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lumilasi · 3 years

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I saw this in my feed and since I was pretty bored and FINALLY free from the said boredom, figured I could do this one. I generally enjoy question based tags, especially if they relate to art/writing/fandom/are some general things about favorite colors, music, foods, things about your home country etc.

(basically, you can tag me in stuff similar to listed above things and I’ll probably do them if I see them/have time lmao)

Fic Writer Questions!

How many works do you have on AO3?

44 total. I used to have more but I’ve deleted an old Bleach one I knew I’d never continue to write, and two bnha ones for the same reason (those two were also at the very beginning stages so nobody missed a lot anyway)

What's your total AO3 wordcount?

4 269 068......wow. It’s even MORE than I even imagined. Over 4 million words.

....Someone take my writing tools away from me lmao

How many fandoms have you written for and what are they?

Three. I started with MCU, moved on to Bleach and now I’ve done most ofr BNHA

What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

Crossroads - 3069

Family Secrets - 3015

Reanimate - 1534

The neighbor - 809

Espada and Fraccion - 782

.....Admittedly this list surprised me. Not the first three but the last two. The fifth is an one shot for Bleach that I wrote AGES ago. I also for some reason expected this list to match the bookmark list more lmao

Do you respond to comments, why or why not?

I always try to respond to every comment I get, but often times when it’s just one word or a heart emoji I don’t really know what to say, so I might not reply to those. I do appreciate every comment I get, and read every single one, even if I don’t respond

What's the fic you've written with the angstiest ending?

I don’t do angst endings typically, but Family Secrets is probs the most obvious choice, given what happens at the end.

- and its not even the real end, because I couldn’t help myself and made two more stories for the AU that was like “hey! this character I made you all love so much actually DIDN’T die, he just had unfinished business back home” lmao

Do you write crossovers? If so what is the craziest one you've ever written?

Rarely, typically they’re between my own fics (the story that crosses the paths of Crossroads and Family Secrets AU’s, literally titled Crossover, creative name I know OTL I was out of ideas)

Or between me and other people’s fics. Currently there’s two, both with Crossroads: one with Theteapotofdoom’s fic Something Good, and another with leontheneon’s fic Here with you. Both stories are basically a two part series that is non canon to actual Crossroads. The first story is finished, second one has two chapters left...that...I uh...struggle to write it seems OTL

(not tagging either person into this because Tea is very busy IRL right now so I don’t want to bother her, and Leon hasn’t been around in ages, IDK if they even use tumblr anymore)

Have you ever received hate on a fic?

Not really no? I can only remember one time with somebody kind of demanding me to completely rewrite one fic in the past. It wasn’t really hate, more just...kinda unreasonable in my eyes? This was years ago by now.

While I did understand their side and the particular struggle they had (once they actually explained it, the first comment at the time came off pretty rude and demanding), I still feel them wanting me to re-write an entire multi-chapter fic just for them is a bit unreasonable, like said.

Like it wasn’t just couple of grammatical errors that was their issue, we’re talking weeks and even months long process of completely reworking multi-chapter story, because the grammar wasn’t tip top perfect. (I’m not a native speaker so there’s bound to be some mistakes; pointing out small occasional things is one thing - asking me to rewrite an entire multi-chapter story is another)

You can imagine that is not exactly high on my priorities list with IRL responsibilities and being more focused on the actual content of what I write, the ongoing stories I’m updating. This fic isn’t even finished yet either, so...yeah. Like after they explained their side of the story I was a bit more understanding, but its still....a bit ridiculous and unreasonable in my eyes to ask somebody to do such a massive overhaul when the story isn’t even finished yet?? Like maybe once its done and I have time I can go and edit it, but not when I haven’t even finished it lmao

Do you write smut? If so what kind?

Nah. I don’t care about smut a whole lot personally. I much more enjoy writing emotional scenes, character interactions and mystery. Plot over porn basically lmao

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

I don’t...do people actually do this? It feels like such a weird and pointless thing to do. It’s fanfic. stuff you write for fun and for free, for people to read for free. I’d also imagine its pretty easy to get caught given AO3 shows when you first posted your story.

Have you ever had a fic translated?

Yes, a couple of times. In Russian and I think other one was Chinese?

Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Writing the crossovers was kinda that? Like I asked feedback from Tea and Leon on how to write them. there was also actually third crossover story that was supposed to happen (only I wasn’t going to be the one to write it) but this project has been shelved as the other person had to drop majority of online activity due to some IRL health related things. (I’m just glad they recently contacted me to inform they were doing better)

What’s your all time favorite ship?

Right now it’s..probably pretty obvious its Shigadabi, but I can never really say any ship is my all time fave, as it always changes depending on the fandom lmao.

I guess my favorite character x proper sleep/emotional stability/happiness will always be the OTP

What’s a WIP that you want to finish but don’t think you ever will?

Oof. I always try to finish every single one, and if I absolutely know I won’t, I tend to just delete them. Thankfully I’ve only done it thrice. Which I guess is still a lot, but compared to how much I write, in context not really?

What are your writing strengths?

From what I’ve gathered of feedback, its typically emotional moments/character dialogue and interaction/character arcs and so. Mystery plots too. Or maybe that last one is just me lmao

What are your writing weakness?

Personally, while I tend to get positive feedback on both, sometimes I feel like I struggle to choose a good pacing for a fic, and fight scenes are always a pain. Namely, I might struggle with making the pace too long-winded and slow sometimes. Ironically, my IRL update pacing is probs a bit too fast in turn. (To add another layer of irony, I got an update ready for Unravel that I’ll post after making this tag)

Also writing shorter stories. I’ve been trying to write one-shots more (like the Spinaraki series thing) to kinda try and get myself to pack up my stories better and not let them always spiral out of control haha

What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

I did try to do that once with a fic I deleted, I had a native speaker help me with the canadian french bits. This person is no longer active on tumblr, and I deleted that fic because I realized I’d never finish it.

Technically tho, as a non-native English speaker, EVERY word is in other language to me lmao. I could only add Finnish as an extra one easily, and it rarely makes sense to do so anyway.

What was the first fandom you ever wrote for?

MCU. It’s what I originally made my AO3 for, as I felt brave enough to post things. I also can’t remember writing fandom related stuff before that, it was typically more oc related. Writing fics has helped me learn a lot about world-building, character consistency and all that stuff, without having to make everything from scratch (tho I do enjoy doing that as well of course). I feel like my original work writing has improved too thanks to my fic writing shenanigans in a way lmao. Tho that might just be me, IDK

What’s your favorite fic you’ve written?

Oooof. This changes a lot depending on the time. I can never really pick just one either: my current favorites are Stringmaster, The neighbor and Family Secrets

Stringmaster because I love building the Steampunk AU, and Tomura’s relationship with Dabi and his Sensei, The neighbor because I personally think the romance build up in that one is probably one of the best I’ve done so far (the character dialogue in that is among my favorites I’ve written as well) and FS, because it taught me a lot about character building through writing a character like Hisashi.

Plus I just really like Hisashi.

And baby Izuku and little Tenko are super adorable.

And Inko is the best mum.

Also the fact the whole story is so ironic in a sense its still kinda funny to me.

The only writer I know that might be around rn is @nightlilly0110 soo...I guess I’ll tag them if they want to do this! Anybody who’s a writer can snatch this too of course ;)

#tag game #writer tag #fic writing

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montosmadman · 3 years

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I was tagged by @soy-celeste ages ago. This was hard but also super rewarding because I really got to take a deep dive in the murky depths of my own music library. Thanks for thinking of me, Cata💕

Task: choose TEN SONGS that describe your personal aesthetic / how you see yourself. Bonus points if you write a little explanation for each song, that‘s not a must though.

List under a read more because it turned out really long and includes some very personal and possibly triggering mental health stuff.

I'm tagging @capitanogiorgio @hendos @furiousflamewolf @checoswin and @diegoalvesisgod

1. Nakashima Mika - 僕が死のうと思ったのは

The title loosely translates to "The reason I thought I'd die" or "The time I thought I'd die". Yes, I went there right off the bat.

Let's get something straight: I'm not suicidal. I have never been actively suicidal, despite struggling with depression and anxiety most of my teenage/adult life. However, what this song captures for me is the feeling when you're not actively thinking about killing yourself, but you do have this empty feeling when you think there's no point for you being alive. And that's something I'm very familiar with.

There are a couple lines I wanna highlight, even though the whole song hits me very hard whenever I listen to it:

その木漏れ日でうたた寝したら、虫の死骸と土になれるかな

If I lie down beneath the sunlight streaming through the trees, will I become like the dirt and insect remains?

あなたのような人が生きてる世界に少し期待するよ

If people like you are living in this world, then maybe it’s alright to hope a little too.

The first line does what I talked about to above: it's the feeling when you just lie down and wonder if anything would change if you just disappeared. The second line -- last one of the song -- has more hope. It's when you find a reason to believe in the future and realize there is still a reason to live. Personally, I'm trying to hang very hard on that last thought even when the world seems to be against me.

(Full translation in a pinned comment under the Youtube video)

2. The Ark - Little Dysfunk You

No essay here. I just needed to have The Ark on the list because they're the official soundtrack of my life, the first band whose album I bought myself, and who taught me it was okay not to fit in. I even have a tattoo that says "a little dysfunk" because my best friend and I have been relating to this song long before either one of us realized we weren't neurotypical. It's the very dysfunctional ode to our friendship, and I love it.

3. Elton John - Rocket Man

I feel like this might be a universal experience growing up neurodiverse and/or an outsider. You spend years feeling like you're alone in space, on another planet, and you want to connect with people but at the same time know that once you come back, you still won't be the person others want or expect you to be. The challenge is to accept that and realize it's okay and you don't need to change yourself for others. And it really is hard when you're raised in a society where the odds are stacked against you.

4. Sanni - Jos mä oon oikee

Look, I'm giving you something in Finnish too!

Sanni is one of the Finnish artists whose breakthrough I originally missed because I was living abroad. I only properly discovered her a couple years after moving back, when I was driving a lot for my work and hence listening to the radio much more than I used to. Her songs just kept standing out from the rest: her lyrics had this amazing depth even when she was singing about mundane stuff -- like, she was finding these painful truths I hadn't ever spoken but felt very clearly.

That said, I had to choose the one song that's actually very upfront with this idea of being an outsider and not feeling like a part of this world. The title translates to "If I am real" and that pretty much sums it up. It's a song about feeling lonely in the middle of a crowded room, feeling like no one sees you or cares what you do. I personally have this habit of taking a step back and observing people rather than getting involved -- and even when I do, it rarely feels like it's really me out there, because I'm so used to masking and acting like everyone else just to fit in, you know?

I'll finish this off with my favourite verse, translated by yours truly. The last line especially hits home super hard no matter how many times I hear it.

Rautatieasema maanantaina ruuhkaisa Kaikilla tuntuu olevan kiire ja suunta Mä oon ulkopuolella vaik seison sisällä Jos oon jo kotona miten voi olla koti-ikävä

The railway station on Monday is crowded Everyone seems to be in a rush and have a direction I'm outside even though I'm standing inside How can I feel homesick when I'm already home

5. Shobha - Last Exit To Freedom

Full disclosure: Degrassi has been one of my comfort series for many, many years. When this song was first introduced in Next Class, it hit me really hard because it was woven into this whole storyline about depression and suicide, which at the time spoke to me a lot. I repeat, I have never been suicidal, but I do get the headspace that could drive people into it.

However, listening to it again now, it's mostly the message of hope that shines through to me. It's a song that can take two very different readings depending on what your own baggage is. And the series actually acknowledges that later on, which I think is not only beautiful but also extremely important.

There's empty places in my life and I need to breathe There's empty spaces on the map waiting there for me

I've never felt more free than when I actually drop my responsibilities and just go where I want to go. I need that space to breathe, and that's why it has always been such a relief when I could just pack up and start over in a new place. Some might call it running away from my troubles -- and they wouldn't be completely wrong -- but that doesn't change the fact that I've always valued my own freedom above any arbitrary societal norms.

6. Scandinavian Music Group - Näin minä vihellän matkallani

SMG is another one of those bands I grew up on and have seen live several times, so they needed to be here. This song is more on the "aesthetic" end of scale than how I see myself. In fact, I've many times hoped I could be like the narrator of this song. I'll give you a couple of verses to explain:

Kun minulta viedään kaikki Autan kantamaan Ja kun lopulta kaadun Teen sen näyttävästi

When everything's taken from me I'll help them carry it And when I finally fall I'll do it with a flair

Minä vihellän matkallani Näin minä vihellän matkallani Jos sen on oltava niin Olkoon sitten niin

I'm whistling on my journey See how I'm whistling on my journey If this is how things have to be Then so be it

It's this carefree attitude. Laughing in the face of hardship and controversy. There's another amazing line about getting back to the saddle after you fall and swearing you'd do it all over again. I've never been able to do that, because I carry all my old failures and pains so close to the surface, and could never just shake them off with a shrug, no matter how minor.

But on another level, I keep hearing from people who I thought knew me that I don't seem depressed. And who can blame them: on the outside, it probably looks like I bounce back from hardships really fast, because I'm so used to masking my issues that the moment I'm physically capable of doing it, I will. So you might say this song is a picture of my outer self, though it hardly mirrors what's really going on.

7. Queen - Don't Stop Me Now

I'm a firm believer that if my life was a teen movie, this is the song I'd have playing in the final scene where I'd just go "fuck that" and started dancing with @mirkwoodstock in the middle of the parking lot of something. It's my ultimate party anthem, the one that always has me dancing and singing along no matter where I am.

Back when we were at the university, Nanna and I used to go to this rock'n'roll club in town and they'd always play Don't Stop Me Now close to the end of the night, and it really became our song. Like, no matter how shitty I felt, when it came on, I'd be there, and so would she. And that's why it also deserves to be on the list.

8. Blind Channel - Died Enough For You

Throwing a rare newer song into the mix. The moment I heard this song, I knew I'd be listening to it a lot. There's also an acoustic version if you're not a fan of the genre or if you just wanna have a different perspective. Blind Channel is also representing Finland in Eurovision next week, and I'm living for it.

Advertising aside, Died Enough For You takes me to some really dark times in my life. I've been in relationships, both romantic and not, where I've been carrying the other person and giving so much of myself, risking my own mental health (which was not that good to begin with) and not getting much in return. There comes a point where you have to prioritize yourself and admit that dragging yourself into the same abyss is not going help anyone. Unfortunately, usually it takes more strength to admit that and leave than to stay in the relationship that's hurting you.

I'm still talking to some of these people, but I've learned to give myself a permission to sign off when I notice that by helping them I'm only hurting myself more. Someone else's wellbeing cannot be my responsibility when I'm struggling to keep myself afloat. And I truly hope everyone who is supporting me also knows that.

9. Aqua Timez - 真夜中のオーケストラ

Title translates to "Midnight Orchestra". Yes, it's from Naruto. I discovered it back when I was still more involved in anime fandom stuff, and fell for it again year ago when I binged the anime when to lockdowns started, because I needed an escape.

And what an escape it was. Have you ever heard a song and immediately went "I need a tattoo of this", or is that just me? I'm probably not going to get a tattoo because I don't trust non-Japanese artists to get the kanjis right, but the song still captures something very real about loneliness that's not really visible but still very much there. Like, the moment when you meet a person you can truly relate to and for the first time realize you'd been feeling lonely all that time. That's what this song describes to me.

Below are a few verses towards the end of the song. I've bolded the one that first caught my attention (and which I still have as the title of my Japan sideblog).

真夜中の詩が叫んだ「僕ほんとうは独りが　嫌いだ　大嫌いだ」独りぼっちで　生きてゆけてしまうなんてこと

The song of midnight cried out "I truly hate being alone more than anything" I hate to go on living completely alone…

幸せなんて　小さなスプーンで掬えるくらいで充分なんだ分け合える人がいるか　いないかだけ

All I need is being able to scoop happiness with a tiny spoon so long as I have someone to share it with

(Full translation)

真夜中の詩は叫ぶよ「僕ほんとうは　僕ほんとうは　淋しかった」太陽の眩しさに　かき消されても

The song of midnight cried out "I was truly, truly… lonely" Even if I were to be erased by the sun's radiance

10. Jenni Vartiainen (Apulanta) - Mato

This song, named "Worm", was originally released by Finnish rock band Apulanta in 1997. The lyrics, while they might make sense as individual statements, are basically gibberish when you combine them into one piece and try to understand the meaning. There is none. Anyways, the version I chose is a remake by another artist, first performed on the Finnish version of The Best Singers format. It doesn't make any more sense, I just like it better because Jenni is hot and she made it so much fun.

And the reason it's on this list? Welcome to my brain, folks! Sometimes, especially when I'm overwhelmed by lots of external stimuli, my mind tends to just wander wherever the hell it pleases and make connections even I don't get. It also likes to forget the stuff I said just a second a go, so I can switch subjects on the go without even noticing. It's very soothing to have music that doesn't require me to make those connections when that happens.

And now, I shall close this massive post with the first verse of this masterpiece:

Minä tahdon ulos, tahdon ulos kattilasta Minä tahdon pelastaa vielä sinutkin kiehumasta Minä tahdon lentää ulos vessan ikkunasta Minä tahdon tietää kaiken teidän karkkimaasta

I want out, I want out of this kettle I also want to save you from boiling I want to fly out of the toilet window I want to know everything about your candy land

Stay safe and take care of yourselves my dears💕

#tag meme #long post #music #neurodiversity #mental health #tw suicide #tw depression #tw mental health #tw toxic relationship

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neroushalvaus · 3 years

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Top 10 favourite characters from any fandom

I was tagged by @limalepakko , thank you! Since I have recently listed male characters here (or you know, in August, but we all know time hasn't been a thing for many moons), I took the liberty to list characters in general this time. I also went with which characters feel right at the moment, so does not show all my favourites. I also try to keep these short. (edit: okay so these are not remotely short, I will post a list first and have the explanations be under the cut, read if you want to hear my ramblings c': )

1. Fantine, Les Misérables 2. Javert / Jean Valjean, Les Misérables (yes i am cheating) 3. Carrie "Big Boo" Black, Orange Is the New Black 4. Jane Marple, Agatha Christie's Marple 5. Aunt Lydia, The Handmaid's Tale 6. Bridget Jones, Bridget Jones books & movies 7. Rock Lee, Naruto 8. Sarah O'Brien, Downton Abbey 9. Marilla Cuthbert, Anne of Green Gables / Anne with an E 10. Sister Monica Joan, Call the Midwife

1. Fantine, Les Misérables

I love Fantine with all my heart. I remember reading Les Mis for the first time and her story sending chills down my spine. Her character development makes me so sad, from a girl who falls hard and fast and won't deny anything from her lover, to a woman who is so beaten down by society that she can't do anything but laugh at her fate. But I love how she doesn't lose her pride or her fighting spirit and how she still has the guts to spit in Valjean's face when she sees him after being arrested. And I love how all she does is for her daughter and how despite selling "the gold on her head and the pearls in her mouth" she is content, because all that matters to her is that Cosette will live.

2. Javert & Jean Valjean, Les Misérables

I was really trying to limit this list to one character per fandom, but alas, I am but a weak little person. Thus, I am cheating already. The thing is that when it comes to Les Mis characters, Fantine, Javert and Valjean are the eternal top 3 for me, but I'm never quite able to say who I love the most. Last time I picked Javert for the male character meme because I love the symbolism and critique of society his character embodies, but let it be known that Jean Valjean is the best character in all of literature and I will fight you on this. The original soft on crime icon (aside from Jesus Christ but they're the same and you know it). Valjean's character journey is such a complicated one from an ordinary man (no worse than any man) to a person, who had been shaped by society and criminal justice system to be a very dangerous man, to someone you could compare to a saint if you wanted to... To an ordinary man, who would do anything for his daughter. He has so many character-defining moments, the biggest ones being in my opinion the trial of Champmathieu and letting Javert go instead of killing him. I just love Jean Valjean so much and could speak about him for hours.

3. Carrie "Big Boo" Black, Orange Is the New Black

Hopping away from the Les Mis hole and into a OITNB hole. I was debating on whether I'd put Boo or Pennsatucky on this list since I love them both so much, but I've been feeling so much love for my angry butch king that it had to be her. First of all, I'm just so happy to see butch lesbian representation where the butch identity is not just a joke. I know OITNB sometimes uses Boo questionably, but in general she is a nuanced character and one of the most interesting ones in the series in my opinion. I'm so sad they forgot all about her on the last seasons. I love everything about her, how she has trouble with feelings besides anger and often deflects serious stuff through humor, how fiercely protective she is of those she loves (boosatucky otp forever fucking fight me), how proud she is of her butch identity ("i refuse to be invisible")... Also, not to express attraction, but... Mama I'm in love with a criminal. And not to be a slut for how characters view religion/spirituality/God, but the relieved smile she has in one of her flashbacks when she says "there's no God... there's nothing", like you can't just do stuff like that and expect me not to love the character to bits.

4. Jane Marple, Agatha Christie's Marple

Last time I listed Poirot and was a bit frustrated I couldn't list Marple, but now it's time to right that wrong! I love this little old lady so much. I love Agatha Christie so much for just going "you know who is the person who knows everything that's going on in a community, and thus would make the perfect detective for a detective story? the nosy old woman". As she is introduced in The Murder at the Vicarage: "Miss Marple is a white-haired old lady with a gentle, appealing manner — Miss Weatherby is a mixture of vinegar and gush. Of the two Miss Marple is much more dangerous." She is so likable and witty, you can't help but love her. My favourite portrayal of her is by Geraldine McEwan, she looks so gentle but has such a sharp gaze. I would spill all my secrets to her any day. I also am compelled to tell you that when I was a child we had a costume party at my school and I dressed up as Marple and learned some old lady things in English (it was before third grade so I didn't know much English back then) just for the occasion (such as "thank you, my dear", "what a lovely necklace you are wearing" or "there has been a murder"). Teacher might have thought me rather morbid but I remember that day being quite good.

5. Aunt Lydia, The Handmaid's Tale

The Handmaid's Tale is such a great series and a book and Aunt Lydia is such a great character. The way she's capable of being absolutely cruel and vicious, but how she is also protective and caring in her own way. One of my favourite scenes in this series is when Serena Joy (my other favourite, can you tell) tells Lydia to "remove the damaged ones" from a line of handmaids and Lydia tries to argue with her. Sure, she is responsible for some of the punishments these women are now "damaged" by, but she truly believes those punishments were for a greater good and now the handmaids deserve their place with the others as much as anyone else. It is chilling and the character is such a dark shade of morally gray, but I can't get enough of it. The actress who plays her, Ann Dowd, has so interesting thoughts about her, like here. I just love this character so much I could scream.

6. Bridget Jones, Bridget Jones books & movies

I'm mostly talking about the movies here because Renée Zellweger's performance is iconic. Plus the movies are what made me love this character first. But I'll give it to the books, they're one of the few books I've laughed out loud while reading. Anyway, how do you even begin explaining the love I have for Bridget Jones... I love how she is a character so many people can relate but who would be a comic relief side character in some other story. Yes, yes, it is really bad that she is constantly described as fat when she really is not, but when I was growing up she gave me hope that people who are viewed as fat and/or unattractive by other people can be admired and appreciated, and they don't have to be super talented at everything and highly intelligent and some kind of a super smooth social butterfly to "make up" for what they "lack". And also that they can have standards (i once dodged a bullet by rejecting someone by pretty much subconsciously quoting Bridget Jones so..). I also love how the comedic tone of everything does not dismiss Bridget's feelings. For example in some other movie we maybe would concentrate on how "stupid" Bridget was to trust that Daniel was in love with her, but in Bridget Jones we concentrate on how Bridget was hurt by Daniel cheating on her, how he is the one who did wrong. Idk I just love Bridget Jones so very much can you tell.

7. Rock Lee, Naruto

Aka the boy who would have kicked Madara in the balls if Kishimoto had any sense of drama and good storytelling. I think I robbed Lee by not putting him on the fav male characters list. You know that post that goes like "gays be like 'these are my comfort characters', 1 literal ray of sunshine, 2 war criminal" etc? This child is the sunshine. I've been reading and watching Naruto again ( @hapanmaitogai is my sideblog for that nonsense) and I'm so ready to adopt Lee and/or Gai. Rock Lee is just such an earnest character, he has a goal he will give anything to achieve and he's the one true underdog in this manga. I love how he's so kind and polite (it's not so clear in English but in the Finnish translation he speaks as formally as he does in Japanese, he uses singular polite "you", calls Sakura "Sakura-neiti" = "Miss Sakura" etc... i love one polite boy). Also, he has the best fights in the series. Like Lee vs Gaara is a Classic, but we simply can't forget that time Lee absolutely crushed Sasuke in just a few minutes, or that time he politely asked Kimimaro not to kill him while he drinks his medicine. The best boy. I love that boy so much.

8. Sarah O'Brien, Downton Abbey

Last time it was Thomas' turn, so now I must talk about the snakiest snake, the queen of weaponized handmaidenry, Miss O'Brien. She is such a great character especially in the first two seasons (I obviously love her on season three as well but Julian Fellowes really tried to make it hard by not explaining her actions at all, didn't he. Well, luckily I am ready to stuff the gaps with my headcanons). She has some of the best comebacks in the series and brings some needed realism in some conversations. I also love how she uses her position as a lady's maid for her advantage and how she is proud of her profession despite being highly aware of the power structures in the Abbey. And then there is the soap. That is such a good character moment, because for a character who always plans ahead, who is ruthless and cunning and intelligent... I don't think O'Brien thought about the soap thing at all before she left the room ("Sarah O'Brien, this is not who you are" hit me like a train). Just once she did something with nothing but anger motivating her and that became one of the defining moments of her character. And one of the defining things of the future relationship between her and Cora. That's why I find the Sarah/Cora ship so interesting, because there will always be the undercurrent of bitter regret. Also Sarah O'Brien and Thomas Barrow are the greatest brotp and Fellowes was a coward for driving the smoking scheming gay best friends apart, and

9. Marilla Cuthbert, Anne of Green Gables / Anne with an E

I'm not saying L.M. Montgomery is entirely responsible for me having a fondness for strict, older women who first act unkind but have a heart of gold, but she most certainly did not help. Between characters like Marilla Cuthbert and Elizabeth Murray, how can you not fall in love with the type? It's been a while since I read the Anne series, but I really love how Marilla's character has been adapted into the Anne with an E tv series. Geraldine James looks like she was born to play her, she has me in tears so often. She has the ability to portray someone like Marilla, who is a very hard and stern person but feels deeply for her loved ones. I was watching the episode that dealt with Matthew's heart attack and Marilla berating her brother while hugging herself like she was trying so hard to hold herself together absolutely destroyed my heart.

10. Sister Monica Joan, Call the Midwife

It was a tough choice between her and Sister Evangelina. I just love these nuns very much. Sister Monica Joan is such a lovable and wise character. She is so knowledgeable of many subjects, from the Bible to astrology, and I feel like her unspecified memory problems and confusion are handled very tastefully. I also love how she's such an important part of her community despite not working as a midwife anymore. She is such a kind woman and gets visibly upset when others are treated poorly. And how could I not mention her saying "I do not believe in weeds. A weed is simply a flower that someone decides is in the wrong place", like... I love her so so much.

I won't tag anyone, but if you read this and you want to do this, consider yourself tagged and you're no allowed to mark me as the one who tagged you!

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quixotic-writer · 3 years

Text

The Impractical Gattosby: Chapter 1

~Oh???? My god???? This was fucking INCREDIBLE!!!! Thank you for this spectacular submission! I’m truly blown away! Please please PLEASE post this on AO3 or Wattpad because I want you properly credited with this work and I want so many others to read this!

In Murr’s younger and more vulnerable years his father gave him some advice that he’s been turning over in his mind ever since.

“James, whenever you feel like criticizing any one,” he told him, “just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.”

He didn’t say any more but they’ve always been unusually communicative in a reserved way, and he understood that he meant a great deal more than that. In consequence he is inclined to reserve all judgments, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to Murr and also made him the victim of not a few veteran bores. The abnormal mind is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal person, and so it came about that at college, Murr was unjustly accused of being a ferret, because he was privy to the secret griefs of wild, unknown men. Most of the confidences were unsought—frequently he has feigned sleep, preoccupation, or a hostile levity when Murr realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quivering on the horizon—for the intimate revelations of young men or at least the terms in which they express them are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions. Reserving judgments is a matter of infinite hope. He is still a little afraid of missing something if he forgot that, as his father snobbishly suggested, and Murr would snobbishly repeat, a sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out unequally at birth.

And, after boasting this way of his tolerance, Murr came to the admission that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded on the hard rock or the wet marshes but after a certain point he didn’t care what it’s founded on. When he came back from Staten Island last autumn he felt that he wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; he wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only Gattosby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from Murr’s reaction—Joe Gattosby who represented everything for which Murr has an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the “comedic genius"—it was an extraordinary gift for confidence, a type of shamelessness such as Murr has never found in any other person and which it is not likely he should ever find again. No—Gattosby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gattosby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out his interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men.

Murr’s family were prominent, well-to-do people in the northeast for three generations. The Murrays are something of a clan and they have a tradition that they’ve descended from Italian and Irish nobility, but the actual founder of his line was his grandfather’s brother who came here in fifty-one, sent a substitute to the Civil War and started the wholesale business that Murr’s father carries on today.

He never saw this great-uncle but he’s supposed to look like him—with special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting that hangs in Father’s office, sporting a shiny bald head. Murr graduated from Georgetown University in 1915, and after he decided to go to New York and learn the motion picture industry. Everybody he knew was in the motion picture industry so he supposed it could support one more single man. All his aunts and uncles talked it over as if they were choosing a prep-school for him and finally said, “Why—ye-es” with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance him for a year, using the funds that would have otherwise gone towards purchasing for him an automobile, and after various delays he went to New York, permanently, he thought, in the spring of twenty-two.

The practical thing was to find rooms in the city but it was a warm season and he had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that they take an apartment together in a commuting town it sounded like a great idea. He found the place, a weather beaten cardboard apartment at eighty a month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Los Angeles and he went out to the country alone. Murr had a dog, Penny, at least he had her for a few days until she ran away, and an old Dodge and a Finnish woman who made his bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove.

It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more recently arrived than Murr, stopped him on the road.

“How do you get to Staten Island?” he asked helplessly.

Murr told him. And as he walked on he was lonely no longer. Murr was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on him the freedom of the neighborhood.

And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees—just as things grow in fast movies—he had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer.

There was so much to read for one thing and so much fine health to be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air. Murr bought a dozen volumes on motion pictures and cameras and they stood on his shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint, promising to unfold the shining secrets that only Charlie Chaplin and Buster Keaton and Rudolph Valentino knew. And he had the high intention of reading many other books besides. He was rather literary in college—not only was he an English major, but one year Murr wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the “Georgetown News"—and now he was going to bring back all such things into his life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the "well-rounded man.” This isn’t just an epigram—life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all.

It was a matter of chance that he rented an apartment in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York and where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous boroughs, identical in contour and separated only by water, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western Hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Upper New York Bay.

Murr lived at Staten Island, the—well, the less fashionable of the two boroughs, though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little sinister contrast between them. His apartment was at the very tip of the island, only fifty yards from the Bay, and squeezed between two huge places that rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. The one on his right was a colossal affair by any standard—it was a factual imitation of some Hôtel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one side, spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy, and a marble swimming pool and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. It was Gattosby’s mansion. Or rather, as he didn’t know Mr. Joe Gattosby it was a mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name. His own apartment was an eye-sore, but it was a small eye-sore, and it had been overlooked, so he had a view of the water, a partial view of his neighbor’s lawn, and the consoling proximity of millionaires—all for eighty dollars a month.

Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable Brooklyn glittered along the water, and the history of the summer really begins on the evening he took the Staten Island Ferry there to have dinner with the Vulcano-Quinns. Sal Vulcano was his former brother-in-law from when Murr had married Sal’s sister for three days, and he’d known Brian “Q” Quinn in his Monsignor Farrell High School days.

Sal’s husband, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of the most powerful ends that ever worked for the Fire Department of New York—a national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savors of anti-climax. His family was enormously wealthy—even in college his freedom with money was a matter for reproach—but now he’d come to Brooklyn in a fashion that rather took one’s breath away: for instance he’d bought three cats named Benjamin, Brooklyn, and Chessie. It was hard to realize that a man in Murr’s own generation was wealthy enough to do that.

Why they came to New York, Murr doesn’t know. They had spent a year in France, for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move, said Sal over the telephone, but Murr didn’t believe it—he had no sight into Sal’s heart but he felt that Q would drift on forever seeking a little wistfully for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable fire to fight.

And so it happened that on a warm windy evening he rode the Staten Island Ferry over to Brooklyn to see two old friends whom he scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than Murr had expected, a cheerful red and white Georgian Colonial mansion overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran toward the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sun-dials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold, and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Brian Quinn was at the front porch.

He had changed since his Monsignor Farrell High years. Now he was a sturdy, dark-haired man of thirty with a rather magnificent beard and a supercilious manner. Two shining, arrogant hazel eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his newsboy cap and silk American-flag print scarf could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body.

His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were guys at high school who had hated his guts.

“Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” They were in the same Improv Club, and while they were never intimate Murr always had the impression that Q approved of him and wanted him to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own.

They talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch.

“I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly.

Turning me around by one arm he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep pungent roses and a snub-nosed motor boat that bumped the tide off shore.

“It belonged to Mrs. Calabash, my neighbor.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.”

They walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-colored space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding cake of the ceiling—and then rippled over the wine-colored rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea.

The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two men were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white and their clothes were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. Murr must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Q shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room and the curtains and the rugs and the two men ballooned slowly to the floor.

The younger of the two was a stranger to me. He was extended full length at his end of the divan, completely motionless and with his chin raised a little as if he were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If he saw me out of the corner of his eyes he gave no hint of it—indeed, Murr was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed him by coming in.

The other man, Sal, made an attempt to rise—he leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then he laughed, a loud boisterous laugh that soon had him falling to the floor, and he laughed too and came forward into the room.

“Oh my gawd, I’m p-paralyzed with happiness.”

He got up to only laugh and almost fell to the floor once again, as if he said something very witty, and held his hand for a moment, looking up into Murr’s face, promising that there was no one in the world he so much wanted to see. That was a way he had. Sal hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing man was Jost. (Murr has heard it said that Sal’s murmur was only to make people lean toward him; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.)

At any rate Casey Jost’s lips fluttered, he nodded at Murr almost imperceptibly and then quickly tipped his head back again—the object he was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given him something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to Murr’s lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from him.

Murr looked back at his former brother-in-law who began to ask him questions in his low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. His face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright green eyes and a bright passionate mouth—but there was an excitement in his voice that men who had cared for him found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that he had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour.

#submission #suki speaks #and also the submission name was F. Thot Fitzgerald which SENT ME INTO ORBIT I LOVED EVERY BIT OF THIS #anon

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galaxierowls · 3 years

Note

The Great Gatsby

F. Scott Fitzgerald

Then wear the gold hat, if that will move her;

If you can bounce high, bounce for her too,

Till she cry "Lover, gold-hatted, high-bouncing lover,

I must have you!"

—THOMAS PARKE D'INVILLIERS

Chapter 1

In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I've been turning over in my mind ever since.

"Whenever you feel like criticizing any one," he told me, "just remember that all the people in this world haven't had the advantages that you've had."

He didn't say any more but we've always been unusually communicative in a reserved way, and I understood that he meant a great deal more than that. In consequence I'm inclined to reserve all judgments, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores. The abnormal mind is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal person, and so it came about that in college I was unjustly accused of being a politician, because I was privy to the secret griefs of wild, unknown men. Most of the confidences were unsought—frequently I have feigned sleep, preoccupation, or a hostile levity when I realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quivering on the horizon—for the intimate revelations of young men or at least the terms in which they express them are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions. Reserving judgments is a matter of infinite hope. I am still a little afraid of missing something if I forget that, as my father snobbishly suggested, and I snobbishly repeat, a sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out unequally at birth.

And, after boasting this way of my tolerance, I come to the admission that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded on the hard rock or the wet marshes but after a certain point I don't care what it's founded on. When I came back from the East last autumn I felt that I wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction—Gatsby who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the "creative temperament"—it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again. No—Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men.

My family have been prominent, well-to-do people in this middle-western city for three generations. The Carraways are something of a clan and we have a tradition that we're descended from the Dukes of Buccleuch, but the actual founder of my line was my grandfather's brother who came here in fifty-one, sent a substitute to the Civil War and started the wholesale hardware business that my father carries on today.

I never saw this great-uncle but I'm supposed to look like him—with special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting that hangs in Father's office. I graduated from New Haven in 1915, just a quarter of a century after my father, and a little later I participated in that delayed Teutonic migration known as the Great War. I enjoyed the counter-raid so thoroughly that I came back restless. Instead of being the warm center of the world the middle-west now seemed like the ragged edge of the universe—so I decided to go east and learn the bond business. Everybody I knew was in the bond business so I supposed it could support one more single man. All my aunts and uncles talked it over as if they were choosing a prep-school for me and finally said, "Why—ye-es" with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance me for a year and after various delays I came east, permanently, I thought, in the spring of twenty-two.

The practical thing was to find rooms in the city but it was a warm season and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house together in a commuting town it sounded like a great idea. He found the house, a weather beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington and I went out to the country alone. I had a dog, at least I had him for a few days until he ran away, and an old Dodge and a Finnish woman who made my bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove.

It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road.

"How do you get to West Egg village?" he asked helplessly.

I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on me the freedom of the neighborhood.

And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees—just as things grow in fast movies—I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer.

There was so much to read for one thing and so much fine health to be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air. I bought a dozen volumes on banking and credit and investment securities and they stood on my shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint, promising to unfold the shining secrets that only Midas and Morgan and Maecenas knew. And I had the high intention of reading many other books besides. I was rather literary in college—one year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the "Yale News"—and now I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the "well-rounded man." This isn't just an epigram—life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all.

It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York and where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western Hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound. They are not perfect ovals—like the egg in the Columbus story they are both crushed flat at the contact end—but their physical resemblance must be a source of perpetual confusion to the gulls that fly overhead. To the wingless a more arresting phenomenon is their dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size.

I lived at West Egg, the—well, the less fashionable of the two, though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little sinister contrast between them. My house was at the very tip of the egg, only fifty yards from the Sound, and squeezed between two huge places that rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. The one on my right was a colossal affair by any standard—it was a factual imitation of some Hôtel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one side, spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy, and a marble swimming pool and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. It was Gatsby's mansion. Or rather, as I didn't know Mr. Gatsby it was a mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name. My own house was an eye-sore, but it was a small eye-sore, and it had been overlooked, so I had a view of the water, a partial view of my neighbor's lawn, and the consoling proximity of millionaires—all for eighty dollars a month.

Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable East Egg glittered along the water, and the history of the summer really begins on the evening I drove over there to have dinner with the Tom Buchanans. Daisy was my second cousin once removed and I'd known Tom in college. And just after the war I spent two days with them in Chicago.

Her husband, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of the most powerful ends that ever played football at New Haven—a national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savors of anti-climax. His family were enormously wealthy—even in college his freedom with money was a matter for reproach—but now he'd left Chicago and come east in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for instance he'd brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest. It was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that.

Why they came east I don't know. They had spent a year in France, for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn't believe it—I had no sight into Daisy's heart but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking a little wistfully for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game.

And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red and white Georgian Colonial mansion overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran toward the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sun-dials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold, and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch.

He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy, straw haired man of thirty with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining, arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body.

"Now, don't think my opinion on these matters is final," he seemed to say, "just because I'm stronger and more of a man than you are." We were in the same Senior Society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own.

We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch.

"I've got a nice place here," he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly.

"It belonged to Demaine the oil man." He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. "We'll go inside."

We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-colored space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding cake of the ceiling—and then rippled over the wine-colored rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea.

The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor.

The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless and with her chin raised a little as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in.

The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room.

"I'm p-paralyzed with happiness."

She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I've heard it said that Daisy's murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.)

At any rate Miss Baker's lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me.

I looked back at my cousin who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth—but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered "Listen," a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour.

I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way east and how a dozen people had sent their love through me.

"Do they miss me?" she cried ecstatically.

"The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath and there's a persistent wail all night along the North Shore."

"How gorgeous! Let's go back, Tom. Tomorrow!" Then she added irrelevantly, "You ought to see the baby."

"I'd like to."

"She's asleep. She's two years old. Haven't you ever seen her?"

"Never."

"Well, you ought to see her. She's—"

Tom Buchanan who had been hovering restlessly about the room stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder.

"What you doing, Nick?"

"I'm a bond man."

"Who with?"

I told him.

"Never heard of them," he remarked decisively.

This annoyed me.

"You will," I answered shortly. "You will if you stay in the East."

"Oh, I'll stay in the East, don't you worry," he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. "I'd be a God Damned fool to live anywhere else."

At this point Miss Baker said "Absolutely!" with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room.

"I'm stiff," she complained, "I've been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember."

"Don't look at me," Daisy retorted. "I've been trying to get you to New York all afternoon."

"No, thanks," said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry, "I'm absolutely in training."

Her host looked at her incredulously.

"You are!" He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. "How you ever get anything done is beyond me."

I looked at Miss Baker wondering what it was she "got done." I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before.

"You live in West Egg," she remarked contemptuously. "I know somebody there."

"I don't know a single—"

"You must know Gatsby."

"Gatsby?" demanded Daisy. "What Gatsby?"

Before I could reply that he was my neighbor dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square.

Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips the two young women preceded us out onto a rosy-colored porch open toward the sunset where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind.

"Why candles?" objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. "In two weeks it'll be the longest day in the year." She looked at us all radiantly. "Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it."

"We ought to plan something," yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed.

"All right," said Daisy. "What'll we plan?" She turned to me helplessly. "What do people plan?"

Before I could answer her eyes fastened with an awed expression on her little finger.

"Look!" she complained. "I hurt it."

We all looked—the knuckle was black and blue.

"You did it, Tom," she said accusingly. "I know you didn't mean to but you did do it. That's what I get for marrying a brute of a man, a great big hulking physical specimen of a—"

"I hate that word hulking," objected Tom crossly, "even in kidding."

"Hulking," insisted Daisy.

Sometimes she and Miss Baker talked at once, unobtrusively and with a bantering inconsequence that was never quite chatter, that was as cool as their white dresses and their impersonal eyes in the absence of all desire. They were here—and they accepted Tom and me, making only a polite pleasant effort to entertain or to be entertained. They knew that presently dinner would be over and a little later the evening too would be over and casually put away. It was sharply different from the West where an evening was hurried from phase to phase toward its close in a continually disappointed anticipation or else in sheer nervous dread of the moment itself.

"You make me feel uncivilized, Daisy," I confessed on my second glass of corky but rather impressive claret. "Can't you talk about crops or something?"

I meant nothing in particular by this remark but it was taken up in an unexpected way.

"Civilization's going to pieces," broke out Tom violently. "I've gotten to be a terrible pessimist about things. Have you read 'The Rise of the Coloured Empires' by this man Goddard?"

"Why, no," I answered, rather surprised by his tone.

"Well, it's a fine book, and everybody ought to read it. The idea is if we don't look out the white race will be—will be utterly submerged. It's all scientific stuff; it's been proved."

"Tom's getting very profound," said Daisy with an expression of unthoughtful sadness. "He reads deep books with long words in them. What was that word we—"

"Well, these books are all scientific," insisted Tom, glancing at her impatiently. "This fellow has worked out the whole thing. It's up to us who are the dominant race to watch out or these other races will have control of things."

"We've got to beat them down," whispered Daisy, winking ferociously toward the fervent sun.

"You ought to live in California—" began Miss Baker but Tom interrupted her by shifting heavily in his chair.

"This idea is that we're Nordics. I am, and you are and you are and—" After an infinitesimal hesitation he included Daisy with a slight nod and she winked at me again. "—and we've produced all the things that go to make civilization—oh, science and art and all that. Do you see?"

There was something pathetic in his concentration as if his complacency, more acute than of old, was not enough to him any more. When, almost immediately, the telephone rang inside and the butler left the porch Daisy seized upon the momentary interruption and leaned toward me.

"I'll tell you a family secret," she whispered enthusiastically. "It's about the butler's nose. Do you want to hear about the butler's nose?"

"That's why I came over tonight."

"Well, he wasn't always a butler; he used to be the silver polisher for some people in New York that had a silver service for two hundred people. He had to polish it from morning till night until finally it began to affect his nose—"

"Things went from bad to worse," suggested Miss Baker.

"Yes. Things went from bad to worse until finally he had to give up his position."

For a moment the last sunshine fell with romantic affection upon her glowing face; her voice compelled me forward breathlessly as I listened—then the glow faded, each light deserting her with lingering regret like children leaving a pleasant street at dusk.

The butler came back and murmured something close to Tom's ear whereupon Tom frowned, pushed back his chair and without a word went inside. As if his absence quickened something within her Daisy leaned forward again, her voice glowing and singing.

"I love to see you at my table, Nick. You remind me of a—of a rose, an absolute rose. Doesn't he?" She turned to Miss Baker for confirmation. "An absolute rose?"

This was untrue. I am not even faintly like a rose. She was only extemporizing but a stirring warmth flowed from her as if her heart was trying to come out to you concealed in one of those breathless, thrilling words. Then suddenly she threw her napkin on the table and excused herself and went into the house.

Miss Baker and I exchanged a short glance consciously devoid of meaning. I was about to speak when she sat up alertly and said "Sh!" in a warning voice. A subdued impassioned murmur was audible in the room beyond and Miss Baker leaned forward, unashamed, trying to hear. The murmur trembled on the verge of coherence, sank down, mounted excitedly, and then ceased altogether.

"This Mr. Gatsby you spoke of is my neighbor—" I said.

"Don't talk. I want to hear what happens."

"Is something happening?" I inquired innocently.

"You mean to say you don't know?" said Miss Baker, honestly surprised. "I thought everybody knew."

"I don't."

"Why—" she said hesitantly, "Tom's got some woman in New York."

"Got some woman?" I repeated blankly.

Miss Baker nodded.

"She might have the decency not to telephone him at dinner-time. Don't you think?"

Almost before I had grasped her meaning there was the flutter of a dress and the crunch of leather boots and Tom and Daisy were back at the table.

"It couldn't be helped!" cried Daisy with tense gayety.

She sat down, glanced searchingly at Miss Baker and then at me and continued: "I looked outdoors for a minute and it's very romantic outdoors. There's a bird on the lawn that I think must be a nightingale come over on the Cunard or White Star Line. He's singing away—" her voice sang "—It's romantic, isn't it, Tom?"

"Very romantic," he said, and then miserably to me: "If it's light enough after dinner I want to take you down to the stables."

The telephone rang inside, startlingly, and as Daisy shook her head decisively at Tom the subject of the stables, in fact all subjects, vanished into air. Among the broken fragments of the last five minutes at table I remember the candles being lit again, pointlessly, and I was conscious of wanting to look squarely at every one and yet to avoid all eyes. I couldn't guess what Daisy and Tom were thinking but I doubt if even Miss Baker who seemed to have mastered a certain hardy skepticism was able utterly to put this fifth guest's shrill metallic urgency out of mind. To a certain temperament the situation might have seemed intriguing—my own instinct was to telephone immediately for the police.

The horses, needless to say, were not mentioned again. Tom and Miss Baker, with several feet of twilight between them strolled back into the library, as if to a vigil beside a perfectly tangible body, while trying to look pleasantly interested and a little deaf I followed Daisy around a chain of connecting verandas to the porch in front. In its deep gloom we sat down side by side on a wicker settee.

Daisy took her face in her hands, as if feeling its lovely shape, and her eyes moved gradually out into the velvet dusk. I saw that turbulent emotions possessed her, so I asked what I thought would be some sedative questions about her little girl.

"We don't know each other very well, Nick," she said suddenly. "Even if we are cousins. You didn't come to my wedding."

"I wasn't back from the war."

"That's true." She hesitated. "Well, I've had a very bad time, Nick, and I'm pretty cynical about everything."

Evidently she had reason to be. I waited but she didn't say any more, and after a moment I returned rather feebly to the subject of her daughter.

"I suppose she talks, and—eats, and everything."

"Oh, yes." She looked at me absently. "Listen, Nick; let me tell you what I said when she was born. Would you like to hear?"

"Very much."

Thank you.

#she speaks #ria ur so funny

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ladywren7 · 4 years

Text

Hello!

Another infomation post

As you may or may not know, I mentioned the phrase "Helping my blog grow" on my last post (If you didn't see it, that's alright)

So! Now to talk about it

So I've been noticing for a while now that you all really like my incorrect quotes! And I am very happy about that!😁 My goal is to make people laugh and get more content out there for Rebels on Tumblr.

And I 1st just wanted to thank all of you for liking and rebloging my quotes! It means a lot because then other people get to see my content.

But about the reblogs....

Don't get me wrong, I love reblogs, feel free to reblog my content, but when you do, PLEASE tag them!

I've been noticing that some of the people who reblog my stuff don't give them tags! I need you to start tagging my things when you reblog them, PLEASE!!

Here is why:

I would appreciate it very much if you tag my posts when you reblog them because tagging them let's my blog grow.

When you reblog somthing and tag it, it goes to a page where all things that have the same hashtag go, and some tags may be more popular than others, but it is still important to use those too because when people search the hashtags, they see my posts!

And if they see my posts, I can make more people happy and more people will see more rebels (or whatever I may post) content

And I know some of you all may be tired and don't feel like tagging, but please, at least try to tag! It's very simple

All one has to do is go to the little hashtag in the bottom right corner, click on it, and all the tags I used will be there! Then you just click them one by one (which could be a very speedy process if you just keep tapping until it's done) and then put "Done" and you're finnished!

It's (in my opinion) not that very hard, so please, if you have the time, tag my posts when you reblog.

(Now idk if the automatic tags work on the computer but if it doesn't, please AT LEAST tag the character featured and the show)

And that's all for my ted talk, hope you enjoyed and (if you didn't already know how to do it) learned something.

Please tag

#tag #please tag my posts #reblog #incorrect quotes #please!!!#likes #posts #let my blog grow #blog #information #thank you #infomation post #hashtag

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starker-stories · 4 years

Text

An Accord (WIS), Chapter 10

Okay, let's try this again.

I posted this chapter Friday, like it was supposed to be, and then found an absolutely massive amount of serious mistakes. So I deleted it and spent the day fixing them.

So here's Chapter 10, take 2...

This fic is on a weekly update schedule. Every Friday.

Tumblr Chapter Links: ch1, ch2, ch3, ch4, ch5, ch6, ch7, ch8, ch9, ch10, ch11, ch12, ch13 AO3 Chapter Links: ch1, ch2, ch3, ch4, ch5, ch6, ch7, ch8, ch9, ch10, ch11, ch12, ch13

Tags: Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Spider-Man: Homecoming, Anal Sex, Oral Sex, Polyamory Negotiations, Polyamory, Cheating, Past Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Domestic Nightmare Tony Stark, Reconciliation, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, WinterIronSpider, Happy Ending, Clothed Sex, Domesticity, Peter Parker is legal age in the state of New York, College Student Peter Parker, Takes place about 2 years after Civil War. Closeted Character

Summary: “My boyfriends are super-villains,” Peter said giggling. “I’m the only pure innocent one in this place.” ——————————————————————————————

Chapter 10: Brooklyn

“I hate being the only person in this house that gets hungry,” Peter said, breaking their post-kiss snuggling session.

Bucky laughed. “I’ll cook.”

“Menus. By. The fridge. I am not waiting for one of Pretty’s delicious, but time consuming, Depression meals.”

Bucky climbed out of bed and started pulling his shirt on.

Tony shrugged. “If you want,” he said, climbing out of bed and not bothering to put his clothes back on. Bucky didn’t either.

Peter pulled his jeans on. “Not all of us are exhibitionists, Tony.”

“My body is a fuckin’ gift and you are blessed to see it,” he answered as he headed to the kitchen. To get the menus.

Bucky raced past him for the bedroom door, poking him in the stomach as he passed. “My body is a fuckin’ gift. You need to work out with me.”

“I’m going on fifty,” Tony defended.

“I’m in my second century. I’m cooking. I can only eat so much Asian food and pizza in a month.”

“Don’t let the teenager order dinner. He refuses to let any restaurant that doesn’t normally deliver make an exception for the billionaire in the house.”

“It’s not fair,” Peter argued, speeding past both of them using his spider abilities. He settled on the kitchen stool, waiting to see who would get to the kitchen next: Tony to the menu drawer or Bucky to the stove.

“You are depriving whatever poor waiter Molly sticks with bringing me dinner of a ridiculously huge tip,” Tony said, tossing the menu for Marea on the counter. “Touch that stove, Bucky, and I swear…”

Bucky picked up the menu. “So what’s Molly’s Place have to offer?”

Tony sputtered. “I’d tell Michael what you said, but I value my permanent reservation at his restaurant too much. It’s Marea and it’s the best restaurant in the city.”

Bucky looked at the menu. “Billionaire, right?” he asked, grinning.

“Leave me a few pennies in the bank account,” Tony said.

“Il branzino, il caulini e l'antipasto, il di manzo.”

Tony’s eyebrows headed for the ceiling.

“I’m fluent in Italian, Spanish, Catalan, French, German, Finnish, Hungarian, Romanian, Czech, Serbian, Russian, Chechen, Chinese, Korean, Vietnamese, and Arabic. Oh yeah, and English. All accentless except for English. Now that I’m me again, I can’t get the Brooklyn out of it.”

Tony hooked his arm around Bucky’s neck and kissed him. “I can live with the Brooklyn,” he said, happy that Bucky wouldn’t ever speak unaccented English again.

“And I was impressed by your Italian, French, Spanish, Russian, and Chinese!” Peter said.

Bucky shrugged. “He wasn’t involved in the overthrow of as many governments as I was.”

Peter burst out laughing, then caught himself. “I shouldn’t find that funny, huh?”

Tony chuckled. “Yeah, Pete. It’s fuckin’ hilarious.” He winked at Bucky. “Maybe not as many, but it’s a non-zero number.”

“You’re both awful!” Peter said, a smile still on his lips. “Wait. You didn’t,” he asked Tony, more seriously.

“Sometimes privatizing world peace is a less than honorable pursuit. And do you think the same people are running Afghanistan as were before my visit there? Not an official government on that one, but it counts.”

“Sorry. That mess was my fault,” Bucky said sheepishly.

“I’m sure he did a lot for Russia there, Pretty, but not arm the damn Taliban. That would be Howard and then me after your dead twin brother put me in charge. So yeah, Pretty,” Tony smiled, “a non-zero number.”

“My boyfriends are super-villains,” Peter said giggling. “I’m the only pure innocent one in this place.”

“Why do you think we keep you around,” Tony said.

“That’s why we keep you around,” Bucky said, almost in unison. They high-fived. And found their hands stuck together with webs.

“Where did you…” Tony said in shock.

Peter chuckled. “Bucky… how many guns do you have hidden in the penthouse?”

“A… lot,” Bucky said sheepishly.

“Tony,” Peter said in a sing-song. “How many of those bracelet thingys do you have laying around in case the micro-repeaters stop working?”

“Um… like he said.”

“Do you think I only have two webshooters?” Peter laughed.

“Get us out of this,” Tony said, irritatedly. “I have to call and order dinner.”

“I can do it.” Peter picked up a phone.

“I am not going to listen to you mangle the Italian language, kid. Get your super-villain boyfriends out of this. Or we’ll kidnap you and take you to our secret lair.”

“Wait,” Bucky said, “that sounds like fun.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” Tony grinned.

“Yeah. It does,” Peter chimed in. “When I’m not fuckin’ starving! Karen, hit them with the dissolving fluid.” He aimed his hand at Bucky and Tony’s joined wrists.

Tony’s left eyebrow questioned him.

“Tony… of course I can move Karen to my webshooters like you move FRIDAY to your glasses. If you want your proprietary tech to stay proprietary, stop letting FRIDAY do everything for you.”

“He’s…?” Bucky started, incredulously.

“A genius? Yeah. Gonna put me out of a job. Give me the goddamn phone.”

“Nope,” Bucky made a grab for it. “I am not gonna listen to you mangle the Italian language.”

Which led to a string of cursing in said language as Peter facepalmed. “I am never going to eat.”

~~~~~

“That wasn’t Italian,” Bucky said as they finished dinner.

“Of course it was. I mean I am fond of Gargulio’s for old times sake, but Marea’s better.”

“Not the food,” Bucky said, making a dive for the last of the desert.

Tony laughed. “Not exactly Italian. But you didn’t speak it when you went to Gargulio’s did you?”

“Italian? Fuck, I could maybe manage proper English.”

“You would’ve heard the difference. It’s Napoletano. Like your English can’t lose Brooklyn? My Italian can’t lose Naples because I learned it from my mom.”

“She was actually from Italy?” Bucky said, still hesitant to bring up the subject.

Tony nodded. “She came here to go to university. An unexpected me put an end to it.”

“I’m sorry,” Bucky said quietly, looking down.

“Why? Did you kill her?” Tony asked.

“Yeah.”

“You gotta stop taking credit for his bullshit, Pretty.” Tony reached out and brushed Bucky’s hair back then lifted his chin, turning his face to him. “When those words were said, were you you?”

“I did it.”

“Not what I asked. Before 1945, would you have done that?”

“Never.”

“You didn’t kill her, Bucky.”

Tears welled in Bucky’s eyes. His jaw clenched as he tried to keep them back. Tony ran the backs of his knuckles lightly across his temple and his tears fell.

Tony scooted his chair next to Bucky’s. “You didn’t kill her.” He leaned forward and pressed his forehead against the side of Bucky’s head. He closed his eyes and his own tears silently fell.

Peter watched the moment pass between them. Tony’s mom’s death was something that had weighed heavily on him his whole life. He was finally getting closure. How could he be jealous of that? They needed each other right then. Peter stood and both men looked at him. He walked around the table and put kisses on top of, first Tony’s, then Bucky’s heads. “Take Bucky to bed,” he said tenderly. “I’m gonna go study.”

“Baby,” Tony said, looking up. He pinched the bridge of his nose after sliding his fingers over his eyes to wipe the tears. “Do you mind?” he asked Peter quietly.

“Not even a little,” Peter said. “Take him to bed.” He paused and brushed his fingers through Bucky’s hair.

~~~~~

“C’mere, Pretty,” Tony said. Their tearful moment past, he felt playful. He turned Bucky and pushed his back gently against the closed door. He draped his arms around Bucky’s neck and chuckled. “Peter’s shorter than me.”

Bucky stood straighter.

Tony rolled his eyes. “Fine!” He pulled himself up on Bucky’s shoulders, stood on tiptoes, and kissed him.

“Not used to taller guys?” Bucky grinned.

“Not in awhile, no.”

“Problem?”

“You’re shorter than me laying down, Pretty,” Tony said with a smirk, standing flat on his feet. He dropped his voice to a whispered purr. “And when I’m on top of you.”

“Fuck,” Bucky said on a long breath.

“Problem?” Tony asked as he grabbed Bucky’s hands and led him to the bed. They rolled facing each other, Tony on his left side, Bucky on his right.

“I’m used to being the most charming, smug, and seductive one in the bedroom, that’s all,” Bucky said laughing.

Tony kissed the laugh off his lips. He brushed Bucky’s hair back. “I love that sound, Pretty.”

Bucky ducked his head, resting his forehead on Tony’s chest. Who was taller than him laying down. “You asked me something when we were all talking earlier.” He put a light kiss on the square inch of skin underneath his lips.

“Hmm? And?”

“Yes, I am.”

“I know, baby,” Tony said tenderly. He’d watched it happen, Bucky slowly fall in love. When he settled into it, it made Tony realize his own love. Feeling actual love for anyone was new, brought out by Peter. Feeling love for Bucky, just as deep but different and needing both, was entirely outside of his experience.

“Will Peter mind?”

“I’m pretty sure Peter already knows. He’s just scared because he’s younger.”

“You’re younger than me.”

“I mean, being an adult. He’s not, but he’s more than just a kid. I kinda toss an extra five years or so on him from the shit he’s been through.”

“About the same age I enlisted,” Bucky nodded. “That’s about how he feels.” He paused. “I love him, too.”

“I know that. And both of us love you. Not just because you give great head.”

“Tony,” he said in mock complaint.

“Most seductive and tallest,” he said, tilting Bucky’s face up for a kiss.

Bucky laughed. “And I thought you were tickling Peter when I heard you two laughi… Oh fuck… He can hear us!”

“Not yet, but I’m gonna fix that,” Tony purred. He ran his palm slowly down Bucky’s chest until he reached his waist. He stopped briefly at the button of his jeans before unfastening it.

It took some entirely unseductive wiggling around before they were both naked and in each other’s arms again. Bucky’s kisses were biting and hot. Tony’s were possessive and deep. Their hands clutched and pulled. It was very much closer, tighter, harder, now!

“I know you like riding me,” Tony said, struggling to catch his breath. “Do you like it on your back?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Bucky said, rather flatly.

“Not what I asked.” Tony rolled himself on top of Bucky. He reached his arms under Bucky’s shoulders and slid himself up along the man’s body. “Baby, that’s something you gotta get used to with me.”

“You talk too fuckin’ much during sex?”

“Okay, that’s two things you gotta get used to with me.”

“The leftovers of your fuckin’ Long Island accent make three?” Bucky grinned and bit again.

“All right, Brooklyn. Since you aren’t objecting…”

Tony found the lube under the pillow he always put it under and kissed Bucky through the awkwardness of doing so. One-handed he managed to squeeze enough of a dollop onto his hand to reach between them and stroke Bucky’s cock. He didn’t play, but directly went for things he’d discovered by rubbing him through his pants.

“Fuck,” Bucky panted, eyes wide at how fast he’d gotten so far.

Tony rubbed precome and lube over the head of Bucky’s cock. “Oh baby, that is… Fuck me, you’re gorgeous when you’re getting gone.”

“Getting? You’re gonna make me come.”

“I’m not gonna make you come before I’m ready to.” Tony took his hand off of Bucky’s cock, reached beneath his balls and slid his still-slick hand between his cheeks. The tip of his forefinger circled his rim and Bucky pushed down against it.

“Greedy,” Tony said, nipping his lip.

With only slightly less finesse than he’d done before — dammit! he and Peter were going to have to compare notes! — Tony coated his finger with lube and worked it inside of Bucky. “I’m not your fuckin’ child bride, Tony.”

“Ya ever think that I wanna do this because I…” Tony slipped another finger inside, “…like watching you?” He spread his fingers apart and slid his third in between them. “Fuck…” Tony moaned, watching the way Bucky moved when his fingers pressed up.

“What?” Bucky asked before he lost the ability to speak. From where he was lying… gasping… writhing… groaning… Tony wasn’t getting anything out of it.

“That, Pretty. That’s what I want. If I just want to get off, I can do that on my own.” Tony slid down a little which let his fingers push in deeper. They made Bucky gasp again. “This…” Tony breathed over his nipple before touching the tip of his tongue to it. Bucky’s breath caught. “…I only get with you.”

“From another person, you mean.”

Tony combined the movement of his fingers and the slow, wet drag of his lips across Bucky’s nipple. Bucky tried to move away from the overstimulation, but was held by Tony’s other hand on his shoulder. He could break free, easily, but he didn’t.

“I meant what I said, Bucky.” He dragged his open mouth down Bucky’s abs. The other man rolled his body up to meet his mouth. Kissing up the center of his body from his navel, Tony’s tongue swirled around the divot of his collarbone,

Bucky nearly came off the bed when Tony entered him. His back arched and Tony’s hands pulled him down, deeper onto his cock. He only thought about it after he’d cried out, but there was no way Peter didn’t hear that.

Tony pulled back with a long slow drag until he was almost entirely out of Bucky. Tony snapped his hips upward as he pushed hard and deep inside. Both hands on either side of Bucky’s head, his fingers tangled in his hair. He kissed him again, slow and soft, His thrusts were slow and long. He leaned up and whispered in Bucky’s ear. “I wanna learn you, Bucky.”

Bucky’s whimpers were nothing like Peter’s. Those were high, desperate, and pleading. Bucky’s broke into little short breaths, low and rising only at the very end. They started out demanding but Tony made them fall into begging.

Bucky groaned, his body broke out in a fine sweat, as Tony was managing to drive him fucking nuts with the way his thick cock scraped just the right way inside of him. Enough to get him hot but nothing more. Enough to make him need.

“Oh god!” Bucky cried out when Tony stopped playing and started fucking him hard. Not fast, but hard. He hadn’t realized that the two things could be separated. Bucky pushed down onto Tony’s cock. “Oh fuck Tony!” I didn’t…” His words were unintelligible. Broken on a rising moan. “That… could…” His attempt to make sense was lost to a loud cry. His cock dripped precome onto his belly.

“Around my waist now, baby,” Tony crooned and Bucky hooked his ankles across each other on Tony’s back. Tony stretched himself out over the taller man, pulling himself deeper as he slid up. Bucky’s heels dug in.

“Oh fuck, Pretty,” Tony moaned, his dark eyelashes fluttering. He snapped his hips sharply, seeking the depth that the new angle gave him. Tony reached up over Bucky’s right shoulder, and threaded his fingers into his long hair, holding his arm still, unable to move. But he said, “Hold me, baby.”

“Tony, no. I can hurt you.” Bucky realized that Tony meant for him to hold with his left arm.

He thrust in hard again. “Hold me, Bucky.” He kept Bucky’s right arm pinned with his elbow on the mattress under his arm, and Tony reaching up still into his hair.

Hesitantly, Bucky wrapped his left arm around Tony’s chest.

Tony kept a regular rhythm, deep and hard but not fast. He ached to go faster. Being inside Bucky was nothing like Peter. He knew Bucky could take it rougher. His body was used to responding to rougher. Tony hated knowing how that adaptation came about. He wasn’t going to blend himself into the body-memory that Bucky had of those times. So no matter how much his Pretty’s responses made him want to go faster, he stayed slow.

“Please…” Bucky moaned on a broken breath.

“Please what baby?”

“Faster. Please.”

“Mm hmm,” Tony purred as he dragged his lips, wet, open mouthed, across the stubble on Bucky’s sharply defined jaw. He went no faster.

“Tony,” Bucky drew out the name on a moan low in his throat.

“Mm hmm?” His thrusts were shallow, deep, and kept Bucky filled. The hand in Bucky’s hair lifted his head to where he could kiss him. It was Tony who bit, held Bucky’s lip in his teeth, and sucked. He nipped sharply and let go. As he did, the snap of his hips finally went faster. Tony felt the fingers of Bucky’s left hand dig into the muscle on his side. Then he heard the faint electromechanical whir of his arm’s strength being pulled back even as the man groaned, distracted with the pleasure of finally being fucked faster.

He released his hold on Bucky’s right arm and moved the man’s hand between them. He waited until Bucky wrapped it around his cock before he sucked his earlobe into his mouth. “Not yet,” he whispered.

Bucky’s eyes opened and he was about to say something when he saw Tony’s smirk. “Oh, fuck you,” he groaned.

Tony laughed softly. His words stuttered. “You can do it now… make yourself come… whenever you want. Or you can wait…” Tony’s smirk returned. “Gets better. Your… choice.”

“Fuckin’ hate you.” The whining moan Bucky made when Tony scraped his teeth along his neck and bit where it curved into his shoulder, proved his words a lie.

Bucky took his hand off of his cock entirely and out from between their bodies. He put it flat on the bed. “Now you have a lot to live up to,” Bucky said, Tony’s smirk transferring to his face.

Tony leaned back more on his knees and balanced his left arm near Bucky’s waist. “Gimme that hand,” he said, reaching behind himself, floundering around for Bucky’s left hand. He leaned forward, holding it by the wrist once he had it. He growled in Bucky’s ear. “I love you.”

Tony leaned back, pulling Bucky’s ass onto his haunches. When he rose up with his thighs, he fucked hard and deep. One hand was on his waist, urging him down to meet him. Bucky started pushing down to do that. Bucky was hot around him, the rocking movement and the man’s eagerness making him clench around Tony’s cock. Tony was groaning in pleasure, letting the powerful sensations distract him from the fear of what he was going to do. He took Bucky’s left hand and put it, flat palmed, on the center of his chest. The first test had been for Bucky. This one was for him. He was more deeply in love with Bucky than he wanted to admit. And Tony couldn’t love, not really love, without trust.

Bucky’s eyes went wide. He was going to object, but when he looked up at him; he saw Tony’s eyes tightly close. He watched as Tony pulled his lips into his mouth and bit them shut. He saw the wince of remembered pain and fear. He saw the struggle on the man’s face as the present warred with the past. He watched the two fight to reconcile. But Tony never moved Bucky’s hand away from the most vulnerable part of his body.

The man he’d betrayed so deeply, giving him that level of trust was unbelievable. “Oh Tony,” Bucky breathed out, overcome. He ground himself down on Tony’s cock, needing to be closer, and was rewarded with the man increasing his pace, pounding into him hard, but without anger or wanting to cause anything but pleasure. Bucky fell into babbling when Tony was at the height of his thrust and, more often than not, managed to hit his prostate. “Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck…”

Tony kept his eyes closed as his hand held the back of Bucky’s hand. Instead of the metal fingers curling around the edges of the arc reactor, trying to hurt him, Bucky touched with nothing but the flat of his palm. He moaned, raised himself up and held in deep, feeling Bucky surrounding him. Tony’s fear finally broke and he let go of Bucky’s hand.

He listened to Bucky panting, fast and shallow — catching, holding, shuddering, letting go. Small deep groans that ended on another caught breath. Bucky’s legs dropped from around his waist and he pushed up with his feet on the mattress, adding his force that of Tony’s as they fucked. Tony pushed himself deeper, ground their hips together, filling Bucky with his entire length. He opened his eyes and looked down.

“Oh Pretty,” he moaned at the sight.

Tony lost himself in those blue eyes, dark with desire, eyelashes fluttering until his eyes closed. Bucky’s lips parted with his ragged breathing — full and swollen, flushed bright pink, wet and shining.

Bucky’s scream was low and loud. His eyes flew open as, untouched, his orgasm tore through him.

“That’s it, Bucky. Come for me, baby. Oh god… oh fuck!”

Tony groaned as his breath held. Both breath and release escaped at the same time. As he shuddered as he came and fell atop Bucky. He draped his arms over his shoulders, under his neck, and held on as the quakes passed through him.

Bucky wrapped his arms around Tony’s chest. They held each other as gasps settled into slow panting and then as their breaths evened out. Yet once they had, they still didn’t let go.

Tony took Bucky’s face in both his hands and kissed him tenderly. He saw the wetness on Bucky’s cheeks and felt it on his own. “You are in control of you, Bucky.” He kissed him again. “You did not kill my mom,” he said quietly

“How did you know I wouldn’t…” He looked down the space between them at Tony’s chest.

“I just knew,” Tony said, brushing the long, sweat damp strands from Bucky’s face.

“I could’ve killed you.”

“Uh huh.” He paused for another kiss. “So can Peter. But, Bucky, look,” Tony said, rolling onto his side. He took Bucky’s left hand and pressed his fingertips onto his side where he had grabbed him while they were fucking. “Are there any bruises?”

“No, but I didn’t try to hold you hard.”

“Yeah, you did. You didn’t hear it. You were too focused on something else,” he said with an over-confident smile. “But I heard it. I heard you pull it back. The way I can feel Peter doing the same thing.”

“I’ve torn the shit out of beds before. I could’ve hurt you.”

“And Peter breaks headboards and walls and shreds my sheets,” Tony said with a shrug.

“You’re crazy.”

Tony chuckled. “Maybe. I just have a fetish for guys who can break me into little pieces — and don’t.” Definitely a fetish. Definitely a power rush of truly epic proportions.

“You made me come even after I stopped touching myself,” Bucky said smiling.

“He does that,” Peter said, coming into the bedroom. “A lot.”

“You give me too much credit, babe,” Tony said smiling as he noticed that Peter was carrying his clothes instead of wearing them.

“I have a feeling he doesn’t.” Bucky, who was still on his back, more or less in the center of the bed, held his left arm open wide for Peter.

Peter crawled onto the bed and over to where Bucky was and settled in his open arm. Though he pulled part of a pillow under his head. Resting it directly on hard metal wasn’t exactly comfortable.

“God that was hot. I came so hard,” Peter said as he kissed Bucky’s chest. He ran his finger through the mess on his stomach. Looking first at Tony, then up at Bucky, he put his finger in his mouth, sucked it, and smiled.

Tony reached for the towel he kept under the same pillow as the lube. He wiped Bucky’s stomach clean. Both he and Bucky chuckled and shared a glance before turning to accuse Peter. “You were sitting outside the door, jerking off to us,” he said.

“Not through all of it.” He curled up closer to Bucky, tangling their legs together. “I did get my studying done. Fast,” Peter added with a grin. “It was so different only listening. Having to use my imagination to see.” He slid his arm across Bucky’s waist. “Bucky gets to be in the middle tonight. How do you like to sleep? Side, back, stomach?” Peter asked, looking up at him. “We used to sleep spooned,” he began, not saying who the other one of the ‘we’ was. Steve, obviously. “But on my back is more comfortable.” He hesitated. “Body habit.” “On your back then,” Tony said. He’d seen the container tubes in Siberia that Bucky would’ve been put in, to sleep on his back. “Until your body decides on another habit,” he added with another little kiss to Bucky’s shoulder.

He balled up a pillow under his head and stretched out along Bucky’s side. Tony reached across Bucky’s stomach to hold Peter’s hand. Bucky’s right hand slipped up from between his side and Tony’s front, to join them.

#Starker #WinterIronSpider #WIS An Accord #Von writes stuff

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morkofday · 3 years

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fic tag game

thank you so much for tagging me @i-am-just-a-kiddo ♥ i love rambling about my fics and my writing even if it always also brings up all the doubts and insecurities i have but. these are my children so i will show them some love :’) and it is always just wonderful to share this all with you my dear ♥

placing under cut bc i do ramble, as yall know to expect by now!

Name: VishCount i’ve already explained the origin of that name a couple of times so am sparing you from that but gotta just say that i never expected to get so fond of this username and the nicknames that followed ♥

Fandoms: wow ok so buckle up, this is gonna be a ride first i gotta mention the finnish fandom for this youtuber group called LaeppaVika. i adored them as a teenager and i still watch the videos sometimes :’) couple of the members still stream stuff even if the group has pretty much fallen apart by now and am just very fond every time. they feel like home in a way. those fics were my first ones and am still kinda proud of some of those?

then there’s this one random finnish utapri fic i once wrote... tbh i’m not sure why my anime fandoms never made me write anything? maybe it was the inexperience and the fear of using a second language lol

after i got over that and got into BTS, i’ve written a ton for them. most of those are oneshots that vary from 1k words to 10k or something. a couple of longer ones have sprouted too and one is still in the making and i have sooooo many ideas. mostly just random aus. i adore to write those.

lately MDZS has been my favored fandom and it has gotten some oneshots too as well as my gigantic xicheng fic that hangs somewhere well above 100k now. i wish to finish the last part for that soon but who knows, maybe it will take longer than expected sigh. and now DMBJ has pushed in as something that yells at me to write tho i’ve only posted a short oneshot for it for now. and oh, last year i also posted a couple of silly oneshots for 2moons! that was... weird tbh but am glad i did that.

i wish i had more fandoms tbh bc there is so much interesting stuff there and i have so many ideas and inspirations but i’m very slow at writing. things don’t always just come out and some fandoms don’t grasp me for long enough that i would be able to tap into any projects. but i have no hurry, right?

Tropes: hmm do i have any? am not sure. i thought that maybe soulmate aus or some abo stuff was my thing but i’ve slowly drifted away from those. then it comes to just... idk. hurt/comfort? found families? i also adore slow burn these days and i feel like i’ve gotten a bit better at writing that but it’s still a struggle. also just, as already noted, all these different aus? mostly fantasy based ones. those are always so cool and somehow very whimsical? and lately i’ve also just fallen into this hole where i love to write some bittersweet tragedies or at least stuff that feels like a tragedy in some sense (and i blame my dear kiddo for that bc they’ve written the sweetest of tragedies and i want that too ok)

Fic I spent most time on: how do you count this? do wips count? bc if they do, then I feel like my xicheng fic called you’re the sunset and i’m the last purple left behind is it. it just keeps on going and i feel like i’ve given it all of my waking hours and heart and soul. then it could also be my BTS abo fic My Lungs for You to Breathe that is slowly reaching its second year? am not sure. but it has been going for ages bc sometimes it comes and sometimes it goes and currently i’ve spent over six months without updating it and. yeah. (it would be nice to mention some fic here that i’ve made some research for but tbh i never do any research. am horrible like that but i’ve never just. had the energy? tho i have hopes that i could go on this wild research spree for this one guardian idea i have but let’s see...)

Favorite fic(s) you’ve written: (making a list bc am unable to choose, fight me)

and you remain - my pingxie oneshot that just helped me to get all of the feelings i had after tlt2 pour out. am very fond of it destiny tied us together - some introspection of lwj and jc’s relationship and how it changes throughout the years as they both mature, learn things about themselves, fall in love and realize that they share the same ppl in their hearts (and maybe develop a tentative friendship bc they’re so similar in so many ways). i had so much fun with this and it just felt like my brightest moment haha painting your skin with all of me - the xicheng soulmate oneshot i wrote at some point and still adore. it just seemed to work and in the middle of my xicheng struggles writing them so briefly and gently just felt right pouring love (growing flowers) - the ot7 oneshot i wrote bc of this one amazing twt prompt/moodboard. it was the last part of my mono series. i love it so much. joon was so nice to write throughout the whole thing ;; lilies bloomed under your carpet - my god au for taejoon. it poured out of me so wonderfully and it was so amazing. still one of my favorite creations, this whole au. Stories Untold / chapter 3 - this was a collection of taejoon oneshots that i was trying to make but am not sure if i will ever finish them all. but this one, where tae is a forest god and joon a human able to see supernatural things, is very dear to me bc it just feels complete

Fic I spent least time on: gosh i think it must be either my first wangxian oneshot we had it almost or my touch-starved joon oneshot show me my skin and touch my heart with very soft and lovely taejoon. both created themselves in a couple of hours?

Longest fic: currently my xicheng monster but i somehow expect my bts abo fic to get even longer if i ever manage to finish it

Shortest fic: it’s apparently my namseok fic for joon’s tokyo called missing you (i’m homesick). it created itself out of my own experiences of living in a long distance relationship and is one of my faves in that series.

Most hits/kudos/comments/bookmarks: most hits and comments go for my bts abo fic which doesn’t really surprise me when it’s a multichapter fic :’D most kudos go for the already mentioned xicheng oneshot and most bookmarks go for the bts ot7 fic!

Fic you want to rewrite/expand on: hmm if i could rewrite something, it would probably be my first bts fic and my second long fic called Even the Universe Makes Mistakes. that soulmate au now feels a bit outdated and there are many parts i would like to change and things i would love to think again. then if i was allowed to expand some world, i would love to write more for the xicheng soulmate au bc there are many other pairings i would love to explore there too or just to see lxc’s take on the events perhaps. other thing would be my namgi oneshot it passes (for us both) bc i adore namgi and the love they create in that brief moment.

Share a bit of a WIP: it hasn’t been long since i shared snippets of several wips but let’s go with my pingxie which i’ve been working on and am just so damn excited about (especially now that i can use the bazaar photoshoot imagery as inspiration):

“He moves, pulled in by the darkness of the lake, mirroring the softly blue sky with its gray, heavy clouds. The snow lands on his nose, into his lashes, clings to his coat and his shoes. He doesn’t feel cold, doesn’t hear anything beyond the softness of the snowfall. Nothing exists and everything does, real and fake at the same time, comforting but still making him feel afraid.

He could lose himself here, could be lost from everything. He could stay and be forgotten, could join those people that tried to make him remain, could take the easier way. He could rest, just like he was supposed to do so many times before.

Maybe he does belong, after all. Maybe he is part of this place, so awfully familiar with it, so willing to even stop his own heart to get here. And maybe he is not, this place only hungry for those who don’t yet remain, refuse to give into this dream-like space.”

thank you once more for tagging me my dear! this was fun even if looking back to my old fics and all the lack of updating and posting these days makes me feel kinda bad... i’ve just been in a slump lately and am slowly trying to get out of it even if i almost fall back in all the time. it’s funny when last spring i felt like i was at my peak sigh. but well, as i’ve already said, i have time right?

i dunno so many writers over here but i’m tagging @cross-d-a and @kholran bc i’m curious about your work. also tagging @inkblue-black and @jockvillagersonly if you want to blabber about something or if you just want to see this. and oh also tagging @wangxianbunnydoodles bc am always open for new ppl and i know that you write ^^

#tag game #sorry am making these posts today again #also sorry for always tagging the same ppl #i hope you don't mind #have fun!!#about me

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goalcaufield · 5 years

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Better Than Gold - Jack Hughes

requested: y/n

request: we all need a little soft jack hughes to fix our broken hearts after tonight. i was wondering if you could do something where the reader is trying to pick up the entire team and show them that everyone is proud of them since they tried their best. and jack tells her he loves her for the first time

warnings: i cried writing this. just saying.

word count: 2147

With a heavy heart you watched as the Team USA boys all shook hands with Finland after they accepted their silver medals. They all looked so defeated and you didn’t blame them. They all played their asses off, and you knew they deserved the gold medal just as much as Finland did. However if it wasn’t USA then you were glad it was Finland. Both teams fought hard and in the end you knew there could only be one winner.

You had been dating Jack for about six or so months now, but you had been friends for even longer than that. Ellen absolutely loved and adored you, and she loved having a girl around the house instead of constantly being surrounded by four boys. Jim thought you brought a sense of maturity to all the boys and really brought them down to earth, and that obviously meant a lot when the going got tough and the stress got to be a lot to handle. So, when the two parent like figures asked you if you wanted to join them on the trip to British Columbia you accepted gratefully. Jack was obviously ecstatic, he claimed you were his good luck charm and with you being in the stands they would easily win gold.

You thought they could win gold, too. But in the end Finland came out on top and it sucked. You wished you could have witnessed Quinn winning gold in the city he’ll play in and Jack winning gold in his first ever IIHF World Junior Championship. Sadly, that wasn’t the case.

Ellen’s hand rubbed up and down your arm reassuringly as you stared down at the ice. You could see a few of the boys were crying, but you weren’t sure if either of the Hughes boys were. If you could, you would’ve hugged all those boys right there in that moment. Over the past few days you’ve been hanging around them with Jack and Quinn, and each and every one of them had the biggest hearts. You couldn’t possibly imagine the heartbreak you felt. You knew you only felt a small fraction of it.

The Finnish national anthem was played and you felt awful that the boys had to stand through that. But the second that they went back down the tunnels you let out a sigh you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.

“I know, hon,” Ellen whispered quietly to you but you still managed to hear her over the loud buzzing of the arena. “What matters though is that they got a medal. Last year was bronze, this year is silver, next year they’re going all the way. Next year they’ll win gold.”

“Moving up in the world, eh?” You joked, finally cracking a smile since the last American goal had been scored. However you did truly believe that those boys would go all the way next year. Next year was their year. Their turn to finally win gold. Their turn for glory.

After a few minutes you, Jim, and Ellen finally make your way down to the bottom floor towards the locker rooms. You would be able to go into the locker room for ‘family time’ with the boys. Yet you weren’t sure if you could face the boys just yet. You knew how badly Jack wanted this, you knew how badly he wanted to prove he could go first overall and not Kaapa Kakko. That was his main goal and you couldn’t possibly blame the kid.

You make it down to the floor about ten minutes later and you were a little bit hesitant at first. You weren’t sure exactly what you were about to walk into; who was going to be a mess, who was going to not be showing their emotions, and who was too overwhelmed to even process anything. You weren’t sure which one of those Quinn and Jack were going to be, but you were about to find out.

You walk into the locker room right behind Ellen and Jim and you immediately begin scanning the room to find the two brothers. The room was crowded from all the families and other girlfriends who had tagged along, making it a little difficult for you to find the boys. The first Hughes you find just so happens to be Quinn, who looks absolutely heartbroken. He goes for his mother first, then his father, and then he reaches out for you.

“I’m so sorry, Quinny,” You whisper against him and you can feel him hiccup against you, a no brainer he had been crying moments before you walked through the door. His arms tighten around you and you rest your head on his shoulder.

“We tried so hard,” He cried against you. “We deserved this, we deserved this so much.”

Your heart nearly broke, and you wanted to be the strong, so you squeezed your eyes shut to prevent any tears from falling. “I know Quinn, I know,” You whisper and he pulls away from you to allow you to finally see his tear stricken face.

“Go find Jack. He needs you more than I do,” Quinn wipes his tears away and you nod.

It doesn’t take you long to find Jack. He’s sitting in his stall with his head hung low. You creep up to him and you sit down next to him in the narrow stall, placing your hand on his back so he acknowledges you. Jack picks his head up slowly and you can tell he’s trying to hold everything back, you can tell he’s trying to be the strong one.

“I’m so proud of you, Jack,” You say quietly and Jack just shakes his head. “Hey, look at me.” His eyes meet yours reluctantly, and if you could’ve melted into a puddle right there you would have. His eyes were bright red and he looked like he would burst into tears any second now. “I am so, so proud of you. I always will be. You medaled this year, you helped the boys get this far. And next year what do you do? You get gold.”

“I wanted it so bad, Y/N, I wanted this more than you can even imagine,” He cries, the tears in his eyes threatening to fall. You swing your legs over onto his lap and push his head down onto your shoulder. You felt his shoulders shake and you play with the ends of his hair, a gesture that usually calmed him down. He pulled you closer into him so you were practically sitting on his lap, and all you could do was try to get him to calm down as much as you possibly could. You rest your head on top of his and you breathe him in, enjoying how close you two were after not much time together the past two weeks. Even if it wasn’t the most ideal situation.

Jack clutches onto you as he cries, and you swear you’ve never seen the kid have such raw emotion before. You weren’t even sure if you’ve ever seen him cry before until now. He didn’t even seem to care how many people saw him either, because him crying over this proved how badly he wanted this. How much heart and passion he has for the game. You loved this boy with all of your heart, and neither of you had said it yet, but now certainly felt like the right time.

But as you finally mustered up enough courage to whisper the three little words to him, one of the coaches from the coaching staff spoke throughout the room. “Alright boys,” He said, and Jack picked up his head to look at his coach. “Dinners on the staff tonight. Head to the riverside diner if you’re down for it, or head back to the hotel to regenerate yourselves. It’s your choice.”

“Do you wanna go?” You ask Jack and it takes him a few seconds before he’s nodding. You stand up from his lap and extend your hand for him to grab, but he doesn’t. He stands and wraps his arm around your waist pulling you into his side. He kisses the top of your head and squeezes your hip in reassurance.

The two of you are quiet as you head towards the bus that’ll drop the boys who wanna rest back at the hotel and the others who want to go and eat at the diner.

You sit down next to Jack who wraps his arm over your shoulders. You lean your head on his shoulder and he takes his phone that has yet to stop buzzing out of his pocket. You aren’t trying to be snoopy, but the amount of texts apologizing about the loss was disheartening. Jack lets out a frustrated sigh as he attempts to construct a response to one of the many texts.

“Turn your phone off, love,” You mumble to him, and thankfully he obliges pretty much immediately. “Jack, you know I’m proud of you. I will always, always be proud of you. You mean the world to me.”

“I should’ve done better,” Jack croaks out quietly, his fingers playing with a strand from your ponytail. “I didn’t play as well as I could have. If only I didn’t miss on that breakaw-”

“Jack, you gave it your all. That’s what matters. It doesn’t matter that you missed your shot, it doesn’t. Next year you come back better than ever and you win it all.”

He lets out another frustrated sigh and you can tell he finally realized you were right. However you didn’t blame him for being so upset, but you didn’t like how much he was beating himself up over it. Getting silver is better than not medaling at all. The two of you are quiet for the rest of the ride, and all of the boys who opted to go to the diner get off the bus along with you.

There are only about eleven of you, and you all take up about three booths in total. You and Jack end up sitting with Josh, Quinn, and Mikey.

“God, I can’t believe it,” Mikey mutters, his hand going up to run through his hair, completely disheveling it. “I thought we could do it this year, I really did.”

“Ditto,” Josh mumbles. His arms are crossed over his chest and he looks like he’d rather be anywhere else but here.

You frown at the boys, because over the past few weeks they’ve become your friends as well. You didn’t want them to beat themselves up. “You guys gave it your all this year. Hell, you moved up from last year. So what did we learn this year? Next year you have to dominate all sixty minutes, you need to come out and show everyone what a gold winning team looks like. Because Team USA? Team USA is a gold medal team. And the boys on this team can do incredible things if they’re all on the same page.”

“You’ve got a point, Y/N,” Quinn says, playing with the little sugar packets in the container. “It just sucks that a decent amount of us won’t be here next year to be a part of it.”

“But you were a part of a team that worked its way up. You were a part of the team coming to the top, the reason they got to where they’re going to be. You were a part of a dynasty. USA hockey has come such a long way.” You say, and Jack finds your hand under the table and gives it a squeeze.

“Thanks, Y/N,” Mikey smiles at you from across the table and you return the smile back at him.

Your extremely late dinner doesn’t last all too long, most of the boys being too tired to really be able to hold a conversation and their hunger canceled out any ability they had. So, with the wrap up of the dinner you all head back onto the bus to get back to the hotel. But before you can walk onto the bus Jack tugs you back.

“Y/N,” Jack says and you turn around to face him. Everyone is on the bus now, and it’s just the two of you out there. “Thank you, really. All of us needed that.”

“Of course,” You whisper, offering him a smile, and you stand up on your tiptoes to press your lips to his. When you pull away from him, Jack has a blissed out look on his face.

“You know, I love you, like a lot,” Jack says and the grin on your face widens even more. “If I can’t win gold, I’m glad I have you. I’d choose you over gold, because you’re better than gold.”

“I love you so much, Jack Hughes.” You whisper, and he presses his lips to yours once more.

#jackhughes #usntdp #team usa #wjc 2019 #world junior hockey championship #world junior hockey championship 2019 #quinn hughes #vancouver canucks #nhl #hockey #jack hughes imagine #jack hughes

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lady-of-lies · 5 years

Text

Doing what you love

A/N: Here is day 21 of @sdavid09s writing challenge!! and believe it or not, I am actually happy with how this one turned out! And for those who are waiting for the next part of like a whole new beginning, I am sorry it is taking a while but after this week is over I can dedicate more of my time to writing and, thank you for your patience!!

Prompt: How does your character fair with children? Are they good with them, awkward, do they dislike being around children? Tell us about it.

Word count: 1122 (what?!)

Warnings: None other than bad writing as usual

Peter Parker x reader

When Peter was younger aunt May used to drag him along to a bunch of different charity events created to help with a variety of causes. In his earlier days he had despised them. Mainly because it just involved a lot of sitting on a chair on his part, while his aunt flew around in a blur solving any and every problem that came up. Sure his experiences would look good on pretty much whichever application he would write in the future, but he was a kid, and kids don’t really care about that kind of stuff yet.

Fast forward a few years and he was still made to come along to his aunts many events, only now, he had actually started to enjoy them more and more. As he had gotten older he had been trusted with bigger and more important tasks, making him feel needed. It was this, amongst other things, that had shaped him into the person he was today, Kind, warm hearted and caring; as well as helping him figure out what his purpose as Spider man was. He had seen people at their lowest and decided that if he ever had the means, he would do everything he could to help them up again.

When Peter had started high school, time had become somewhat of a luxury. Essays due any and every week, projects to be done and more homework than he had thought to be humanly possible to finnish within a week, all seemed to pile up on his desk from nowhere. All this made it difficult for him to continue the charity work with his aunt, watching as she left the apartment alone for all the events he had grown to love. All but one. There was one event he made sure to never miss, the fundraiser for kids with special needs that the library held once a year. It had always been his favourite. As a kid he used to get a lot of new friends while he waited, some who he still had regular contact with.

It turned out all those charity events paid off in the end. The library had offered him a full time job last year. He would read and play with the kids on Friday afternoons and Sunday mornings, it was like a dream coming true for him. In the beginning it had been hard for him to balance school, working and being Spider man, but now it was like a second nature for him. He would walk straight to the library after school, change into more “play friendly” clothes and start working.

The first kids would arrive about twenty minutes into his shift, after that they would drop in one by one in the next hour or so. Peter would always start with telling a story. To keep all the kids involved he often asked them for what to name the characters of the day, or what occupation they should have. Sometimes, depending on how much energy the kids would have, would he tell them to draw a picture of what they imagined during the story. Some drew the classical knight in shining armor, while others improvised. It was the improvisations that made his whole day, the smile the kids would have as they told him about their drawings were priceless.

Sometimes that was all they had time for. And sometimes they went straight to playing different games like tag, hide and seek or Blind man's buff. And when they got too tired he would read them a classic story just so they could say that they learned something and not only had fun, that seemed to make it particularly popular amongst the parents. He had learned a great many things from the kids as well. One little girl in particular had turned into the apple of his eye. Gracie. The first time she showed up she had been extremely shy, not wanting her parents to leave. But as time went on she had opened up to Tom, while she was still a bit closed of when it came to the other kids, Gracie had made a lot of progress during her time at the library.

Gracie would shout his name before attacking him in the biggest hug her small arms could muster and start telling him about her week, everything between what she learned in school and what she had for dinner two days ago. She never failed at making him smile, Gracie had come to be like a little sister for Peter. Her parents worked a lot of odd hours making her the first to arrive every time, as well as the last one to leave.

Peter had on many occasions felt bad for the little girl since it seemed like she almost never got to just be at home spending some quality time with both her parents; but she never stopped smiling. Her parents had also expressed their gratitude towards Peter for taking care of her much longer than his working hours required, but for him it wasn’t work. To him, it was fun, it was a choice he made every week. He didn’t have to show up, or even care much about the kids. He could have done the usual, sitting on a chair and looking at his phone while keeping tracks of the kids whereabouts. But he didn’t.

Peter looked forward to the weekends just as much as his peers did, but for a completely different reason. On the weekends he would get to see Gracie and all the other kids again. He got to see them evolve into beautiful humans and he loved hearing them telling stories that made no sense to him, but made all the sense in the world to them. He loved seeing them smile when they played, or he did something funny. He had discovered that him making mistakes was very funny, and since it is Peter we’re talking about, mistakes wasn’t really in scarce commodity.

Peter loved Gracie, he loved every kid who had ever stepped their foot inside those big library doors. But most of all, he loved aunt May for making him tag along to all the events all those years ago. For they had showed him what he loved to do, and what he wanted to dedicate his future to. Kids. Peter wanted to make sure that he protected the kid’s smiles and make sure that they followed their dreams, and just like him spent the rest of their lives doing something they love. Because, they are after all, our future.

Permanent Tag list:

@theincaprincess

@deepestfirefun

@indelwen-of-mirkwood

@gaia-writes-stuff

@sdavid09

#peter parker #peter parker x reader #peter parker x you #peter parker x y/n #imagine peter parker #Avengers #imagine avengers #avengers x reader #avengers x you #avengers x teen!reader #spiderman #spiderman x reader #spiderman x y/n #spiderman x you #writing challenge #lady-of-lies

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rwt-mystic-corner · 4 years

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~*Pagan Meme*~

Tagged (via proximity and desire to do it) by @stormwaterwitch! And I tag: Anyone who sees this (as long as they’re okay with tags)!

Do you have a magical/Pagan name?

I do, but I prefer not to publicize it. The “RWT” in my url is the abbreviation, though!

How did you find Paganism?

It was less of a defined epiphany, and more of a gradual realization that led to a transition. I’ve always thought trees and wind and thunderstorms had “power”, and I always delighted in FEELING it! But I didn’t appreciate that power reverently, in a dedicated worship fashion, until I was about 14, and started reading about Wicca.

From the first book I picked up (”Wicca: A Guide for the Solitary Practitioner” by Scott Cunningham), everything just felt right, and the exercises came naturally to me. I never understood why “pagan” was an insult, and I always secretly believed there was more than one God or force of nonphysical power in the universe, despite being raised Christian. I met with them, communed with them, prayed to them, asked them for guidance... All that book really gave me was a name, and the gateway to an identity I now proudly embrace. (And, well, more structure and definition for what I was feeling, and ways to more directly consult and praise them.)

How long have you been practicing?

Witchcraft: I learned that little “wishes” sent out to the world had an impact at a very young age. It was an intrinsic part of my worldview, even at age 8! So without knowing I was working magic, I’d been practicing it my entire life. Pagan-dedicated worship, though? 12 years. Same time for dedicated, focused actual witchcraft.

Are you out of the broom closet?

To most people, yes. I came out as pagan to some of my co-workers within like two months of knowing them. 8F (Though I don’t openly chat about actually practicing witchcraft unless I’m prompted, because I’m not a fan of attempted evangelism.)

Solitary or group practitioner?

Solitary, though I occasionally join forces with friends and spirits.

What is your path?

I call it eclectic paganism, wherein I’m definitely pagan, but I’ve gleaned elements of truth from Buddhism and Daoism as well. As for my path in witchcraft, I call it more of a “mystical” practice, because I’m all about understanding divine mysteries, harnessing forces in the universe, and introspection as a study of microcosm. “Witchcraft” generally indicates a lot more use of physical tools, words, and rituals than I’ve ever used. (At least, not since I was about 16.)

D E I T Y

What’s your brand of deism?

Oh boy, this one’s fun. Technically speaking, I’m an agnostic theist. I believe there is definitely something out there, but I also believe it’s impossible for humans to understand and truly comprehend exactly what that divine power is. Hence, “agnostic” (”not knowing”) “theist” (believes in godlike power). The pantheon I’ve connected most to is the old Finnish crew.

Who is your patron God/ess?

Matrons Mielikki and, well, the second is a bit of a close-kept secret. ;}P (While she’s not nearly well enough known to be considered “pop culture”, she’s been a very powerful force in my life since inducting me as a follower.)

What Gods do you worship?

Regularly? None of them, oops;; But mostly the two aforementioned. I’ve also felt a connection to Hestia, , and a weird connection to the Egyptian pantheon that definitely was Not worshippy, probably mostly from a past life? (But I was so irreverent in that life, it would probably be an insult to worship them now, ehheh;;)

Do you fear darkly aspected Gods/Goddesses, or rather respect them?

They’re practically my guardian angels. (I’m a shadow witch; their domain is my source of power! My spirit guide is a creature of the darkness!) I deeply respect, and in moments revere them, though I don’t really worship any by name.

Do you worship the Christian God?

I didn’t even “get” him when I was taken to church every Sunday. Or when I spent a week at Missionettes camp. Or when I could feel every single other person in that big room being spiritually elevated, and it felt so positive, and yet, I couldn’t feel what they were connecting to. He has never made himself known to me, so I couldn’t if I tried.

Do you worship animals? Or plants?

I revere and respect their power, and I appreciate the messages they may carry from my matrons and local spirits. So in a sense, yes?

N A T U R E

Do you regularly commune with nature?

Not as often as I’d like to... but when I’m at work with the dogs outside, and the sky is clouded over with a strong, consistent breeze: I do reach out to the forest behind my workplace and gaze off into the sky.

Taken a camping trip just to talk to nature?

I wish! I’ve never really been alone on a camping trip. Someday I absolutely will, though~ (Even though the forest Mielikki connected to me is at a local metropark with no campgrounds, and no other forest has ever “opened its heart” to me that way... it’s still a powerful feeling.)

Describe the moment you felt closest to Mother Earth?

...It’s hard to pick just one, honestly. It must be moments in which I’ve talked to the trees, or sat in the river just to feel the ground beneath me, the water around me, to breathe and get lost in it until I became a part of it...

Do you have a familiar?

I might. I haven’t exactly been working with him lately, but my chinchilla Dusty came to me in a magical way. I dreamed about holding an off-white chinchilla with a singular spot. And then went into work the next day, and saw him there. A tiny white chinchilla, with one little gray spot, just like in my dream. I resisted, initially; I was still healing from the loss of my first chinchilla, and didn’t quite trust myself? But he stayed in that cage for awhile, maybe a month, and as I took care of them, he gradually started coming closer and closer, losing his nerves, growing braver, growing closer... and then grooming me! We bonded, but he would still avoid everyone else in the store. Then one day, as I was debating whether it would be the right time to take him home, I heard the lyrics played on the radio: “Dreams do come true, from out of the blue”. So I took it as a sign, and now? He’s so very highly attuned to my moods. He gets excited when I’m excited, even if I’m just sitting there smiling at my computer screen. He runs to hide when I’m feeling frightened. He sits at the cage door and watches me when I’m getting lost in contemplation, and he seems to “join me” in peaceful meditation, and will curl up and sleep. He followed me around my room when I was setting high-powered defensive wards around it in the apartment, and if I lowkey enchant his veggies, he’ll always go for the one I was holding first.

I haven’t figured out how to incorporate a chinchilla into meditations or spellwork yet... (buuut it’s hard to rework something you’re not really doing lately, yikes.)

Have you ever called upon the powers of an animal in ritual? Or a plant?

Plants, definitely-- just today, I stirred a little ginger into my soup (to help with my perpetual stomach trouble), and worked a little magic to pull out all its healing properties I could. During meditation, I often have animal guides coming to aid me, or direct me, or watch over me, or just stop by to see what I’m doing. And of course, there was my old familiar, a tangerine ring-neck dove named Fizzy, who used to sit with me in meditation, watch over me in rituals and lend his flight to my prayers and spells, and I used his feathers in travel and creativity spells.

Do you hug trees?

Not traditionally. I do lean against them when communing, though.

Give them gifts?

Ooh, no, but that’s a good idea. (I have adopted other gifted plants that others didn’t want, though.)

What are your favorite plants to work with?

Ooh, that’s tricky! Peppermint, maybe? Meadowsweet and heal-all remind me of a very dear witchy friend. Sandalwood usually has great results for me, but incense tends to dilute them... Probably pine above all, actually! It’s special to Mielikki, it smells wonderful, the trees are resilient and never mind giving a few needles or boughs, and the softer, enduring energy blends really well with my gentle persevering nature.

What are your favorite trees to work with?

See above. c: Closely followed by willow and hawthorn.~

What is your favorite holiday?

Definitely Samhain/Halloween!

What is your least favorite holiday?

Beltane, Litha, and to a degree, Lammas. I can’t do the ~summer energy~ thing, it makes me feel like I’m burning up and overstimulated. Moonlight rituals aren’t as bad, but I still tend to pass out in the heat, so, you know... Very Hard to Get Witchy when you’re seeing spots and your head is swimming. (The energy overstimulation doesn’t hit me as hard as it used to, not on the front end, but I don’t have as much time to dedicate to meditation and cleansing anymore, so it builds up more quickly anyways.)

Have you ever held a ritual on a holiday?

Quite often! Well, assuming Esbats count. I used to do mini-rituals for every single Wiccan holiday that I wasn’t doing a full-blown prayer/meditation session for. But that only lasted a year or two, because the story behind them didn’t really connect with me anymore.

Ever taken a day off work to celebrate a Pagan holiday?

I did, one Samhain when I had requested off and my boss just forgot. I opened up about it, as long as he promised not to laugh, and told him it’s a spiritual day for me, and he gave me the day off. Nowadays I at least request Samhain off when I can afford to, but lately my finances don’t really allow me that luxury. lP

Do you celebrate Yule on the 21st rather than the 25th?

You know, sometimes it’s the 20th and sometimes it’s the 22nd, but yes~ Back when I was 16ish, I would wake up on the morning of the solstice and watch the sun rise, to feel out the new year and perform a ritual of “planting seeds” for the coming year... hmm. Considering all the big life goals I’ve been setting lately, maybe I should get back into that routine....

#meme #paganism #pagan #digital mirrorbooking #IRL canon #rwt personal posts #build the dream #it's getting my dreambuilding tag because dear GODS i need more free time and i need to realign myself with my SPIRITUAL self....#and practice and energy and communing and worship and everything else i've sadly neglected in the pursuit of cold hard cash.#gods that feels gross to admit.

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neroushalvaus · 4 years

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@starlene tagged me to share five of my favourite male characters. Thank you for the tag ♥ Like her, I’m going to tell you in detail why these are my favourite boys. Bear with me! These are not in any strict order, except for the first one, he will always be the number one in my heart.

1. Javert, Les Misérables

When I first read Les Misérables I was so fascinated by Javert’s character. Javert is the complete opposite of "a bad cop antagonist”, he follows the law to a fault and in a book like Les Mis, in which the society is the real villain, that is his personal failing.

His integrity is also kind of touching to me. The way he will believe a nun that’s known not to lie, even when he should be doubting her words, and the way Javert himself never tells a lie, even when he’s supposed to act as a spy. He really has “nothing ignoble about him”, as Hugo says. Also how when he sees the error in his ways, his last act is to criticize the system he has upheld.

Javert is such a sad character. His parents were possibly as downtrodden as Valjean, so he grew up to be someone who believes he’s doing the right thing, even when he’s trampling the ones society has already abandoned. That is a true tragedy and it never stops being interesting to me.

2. Lehto, Tuntematon sotilas

Oh boy. Possibly my worst son. He is a character from this one Finnish war novel, who doesn’t like anything or anyone and has a giant chip on his shoulder from god-knows-where. He is considered grim and nasty by his peers, he hates the authority and gets anxious when anyone talks about spirituality or patriotism. In other words, I love him.

Don’t get me wrong, once again we have a bad person here. He torments this one guy simply for being scared (and like, they are in war so what the fuck my dude), once he kills someone just because, and he in general never does anything nice for anyone. But then again, he’s only twenty-one in the book and he does not live long enough to learn and I would like to see him growing. I’m also interested in his past of which we only know that he has been “alone” since he was a child. And there is something very appealing about his defiant personality. As my psychologist mother said after seeing 2 minutes of Lehto in one movie adaptation, “boys like that are not good at expressing themselves that well, he needs understanding and support”. So yeah... I have a soft spot for this guy.

3. Hercule Poirot, Agatha Christie’s Poirot

I really don’t know what this sweet little man is doing on this list. I’ve liked Poirot since I was a child but I feel like I for a long time didn’t quite understand how well written his character is. I’m mostly talking about the books and David Suchet’s iconic portrayal, but I also really really liked the new ABC Murders with John Malkovich. Poirot’s backstory really did it for me, it made so much sense and put a whole new spin in this character.

In general I just love Poirot’s manner of speaking and his little quirks - how persnickety he is, his pickiness with food, how polite he is and his dramatics, especially when he gathers all the suspects together and lets them hear it. I love how in Christie’s novels he uses people’s prejudices against foreigners to his advantage, kind of like Marple uses the fact people usually are not too cautious around little old ladies. My favourite thing about Poirot, especially in Suchet’s portrayal, is his empathy and how that makes him a better detective. He can feel for victims and culprits alike, and he is great at figuring motives because he talks to people and sees what makes them tick. I love this man and his little gray cells.

4. Thomas Barrow, Downton Abbey

Bad boys are back, alright! Or you know... Misunderstood boys. Silly boys. Boys who get hurt every time they let someone in and that feeds their rage so they say “I’ll do it on my own”... Julian Fellowes really thought he could make an evil gay servant and people would just be like “okay so that one’s a jerk, can we see more of Lady Mary’s love life now?”. But he went and cast RJC and accidentally wrote the most interesting character in the whole Classist Propaganda: The TV Show.

Thomas Barrow is a complicated character and that makes him so appealing to me. He seems to be tough and cold, but he’s also very sensitive and many of the bad things he does are motivated by jealousy or hurt. He is clever and driven, but he can and most certainly will make bad decisions. Characters in the show think he’s heartless, but he likes being around children and when he falls in love with someone, he falls hard and fast. He’s also hopelessly devoted to those near him. I guess one of the big reasons I like Thomas so much is that he’s so severely mistreated by the show. He gets repeatedly punished for even small things he does, whereas other characters can do worse things and other characters and the mainstream audience still like them. I guess that makes me kind of protective of him, and willing to read a thousand fics about how he gets everything he has ever wanted in life.

5. Gregory House, House M.D.

I’m on my House binge once again and let me tell you - Season One Dr House is actually a good guy? Like sure he’s sarcastic and irresponsible and wants to do things his own way and throws a hissy fit when he doesn’t get his way, but in so many ways he is actually nice. That, of course, changes when the show marches on, but who said all character development has to be positive?

I like hospital dramas and I like detective shows, therefore I love House M.D. And this is a rare case in which the main character in a series is the most interesting one. I also love Wilson, but I relate to him a bit too much in certain ways (the internet says it’s because we’re both INFJ) for him to be that enjoyable for me. But House is interesting and once again, complicated. Making this list is making me once again face the fact I like characters who have a strict set of rules for themselves. House is a textbook example of Chaotic Neutral, but like it’s said in the series, his work is motivated by doing what he thinks is right. And it’s really important to him to be right himself. What I also like about him is that even though he is a typical “genius jerk”, he actually consistently gets called out on his behaviour. We get to see how his behaviour is the reason he has only a handful of meaningful relationships and why being like him is nothing to be proud of. A cool drinking game, take a shot every time he’s described as “miserable”. Have fun.

Huh, that was a lot. Let’s tag some people! @obiskus , @juniper-pompadour , @trevardes and @violasmirabiles , share your favourite boys, if you feel like it! Feel free to either just say the names or ramble like I did :’)

#now i want to make a girl list as well #me writing this: ''you know i love you boyyyy in every single way ~''#why is ''an angry aries'' my type in characters #//#///#/////#tag memes #veetee selittää #javert #lehto #poirot #thomas barrow #house md #message me for top 10 milves

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