#we need more ic slander in the books

[starsandhughes]

Bloody Faces, Bloody Hearts

request: “I would love to see trevor zegras prompt 30 if you want to write it”

prompt 30: “you’re hurt just let me help you”

parings: trevor zegras x reader, luke hughes x platonic!reader

warnings: injuries, crying, underage drinking, kinda describing a panic attack, pain medication mention, angst to fluff, fighting, arguing

word count: 2.3k (i love writing angst) UNEDITED

(A/N i didn’t specify the team or other player bc i didn’t wanna slander anyone)

Your ever so lovely boyfriend, Trevor, was getting into a lot of fights as of late. But in the span of 5 days, he managed to not only have a physical fight on the ice, but also got into a huge argumentative fight with you.

You were sitting on the couch at Trevor and Jamie’s place trying to collect yourself. You and Trevor got into a screaming match over him going out and coming home late almost every day for two weeks and not making any time to spend with you. You didn’t care about practices, or him going on long roadies, hell you even came with on short ones when you could get out of work. Hockey isn’t, and never will be, the problem. The problem is that you went three days without seeing him other than when he got into bed next to you.

“I think I should go home.”

“What?” Trevor asked. “You are home, what do you mean ‘I think I should go home’?”

“I mean I think I should go home to Michigan for a few days. See my mom, maybe stop by UMich to see Luke. I think we need some time apart to cool down and you need to get your priorities straight.”

He had some words to say about that, but you weren’t listening. He was repeating that you’re his priority in various ways, and the more you packed the more desperate he got.

“So prove it Trevor!” you cried. “This isn’t a breakup. I am not breaking up with you. But maybe you’ll know how it feels to come home everyday without seeing the love of your life and realize you’ve been taking me for granted.”

Your voice got softer as you went on and you reached up with one hand to cup his cheek, “I love you, okay? Always. I just used two Fault in Our Stars terms so you know I mean it.” He laughed lightly at that and brought his hand up to where yours was to hold it.

“Okay,” he nodded. “I love you, too. I’ll see you later.”

It took you almost two days to reach UMich, but you thought having some “not really-but might as well be-little brother” time with Luke would do you some good. The Hughes family is how you and Trevor met, and they were more of your family thank your actual blood one.

‘Hello?’ Luke answered the phone.

“Lukey Moosey! Do you have plans tonight?”

‘No? Why, what’s up?’

“Your favorite person ever just booked a hotel right outside of campus and is stealing you for the night!”

You tried to say this with as much heart and excitement you could muster, but the youngest Hughes saw straight through you.

‘Something happened,’ he said, as more of a statement than a question. You sighed as your response. ‘Is it a “you’re wearing Quinn’s hoodie and we’re drinking” kind of something happened or a “disney movies and pout” kind of something happened?’

“I just drove two days to come home, what do you think?”

‘Don’t get tequila.’

“Jack scarred me too much for me to ever drink tequila again, don’t worry. I’ll pick you up in an hour.”

You got a hotel for you and Luke to spend the night in because you didn’t want his teammates around when you just need some Luke time. Plus, you’d rather only be responsible for one teen underage drinking.

Luke nursed a beer while you drank a vodka margarita you made in the bathroom as you told him everything that has happened with you and Trevor.

Luke listened, and spoke as well, to help you sort out your priorities and issues with the situation, and did his little brother duties swimmingly.

You two sat up against the headboard of the hotel bed and put on a Spider-Man movie after you both caught up with everything non-Trevor related in your lives. You leaned your head against his shoulder and pulled your knees up to lay them near his chest.

“Thanks, Luke,” you said low.

He wrapped an arm around you, “any time, y/n/n.”

For the rest of your undisclosed amount of time in Michigan, you spent it at your parent’s house, with some time with your second set of parents mixed in.

The latter is where you were currently sitting on the couch watching the Pregame for the Ducks game. Yeah, you were in a fight with Trevor, but you were still going to root for him.

They had the lead in the middle of second period at 2-0. The other team was becoming more defensive in their playing, as well as more aggressive. And your boyfriend had a tendency to be on the other side of someone’s aggression.

There was a fight. Gloves dropped, punches thrown, blood on faces. And Trevor was not getting as many hits in as the other player.

Fights happen. This isn’t the first Trevor has been in and it certainly won’t be the last. But this one was different. This one was worse. This one was the most violent brawl you’ve ever seen in a hockey game.

Their fight moved down the ice closer to the goal. The other played punched Trevor in the face so hard that he flew back, slammed his head on the goal post, and crumbled to the ground, bending his ankle in an unnatural way.

You suddenly felt extremely hot. Your body felt as if it were burning, your brain was threatening to drop down through your throat and bring you to the ground with it. You stood up when the fight got bad, and your legs gave out when they said he was unconscious.

“Oh my god,” Ellen gasped. You didn’t know if it was in reference to you or Trevor.

“He- he’s…”

Ellen put her arm around you and hushed you softly, “They’ll take good care of him, it’ll be alright.”

You shook your head, “No. No, I should be there. I have to go.”

“Y/N, you’re not in the right mind to drive right now,” Ellen told you.

“I’m not driving. I’m taking the next flight out and I’ll pick up my car from the airport later, I need to be there now.”

Jim and Ellen insisted on driving you to the airport and keeping your car safe at their house. You took the last seat on the flight to Anaheim that took off in the next three hours, and that’s when you finally called Jamie. You got worried when he picked up and said nothing.

“Is it bad?” you whimpered.

‘It’s not great, but it could be worse,’ Jamie answered honestly.

“I have a flight in three hours. I don’t know how I’ll get to you at 3am, but I’m coming.”

‘I’ll see if Mason can pick you up.’

Your flight was agonizingly long, but the wait to board was even worse. Anxiety still flooded your body despite how much anxiety medication you took. Nothing would cure it until you saw Trevor.

Jamie texted you that they were back home from the hospital, because it was bad enough to warrant a trip instead of the PT’s taking care of it, so that was where the very tired Mason dropped you off.

You quickly thanked him and ran out with your suitcase clattering behind you. You carefully unlocked the door and found Jamie dozing off on the couch still fully dressed. You set your suitcase by the door and crept over to the sleeping boy.

“Jamie,” you whispered as you gently rocked him awake.

He inhaled a deep and slow breath when he stirred and blinked tiredly at you, “Hey.”

“Hey,” you breathed out a laugh. “What’s the damage?”

“Minor concussion, bruised rib, and a torn ligament in his ankle.”

You winced, “So not great.”

“No, not even close,” he responded, stretching out the ‘o’ sound in no.

You sat in silence for a moment. You knew Trevor was likely asleep, and he needed rest so you weren’t about to go wake him up.

“He asked about you,” Jamie said, looking down at the floor. “The concussion was causing some slight amnesia, and he didn’t remember that you left. I just kept telling him it was hard to get ahold of you and that you were coming. I don’t know what I would’ve done if the memory didn’t come back and you weren’t here.”

You pursed your lips together to refrain from making a choked cry.

“He’s been a mess, y/n. The first thing he did was check for Quinn’s sweatshirt, and he broke down when he saw that you took it.”

“Me leaving didn’t give him enough of a clue that it was serious?”

“I think it just… solidified it, you know? You bring it out when things are bad for you; when you just need a big brother. I think he would’ve gone after you if you went to Vancouver,” he joked.

You stayed silent. You weren’t going to apologize for sometimes needing your family.

“I shouldn’t have left,” was what you got out.

“Yes you should have. I was spending more time with you than he was. You had every right.”

That’s when you broke down in tears. No— tears isn’t the right term, these were wracked sobs coming out of you. Jamie wrapped you in his arms and shushed you as he rubbed your back.

“I need to wake him up for pain meds, and I’m sure he’ll be a lot more cooperative if you do it,” Jamie offered.

“Will you come with me?”

Jamie got up with you and placed a comforting hand on your back as you trekked down the hall to your and Trevor’s room. You carefully sat down on the edge of the bed next to his chest and rubbed your hand up and down his back to wake him up.

“Z,” you singsonged. “Z baby I need you to wake up.”

Trevor grumbled into his pillow and tried to turn over, but was stopped by a sharp pain from his bruised rib. You winced at his cry and helped ease him down on his back against the pile of pillows supporting him.

“Y/N…?” Trevor asked sleepily.

You nodded and combed your fingers through his hair. His cheek was heavily bruised and he had a cut with a butterfly stitch across his eyebrow. For how much the other guy was hitting him, you were surprised his entire face wasn’t purple.

“It’s time for you to take some more pain meds,” you said low.

“You’re here,” he gapped. His eyes were wide, and you couldn’t help but think he looked like Bambi.

“Of course I’m here,” you smiled softly, still petting his hair.

“But you left. I wasn’t- I wasn’t expec… expecting…”

“Easy there, Zegras. Don’t need you having a brain aneurysm over me being in our bedroom,” you tried to laugh.

“You’re here.”

“And you need pain-“

“You’re-“

“Z, we will talk about this but I need you to give me a moment. You need to take your pain medication.”

Trevor must’ve seen the desperate pleading in your eyes through the soft lamp light because he immediately stopped talking. He bit his lip and nodded at you. He put his arms behind him and tried to prop himself up so that he could swallow the pills, but he cried out and collapsed back down. When you reached to help him, he pushed your arms back and slowly shook his head.

“I can do it myself,” he grunted.

“You’re hurt. Just let me help you,” you said.

You two locked eyes for a moment before he nodded again. You heard the door click close, a signal that Jamie had left. You put a hand between his back shoulder blades to slowly lift him up, and helped you push himself back to sit against the headboard with minimal wincing. He quickly took the water and pills you handed him and scooted himself back down a little to be be halfway sitting up instead.

You started to stroke his hair again and he closed his eyes, breathing synced with your fingers combing up and down through his hair. You were silently crying and praying to every god imaginable that you didn’t make a sound, but this was to no avail.

“Oh, hey no,” Trevor rushed out. He cupped your cheek with one hand and linked his fingers together with yours with the other.

“You didn’t get up,” you squeaked out. “You went down, and suddenly nothing made sense anymore. My ears were ringing, my head was spinning, I felt like I couldn’t breathe.”

“I’m okay,” he whispered, rubbing circles with his thumb across your cheek bone.

“My mind blacked out when they said you were unconscious. I was standing one second, and Ellen was putting a straw in my mouth to drink ice water the next. And I didn’t know anything until-“

Trevor pulled your face down to his level and slammed his lips onto yours to cut you off. When your lips parted, your foreheads were brought together, with Trevor whispering for you to breathe slow with him, thumb back to caressing your cheek.

“I wasn’t out for too long. Troy and Mason helped me off the ice, and Jimmy rushed over to the arena and rode with me to the hospital. Gibby drove Jimmy’s car to the hospital, and we took him home. Everything is okay,” he breathed out. His voice was soft, low, and steady— a wonderful combination to calm you down.

“I was so scared,” you whimpered.

“I know, it’s okay. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere. Come here,” he motioned for you to lay down next to him.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” you said. 

“You can lay on my chest, it’s okay,” he assured. 

You crawled into bed next to him and rested your head on his chest. Your hand came up to lay where you could feel his steady heart and you closed your eyes. 

“I love you,” you told him. 

“I love you, too.”

And with a kiss to the top of your head, you were out.

#trevor zegras x reader #trevor zegras fic #trevor zegras imagine #trevor zegras #quinn hughes #luke hughes #jamie drysdale #luke hughes imagine #nhl imagine #nhl players #anaheim ducks #trevor zegras angst

[powderblueblood]

Okay so we're just going to pretend that billy is practically neighbors with the doevski's now and he hasn't tried to make a move on lacy's milf mom?

i need him to get rejected so fucking hard it's not even funny. I need his ego to get hit so bad it ends up in a full body cast

DID YOU THINK I MFIN FORGOT ABOUT YOU BABY i didn’t. thank you for sending me this thank you for caring thank you for letting me write some gloriana and helping me ease back into the headspace of writing this fuckin fic lol

warnings: farm to table billy hargrove slander, gloriana doevski outwardly hating her daughter

part of the hellfire & ice universe, natch.

“does this work for you, usually?”

billy hargrove had shown up outside gloriana doevski’s trailer, a vision with a swollen eye on an unseasonably hot day, and had asked her something about having her window boxes weeded. ‘there’s supposed to be flowers in those things, y’know. nothing’s getting a chance to grow.’

tell her about it. gloriana had been locked up inside, the way she spends most of her time these days, which is badly. divorced from the world but not from her husband, steadfast in her commitment for half of the day and considering calling a tip line and fleeing the state for the other.

challenges like billy hargrove could have been sent directly from ray doevski’s prison cell, the convenience at which they showed up. testing her loyalty.

“does what work for me?” billy asks, gardening gloves the only piece of clothing he wears on his upper half.

if this is the challenge, consider gloriana insulted.

“the blue movie setup,” she leans against the door frame, tapping ash from her dunhill onto the step. “the double entendre. nudging yourself into frame, any excuse to take your shirt off. that kind of thing.”

with a ‘heh,’ and a glance to the ground, billy performs knowing bashfulness. it pisses her off.

“depends, i guess. is it working for you?” he looks up at her with his good eye, the one that’s not swollen.

“no, i asked you first. does it satiate the appetite?” gloriana poses, “all of the bored housewives, with whom you’ve lumped me in erroneously, must be fascinated with you. walked right out of their riskier book club novels, didn’t you?”

billy opens his mouth, tongue primed with another smooth line but gloriana stops him short, cigarette arched in her fingers. if he was going to show up half naked, she may as well undress him the rest of the way.

“but does it satiate you? welcomed into the bosom of another woman that doesn’t really want you, other than in a motel six? does that desire make you feel powerful? or does it make you feel cheap?”

“jesus christ, lady—“

“i’m just wondering. innocent question.”

“i see where she gets it from,” he murmurs through an embarrassed choke, an effort that gloriana’s sure is meant to be out of her earshot.

and this could turn into a conversation about lacy, that wretched, double-crossing bad seed of hers whose mud-spattered cheerleading uniform gloriana was clinging onto like a talisman for blackmail, but she’d much rather it didn’t. all it had been since ray had gone to prison was lacy, lacy, lacy, how is lacy, what’s lacy doing, how can we properly utilise lacy. if the girl didn’t come out of gloriana’s very own cunt screaming, she’d bump her off herself.

just for some peace and quiet. and a little attention.

“what happened there?” gloriana leans a touch further out of the door to see the way the sun catches billy’s bruises. they were gnarly, like someone had hit him with a meat tenderiser.

billy snorts through his nose, amorous nature waning into a more comfortable state of sullen dickheadery. “funny story,” he says, “had a run in with your neighbor.”

munson kid, obviously, because it was hardly that decrepit uncle.

gloriana prepared to roll her eyes. “oh?”

“managed to catch a two week suspension for getting between him and his girl.”

if you fail to plan, you plan to fail.

gloriana steps out of the doorway, hip dropping like the heavy end of a seesaw. she gets in billy’s face, in his space, close enough to see the blotchy coagulation of blood underneath the arch of his eyebrow. close enough to smell the richness of his pheromones. close enough to see the gaps in his moustache.

he’s bored, she’s bored. this should be as easy as he thinks it’ll be, right?

“if this is the part where you think you’re going to make me guess who his girl is or hold that information hostage til i invite you inside for a glass of lemonade or a blowjob, you’re heartily mistaken, sweet boy.” gloriana sighs a stream of smoke oh-so close to his mouth. “the only way that daughter of mine could embarrass me any more is if she was sneaking around with you.”

billy might be trembling. this gives gloriana something of a rush. it’s fun to talk down to people when you don’t have a public-facing husband around, admonishing you for it. forcing you to remember your game face.

“you sure about that lemonade?” he asks, dry lips smacking, bewitched.

she’s still got it.

gloriana smirks as the fuck-ugly roar of the munson van draws closer from up the lot. she stamps her cigarette out into the flower box billy is pretending to weed.

“bring me that kid’s fucking head and i’ll think about it.”

#powder room talk #Anonymous #hai brainrot #published by powder

[mikkythehamster]

GOOD OMENS 2 SPOILER RANT

YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED by church crowley ! (ALSO JFC PEOPLE THE SHOW CAME NOT EVEN A WEEK AGO AND UR FILLING THE INTERNET WITH SPOILERS LET PEOPLE SEE THINGS AT THEIR OWN PACE I HATE YOU ALL)

I can't stand people saying the "breakup" between crowley and azi was out of nowhere or that is was badly done. BITCH they are the living proof that gays be having breakups without even dating. I LOVE IT! i think it's perfect, neither of them have expressed directly what they want and sure you can say "what about the kiss", well crowley only kissed azi when he was surely to depart, that seems like a desperate declaration rather than a good hearted developed confession and discussion about love. It would have been very cheap if they just solved all their issues with one kiss.

Besides come on, you have been swallowing heterosexual misunderstanding/breakup stories for years and now the gays do it and it's suddenly wrong? shut up. Besides clearly metaton had something to do with azi's mood change, many people have pointed out that metaton can influence people's minds, control and also AZI DOESN'T DRINK COFFEE! and you could say he accepted due to fear of metaton but what if he was counting on that and put something in his coffee? in the scene before the elevator we hear a miracle queue sound and suddenly azi's face change. Other theories point out to OMELAS (oat meal latter with almond syrup) "The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas"  is a 1973 short work of philosophical fiction by American writer Ursula K. Le Guin. With deliberately both vague and vivid descriptions, the narrator depicts a summer festival in the utopian city of Omelas, whose prosperity depends on the perpetual misery of a single child. <-. tho i must admit this was very obscure lmao

Azi was heavily promoted with TEA! i feel it was a weird thing he just accepted coffee like that and how much emphasis they put on the coffee

So idk i feel it was all too in the nose to be just a coincidence personally. BESIDES neil said that this was always had planned to be more than just 2 seasons so honestly if it ended here it would have been shit, like oh just a kiss and its done? NO FUCK THAT. we didn't watch centuries of mutual pinning for it to just suddenly get together like that NO SIR. that would be boring as shit, there is so much more to develop and i am happy with how things ended, i am a sucker for hurt comfort so the next season will truly reveal if i am happy with the story or not cuz so far i am very happy.

idk why you all mad idk man you want fiction to be boring and predictable or characters to not have growth. CROWLEY finally did the first step now they need to develop that romanticism , that human love. they must otherwise its just cheap and easy. Azi didn't say "you move too fast for me crowley" for you to want him marrying him after 1 desperate kiss god damn. anyway i love aziraphale stop slandering him, why do you think this was out of character for him? THIS IS SO IC FOR HIM! (i am only a series watcher i haven't read the book so i will base him off that only). Aziraphale has always had issues verbalizing feelings,needs and understanding underlying wants. What me and my friend call the angelic autism of aziraphale. He won't sit there and take a "there is no nightingales" as a sign that he hurt crowleys feelings and neither can he say i love you too so instead he says i forgive you. It was perfectly in character for him to do and react the way he did. I love them i am very happy personally i am just sad we have to wait so long for another season because ofc you must respect the writers and actors strike and production takes long anyway.

-- edit

if there is one complain i have is that i wanted to see more of beelzebub and gabriel i hope s3 gives us more of them because that i felt it was too quickly resolved i need more.

#good omens 2 spoilers

[petalparker]

ONLINE PDA III [MCU! P. PARKER SMAU]

Summary: Between getting cats out of trees, helping old ladies cross the street, stopping thieves, and alien invasions, Peter Parker still finds time to be disgustingly cute on the internet with his girlfriend. In other words, just another random social media au.

Face Claim: Shin Ryujin, so reader is of Korean/East Asian descent.

Pronouns Used: She/Her

Warning(s): Swearing, Implied Sex

Disclaimer: All media content is used for FICTIONAL and ENTERTAINMENT purposes only.

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PROFILES

POSTS

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y/nbabyyy late dinners with my lover <3

mjhatesu so u enjoy shitty meals?

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p.parker harryosborn told me to shave

y/nbabyyy i kiss ur jaw everyday; there is literally nothing to shave

↳ harryosborn y/nbabyyy keep it pg-13 jfc

↳ y/nbabyyy harryosborn stop acting as if u and mj didn't make out in the quantum physics aisle yesterday

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p.parker i want to try all new things with u y/nbabyyy

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↳ p.parker 🥺💙

nedleedsleads u guys make me sick 🤢 /pos

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↳ y/nbabyyy that's bc u are

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y/nbabyyy p.parker and i's first ceramic baby!!! his name is pedro parker 💚

mjhatesu pedro parker? where's the hyphenated last name?

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↳ p.parker mjhatesu not for sale 🙅‍♀️ they're for my private album

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Tag List: @mskatharinak

#peter parker instagram au #tom holland social media au #peter parker fake instagram #peter parker fluff #peter parker smau #peter parker social media au #peter parker x reader #peter parker x y/n #peter parker x you #tom holland fake instagram #tom holland x reader #tom holland smau #tom holland x y/n

[thora-jane]

Vanilla Ice Cream pt ii (Matt Murdock x Reader)

(a/n) We're back at it again! This chapter is a little longer than the next one. I'm not quite sure how this whole series if going to go but I hope you all enjoy this. I'm a little nervous since I've never written anything about childhood friends before and I don't know if I've read any of that trope either but we'll just see how this goes, shall we?

Summary: you never stopped looking for Matt, and Matt never expected to see you again.

Word count: 1360

Warnings: Idk Foggy says piss twice?

Previous | Next

The two of you sat at the tiny table in his kitchen, “Ca…lum…nies? Matty I don’t know what that word is,” you sounded out the syllables, but it did nothing to help you understand.

“Could you spell it for me?” he asked, turning his head like he’d be able to see.

“C-a-l-u-m-n-i-e-s,” you said slowly.

He paused before responding, “Calumnies. It means slander or lies.”

“Oh. I’m sorry, he uses a lot of big words,” you sighed and looked back down at the page.

“We don’t have to keep reading if you don’t want to,” Matt said, placing his hand on yours.

“Are you sure?” You asked, but you had already started to close the book on Thurgood Marshall, “The book is due tomorrow and I still haven’t finished reading it to you.”

“I’m sure. Maybe they’ll have a braille copy soon.” he shrugged.

The two of you sat there in silence for a moment before you piped up, “I counted the coins in my jar today, and I found enough quarters to get us ice cream!” You reached into the pocket of your shorts and put the quarters on the table for him to count, “The cart should be in the park right now, do you want to go?”

He reached out his hand and ran his fingers over the coins, a smile cracking open on his face, “Yes.”

“Miss? Is everything alright?” He asked again, placing his hands on your shoulders. He didn’t recognize your heartbeat, fast and fluttery. He didn’t recognize your scent, but you still smelled good, like warm vanilla extract mixed with eggs and milk and sugar, basic shampoo and body wash, and fresh herbs. All good smells, but not familiar blended together. He heard your heartbeat falter and you reached for your bag, his jaw tightened and he took a step back, “I’m sorry could I have a name or-”

“I’m so sorry, I don’t know what I”m doing I just…I…god you wouldn’t recognize me anyway I’m so sorry,” you fumbled. Your face went red and he could feel the warmth radiating from your cheeks. You were embarrassed, still anxious, was he supposed to know you? Why was he sensing all this distress?

“I…I’m sorry, I don’t know if you remember but a few years ago,” His heart sank at the phrase, was this a drunk college hook-up that thought there was something between them? An ex he had just barely managed to forget? “Well, way more than a few years ago. Twenty years ago more like it, I guess. You uh…we used to…” You took a deep breath to collect your thoughts one more time, “I don’t know what I was expecting, hugging you like that. I’m so sorry,” He listened as you fumbled with an introduction one last time, desperately trying to piece together who you were. “I don’t even know if you remember but I was the girl that used to read to you? And we’d go and get ice cream together sometimes and we had school together and we would play and-”

“(y/n)?” hesitancy lined his voice.

He sensed heat prick up around your eyes, Were you about to cry?

You nodded slightly, wiping an eye with the back of your hand, “Hey, Matty.”

The two of you stood there in silence for a moment, you heard the woman set some papers down on the desk behind you and another office door open, “I think we need to check the pipes this coffee kinda tastes like piss- OH!” You turned around. A man with long hair and a dress shirt with the top button unbuttoned stood wide-eyed with a coffee mug in hand.

“Are you Franklin Nelson?” You asked as politely as you could, doing anything to distract you from Matt’s painful silence.

“It’s Foggy, and yes,” he said, dumping the contents of his mug down the drain of the sink, “What can we do for ya?”

“Oh, I was just here to see Mr. Murdock but I should probably be going-” Before you even had a chance to take a step, Matt reached out and grabbed your wrist.

“Wait,” he said softly before turning his head in Foggy’s direction, “Foggy this is (y/n) (y/l/n).”

You watched as realization dawned on Foggy’s face. He looked back at Matt for a moment before walking over to you, “Hey! Matt’s talked about you, what brings you to Hell’s Kitchen?”

“Matt’s talked about me?” you muttered before speaking up, “I actually live here. Well, I grew up here. And then I left for school. And then work had me out and around and then I decided to move back here. Then during all that I saw what happened with Union Allied and…” your voice trailed off, and like magic, a habit from your childhood worked its way back into your speech, “I’m waving my hands around like I don’t know what I’m doing,” You commented over your shoulder to Matt.

“Hoo! Union Allied,” Foggy chuckled, I’ve had enough of those messes to last two lifetimes,” He looked back at you, “I’m sorry, you were saying?”

“Well, I read the article and it mentioned Matty and…” you paused turning your words over in your head, “Actually there’s no good way to say this without sounding stupid, forget I said anything,” you mumbled adjusting the strap on your bag.

“No, please,” Matt said softly.

You turned back to him, painfully aware of his hand around your wrist, “After they took you to the orphanage, I tried so hard to find you,” You couldn’t look him in the face, but couldn’t turn around to the others in the room, “I went there. Every day. Asking if I could see you. But they wouldn’t let me in. Eventually, I showed up one day and they told me you had left, but they wouldn’t tell me where. I looked everywhere. Every time I left the house I kept my eyes peeled hoping you’d still be in Hell’s Kitchen. It drove my parents mad. Then after a few years, I stopped looking all over the place,” You continued, seeing his shoulders relax, there was a look on his face, sadness? Pain? “I started checking whatever records I could find. I looked through old newspapers, pictures, nothing,” You looked down at your bag and sighed, “When the Union Allied article came up, I wasn’t sure if it was real. I guess somewhere along the way I should have realized that all this time had passed and that maybe you wouldn’t want to see me or something. Hell, the last time we saw each other we were nine,” You looked up at him, shrugging, “Sorry if I interrupted your day, would you like it if I left?”

His hand slipped, no longer gripping your wrist and instead interlocking with your fingers, “(y/n)...I thought you forgot about me.”

Your heart broke, and you squeezed his hand softly, “How could I forget about you? You were the best friend I’ve ever had.”

The two of you stood there for a moment, and slowly but surely a smile grew across Matt’s face. Without a second thought he pulled you in for another hug, “I missed you.”

You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, “I missed you too, Matty.”

“So…Does this mean you’re all coming to Josie’s tonight?” Foggy asked after clearing his throat, “I mean you’ve got like what, twenty years of catching up to do? Surely Matt can find some time off from his uh…nightly angst and brooding to come and have a drink with his friends?” He poured himself another cup of coffee and took a sip, spitting it out into his mug and muttering, “God it still tastes like piss.”

You looked back to Matt. He dropped his hand, scratching the back of his head, “I guess maybe if you’d be up for it?”

You smiled, tucking your hair behind your ear, “I mean, I don’t have anything else going on?”

“Great!” Smiled, clapping her hands, “It’s been a while since we all went out and had some fun together. Welcome aboard, (y/n)!”

(a/n) I hope you liked it! If you've read this far remember to go drink some water, eat some food if you can, if it's late maybe consider getting some sleep, do some stretches, remember to take some deep breaths and know that you're loved <3

#matt murdock #matt murdock x y/n #matt murdock x reader #matt murdock x you #matt murdock x fem!reader #daredevil x female reader #daredevil x y/n #daredevil #daredevil x reader #netflix daredevil #foggy nelson

[your-average-weeb-dealer]

𝗕𝗮𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗪𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝗝𝗝𝗞 𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗿𝗮𝗰𝘁𝗲𝗿𝘀

finally we have more fluff. I need this and tbh- so do you.

Includes: Yuji Itadori, Megumi Fushiguro, Nobara Kugisaki, Gojou Satoru (kinda), Toge Inumaki, Maki Zenin and Junpei Yoshino

Warnings: not proofread, gojou slander-

Yuji Itadori ❥ Poor baby. He burnt the cookies. But no matter. He’ll make another batch to make up for that one, open the windows to get rid of that nasty burning smell. He feels terrible for ruining your cookies, even though you assure him it wasn’t his fault.

Megumi Fushiguro ❥ Oh, please. Megumi’s got an entire book or recipes. He’s so cute. He wore a blueish gray apron (you tried to get him to wear the pink one, but he just gave you a shit look). Megumi would get mad at you if anything burnt and tell you to do the dishes. But he just ended up doing then since you were “doing it wrong”.

Nobara Kugisaki ❥ She googled “tasty things to bake with your partner” and got a million of those slide showy things; you both ended up just scrolling for hours looking at all the pretty deserts.

Gojou Satoru ❥ yeah, he’s not baking. He isn’t trusted in the kitchen.

Toge Inumaki ❥ ok this can go two ways. 1) it’s cute, Inumaki and you make a bunch of cute cookies. He’s fantastic at icing things, and the cookies would just look perfect. 2) its 3 am. You got any and every song by mother mother blasting on all speakers. And you and Inumaki are making the weirdest ass cake in existence.

Maki Zenin ❥ everything comes out perfect. She has a complete list of things she wants to bake somewhere. There’d be some lofi playing in the background. Just chill and sweet.

Junpei Yoshino ❥ you guys bake a bunch of cute cookies. Everything tastes good, but it looks like shit. There’s icing everywhere, half your clothes are covered in a mixture of flour and powdered sugar.

#BAKING WITH INUMAKI THO- #itadori x reader #megumi x gender neutral reader #megumi x reader #nobara x reader #gojo x reader #gojou x reader #gojo slander #inumaki x reader #maki x reader #junpei x reader #jjk x reader #itadori x you #megumi x you #nobara jjk #jjk fluff #gojo fluff

[elentiyawhitethorn]

Enchantment

Rowaelin Month, Day 20

Playing with Magic @rowaelinscourt

Rowaelin Month Masterlist//Main Masterlist//Fluff//1462 words

“Where in the world could she be?” Aelin asked frantically, running her hands through her hair anxiously.

Rowan shook his head. “Aelin… I’m so sorry… but I don’t think we’ll ever find her. She’s gone for good.”

Aelin gasped. “She can’t be. Don’t give up, Rowan; she’s our little girl!”

A mournful sigh left Rowan’s mouth. “Fireheart, I know you love her, and I do too, but we have to be realistic.”

Aelin covered her face with her hands. “I miss her already.”

Rowan’s lips twitched, and Aelin knew he was holding back a laugh. She pressed her own lips together to keep her face as melancholy as possible.

“Me too,” was all he could manage, hand going to his mouth to cover a snort.

Aelin grinned. “This is all your fault. If you had never suggested hide and seek, we never would have lost Nora in the first place.”

“My fault? How could you?” Rowan clutched his chest dramatically.

Aelin turned away, crossing her arms. “I don’t think I can stand to look at you anymore, you bastard. Leave me be.”

She watched in the mirror she was facing as Rowan sent a wink her way. “As you wish, my queen. I’ll pack my things immediately.”

Rowan turned and started for the door. Instead of passing the pair of shoes sticking out from under the bed, he paused. “Are these…” He paused dramatically. “Nora’s shoes?”

“All we have left of her,” Aelin replied, sniffling.

A muffled wheezing sound came from under the bed, and Aelin and Rowan exchanged a smile.

“I better get them, dear. If we leave them here, someone could trip over them.”

Aelin finally turned around. “As you wish.”

Upon hearing that the shoes were going to be picked up, they retracted farther under the bed, frantically trying to disappear. But Rowan was too fast for the shoes. He grabbed them, pulling a squealing child out from under the bed.

“Nora!” Aelin cried. “My gods, I thought we’d lost you forever!”

Nora, still on her back with her shiny red shoes in Rowan’s hands, stuck her tongue out at her mother. “No you didn’t, Mom, you’re the worst actor ever.”

Aelin gasped in indignation. “You slanderous little worm. Why, I’ll teach you to speak to the queen in that manner.”

She marched over, suppressing a grin once more as Nora squealed again and wiggled her feet free from Rowan’s grasp. She tried to stand, but Aelin swooped down on her and picked her up effortlessly.

“What will the punishment be?” Aelin asked in mock reprimand. “A visit to the dungeons? One thousand push-ups? Chocolate for dinner?”

“Mm, that last one sounds pretty good to me,” Nora said thoughtfully, dangling in Aelin’s arms.

“Mala spare me,” Rowan muttered.

Mother and daughter sent matching smirks to Rowan, only smiling harder as he said something along the lines of, “I hate it when you two do that.”

“Well, now that hide and seek has brought us the tragedy of thinking our daughter was gone forever”—Nora stuck out her tongue again—“why don’t we find something else to do?”

There was no pause between Aelin’s question and the squirming little girl saying, “Oh, we can practice magic. Please? Please, please, please?” Nora stared right into Aelin’s eyes. “Please, Mama,” she whispered.

Aelin laughed. “Of course we can. But we better get out of the castle, away from collateral.”

Nora nodded seriously, probably unsure of what “collateral” meant but too stubborn to admit it.

Aelin set her daughter on the ground. “Race you down to the courtyard,” she said.

And Nora was off, sprinting out the door and down the stairs.

Rowan chuckled. “She’s a handful, alright.”

“But she’s our handful,” Aelin said primly.

Rowan snorted. “You’re so cheesy.”

Aelin flashed a smile. “Race you down to the courtyard,” she repeated in a soft murmur, a flirty undertone in her voice.

Both of them knew the fastest way was not the stairs, as Nora had gone, but out the window and straight down. Rowan could fly, of course, so Aelin made sure to swing a foot out and knock him off his feet before jogging to the window. She smirked to herself as Rowan cursed her name.

Aelin may not be able to fly, but agility was second nature to her. She kept herself in shape, always training with Rowan, working for every muscle on her body, pushing herself to get better. Aelin hadn't quite been prepared for the pregnancy with Nora, and she’d had many days where helplessness had wracked her brain until the only thought in her head was that she was weak.

After all, some scars never heal.

But she’d finally given birth to the joy that was their daughter, and Aelin had started training all over again. She and Rowan had discussed more children, and firmly decided to wait a while longer until Aelin was ready again, which is why they only had the one child, nearly eight years old.

And the past eight years had made Aelin more physically able than she’d ever been, a feat of nature. She may not have wings as her mate did, but the way she climbed down the many stories, hanging from terraces and dropping from ledges, could almost be considered flying.

Aelin was nearing the bottom when a white-tailed hawk sailed out of the bedroom window. She went as far as to raise her middle finger before dropping the last story and a half, rolling, and rising with ethereal grace.

Aelin was too busy smirking at her husband as he dived to the ground to notice the little munchkin charging her way. One minute she was mouthing loser to the skies, as immature as ever, and the next a small form was clinging to her side.

“I almost won!” Nora yelled, desperate for some form of credit.

Aelin grinned and ruffled the short silver locks she’d inherited from her father. “Yes you did, dear.”

“I want to set something on fire,” Nora declared blatantly.

“Just like her mother,” an amused, but slightly concerned, voice said from beside them. Rowan had shifted back into his Fae form.

Aelin sent him an innocent smile. “What do you want to set on fire, Nora?”

“Don’t answer that,” Rowan cut in immediately. “Let’s start with something… unlikely to be needed in the future.”

Aelin snorted. “Boring old man,” she said, and Nora giggled, earning a faux wounded expression from Rowan.

Aelin pulled something out of her pocket.

“Tell me that’s not Darrow’s latest decree,” Rowan said in exasperation, already knowing the answer.

Aelin shot him a smile. “Something unlikely to be needed in the future, exactly as you wished, my darling.”

Rowan shook his head, lips twitching slightly.

Aelin unrolled the scroll and held it out, stepping away from Nora. She sent a nod her daughter’s way.

Nora got into defensive position—her parents’ child for sure—and furrowed her brow. She’d played with her magic plenty of times before, but she was still learning how to control it, particularly the small amount of fire she’d inherited from her mother. She had a far greater amount of ice powers from Rowan, and better control over them as well—which made burning things all the more fun, in Aelin’s opinion.

Nora stared holes into the parchment, but nothing happened. Rowan came up behind her and bent down to whisper something in her ear, and the tenderness of the gesture melted Aelin’s heart. Nora nodded in determination once Rowan was done and squinted.

Her focus seemed to have improved with Rowan’s instruction, for smoke started rising from the paper. Nora smiled in delight and the whole thing burst into flames without warning. Aelin grinned and held the scroll as it turned into ash in her hand.

“Lovely, Nora.”

Darrow would not be pleased. What a productive day this was turning into.

Nora clapped her hands excitedly. She spun around, the ground starting to turn frosty at her feet. The wind whipped, and Aelin shared a proud look with Rowan as ice scread across the courtyard.

Nora’s power was limited, and the ice couldn’t quite reach the edges of the courtyard. Aelin felt Rowan’s ice freeze the whole thing over thicker in addition to expanding it, and all of a sudden, they were standing on their own little ice rink.

Nora squealed, quite possibly unaware her father had helped out. She laughed—then yelped as she slid onto her bottom. Nora quickly got back to her feet, just as capable as her father and persistent as her mother.

Aelin slid lazily over to Rowan, still watching their daughter spin and skate around. “I love you.”

He smiled, lifting a thumb to Aelin’s cheek. “I love you too.”

———

Tag List:

@aelin-bitch-queen

@evolving-dreamer

@feysand-loml

@flora-shadowshine

@gracie-rosee

@infernoqueen19

@julemmaes

@lemonade-coolattas

@live-the-fangirl-life

@midsizewitch

@morganofthewildfire

@nehemikkele

@realbookloverproblems

@rhysandswingspan

@rowaelinismyotp

@rowanaelinn

@sexy-dumpster-fire

@sleeping-and-books

@story-scribbler

@swankii-art-teacher

@thenerdandfandoms

@yesdreamblog

#rowaelin #tog #enchantment #my writing #rowaelinmonth

[starbornvalkyrie]

ACOSF USA BOOK TOUR NOTES

Hey y’all! I just attended the LiveTalks Los Angeles event with Sarah J Maas and Eva Chen!! I took lots of notes so I wanted to share them with you all! They’re a little incoherent on the page, so it might seem a crazy, they jumped topics a lot. Feel free to chat with me about what she talked about! But first.

MY RULES:

NO SHIP OR CHARACTER SLANDERING. I know that we all may have different opinions. I will not offer my opinions here, this is purely informational for those of you who did not have the opportunity to attend this event.

PLEASE NO ARGUING IN MY COMMENTS OR ASK BOX WITH ME OR ANYONE ELSE WHO COMMENTS

Acknowledge that I am not perfect and may not have written down everything perfectly. I did my best while still trying to enjoy the event.

I AM NOT SARAH J MAAS AND CANNOT INTERPRET WHAT SHE MEANS

I’m tagging this with #acosf spoilers and #acosfspoilers just in case.

If you understand and can abide by these rules, keep reading below the cut, and enjoy!

SJM said it was weird doing this event from her living room where you might be able to hear her dog in the background or her son trying to get into the room.

ACOSF started as a passion project while she was writing ACOWAR! It was never anything she thought she was going to publish. (more on this later)

About reading and writing growing up

in middle school, she read a lot of fantasy

in high school, she didn’t read as much, but wrote A LOT. it became her fixation, almost an obsession.

in college, she only really wrote on vacations (she had a very healthy social life hehehe) but her junior year is when she found her balance between schoolwork, writing, and socializing.

there was no plan B for her!! it was always to be an author. if it didn’t happen right away, she was going to find a job that would get her by until plan A could come to be.

her favorite author growing up was Garth Nix. She longed for books about badass women. She got to meet him and write a blurb to be on one of his books! She cries when she meets her favorite authors.

Talk about character names!

her character names come from everywhere and nowhere

sometimes she’ll just hear a name in her head and think “that’s it!” (Rhys, for example)

she needs to know the name to write the character

if the name doesn’t immediately come to her, she spends a lot of her time on baby name websites and makes lists until it clicks

sometimes the names just... connect. sometimes she doesn’t mean for them to.

it will always be uncommon. never “Frank” lol

Writing about Nesta!

on a “surface level” she loves writing when Nesta comes out to fight. for example, her favorite scene in this aspect to write was the bog scene. As soon as she got to it, it flowed out of her. The final product was almost identical to the first draft. She wrote it in one session, from the terror & tread to the “who am i?” to when she emerged--she went YES. MAJOR Mic Drop moment for her.

going deeper: definitely her overall journey was one of the favorites she’s ever written. From the dark place she’s in at the beginning to the very end. 

Writing about Nesta meant so much to her because of her own mental health. She channeled a lot of her own feelings and went on the journey with Nesta.

it was a lot of “how do you face mental health in a fantasy world without therapy and medication”

it was easy to get into Nesta’s mind but emotionally intense.

ACOSF’S BIG MESSAGE: LEARNING TO LOVE YOURSELF AND OTHERS. YOU ARE WORTH OF LOVE.

YES there is a book planned for Elain!

As soon as Nesta and Elain came onto the page again in ACOMAF, she knew they’d get their own journey.

Nesta grabbed her by the throat in book 1

She was originally contracted for only the first three books but realized there was more she wanted to explore. Essentially the “what comes next” after ACOWAR in this new world with out the wall.

FUN FACT: while editing ACOMAF/writing ACOWAR, she drunkenly told her editor at the time, “hey guess what happens next?”, and it turned into a two hour conversation about everything she wants to happen for Nesta, Elain, Mor, Azriel, etc. TWO WEEKS LATER, she gets a call saying they want to buy the stories!! Obviously, she said yes.

This allowed her to start planting the Easter eggs for these stories in ACOWAR. She knew she did not want Nesta to be sympathetic at the beginning of the book! But she did not want people to hate her.

She always has one eye on the horizon for future books.

If she could visit one court for a day, which and why?

She LOVES the season Autumn, it’s her favorite. “BUT EVERYONE IN THE AUTUMN COURT IS AN ASSHOLE”. She would want to visit the Autumn Court when no one is there so she can enjoy the beauty of Autumn.

But also she would want to go to the Summer Court because she has a thing for Tarquin but only if it’s not gross and humid.

She would ALSO want to go to the Day Court for Helion and all his libraries.

ESSENTIALLY she would want to go everywhere but Spring because Tamlin sucks and is an asshole lmao.

BEAST FORMS

SJM’s beast form would be something totally not cool or majestic like a sea otter.

Nesta’s beast form would be something terrifying and beautiful like a snow leopard/dragon hybrid, a griffin, or a sphinx. **WANTS SOMEONE TO DRAW THIS**

FUN QUESTIONS

Nesta’s favorite smutty book would be JR Ward’s Black Dagger Brotherhood series. She reads these books for the distraction, of course, but also for the comfort they gave her that everything turns out okay for the characters.

Nesta’s Starbucks order: cappuccino- something simple, nothing with too much sugar or whipped cream. Elain’s would be a Frappe- something delicious and sweet. SJM’s is a flat white, iced or not, but never after 2PM.

SJM usually listens to classical music and movie scores while she writes, but she’s gotten used to write in silence so that she can listen for her son’s shenanigans with Josh.

“Stay Together for the Kids” by Blink 182 semi-inspired the scene when Nesta and Cassian go back to her family’s cottage. She can hardly explain why.

WRITING ADVICE

Write what you love, not what you think you should be writing.

Give yourself permission to suck. Her first drafts are shit and are usually accompanied with an email that says “I know I need to fix this, this and that” lol.

WRITE THE DAMN THING. Vomit on the page!

YOU CAN’T FIX A BLANK PAGE.

Her least favorite part about the publishing process is the first pass of copy edits, those last minute checks and balances. But once it’s off to the printer, it’s not her problem anymore.

She’s every publisher’s worst nightmare because she sends it off to the printer at the LAST possible minute.

For reference: Throne of Glass was finished almost... a year and a half? ...before it hit shelves, but ACOSF was finished this past fall.

MAIN CHARACTER TALK

All of her heroines have a piece of her.

SJM’s personality is a hybrid of Bryce and Nesta.

Feyre and Nesta got most of her in terms of learning to be empowered.

She has to have a connection to them in order to write them. It’s an out of body, method acting experience.

MISCELLANEOUS

She said “CC2 is a year from now.”

She started writing ACOTAR in 2008 before she published TOG.

She loves the story and dynamic of Elizabeth and Darcy from Pride and Prejudice. Cassian is Elizabeth. Nesta is Darcy.

And that’s all I have, folks! Thank you for reading, I hope you got something out of this!

#acosf spoilers #acosfspoilers #nessian #nesta archeron #cassian #sarah j maas #live talks

[voiceless-terror]

Something to Talk About (TMA Fic)

Written for @jontim-week Day One: Rumors/Protect, warnings in tags

Rating: T

Words: 3,049

Summary: Jon and Tim deal with workplace rumors.

He’s only at the institute for six months when the rumors start.

Tim understands them, to a degree. He knows he’s liberal with his smiles and quick to charm, naturally affectionate and thinks nothing of an arm around the shoulder or a nudge to the side. Winking comes as easily as breathing. So yeah, he’s aware of how he comes off. People make assumptions, particularly in his case, as he’s been known to swing either way. It’s shitty and stereotypical, but sad to say he’s used to it.

What he doesn’t like, however, is when it involves his friends.

Tim’s friendly with most everyone, but he’s fallen into a group. When he first started, Sasha was assigned to train him and Tim’s not blind. She’s gorgeous, rivaling him in height and an even deadlier smile. She’s smart as a whip, willing to trade (occasionally hurtful) barbs and unafraid to give the bluntest of criticisms. And she’s a little strange too- she can wax poetic on the most esoteric of subjects, and wields her keyboard like a lethal weapon. Tim doesn’t want to know what she’s dug up on him. Sasha James is exactly his type...and very much not interested, despite the one night they spent together. She made it clear it wouldn’t be going any further and though it took time to get over that, he’s lucky to now count her as a friend. 

And Sasha and Jon are a package deal.

They’re an odd pair- Sasha, tall and imposing, Jon, scrawny and anything but. Jon kept to himself, barely spoke a word to Tim apart from a curt introduction, but with Sasha he shared an easy rapport. The two could spend hours debating the finer points of research methods- and if Tim was shocked by Sasha’s blatant disregard for privacy, he was even more so by Jon’s disregard for the law. Tim could spend hours listening to them snark back and forth, not getting a word in edgewise. At first glance he assumed they were dating, but when he tentatively broached the subject with Sasha, he got an almost mocking laugh. “Romance? Not my thing. And it’s very much Jon’s. We would not work out.”  

At first, Jon doesn’t seem interested in anything but work. He nods briskly at Tim as he sits across from him at his desk, occasionally answers a question or includes him on his tea run, but that’s about the extent of it. He stumbles through small talk, showing none of the easy grace and elegance of discussions with Sasha. After a few weeks, though, he opens up a bit more, allowing that deadpan humor to slip into conversations. He smiles (it’s crooked, a tiny thing but so endearing) and he lets out an occasional snort of laughter. He’s an encyclopedia of supernatural knowledge, able to practically recite his favorite passages and always eager to seek out new information. There’s nothing he enjoys more than thoroughly researching and debunking a case, and Tim can respect that. If he’s got a question on an article or a scholar, Jon’s the first one he approaches. He never asks questions, never pries. Tim appreciates that.

The two of them can make Tim genuinely laugh. Something he hasn’t done in the longest time.

They’re seen together more often than not. They’re a trio: if one’s on a case, it means the other two are as well. They’re a great team. So it’s natural that people would start to talk, make assumptions. The rumor mill is out of control; as it turns out, scholars need more than spooks to get them through the day. It starts with a few offhand comments about him and Sasha, ones that Sasha’s quick to shut down, even if there’s some truth to them. She’s never been afraid to speak her mind or come off as rude. It’s a trait Tim finds very admirable. 

But then it turns to him and Jon. 

He’s heard the snickers in the breakroom when they come in together, the arm around Jon’s shoulder mistaken for something beyond platonic familiarity. It’s not that he wouldn’t date Jon- he sees beyond Tim’s veneer, appreciates his intelligence as much as his wit, and isn’t bad looking himself. He’d consider asking him out if Jon weren’t so clearly uninterested in that sort of thing. People must mistake his blushes and stammer for a crush instead of his naturally shy and flustered demeanor. He puts up a good front for the others, scowling and snapping at most who cross his path, but he’s definitely a softie, Tim feels it in the way he leans into his side like a plant starved of sunlight. Jon needs someone in his corner that sees him too. 

So when Tim hears the mocking words in the break room, he loses it.

“Another notch on the bedpost, eh Stoker?” Marcus, the irritant from accounting with a perpetual sneer and permanently wrinkled shirt, says from his seat at the room’s sole table. “Didn’t think Sims was one to put out, but-”

“Shut the fuck up,” Tim snarls, almost dropping his mug as he whirled around and stalked over to him. He’s almost surprised at the venom in the words, but the man took it a step too far. He knows those comments would be incredibly uncomfortable for Jon. And to be honest, he’s a bit pissed on his own behalf- can he not have a friend without someone assuming they’re sleeping together? 

Marcus immediately scoots back the two inches he can in his chair, attempting to hide his fear with a snide smile. It doesn’t work. “Whoa, calm down- didn’t think this was such a touchy subject for the likes of you-” 

“The fucks that supposed to mean?” He takes a step forward, reveling in Marcus’s flinch. Not such a tough guy now, eh? Tim’s not going to hurt him, no matter how much he wants to. But it’s an old wound reopened- he doesn’t need this reputation, and he doesn’t want Jon to go down with him.

“I-I-”

“I hope to god you haven’t said that around him,” he snarls, jabbing a finger in Marcus’s chest. “And you’re going to stop it with this shit before it gets round to him. We aren’t dating, we aren’t fucking. Me and Jon? Not a thing, never have been, never will be. Do you understand me?” Marcus stutters, swallowing nervously. Tim takes a step closer, leans as close as he can and narrows his eyes. “I said-”

“Yes, yes! Christ, I get it!” He puts his hands up in a placating gesture, as if trying to calm a wild animal. He’s scared. Good. “I’ll shut it, alright? Just- back the fuck up.”

Tim stares for a moment, relishing in the man’s fear, before giving Marcus a cheery grin. “Well! As long as we’re understood. See ya around!”

He turns on his heel and walks out, attempting to calm his racing pulse. Tim’s not one for confrontation, he prefers calm discussion over impulsive anger.

Sometimes, however, it gets the job done.

________

And now Jon’s avoiding him.

Well, not really. He still sits at the same desk, gives him his usual morning greeting and answers any work-related questions. But he doesn’t join in on any of their conversations, he dodges any attempt at familiarity that he used to lean into. He skips their lunches with the excuse of being too busy, and barely smiles in Tim’s direction. He didn’t realize how much he relied on that affection until it stopped. It stings.

Maybe someone said something to him, maybe the rumor got around? He’s going to kill Marcus if that’s the case, but when confronted, the man insists he shut up, and Tim’s inclined to believe him, if the ‘I’m going to shit my pants’ look he gave him was any cue. He wants to ask Jon about it, but that could make him more uncomfortable than he already is. If Jon needs space, Tim’s going to give it to him. No matter how much it hurts.

So he goes along with it, starts talking to him less and less, stamps down the urge to crack a joke or throw an arm around his shoulder. Doesn’t ask him to after work drinks. 

That doesn’t stop him from checking in on Jon every so often, leaving a protein bar on the days he works past lunch, bringing him coffee before he gets in and saying it’s from Sasha. They’re at a strange impasse, but Tim’s starting to accept the new routine.

Sasha isn’t.

“Can you two just talk?” She asks one day over shitty sandwiches in the canteen. “I can’t stand this tense atmosphere you’ve got going. What happened?”

Tim sighs, pushes away his plate and runs a hand through his hair. “There were all those rumors going about, remember? I told Marcus to fuck off, but I think Jon caught wind of something, and I don’t want to make him uncomfortable-”

“Are you serious?” Sasha interrupts with a groan and a roll of her eyes. “Make him uncomfortable? Tim, I’ve never seen him happier than when he’s around you. He’s relaxed, he smiles. You don’t know how rare that is. We’ve known each other for two years, and he’s around you for six months and suddenly he can talk about something other than work.”

Tim tries to ignore the flutter in his stomach at the words. He couldn’t have made that much of a difference, Jon would do that with anyone, given the chance to open up. It’s not Tim’s doing. “Well, he’s the one avoiding me! I’m trying to give him space, really-”

“Space? Communicate!” Sasha slaps her hand down on the table with every syllable, startling the few others in the room. “You’re grown men, not children.”

“Communicate?” Tim snorts. “That’s rich, coming from the ice queen herself. You didn’t talk to me for a week after I made fun of that stupid show you love-”

“Time Team was an excellent programme, and I won’t be hearing any more slander.” She stood up, her chair squeaking back with the force of it, and picked up her tray to glare down at him. God, was she good at that. “Either talk to Jon, or I’ll go back to the silent treatment. And I’m great at it.”

Sasha follows through with her threat. She doesn’t talk to him for the rest of the day, studiously ignoring his questions and jokes, at one point propping a book up like a shield. It’s childish. And very effective. 

Looks like he’s going to have to talk to Jon.

______

“Did I do something wrong?” 

Jon jumps at the words, almost dropping the book in his hands. Tim’s managed to corner him in one of the more secluded areas of the library that Jon’s taken a recent liking to. Wonder why, Tim thinks with not a small amount of sarcasm.

Jon takes a step back, blinking innocently. “What?”

“You’ve been avoiding me these past couple of weeks.” Tim leans against a bookshelf, trying to seem nonchalant despite his clear nerves. He doesn’t want to seem threatening or accusatory, and Jon could very easily bolt.  “You never come to lunch, or talk with me and Sash. I just want to know if something’s wrong.”

Jon dodges his gaze as he hugs the book to his chest like a shield. “I-I don’t know what you mean.” Tim heaves a sigh; he’s going to have to be more blunt. Jon clearly wants to avoid the conversation, but he’s always responded better to clear phrasing and direct questions.

“Look, I don’t know what rumors you’ve been hearing,” Tim runs a hand through his hair nervously, carefully choosing his words. “But if I’m doing anything that makes you uncomfortable-”

“Me?” Jon lets out an incredulous laugh that gives Tim pause. “No- I - I thought I was making you uncomfortable.”

Tim stares. This was not a possibility he prepared for when practicing in front of the mirror. How could Jon think that? Was it something he said? Did? Now he’s running through their interactions, trying to pinpoint a time where he might have seemed cold or distant.

“B-Being clingy, I don’t know.” If Jon hugs that book any harder, it’s liable to break. “Getting too close, getting the wrong idea. I know you don’t like me in that way, and I didn’t want you to have to deal with those rumors. That’s not fair.”

“What?” Clingy? Now that’s a word he never thought he would hear applied to Jon.

“I heard you. W-With Marcus. In the break room.” Jon bit his lip, a habit Tim always chided him on. He controls the urge to do it now. “You seemed so mad. And I didn’t want to be the cause of any more rumors for you, so I thought it best to...well, avoid you.”

Tim squints at him in confusion. Jon thinks he’s protecting Tim. The thought is both amusing and heartwarming, and he doesn’t know what to do with it. “I mean- yes, I was mad about that, but I...I didn’t want you to have to hear that. I know how uncomfortable that shit makes you, and Marcus is an ass- he won’t let up until you put him in his place. Besides, I don’t care about that dick and whatever he thinks. I care about you.”

“O-Oh,” Jon mumbles, looking to the ground and shuffling his feet. He opens and closes his mouth a few times, as if trying to find the courage to voice his thoughts. When he finally speaks, his voice is barely audible. “It’s j-just...you made it sound so awful.”

Tim’s face softens. “Made what sound awful?”

“...Dating me.” Oh.

“Oh, Jon.” The mumbled words tug at his heartstrings. he really didn’t think Jon cared about all of that, but the man does have feelings. Tim could see how the words would hurt, and the vehemence he said them with probably didn’t help. He takes a tentative step forward, like he’s approaching a spooked animal, but Jon accepts the hand reaches for his shoulder, still not meeting his eyes. “That’s not what I meant. Anyone would be lucky to have you-”

“But not you.” 

Tim freezes and Jon shuts his eyes tightly, as if waiting for a blow that won’t ever come. He shrugs off Tim’s hand and starts to back away. “I’m sorry, forget I said anything-”

“Hang on,” Tim starts, gazing at the trembling man in front of him as a thought suddenly occurs. He doesn’t- he couldn’t- “What was that?”

“I-I-”

Tim takes a step closer. Jon doesn’t move. “Do you- did you like me?”

“Yes! No! I-I don’t know!” He reaches up to run a hand through his hair, wincing as it gets stuck in his messy bun. Tim would’ve laughed if he weren’t also spiraling. “But you clearly don’t like me, and that’s fine-”

“Why didn’t you say something?” Jon liked him. And Tim- Tim could’ve done something about it. “We could’ve-”

“I did!” Jon cries out, waving his book emphatically. “I asked you out and you said no! Months ago.”

Tim pauses. Huh? He runs back through as many conversations as he can remember, trying to think of any occasion where Jon might have asked him out, and comes up blank. Tim’s not that oblivious. “Okay, you’re going to have to help me out here. When exactly did this happen?”

“Back in December,” Jon says, as if talking to a child. “I told you about that new bookstore that opened near my flat.”

“..Okay.” He vaguely remembers Jon enthusing about this, but not very clearly. 

“They have a cat there, too.” Ah, now he remembers. Jon’s face always lights up when he talks about felines, and he’s seen more than a few pictures of a fat tabby on his phone. It’s adorable.

“I’m following.”

“And how they had a fairly comprehensive history section.” Another beat. Jon’s looking at Tim like he’s supposed to be getting the picture. He is not. “And the café next door. That sold the chai lattes you like.”

“I do like a latte.”

“And then you said, and I quote! “Sounds like your scene.” and turned back to your desk.” Jon crosses his arms, triumphantly. Apparently, he’s proven a point. Tim does not see this, and he’s pretty sure Jonathan Sims is the most infuriating man he’s ever met in his life. 

“Jon, there wasn’t a single question in that statement. You just monologued about a bookstore-”

“The question was implied!”

“Oh my god-” 

“And you turned around, and it seemed like you weren’t interested and I-I didn’t think I could handle if you said that to my face so I just- I dropped it, okay? It’s fine.” At this Jon loses all momentum, hunching his shoulders as if trying to disappear. He most certainly doesn’t look fine. 

And Tim’s going to change that.

“All this time,” he begins dramatically. Jon deserves a bit of theater. “All this time, we could’ve been going to bookstores, and having lattes, and-”

Jon’s head shoots up, his eyes going comically wide. “What?”

“What I’m trying to say,” Tim puts a hand on his hip, gives him the Stoker Smirk. Jon gulps. “Is the offer still on the table? Bookstore cat and all?” He watches as Jon gapes at him, suddenly fumbling with his book, as if suppressing a little stim of the hands.

“R-Really?”

“Course. Unlike some of us, I can ask a man a question.” Jon blushes even as he scowls. Tim’s looking forward to seeing more of that. “Whaddya say?”

“I-I’d like that.” He watches as Jon tucks a strand of hair behind his ear, suddenly demure. He hazards a glance up at Tim and lets out a little laugh. “I’m a bit of an idiot, aren’t I?”

“No more than I am,” Tim replies, throwing an arm around his shoulder and remembering just how right it feels to have Jon nestled against his side. He missed that. “Now, what’s the cat's name?”

“Spoons!” Jon perks up, his smile widening. “I think you’ll really like him.”

The rumor mill is gonna have a field day with this one. And for once, Tim doesn’t mind.

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30061116

#tma #the magnus archive #jonathan sims #tim stoker #jontim #jontimweek #cw biphobia #implied/insinuated at least #my first work for the week! #a bit rough but i did want to get something out #day one #my writing #precanon

[pappydaddy]

tolerate it (p.w.)

A/N: I got tolerate it done! I have been wanting to write this one since I started this collection and I am so happy to have finished it this is one of my favourite songs from Evermore! I also somehow had this take another course while I was writing this and I accidentally connected it to another fic I am writing for this collection (evermore) so I have altered evermore's description to fit it. I just felt this chemistry as I was writing these characters and it just kinda happened. I also thew in a little easter egg relating to ivy in there - I just couldn't help myself because the opportunity was right there.

I want to let it be known that this is not Percy slander, it is just how this fic ended up. Percy is very career driven and he also cares about how he looks and his image and that is shown in this fic.

Anywho, I know there are a lot of people out there waiting on requests and they are coming, just very slowly. I have not had much time to work on writing because of school, but I will get your requests out eventually! However, I hope you lovelies can enjoy this in the meantime💛!

Paring: Percy Weasley x Fem!Reader, a bit of Charlie Weasley x fem!Reader (too much chemistry to deny honestly)

Show/Movie: Harry Potter

Not Requested

Taglist: @sarcasticallywitty15​

No Voldemort AU, no corrupt Ministry (other than everyday corruption. NOT PERCY SLANDER, JUST CHARACTERIZATION (EXPLAINED ABOVE)

Warnings: Loneliness, breaking up, sadness, angst.

masterlist | taglist | wips | navigation

*I COULD NOT GET A GIF - I AM SORRY BUT THERE are ABSOLUTELY NO PERCY GIFS AVAILABLE TO ME😭*

The sound of silence swirled in the room with the dust that floated in the golden rays of sunlight. For something so present in her life these days, Y/N was still not used to the painful silence. She sat on the cushioned couch in Percy’s study, a book laid open on her lap, her hands folded, her back straight. She never used to sit like that, she always thought people who did look like they were always trying to hide something. But, then again, she never used to think she’d be sitting in the same room as her fiancé while feeling like she was millions of kilometres away from him. She lifted her eyes slowly, trailing over the beautifully crafted hardwood floor, over the red and gold rug (that matched the decor of the room), they danced along the dark wood of Percy’s desk. They finally stopped when they landed on his flaming red hair as it shined in the afternoon sunlight. Her head lifted as she studied him. Hunched over his papers, he scribbled furiously. “Percy, dear,” She cleared her throat when her voice came out more mousey than she expected. Percy hummed, not lifting his head from his work. “I was thinking we could go to town today, shop around for some more things for your brother’s visit?”

“Why? Charlie will be fine with everything we have in the guest room.” Percy grunted, dipping his quill in the ink-pot. Y/N pursed her lips, setting the book on the cushion beside her.

“Well, maybe we could get different soap for the ensuite? Maybe some relaxing candles, stuff so he can draw himself a bath,” She suggested, folding her hands back in her lap. “I’m sure he will be tired from coming all the way here from Romania. He’s not used to England time anymore.”

“Charlie doesn’t need all that, besides, it’s not like he’ll have time to relax. Once he’s here, we’ve got to get right to work,” He shook his head as he read over the new paper in his hands. “We’ve got lots of work to do,” He paused, his eyes finally looking at her, but only to flick over her seated form. “You would understand if you were still working.” He jabbed.

Y/N nodded, rolling her lips as she let the comment slide off her back, not thinking too much about his quip, just like she did with the others. “Well, we should still get him something nice, welcome him into our house.”

“I can’t go to town, Y/N, I have to get this done. You can go if you think it to be so important.”

“But I thought it would be nice to go together. It is a beautiful Saturday and those aren’t due for another week-“ She tried to explain, but the sound of Percy angrily throwing his quill against the table cut her off, startling her.

“I can’t just run off to town on a whim. Now if you can’t sit in here quietly then you can go read in another room or something, I don’t care what you do as long as I can get some peace and quiet.” He exploded, gesturing his hand aggressively towards the closed door to his study. She silently looked at the door.

“Sorry, I’ll leave you alone.” She whispered, grabbing the book and raising from the vision, remembering the lecture Percy had given her last time she didn’t put her book back before leaving a room. On her way to the door, she gently laid the book on one of the built-in bookshelves, not even looking at it. Instead, she kept her eyes forward, not wanting to look at Percy as he bowed his head back down to scribble on the paper. The door opened with a creak as Y/N slid out into the large and empty hall. Softly, she rested her weight on the door till it shut. Heaving out a sigh, she let her head fall back against the beautifully crafted white door, the identical one beside her jiggling when the other locked into it with a click.

Living with Percy was not what she thought it would be. When she was just a naive schoolgirl, they talked of having a decent house with a cozy feel, the rooms filled with laughter and the warmth of family, nights spent by the crackling fire with hushed voices and tender touches. The memories of the daydreams she had looked like a fairytale, conjured up from the mind of a foolish girl who thought happy endings were real. Now, she was alone in this grand house, the rooms and halls feeling cold with the only sound being the echoes of her footsteps. Heaving a sigh, she pushed herself off the door and made her way to get ready to go to town.

____

The melody of classical music filled the room as it was bathed in the orange and pink hues of the setting sun. Y/N sat in the armchair by the fire, watching the flames licking the stone, the black smoke swirling up into the chimney. Percy sat in the chair across from her, a book open in his hands, his head bowed low. Many nights in the Common Room were spent like these, Percy’s nose in a book as they sat by the warm fire. It looked almost the exact same as those nights to anyone else who had witnessed them, but Y/N could tell the difference. Now, the fire felt just as cold at the space between them, gone were the soft touches, the stroke of Percy’s thumb against Y/N’s hand, the feeling of his side pressed against her side, the comfortable silence. Y/N missed it all, but the thing she missed the most were the glances that left her smiling and blushing while a storm of butterflies raged in her stomach. Now, she just sat watching him read with his head low, noticing every little thing he does and doesn’t do.

“Percy,” Charlie’s gruff voice spoke, speaking over the cracks of the fire and breaking the verbal silence. Percy looked up from his book, his eyes not even glancing at Y/N in their path to look at Charlie entering the sitting room. Y/N softly turned her head to look at Charlie who took a seat on the empty couch. “I just thought of something that we should talk about in tomorrow's meeting.” He informed him.

“Just one second, Charlie,” Percy interrupted him before he could continue, his finger in the air as he turned his eyes to Y/N sitting across from him. She already knew what he was going to say before the words tumbled out of his mouth. “Y/N, would you excuse us, we have to discuss business and you have no need to be here while we do that.” He finally spoke to her for the first time since dinner. She nodded, standing from the chair and smoothing the back of her dress.

“She doesn’t need to go, the house is far too cold for her not to be near a fire and there isn’t one made anywhere else but my room.” Charlie insisted, catching Y/N’s forearm as she went to walk by the couch, heading for the grand archway leading to the dark hall.

“Nonsense, she can make one with her wand in the bedroom,” Percy waved him off. Y/N bit her bottom lip, looking back at Percy. “What are you looking at me for? You know how to start a fire, I know you’re two years younger than me, but they still taught you the same things as they taught me in Hogwarts.”

“I know how to do it, but I can’t. My wand broke when I slipped on ice in town a couple of days ago, I haven’t been able to run to Diagon Alley to get it fixed yet, remember?” She reminded him meekly, not wanting the same reprimanding she had received when she had told him the first time. Percy tutted, rolling his eyes as he remembered, gently closing the book still in his hands and setting it beside his leg, sticking into the gap between the cushion and the armrest of the chair.

“Ah, yes, I remember now. It’s laying on your dresser snapped practically in half. How many times do I have to tell you not to take your wand when it is icy out? How many wands do you need to break before you realize that,” He lectured as if she was a child. “Very well, wait outside the doorway and I’ll come to start a fire for you.” He heaved out a sigh, beckoning her away with a flick of his hand. Nodding, she went to walk away, but Charlie had not let go of her, instead, he tightened his hold, keeping her in place.

She looked down at him, her lips parted slightly in shock as he glared at his younger brother before looking up at her. “You can just go in my room while Percy and I talk then I will come get you and we can go and start a fire for you in your room.” Charlie informed her in such a way that told her she was not going to argue with him. Nodding silently, she pulled her arm free from his now loose grip and exited the room as it fell silent with tense air between the brothers, her heels clicking on the hardwood and the cracks of the fire being the only sound.

They must have waited until they couldn’t hear her heel clicks anymore before starting to talk since she didn’t hear a single sound coming from the room as she walked down the dark hall, the only light coming from the flicking flames of the candles lining the hallway. She sighed, pushing Charlie’s door open and slipping to the room. She didn’t even notice how cold she was until she stepped into the warm room, she relaxed into the warmth, closing the door behind her to trap the heat in. Making her way over to the armchair stationed in front of the roaring fire, she watched the flames just like she had done in the other room, thinking. All she did was sit in silence, try to live alongside Percy without messing up and making him lecture her. She didn’t understand it. She couldn’t understand how this Percy was the same Percy who stayed up late in the Common Room to talk to her about the scars of her past and soothed each and every one of them, laying soft blankets over the barbed wire of her heart so she could escape and finally love.

She jumped slightly when the door creaked open. Startled, she looked up to see Charlie walking into the room, closing the door behind him again. “Sorry to startle you, I didn’t know you were so deep in thought.” Charlie apologized, sitting in the other armchair across from her.

“It is okay, Charlie,” She told him, moving to stand but he held a hand out to signal her to stop. Obeying him immediately as if he was Percy, she settled back in her chair, sitting posed with her hands folded delicately in her lap, nervous as to why he seemed so stern, assuming she was going to have to listen to another lecture. “Are we not going to start a fire in the master bedroom?” She asked quietly when he didn’t answer, only dropping his hand back to his thigh with a slap, shaking his head.

“No, not yet. I want to talk to you first.” He told her.

“Oh-” She trailed off, her eyes casting down to the rug under their feet before back up at him, confused. “About what? If it is about getting Percy to mention something in the meeting for you, he doesn’t let me talk about work with him-”

“It’s not about Percy, not entirely,” He cut her off, leaning towards her with narrowed eyes as he studied her. She gulped, leaning away, unsure of what he was doing. “You’ve changed,” He mused, leaning back in the chair after concluding his study of her, his eyes still burning into her as she shifted. She knew she changed, it was not hard to tell that she has changed. “You used to stand up for yourself, make yourself known. You were never the doting housewife type of person, but yet here you are, being treated like a child by your fiancé. Why?”

She shrugged, dropping her eyes to the floor. “People change. Percy is so mature and wise, he must be right so that means I should listen to him, he knows best.” She whispered, not believing a word she said. Percy was mature and wise, much older than her, but she knew that he was not right about how he treated her.

“I don’t believe that, but it’s late and you should get some sleep,” He stood, prompting her to stand as well, hurriedly as if she would be scolded for not being prompt enough. “I excused myself from the meeting tomorrow and I am taking you to Diagon Alley. So you have to be up, we are spending the day there and eating supper there as well, which gives you a break from the house chores and Percy commenting on how dirty the plates are or how you set the table wrong, or your cooking. Might even swing by and visit Fred and George’s shop, must have lots to talk to you about, those two.” He told her as he walked to the door, her following behind him silently.

“What about Percy, is he still holding the meeting? He must be mad about you cancelling on him.” She asked nervously as he led her through the darkened halls, the candles having been extinguished, the only light coming from the winter moonlight streaming in through the grand windows.

“He got an urgent letter from the Ministry, he had to leave immediately for an emergency, probably be gone tonight and most of tomorrow.” Charlie told her, opening her bedroom that she shared with Percy.

“I hope everything is okay, it must be very important for him to be called away at a time like this.” She commented, shivering as she stepped into the room that seemed to be even colder than the frozen hall.

“Nothing to worry too much about, I am sure it is just a vermin issue and he has to try to contact someone to tend to it. I think he muttered something about Flesh-eating slugs actually,” He didn’t even look at her as he flicked his wand at the fireplace, igniting the wood that laid stacked in it. Something about how he spoke told her that he wasn’t telling the truth and Percy hadn’t been called away, instead, having stormed off to the office. He pocketed his wand, turning to look at her as she stood in the middle of the room, the glow of the fire lightning it. “I will leave you this to sleep on,” He paused, walking to the door while still looking at her. “The sanctuary is looking for a new magizoologist with an extensive knowledge in herbology.”

____

Y/N walked out of Ollivander’s with her new wand encased safely in the box which was in a bag dangling from the crook of her elbow. Charlie walked out behind her, letting the door fall shut after they said bye to Ollivander. “Okay, now that you’ve got your wand, let’s pop into the Twin’s shop.” Charlie suggested, pointing to the brightly pained shop with the giant, animated man. She looked up as she slipped her knotted coin bag back into her pocket, taking in the shop.

“Sure I haven’t seen the shop in a while. I just never have time to come here. Not with all the chores I have to do around the house.” She shrugged, stuffing her gloved hands into the pockets of her travelling cloak.

“What on earth does my brother have you doing that takes up all your time?” Charlie questioned as they started to slowly make their way down the crowded street, taking their time and enjoying the feeling of walking through the snowy alley. Y/N shrugged again, her eyes looking down at the snow-covered cobblestone, the white fluff packed into the cracks of the cobblestone.

“I mostly clean around the house, but I have to do it a certain way, if I do not, I end up having to listen to Percy’s comments about how much he tolerates.” She told him as they neared the front door of the joke shop, Charlie pulling the door open, letting her go in first as he scoffed at her comment, but he didn’t say anything. Y/N ignored Charlie, looking around the busy story, watching as fireworks whizzed around, ducking as one came right at her head.

“Let’s see what Fred and George think of how he’s treating you,” Charlie hummed, gently leading her farther into the shop so that he could close the door, cutting the cold winter wind off. “There’s one of them now.” He pointed to the tall ginger who was talking to a young customer, nabbing a product from the top of the tall shelf. Before she could protest, Charlie was walking around her and approaching the twin with long strides.

Scurrying after him, she caught up just in time for the twin to turn around, the child scampering off elsewhere to browse. “Ah, Charlie, my dear brother. To what do we owe the pleasure of you gracing our shop too,” The twin exclaimed, a feeling of joy and fun surrounding them as they spent more time in the store. “And Y/N, the future Mrs. Percy Weasley. Good to see you, Madam.” He bowed to her extravagantly, making Y/N looked around the shop with reddened cheeks, hoping nobody saw his little show.

“Hi, George,” Y/N greeted, recognizing the voice. Appearance-wise, she had a hard time telling them apart, but as soon as they talked, she was able to pinpoint just which twin was in front of her without fail. George nodded at the greeting, standing right as Fred wandered over to the group leisurely. “Fred.” Y/N greeted him first, his hands in his pockets, making his suit jacket flare out, being a picture of laid-back.

“Good morning, Y/N,” He nodded to her before nodding to his older brother. “Charlie. What can we do for you today?” He posed the same question his twin had, looking between the pair he never thought he would see grace his shop together. Charlie shrugged, looking at the shelf next to him, poking a box.

“Just popped in to take a peek and get your opinions on a topic we were just discussing,” Charlie told them, jamming his hands into his jacket pockets, looking back to his tall brothers. “Percy.”

“And what about our dear brother?” Fred asked, rolling onto the balls of his feet then rocking back onto his heels. Y/N shook her head at Charlie, fairly annoyed with his mission. She knew everything he was saying, they were all thoughts she already held in her head, but how could she leave Percy after all the love that they held for one another. That love had to still be there, it couldn’t just disappear suddenly.

“Has Y/N changed in the past two years?” Charlie blurted out, confusing the two pranksters in front of him, making them share puzzled looks before looking at Charlie again.

“Yeah, but what does that have to do with Percy?” George wondered.

“Look, yes, I have changed, but Percy has to still love me,” She directed the comment to Charlie, leaving Fred and George to look at each other, questioning what was going on. “All that love couldn’t have just disappeared. We love each other and while life is not how I pictured it, I do not see why I have to do anything to change it. If Percy thinks life should be like that, then he must be right.” She expressed.

“Tell us, Y/N, what life had you pictured?” Charlie asked, crossing his arms over his chest as he instantly knew this would win the argument for him. Y/N shrugged, thinking, her eyes drifting around the store as she thought back to the visions she fell asleep to. The stories she thought would be a reality, but now know that they were just fairytales of a naive girl.

“I guess I always pictured Percy and I sitting on a couch in front of a warm fire, him reading a book out loud. We would share soft touches as we both relaxed after a long day at work. The house would be warm and lively, heated by our love for each other as we did daily activities together like cooking,” She paused, her eyes dancing along the ceiling as fireworks fizzled out overhead. She watched the once bright colours flicker and sputter before going out, leaving a trail of grey smoke swirling into the air. “He would do great things in the Ministry, building up the Wizarding World and I would be making strides in the Magizoologist field,” She sighed, looking back at the three men. “But I guess, somewhere along the way, now he’s building his career and I am just sitting at home, trying to make sure everything is perfect for him all the time.” She trailed off, hanging her head as she thought it through.

“Personally, I don’t see how your life now can compare to the life you pictured.” George spoke up.

“Of course it is incomparable, but life never goes as planned. What I wanted and what I am supposed to have are two very different things,” She agreed. “Besides, it’s not how the world works, I am just naive and childish, Percy tells me that all the time.” Fred shook his head, pointing between himself and his twin.

“No, no. We are childish, you were never naive and childish. You had dreams and an idea of how you wanted your life.” Fred told her, oddly wise and serious for him. George nodded along, silently agreeing. Huffing, Y/N’s tongue flicked out, swiping along her drying lips. Glancing at Charlie, she saw him looking at her, a look in his eye telling her to believe them. She found herself trusting his eyes, staying locked in his gaze until she came to her senses and darted her eyes back to the ceiling.

“It isn’t too late to have your dream life, Y/N,” Charlie spoke softly. Y/N could feel his eyes on her still, but she ignored it and continued to look at the ceiling where fireworks once were zooming around, darting towards the shelves, fizzing and sparking with beautiful colours. “You just have to talk to Percy if you always pictured him in your life. You can have the life you pictured, what you want and what you are supposed to have are not two different things.” He told her.” She listened to his words. She could do it. She could remove the painful dagger he had jabbed into her dreams and pull it out if she had to.

“I’ll talk to him.” She nodded, looking back over at Charlie who smiled at her, proud that she had finally listened. She found the corners of her lips turning up into a smile as she gazed into his eyes, feeling a weight lifting off her shoulders and chest. Just then, pops and fizzes were heard overhead, making her look up, seeing the bright colours swirling around the ceiling before each of them whizzed off elsewhere in the shop.

“Well, that means it is a new hour-” Fred started, looking up at the new fireworks speeding through the store, dodging one that almost hit him.

“Lunchtime.” George finished, also gazing at the fireworks.

“Well, we best be heading to lunch, we’ve got lots to discuss and do today,” Charlie nodded to his brothers who started a game of rock, paper, scissors to see who would take their lunch first. “I’ll see you at Y/N’s and Percy’s tomorrow night for the family dinner before I leave?” He asked them, earning nods and a frustrated grunt from Fred when George beat him in the first game.

“See you guys.” Y/N waved as they started a new round. Charlie and her turning around to make their way out of the shop, walking back out into the bitter cold. Y/N couldn’t help but let her destined conversation with Percy weigh on her mind.

____

Y/N collected the dirty plates as Percy talked to Bill about Ministry business, the others having migrated to the living room after Y/N had denied help, the only one who insisted passed her stubbornness and actually forced her to let him help was Charlie who took it upon himself to clean and put the dishes back. “Here, dear, let me take those into the kitchen for you.” Molly marched back into the dining room, hands out ready to grab the stack of dishes from Y/N.

“You do not need to help, Molly, you are our guest, I am more than capable.” She insisted politely, adding another plate to the stack. It was one of their fancier sets, not that any of their sets weren’t fancy, but these ones were the more expensive set that they used for family gatherings.

“Nonsense dear, you can’t take all of these dishes without your wand. I’ll clear the table and you can go search for it.” Molly waved her hand at the young woman, forcefully grabbing the stacks of plates from her hands.

“Did you lose your brand new wand already?” Percy asked her, cutting off his conversation once his mother was in the kitchen. Y/N looked to him, shrinking back under his judgemental gaze, folding into herself as if she was a child being scolded.

“I had it in the bedroom while I was getting ready, I left it on the bed to go into the bathroom, but it was gone when I got back,” She explained, but he just huffed, rolling his eyes at her, muttering under his breath, clearly embarrassed she had been so foolish in front of his family. “I honestly think it got wrapped up in the sheets, I am sure I will find it when it is time to go to bed.” She spoke up.

“I am very sorry for her immaturity, Bill,” Percy apologized. “Y/N, could you go wait in the kitchen while I finish up with Bill then I’ll call you back in.” He told her. Nodding, she bowed her head, walking through the doorway leading to the kitchen. Molly and Charlie looked at her, but she simply waited outside of the doorway, trying not to listen to Percy and Bill talking.

“What are you doing,” She jumped when Charlie appeared beside her, his present startling her. “Sorry,” He apologized, drying his hands on one of the dishtowels as the dishes continued to watch themselves in the sink, Molly leaving the room to get more dishes from the table. “But what are you doing?”

“Waiting for Percy to be done, he wants to talk about me losing my wand,” She told him. Charlie groaned, tossing the towel to the counter messily, giving her a look. “I know, I know,” She muttered, knowing what he was thinking. “I need to talk to him, but I am not talking to him right before a huge family dinner nor am I talking to him while you’re here.” She told him, turning around as he walked farther into the kitchen, starting to put the dishes away as they placed themselves into the rack after drying themselves.

“That means you’re going to talk to him tomorrow after I leave, right?” He asked, not noticing Fred and George walking into the kitchen in search of more food, the pair stopping to listen to the conversation.

“Yes, at some point tomorrow I will talk to him. For now, I can survive this treatment for another night, besides, I want to put the conversation off because what if it’s the end of Percy and I? Am I really ready for that possibility? What if there is still love buried under this mess?” She worried, watching as he moved through the kitchen to place the dishes back, having already figured out the layout in the short time he was there. She was amazed at how quick he was to adapt to change.

“I guess then that is the difference between the life you picture and the life you are meant to have, there are things that just do not work out because they are holding you back from your dream. If this conversation is the end of you and Percy then it is the end.” Charlie shrugged, stopping what he was doing as the dishes started to lag behind. She hummed nervously, twisting her fingers as she shifted.

“Y/N, could you come in here for a moment?” Percy called to her. With one last look shared between her and Charlie, she turned, nearly bumping into George in the process, not realizing he was in the room. He smiled down at her, moving out of her way as Fred wandered up to Charlie, patting him on his back.

“You and I aren’t that different, are we Charlie-boy? Both trying to break up engagements.” He spoke, but something told Y/N she was not meant to hear that.

“I’m not trying to break up with engagement, Fred, that’s ridiculous-” She couldn’t hear what else Charlie was saying as she walked into the dining room again, spotting Percy sitting in the same spot, his hands folded on the clean table in front of him, Molly walking into the kitchen, smiling as she passed her, clearly unaware she was going to be lectured by her son.

“Really, Percy, I know where my wand is, I just didn’t have enough time to actually look for it in the sheets.” She told him, taking a seat at the table, a few spots down the head he sat at, his cold eyes on her. She gulped, shifting in her seat as she folded her hands in her lap, angling her body to look at him better.

“You couldn’t have told me you lost your wand? I could have found it and spared us being embarrassed in front of my family,” He questioned, exasperated. “You know, I know I saw this a lot, but I really do tolerate so much from you. Please, for the love of Merlin, next time think about how we appear to others before you tell people that you lost your brand new wand. I mean, how clumsy are you? First, you break one and now you lost one.” He shook his head, standing up, his chair scraping against the hardwood floor.

“I really am sorry, Molly was asking and I couldn’t lie to her,” She insisted, standing up herself. “Where are you going, is this the end of the conversation, I don’t even get to defend myself?” She asked as he walked towards the archway leading to the hall. He paused, looking over his shoulder at her.

“I have to go do damage control so that we are not the laughing stock of the family. Why don’t you go and work on the dishes with Charlie?” He suggested in a way that told her to just listen to him. Not wanting to put him into a worse mood than he already was, she obeyed, making her way back into the kitchen where Charlie worked at putting the dishes away again, the twins had left, obviously taking the hallway back to the sitting room.

“Hey, I know this might not be the time, but I just realized that I might not be able to return for Christmas again this year so I wanted to take this opportunity to say Happy Christmas to you.” Charlie said when he heard her walking in, looking over his shoulder as he placed a glass back into its spot.

“Happy Christmas, Charlie.” She returned the festive greeting solemnly, making Charlie give her a concerned look before deciding not to ask any questions, clearly seeing that she was too wrapped up in her head to listen to him pester her. Instead, he went back to putting the dishes back, glancing at her every few minutes.

____

The house had returned to its normal silence once again, leaving Y/N sitting alone in the sitting room, waiting for Percy to get home from the Ministry. She twisted her fingers together, staring at the flames in the fireplace, heating the room. Looking up as she heard the door to their house opening, she stood, rushing through the sitting room to look out into the hall, seeing Percy shrugging off his cloak and setting his briefcase down. “Percy,” She spoke softly, gaining his attention. He hummed, looking up at her as he untied his shoes. “Could you come in here a moment, I have to talk to you about something.” She asked him rather nervously.

“Of course, just a moment while I change my shoes, I don’t want to track snow into the house,” He told her, grabbing another pair of shoes to slip on. She nodded, ducking back into the sitting room and making her way back over to the sofa, taking her spot back. The thought of this conversation being the end of her relationship with him weighed in her mind, but after spending the day all by herself for the first time in a week, she realized how it already felt that it was over between them for the longest time. She wasn’t able to think too much about it anymore as Percy walked into the room, rubbing his hands together and blowing into them, trying to warm himself up. “What do you need to talk about?” He asked her, standing in front of the fireplace, holding his hands out to it.

“I want my dream life,” She blurted out, not giving herself a chance to chicken out. Gulping, she watched as he glanced over his shoulder at her in confusion. “I want to go back to work and I want to know if you still love me.” She continued, throwing the plan she had rehearsed for this conversation out the window.

“Of course I still love you-”

“Really? Because it seems to me that I am just a burden that you tolerate and I should not just be tolerated, I should be celebrated and shown love, but all you do is make comments and roll your eyes as if I am a child,” She ranted, the words just pouring out, easing the pressure she didn’t know she had weighing down on her chest. “I want to be loved and appreciated, not banished to doorways and shooed out of rooms. I want to be able to live, I want to be relevant in someone else's life, I want to make a name for myself, not just making it into the footnotes of your success story,” She paused, looking lifting her eyes from the floor, looking at him to see him fully turned towards her, his mouth hanging open as he blinked at her. “And I so desperately want to know that there is still love between us because you were who I imagined in my perfect life. Please,” She choked on unshed tears, feeling the tell-tale lump in her throat, blocking the words from leaving her mouth. “Please tell me that this is all in my head and that there is a flame still burning in the depths of this darkness.” She pleaded, a few tears slipping down her cold cheeks.

She was silent, the only noise coming from her were the sniffles as she tried to not let out the sobs and cries she was holding back. He stayed silent as well, his eyes stuck to the floor under his feet, not wanting to meet her eyes. A sob slipped past her lips as she realized what the silence meant, but part of her didn’t want to believe it. “If you don’t tell me it is possible for us to love each other still, then I will have no problem taking this dagger you jabbed through my heart out, leaving the idea of us bleeding out on this coffee table if that meant I could have my dream life,” She was fully prepared now to leave him, to dump the weight of him off her shoulders. “Believe me, Percy Weasley, I can do it if you do not tell me that I somehow got this all wrong,” She gave him another opportunity to speak up, to fight for her, but he remained silent, still not lifting his eyes to meet her. Just then, she knew that she could not deny it anymore and her heart shattered with the force compared to the killing curse, breaking into millions of little, tiny pieces as she realized that there was no more love and he was just tolerating her to save face. “Well, I guess this belongs to you again,” She whispered, pulling the engagement ring off her finger, gently laying it on the clean coffee table, standing up. “I already had my things ready in case this happened so this is goodbye, Percy.” She kept her eyes on him, hoping that he would lift his eyes from the floor finally and tell her to stay, that he did love her still, but he didn’t. He remained just as silent and cold as the house they were in. He gave her no other choice but to walk out of the room and walk out of this life, now free from the dagger in her heart and the weight of him crushing down on her, free from him only tolerating her.

#pappydaddy's writing #pappydaddy #folklore #evermore #taylor swift #tolerate it #tolerate it by taylor swift #folklore/evermore collection #percy weasley #percy weasley x fem!reader #percy weasley imagines #percy weasley imagine #percy weasley prefernce #percy weasley headcanon #percy weasley x y/n #harry potter #charlie weasley #charlie weasley x fem!reader #fred weasely #george wealey #molly weasley #bill weasley #hp imagines #harry potter imagines #harry potter preferences #percy #weasley

[justforbooks]

The many lives of John le Carré, in his own words.

An exclusive extract from his new memoir, The Pigeon Tunnel.

How I write

If you’re ever lucky enough to score an early success as a writer, as happened to me with The Spy Who Came in from the Cold, for the rest of your life there’s a before-the-fall and an after-the-fall. You look back at the books you wrote before the searchlight picked you out and they read like the books of your innocence; and the books after it, in your low moments, like the strivings of a man on trial. ‘Trying too hard’ the critics cry. I never thought I was trying too hard. I reckoned I owed it to my success to get the best out of myself, and by and large, however good or bad the best was, that was what I did.

And I love writing. I love doing what I’m doing at this moment, scribbling away like a man in hiding at a poky desk on a black clouded early morning in May, with the mountain rain scuttling down the window and no excuse for tramping down to the railway station under an umbrella because the International New York Times doesn’t arrive until lunchtime.

I love writing on the hoof, in notebooks on walks, in trains and cafés, then scurrying home to pick over my booty. When I am in Hampstead there is a bench I favour on the Heath, tucked under a spreading tree and set apart from its companions, and that’s where I like to scribble. I have only ever written by hand. Arrogantly perhaps, I prefer to remain with the centuries-old tradition of unmechanized writing. The lapsed graphic artist in me actually enjoys drawing the words.

I love best the privacy of writing. On research trips, I am partially protected by having a different name in real life. I can sign into hotels without anxiously wondering whether my name will be recognised, then, when it isn’t, anxiously wondering why not. When I’m obliged to come clean with the people whose experience I want to tap, results vary. One person refuses to trust me another inch, the next promotes me to chief of the secret service and, over my protestations that I was only ever the lowest form of secret life, replies that I would say that, wouldn’t I? There are many things I am disinclined to write about ever, just as there are in anyone’s life. I have been neither a model husband nor a model father, and am not interested in appearing that way. Love came to me late, after many missteps. I owe my ethical education to my four sons. Of my work for British intelligence, performed mostly in Germany, I wish to add nothing to what is already reported by others, inaccurately, elsewhere. In this I am bound by vestiges of old-fashioned loyalty to my former services, but also by undertakings I gave to the men and women who agreed to collaborate with me. It was understood between us that the promise of confidentiality would be subject to no time limit, but extend to their children and beyond. The work we engaged in was neither perilous nor dramatic, but it involved painful soul-searching on the part of those who signed up to it. Whether today these people are alive or dead, the promise of confidentiality holds.

Spying was forced on me from birth much in the way, I suppose, that the sea was forced on CS Forester or India on Paul Scott. Out of the secret world I once knew, I have tried to make a theatre for the larger worlds we inhabit. First comes the imagining, then the search for the reality. Then back to the imagining, and to the desk where I’m sitting now.

My Father: conman and inspiration

It took me a long while to get on writing terms with Ronnie, conman, fantasist, occasional jailbird, and my father. From the day I made my first faltering attempts at a novel, he was the one I wanted to get to grips with, but I was light years away from being up to the job. My earliest drafts of what eventually became A Perfect Spy dripped with self-pity: cast your eye, gentle reader, upon this emotionally crippled boy, crushed underfoot by his tyrannical father. It was only when he was safely dead and I took up the novel again that I did what I should have done at the beginning, and made the sins of the son a whole lot more reprehensible than the sins of the father.

With that settled, I was able to honour the legacy of his tempestuous life: a cast of characters to make the most blasé writer’s mouth water, from eminent legal brains of the day and stars of sport and screen to the finest of London’s criminal underworld and the beautiful creatures who trailed in their wake. Wherever Ronnie went, the unpredictable went with him. Are we up or down? Can we fill up the car on tick at the local garage? Has he fled the country or will he be proudly parking the Bentley in the drive tonight? Or is he enjoying the safety and comfort of one of his alternative wives?

Of Ronnie’s dealings with organised crime, if any, I know lamentably little. Yes, he rubbed shoulders with the notorious Kray twins, but that may just have been celebrity-hunting. And yes, he did business of a sort with London’s worst-ever landlord, Peter Rachman, and my best guess would be that when Rachman’s thugs had got rid of Ronnie’s tenants for him, he sold off the houses and gave Rachman a piece. But a full‑on criminal partnership? Not the Ronnie I knew. Conmen are aesthetes. They wear nice suits, have clean fingernails and are well spoken at all times. Policemen in Ronnie’s book were first-rate fellows who were open to negotiation. The same could not be said of “the boys”, as he called them, and you messed with the boys at your peril.

Ronnie’s entire life was spent walking on the thinnest, slipperiest layer of ice you can imagine. He saw no paradox between being on the wanted list for fraud and sporting a grey topper in the owners’ enclosure at Ascot. A reception at Claridge’s to celebrate his second marriage was interrupted while he persuaded two Scotland Yard detectives to put off arresting him until the party was over – and, meanwhile, come in and join the fun, which they duly did.  But I don’t think Ronnie could have lived any other way. I don’t think he wanted to. He was a crisis addict, a performance addict, a shameless pulpit orator and a scene-grabber. He was a delusional enchanter and a persuader who saw himself as God’s golden boy, and he wrecked a lot of people’s lives.

Graham Greene tells us that childhood is the credit balance of the writer. By that measure at least, I was born a millionaire.

Sixty-something years back, I asked my mother, Olive, how prison changed Ronnie. Olive was a tap you couldn’t turn off. From the moment of our reunion at Ipswich railway station, she talked about Ronnie nonstop. She talked about his sexuality long before I had sorted out mine, and for ease of reference gave me a tattered hardback copy of Krafft-Ebing’s Psychopathia Sexualis as a map to guide me through her husband’s appetites before and after jail.

“Changed, dear? In prison? Not a bit of it! You were totally unchanged. You’d lost weight, of course – well, you would. Prison food isn’t meant to be nice.” And then the image that will never leave me, not least because she seemed unaware of what she was saying: “And you did have this silly habit of stopping in front of doors and waiting at attention with your head down till I opened them for you. They were perfectly ordinary doors, not locked or anything, but you obviously weren’t expecting to be able to open them for yourself.” Why did Olive refer to Ronnie as you? You meaning he, but subconsciously recruiting me to be his surrogate, which by the time of her death was what I had become.

There is an audiotape that Olive made for my brother Tony, all about her life with Ronnie. I still can’t bear to play it, so all I’ve ever heard is scraps. On the tape she describes how Ronnie used to beat her up, which, according to Olive, was what prompted her to bolt. Ronnie’s violence was not news to me, because he had made a habit of beating up his second wife as well: so often and so purposefully and coming home at such odd hours of the night to do it that, seized by a chivalrous impulse, I appointed myself her ridiculous protector, sleeping on a mattress in front of her bedroom door and clutching a golf iron so that Ronnie would have to reckon with me before he got at her.

Ronnie beat me up, too, but only a few times and not with much conviction. It was the shaping up that was the scary part: the lowering and readying of the shoulders, the resetting of the jaw. And when I was grown up, Ronnie tried to sue me, which I suppose is violence in disguise. He had watched a television documentary of my life and decided there was an implicit slander in my failure to mention that I owed everything to him.

For the last third of Ronnie’s life – he died suddenly at the age of 69 – we were estranged or at loggerheads. Almost by mutual consent, there were terrible obligatory scenes, and when we buried the hatchet, we always remembered where we’d put it. Do I feel more kindly towards him today than I did then? Sometimes I walk round him, sometimes he’s the mountain I still have to climb. Either way, he’s always there, which I can’t say for my mother, because to this day I have no idea what sort of person she was. I ran her to earth when I was 21, and thereafter broadly attended to her needs, not always with good grace. But from the day of our reunion until she died, the frozen child in me showed not the smallest sign of thawing out. Did she love animals? Landscape? The sea that she lived beside? Music? Painting? Me? Did she read books? Certainly she had no high opinion of mine, but what about other people’s?

In the nursing home where she stayed during her last years, we spent much of our time deploring or laughing at my father’s misdeeds. As my visits continued, I came to realise that she had created for herself – and for me – an idyllic mother–son relationship that had flowed uninterrupted from my birth till now.

Today, I don’t remember feeling any affection in childhood except for my elder brother, who for a time was my only parent. I remember a constant tension in myself that even in great age has not relaxed. I remember little of being very young. I remember the dissembling as we grew up, and the need to cobble together an identity for myself and how, in order to do this, I filched from the manners and lifestyle of my peers and betters, even to the extent of pretending I had a settled home life with real parents and ponies. Listening to myself today, watching myself when I have to, I can still detect traces of the lost originals, chief among them obviously my father.

All this no doubt made me an ideal recruit to the secret flag. But nothing lasted: not the Eton schoolmaster, not the MI5 man, not the MI6 man. Only the writer in me stuck the course. If I look over my life from here, I see it as a succession of engagements and escapes, and I thank goodness that the writing kept me relatively straight and largely sane. My father’s refusal to accept the simplest truth about himself set me on a path of enquiry from which I never returned. In the absence of a mother or sisters, I learned women late, if ever, and we all paid a price for that.

A trip to Panama

In 1885, France’s gargantuan efforts to build a sea-level canal across the Darien ended in disaster. Small and large investors of every stamp were ruined. In consequence there arose across the country the pained cry of “Quel Panama!” Whether the expression has endured in the French language is doubtful, but it speaks well for my own association with that beautiful country, which began in 1947 when my father, Ronnie, dispatched me to Paris to collect £500 from the Panamanian ambassador to France, one Count Mario da Bernaschina, who occupied a sweet house in one of those elegant side roads off the Elysées that smell permanently of women’s scent.

It was evening when I arrived by appointment on the ambassadorial doorstep wearing my grey school suit, my hair brushed and parted. I was 16 years old. The ambassador, my father had advised me, was a first-class fellow and would be happy to settle a longstanding debt of honour. I wanted very much to believe him.

The front door to the elegant house was opened by the most desirable woman I had ever seen. I must have been standing one step beneath her, because in my memory she is smiling down on me like my angel redeemer. She was bare-shouldered, black-haired and wore a flimsy dress in layer after layer of chiffon that failed to disguise her shape. When you are 16, desirable women come in all ages. From today’s vantage point, I would put her at a blossoming thirtysomething.

“You are Ronnie’s son?” she asked incredulously. She stood back to let me brush past her. Laying a hand on each of my shoulders, she scrutinised me playfully from head to toe under the hall light and seemed to find everything to her satisfaction.

“And you have come to see Mario?” she said.

If that’s all right, I said.

Her hands remained on my shoulders while her eyes of many colours continued to study me. “And you are still a boy,” she remarked, as a kind of memo to herself.

The count stood in his drawing room with his back to the fireplace, like every ambassador in every movie of the time: corpulent, in a velvet jacket, hands behind him and that perfect head of greying hair they all had – marcelled, we used to call it – and the curved handshake, man to man, although I’m still a boy. The countess – for so I have cast her – doesn’t ask me whether I drink alcohol, let alone whether I like daiquiri. My answer to both questions would anyway have been a truthless “yes”. She hands me a frosted glass with a speared cherry in it, and we all sit down in soft chairs and do a bit of ambassadorial small talk. Am I enjoying the city? Do I have many friends in Paris? A girlfriend, perhaps? Mischievous wink. To which I no doubt give compelling and mendacious answers that make no mention of golf clubs or concierges, until a pause in the conversation tells me it’s time for me to broach the purpose of my visit which, as experience has already taught me, is best done from the side rather than head on.

“And my father mentioned that you and he had a small matter of business to complete, sir,” I suggest, hearing myself from a distance on account of the daiquiri.

I should here explain the nature of that small matter of business which, unlike so many of Ronnie’s deals, was simplicity itself. As a diplomat and a top ambassador, son – I am echoing the enthusiasm with which Ronnie had briefed me for my mission – the count was immune from such tedious irritations as taxation and import duty. The count could import what he wished, he could export what he wished. If someone, for instance, chose to send the count a cask of unmatured, unbranded Scotch whisky at a couple of pence a pint under diplomatic immunity, and the count were to bottle that whisky and ship it to Panama, or wherever else he chose to ship it under diplomatic immunity, that was nobody’s business but his.

Equally, if the count chose to export the said unmatured, unbranded whisky in bottles of a certain design – akin, let us imagine, to Dimple Haig, a popular brand of the day – that, too, was his good right, as was the choice of label and the description of the bottle’s contents. All that need concern me was that the count should pay up – cash, son, no monkey business. Thus provided, I should treat myself to a nice mixed grill at Ronnie’s expense, keep the receipt, catch the first ferry next morning and come straight to his grand offices in the West End of London with the balance.

“A matter of business, David?” the count repeated in the tone of my school housemaster. “What business can that be?”

“The £500 you owe him, sir.”

I remember his puzzled smile, so forbearing. I remember the richly draped sofas and silky cushions, old mirrors and gold glint, and my countess with her long legs crossed inside the layers of chiffon. The count continued to survey me with a mixture of puzzlement and concern. So did my countess. Then they surveyed each other as if to compare notes about what they’d surveyed.

“Well, that’s a pity, David. Because when I heard you were coming to see me, I rather hoped you might be bringing me a portion of the large sum of money I have invested in your dear father’s enterprises.”

I still don’t know how I responded to this startling reply, or whether I was as startled as I should have been. I remember briefly losing my sense of time and place, and I suppose this was partly induced by the daiquiri, and partly by the recognition that I had nothing to say and no right to be sitting in their drawing room, and that the best thing I could do was make my excuses and get out. Then I realised that I was alone in the room. After a while, my host and hostess returned.

The count’s smile was genial and relaxed. The countess looked particularly pleased. “So, David,” said the count, as if all were forgiven. “Why don’t we go and have dinner and talk about something more pleasant?”

They had a favourite Russian restaurant 50 yards from the house. In my memory, it is a tiny place and we are the only three people in it, save for a man in a baggy white shirt who plucked at a balalaika. Over dinner, while the count talked about something more pleasant, the countess kicked off a shoe and caressed my leg with her stockinged toe. On the tiny dance floor she sang Dark Eyes to me, holding the length of me against her and nibbling my earlobe while she flirted with the balalaika man and the count looked indulgently on. On our return to the table, the count decided that we were ready for bed. The countess, by a squeeze of my hand, seconded the motion.

My memory has spared me the excuses I made, but somehow I made them. Somehow I found myself a bench in a park, and somehow I contrived to remain the boy she had declared me to be. Decades later, finding myself alone in Paris, I tried to seek out the very street, the house, the restaurant. But by then no reality would have done them justice.

Now I am not pretending that it was the magnetic force of the count and countess that half a century later drew me to Panama for the space of two novels and one movie; merely that the recollection of that sensuous, unfulfilled night remained lodged in my memory, if only as one of the near-misses of interminable adolescence. Within days of my arrival in Panama City, I was enquiring after the name. Bernaschina? Nobody had heard of the fellow. A count? From Panama? It seemed most improbable. Maybe I had dreamed the whole thing? I hadn’t.

I had come to Panama to research a novel. Unusually, it already had a title: The Night Manager. I was looking for the sort of crooks, smooth talkers and dirty deals that would brighten the life of an amoral English arms seller named Richard Onslow Roper. Roper would be a high-flyer where my father, Ronnie, had been a low one who frequently crashed. Ronnie had tried selling arms in Indonesia and gone to jail for it. Roper was too big to fail, until he met his destiny in the shape of a former special forces soldier turned hotel night manager named Jonathan Pine.

Working with Sir Alec Guinness

“We are definitely not as our host here describes us,” says Sir Maurice Oldfield severely to Sir Alec Guinness over lunch. Oldfield is a former chief of the secret service who was later hung out to dry by Margaret Thatcher, but at the time of our meeting, he is just another old spy in retirement. “I’ve always wanted to meet Sir Alec,” he told me in his homey, north country voice when I invited him. “Ever since I sat opposite him on the train going up from Winchester. I’d have got into conversation with him if I’d had the nerve.”

Guinness is about to play my secret agent George Smiley in the BBC’s television adaptation of Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, and wishes to savour the company of a real old spy. But the lunch does not proceed as smoothly as I had hoped. Over the hors d’oeuvres, Oldfield extols the ethical standards of his old service and implies, in the nicest way, that “young David here” has besmirched its good name.

Guinness, a former naval officer, who from the moment of meeting Oldfield has appointed himself to the upper echelons of the secret service, can only shake his head sagely and agree. Over the Dover sole, Oldfield takes his thesis a step further: “It’s young David and his like,” he declares across the table to Guinness while ignoring me sitting beside him, “that make it that much harder for the service to recruit decent officers and sources. They read his books and they’re put off. It’s only natural.” To which Guinness lowers his eyelids and shakes his head in a deploring sort of way, while I pay the bill.

“You should join the Athenaeum, David,” Oldfield says kindly, implying that the Athenaeum will somehow make a better person of me. “I’ll sponsor you myself. There. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” And to Guinness, as the three of us stand on the threshold of the restaurant: “A pleasure indeed, Alec. An honour, I must say. We shall be in touch very shortly, I’m sure.”

“We shall indeed,” Guinness replies devoutly, as the two old spies shake hands.

Unable apparently to get enough of our departing guest, Guinness gazes fondly after him as he pounds off down the pavement: a small, vigorous gentleman of purpose, striding along with his umbrella thrust ahead of him as he disappears into the crowd. “How about another cognac for the road?” Guinness suggests, and we have hardly resumed our places before the interrogation begins: “Those very vulgar cufflinks. Do all our spies wear them?” No, Alec, I think Maurice just likes vulgar cufflinks.

“And those loud orange suede boots with crepe soles. Are they for stealth?” I think they’re just for comfort actually, Alec. Crepe squeaks. “Then tell me this.” He has grabbed an empty tumbler. Tipping it to an angle, he flicks at it with his thick fingertip. “I’ve seen people do this before” – making a show of peering meditatively into the tumbler while he continues to flick it – “and I’ve seen people do this” – now rotating the finger round the rim in the same contemplative vein.

“But I’ve never seen people do this before” – inserting his finger into the tumbler and passing it round the inside. “Do you think he’s looking for dregs of poison?”

Is he being serious? The child in Guinness has never been more serious in its life. Well, I suppose if it was dregs he was looking for, he’d have drunk the poison by then, I suggest. But he prefers to ignore me.

It is a matter of entertainment history that Oldfield’s suede boots, crepe-soled or other, and his rolled umbrella thrust forward to feel out the path ahead, became essential properties for Guinness’s portrayal of George Smiley, old spy in a hurry. I haven’t checked on the cufflinks recently, but I have a memory that our director thought them a little overdone and persuaded Guinness to trade them in for something less flashy.

The other legacy of our lunch was less enjoyable, if artistically more creative. Oldfield’s distaste for my work – and, I suspect, for myself – struck deep root in Guinness’s thespian soul, and he was not above reminding me of it when he felt the need to rack up George Smiley’s sense of personal guilt; or, as he liked to imply, mine.

Lunch with Rupert Murdoch

One morning in the autumn of 1991, I opened my Times newspaper to be greeted by my own face glowering up at me. From my sour expression, I could tell at once that the text around it wasn’t going to be friendly. A struggling Warsaw theatre, I read, was celebrating its post-communist freedom by putting on a stage version of The Spy Who Came In From The Cold. But the rapacious le Carré [see photograph] wanted a whacking £150 per performance: “The price of freedom, we suppose.”

I took another look at the photograph and saw exactly the sort of fellow who does indeed go round preying on struggling Polish theatres. Grasping. Unsavoury appetites. Just look at those eyebrows. I had by now ceased to enjoy my breakfast. Keep calm and call your agent. I fail on the first count, succeed on the second. My literary agent’s name is Rainer. In what the novelists call a quavering voice, I read the article aloud to him. Has he, I suggest delicately – might he possibly, just this once, is it at all conceivable? – on this occasion been a tad too zealous on my behalf? Rainer is emphatic. Quite the reverse. Since the Poles are still in the recovery ward after the collapse of communism, he has been a total pussycat. We are not charging the theatre £150 per performance, he assures me, but a measly £26, the minimum standard rate. In addition to which, we’ve thrown in the rights for free. In short, a sweetheart deal, David, a deliberate helping hand to a Polish theatre in time of need. Great, I say, bewildered and inwardly seething.

Keep calm and fax the editor of the Times. His response is lofty. Not to put too fine an edge on it, it is infuriating. He sees no great harm in the piece, he says. He suggests that a man in my fortunate position should take the rough with the smooth. This is not advice I am prepared to accept. But who to turn to?

Why, of course: the man who owns the newspaper, Rupert Murdoch, my old buddy!

Well, not exactly buddy. I had met Murdoch socially on a couple of occasions, though I doubted whether he remembered them. I have three conditions, I say: number one, a generous apology prominently printed in the Times; number two, a handsome donation to the struggling Polish theatre. And number three, lunch. Next morning his reply was lying on the floor beneath my fax machine: “Your terms accepted. Rupert.”

The Savoy Grill in those days had a kind of upper level for moguls: red-plush, horseshoe-shaped affairs where in more colourful days gentlemen of money might have entertained their ladies. I breathe the name Murdoch to the maître d’hôtel and am shown to one of the privés. I am early. Murdoch is bang on time. He is smaller than I remember him, but more pugnacious, and has acquired that hasty waddle and little buck of the pelvis with which great men of affairs advance on one another, hand outstretched, for the cameras. The slant of the head in relation to the body is more pronounced than I remember, and when he wrinkles up his eyes to give me his sunny smile, I have the odd feeling he’s taking aim at me. We sit down, we face each other. I notice – how can I not? – the unsettling collection of rings on his left hand. We order our food and exchange a couple of banalities. Rupert says he’s sorry about that stuff they wrote about me. Brits, he says, are great penmen, but they don’t always get things right. I say, not at all, and thanks for your sporting response. But enough of small talk. He is staring straight at me and the sunny smile has vanished.

“Who killed Bob Maxwell?” he demands.

Robert Maxwell, for those lucky enough not to remember him, was a Czech-born media baron, British parliamentarian and the alleged spy of several nations, including Israel, the Soviet Union and Britain. As a young Czech freedom fighter, he had taken part in the Normandy landings and later earned himself a British army commission and a gallantry medal. After the war, he worked for the Foreign Office in Berlin. He was also a flamboyant liar and rogue of gargantuan proportions and appetites who plundered the pension fund of his own companies to the tune of £440m, owed around £4bn that he had no way of repaying and in November 1991 was found dead in the seas off Tenerife, having apparently fallen from the deck of a lavish private yacht named after his daughter. Conspiracy theories abounded. To some, it was a clear case of suicide by a man ensnared by his own crimes; to others, murder by one of the several intelligence agencies he had supposedly worked for. But which one? Why Murdoch should imagine I know the  answer to this question is beyond me, but I do my best to give satisfaction. Well, Rupert, if we’re really saying it’s not suicide, then probably, for my money, it was the Israelis, I suggest.

“Why?”

I’ve read the rumours that are flying around, as we all have. I regurgitate them: Maxwell, the long-term agent of Israeli intelligence, blackmailing his former paymasters; Maxwell, who had traded with the Shining Path in Peru, offering Israeli weapons in exchange for strategic cobalt; Maxwell, threatening to go public unless the Israelis paid up. But Rupert Murdoch is already on his feet, shaking my hand and saying it was great to meet me again. And maybe he’s as embarrassed as I am, or just bored, because already he’s powering his way out of the room, and great men don’t sign bills, they leave them to their people. Estimated duration of lunch: 25 minutes.

A meeting with Margaret Thatcher

The prime minister’s office wished to recommend me for a medal, and I had declined. I had not voted for her, but that fact had nothing to do with my decision. I felt, as I feel today, that I was not cut out for our honours system, that it represents much of what I most dislike about our country. In my letter of reply, I took care to assure the prime minister’s office that my churlishness did not spring from any personal or political animosity, offered my thanks and compliments to the prime minister, and assumed I would hear no more.

I was wrong. In a second letter, her office struck a more intimate note. Lest I was regretting a decision taken in heat, the writer wished me to know that the door to an honour was still open. I replied, equally courteously I hope, that as far as I was concerned the door was firmly shut, and would remain so in any similar contingency. Again, my thanks. Again, my compliments to the prime minister. And again I assumed the matter was closed, until a third letter arrived, inviting me to lunch. There were six tables set in the dining room of 10 Downing Street that day, but I only remember ours, which had Mrs Thatcher at its head and the Dutch prime minister Ruud Lubbers on her  right, and myself in a tight new grey suit on her left. The year must have been 1982. I was just back from the Middle East, Lubbers had just been appointed. Our other three guests remain a pink blob to me. I assumed, for reasons that today escape me, that they were industrialists from the north. Neither do I remember any opening exchanges between the six of us, but perhaps they had happened over cocktails before we sat down. But I do remember Mrs Thatcher turning to the Dutch prime minister and acquainting him with my distinction. “Now, Mr Lubbers,” she announced in a tone to prepare him for a nice surprise, “this is Mr Cornwell, but you will know him better as the writer John le Carré.”

Leaning forward, Mr Lubbers took a close look at me. He had a youthful face, almost a playful one. He smiled, I smiled: really friendly smiles. “No,” he said. And sat back in his chair, still smiling. But Mrs Thatcher, it is well known, did not lightly take no for an answer.

“Oh, come, Mr Lubbers. You’ve heard of John le Carré. He wrote The Spy Who Came In From The Cold and…” – fumbling slightly – “… other wonderful books.”

Lubbers, nothing if not a politician, reconsidered his position. Again he leaned forward and took another, longer look at me, as amiable as the first, but more considered, more statesmanlike.

“No,” he repeated.

Now it was Mrs Thatcher’s turn to take a long look at me, and I underwent something of what her all-male cabinet must have experienced when they, too, incurred her displeasure. “Well, Mr Cornwell,” she said, as to an errant schoolboy who had been brought to account, “since you’re here” – implying that I had somehow talked my way in – “have  you anything you wish to say to me?”

Belatedly, it occurred to me that I had indeed something to say to her, if badly. Having recently returned from South Lebanon, I felt obliged to plead the cause of stateless Palestinians. Lubbers listened. The gentlemen from the industrial north listened. But Mrs Thatcher listened more attentively than all of them, and with no sign of the impatience of which she was frequently accused. Even when I had stumbled to the end of my aria, she went on listening before delivering herself of her response. “Don’t give me sob stories,” she ordered me with sudden vehemence, striking the key words for emphasis. “Every day people appeal to my emotions. You can’t govern that way. It simply isn’t fair.”

Whereupon, appealing to my emotions, she reminded me that it was the Palestinians who had trained the IRA bombers who had murdered her friend Airey Neave, the British war hero and politician, and her close adviser. After that, I don’t believe we spoke to each other much. Occasionally I do ask myself whether Mrs Thatcher nevertheless had an ulterior motive in inviting me. Was she, for instance, sizing me up for one of her quangos – those strange quasi-official public bodies that have authority but no power, or is it the other way round? But I found it hard to imagine what possible use she could have for me – unless, of course, she wanted guidance from the horse’s mouth on how to sort out her squabbling spies.

• This is an edited extract from The Pigeon Tunnel: Stories From My Life, by John le Carré, published next week by Viking at £20. Order a copy for £15 from the Guardian bookshop.

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at http://justforbooks.tumblr.com

#JUST FOR BOOKS #John le Carré #The Pigeon Tunnel: Stories From My Life

[kaibutsushidousha]

Do you have any predictions/guesses of what other Tribe Nine tribes could be?

Chuuou: No idea because Shinagawa already covered businessmen and Setagaya already covered money.

Shinjuku: Maybe something of a slut tribe referencing Kabukichou's nightlife.

Shibuya: Gyaru/skateboard punk aesthetics, see TWEWY for reference.

Toshima: My image of Ikebukuro is way too colored by Durarara to have any real value, but trying to distance myself from that, I guess they could have a fujoshi tribe settled in Ikebukuro's Otome Road.

Bunkyou: Academic nerd Tribe settled at Tokyo University's campus, easy.

Meguro: Uh, mad artist Tribe from the Liberal Arts University?

Arakawa: Only ward without a Starbucks. Only ward without a Thirty One Ice Cream. Only ward without a Mujirushi. Only ward without a highway. The Tokyo-Yokohama-Touhoku train line crosses Arakawa without a single stop in that ward. Only ward in the Yamanote circle without a train to Yokohama. One of the only two wards without a Book Off. One of the only two wards without a Kaldi Coffee Farm. The low-quality hotel slanders. The memes about Arakawa not being part of Tokyo. The Arakawa River flood in 2019. Arakawa has such an amazing history of getting the short end of the stick that it needs to have a poor butt monkey Tribe. I'm feeling the vibes of Miwa from Jujutsu.

Sumida: That's a tough one. Sumida has a lot of eccentric sightseeing spots, like the Super Dry Hall or the Sky Tree, but they don't have a distinct aesthetic and identity as Taitou. I guess they could be the weirdo Tribe, but I don't know what flavor of weirdo. Something more colorful than Oota is a given, but what next?

Koutou: The Trash War was such a historical event for the ward that I guess they could go with a clean freak Tribe, idk.

Nakano: The only notorious thing in Nakano is Nakano Broadway. I really can't see what other options Too Kyo has. But I also have no idea what a Nakano Broadway-themed Tribe would look like.

Sugitami: Uh... take Kouenji's nickname of "Japan's India" super literally. I really can't come up with anything.

Kita: Kita has a huge history of its youth moving to less marginalized regions to the point the ward is practically occupied only by senior citizens. Make it the grampa Tribe. The poster we saw has some really old characters, so they could very much be Kita's players.

Itabashi: Is there even anything in Itabashi?

Nerima: That's another one that's hard to get ideas for. I guess it can be the kid Tribe in reference to Nerima being the newest ward? Make them middle and high schoolers from Ooizumi Academy for the meme.

Katsushika: Kochikame references. We know Kodaka well enough to know this is unavoidable.

Edogawa: Completely out of ideas. With Itabashi they could make a Tribe of exaggeratedly normal people to illustrate the lack of anything notorious, but Edogawa doesn't have even that.

#tribe nine

[wherearemyglassesbro]

i saw that you play genshin impact, so i’m kind of curious... what’d be the axis and allies’ vision and weapons?

Uh oh...now you got me started. Be warned, it’s a long one cause I have no self control

Some key terms for those who don’t play genshin impact and want to be included!!

Cryo -> ice, Hydro -> water, Dendro -> nature, Geo -> rock, Pyro -> fire, Electro -> lightning

Hilichurls: a common enemy found in the wild. Despite looking like hairy trolls, they have a district language as well as texts, art and song that they share together making them an advanced species!

Ruin guards: another enemy. Giant, scary robot...they scare me...

Knights of Favonious: an organization of knights within Mondstat that keep order and peace :) very nice guys and gals over there!!

Mondstat: modeled after Germany

Liyue: modeled after China

Alfred: pyro, claymore, Springvale Mondstat

Alfred would be a super heavy hitter in battle but his drawbacks are that despite his energetic nature, he’s slower because of the weight of his weapon

He blows stuff up a lot and sets all of the grass around you on fire so if you fight with him...His teammates will take damage from him Jeez Louise!!!

Since we don’t have all of the nations of Teyvay unlocked, I don’t know where he’d be from! I’d have to explore to get a sense for it so for characters that don’t have a place on the map yet, I’ll mark them with an asterisk from now on! :)

Idk where he lives but I do know that he’d be a devoted member of the adventurers guild! He’s always willing to offer a helping hand to anyone in need! Wether it be helping Granny Ann make hash browns or taking comissions to go kill a huge ruin guard who’s terrorizing the town!! He’s always leaping into new jobs! He isn’t even in it for the money or rewards! He just loves helping out!

Arthur: Dendro, archer, Mondstat

Artie is a beast in battle! Shooting vine Aries at enemies to tie them up or temporarily blind them??? Sick as fuck. Keep in mind, Genshin doesn’t have any Dendro characters that are playable yet so idk how they’d fight but I think I can guess :)

Artie is technically part of the knights of favonious because he works in their library. He translates books written in ancient texts into the standard language so historians and others can read what the old civilizations had to say

Instead of having normal eyes, they’re slit like snake eyes. And he has leaves instead of hair :)

He has a little seelie that floats around at his side. He talks to it but it doesn’t really do anything but provide company to a lonely guy :’) he needs more friends

Matthew: Anemo, catalyst, *

It’s always good to have a catalyst on your team! Ningguang is a great example of an underestimated catalyst cause she can do INSANE damage man!! So I think Mattie would be the same way

Matt isn’t violent and doesn’t enjoy fighting so his in-game voice lines would say that lol

Mattie is an alchemist! Well...A student alchemist. He didn’t take up an interest in alchemy until like, 3 years ago so he’s got a lot to catch up on still! He’s doing his best!

He gets very annoyed with Alfred since Mattie is detail oriented and gentle...Alfred is not any of those things. But he still loves his brother and on rare occasions, he’ll assist him with his commissions

Ivan: Cryo, catalyst, Liyue(temporary)

Ivan would be a support character for sure but he’d do a damn good job of doing it

He’s buff but he doesn’t do hand to hand combat, he’s mastered magic for a reason

Ivan spends most of his time studying hilichurls. He writes books about them, translates their texts and acts as a peace keeper when he can. He gets information from them about the Abyss Order in return for free reign of small portions of protected land where they can live without fear of being killed

Because he’s from Schneznya(spelling?) he’s kinda expected to be a bad guy but he left a long time ago. But he still sounds like he’s from there and...He’s super pale too so there really is no mistaking where he’s from

Ivan can’t stand how ignorant humans are towards hilichurls so he does everything he can to advocate for them. He’s covered in scars from when he first started engaging with the beasts. A huge scar runs down his face but he doesn’t mind it

He’s got big, sharp teeth!! So he doesn’t often smile cause he thinks he looks weird

Francis: Hyrdo, long sword, *

Fran is underestimated when it comes to combat (like Kaeya...I see you slandering this man) but he has so much potential!

Since he’s a hydro, he is so useful for elemental reactions! If he’s paired with a cryo or pyro user, he’d totally boost them!!

Fran is a traveling entertainer, he goes between the 7 nations as a singer and actor for small stage plays. He has a crew of friends who travel with him, they’re one jolly bunch!

He always acts all nonchalant and stuff but once he’s in a battle, he’s wild. Especially if the abyss order holds up his crew on their way to their next tour destination “We need to be in Liyue Harbor in four hours you are NOT holding us back!” *tidal wave*

He’s a regular tavern hopper! A very recognizable face since he’s been banned from a handful for getting too rowdy

He can make not one, but 2 special dishes :0

Yao: Dendro, polearm, Liyue

I just imagine him as a shorter, richer and cooler version of Zhongli

He’d do that kick move that Zhongli does with his polearm oh man that looks SICK dude!!!

Yao would shoot vines out and they’d strangle enemies for a few seconds before disintegrating but if he’s leveled up enough, they’ll totally strangle those stupid hillichurls lol

Yao sells rare gems and other miscellaneous items for very high prices in Liyue where he grew up. His shop is upstairs by the Fatui bank. Rich people enjoy looking at what his shop has to fifer and will argue prices with him. They’re getting scammed for sure. He’ll list a set of cor lapis earrings as $50,000 and the rich will be like ‘I’ll pay $25,000, no more than that’ and he’ll take it!!....Cause thise earrings are worth $5000 at most >:)

Hes close with a lot of the higher ups in Liyue and is often invited to fancy lunches or dinners where they discuss policy, contracts and vendor permits. He doesn’t really get a say in any of that but he benefits from listening

Kiku: Electro, claymore, *

Kiku would be SUCH an awesome electo user are you KIDDING me??? I can see it now, him swinging that huge sword around, purple lightning bolts flying all around and he looks like a total badass? Amazing vibes

When paired with cryos???? He’d do an insane amount of damage fr

Kiku runs a small restaurant where he...runs the place...but doesn’t cook. His restaurant is extremely exclusive and people often throw fits when they can’t get in cause the wait list is over 5 years long. He’ll rest his hand on their shoulder and smile ‘is something wrong? I’d love to take a complaint if you have one’...No one has even dared to complain to his face lol

Behind the restaurant front he deals with the Fatui, buying and selling minerals or artifacts. That’s where his knowledge is at, not with food. He pays his staff to ignore what goes on behind the scenes and the locals are too busy enjoying the restaurant to question what goes on after dark

Gilbert: Pyro, long sword, Mondstat

Gil would be one of the free characters given to you at the beginning of the game but hey, I’m not complaining

He’s highly destructive and very chaotic in battle, he can do that spin move even though that’s meant for claymore users

He’s Mondstat’s biggest trouble maker. He runs an underground gambling room that sits underneath a tavern. He isn’t really into gambling but he makes a lot of money by running it

The only knight who knows is Ludwig which is not good cause...Gil pretty much bribes his brother into not telling the knights of favonious (peace keepers of Mondstat)

Gil never got his gliding certificate cause he kept flying into buildings. He broke his nose doing that lol

Lovino: Pyro, catalyst, *

I can’t add anymore images so imagine a floating, red and black orb. Lovi doesn’t get a book catalyst cause he doesn’t read :) That’s the catalyst thing I’m talking about 😅😅

My guy has the angriest in game voice lines, he’s inconvenienced by every battle, every enemy is ugly and a fuckin disaster. He’s just. Angry.

He’d be a super weak character if he needed to rely on hand to hand combat but he learned magic for a reason babey

He owns a flower stand in his country and makes all kinds of beautiful flower arrangements. He even picks his own flowers in the fields when he can (but usually pays the town’s children to do it for him to ‘teach them the value of hard work’).

Everyone knows he’s a total hothead and will piss him off on purpose just cause it’s funny lmao. But then somehow...Their hair or clothes will just...catch on fire. So is it really worth it to tease him? :/

Feliciano: Hydro, archer, Mondstat(temporary)

I feel like Feli would also be a free character, not cause he isn’t good or anything! But you always need an archer on your team!

Feli has healing properties for his team and doesn’t do an insane amount of damage but when given the right resources, he’d be a pretty sick healer

He moved to Mondstat to join the church there. He leads prayers in front of the church and sings in the choir inside.

He is the sweetest and has never committed a crime in his LIFE but he’s afraid of the knights lol he’s terrified that he’ll get in trouble and be kicked out of Mondstat forever! That would never happen but he’s a worry wart cause of his brother

Ludwig: Geo, long sword, Mondstat

Lud is the only one that I could really think of as a Geo but Geos are awesome :)

He’s a hard hitter but has like...No shield so he’ll take damage fast if you don’t give him those artifacts with shield in them or whatever lol uhhhh I wouldn’t know anything about that cause I suck at building my teams ;-;

He’d totally be in with the knights of favonious! (I think that’s spelled right lol) but he’d take his duty as a knight very seriously!! He’s a familiar face around Mondstat, the elderly absolutely adore him and the local teenage girls swoon over him which he finds super embarrassing lol

He has to work hard to keep Gilbert in check cause even though Gil isn’t a knight, his actions reflect negatively back on Lud very often... :(

Please ignore the spelling errors and terrible photo cropping on my part lol this was so fun!!

By the time you’re seeing this, ive already made full outfit red sheets for everyone mentioned above!!!! :D

#I was about to go to bed #but I got this notification and could NOT SLEEP until I wrote it #but it’ll go into the queue to be posted tomorrow #or....right now for you...cause you’re reading this in the future #aph #hetalia #ask away! #headcanons #hetalia headcanons #asks #always up for hc requests #aph france #aph england #aph america #aph china #aph canada #aph italy #aph romano #aph russia #aph germany #aph prussia #aph japan #long post #super long post #genshintalia au

[sparklyaxolotlstudent]

I got bored inspired today and decided to wite the Wackynette Story of “HawkMoth is” where Marinette does a presentation about why and how Lila is secretly Hawk Moth (Her assignment was to do tabloid news)

Also got inspired by @Rarity36 comic about the same thing, thank you!

semi salt, but not really.

-

Hawk Moth Is…

Or the Dangers of Assigning a Tabloid Report to Very Smart Students

The day started ordinary for the Class of Miss Bustier. Today lesson was on News and how they can be shared. To make the lesson a bit more fun, after they had covered all of them, the teacher had decided to assign each pair of student to investigate a current event and make a presentation in the style of said event. Lila immediately asked Alya to be her partner.

“Oh, we can dress up as journalists and make our presentation as something worth of a Newspaper!”

“But Miss Bustier” asked Marinette spoke up. “There are 15 of us, and the assignment is on pairs… one of us will be left on its own”

“Oh, don’t worry Marinette, I’m sure whoever that is can make a wonderful job on their own!” replied Lila with fake sweetness. Of course that with her claiming Alya, it was highly likely that Marinette would be left on her own. Marinette just glared at her. “Don’t get mad at me, I’m only joking!” Lila added with more fake sweetness. Alya giggled.

“I’ll be sure to make things fair. For starters, I’m making the pairs” she looked around the class, who groaned. “And I’m also assigning what kind of media will each do”

Miss Bustier took a small glass bowl from under her desk, along with a hat; both seemed to be filled with papers.

“Now, I’m going to take out your names from this bowl to make the pairs so everything is fair. No changes or substitutions are allowed, all pairs are final” she grabbed the hat. “And this hat has all the different media we saw, to make everything fair, it will be also random”

Marinette was one of the last chosen, and she was paired with Juleka, to work on a tabloid. Lila snickered, and Alya gave Marinette her condolences for having to work on “fake news”

At the end, only Adrien, Lila and Chloe were unpaired. Marinette felt a bit bad for hoping that Adrien would be on his own, but then a Christmas Miracle happened…

“Only three people…” Miss Bustier took one of the papers left “Adrien with” Marinette held her breath, as did the other two girls. “Huh… Markov? I don’t remember putting his name here…”

“No charges or substitutions allowed, all pairs are final” Markov played a recording of Miss Bustier. She just shrugged.

“Well, I did say that. Adrien, you’re with Markov. Lila and Chloe, you’re the last pair”

The two girls looked at each other, mouths agape. Even with Markov lacking a face, they could swear he was grinning at them.

���Good luck on your presentation” called Marinette to Lila and Chloe after the day was over.

Working with Juleka was a blast, even without taking in account that they also worked on her room, which meant Luka was present sometimes. They actually came to the realization that working on a tabloid would be easier than what their classmates had gotten, as it meant that they would only need to think on something current, and then lie their asses off in a sensationalistic way.

So of course they choose the most unbelievable thing they could, and went from there.

-

The day of the presentation came, with Chloe and Lila presenting something worth of a news show, and that was obviously made by professionals that Chloe’s dad paid. However, they forgot to cite their sources, so Miss Bustier had to take off some points of their grade.

“Marinette and Juleka are next, their theme is a tabloid”

The two girls stood up from their respective seats. Like Chloe and Lila before them, they were dressed in pantsuits that no doubt Marinette had designed, Juleka with her a dark purple that almost seemed black, with a textured fabric that looked like giant feathers, Marinette with a soft pink one that it took the others a double take to realize the blazer was simulating a skirt. Even Chloe seemed impressed.

“Yes, yes. Hello everyone, as you know, the Tabloid is a type of newspaper that is smaller, and covers more sensationalistic stories, celebrity gossip and such, most of their stories are dubious or outright fake.”

“They are famous in the states for reporting Bigfoot and UFOS, for example”

“So today, our news is the most unbelievable thing we could think of!”

Marinette pressed a button on her tablet, and the screen behind them appeared, it looked like the cover of a tabloid, with sensationalistic views talking about monster sightings, Andre the Ice cream man being secretly a spy, Luka being a vampire and other nonsense the girls could think of. The biggest font and the main news red “We discovered the identity of Hawk Moth!!!!”

“First of all, we want to thank Nathaniel for taking time of his own project to help us with the illustrations for ours”

“You’re welcome!” said the boy, who was also wearing a dark red suit, also designed by Marinette. Kim, his partner, was equally dressed, with his vest and pants being a weird shade of brown.

“Without further ado…”

“EXTRA, EXTRA! READ ALL ABOUT IT!” yelled both girl at the same time. Marinette pressed the tablet again, and the screen changed.

“Exclusive news, ladies and gentlemen! We have discovered the identity of Paris Number One Criminal! The one and only Hawk Moth!” Juleka said quickly in an excitable voice that everyone found uncharacteristically of her. Miss Bustier smiled, knowing that Marinette was being a good example for her.  Everyone gasped, forgetting it was tabloid news.

The next screen had a very cool illustration of someone transforming into Hawk Moth. Everyone immediately knew who it was meant to be.

“WHAT? Marinette!” Alya protested, surprising no one. Except maybe Lila. “That is slander! There is no way Lila is Hawk Moth!” she turned to their teacher. “Miss Bustier, you can’t possibly allow Marinette to continue!”

“Actually, it was my idea” said Juleka, much more meekly than before. Miss Bustier frowned and looked sternly at Alya.

“We are supposed to do a tabloid, so of course we are doing something bogus and ridiculous. Besides, Lila knows we are only joking” Marinette winked at the rest of the class, who all laughed making Lila furious

“They are right. Statistically speaking, tabloid news are very likely to be fake news, or greatly exaggerated ones.”

“Thank you Max” said Miss Bustier. “Girls, you may continue with your presentation”

“Thanks!” Marinette pressed another button, and it was Lila as Volpina. “As we all know, Lila was akumatized the first day she started class with us, and…”

“That proves she’s not Hawk Moth! She can’t be akumatized and be hawk moth at the same time!” Alya practically jumped out of her seat. Miss Bustier looked at her disappointed. Marinette looked at her, but ignored her comment.

“As we all know, the power of Volpina dealt with Illusions, and one of her illusions was, precisely, that of Hawk Moth appearing in plain sight”

“Now, you are wondering, why is that important?” several classmates nodded. “Because up to that point, we had only seen Hawk Moth’s head made of butterflies back on the Stone Heart incident, and we didn’t see the actual Hawk Moth until much later, on Heroes day” Marinette pressed a button, and an image of the head of Hawk Moth made of butterflies appeared, along with a blurry picture of hawk moth the day of Volpina, and another higher quality picture of Heroes Day, everything with their respective credits.

“So, I ask, how did Lila, AKA Volpina know how Hawk Moth looked, when no one else did?”

The class breaks in whispers. They seem to forget again that it is supposed to be fake news.

“But Hawk Moth is a guy! An adult man!”

“All the better to cover herself by pretending her alter ego to be of other gender and age. Something she can do as Volpina”

“And speaking of Volpina… do you know where she took that name from?” Most of the class shook their head. “Well, interesting fact! Adrien Abigail Agreste…”

“Please don’t use my middle name”

“Duly noted. Adrien Agreste brought a book from home the same day that Lila appeared…”

“Oh, and what did that book contained?”

“Excellent question Juleka! The book contained information on the Miraculous and their past holders, and it was actually the property of Adrien’s father, Mister Gabriel Abigail Agreste”

Adrien just head desked.

“And Lila grabbed the book for inspection. Adrien almost caught her, so she just threw the book on the thrash”

“That makes no sense, how would I know what it contained? Heck, how do you know?” Alya did notice that Lila had not denied that she had taken the book.

“My house is in front of the park. I saw you guys and thought I would approach and say hi.”

“Didn’t you say you were eavesdropping?”

“They were talking when I approached them, so technically, yeah.”

“Wait… you recovered the book from the thrash? You were the one to return it to my father?”

Marinette blushed a deep shade.

“What? You mean that part is real? Dupain-Cheng is the reason you returned to school?”

“Well, I’m not saying Lila did took my father’s book, but it disappeared after she showed interest in it”

“I can’t believe you’re accusing me of…”

“We’re not, this is a tabloid, remember?”

“And continuing, Lila going abroad after that…”

“AHA! If Lila wasn’t here, it means she couldn’t have attacked! Seh was too far away!” Alya again almost jumped from her seat.

“I would like to remind everyone that we all went to space thanks to an akuma”

“Swimming in space was the best”

“So, Lila going abroad and then returning coincides with the appearance of Mayura, which can only mean that she went to search for the Peacock Miraculous”

“Right and I’m Mayura too?”

“That’s info for another article”

Kim raised his hand.

“We’re not making another article”

Kim lowered his hand, disappointed.

“So, like we were saying, it’s highly suspicious that Lila joined the class with a 90% akumatization rate”

“Actually, it’s 87.5% akumatization rate if we count Miss Bustier”

“We counted the doubles”

“Ah”

“Why would someone join the Akuma Class, if not for gain intel about how to get more akumas”

“Not to mention the other teachers and students that have been akumatized too. Our school is a focal point for akumas… almost like the akumas came from inside the school!”

Everyone went quiet, looking at Lila with dread. Even if Marinette and Juleka were joking, they were raising very fair points. Lila seemed to be contemplating this.

“And we all have been akumatized at one time or another.” Juleka eyed Marinette. “Well, most of us. And some of us have witnessed other people becoming akumas. A common thread is that Hawk Moth knows exactly what the person wants due to his empathy powers. And Lila is a good friend who always knows what to say to make us feel better. Coincidence? Or an innate ability granted by her miraculous?!”

Lila was wide eyed looking at the two in the front. Everyone else was whispering again.

“Of course, one of the most common symptoms post akumatization is the loss of memory of what one does as an akuma. So it stands to reason that Lila might not know that she is, in fact, Hawk Moth, especially if she akumatizes herself each time so Hawk Moth takes over"

“Any questions?”

Literally everyone raised their hand. Even Miss Bustier and Markov, despite him not having hands.

“Great! That concludes our presentation.”

“Excellent job girls, you get full marks!”

Marinette and Juleka high fived each other, and went to take their respective seats. Everyone kept staring at Lila. Nathaniel slided away from Lila so much he actually fell from his seat, landing on his butt. Lila was staring at her feet, having a bit of an existential crisis

“Adrien and Markov, you’re next”

#miraculous ladybug #ml au #ml fic #ml oneshot #Hawk Moth is #Lila Rossi #Marinette Dupain-Cheng #Juleka Couffaine #Wackynette

[ad1thi]

and then there’s you | Au-gust Day 8: Superheroes/Superpowers AU

AU-gust masterlist

i took a brief hiatus but now im back!! this is possibly one of my favourite things ive written, ever

//

Steve was never expecting to get along with James. He didn't have the best start with Tony - even though he likes to believe that they've moved past that and have become good friends - and James' protective streak was well known. After all, the man broke records trying to fly back to New York fast enough and managed to show up just as the Hulk picked up Tony from the sky.

 He still remembers the way James landed around them with a thud, his faceplate snapping up and shoving all of them to the side so that he could get to Tony. He remembers the way Tony's face softened; the way James reached out with one metal encased hand to awkwardly rub his hair before settling on his shoulder.

 He remembers fiercely missing the time in his life when someone looked at him like that, like he was the reason the world continued turning.

 In retrospect, Steve honestly should've seen this whole thing coming, but he's still blindsided by the whole thing.

After the last of the Chitauri are felled down, Thor and James raging in the sky until they drop like flies, they regroup back at Stark Tower. It's almost too easy, over in a matter of hours, even though Steve feels like it's taken ages. They lock the Spectre away and clasp chains around Loki's body - and he can release a breath that he didn't know he was holding it.

 "Colonel Rhodes," he says, later, when they're all lounging in a beatdown shawarma joint, shamelessly taking advantage of an extremely grateful store-owner, “I just wanted to say thank you for all your help. Having two heavy hitters in the sky really helped us take down the stragglers. We couldn't have done it without you."

 James and Tony (from where he's resting on James' shoulder) both turn to him and give him identical looks, the kind that makes Steve want to duck his head and rub the back of his neck.

 "No need to thank me Cap," James says finally, "Just doing my civic duty." But he keeps looking at Steve, in a way that stirs feelings inside Steve that he thought had died when he went into the ice.

 Guess not.

 He nods once and is saved from answering by Tony grabbing the Colonel into another discussion. He takes another bite into his wrap, the food feeling wooden inside his mouth. Tony has one hand in the air, gesticulating wildly, but the other is wound around James, inter-twined with his own. It twists something inside Steve, and he tries to tell himself that it's just him missing his life before the ice. Before he was dropped into the twenty first century.

 He looks up to see Thor giving him an all too knowing look for a man who only met him a couple of hours ago. It makes him so uncomfortable that he stands abruptly, pulling both Tony and Rhodey out of their conversation.

 "I have to go," he says stiffly, "I have some work to attend to. I'll see you guys at the Helicarrier tomorrow at 0900 for a debrief," he nods at his team, "Colonel, it would good to meet you."

"Call me James," he says, nonplussed, "that’s what everyone who isn't this fella calls me," he thumbs at Tony; who's face twists in mock outrage.

 Steve doesn't say anything, spinning on his heel and all but running out of the shawarma joint, lest he dwell too strongly on the fact that James called Tony fella.

 Despite their horrendous first meeting, Steve and James actually get on fairly well. He's in New York a lot, despite still being on active duty. Ostensibly, it's because the War Machine - now rebranded as Iron Patriot armour needs regular check-ups and after what Tony and James mysteriously refer to as the Hammer incident - Tony is the only one who fiddles with it.

 It makes sense, since Tony designed the damn thing, but Steve knows that James is a genius of his own right. Privately, he thinks that James is equipped to deal with any and all faults in the armour, but he makes it a point to come for Tony. Watching your bestfriend strap a nuke to his back and fly into space with no concrete desire to return tends to do that to someone. Hell, if Bucky had pulled something like that he wouldn't have left him out of his sight.

 Besides, now that Steve has been living with him and gotten to know the man behind the mask so to speak, he can see why Tony inspires that kind of loyalty. The way he badly misjudged Tony still digs at him, even though Tony has waved off his apologies multiple times and promises that he harbours no bad feelings.

 Steve isn't complaining though. He likes that James visits, even though he frowns everytime James complains about how hard it was to finagle time with his superiors. Clint calls it his Captain America face, says that he makes it every time he thinks there's a fight. Steve doesn't know if he has a specific face, but he does know that it doesn't sit right with him that James has to fight that much to come stateside.

 That was the whole point of the War, that they would fight so that future generations don't have to. There's a lot to be said for the twenty first century. His country's proclivity with inserting themselves into every war that side of the Atlantic isn't one of them.

 Still, James' regular check-ups mean that Steve has gotten a chance to get to know Tony's bestfriend - since he winds up spending a lot of time in the workshop these days; sketching while Tony putters around. It's like white noise - the sound of a wrench or a blowtorch, interspersed with Tony and JARVIS sniping with each other, and it reminds Steve of the barracks, of the Howlies huddled around a single fire and sniping around each other.

 (It reminds him that he's no longer alone)

 When James comes however, the entire workshop lights up, and Steve along with it. Despite his best efforts, the smidgen of interest he'd felt in the shawarma joint has buried itself inside him, planted seeds and grown around his heart. It doesn't help that James is one of the most easy-going people he's ever met, the kind of person one gravitates to.

 He reminds Steve deeply of Bucky, but then again - Steve was never overcome with the urge to bear Bucky down and kiss him until they both couldn't breathe.

 "Steve!" James cries out, as the workshop doors open with the faintest snick, "It's good to see you."

Steve looks up from his sketchbook - where he's been drawing James funnily enough - and gives him a warm smile, "James. Good to see you. How's the Iron Patriot?"

"Don't call it that," Tony wags his wrench at Steve, looking like he's contemplating the merits of lobbing it at him, "You do not call it that in my workshop. This is a sacred space."

 "She's handling like a dream," James says over Tony, but he still walks over and pulls Tony in for a small hug before making his way over to Steve. The first time this had happened, Steve was almost jealous, but he's since realised that it's just a part of James' schedule. The need to physically remind himself that Tony is okay.

 "There's been a couple of tough missions," he continues with a grimace, after he's done surreptitiously looking Tony over and found his way to the couch where Steve is currently propped up. "I've definitely got some fresh bullet dents. But nothing Tony can't fix, isn't that right Tony?" he calls out to where Tony has turned back to his holo-screens and gets a half-hearted gesture in response that Steve takes to mean that Tony has heard James.

 "Enough about me though, not in the least because I could be arrested for going into detail," James reaches out and places his hand over Steve's; and it takes everything in Steve to not react to the touch, "You getting through the list okay?"

 A month into his stay at the Tower, Steve was listlessly chewing a banana in the Common Room when James came out for some water and saw him. "They taste weird," he'd said, when James asked if the banana had done something to offend him, "I guess I was just hoping it was something that hadn't changed."

James had regarded him for a second, and then pulled out a napkin from thin air, "You should make a list. It's what I tell most of my rookies, when they're going back after a long tour. Make a list of everything you want to catch up and work through it on your own pace. At the very least, it gives you something to do."

 Ever since then, Steve keeps a small black book on his person, filling it with a never-ending list of things. The entire team pitches in, depending on what it is that Steve is about to discover about the twenty-first century. Steve likes it best when James carves out time for him though.

 "I'm adding more things than I'm crossing out," Steve admits, and James clucks sympathetically, "but it's good. I've not Star Wars on my list next? And Tony made me promise to wait for you to come back so that both of you could introduce it to me together."

 James whistles lowly, but his eyes light up, "Oh I am so happy that you waited for me for this. Never listen to Tony, he thinks the prequels deserve rights," he bends down to whisper at Steve loudly, "we don't recognise the prequels."

"Is that prequels slander I hear in my safe haven?" Tony pipes up, spinning around to face them. He's still got the wrench in his hand, "Don't make me revoke your access honeybear because I will, don't test me."

 James holds up his hands in mock surrender. "I'm going to go freshen up," he says with a clap, "but after I'm back, we can discuss Star Wars strategy."

 Steve watches him go, until he disappears around the corner. When he looks back at the workshop, he sees Tony looking at him with a look that's half speculative, half sympathetic.

 "You know that nothing can happen right?" he says apropos of nothing, but Steve knows exactly what he's talking about, "It's against the law. DADT. If his superiors find out, his career is over. 's why me and him ended in the first place."

  Steve found out about Tony and James' history only a month ago, and the sting has faded. Mostly because he knows it was a long time ago, and neither of them harbour those feelings anymore.

 "I know," Steve says carefully, because Tony is still James' bestfriend, "and I wouldn't ask him to risk that. Doesn't change how I feel though. And if I have to wait, or hide it, or even ignore it until he's ready to deal with it - I'm ready for all of it."

 Tony nods, like it's the answer he's expected, "You'll be good for him Steve. He deserves someone who'll wait." Unlike me, who didn't goes unsaid.

 "I don't expect anything from him Tony," Steve says, looking Tony right in the eye, "but I can't just pretend I don't feel the way I do. Especially not if there's the barest possibility that he feels the same."

 Steve isn't generally good with these sorts of things, recognising interest. Still, he doesn't think he's imagined the looks he's gotten from James the past couple of times he's been over, over misread the touching, the talking, the borderline flirting.

 "He does," Tony confirms, "but like I said - nothing can happen." He says in a careful tone, and it takes Steve a couple seconds to cotton onto what Tony is implying. It leaves a rush through him, reminding him of back-alley trysts, protected by the shadows.

 "Nothing can happen," Steve repeats, and Tony pointedly turns his back as Steve leaps up from the couch and follows James out. He thinks about calling ahead, or maybe messaging - but there's a decent chance that James already knows about this conversation, since Tony wouldn't have brought it up unless James had expressly allowed him too.

 Steve might not know much about the twenty first century, but bro-code well enough.

 He knocks on James' door, thrumming with energy, and his heart stutters when James opens it in a towel; one around his waist, catching the droplets of water falling down his chest, and another around his neck.

 "Steve?" he asks, and there's no mistaking the hopeful tone in his voice. It confirms Steve's suspicions, that Tony was talking to him on behalf of James.

 Steve doesn't reply, just pulls him for a kiss.

 Fin

#my writing #steverhodey #warshield #steve rogers/james rhodes #steve x rhodey #steve rogers x james rhodes #adi does AU-gust #AU-gust #Superheroes/Superpowers AU #post Avengers (2012) #past rhodeytony #pre slash #mutual pining #first kiss #dadt #secret relationship #pov steve rogers

[coepiteamare]

catch up tag game

where does time go? where does my head go? i think i’m still lost in the clouds...but people have tagged me and i’m trying to respond to messages so we’re doing things all at once! 

a lot of people have tagged me in things, but this is late so...i don’t want to bother anyone meep

tag game one: fic writers ask game

which new trope would you like to try writing?

friends to lovers! soft pining! but let’s be realistic: i bleed heartbreaks and happily-never-afters, so coffeeshop au! (where they meet but aren’t destined to be) (side note: i once made mai’s fluffy prompt angsty and that’s what this reminds me of)

which trope do you want to write again?

angst? uhhh another epistolary would be nice, maybe in letter format or another voicemail fic, but i probably won’t for a long time. 

which draft are you most excited to post?

uhhh currently “depth of field” or this one au! where the world comes to an end. 

is there any new genre you want to explore?

...non angst? OH i do want to write about space once. where the characters meet at this diner at the end of the universe. 

do you have a favourite line in any of your drafts up to now?

trauma leaves fingerprints behind, bruises in places hands and medicine can’t reach, and claims ownership of memories. it demands to be remembered, even when you beg to forget. 

(i include this in EVERY wip quote question but i love it) they name hurricanes after girls, he tells you.  a prayer for gentleness, a hope for small casualties. huh, you reply, whoever came up with that idea must never have been caught in the storm of a girl. 

have you decided on any creative goals for 2021?

hmm....not really! i’d like to put out something once a month, but it’s okay if i don’t. if i write enough love letters i cannot send, i’d like to try and print it into a book because my friend said she’d be willing to draw things for it!

describe your journey on this blog last year in three words! and three more words for what you hope for 2021!

2020:  a short ride

2021:  a longer ride. 

tag game two: 10 songs, 10 people

rules: you can tell a lot about a person from the type of music they listen to. put your favorite playlist on shuffle and list the first ten songs. then tag ten people. no skipping!

triggered - jhené aiko

one kiss - sofia carson

revolution - aleXa

so wonderful - ladies code

love4eva - loona/yyxy

all you need to know - gryffin, slander, calle lehmann

why don’t you know - chungha, nuksal

if you think it’s love - king princess

full moon - sunmi, lena

every night - exid

tag game three: this or that

indoor plants or gardens // cloud-watching or star-gazing // water or fire // paperback or hardcover // running or hiking // sleeping with socks or without socks // fruit or vegetables // hanging plants or succulents // dark wood or light wood // handwritten or typed // instagram or pinterest // braids or pigtails // dc or marvel // books or movies // oceans or meadows // forests or fields // sweet or salty // ice cream or chocolate // hoodies or sweaters // long hair or short hair // piercings or tattoos // summer or winter // boots or sneakers // cars or motorcycles // curls or straight hair // castles or cottages // sunny days or storms // reptiles or birds // disney or nickelodeon // strawberries or watermelon // essays or posters // phones or laptops // glass or stone // dark or light // photos or paintings // circuses or theatres // reading or writing // dogs or cats // poetry or novels // monsters or ghosts // thrift shops or libraries // fiction or non-fiction

tag game four: ten biases tag

rules: write down your top 10 biases and answer the following questions ( i tried to not include more than 3 per group because...life is hard but also after #5, the order doesn’t matter)

jeon jungkook

kim namjoon

iu / lee jieun

min yoongi

irene

kang seulgi

sana

joy

baek yerin

do kyungsoo

1. between 1 and 4 who would you rather kiss?

meep. jjk probably

2. between 2 and 7 who would be your best friend?

namjoon. i think we could talk and we’d understand each other. 

3. between 5 and 10 who has the better voice?

kyungsoo. honey vocals. hard to beat.

4. between 1 and 8 who is the funniest?

joy is pretty funny...but jjk! probably. 

5. between 6 and 9 who would you date?

god. fuck. uhm, seulgi. 

6. between 9 and 10, who would you do a collaboration with?

gasp. baek yerin. i love the way she writes, the way she holds emotions. (someone told me my voice gives off her vibes, but that is a disrespect to her)

7. between 4 and 8 who is the best dancer?

joy probs!

8. between 3 and 5 who would you most likely marry?

iu because iu. 

9. between 1 and 7 who would you nurse when they are sick?

uhhhhh sana? i think of cheese gimbap and i melt. 

10. between 2 and 3 who has the better smile?

ohhhhhh....this is hard. namjoon? i’m so sorry. 

11. between 6 and 8 who would you vacation with?

seulgi because i love her. 

#tag games #tag games with violet #i should come up with a better tag #but i'm lazy