#Alice’s 1.5k Writing Challenge

[jen-with-a-pen]

the weight

summary: Steve betrays Bucky in the worst way possible.

pairing: Bucky Barnes x Steve Rogers

warnings: Angst, cheating, emotional damage, swearing, mention of vomiting, hurt/no comfort, emotional hurt

word count: 3.8k

read here on AO3!

a/n: This is my submission for the lovely @maladaptivexxdaydreaming's Jardin de Poemas writing challenge! I was so so excited for this and decided to take it on as my first ever writing challenge! I had a lot of angsty emotional fun writing this and a lot of listening to Amber Run's The Weight on repeat (hence the title oops). This is literally my longest fic to date and I did my best to revise and edit it on my own!! Hope you like it!! divider by @firefly-graphics, banner by me I used the following prompts:

I would put you first, I would claim you, I would declare you when times were tough, when times were difficult, I would cling to you

Let go of the old love and tell it to keep its distance. Tell this love that I am the only one for you

The morning Bucky heard Steve had made it home from his mission, he felt the weight of the world lift from his shoulders. After six weeks of worrying, waiting for some sort of news, he was finally able to breathe again. 

Bucky rushed to the rooftop the second the helicopter landed, ready to welcome back the love of his life. It was a tradition that developed over the five years they had been officially together: one happily welcoming the other home with the biggest hug and kiss, never mind who was around or watching. It was one of Bucky’s favorite things. 

Next to Steve himself, of course. 

The steel security doors flung open as Bucky hurried onto the landing pad as the propellers slowed to a halt. The door swung open, and Bucky couldn’t help the smile building on his face, wider and wider as the vehicle emptied. The first two agents exited, followed by a striking blonde woman in full business attire plus a tactical vest. C.I.A. in bold white letters plastered on the front of the Kevlar that fit snug over her white collared blouse. Shiny black heels clacked against the concrete as she strutted through the line of officials welcoming the team back.

Bucky paused, watching her, brow furrowing deeper into thought with yet each heel click. Bucky couldn’t put a name to her face; he knew he recognized her as she strode by him, eyes flicking up and down his form with the shadow of a smirk grazing her lips. His smile faltered.

What was that about?

Bucky’s gaze followed the woman as she continued into the building, his face contorted as he filed through his brain for some sort of name for her. He knew he’d seen her before, when and where–

“Bucky?”

Whipping his head back around, his grin returned immediately. Steve stood in front of the copter’s exit, donning his signature navy tactical suit, worn leather shield harness tight against his fame. His blond hair pushed back from his face with a few strands cascading from his crown; a sight that would make any man or woman fall to their knees. The cut lip he somehow acquired failed to take away from the sculpturesque features of his face.

Finally.

Bucky broke into a sprint, colliding with Steve’s Kevlar-clad chest, arms wrapping around his torso, warmth washing onto his skin as he buried his face in Steve’s neck. 

“Woah! Hey, hey, Buck,” he coughed out, squeezing his partner back. However, Bucky noticed, it wasn't as hard as he usually did. Usually, Steve would squeeze back so hard Bucky would see stars. This was… just a hug. 

Bucky swallowed the nasty taste on his tongue, immediately tucking the thought back with the other unnecessary doubts and intrusive suggestions he kept locked away. It had been a month, just one, and his brain was suddenly overanalyzing Steve hugging him. 

“Here I thought you weren’t gonna make it in time, you let the copter beat ya," Steve laughed, dimples appearing on his cheeks.

“Had a late notice, but I still made it,” Bucky hummed into his neck. “I’d never miss this for th’ world.” He opened his eyes after a moment, greeted by a sight of purple-haloed bruises running up the column of his lover's neck. Bucky pulled back sharply as he held Steve at arm's length. 

“Steve, what happened?” Bucky questioned, concern coating his tone. He'd never seen his partner come home with an injury like this before. He tilted his head to look at both sides, each riddled with various contusions in pinks, reds, and purples. Some even seemed fresh; Bucky, again, pushed the mere suggestion to the back of his mind. Steve’s eyes widened, immediately reeling his reaction in to keep his composure. Bucky swore he felt the man’s shoulders tense under his touch. 

“Oh, um, they had this huge guy, a hitman ex-assassin,” Steve explained. “Guy got a good couple of headlocks, couple a hits ‘n kicks to me before I took him down.” He swallowed thickly, searching Bucky’s eyes for validation in his story. Bucky held his gaze a second more, finally relaxing his grip on Steve’s shoulders. He brought the blond back in for another bear hug. 

“‘m just glad you’re okay, punk.” 

“Me too, Buck. Now, let’s get inside, I need debrief, dinner, and a shower.” 

×××

Sharon. That’s who the blonde was.

Bucky remembered the woman’s name as he failed to mingle at the dinner that was arranged for the return of Captain America from another successful assignment. Leaning his plated arm against the stainless steel bar top, he mulled over a cider he half-heartedly accepted when Steve offered it to him earlier. Sipping the lukewarm liquid, his gaze swept the room of people conversing, laughing with one another. His eyes flitted from one group of people to another, face after unfamiliar face as he searched the sporadic sea of people. 

Stretching, Bucky checked his watch. Seven twenty. He’d been stuck to the bar like some outlying predator with an alcohol problem for thirty minutes. 

"Buck, I have t' go 'n mingle, gotta make the press happy," Steve had told him, unhooking his fingers from the brunet’s plated ones as he picked up his phone again for the fortieth time that evening. Bucky had never seen Steve on his phone that much, fingers speeding over the keys, tapping rapidly as if his life depended on it. It felt like every minute they cycled through the same three things– talking, phone buzzing, texting, repeat– and when Bucky leaned in the slightest bit to see who Steve was chatting with, Steve immediately dropped the phone face down on the counter like he hadn’t even touched it.

Bucky noticed Steve’s eyes dulled each time they met his.

"I'll be quick, then we can catch up, okay?" He smiled genuinely for the first time since he'd been home. Bucky relented, returning the gestures half-heartedly with a soft 'of course, love' before leaning in for a kiss– to which Steve pecked Bucky's cheek and beelined for the first table he could find. 

The faces blurred together after that.

"'m heading back," the soldier turned to the bartender, "if the tall blond that was here earlier with me comes back, tell 'im I went back to our place, would ya?"

The bartender offered a pitiful smile. “Cap, right?” 

Bucky nodded, still hopelessly searching for his partner. 

“Sure thing. You alright, Sarge?”

“Yeah. Yeah, ‘m fine,” Bucky mumbled as he shook out of his self-induced trance. He dove into his pocket for his wallet, slipping out a twenty and sliding it to the young man. “Thanks, kid.” 

He stalked through the crowd towards the elevators, teeth gnawing on his bottom lip as anxiety began to pool in his chest and thought after intrusively doubtful thought raced through his mind. His heart quickened with his pace as he made it to the elevator and pressed the call button a little too aggressively. The elevator doors slid open instantaneously and Bucky looked up, freezing in place as he locked eyes with the exiting occupants.

Steve and Sharon stood side by side, eyes just as wide and surprised to see Bucky. 

The three gawked at one another, unable to move or speak. Sharon parted her lips, another quiet smirk playing on her smudged red lipstick. She glanced to Steve– who had completely drained of blood at the sight of Bucky– and cleared her throat, throwing on another innocent smile. 

“Sergeant Barnes,” she acknowledged, failing to hide the underlying curtness in her tone. She gave him another once over as she strutted back to the dinner party, heels clicking on the marble floor. 

Bucky turned his attention back to Steve and quirked an eyebrow as a hard lump of annoyance and anxiety built in his throat.

“Sorry, baby, they, they needed us for a quick photo op!” Steve nodded his head as if patting himself on the back. The half-assed apology failed to reach his eyes. 

And its target audience.

“‘S okay, I’m beat, gonna head up to the room,” Bucky shrugged, stepping inside the elevator and pressing the button for their floor. “You comin’?”

Steve was already halfway out the elevator by Bucky’s question. He stopped and turned on his heel, raising an index finger and pointing at his partner. 

“No, but!” He gestured, “Sharon wanted a drink and I wanted to say hi to Maria real quick. I’ll be up in, say, fifteen?” The blond smiled, awaiting approval from the brunet.

“Sure. Fifteen.”

The doors slid shut as Steve all but ran towards the party. Bucky sighed, the lump in his throat expanding as the elevator hummed, one thought plaguing his brain on the way up. 

Maria wasn’t at that party.

×××

Bucky knew someone had been in the apartment. 

He flicked the light on as he let the door shut behind him, a sense of unease and doubt washing over him as he shrugged off his jacket and threw it on the counter. Standing in the open entryway made him fidget like he wasn’t supposed to be there. 

Like he didn’t belong there.

He moved into the kitchen, taking out his ponytail, and carding a hand through the loosened locks. Opening a cupboard, he fished out a scotch glass and placed it on the counter, pulling a bottle of whiskey from another and pouring to his heart’s content. If there was anything that would put him at ease, it'd be straight scotch. 

Bringing the whiskey to his lips, he froze, goosebumps littering his neck and arm. Something was off. He glanced over at the living room sofa, scanning the coffee table, end tables, the bookshelf. 

It was subtle, but he knew. 

The couch cushions were recently pushed in, the pillows in their wrong spots. The throw blankets he and Steve always shared were folded and draped carelessly over the back of the couch. The end table coasters were knocked to the floor, scattering across the area rug.

The picture frame on the coffee table, one of Steve and him from their first date in Central Park, tipped over face down. 

Bucky downed the rest of the whiskey and strode into the bedroom as the rooms began to spin. Turning on the light displayed a similar scene. The bed was haphazardly made, with wrinkled blankets and more wrongly-placed pillows.

He must be making this up. It’s all in his head. It had to be. 

The picture of him on Steve’s side of the bed, face down like the one in the living room, proved otherwise. 

Bucky felt sick. His stomach somersaulted, twisting upside and inside out as his heart hammered against his ribs. He stumbled to the bathroom sink, blasting cold water from the faucet. He cupped and splashed it on his face, a futile attempt to stop the panic attack in its tracks. He braced the sink basin, gripping the granite countertop while attempting to control his breathing. 

All focus dissipated, however, when he felt the counter vibrate under his palms. He glanced down, only to be greeted by Steve’s cell phone in the middle of the counter. The last bit of blood left Bucky's face, the lump in his throat dropping straight into the pit of his stomach.

Listening for the door, Bucky quickly peered over his shoulder and picked up the phone. It buzzed as he held it, a Pandora's Box beckoning him to open it.

He tapped the screen awake– only to be promoted for a password. Bucky’s brow furrowed, confused and offended as to why Steve needed a password on his phone. He never wanted one, nor would he ever bend to getting one despite complaints from Tony. 

Bucky gulped as he racked his brain for possible options. 

1945, no.

2825, BUCK, no.

72724, SARAH, yes.

Oh. 

Bucky could feel his hand begin to shake as he opened the messages app. At the very top of the screen, Sharon's name illuminated the screen as unread. With attachments.

Oh fuck. 

Bucky was paralyzed, unsure of whether to dig deeper or to pretend this was a dream. Without thinking, he tapped on her name.

Message upon message, photos from both sides of the screen, validations and sweet nothings and secret meetings. Bucky stopped scrolling at one excerpt, his heart all but stopping.

Sharon: what r u doing when u get back?

Steve: You, definitely ;)

Sharon: but what about bucky? he cant know

Steve: I won’t tell him!!

Sharon: u wont?

Steve: No, not ever. Only you and me til the end of the line :*

The phone left Bucky’s hand faster than he could lunge for the toilet, gagging over the bowl as the text burned into his brain, branding it forever into his memory. He clutched the porcelain as he heaved, purging his dinner and guts and trust and last bits of hope. 

The bathroom door slammed open as Bucky heaved again. Steve suddenly appeared, frozen in place at the sight of his cell phone screen shattered on the floor while his partner hunched over the toilet. Steve’s stomach sank, refusing to let him move from the threshold of the bathroom. 

Spitting and wiping his nose, Bucky looked up at Steve, tears and snot streaming down his face. Steve was the equivalent of a deer in headlights as the blood drained from his face at the sight of his lover.

“Why?” Bucky croaked, gagging again into the toilet. Having nothing else to give, he dropped the seat down and flushed, slumping back against the shower door. He wiped his face on the sleeve of his t-shirt, panting and sniffling like a pathetic child.

Steve’s lips formed the words he needed but sound failed to carry them. His grip only tightened against the door frame. There was nowhere else to hide. 

“Why, Steve?” Bucky yelled, this time standing abruptly and biting his lip to quell the sudden sobs building in his chest. Still, with no answer he moved to pick the phone off the floor, gripping it in his prosthetic hand. The phone’s plastic body began to submit to the weight of his grasp, cracking under the pressure. 

“Fuckin’ answer me!” 

“I can explain, Bucky! It’s not what you think!” Steve held both hands out in an attempt to calm the brunet down, though it looked more like a zoo keeper calming a wild animal than it did a lover's quarrel. 

Bucky’s rage only boiled over. He threw the phone at the ground, glass and plastic shattering and metal shrapnel flying everywhere. He balled his hands into tight fists and set his jaw. Tears streamed steadily down his cheeks, trailing the column of his neck, staining the collar of his shirt. 

“You fuckin’ liar. Why? Why, Steve? When did this even happen? When did it fucking start?” He sobbed, his legs like jelly, threatening to give under him at any moment.

“Bucky I-”

“You’ve made enough goddamned excuses!”

“We were undercover for the mission, we… I didn’t mean for it to go this far!”

“Then why did you fuckin’ let it?”

The silence was deafening as Steve searched for an answer. He came up empty and Bucky shoved past him, heading for the front door. He needed to get the fuck out of there, away from Steve, away from it all. 

“Bucky, baby, honey, please!” Steve begged as he followed. He knew he was crying, he felt like he was crying, but the tears refused to spill. 

He couldn’t deny his guilt. 

“Don’t you dare Bucky baby me, you lying fuckin' bastard!”

“I didn’t know what she was doing, Buck! She came onto me! And, and I, I dunno! I, I just went with it!” Steve appealed. “I was gone for a month!” 

Bucky stopped dead in his tracks. He spun over his shoulder, daggers shooting from his eyes straight into Steve's.

“That’s your excuse? You were gone? For a month?”

Steve instantly regretted his words, opening his mouth to explain but promptly shutting it. He knew he couldn’t dig the hole any further than the bedrock he just hit. 

“I was here. For a month. I slept, in an empty bed, for a month. I worked, alone, for a month. I was here,” his voice broke, “without my best guy. For a month.”

Bucky screamed the last of his words at Steve, grasping fistfuls of hair to ground himself– and to keep himself from punching a hole in the wall. 

Steve remained silent, unable to further poorly defend himself. The tears still hadn't fallen.

"I was gonna leave but ya know what?" Bucky shook his head. He headed to the door, pushing it open and blowing in a sarcastic gesture of politeness. "You leave. Get the fuck out, Steve. I'm fucking going to bed." 

Steve's jaw slacked, his slouched figure stuck in place in front of the open door. Bucky held firm in his bow, stifling sobs and sniffles as he waited with the last ounce of patience he could muster. Defeated, he slowly dragged his feet to the doorstep, turning on his heel with one last apology pulling at his tongue.

"Bucky, I'm–"

The door slammed in his face before he could finish.

×××

The thunderstorm hadn't started long after.

Bucky knew it was late. Just how late was unknown. He'd crawled straight into bed sobbing, drifting in and out of bouts of sobbing and rage. 

It was sometime later he heard the front door open, closing softly behind quiet footsteps. He quickly turned on his side and huddled into the comforter, unwilling to allow Steve to know he was still awake. Unwilling to show him any more weakness. 

He didn't deserve it. 

Bucky felt the weight shift on the mattress next to him. His eyes remained closed, feigning sleep to avoid the man he thought he knew slipping under the covers next to him. The audacity, the gall, Steve had to even come back to bed. 

To even come back. 

His heart, however, refused to quiet. It pounded furiously in his chest, loud enough to match the roaring thunder from the storm raging on outside of the bedroom windows. 

Underneath the rain pattering against the window, Steve sobbed softly. His hand muffled any escaping cries from his throat as he sat in the bed he and his lover shared. His forever. 

But that was gone. The bed was just a bed now, no love to be found; it had been driven out by his stupidity and his selfishness. He wished he could find answers to his actions underneath the mattress, but only the remains of what he had, what they had, lay dead and dormant and decaying. 

Bucky was tired. 

×××

Steve awoke to a crack of lightning hitting the tower’s lightning rod, shaking the building like a volcanic eruption. He shot up, panting and covered in sweat, the silence greeting him gladly as the rain continued pounding at the windows. He rubbed his face as his eyes adjusted to the stilled darkness enveloping the bedroom. He glanced over at the clock that blinked 12:00 steadily.

As he came to his senses, his hand instinctively migrated to the space next to him. Muscle memory. Instead of finding the weight and warmth and presence of Bucky, he felt cold sheets and empty space. He looked around the room, calling out for his partner; getting up to check the bathroom, the closet, to no avail. 

What he did find were missing items. A toothbrush, clothes, shoes.

Steve’s heart began to sink, to pound with fistfuls of anger and pain and sorrow as he ran out into the living room. When another crack of lightning filled the room, a glint of metal caught his eye on the table. Then he saw the note. 

Neatly placed under the T.V. remote on the hardwood coffee table laid a folded piece of legal pad paper, blotches of ink bleeding through to the other side. Next to it laid a thin chain of weathered metal leading to two distinct dog tags detailing the information of one James Buchanan Barnes. 

Steve gulped, silently pleading it wasn’t what he thought it was. That it was just a horrible dream, and he was still asleep, beside the love of his life and about to wake up in the arms of his one and only.

He refused to allow his tears to fall as they welled in his vision, clouding the contents of the note as he picked it and the tags up, falling back into the couch. The metal clinked as he gripped them tightly in his hand like a rosary, praying this wasn’t real. This wasn’t happening. This couldn't be happening. 

Steve -

I am a broken man. I always have been, and I always will be. But you were the first to fix me, to put me back together again and again after shattering. I stayed, for you, just as you waited, for me. 

I have worked so hard to forgive. Every day of my new life has been forgiveness for all I have done, for all who have done it to me. I have even worked up to forgiving myself, something you and I both know has taken longer than we have been together. 

I feel more ready to forgive myself now than I think I will ever be able to start to forgive you. 

I had put you first. I had claimed you, declared you when times were tough. When times were difficult, I would cling to you. 

But I can no longer do that. I cannot live pretending to be with someone I thought would never betray me. I cannot live with someone who put what we have through more war and hurt than what the both of us have seen. 

I ask of you, as one last favor, one last time. Let go of this old love and tell it to keep its distance. Tell this love that I am was the only one for you.

This is the end of the line.

– Buck

Tears fell steadily onto the paper, bleeding into the inked page and smearing the final words Steve was privileged to even be able to read. His sobs finally broke through, echoing into the empty living room, reminding him of how lonely he was, now. He cried out, clutching the dog tags and the letter to his chest in hopes he could break through his ribs and store it in his heart. He crumpled up the paper and smudged the pen into his fingertips, the last thing Bucky ever touched. His heart pounded and his chest heaved as he howled like an injured dog, beaten and bloodied and bruised beyond recognition. 

He deserved it, though. He had done this to himself. 

It truly was the end of the line.

[victoria-daydreams]

The Hare and The Tower

Chapter One: Of Butterflies & Sketches

AN: I am very happy to see that I am not the only one crushing on the schemer that is Otto Hightower. Thank you to everyone who liked and reblogged this story! I swear to god this app hated me while writing this chapter because it was constantly crashing on me. Also, I finally decided on House Clarick’s sigil, it’s a hare, hence the title. I am attempting a semi-slow burn pray for me.

Trigger warnings: age gap

Word Count: 1.5k

Taglist: @riviaborns​ @newandykes

Summary: Jesmyn discovers that personal happiness often comes with a cost.

Chapter Two: Heart’s Desire

113 AC, Westeros

Within three short months, Lord Hightower had requested the pleasure of Jesmyn’s company one day a week at sunset for a stroll, unless his responsibilities as Hand called him elsewhere. At first, Jesmyn had been nervous, uncertain, even. That was until, weeks turned into a month, and then into three. Surprisingly, Jesmyn found herself and Lord Hightower had grown to become close companions. Their long walks around the palace gardens had been a welcome escape from the unpredictable world they lived in.

Jesmyn took pleasure in spending time with Lord Hightower, more than she thought she possible. Before, she only exchanged pleasantries with him due to being friends with his daughter, Alicent. Other than those interactions, she rarely paid him any attention. Now, she held a genuine affection for Lord Hightower, a man full of wisdom and complexity all wrapped in one. With every day that passed, Jesmyn found herself hanging on his every word. It was a little surprising to her that she had as much of an interest in him as she did. For it was quite obvious how big of an age difference there was between them. Still, she could not deny the feelings that stirred in heart because of the older man.

Dusk had soon become Jesmyn’s favorite part of the day. It was during this time, she could speak her mind freely without disapproving looks and patronizing tones when it came to serious matters that plagued the realm. On some issues, Lord Hightower would disagree with a few of her progressive views, his mind still firmly holding onto more traditional ideas. However, he still respected her intellectual mind. They could talk with each other till the sun retreated below the horizon and the stars began to sparkle dimly in the sky.

On one particular evening, Jesmyn and Lord Hightower walked side by side through the maze of the palace gardens before he challenged her to a friendly game of cyvasse under the arbor.

“Lady Jesmyn, do you paint portraits?” Lord Hightower asked, moving a piece on the cyvasse board.

“Not often my lord,” Jesmyn answered, contemplating her next move. “I’ve always found myself gravitating to landscapes,” she explained, moving her own cyvasse's piece as sensible as she believed to be. “Did you have someone in mind, Lord Hightower?” she wondered, looking up from the board.

“You,”

Jesmyn’s breath hitched as her eyes widened, surely she was dreaming. Heat seared underneath her face, and suddenly Jesmyn felt unbelievably warm in the lightweight material of her dress. She was glad that Lord Hightower couldn't see just how flustered he had made her. Bashfully, she tucked her chin into her neck, avoiding his stare.

“Please, don’t be cruel Lord Hightower,” Jesmyn said, shaking her head. “I do not wish for you to be subjected to viewing my shoddy work of an attempted self portrait. It would ruin your opinion of me,” she jested, belting out a breathy laugh.

“Stop that,” he demanded softly, which made Jesmyn lift her eyes to meet his. There was a tenderness in his tone which was new to her. “I have without a doubt, your splendor will be equally reflected on canvas,” he added, gazing intently at her and rekindling the warmth in her cheeks.

Her mouth curved upwards, a gracious smile on her face, “Then, it shall be done Lord Hightower,” she agreed, with a nod. “Your kind words inspire me with confidence,” Jesmyn informed.

~~~x~~~

A week later

“My mother will have my head once she gets a whiff of me,” Jesmyn complained, tugging off her gloves.

Riding Syrax with Rhaenyra was an exhilarating experience for Jesmyn, however she couldn’t be happier to have her feet solidly back on the ground of the dragon pit.

“What for?” Rhaenyra asked, mirroring her movements. “You did tell her what we were doing, right?” she remarked, with an amused huff.

“I told my mother that the Princess invited me to go riding with her,” Jesmyn replied, shoving her gloves into the belt of her tunic “I didn’t specify what manner of creature it would be,” she explained, a half smirk on her lips.

“Being crafty are you?” Rhaenyra teased, as they entered inside the Red Keep.

The two of them strode through the winding and large corridors of the castle, both of their coats flowing behind him. Servants left and right lowered themselves close to the floor and bending their heads to Rhaenyra as she passed them in the wide hall. Acknowledging the servants with an appreciative smile, the two girls continued on their way to Jesmyn’s quarters, the sun gleaming through the pillars of the castle every step of the way. Just as Jesmyn went to turn down the hall where her quarters were, Rhaenyra gently grabbed her arm and stopped her.

“Jesmyn, before you go,” Rhaenyra began hesitantly. “There’s something I wish to discuss with you,” she said, her cheery attitude inexplicably gone.

Jesmyn’s brows furrowed at the change of demeanor from her friend, “Of course Rhaenyra,” she answered readily.

Without resistance, Jesmyn let herself be escorted to the balconies. Rhaenyra dropped down onto the bench against the wall in an unladylike fashion, resting her head against the wall. While Jesmyn opted to stand, leaning on the balcony railing.

“What troubles your mind Princess?” Jesmyn questioned.

“Is it true what they say?” Rhaenyra asked bluntly.

“Is what true?” Jesmyn repeated, feeling a frown form again.

“There have been whispers about you and Lord Hightower,” she stated, her stare unflinching. “It seems you both have been enjoying each other’s company as of late,” she said, with an undercurrent of disgust.

Jesmyn's eyes darted to the row of arches open to the of inner courtyard which overlooked it. The bustle of the castle below was abuzz as the occupants went about their day on the warm sunny afternoon.

“Princess Rhaenyra, I didn’t take you as a gossiper,” Jesmyn said evasively.

“Except, it’s not just frivolous court gossip, is it? Not if Lady Redwyne has anything to say about it,” she commented, and Jesmyn could envision her rolling her eyes.

Slowly, Jesmyn looked back at Rhaenyra, “It is true,” she admitted. “We have walks in the garden and we converse with each other, but it’s harmless,” she said unconvincingly.

“Harmless?” Rhaenyra repeated, a bitter laugh leaving her. “The King’s Hand is anything but harmless!” she snapped, her glare intensifying.

“I know you have your reservations about Lord Hightower, but he’s a brilliant man Rhaenyra,” Jesmyn assured, turning away from her to look down into the courtyard, her head leaning against the arch. “He is wise, clever, and…” she trailed off dreamily, her eyes zeroing in on the Small Council walking through courtyard and speaking amongst themselves.

Immediately, Jesmyn recognized Lord Hightower’s figure engaged in conversation with Lord Strong. The conversation between the two men was abruptly short when another member of the council pulled the Master of Laws away to discuss another matter. Lord Hightower’s eyes happened to flit upwards to the balconies where she was standing.

Jesmyn felt her heart stutter as brown eyes met deep blue ones, his face shifted in a blink from fierce concentration to vaguely relaxed. Lord Hightower gazed at her, not smiling, however his eyes softened as they held her stare. He gave her a slight nod in acknowledgement and a warm smile adorned her face.

“And what?” Rhaenyra asked impatiently, startling Jesmyn from her reverie.

She glanced off to the side, finding it was increasingly harder to divide her attention from Lord Hightower to Rhaenyra.

Jesmyn reared around, “And, he takes an honest interest into my hobbies and my thoughts. He respects me,” she finished, placing her hand against her chest.

“Harmless, you said?” Rhaenyra repeated sardonically. “I think you’re more fond of him than you realize,” Rhaenyra said, with a small scoff.

“Would it be that bad if I were, Rhaenyra?” Jesmyn asked curiously, tilting her head. “Soon, I will be eight and ten,” she reminded. “My father has been a patient man, but he made abundantly it clear to me. He will have me married off come next spring,” she stated, moving away from the balcony.

“And so you chose him?”

“I didn’t choose him, it was happenstance,”

“Does she know?” Rhaenyra questioned, and Jesmyn knew exactly who the ‘she’ in question was.

“I am not sure,” Jesmyn replied honestly. “I have to assume she has, if you’re hearing whispers then surely she has too,” Jesmyn reasoned, interlocking her hands behind her back. “Although, she hasn’t confronted me about it. Then again, she was never one for confrontation. The worst that could happen would be her forbidding me to see her father, she is The Queen after all,” she joked, making Rhaenyra’s scowl deeper. “My apologies, I shouldn’t have been so flippant. It’s understandably still a sore subject for you,” Jesmyn said quickly.

Rhaenyra rose from the bench, gripping her riding gloves tightly.

“Best head to your bath, Lady Jesmyn,” she suggested. “I wouldn’t want the smell of dragon to spoil your walk with The Hand,” she remarked coldly, brushing past her.

“Rhaenyra, don’t be like this,” Jesmyn pleaded softly.

The Princess came to a stop and turned on her heel.

“Lord Hightower is courting you, I do not know why you deny it to my face,”

“What would it accomplish, Rhaenyra!” Jesmyn said exasperatedly. “Your disdain for him is evident,” she commented. “You are my friend,” she stated, taking a hold of the younger girl’s hands. “And I need you to understand, if Lord Hightower pursues his courtship with me, it would change everything for me, for my family,” Jesmyn explained. “House Clarick would finally have standing in this court—”

Rhaenyra snatched her hands from Jesmyn’s, a mixture of betrayal and disgust painted on her face.

“Of course, that’s all you care about,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s what everyone cares about in this damned court,” she accused, backing away from her.

“No, Rhaenyra that’s not what I meant!” Jesmyn said, reaching out for her.

It was too late though, Rhaenyra had already took off running.

[jobean12-blog]

hey Jo! could you possibly write something about Bucky being all fluffy and protective over anxious f! reader? bonus if it involves toxic family members 🥺. I've been having a hard time with the same scenario lately and I can't find one to soothe the chaos. thank you so so much. ♥️

Limitless Love

Pairing: Bucky x reader

Word Count: 888 (including poetry)

Summary: Bucky is your safe place.

Author's Note: Hi lovely anon! Sorry for the delay and thank you for this soft request and your patience. I'm sorry you're dealing with this and I hope you've been ok. I have a couple of other similar asks to this, just sort of Bucky being Bucky and wonderful. I decided to make the readers anxiety less the focus- since everyone experiences it in different ways- and focus on what would help, which I also know can be different for everyone but that's why I tried to include a few things- cuddles, soft words of comfort, Alpine, quietness, baths...things like that! Hope it helps and you enjoy! And this is for everyone who is having a rough day or time and feeling off, Bucky and I love YOU! This is also for my dear friend Alice's 1.5k followers writing challenge 'Jardin de Poemas' @maladaptivexxdaydreaming Congratulations my love, you deserve it all and more and thank you for your constant inspiration to not only be a kind and loving person but to incorporate such beauty into writing. One of her gorgeous poetic prompts really struck a chord for this piece: 'In my deepest heart and on all parts of my soul, I also know that this is real, that you are true, that we are forever.' I also included two poems in this piece that are labeled in the story. And the Russian translations are from google translate, I apologize for any errors. Thank you all so much for reading! Much love always! ❤️❤️❤️Dividier by my sweet @firefly-graphics Thank you love! 🥰

Warnings: lots of soft fluff, light angst but full of love :)

Gif NOT MINE: Credit goes to @unearthlydust Thank you sweets🥰

When Bucky steps into your shared apartment he instantly searches for you, his eyes scanning the room until they finally land on a ball of blanket curled up on the couch. Alpine is atop it, curled up much the same, his head lifted in a quiet greeting.

With calm movements Bucky takes off his boots and his jacket before he makes his way to you. Without any words he gathers you and the blanket into his arms and pulls you against his chest. Alpine protests with a small meow but climbs up onto Bucky’s shoulder as soon as he settles.

You let out a sigh and bury your face in his Henley, gripping the fabric tightly between your fingers. He delicately rubs your back, his fingers tracing patterns over the blanket and then along your shoulders. You deeply inhale, the rush of the scent of his skin enveloping you in an overwhelming feeling of safety.

He starts to speak softly, his poetic words familiar to you even in Russian; “iz nochi, kotoraya pokryvayet menya, chernyy, kak yama, ot polyusa do polyusa, ya blagodaryu lyubykh bogov, dlya moyey nepobedimoy dushi.”

(Out of the night that covers me, black as the pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be for my unconquerable soul. In the fell clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeonings of chance my head is bloody, but unbowed. -The first and second verses of the poem Invictus by W.E. Henley)

You snuggle deeper, the feel of hot tears stinging your eyes as he finishes the next verse. After letting out a shuddering breath you lift your eyes to his, finishing off the last two verses in a broken whisper; “beyond this place of wrath and tears, looms but the Horror of the shade, and yet the menace of the years, finds and shall find me unafraid. It matters not how strait the gate, how charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul.”

This was a poem he had read to you many times before, one he himself found solace in and it meant so much that he shared it with you. A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth and he dips his head, lightly brushing his nose along your skin and kissing you gently.

His eyes remain closed and his lips soft against your skin as he murmurs; “pust’ moye serdtse budet samym myagkim mestom, kuda ty upadesh,’ pust’ eta lyubov’ budet samym dikim mestom, kuda ty bezhish’”

(May my heart be the softest place you fall, may this love be the wildest place you run- Wild Spirit, Soft Heart- Butterflies Rising).

You lift your hand and lay it over his steadily beating heart, holding it there as your breathing becomes more even and in sync with his. Again, he speaks words of comfort, special to both you and him.

Alpine slides down Bucky’s arm and nuzzles your head, his light purrs vibrating soothingly across your skin. You feel Bucky shift and scratch the fluffy cat, muttering words of praise.

The sweet softness of the setting sun dances across the floor and the curtains billow free with the fragrant spring breeze. You blink in the light, stirring slowly against Bucky’s body and stretching out. His dog tags dangle along his chest and you absentmindedly fiddle with the cool metal, sliding them between your fingers.

“Do you think we can take a bath?” you ask quietly.

His warm fingers lift your chin and he holds your gaze, his eyes filled with a love so deep it nearly steals your breath.

“Pause, breathe, be here with me, it’s all I want, it’s all I need, just this.” (-also from Wild Spirit, Soft Heart- Butterflies Rising).

The words fall softly from his lips, the tenderness of his voice and the familiar healing verse of another favorite poem sweeping you further away to your safe place.

With ease he cradles you in his arms and stands, walking to the bathroom and carefully placing you down to run the bath and gather your favorite bubbles. Once the water is warm and soapy he removes your blanket and helps you undress.

His eyes never stray from yours as his hands and fingers work reverently over your increasingly exposed skin with the gentlest touch. He helps you into the bath and quickly takes off his clothes, sliding in behind you and wrapping you in his arms.

You lay back against his chest, letting your fingertips glide down his metal arm and chase the bubbles. Alpine’s blue eyes appear over the edge of the tub and you see his tail swishing back and forth with the readiness to pounce.

Thankfully, you pull your hand back just before his paw swipes at Bucky’s arm to attack the bubbles. You let out a small giggle and feel Bucky’s body shake with his own laughter.

“I love you both so much,” you whisper, titling your head back to look up at him.

He leans down and delicately kisses your eyelids then lifts your hand to his mouth and kisses along your knuckles. His lips meet your palm before he places it against his cheek and whispers “I love you more than life,” into a kiss.

@book-dragon-13 @christywantspizza @duchessoftheheart @dreamlessinparis @hiddles-rose @jhangelface0523 @loricamebackyetagain @lookiamtrying @goldylions @breakablebarnes @late-to-the-party-81 @lfnr-blog-blog-blog @nano--raptor @randomfandompenguin @turbolisedcomet @seitmai @elliexsaurxasx @rebel-stardust @bb-skyrunner @weekendgothgirl @peaches1958 @mugi-chwan95

[moonstruck-writing]

Hi hi !!!! How have you been? I'm curious about 15, 20, 21, 30, 36, 38 from the ask game 👀❤❤

Hi Mo!!💕 I've had better times, just wishing for the weekend at this point 🤣 I hope you're doing well💖 thanks for the ask!!

15. What's your favourite plotless fic you have written?

Mmm maybe Ginnojo's New Bonds or Yves' Red and Golden. Both fics mainly just explore some first times for the pairings, and that's about it. There's context to it, but nothing else really happens. Ginnojo's was my first nsft fic actually, and the first ever fic I posted on this account. Sometimes I re-read it and I wonder if it was beginner's luck🤣

20. Do you work on a single project or many at the same time? How does that work for you?

...I work on too many at the same time. In practice, I probably shuffle between 3 or 4, until I finish one of them, or I just give up for the moment 🤣 and it... doesn't work super well for me. At first, it did give me the freedom to write while inspired, but for the last two months... It's actually making me procrastinate. Also, I've noticed if I push myself to work on something, more ideas will come up so that I can solve some of the problems and just write, but if I have too many options (wip) to choose from... i just don't choose any 😩

21. Can you accurately predict how long your fics are going to be? If you can, what's your secret?

I actually can but it's only because no matter what, even the shortest idea ends up being 1k 🙄 so I can more or less have an inkling of whether something will be in a 1.5k to 2k range, or longer than that. It's not a secret but rather I've learnt from seeing how my ideas developed into those word counts. All I can say is, you probably can tell whether your idea is just one scenario centered around one incident, or if it needs a build up, and how much of that (roughly) it needs.

30. Describe a fic that almost happened, but then it didn't.

Mmm... I actually have a few abandoned fics. One that frustrated me was a Luka Clemence drabble. Short story: I cannot do drabbles. I need some sort of "plot" even if all the action revolves around one scene. And it just... It didn't convince me. It was about Luka finding a four leaf clover and making a bookmark with it for Alice - I got the idea from the Spring Bouquet Challenge. But when I tried to write it, it just didn't work for me. I couldn't get any ideas for what they'd talk about, or any context, really. Maybe if I knew how to just write drabbles, I would've done it. But I literally cannot just write the one scene. I need something else, like a connection to plot, a purpose for the fic to happen 🤣

36. How do you come up with fic titles? What's the one you're most proud of?

With a lot of mental effort 🤣🤣 most of the time, and I repeat, MOST of the time, I only come up with them when I'm going to post the fic online. And then I'm like, "oh, no. I had forgotten I need a title for this!" 🙄🙄 So I try to find a few words that summarise the plot in a beautiful way. I'm really proud of "Imperfect Parfaits and Other Oxymorons" but I have to admit at that time I had been binging an author's fics and I had noticed their titles were always amazing, and I tried to learn from that. So now I have probably forgotten how to do it lol.

Very very few times, the title actually comes to me while fleshing out the story in my mind. An example is "Sweet Wounds". It just came to me and I was all like: YES. FINALLY. I WON'T HAVE TO WORRY ABOUT THE TITLE LATER ON. 🤣🤣

38. "This never happened" fix-it fics or "this happened but" fix-it fics?

It depends? Mmm maybe this never happened? I tend to prefer that, yes. Seems more of an AU to me, than just canon divergence. And I love AUs. I cannot really think of any fix-it fics I've read recently. And so far, I've only had "this never happened" fic ideas (which are still wip🙈)

Also anyone reading this, feel free to drop fix-it fic recommendations!🙈 I'd like to explore that subgenre.

Ask game here.

[waveridden]

AUcember 2018 Masterpost

AUcember is an annual challenge that I do every year where I try to write a new AU every day in the month of December.

This year’s 31 fics included stories about: The Adventure Zone, ars Paradoxica, Campaign (Skyjacks), Campaign (Star Wars), Critical Role, Greater Boston, NeoScum, Sugar Pine 7, and Wolf 359. You can find individual links to each fic both on Tumblr on Ao3 below, sorted by fandom.

Read the collection on Ao3

Read the collection on Tumblr

#

The Adventure Zone

dal capo, professor au, implied kravitz/taako, 1.9k [tumblr] [ao3]

ars Paradoxica

unless we lift it up together, mateo/nikhil as doctors, 2k [tumblr] [ao3]

Campaign (Skyjacks)

i’ve been stood up by my calling, good omens fusion, 2.1k [tumblr] [ao3]

you’ll always chase a pedigree, magical realism, 1.9k [tumblr] [ao3]

the end of all things, inception fusion, 2k [tumblr] [ao3]

Campaign (Star Wars)

versus the world, campaign/evil campaign roleswap, 2.4k [tumblr] [ao3]

sublime, aava/lyn modern magic, 1.8k [tumblr] [ao3]

too large for any moment, pacific rim fusion, 1.9k [tumblr] [ao3]

dream me, o dreamer, blue/zero as monsters, 1.4k [tumblr] [ao3]

window blues, tryst/aava heist, 2.1k [tumblr] [ao3]

chain reaction, aava/leenik trapped in an elevator, 1.8k [tumblr] [ao3]

in the middle, tryst/aava/leenik animal shelter, 1.7k [tumblr] [ao3]

a treatise on making things, blue/zero as artists, 1.8k [tumblr] [ao3]

eyes closed, eyes low, gen road trip au, 1.9k [tumblr] [ao3]

(write to me and) escape, blue/zero roommates/tinder, 1.9k [tumblr] [ao3]

i’m writing your name on every page, restaurant au, implied tryst/leenik, 1.1k [tumblr] [ao3]

some things you just can’t refuse, white collar fusion, 2k [tumblr] [ao3]

i’ll be there next time, leenik/tryst & blue/zero holiday party, 1.7k [tumblr] [ao3]

Critical Role

seeing blind, beau/yasha blind date, 1.4k [tumblr] [ao3]

Greater Boston

by the light of day, louisa/nica wedding planner, 1.9k [tumblr] [ao3]

NeoScum

longer nights (with lesser feelings), tech/lance as superheroes, 2.5k [tumblr] [ao3]

glued together moments, gen college au, 2.1k [tumblr] [ao3]

apple cider, i don’t mind, dak/tech parent/teacher au, 2.9k [tumblr] [ao3]

going going gone, gen stuck at an airport au, 1.8k [tumblr] [ao3]

fast talk, the strange case of starship iris fusion, 2.3k [tumblr] [ao3]

i want so bad to be steady, dak/tech alice isn’t dead fusion, 1.7k [tumblr] [ao3]

helpless, dak/tech as neighbors, 1.4k [tumblr] [ao3]

the neon limelight, gen band au, 3.5k [tumblr] [ao3]

put your colors on, xanadu as soulmates, 1.5k [tumblr] [ao3]

Sugar Pine 7

car wrecks & thunderstorms bright, parker/cib post-breakup, 2.6k [tumblr] [ao3]

Wolf 359

living on your own time, undercover as married, 3.1k [tumblr] [ao3]

#

If you enjoyed these fics, make sure you send some good vibes and gratitude towards @travismcelrcy, who was my sounding board, my moral support, my cheerleader, my proofreader, and the greatest person in my life. They are a bright light and a brilliant writer, and I am lucky that I get to have that in my life. Thank you, darling. I could never ask for anything better than you.

If you enjoyed any of these fics, I have a ko-fi that you can use to tip me. This is completely optional, but deeply appreciated. If you are not both willing and able to tip me, the next best thing you can do is reblog this post or tell a friend about the fics. That’s deeply appreciated, too.

I’d like to thank everyone who read, reblogged, liked, quoted, commented, bookmarked, kudosed, told a friend, or generally enjoyed anything on this list. It was such a delight to work on this year, and the fact that other people enjoy these fics is icing on the cake. Happy new year, everyone. <3

[galacticcoyote]

2017 in fics

I swear this is my last post about 2017 fics! I was tagged by @banshee-cheekbones (thank you! 💖) and have been meaning to do this for a while.

Rules: It’s time to love yourselves! Choose your 5 favorite works you’ve created this year (fics, art, edits, etc!) and link them below to reflect on the amazing things you’ve brought into the world in 2017. Tag as many writers/artists/etc as you want (fan or original!) so we can spread the love and link each other to awesome works.

1. cubic zirconia to cardinal gem (Hannibal crossover, Bedelia Du Maurier/Clarice Starling, G, 1.5k words): My first crossover fic ever! I really like the structure I came up with for the fic, as one of my favorite things about fic writing is experimenting with ways to tell the story. I also really like these two together. True story, I was listening to Silence of the Lambs while working on something else, was suddenly inspired, read the book, and started this all in one crazy night. 

2. not one single further sorrow (Hannibal, Alana Bloom/Bedelia Du Maurier, T, 6k words): This was supposed to be short 5 times fic that kept growing and growing and growing. One version of a fix-it fic to give Alana and Bedelia a happy ending equals a very long one-shot for me. I don’t know why, but ever since getting into the Hannibal fandom, my fics have become length monsters. 

3. Under Her Dark Veil (Hannibal, Bedelia Du Maurier/Hannibal Lecter, M, 1.6k words): Writing these two is always difficult but (hopefully) worth it in the end. Here I wrote one chapter from each perspective, building off one of my favorite scenes, where Hannibal is in Bedelia’s shower and then they fly away together. I had trouble with this fic until I switched the perspectives. Funny how that works sometimes.

4. Reluctant (Hannibal, Chiyoh/Bedelia Du Maurier, G, 250 words): How can I not mention this little drabble? It fits into this massive AU I’ve created where Bedelia and Chiyoh have adopted Abigail. This AU took over my life in 2017 (and into 2018). It’s been a fun and agonizing challenge to figure out how different everyone might be without season 3. I love my AU so much, and this drabble is a teeny tiny window into the insanity of it.

5. open hand or closed fist (Riverdale, Penelope Blossom/Alice Cooper, E, 650 words): This was supposed to be a 250 word drabble. Oops. Whenever I get into a new fandom, I invariably prefer the older characters to the main young ones. How could I not ship these two? I desperately need to watch season 2 so I can catch up and write more about them. 

As it’s now February (what can I say, this was open in my tabs for a while), I’m not going to tag anyone because y'all have probably done it. But if you haven’t, please do! I love these kinds of posts, to find out what fics are a writer’s favorite. 

[imaginaryculturepress-blog]

TFTP: Alice Cooper in Perth, WA

In which I lose my photo pass, and Alice Cooper rocks out Perth Arena.

Hi, hello, and welcome!

My name is Skyler and my cause of death will probably include birds. The ibises are seriously out to get me. Speaking of dramatic deaths and questionable phobias, Alice Cooper recently (not really - it's been almost a month) captivated and massacred the hearts of his Perth fans, even going so far as to behead himself onstage. Oh, what an evening it was. After Placebo cancelled their Perth show, I was left seeking another arena gig to call "the largest concert I've ever photographed". It took a while, constantly refreshing emails and waiting for replies that would never arrive, though finally, after over a month, some luck: through the wonderful staff at Revolutions Per Minute, I managed to obtain a photo and review pass to Alice Cooper at Perth Arena. And, as always, one hell of a drama ensued. But before we begin, this disclaimer is definitely required: Please be advised that I am not attempting to blame Revelations Per Minute, TEG Live, or any of their staff for the issues that occurred at this show. Whilst the choice to minimise the photographer list was at the discretion of event management, I'm sure they had a justifiable explanation behind it, thus I fully understand and accept their decisions. Note that any and all complaints listed below are aimed at me and I am only making fun of myself; I am not indirectly blaming or judging the aforementioned parties. We're here for a good time, so laugh at my luck - or lack thereof – and direct any negativity towards… uhm… okay yep direct any anger towards Camera House and Supposed Manager. Thank you kindly. Less than a week later, we were off to see Alice. I’m inclined to say Alice in Wonderland. At some point between receiving the passes and the event itself, however, there seemed to be a miscommunication: an email – and later a follow-up – were apparently sent out from RPM, stating that management decided to reduce the amount of photographers on the photography list. Problem was, I only received said emails well after the concert actually occurred. So I blindly went to the AC show, completely unaware of the troubles that lay ahead. After a short train trip and a Grill’d (sponsor me) stopover, we found ourselves passing hundreds of AC fans on our way to the Arena. Most were heading towards pubs, beginning their pre-drinking shenanigans, though you could find a couple non-alcoholics in the area. But they were all aged eight or under so they don’t really count. At the box office – which was thankfully open for once – a young woman assisted us in gaining our tickets. Except… “You’re not on the photographer list.” Hahahaha yeah. Good one. “Ma’am…” Don’t “ma’am” me… “You’re not on this list.” “That’s impossible.” Though then again, knowing my luck – or lack thereof – anything was possible; I wouldn’t be surprised if Hitler sprung out of the ground and beheaded my dog with his teeth, spitting its dismantled body at Trump’s face. It wouldn’t be unusual for Adolf to then rip off one of the Maltese’s balls and supplement it for his missing one, or to have my best lens run over by stampede of oxen the middle of the CBD; and it certainly wouldn’t be shocking if Supposed Manager led the oxen (or Hitler, for that matter). However, the allegation still stunned me. More so, it frightened me; despite my limited experience with large shows, I knew as well as the next person how fluid the industry was. But I had no clue as to why I wasn’t on the list. Perhaps there was a simple miscommunication? Surely. It would be fixed within minutes, right? No stress? …Right? She went to check with someone else, Ticketek’s own Supposed Manager. Though, to be fair, their version was far kinder and of far more assistance. Bonus: she didn’t sigh with every sentence! So let’s call her the actual manager – even if she wasn’t. Actual Manager: Hi. Hello. What seems to be the issue? Me to myself: Well, for one, you’re using my line… most of it, anyway… All right, perhaps her first impressions weren’t the sightliest. Me: I was supposed to be on the photographer list for this event, however I’m… not…? Actual Manager: Ah, okay… let me just check one more time. I’ll spare us both some time by skipping their frantic dashes to and fro the room. T’was a simple conclusion: I’d have no camera to shoot with. I’d have to cloak $1.5k worth of gear. Another photographer soon joined the queue, a lovely lady I’d seen at a couple other shows. Whilst they were sorting out her requests, I decided to ask her a thing or two – after all, she’s at all the large shows and knows what she’s doing. Me: *Awkward/weird/creepy introduction.* Her: *Doesn’t seem to find it as awkward, weird, or creepy as it was.* As stated in a previous post (With Confidence’s TFTP, I believe), I dislike disclosing conversations, no matter how generic they may be; if it’s personal or business-y, it won’t be publicised. However, if it’s a debate or quarrel regarding passes, lenses, or the like, then it’ll be on every platform the Internet has ever hosted. With that said, our conversation wasn’t anything secretive but I’ll call it common courtesy to not write it out in length. She did mention, though, that: 1. Photographers meet outside the venue before each set to be led into the pit, and that I could join if I wanted to talk to fancy people about my issue; and: 2. She had over ten grand of gear in her backpack. The professionalism made me quiver; I was in the presence of a music photography god. (And sentences like that, my friends, are why nobody ever talks to me for a second time). So that's what I'd do; I'd cloak my gear, retrieve it after the Strangers' set - for they didn't allow photography whatsoever - and meet up with the crew prior to Ace Frehley's performance. But before any of that could happen, I had yet another line to join. There were some... interesting... people: the guy with better hair than I could ever dream of, the SFX queens, otherwise well-dressed and well-presented people, the alcoholics, the seventy-year-old women already dying of fangirl feels, and naïve kids with metalhead parents. Then there was me, your socially-challenged fifteen-year-old tirelessly pleading for a pristine sponsorship from the snazziest companies around, and whose entire persona revolved around her denim jacket and the camera gear that lay in her Lowepro backpack. I sensed pity from every direction, the sort of pity you'd expect Shane Dawson to have received at age ten. Not fun. But t'was the same reaction I got from every public encounter so I was rather immune to it. Rather. The bag checks soon followed. It would've be difficult to explain why I had relatively professional camera gear covering every inch of my bag, since I had no photo pass to delight their gazes with, however the employees were understanding and had no issues letting me through. Hallelujah. Up next: metal detectors. Every time I stepped forth to one of those things, the security guards scan me at least three times. And I get it; I've got a concerning facial expression and seem pretty damn shady. But I'm not smuggling anything illegal (besides camera gear) into the venue, so chill the fuck out. Furthermore, stop looking so shocked when you find nothing illicit on me! Jebem vam mater bezobraznu... Don't google that. Soon enough we went through the ticket scans and headed for our seats. But before we could do that, we had to stop over at a few places, the first of which was the cloaking facility. The woman was extremely kind, especially considering what I put her through: Me: *Handing backpack over* Here you go. Me: Oh, wait, I need that... Me: Yep, okay. Me: Wait nope, I'll need that too... Me: All good. Five minutes later... Me: Shit, I forgot my glasses... Me: Yes, yes - no hold up I need my earplugs. Me: Please don't kill me. Our second destination was the merch table, at which I had a mini heart attack. $100 for one vinyl? One? I could purchase the red variant online for $45 - including shipping! They did, however, offer patches. And knowing me and my denim jacket, I had to invest a few dollars. And by "few" I mean fifteen painful bucks. All that was left for me to do was to pester the cloak lady once more before locating my seat. This was my first official reviewer pass and I didn't know what to expect; our tickets would probably provide a satisfactory view of the stage, there would be three too many miscommunications, and I'd get lost trying to find the merch table. Thankfully, none of this happened; we received outstanding seats, the only miscommunication regarded the photo pass, and the merch areas were easier to locate than most of my classes. We were in the fourth row from the front, nearly centred. I didn't feel worthy of it, especially since this review is being published almost a month after the event (I can explain), though I wan't about to waste this opportunity due to my self-proclaimed lack of entitlement. So after taking a long moment to fangirl ruthlessly and carelessly run into a few people (I'm truly sorry), we impatiently anticipated The Strangers. And that's when the phone photography began. Look, it's been a while since I've used a mobile to cover an entire set. I've grown too close to my cheap DLSR and pricey lenses, and this was a downgrade like no other. So let's all poke fun at my horrendous attempt at concert photography! Did I mention that these images are set to be painful? Yeah. You've probably noticed. My phone photography game isn't up to scratch; it's not even existent. The lads delivered quite the set, though the audience seemed rather... dead. Don't get me wrong; their music and stage presence was exquisite. But the Arena was still filling in, and those present didn't show enough support. PSA: When a band plays a song, your only excuse not to clap is if you're holding either a baby or camera gear. An no, phones do not constitute as concert gear. You show the guys some respect, for they were playing the largest show of their careers. At least have the decency to slap your goddamn palms against each other. So for fuck's sake, even if you've heard better artists or aren't a huge fan, either pretend to care, or leave. There's no third option. This applies to my mother as well. I see you. Support acts need more support. Especially guys like this. If they're ever in town again, I'd love to shoot their gigs. I genuinely enjoy their music. Intermission. Time to go find the group of photographers. I'll cut to the chase: I wasn't getting into that photo pit and would have to continue my life with a reviewer pass. It's not that I'm complaining, it's just... well, yeah, I'm complaining. When it comes to music, I consider myself more of a photographer than a writer. I see myself as more of a writer than photographer in general life, though in terms of music I'm more of a photographer. I believe the managers minimised the lesser-known companies/blogs/etcetera from their list, which is understandable; they'd rather have the larger ones shooting their gigs. However, the photo pit contained six people. Six. SOTA's contained an excess of twenty. So there really was no use of shortening a list of what, fifteen-ish? It's harmful for your up and coming photographers, especially since we hype up the matter so much. So let's try something out: on average, this blog receives an excess of sixty reads per article, which is more than you and I both expected. Quite frankly, I appreciate those statistics immensely. That's a considerable amount of people bothering to click on these things - even if they do so accidentally. But let's try to improve those numbers. For this article, I want to see the most positive results we've ever received. I know it's almost impossible, though I just want to prove that minuscule, upcoming blogs influence readers. So let's go - comment something down below, share this around the web, and don't leave me in that awkward scenario of not having anyone give a fuck. Make my hours of procrastination worth it! C'mon, please. I'm desperate. Regardless, I trekked back to my seat in the lovely fourth row, belittled and slightly dead inside. Ace Frehley had already commenced his set and was quick to change my mood; within minutes I'd gone from "fuck off, I hate everyone" to "FUCK YAAAASSSS!!!! AAACEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!" I'm asexual so that contributed to my excitement. Because, you know, publicly outing yourself at a high volume is fun, especially when people don't realise you're outing yourself. But I digress... Ace is one of those dudes that take you back to a time before your years, a place somewhere in a carefree land where you're rocking out to his songs whilst driving down some dusty highway in the middle of some random American state (one with lots of red sand and dusty highways - oh wait, that perfectly describes every Australian highway... Sponsor me, WA). He raises your spirits, shreds the living daylights out of his guitars, and ensures everyone has a killer evening; all whilst appearing excessively blurry in each of these images. Intermission. The Arena was full, yet more people were somehow managing to squeeze in. The excitement was growing, everyone was tense and ready to scream their lungs out, when one dude noticed someone rather interesting... One Dude: Hey... is that David Gilmour? Technically, he whispered it to his partner. Ultimately, everyone within a six kilometre radius heard and was having a panic attack; the woman beside my mother was about to pass out. So, naturally, we all had the same question: WHERE?! One Dude pointed to a secluded area beside the stage. My mother thought she spotted him and began raging at my face: "OVER THERE, YOU BLIND FUCK!" (To be fair, she was far kinder than that.) Me: Well he hasn't aged gracefully, has he? The frantic exchanges continued throughout the following ten minutes, with everyone eyeing "that corner over there" with their phones at the ready. Fun fact: if I was in the photo pit at the time, I could've gotten within a one metre proximity of royalty. Another fun fact: he wasn't actually Gilmour. One Dude figured that out soon after. That'd explain the facial differences. The updated version of the story now ran: "SIR BOB FUCKING GELDOF IS IN THE BUILDING!" And do you think that changed the fangirls' excitement levels? Not one bit. For those of you still trying to figure out who David Gilmour is - and I hope that's not a lot of you - he was a member of the best classic rock band out there: Pink Floyd. Bob Geldof was closely linked, for despite not being in the band himself, he starred as Pink in the group's 1982 film, The Wall. At this point, half of us wanted Alice to take to the stage and the other half were contemplating how they were going to catch up to Geldof after the show. Their plans would have to be postponed, though, as the lights dimmed and we were summoned to spend the night with Alice Cooper. I don't understand why they decided to have a seated floor section; why couldn't we just have general admission? Because the older people would have issues? Mate, they were jumping around more than the guys at a Homebrand show! Yeah, creepy. They could've - and should've - begun crowdsurfing. That's one thing I want to see: a frail, heavily-aged grandmother riding on top of the audience with a determined expression as her mortified daughter stares at her and her grandchildren cheer her on. But we're not here to discuss grandmothers. It's Alice that we're [supposed to be] focusing on. From the moment he hit the stage, the sixty-nine-year-old was ready to rock. However, as I said, he's sixty-nine. Walking is an issue for a bloke of his age. As you can imagine, he had a few difficulties manoeuvring about the stage. There were moments where you could see him struggling, where you knew that the show wasn't supposed to be that way, where you could tell that there was some lacked energy. Regardless, everyone adored and motivated him, because that's what true fans do; he wasn't about to end his career, he loved what he was doing, and a few weak moments weren't about to wreck it all. So perhaps the dramatic acting element wasn't executed too well, though that doesn't mean the music parts were equal; each band member played dextrously and exquisitely, creating a profound atmosphere and one hell of a night. And yes, to answer your dying questions, there was a guillotine; how could there not be? The show was soon over and everyone was pleading for an encore. And they got it - but not the one they expected. As the band reached the stage for a second time, Alice roared: "Please welcome my friend... BOB GELDOF!"Everyone went insane. The entire Arena was cheering, applauding, and falling to the ground like Ms. F. There were streamers and other inexpensive though awesome party props flying around as Alice and Bob did a duet of School's Out and Another Brick in the Wall (Part II). It was genuinely one of the most memorable moments I'd ever witnessed. It was also far more affordable than purchasing tickets to Roger Waters. Before anyone had come to their senses, the show was over (for good), tears were filling peoples' eyes (for the eighth time), and those fangirl grandmothers were tackling each other for every handful of confetti they could g So that was that. Up next: WAMFest 2017, two rather odd days that saw me photograph at a church, hang out at a bar, and win a bet. Stay tuned. I left the Arena with the streamers around my neck mimicking a noose and hugged my lenses for longer than natural. The other train passengers kept giving me weird looks. MUSICAL SUMMARY: The Strangers: under appreciated/5 Ace Frehley: aaaaaceeeeeeee/5 Alice Cooper: ageing but still killing it (and himself)/5 Bob Geldof: the meaning of life/5

PHOTOGRAPHICAL SUMMARY: Lenses: Apple has never heard of f1.4, evidently/5 Lighting: pretty though useless/5Camera: *snivels* iT WAS A FUCKING iPHONE/5 (coincidentally an iPhone 5) Editing: never happened/5 My sanity: as dead as Google+/5 Check out the bands! Cooper doesn't have long left so get into him quickly: Alice Cooper Ace Frehley I couldn't find the Strangers' Facebook page, sorry. Live long and headbang, xx-Skyler Slate