wanted to go to bed just because I was riding the motivation train and I didn’t want to lose it and not get to those last replies for who knows how long. But on Discord at least I often have reply to Discord threads be one of the last things I do before I go to sleep so I go to bed knowing I don’t owe anyone a reply on there.

9. have you ever written a serious reply intoxicated?

Not a serious reply anyway. I’ve been on the dashboard before while intoxicated (ColossalCon East was a prime example haha) but I’ve never really RP’d while that intoxicated

10. how much do you proof-read as you are writing vs. proof-read at the end?

I’ll proof read as I go but also give it one last read before I actually hit publish.

11. when you are writing a reply, how much ahead in the thread do you plan?

Entirely depends on the thread. I could write it on the fly or I could have days to think about it from external factors keeping me from getting to the reply as soon as it comes back to me.

12. is there ever been a time when you’ve had to drop a roleplaying partner because you’ve found their writing style exhausting?

Yes actually, gather round for RP horror storytime haha. Flash back to 2013 while I was still in the Black Butler fandom. I stupidly decided to give writing Sebastian a try at the request of a Ciel I’d made friends with (probably through my old Alois or Lizzie blog). She was a nice enough girl, close enough to my age so she seemed plenty mature, and had been what I thought was a good enough writer to warrant trying my hand at a muse I wouldn’t have otherwise thought to try. Legit within days of me making the Sebastian blog she was getting super clingy in her IC posts making Ciel a whiny baby missing Sebastian, would try and guilt me in IC posts to get on and write with her, and I dealt with it for about two weeks before I deleted Sebastian’s blog without warning and deleted the girl off Skype. To this day it’s the only blog I think I’ve ever consciously deleted.

13. does writing roleplay things in public spaces make you uncomfortable?

Not really? I wouldn’t be crazy about a stranger reading over my shoulder while I was writing bc that’s just weird, but I’ve gone to Starbucks or one of the local malls before on my off days (back when I was still at my last job) and I’d do RP stuff there just to get out of the house.

14. how often do you need to change the icon in your reply while or after writing the reply?

Typically I don’t put in icons until I’m done writing the reply unless I go into the reply knowing exactly which one I want to use, or think of a good one while I’m writing it out.

15. do you first get in the “zone” when writing, or do you start writing and “enter” it that way?

Nowadays I just start writing and then get into the zone after I get the first reply done. Discord replies I can chug out any time of day without difficulty, but for whatever reason Tumblr I have to be in the right mindset for. 

16. what is your biggest obstacle to writing every day, if time doesn’t count?

Back when I was at my last job, it would be getting a lot of writing muse while I was busy at work and unable to get on my own laptop or sneak onto Tumblr on an office computer and at least type out the bulk of a reply (yes I was employee of the month many times haha), and by the time I was able to get to my own computer or be safe enough to get on a work computer, that writing muse would be gone.

17. what’s your inbox count currently? what did you do to get it so high/low?

Right now I have 15 IC asks. I won’t lie, two of them are from last years Valentine’s Day bc I was away at Katsucon at the time of receiving them and by the time I got home I still just never got around to answering the asks, but I didn’t want to delete them either so I just kept them for posterity. Some are from this past Christmas that I was terrible and haven’t answered yet bc I’ve been so swamped with commissions, some are from other random meme’s I’ve reblogged and gotten an ask or two for and also just never got around to. I’m horrible at replying to asks most of the time and I know it but I always appreciate whenever people take the time to send me an IC one.

18. how many drafts is a paralysing amount?

I’d guess I’d say over 15 like para thread replies would make me be like -insert meme song- ‘how could this happen to meeeee’. I’m not quite at that point yet but I’ll get there eventually if I’m not careful lol.

19. if you are writing a wrong reply that’s not working out, do you save what you have to be continued at another date, or do you scrap it and rewrite?

Usually I would just draft what I have and go back to it. I can’t remember the last time I scrapepd an unfinished draft and completely rewrote it.

20. longest reply you’ve ever writen on mobile?

N/A because I don’t do replies on mobile. I’ll send asks on mobile but I never reply to actual IC things while on my phone unless it’s something stupid and cracky or one-liner-ish.

21. does the total amount of threads you have going on matter to you, or just how many you owe?

Doesn’t really matter. I can have one thread with one person, I could have five threads with one person. @shinvcho is an example of the latter lol

22. what’s your thought process when you format? any unspoken rules you follow?

I’ve kept to the same formatting for years and years tbh. I’m too lazy to do excessive formatting beyond italicizing and/or bolding specific words for emphasis and spacing out the start of a new paragraph. Anything more than that to me is just tedious and unnecessary; I don’t want to make it difficult for my partners to read.

23. how does your follower count affect your mood?

Anyone who says they don’t appreciate or enjoy even a small spike in followers is a liar, because we live in an age where validation is held in high regard and it feels good to get the validation of seeing more people enjoy what we do on our blogs enough to put us on their dashboards. But it also doesn’t really matter to me when I lose followers because I have a mutual checker so I can unfollow a mutual back if they did so first so I don’t feel uncomfy still following someone who no longer wanted me on their dash lol.

#ooc #THIS IS WHY I QUESTIONED HOW MUCH U ACTUALLY LOVE ME I HAD TO DO BASICALLY ALL OF THEM LOL #creturae

[longsightmyth]

Myth Reads the Naming, Chapter 21

PELLINOR

The chapter is called Council of Friends and I for one could use some more friendship is magic stuff in my life, bring it on.

Maerad has a nightmare and a voice speaks in something that is almost the Speech but fucked up. It says, “I am again, but none shall find my dwelling, for I live in every human heart.”

I just wanted friendship, book. You promised me friendship.

She wakes up and reassures herself, and then Hem knocks on her door having also had nightmares. They huddle together and fall back to sleep.

Maerad wakes up to a beautiful morning and Hem, eating bread in a corner. He’s been waiting for her to wake up. She asks how Cadvan is and Hem doesn’t seem to care much (which, fair) but says he’s probably still sleeping and Maerad should hurry up because there is food (I appreciate a lot about this interaction. If I forget to mention it in the comparison please bug me so I can talk about it in a reblog or something). Maerad kicks him out to get dressed and then they walk down to get lunch together.

When they get to the sitting room, Cadvan is awake and chatting with Saliman. Cadvan is the worse for wear still but he’s talking and awake and teasing Maerad a little bit, and Maerad almost cries with how happy she is that he’s alive, black eye and stitched up face cuts and all. He assures her when she asks that he feels great and sends her off to the food.

Appetite sated (Hem comes with her for seconds) the siblings return to Cadvan and Saliman, who are discussing Saliman’s journey. Turns out Saliman was attacked by three hulls and killed them, but not before they killed his horse. He’s pretty sad about it and so am I:  horse death is sad. The horses are just doing their best okay.

Anyway, Nelac comes in while Maerad is looking out at the gardens and says that most of his flowers survived the storm. Maerad immediately likes him, not least because he fixed up Cadvan and reminds her of Cadvan.

Hem continues to eat as the adult bards convene and catch each other up on everything, and when they get to the part about the Kulag Cadvan admits he was in a hurry and not as careful as he should have been with magic or travel. He credits Maerad with getting them all out alive.

“I wondered…,” said Maerad, and then stopped.

“What, O my Deliverer?” said Cadvan.

Maerad blushed again at his teasing. “I wondered if the Landrost had hurt you, and that was why…” she faltered and stopped again.

“The Landrost did indeed hurt me,” said Cadvan. “And I was less in my power than I could be. But that is no excuse for rushed decisions and the mistakes that come with them. I judge myself at fault, and so I am; and it is a severe judgment, Maerad, because things very nearly were otherwise, and the result would have been terrible for many more than us.”

Maerad saw for an instant an implacable harshness in Cadvan’s face, and she shivered; she thought she would not like to be judged by Cadvan, had she done any real wrong.

They continue to catch up, and Nelac remembers hearing about the Treesong somewhere but he’ll have to look for it again, but Saliman Knows What’s Up and sings a verse from the poem at the beginning of chapter 17, which I will transcribe here so nobody has to search the hellscape that is my tumblr tags:

Grows a Lily on the Briar

Grows a Briar on the Wave

Triple-tongued its voice of Fire

Edil-Amarandh with save

True and false the cunning Flame

Burning in the darkest Night

False and true the secret Name

Quickened in the womb of Light

Where the Briar on the Foam?

Doth the Lily stemless stand?

Who will bring the Singing home?

Where the Harp? And whose the Hand?

Nelac is like ‘lol it almost sounds like you’re saying Maerad, who can speak common, Elidhu, and the Speech, is the Foretold’

Cadvan’s ACTUAL (specified as distracted and absent) RESPONSE: “Yes, yes, of course I am.”

Maybe warn a guy before you drop prophetic bombs in his lap, Cadvan.

Nelac thinks about it a minute and sorta soul searches Maerad with eye contact is like ‘okay fine you may have a point’. Also the Treesong is a super ancient song, he remembers.

Nelac ALSO wants to scry Hem. Hem is not having it rn and runs into the garde. Maerad chastises Nelac with all the vehemence of a sibling vs outsiders and heads after her brother. After assuring Hem that SHE believes him, obviously, and that Cadvan does, he agrees to come back inside, where Nelac straight up bribes him with food to be scried later. Hem is like ‘well if there’s FOOD’ and agrees, which, fair.

Further, Nelac says they have to figure out where Hem can go to bard school because Norloch is being Particularly Racist at the moment and Hem, unlike Maerad, looks very Pilanel. Cadvan says irritably that Hem would like other schools better anyway, fuck Norloch (okay not in quite those words but it’s close).

Saliman: hey no worries I’ll take the kid home with me where racist dickheads aren’t in charge. Sound good, Hem?

Hem: Boy does it!

Section paraphrased for clarity.

Also, Nelac adds, y’all haven’t been here in a while so let me tell you what else Enkir has fucked up: no more lady bards can train at Norloch.

The fuck, everyone in the room basically mouths in unison.

Nelac: so the flaw in our system is, if all of our elected officials are old white rich white dudes with The Right Families then it turns out they elect an old rich white dude with The Right Family as leader, which means even the relatively benevolent old rich white dudes get outvoted when it comes to civil rights and not destroying the world because these guys have no concept of doing anything for other people even in the name of self interest.

Not that we know anything about that in the States or anything.

Everybody agrees that a council must be called regarding world saving because they still labor under the delusion that old rich white dudes with The Right Families in power give a shit what happens to the world if it doesn’t affect them in the next five minutes. The poor saps.

Cadvan shows Maerad around Norloch and assures her once again that even if she isn’t the foretold it’s no biggie, he’ll take her to a good bard school.

“Would you stay there?” she asked, knowing the answer already.

He glanced at her quickly, his face unreadable. “For a time, until you were settled in,” he said.

When they get back, Hem wants Maerad there while he’s scried. Nelac says it’s unusual, but so is scrying a child so why not. There isn’t much to see since we aren’t in Hem’s PoV, but Nelac confirms that Hem is Maerad’s brother and everybody rejoices. Maerad offers to get them something to drink, does so, and leaves, feeling like she intruded.

At dinner, which Hem actually skips, they make a game plan for presenting Maerad-as-The-Foretold to the council. Nelac is going to do it alone for political reasons. That’s the end of the chapter.

THRONE OF GLASS

Three chapters of ToG is a fitting punishment for taking so long I guess. 46,47,48.

Dorian is hunting through the woods to ‘let the freezing air rush through him’  and burn off steam regarding Celaena, who apparently watches him like a cat watching a mouse, which is different from every single other woman ever, who otherwise look at him adoringly.

Dorian, I would think Kaltain fits that description. I’m just saying.

Apparently Celaena makes him want to be a better king or whatever by watching him and he’ll never be happy with any other woman now that he’s kissed her and he’s worried about her in the duel. Sure.

CELAENA’S POV.

She’s thinking about the duel, worries that Cain might be better because he has stamina (I mean this is a valid concern: Celaena can’t seem to do any sort of strenuous physical activity without throwing up, her stamina IS crap) and then that she might have to obey the King of Adarlan if she’s his Champion.

I’m not sure what you thought you were signing up for, Celaena?

Then she decides she wants to stay in the castle because Hot Dudes, I guess.

NEXT CHAPTER.

Kaltain drugs Celaena’s goblet(?) in the outside duel.

Swap to Celaena’s PoV, where she complains about the cold and thinks that she doesn’t know why they have to have the duels outside. Me neither, Celaena. Me neither.

She recognizes a couple of council members who hired her in the past, and then Nehemia shows up. For reasons?

Anyway, the king makes a speech, the duels start, Cain wins his. Celaena thinks that the other guys hadn’t even lasted three minutes, which, I mean. People generally greatly overestimate how long fights take, especially fights that aren’t specifically hemmed in for competition. Three minutes is a long time to fight one on one for your life?

Oh wait they aren’t fighting to the death. That would be too men for the demon infested king? I don’t know.

Chaol offers Celaena his sword to fight with, and Nehemia offers her Nehemia’s staff instead.

“If I may,” Nehemia said in Eyllwe, “I’d like to offer this to you instead.” The princess held out her beautifully carved iron-tipped staff. Celaena glanced between Chaol’s sword and her friend’s weapon. The sword, obviously, was the wiser choice—and for Chaol to offer his own weapon made her feel strangely lightheaded—but the staff…

Nehemia leaned in to whisper in Celaena’s ear. “Let it be with an Eyllwe weapon that you take them down.” Her voice hitched. “Let wood from the forests of Eyllwe defeat steel from Adarlan. Let the King’s Champion be someone who understands how the innocents suffer.”

So Celaena chooses the staff, which is actually a GREAT weapon vs a sword assuming you know how to use it for a myriad of reasons? Why would a sword be a wiser choice? Why is that obvious? Especially if it’s ‘iron-tipped’ by which I think she means capped, but whatever. We already knew very little research went into this, I’m lucky Celaena isn’t using that soap and hairpin thing.

She’s going to fight Grave. Don’t worry about it, we’ll get an explanation about him in the second book when he suddenly becomes relevant again.

Chaol squeezed her hand, his skin warm in the frigid air. “Give him hell,” he said. Grave entered the ring and drew his sword.

Pulling her hand from Chaol’s, Celaena straightened her spine as she stepped into the ring. She quickly bowed to the king, then to her opponent.

She met Grave’s stare and smiled as she bent her knees, holding the staff in two hands.

You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into, little man.

NEXT CHAPTER.

Grave’s first move is to try to break her staff. I. I’m just. Whatever at this point.

His sword gets stuck in her staff when he hits, and she punches him in the nose. He gets angry and charges, “aiming a direct blow to her heart.” She knocks his legs out from underneath him and puts the staff to his throat, which ends the fight I guess, though he doesn’t yield and isn’t injured aside from a broken nose.

She brought her mouth close to his ear. “My name is Celaena Sardothien,” she whispered. “But it makes no difference if my name’s Celaena or Lillian or Bitch, because I’d still beat you, no matter what you call me.” She smiled at him as she stood. He just stared up at her, his bloody nose leaking down the side of his cheek. She took the handkerchief from her pocket and dropped it on his chest. “You can keep that,” she said before she walked off the veranda.

She intercepted Chaol as soon as she crossed the line of chalk. “How long did that take?” she asked. She found Nehemia beaming at her, and Celaena lifted her staff a little in salute.

“Two minutes.”

She grinned at the captain. She was hardly winded. “Better than Cain’s time.”

How slowly are these people moving? Why are we counting time? What is HAPPENING.

Anyway they have a toast.

“Out of good faith, and honor to the Great Goddess,” Kaltain said in a dramatic voice. Celaena wanted to punch her. “May it be your offering to the Mother who bore us all. Drink, and let Her bless you, and replenish your strength.”

I want that all noted for the record on the religion front.

Celaena is thrown directly into fighting Cain without any more of a rest and does not realize she’s been drugged.

The conqueror of Erilea raised his hands.

“Begin!” he roared, and Celaena shook her head, trying to clear her blurry vision. She steadied herself, wielding the staff like a sword as Cain began circling. Nausea flashed through her as his muscles flexed. For some reason, the world was still hazy. She clenched her teeth, blinking. She’d use his strength against him.

Cain charged faster than she anticipated. She caught his sword on the broad side with the staff, avoiding the sharp edges, and leapt back as she heard the wood groan.

He struck so quickly that she had to concede to the edge of his blade. It sank deep into the staff. Her arms ached from the impact. Before she could recover, Cain yanked his sword from her weapon and surged toward her. She could only bound back, deflecting the blow with the iron tip of the staff.

Given that Celaena is a, an assassin, b, just had a refresher course on poisons, and c, has been poisoned like this at least once before in the prequel novellas, I don’t know what to tell anybody here. Finally she gets it when she hears Kaltain laugh.

She had difficulty holding the staff. Cain came at her, and she had no choice but to meet his blows, barely having the strength to raise the weapon each time. How much bloodbane had they given her? The staff cracked, splintered, and groaned.

Did Nehemia give her a wimpy-ass staff or does Celaena just not know how to use it to deflect rather than just take the full force of a blade? His sword sinks into it, it splinters and cracks? Y’all. No.

She had to end this now, before the hallucinations started. She knew they’d be powerful: seers had once used bloodbane as a drug to view spirits from other worlds. Celaena shot forward with a sweep of the staff. Wood slammed into steel.

The staff snapped in two.

The iron-tipped head soared to the other side of the veranda, leaving Celaena with a piece of useless wood.

Y’all. Y’ALL. You don’t even know how much I’m despairing right now.

Anyway, we go through Dorian and Chaol’s PoVs in quick succession to show that they’re worried about her and are probably in love, because sure, that’s what’s important right now, why not.

Celaena starts seeing creatures from another world as Cain keeps beating her up and Chaol keeps telling her to get up. Apparently the eye of Elena actually was protecting her, because…

Cain reached for her throat, and she flung herself backward. All that he managed to grab was her amulet. With a resounding snap, the Eye of Elena ripped from her neck.

The sunlight disappeared, the bloodbane seizing control of her mind again, and Celaena found herself before an army of the dead. The shadowy figure that was Cain raised his arm, dropping the amulet upon the ground.

They came for her.

That’s the end of the chapter. Thank goodness.

COMPARISON

Say it with me: I despair.

These chapters are pretty different from each other, but I said I wanted to talk about Hem and food and I do.

Both Hem and Maerad have been deprived all their lives, and while Maerad is slightly less preoccupied with filling her stomach than Hem, she also does not in my memory refuse food when it is offered, and only ever delights in the fact that she has it. Hem, obviously, is a little more fixated, but Maerad usually got ENOUGH to eat by virtue of her musical talent and value and the whole superstition thing. Hem rarely did.

Celaena turns her nose up at salmon and complains when chicken is a little bit dry. It’s just not behavior I would expect from someone starved in a salt mine for a year.

Pellinor’s mythology and religion and society remains consistent. ToG’s still rolling with the one goddess lots of little gods thing for now.

I’m just glad that Celaena used an actual weapon (poorly) and didn’t try to get creative. God knows what she would have done with a blade of grass or something. Why are we timing our fights. How was Chaol watching the clock closely enough to know that AND watching the fight. This could all have been solved with some research.

STATS

Pages: 23

Fragments: 36

Em-Dashes: 50

Ellipses: 14

Pages: 22

Fragments: 6

Em-Dashes: 2

Ellipses: 13

#myth reads the books of Pellinor #myth reads the naming #myth rags on throne of glass #myth talks

[copperbadge]

There was a recent discussion on tumblr, which I didn’t reblog for obvious reasons, about how people with a large readership cope with a heavy interaction load -- how the person would be anxious if they dealt with that volume of notes on each post, that amount of interaction and contact. I was tagged in it because of my habit of "lochnessing", where I cause an activity spike on posts I reblog that looks like the loch ness monster.

It never occurs to me, because I’ve dealt with high-volume social media for so long -- realistically about ten years, probably closer to fifteen -- that it’s difficult for people to handle that, because they don’t have the systems in place that I do. I mean it does occur to me in the sense that I have become more cautious about what I reblog and its impact on the OP; there are things I’d like to share with you but don’t because I recognize it would be harmful to the person who wrote them. But it doesn't occur to me that someone might struggle with a high volume of notes purely because it's a volume that they don't have a system in place to deal with the way I do.

So I said I'd do a writeup on the "entire ecosystems" I had in place for handling the high volume of interaction I receive online. I sit at a weird place where I'm not so well known that I can just ignore most of what comes at me with impunity because everyone acknowledges I can't answer it all, like say a youtube star. But at the same time I do get too much attention to return it at the same level I receive it. I am one and you are sixteen thousand. So I had to make systems to return as much as I could and feel okay about not returning the rest.

Reading through this, of course it sounds like a weird humblebrag: "Here's how I deal with my MASSIVE POPULARITY". There's no real way around that; I can't talk about how I deal with comments without talking about how I get a disproportionately high number of them. The fact that I do is what leads me to do things like the Zero Comment Challenge, or Radio Free Monday, to try and balance shit out. So, as I mention occasionally below, you can think I'm an asshole for talking about how I am popular, but I can't talk about how to deal with that popularity without acknowledging the reality of it, and someone somewhere's gonna think I'm an asshole anyway, so whatever.

These are the systems I use to manage my life -- work, play, the weird inbetween space that's kind of both. Many of these are akin to the systems that I use in managing my depression, in that they involve a lot of small steps building up to a big result, but each small step on its own is manageable.

Let's start with AO3, because it's actually probably the simplest.

I clean out my comments once a week. Usually there are between forty and a hundred and fifty, depending on if I’ve published something recently or been recommended by someone. 

I go through all the one-sentence comments first, because those are the ones that are least likely to require a response. I read all comments but I learned through trial and error, twice in ten years, that I am physically and emotionally incapable of responding to every comment I receive even if it's just with a "Thank you!" and I'm just going to live with the fact that people think I'm an asshole for that. Also while I appreciate someone who leaves a "Great fic! <3" comment, that's genuinely really cool and validating, I don't think they truly need or expect a response. So most one-line comments, unless they are super weird or contain a question, get read, appreciated, and then deleted. 

Then I go through the longer comments that need a closer reading, and delete any that are cool but still don't seem to require responses. If someone has left a ton of comments, I'll find the one I think is coolest or most needing of response, delete the others, and reply to that one comment with a thoughtful response including a line thanking them for all their other comments.

Finally, I respond to comments that are in-depth or have questions that require some thought. I find that if I don't respond to these on a weekly basis they pile up and then someone who asked a question like six months ago is still waiting for an answer, so this one is non-negotiable: my AO3 inbox has to be empty at the end of each week, and everything that needed a reply has to have one. (I do have one or two that just live in my inbox because they are cool ideas I will one day get round to writing, and I want to credit them when I do, but it's never more than two.) For me, it's easiest to wait until Friday or Saturday and just take an hour to clear them all out, rather than clearing as I go, because I don't have AO3 open all the time the way I do some other sites.  

Tumblr: Every morning, before work, I go through the previous night's responses; I open all reblogs/mentions in new tabs to read and reply-as-necessary, and I reply to all comments that need responses. (This is also something I'll do throughout the day, but especially if I'm tired or pressed for time, the comment replies might be saved as a draft or left in an open tab until I can get to them). Occasionally shit doesn’t show up or I miss stuff but I’ve learned to just live with that as the price of doing fandom on Tumblr. 

If there's a post by someone else that requires a response from me -- either a reblog of one of my posts, or someone tagged me in a post -- I Like it to find it later or I save it as a draft. I don't use Likes as anything other than "I want to be able to find this again in less than a week's time" and I never have more than about 20 Likes in my files. (Unless I’m traveling; it’s easier to Like something than save it as a draft or respond, so when I get home from traveling I often have 30-50 Likes in my file.)

Often on Tumblr I go through what I call the Line Cycle -- I read my dash, and then I go "down the line" and open all the other pages that might need attention, in specific order. I open asks and try to respond to a few -- I try to answer at least five every time but sometimes I don't manage to answer any for whatever reason -- then I open likes and try to convert as many likes as I can to either queued reblogs or drafts. I open drafts and try to convert some of those to queued reblogs. Then I go through the same process for one or two side blogs.

(Also in drafts are a lot of things that I'm not sure I want to put in my queue yet, or things that I put in the queue weekly like the Zero Comment Challenge post, which I dust off when I'm ready to queue it, then immediately re-save to drafts when it posts.)

Occasionally if I feel shit is getting out of hand I dedicate myself to, every time, not leaving the page I'm on until I've reduced its "count" (number of asks, likes, drafts, etc) by five, or at least to below the next multiple of five -- if I have 23, for example, I'll try to get it below 20.

Sometimes posts in tabs sit open for a while because in order to respond I have to read an article or watch a video, which take a lot of focus and attention. It used to be that recommendations for books or stuff to watch also sat open forever until I could get round to doing it, but now I just have a "reccs" file on the cloud that is a list of what I've been recommended and who recommended it, and I work my way through them slowly.

Email: Once I've read them, site notifications in my inbox get deleted; I've turned off follow/kudos notifications because they tend to be white noise.

Email is tough for me, it requires a lot of focus and emotional attention to answer emails, so I treat it the same way I would asks or likes or whatnot, but much more slowly. I tend to have a backlog of about thirty emails in my inbox, though often five to ten of those are emails that don't need response and that I'm saving (I star them to mark them as not needing attention). I have the multiple-stars function in Gmail turned on, and when it gets really bad, I start opening emails and triaging -- "This will be easier to answer" "This will take some time" etc. by starring them different colors.

I like to have no more than fifteen emails in my inbox but that is a rarity. 

The Internet: Because social media takes up a lot of my time and I also work eight hours a day (well, four, we'll get to that in a bit) I have streamlined the way I encounter the internet, as well. I have a list of "daily reading" bookmarks that I open every morning and check through -- the horoscope page, the mustard tag on tumblr (which I don't follow because then the same dumbass two hipster fashion posts keep showing up on my dash), a blog that follows and posts about new small flash games that I might enjoy playing, a few others. (I also have a Monday file that I open once a week, it's calendars of events and such, and I go through on Mondays and add anything to my calendar that looks interesting.)

But if I can, any regularly-updated page that has an RSS feed gets converted to RSS and put into my Netvibes reader account, where I peruse it at my leisure. The Netvibes reader account includes a direct feed from the Steve/Tony and Steve/Sam tags on AO3, plus a few others; longform.org, some cooking blogs I follow, a bunch of podcast pages, a few webcomics, and one or two tumblrs that I don't want showing up on my dash (mainly artists' porny sideblogs, what up you glorious pervs) or think I would make the person uncomfortable by following them.

I have five tabs pinned to Chrome at any given time, and four tabs pinned to Firefox. The Chrome tabs are my personal Netvibes, Google Drive, a Google Sheets spreadsheet with my calendar and accounting tabs in it, Gmail, and Tumblr. The Firefox tabs are a second Netvibes account I use for work (we have several news sources we all monitor daily), my non-fannish gmail, my non-fannish facebook with a custom reading page so I never see anything twice, and the Google "family calendar" that I and my family use to track where we all are and what we're doing.

My parents use this more than I do, which is why I often open the calendar app on my phone to check my work schedule and find that my parents are taking the dogs to the groomer's today (yes, I know I could turn this off, but it amuses me). When I introduced my mother to Google Calendar her eyes got super big and she fell in immediate love; the first three things she added were the birthdays of her two dogs, followed by the birthday of Jesus. I would be more insulted by this but I had already added all the family birthdays, so at least I didn't come in behind the dogs AND the Christ Child.

Once in a while, when I'm at work and I feel like I'm not sure what I should be doing or that my day is spiralling out of my control, I'll take a deep breath, pull up Chrome, and go through all my pinned tabs, one by one, changing or fixing something on each -- I'll clear out my Longform reading, answer a few emails, check the calendar, etc. Then I'll go through any open tabs and try to close at least one. I get anxious if I have more than five or six non-pinned tabs open. Like having an inbox that's rarely over thirty emails total, it's not a sign I'm more effective or efficient than anyone else, it's just a sign I'm debilitatingly anxious about this kind of thing.

Work: I've read, many times, that people who work eight hours a day in a white collar job like mine really only do four hours of actual work. And for a while I joked that I wondered if I even did four, because I dick around on the internet A LOT. But lately I started to genuinely wonder, and so for the past six weeks, I've put that statement to the test.

When I arrive at work, I immediately put in two hours of solid work. I don't read tumblr, I don't read anything but work-related material. I triage all my work emails, I go through my Google Task list for the day and sort things by most to least urgent, and then I work my way through them for two solid hours. It's not easy at all, but any time I think "This is when I would stop and read tumblr" I shake my head and try to do one more work thing, and then I get back in the groove and can do like, three more. I also use this first morning period to take care of "personal work", stuff which has to get done to keep my life running smoothly, like mailing packages or replying to my parents' emails or whatnot.

Then I get a half-hour break to read tumblr, play a flash game, maybe read a piece on Longform. (I don't read fanfic at work; I sometimes clean out Netvibes of fics that from the tags and summaries I know I won't be interested in, but I don't open fanfic at work at all.) I also use this time to get some food in me.

Then I do another two hours of work, same deal. And that's four hours of work. And I get a shitload done, let me tell you.

For the next three hours after, I am basically free to do whatever I want. I usually use about an hour to do some freelance work, and I spend time on tumblr or on personal email, reading articles, listening to podcasts, playing games. I eat a snack, I talk to my coworkers. I find I actually run out of new stuff to read, and I do try to process the old stuff, like empty out my drafts and likes. And of course the nature of my job means that sometimes there is work to be done that comes up suddenly, but it's usually just a matter of teeing it up for the following morning's work shift.

For the last hour of my work day, I go through my work inbox, make sure everything's set up for tomorrow, send any last emails, do any last wrap-up, and make sure all my documents are either saved or closed. (Our IT team likes to run updates and involuntary restarts without warning, so I've learned to always save at end of day.)

So, yeah. Those are some of the systems I have in place in order to run a very mentally busy life. I'm not necessarily recommending them; a lot of them won't work for everyone because everyone is different, and I recognize that some of them are inapplicable (I work a job with no outward-facing element to it; a barista or a librarian or a teacher can't do what I do, schedule-wise), and some of them are a level of regimentation I'm not sure most people would find healthy. But that's how I do my thing, and maybe some of my techniques will sound appealing to other people who occasionally feel, as I do, like they're drowning a little bit.

(Did you find this useful or interesting? Keep me organized and drop some change in my Ko-Fi or at my Paypal!)

[ugh-supersoldiers]

Under Oath - Part One

Under Oath Masterlist

Characters: Bucky x reader, Steve Rogers, Tony Stark, Sam Wilson

Summary: The people called for justice, the state answered. The trial of State v. Barnes is set to begin, and the odds are most certainly not in favor of the not so beloved ex Winter Soldier. That’s where you come in, the quick, smart, and all too brave lawyer set on defending and saving one Bucky Barnes from legal prosecution. The only problem? He’s not so sure he’s worth saving at all.

Warnings: Swearing, some angst, guilt ridden!Bucky (that’s gonna be a constant in this entire fic), slow burn

Words: 2560

A/N: FIRST PART!!!!!!!!! I can’t stress this enough but please please please REBLOG AND LEAVE FEEDBACK IN THAT REBLOG OR IN MY INBOX. You have no idea how much it helps me navigate my writing!

It had been an entirely normal day until the phone call. 

The phone call that might have all but shattered every shred of hope that Bucky Barnes had left at achieving any inkling of normalcy.

Seemingly, things were getting back to about as normal as they could be given the remarkably abnormal circumstances. Bucky had moved into the Avengers tower after the wake of the coveted war that had left the team divided was officially laid to rest. It had been at the request of Steve Rogers of course, and if there was one thing Bucky couldn’t do it was say no to his best friend after everything he’d had done for him.

Bucky had almost settled in. Almost.

You see when you’re an assassin for as long as he’d been, getting comfy with your surroundings doesn’t come all that easy. Staying in one spot for an extended period of time wasn’t a thing that he’d done in a while. Neither was trusting people but he was making progress as best he could - even with Tony.

The fateful call had broken up a rather entertaining morning’s antics. Sam had decided to put salt in the sugar bowl - again - which caused Steve to chew him out in front of the entire team - again. Of course, watching Steve’s face go beat red in a mixture of anger and just a hint of betraying mischief was one of the few things that put a dauntingly tight-lipped smirk on Bucky’s face. 

He wasn’t quite ready to smile, not yet at least. Smiling meant letting go. Smiling hinted at some sort of underlying fulfillment that he was certain he did not have. Smiling meant accepting the context of your life enough to be comfortable and, in turn, be happy.

Maybe Bucky wasn’t quite ready to be happy yet.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to smile, it was just that he felt he wasn’t sure he deserved that right. The right to be comfortable; carefree.

Nevertheless, listening to the borderline childlike interchange between Steve and Sam was enough to irk that signature as-close-as-it’s-gonna-get lip curl out of him.

Just when it was really getting good, the high pitch shrill of Steve’s phone blared into the room.

Bucky was bad with sudden loud sounds, so he couldn’t help but jump out of his seat a little at the upset, but Steve was quick to snatch it up off of the kitchen counter and answer it.

“Hello?” He said, still trying to calm the chuckle that remained in his chest from just a moment earlier, a slowly fading smile still present on his face.

But it vanished in an instant.

“What the fuck did you just say?”

Sam and Bucky exchange a glance. Steve was the resident appointed swear police around the compound - and Bucky could validate that fact given that he was the resident potty mouth and was on the receiving end of the bad language scolding more than anyone else - so hearing Steve drop the almighty F bomb so casually meant something was bad. Very bad.

“That makes absolutely no sense! Why now? Why not months ago when he first- No, sir. Yes, I understand that. Well, come on! What do you take me for, an idiot?”

Steve’s brow was invaded by a heavy crease. Sam stood frozen in his spot, eyes wide at his friend. Bucky observed with the same blank expression that he usually held, but he analyzed like he always did. The truth was, neither Sam nor Bucky really knew what to do yet.

Steve wasn’t antsy, but something about what the caller was saying had driven him completely up the wall.

“Listen to me very carefully: I am not going to stand by and watch you put him on trial for something that was out of his hands, do you understand?”

Bucky’s brow furrowed. A trial? For something that Steve believed wasn’t the accused’s fault.

He sucked in a breath, epiphany hitting like a baseball bat to the face in a back alley. Bucky was the presupposed him and the hundreds of bodies that had been left in his wake from his time at hydra were the entailed something.

The blood drained from his face fast enough to cause him to feel lightheaded at his seat behind the kitchen island.

The rest of Steve’s heated phone call faded to mere background static to the all to familiar intense pounding that began ringing in Bucky’s ears. How could he not have seen this coming? How could he have let himself believe that he was going to somehow escape this?

It was stupid really, he thought.

Life had a sick sense of humor, and the life that Bucky had lead was proof of that. It was all a demented game of cat and mouse, and Bucky always ended up as the mouse - even if evidence suggested otherwise.

That was when his legs started to shake, his vision blurry, heart racing at a rate just a little too high. His breathing picked up and he put his hands on his temples, rubbing harshly to try and stop what he knew was coming.

Bucky had gone a decently long time without a panic attack; about three weeks now. It was slow, but he’d come a long way since coming to the tower and now all of his hard work was going right out the window.

“Fuck.” He cursed under his breath, but not quiet enough for the likes of Sam Wilson not to notice.

“You alright, man?” He asked as Steve still badgered the caller. Bucky might have pitied the sap on the other end if he wasn’t entirely consumed by panic.

All he could do was shake his head, no. Bucky’s attacks were never explicit. Always quiet, always almost unnoticeable to the untrained eye. Sam wasn’t untrained.

“Could to ten,” Sam said quietly, “But do it out of order.”

It was a strategy that seemed to work for Bucky, Sam knew this. His brain wouldn’t focus on panic if it was focusing on trying to sort out the pattern of a random sequence of cardinal numbers.

“Four…” Bucky inhaled, trying to begin his numbers.

“Nine…” He attempted to picture something peaceful while he counted, but the only things he could see were the faces of those he’s killed.

“Seven…” Blood is everywhere. There’s screaming, too. Someone begs for their life to be spared as a metal hand wraps tightly around their throat.

“One…” But the Soldier can’t show mercy, he isn’t programmed to understand it. Mercy would diverge from a mission. He’ll keep squeezing until his target stops moving.

“Three…” He sees a car hit a tree with a loud crash.

“Eight…” He’s at the side door, ripping it off of its hinges.

“Two…” The face of Howard Stark flashes into his mind, and a taunting whisper of his name. It was a recognition of an old ally, a friend. He’d called out to him seconds before the Soldier had bashed his face in.

“Five…” The tears trailing down his cheeks surprise him, he didn’t know he’d even started to cry.

“T-ten…” Maria Stark is next, perhaps one of the most innocent of them all. And he’s all too compliant to feel her pulse under his thumb until he doesn’t anymore. 

“Si-ix…”

Steve hung up the phone just quick enough to barely catch Bucky before he slid off the stool he was on and onto the floor into a heap. Sobs were uncontrollably wracking his chest at a rate even Steve hadn’t seen.

Guilt worked like poison in the bloodstream.

“Buck…” Steve reasoned, “We gotta go down to the station. We gotta- We gotta make out way down there now.”

Bucky heaved out what could only be described as the midway point between a deep exhale and a muffled scream. He tried so hard to calm down, told himself to stop being so fucking weak until it finally worked.

He let Steve and Sam collect him off of the floor and escort him into a car. He aimlessly stared out the window as they drove, counting the trees they passed and hoping his eyes weren’t still red by the time they arrived.

Bucky Barnes had blood on his hands. No matter how hard he tried to wash it away, to scrub it off of his skin, it would always remain. He always had a sneaking suspicion that his past would catch up with him, he was even surprised it had taken so long for it come knocking.

“So let me get this straight,” Steve said to the man standing at the other end of the interrogation room turned holding area, “You’re going to try him for the murder’s done by Hydra?”

“With all due respect Mr. Rogers-”

“Captain Rogers.”

“Captain Rogers,” The suited man adjusted his honorific as he desperately tried to remain calm. Steve only ever corrected people like that when he was outright pissed, “Your friend has been an active assassin for the last 70 years-”

“As if that was his choice.” Steve said, a bitterness that Bucky wasn’t used to lacing his tone liberally.

“-And with that in mind, the people are pushing the state to pursue a trial so that justice can be served for the victims and their families.”

“If they want justice so badly they should be going after Hydra, not Bucky.” 

From the seat that Bucky sat on in the middle of the room, he couldn’t help but feel like he was watching a tennis match. He was constantly looking back and forth at either man on opposite ends of the rather small space that had been provided at the local precinct. 

The man standing across from Steve was well enough dressed to have money, young enough to be labelled as successful at an early age, and most definitely transparent enough to be read like a book. Bucky knew very well this man was terrified to be delivering this news to the likes of Captain America.

“Captain Rogers,” The man choked out, “I’m merely a representative of the state. Try not to shoot the messenger.”

Steve sighed and massaged his temples, closing his eyes.

“Sorry,” He breathed, “You’re not the one I should be speaking to.”

“You’re right,” The state representative said, “The one you should speak to is the best lawyer money can buy.”

He brushed past Steve, handing him a file, before twisting the knob of the door and exiting the room, shutting the door behind him with a loud thud.

It was strange seeing Steve in Mother Hen mode, it was a side of him that he never really exuded publicly like this. Perhaps if the circumstances weren’t so dire, Bucky would have made fun of him for it.

Time and place, Barnes.

The thing was Bucky wasn’t upset about this, in fact he was relieved. He deserved this, after all. He’d killed countless people with his bare hands to serve Hydra’s vindictive agenda. He should be tried and convicted for all of it.

“I called Tony earlier, he said he’d get us an attorney we could trust.” Steve said, pulling out his phone and reading what Bucky assumed was a text message from Stark.

In a strange way, Bucky realized, Steve was trying to comfort him. He didn’t need comfort, what he needed was to quench the thirst of guilt that went unsettled in his belly.

“Apparently, he’s pulling up out front now with them.” Steve concluded as he looked at the screen.

Bucky merely nodded aimlessly at the nothingness he stared at straight ahead of him.

Silence enveloped them. The type of silence that made you question if it was a comfortable one or not. Bucky felt fine, but he was feeding off of the nervous energy that practically radiated from Steve’s skin.

He felt bad for his friend, he really did. Steve probably had this twisted version of the future in his head of the two of them being just like they were before all of this, and now he was watching it all crumble in his palm.

A knock on the door stopped his thoughts in their tracks.

Steve opened it, allowing Tony Stark to march into the room, dressed even better than the state rep that had nearly run out of the room.

You followed in behind, dressed in a black pencil skirt and matching blazer. Your hair was pinned back behind you. There were several case files in your hand from the hours of reading up on the Fist of Hydra himself post phone call with Stark.

Bucky looked at you intently. He had been expecting some old man with hair grey as ash who stood at 6 feet that could intimidate the hell out of any witness. You were none of these things. He instantly doubted his chances at winning, which brought a sick warmth of comfort into his bloodstream. 

“Barnes,” Tony said as the door shut, “Meet (Y/N) (Y/L/N), your only hope at making it out of this trial alive.”

“Let’s not get too cocky,” You said quietly, tucking a fallen piece of hair behind your ear, “I can’t promise a win, but I can promise the best fighting chance that any lawyer in New York could give you.”

Bucky almost admired your naivety. To believe there was a shot in hell at getting him out of this was at best a distant dream, and at worst a career nightmare. Bucky wasn’t in the business of ruining lives; at least he tried not to be anymore.

“Look,” Bucky began, “I know you’re doing what you think is right but this is a stupid move.” 

You locked eyes with him, taking in his words. 

“I disagree.” The phrase rolled off your tongue too easily for his liking.

His nostrils flared, he needed you to understand that getting involved with this case was going to absolutely end any sort of prospects you had for a reasonable future.

“Mr. Barnes, I’m not here because I have my eyes set on winning a globally covered case,” You said to him, “I’m here because I believe you shouldn’t be convicted of the crimes you’re accused of commiting.”

“Well isn’t that just fucking idiotic of you.”

“Buck.” Steve warned, muttering a quick apology to you.

Bucky didn’t really want to be so rude to you, but he couldn’t think of another way of getting you to drop his case. You seemed nice enough, determined and bright. He didn’t want to be responsible for trashing your career before you even got a shot.

“It’s alright,” You said with a smile at Steve, “That residual anger is something we have to work through together, you and I.” Your attention was now back on Bucky again, “And your efforts to turn me away have all but failed miserably, Mr. Barnes.”

“When do we start then, Ms. (Y/L/N).” Bucky’s eyes rolled before he could stop them.

“We start just as soon as I negotiate a select few terms with the prosecution. I need you to stay put for a minute or two.” You nodded at Bucky and smiled softly.

Your kindness didn’t irritate him as he’d hoped it would, it more disheartened him. He’d tried to deter you and had failed miserably, and now he was going to have another thing to feel guilty about after he destroys your life with his hell-past.

“Thanks, (Y/N).” Tony escorted you out the door and right before it shut he whispered rather harshly, “Get your shit together Barnes and be ready when she comes back. You’ve got a lot of work to do.” 

Bucky was now aware that there was a schedule to obey, there were now rules to play by, there was now going to be light shed on every nasty little thing he had done in the last 70 years.

And now the world was going to find out that the one person who believed most in the world that Bucky Barnes wasn’t worth salvation was the very man himself.

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