#I originally made this post months ago and then shoved it into my drafts because I hate the idea of stirring up drama

[childrensward]

What if I told you that regression is regression and is all the same whether or not it's "pure" or "impure." What if I told you that trying to reinvent these labels in a way that's supposed to be progressive and inclusive just further alienates those whose regression is a result of mental illness, and that doing so is an attempt at detaching yourself from severely mentally ill regressors that you are much more similar to than people who don't age regress. What if I told you that truly healthy regression is supposed to include being cathartic and experiencing "ugly" emotions and being vulnerable.

What if. Imagine..

[schwender-exe]

Devlog #2

Hello all again and welcome to devlog #2!

First up, we have tiles! While not the final look of them (to be honest I drafted them up to try them out, but I kinda dig the simplistic look?) they'll be what's making up the terrain in the game! After playing around with it for some time, I found it a hell of a lot easier to map out levels/rooms with these tiles than the old system I had in place.

Originally, what made up the terrain was Polygon2Ds with collision added on top of them and while it was easy to use, it made the terrain a bit to one-toned for my liking and made plotting out levels a bit of a nightmare because I could do any shape or angle or whatever with it, which sounds nice but... well a bit too much freedom can kill my creativity which is why the limitations of the tiles feels like the right balance.

Moving on to what's next: the curse I wrought upon myself. To be more specific? The story vs gameplay and my failure to plan ahead.

I'm not one to plan things out much, I tend to just go with the flow and address problems as they come into view, but that's been biting me in the ass for a bit now. You see, I sent out a test build about a month ago to some dev friends and I got some feedback which has stuck with me. "You need something in between when you arrive at Chloe's abode and when you meet Chloe." (Chloe being the mushroom-headed character). The reason it stuck with me is because I realized, while I had a story, I didn't really have much in terms of gameplay to smoothly fill in the beats in between. The problem with trying to shove gameplay into a story which didn't account for that, well... You can imagine it didn't go well. So here's my new plan. I'm scrapping the story I have so far and will be re-writing it with new gameplay in mind that'll hopefully flow together well. What kind of gameplay? well that's a tough call. I've been juggling ideas around in my head for weeks and none seem to stick, so far I've managed to get a swimming/floating kind of movement in game which seems fun, but I'll have to tinker around with it more before I can say it 'fits' anywhere. If anything, it was at least a fun exercise in the new state-based character controller I've made this time around for the player.

Well what about combat? That's always an easy one, well... I've shied away from that for some time as I thought combat would move the game in a direction of becoming like most other platformers out there where slapping in combat is a simple solve-it-all glue you can put anywhere. If I'm going to add in combat, I want it to be interesting, unique and of course, fun. I'll be experimenting with more movement options, possibility of combat, the use of items, etc. and will be sure to update next blog post with what I achieve.

Moving on from that, I've also been experimenting with dialogue! I've added on to my dialogue code and have added dialogue portraits which, I'm not sure how I feel about as of yet, honestly. I don't think I have enough to base my opinion on whether I'll keep it or not as I like having the dynamic poses of the overworld sprites. I might have it as a toggleable feature in future as to give players the option to view the overworld sprites or the visual novel-esq sprites.

I hope this devlog was an interesting read, I know I didn't seemingly make much in terms of progress, but with the circumstances I'm in it's been a bit of a bottleneck in productivity. I hope next devlog I'll be in a better spot to provide more to show.

[themaraudersmistress]

Closure

Pairings: Young ! Sirius Black x Reader 

Warnings: angst, swearing, heartbreak 

Word count: 2k + 

Summary: Good or bad, sometimes all you need is closure. 

A/N: Again, it’s been ages since I’ve posted anything but I had this one sitting in my drafts so I thought I’d go back through, fix it up a little and post it. Originally it was 5k + so I’ve broken it in half. I’ll post the other half once I’ve finished going through it. I really hope you like this one ! x 

Tags: @the--real-wombat @sleepylunarwolf @strangenerdsstuff @ashkuuuu @dottirose @fairywriter-oracle @miraclesoflove @daddy-padfoot @angelastein2010 @addled @disneykidafi @wanna-see-my-lease​ - you can add yourself via the link on my masterlist or send me an ask 

The storm rages. 

It blankets the city in a thick sheet of rain, thunder rumbling in the distance as the lightning flickers through the dark clouds. It was wild and chaotic, the worst storm that London had had in months; the big, fat drops of water enough to send everyone scurrying under cover. The drizzly evening matched your mood perfectly as you sat in your car, goose bumps prickling along your skin from your damp clothes, the windshield fogging up even more with each frigid breath. 

You close your eyes and sigh, clenching and unclenching your fists around the steering wheel as you war with yourself. You’d made the decision with a clear head this morning, convincing yourself it was what you wanted to do, but now you weren’t so sure, a rolling train of insecurities flooding through your mind. Opening your eyes you glance over at the box sitting on your passenger seat, a thousand memories you didn’t want to think about mixed in with the knick knacks. That damn box had been mocking you for the last five days and you’d finally had enough. After all, you were the one that had the ridiculous notion in your head that doing this was going to bring you some kind of closure; that seeing him again, when neither of you were angry and out for blood might take away some of the hurt. 

Sucking your bottom lip between your teeth you look through the window, to the townhouse your parked in front of, the large front windows lit up from inside. You loved those windows, the way the sun would pour in first thing in the morning, warming your favourite spot on the couch. It didn’t seem fair, that the house you used to call home still had so much life to it while you were barely making it through each day, drifting further and further from the person you used to be. Your car keys jingle in your hand and once again you’re fighting yourself over what to do. You don’t even know if he’s home, you could just drop the box off at the door and leave, make a clean getaway and go back to pretending your moving on with your life but… 

No. Despite everything you need to see him. 

Dragging the box up onto your lap you give yourself no time to overthink before heading out into the rain, shivering as cold water runs down your back. You hurry up the driveway but by the time you make it to the front step your still saturated, the reasonably neat bun you’d worn your hair in now a soggy, limp mess at the back of your head. The flood light comes on above you and you freeze, eyes wide as the lock on the door clicks. You start wondering how quickly you can run back to your car before he realises who it is but before you can make any kind of choice the door swings open. 

Your throat constricts, your heart beating so fast inside your chest you’re worried it might just give out. Sirius stands there in the doorway, bathed in the soft glow from the house, wearing a thin t-shirt and a pair of grey sweats. His curls are deliciously messy, haphazardly pulled back in a loose bun and there’s more scruff on his face then you were used to seeing. You force yourself to swallow around the hard lump in the back of your throat. 

His brow dips as he looks at you dripping on his welcome mat, clearly as surprised to see you as you were over being caught. You shuffle awkwardly on the spot, feeling your cheeks get warm. “Hi…” You thrust the box towards him with the lame greeting. “I found some of your stuff mixed in with mine and I just thought I’d...drop them off.” “In the middle of a thunderstorm?”

  His voice is like a hard slap to the face, at the same time making you miss him more while also dredging up all the heartbreak you’d tried squashing down. Your relationship had crumbled to pieces in front of your eyes eight weeks ago and by the abysmal end you weren’t on speaking terms. You’d packed up your things and walked out without so much as a backwards glance.

“Yeah… I was - I was on my way… home.” You choke out the last word. You didn’t think of the apartment you moved into home and you don’t think you ever will. This was your home, the place you’d shared with Sirius for the last five years, the place you missed with your whole heart. 

Sirius blows out a long sigh and shoves his hand through his hair, tangling it up even more. He chews the corner of his lip, eyes darting between the box in your hands and your dishevelled appearance. An awkward, miserable silence settles between the two of you as you lightly bounce on the balls of your feet. “I guess it’s kind of cold out here,” His tone isn’t angry but it’s not all that welcoming either. “You can come in while the rain eases.” 

Yes. Yes… that’s all you want. To go inside and forget all about the last two months, and the three before that were you and Sirius were constantly at each other’s throats. You want it to all go back to how it was before, when you knew that he was who you wanted to spend the rest of your life with. When your friends didn’t have to feel guilty over spending time with one of you and not the other. You just wanted it to go back to when Sirius loved you more than anything else…  You knew it wouldn’t though. There was no going back. 

You shake your head as you take a step back, willing the few tears in the corner of your eyes to stay there. You place the box down, suddenly remembering why you were there in the first place. “I - I gotta go.” 

No more than five feet down the driveway you feel Sirius’ hand grab your arm, stopping you from leaving. His grip isn’t tight, you could pull away if you wanted to, but his touch feels like a live wire on your skin and you can’t move. Another crack of thunder - this one closer - sounds above your head, the rain cascading down over your body as you look up at your ex, his shirt now glued to his body, accentuating the planes of muscle under the fabric.  “You can’t drive in this weather,” He reasons. “Come inside.” 

Against your better judgement you let him lead you into the house, immediately missing the warmth of his touch as he lets you go to close and lock the door. You wrap your arms around yourself, only now realising how much you’re actually shivering. Sirius seems to notice as well because he frowns, his hand twitching by his side as though he’s trying to decide if he should reach out to you again. He looks conflicted, like he’s tossing up over whether he should care or not that you’re cold. 

“I can get you some dry clothes,” He says, motioning towards the hallway. “Why don’t you have a shower and warm yourself up, I think there’s still some of your stuff in the cupboard. I … I didn’t go through it.” “It’s fine,” You force out, your voice no higher than a whisper. “I don’t want to impose and I really should be going anyway.” “I told you, you can’t drive in weather like this. A shower won’t hurt right? You’ll feel better.”  It might hurt, you think. But truthfully a shower did sound pretty good right about now. 

Once you agree you follow Sirius down the hall, stopping a couple of doors before he does. You flip on the light in the bathroom, breathing in deeply as you smell his body wash lingering on the air. Everything looks exactly the same - minus your makeup littering the vanity and it makes you kind of sad. Sirius taps his knuckles on the door jam, making you jump as you turn to face him. He holds out some clothes, looking at everything except you as you take them gratefully. There’s a bitter sting in your chest as you notice they’re his clothes. You suppose there’s nothing of yours still here but it still makes your throat feel dry as you hold them against your chest. “Thanks,” You mumble. “Take all the time you want, don’t feel like you have to rush or anything.” 

He walks away and you shut the door, leaning back against it heavily as you bring the clothes up to your nose, inhaling the scent on them, catching the barely there whiff of your perfume. It was the t-shirt you always used to wear to bed. Faded, old and full of more holes then a golf course, but you loved it and not all that long ago Sirius loved seeing you in it. Leaving them on the vanity you turn on the tap, letting it warm all the way up before stripping out of your clothes. You step under the stream of water, cold feet burning as the water hits them. It’s the right kind of pain though. There wasn’t much better than a shower when you were cold. 

For a few minutes you just stand there, the heat relaxing some of the tension in your muscles. You think about everything that had happened tonight, confused why Sirius was acting the way he was. There was a part of you that had assumed he’d slam the door in your face, spit something hurtful and tell you that he never wanted to see you ever again. Best case scenario you thought he wouldn’t open the door at all, just leaving you standing outside looking like the fool. The fact that he was being kind of… nice made you feel guilty for thinking those things about him. Just because you weren’t dating anymore didn’t mean that he was going to stop caring. Of all the things that Sirius was, he was never cruel. Tonight more than proved that.

Rinsing the body wash off you stepped out of the shower, digging your toes into the fluffy mat as you grabbed your towel, the steam still swirling around the small room. You take your time drying off, nervous about heading back there and facing him. You don’t know how to talk to him anymore, even though at one point he’d been one of your best friends - long before he was your boyfriend. You’re just slipping his old t-shirt over your head when the light cuts out, bathing you in sudden darkness. You reach blindly for where you think the switch is, flipping it a couple of times when you find it, groaning when it does nothing to help. It takes a couple of goes but you finally find the door handle, fully expecting that the bathroom globe had just blown and the rest of the house would still be lit up. The whole house is in darkness though, the hairs standing up on the back of your neck as you head towards the living room, an eerie kind of silence filling the house. It’s too quiet without the background noise of the tv or fridge, the only sound coming from the storm outside. “Sirius?” You call out hesitantly, the lightning flashing in the windows casting long shadows along the walls. 

You feel something graze across your shoulder and you turn quickly, the scream dying in your throat as you see Sirius standing behind you, his face lit up by the torch on his phone. “The whole streets out,” He says flatly. “Does your phone have much battery?” “Uh…” You head back into the bathroom, the light from Sirius’ phone making it easier to see where you left yours on the vanity. You frown when you check the battery levels. “It’s only got about thirty three percent, won’t last long.” 

Sirius groans, scrubbing a hand over his face as he looks off towards the living room, a frown on his face, his expression guarded, unreadable. “You don’t remember if we had a torch do you?” “I don’t think so,” You answer, wrapping your arms tight around yourself. “I think there’s some candles in the lounge though… or there was.” 

Without a word he shuffles past you and walks down the hall. You follow behind him, watching as he grabs some candles from the cupboard on the tv cabinet. It feels a lot like he just packed you away, hid all the things that reminded him of you. He grabs the matches from the same cupboard, striking one and lighting the candles he’d scattered across the coffee table. Soon the room is illuminated with a soft light. It feels warmer somehow, like it’s taken the chill off the room. Sirius sits on the couch and suddenly that awkward silence is back. 

Biting your lip you move across and sit down, keeping as far from him as possible, holding your hands tightly in your lap. You hate how it is between the both of you, how this breakup had rocked the two of you down to your core. While you were simply trying to make it through each new day, Sirius had put walls up around himself and was clearly in no hurry to let you know how he was really feeling. You bite the edge of your lip and wring your hands together. “Crazy storm hey?” You aim for light hearted customer service voice but it comes out forced and a little flat. 

Sirius scoffs. “You want to talk about the weather? Really?” “Well it doesn’t seem like you want to have any other kind of conversation… actually it seems like you prefer not talking at all, so let’s just sit here in awkward silence.” “There’s nothing to say.” “You and I both know that’s not true. I just want you to talk to me Sirius, hell yell at me if it’s going to make you feel better; get everything off your chest. Just say something.” “Why now y/n? Why do you suddenly want to air all our dirty laundry? It’s not like you were this desperate to talk about it before.” “That’s not fair,” You reply, digging your fingernails into the palm of your hands. “I tried talking to you, for months before we ended things Sirius. You’re the one that never wanted to deal with it.” 

Sirius stands abruptly, stalking to the other side of the room before whirling back to face you, that unreadable expression - the one he’d been wearing since he opened the door - finally breaking. You can’t see him properly from all the shadows in the room but you can see enough to notice the hurt in his eyes. He opens his mouth a couple of times, trying to find the right way to say what he wants to. When he can’t, he storms from the room. You watch him go with a frustrated sigh. 

It was all coming to the surface, everything before and after the breakup, all of the feelings the two of you had buried, squashed down and tried to pretend didn’t still exist. The flood gates were open and good or bad the two of you needed closure.

[pies-writes-and-more]

accidentally ruining relationships

Word Count: 3,851

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Warnings: a very stupid Bucky? some terrible humour by yours truly? lol all fluff though I promise 

A/N: PLEASE DO NOT REPOST MY WORK ON ANY SITES WITHOUT MY PERMISSION! (Reblogs are totally okay!) Look at me posting a WIP that’s been sitting in my drafts for literally forever haha. I hope you guys like it, I love these two idiots so much <3

(Not my gfif, creds to the original creator!!)

Y/N groaned, lying on her stomach and pushing herself into the pillow beneath her, burrowing her face into the fabric in hopes that she could suffocate herself and be done with this world.

“Doll, it’s okay. Breakups happen. I’m sorry I wasn’t here when it happened.” Bucky apologized, rubbing his hand against her back from where he sat next to her on the bed. He had just come back after a three month long international mission, only to find out that a few days he had gone off comms, Y/N and her recent boyfriend had broken up. The soldier moved his hand move to her hair, playing with a few strands like he usually did when she was in need of some calming energy . “I thought you were thinking about breaking up with him anyways.”

“I was,” Y/N frowned tightly, pulling her face from the pillow and looking back over her shoulder at her friend. “That’s not why I’m upset.” She sighed as she thought about it for a moment, wishing that talking about these things didn’t make her feel so frustrated again. Over the last few months, she had been healing, getting over the typical breakup feelings, but she knew that deep down, this relationship had been all fake anyways.

Bucky waited for a moment with raised eyebrows as Y/N moped further into her pillow. “So… why are you upset?” He finally asked after she didn’t continue.

Y/N huffed and pushed herself up off the bed, sitting up to look at him, “The problem is I expected to feel something... he broke up with me in the worst way, over a fucking phone call, and I feel nothing!”

Bucky blinked, watching as she whined and fell back into his bed. “And... that’s... bad.” Bucky responded slowly, attempting to catch up in her thoughts.

“Yes!” She exclaimed, her bottom lip pulling into a small pout. “It means that I just spent months of my life with this guy who literally made me feel nothing.”

Bucky thought about it for a moment before lying down next to her. “I mean it only happened a few weeks ago. Maybe you’ll feel it later.” He suggested, nudging her playfully.

“Maybe,” (Y/N) murmured, though she knew she wouldn’t. It had been a long time since she felt anything towards her now ex-boyfriend. Or anyone else really, and she had known this even before she met the newest ex. She had tried to bury it, tried to deny it, but it always came back the same way. She was in love with someone else.

The two laid in silence for a while, until Y/N’s fingers clicked onto her phone screen and found a playlist called ‘For the Brokenhearted’. Soon, soft melodies floated in the air, lyrics that made Y/N’s heartstrings feel numb. She felt guilty that she felt nothing, felt upset that there was nothing left over.

“Bucky?” Y/N asked after a while, glancing over at him. After the months he had just gone through, Y/N knew that he was probably sleep-deprived and mentally and physically exhausted, so she wasn’t surprised at all to find his eyes closed. But since there wasn’t his usual falling-asleep twitch in his leg, she knew he was awake.

“Mm?” The sound made Y/N’s lips turn into a small smile, watching the flutter of his eyelashes.

“Have you ever been in love?”

Such a simple question and yet, Bucky felt like he had just been smacked in the stomach, as if all the breath had just been knocked out of him. “S-Sorry what? Me?” His eyes opened to look at her, gazing at her thoughtful expression.

“Yeah,” (Y/N) nibbled on her inner cheek, a nervous habit of hers that Bucky had started noticing the first day they met. “Like heart skipped a beat, smile at the mention of their name, cheeks rosy when they look at you, giggles in your throat kind of in love,” Her voice was lofty, matching her head-in-the-clouds sort of facial expression.

Bucky scratched his head slightly, furrowing his eyebrows as he tried to understand why she was asking, “That… sounds super specific,” he commented slowly, but he knew exactly what she was talking about. He had felt all that and more, starting the very moment he had met her, how could he not?

“I’m scared it doesn’t exist... every time I think I’m in love, it doesn’t work out. I feel flutters with someone and I think hey maybe these are the right kinds of butterflies in my stomach but it turns out I was just looking for something that wasn’t even there,” She sighed, turning onto her side so she was facing him and taking his hand, her fingers playing with his. “I don’t want the next guy I think I’m in love with to turn out to be an ass too. What if I think he’s this super amazing guy, like all the others, and it turns out he’s the worst person I could ever be with?”

Bucky thought for a moment and turned his head to watch her. “One day, you’re going to find some super cool, awesome guy who’s going to treat you like the queen you are, doll. You’ll know it when you’re with him… it’s like magic. Or a puzzle piece. You’ve got to find the person who fits you and your heart just right. Can’t just shove some other piece because it just wont work. But when you find them… it’ll just click.”

There was a pause filled with a sort of tender love in the air, coming from the romance that filled Bucky’s voice as he talked. Y/N watched his eyes sparkle and they shared a gaze for just a moment that made Y/N’s insides turn.

“But until then, you and I can hang out and gossip,” Bucky added in playfully, a smirk on his lips.

Y/N smiled, eyes dropping nervously away from his his but they kept falling t o his lips, as if unable to stop herself from investigating those incredibly kissable lips, “I don’t know how I’d live without you, Bucks.”

He grinned hearing those words, hoping she couldn’t feel his heart racing, “Well lucky for you, you’ll never have to.”

“Until some girl comes and sweeps you away from me,” she tried to laugh, tried to make that smile on her face as genuine as possible because he deserved to be happy. She wanted him to be happy. Somehow, not one single girl that had crossed paths with Bucky had seemed to catch his eye, all of them absolutely stunning. If they couldn’t make Sergeant Barnes swoon, the kind of woman that would must be out of this world incredible.

“Awh come on, no one’s going to be taking me away from you. Not anytime soon.” Bucky’s shoulders gave a simple shrug as his eyes started to close blissfully again, not noting the sadness growing in Y/N’s eyes as she thought about the kind of woman that could make Bucky Barnes feel the way that she herself felt about him.

For just a moment, Y/N watched as he breathed quietly. Her eyes admired every freckle, every piece of hair, every little part of him that she could. She could very much be in love with this idea of something she didn’t know, something new, she was aware of that. She had been so scared that she was just falling in love with Bucky because her relationship didn’t work out and she found solace and comfort with him.

But it wasn’t just because of this asshole breaking up with her. The more she thought about how she felt about Bucky, the more she thought about how often she had waved the idea away with I’m not good enough for him… but that wasn’t really saying she didn’t like him.

And there was more than just what he was like with her. She loved the moments he thought no one was watching, the way he smiled seeing families play together at the park, the immediate need to help someone when they needed it, like that time he had brought home a litter of abandoned kittens.

There was just something about him.

“You’re staring,” Bucky’s voice and cocky smirk broke her out of her thoughts, his eyes not even bothering to open.

“Can’t help it, you’re far too gorgeous,” (Y/N) shot back, hoping her playful tone would hide her true feelings as she quickly turned to her phone to find more music. She begged the universe to keep his eyes shut, hoping he wouldn’t notice how nervous she got all of a sudden.

Bucky peeked an eye open at her words, smirking slightly, “Says the most perfect girl in the universe,” he tested. He just wanted to see that smile once more.

And there it was. Her lips turned into a bashful smile, her lower body squirming shyly. Bucky closed his eyes again, smiling as he saved the picture of it in his mind somewhere.

He felt her shift on the bed and suddenly there was a weight on him. He opened up his eyes to see her straddling his waist, staring at him. “Oh I’m sorry, did I wake you?” She teased, the playfulness in her eyes sparkling.

Bucky swallowed hard, feeling a deep lust for her itching inside of him. His thoughts wandered off for a moment, imagining different scenarios in which she was straddling him. “Nah, can’t fall asleep. Gotta watch after you and that broken heart of yours,” he finally managed out with a smile.

He watched as she slowly leaned down towards him, her eyes hiding a curiosity behind them as they followed his facial expressions. Their faces were so close at this point, Bucky couldn’t help but think about kissing her. Showing her that no other guy she’s dated was worth her.

Y/N moved some hair out of her face as she continued to examine his expression, his eyes, his lips. She couldn’t tell what had come over her, where this confidence had come from, but here she was, closing in the distance between their lips. Bucky’s eyes saw her gaze flicker towards his lips and the back to his eyes. Were they thinking the same thing?

“AND THEN WHAT?” Sam asked with wide eyes, watching as Bucky paced up and down his room. He was at the very edge of his seat, as if Bucky was retelling the most dramatic story of a lifetime (which he was)

“And then nothing!” Bucky groaned, shaking his head. He let out a sound of frustration, kicking at the air.

“What do you mean nothing? Sounds like she wanted to kiss you.” Steve’s eyebrow raised in confusion, leaning back into the couch he and Sam were sitting on.

Bucky sighed and after a moment, he finally threw himself onto a nearby chair, “I couldn’t do it, Stevie. She just went through a breakup. How is that fair of me to take advantage of her feelings like that?”

“I mean, you could’ve been her rebound.” Sam offered. “And then she just so happens to fall in love with you. You two get married, have kids, be disgustingly adorable-”

“That just sounds like I’m using her emotions to my advantage. She deserves better than that.” Bucky sighed, putting his head in his hands. “That was my one chance, wasn’t it?” He moped.

“Bud, everyone can see that you like each other. There’ll definitely be another time for it. Maybe when she’s not dealing with a breakup,” Steve nudged his friend, attempting to be comforting. “It’s only been a few weeks, give it some time.”

“I mean to be fair though, maybe that was her trying to tell you that she likes you and when you didn’t kiss her, she took it as you not liking her. I mean she did make the first move,” Sam thought out loud. Steve grabbed the pillow seated next to him and swung it out right beside him, hitting Sam smack in the face, glaring at the now laughing Sam Wilson as Bucky let out a whine.

“Dammit!” The dark haired soldier yelled out, his voice echoing into the room, thinking through his options. “The hell do I do now?”

“Well what happened after you didn’t kiss her?” Steve asked as Bucky hit his head against the back of the chair frustratedly.

Bucky sighed and looked over at him, “She just smiled kinda sadly and said she wanted to go talk to the girls or something.”

“Okay so why don’t you ask her if she wants to go get some snacks or something from the grocery store. Do that movie date thing you guys normally do.” Steve shrugged, not at all worried by the situation. He had seen the lovey-dovey glances these two sent each other all the time, and to be honest, he was getting so sick of it. It frequently disturbed meetings, ruined plans on missions, and right now, it was ruining what was supposed to be a peaceful Sunday night. With his luck, this would continue for a long time, so there was so need for his best friend to be worried.

Before Bucky could decide if it was a good plan, there was a knock on the door and Y/N peered in. “Bucks?” She blinked, surprised to see the three men sitting around and Bucky looking depressed. “Sorry, am I interrupting?”

“Not at all,” Sam smirked. “Sorry to hear about Johnny...Mark...Marcus?” He offered, stretching his mind.

“Tommy.” Y/N responded with a laugh.

“Right, Tommy... the... doctor?”

“Dentist,” Y/N laughed, raising an eyebrow in his direction. “Seems like you put in so much effort to remember my dates, Wilson,” she teased.

“What can I say, I just don’t think they’re that memorable compared to other guys,” Sam grinned, wiggling his eyebrows in Bucky’s direction when she wasn’t looking. “Well, sorry anyway,” Sam added in with a smile.

“Aw, don’t be sorry,” (Y/N) shrugged, sighing as she let her thoughts lead her words, “Any boy who breaks up with me over working here, isn’t really worth it.” The words spilled out before she could stop herself, smiling brightly until she noticed all the boys turning to look at her with wide eyes. “What?”

“He broke up with you because you work with the Avengers?” Steve frowned tightly. “What’s wrong with working with us? Did we do something? Is he one of those guys that doesn’t like us?”

“O-Oh-” (Y/N)’s eyes widened, “U-Um like, partially because I work with you guys.”

“Who the hell doesn’t like the Avengers?” Sam scoffed. “What’s so wrong with working here?”

“I-It wasn’t so much working with you guys as it was... you know...living with you.” Y/N admitted nervously, avoiding Bucky’s gaze as she desperately tried to put out a fire she started but only really making things worse. He stared at her hard and she knew it was because he was surprised she hadn’t told him this earlier.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Bucky’s voice was quiet but it sent a little shiver down Y/N’s spine. Sam and Steve shared a look, attempting to sink back into their seats, twiddling their thumbs.

“It’s not really that important,” Y/N told him quickly. “He just...got jealous that I’d be hanging around you guys and that I’m always with you and that I talk about you all the time and-”

“So it wasn’t so much the Avengers he was jealous of, but...Bucky?” Sam sat up straight as he spoke up, trying to contain the smirk on his face but it was hard. He didn’t need any clearer sign than that that these two were pining after each other - even Y/N’s idiot ex boyfriend could see that. Bucky’s face lit up like a tomato, which made it harder for Sam to contain any laughter.

“I-I mean...” Y/N scattered for a good excuse. Tommy had hated her relationship with Bucky and always felt like he came second to him... he wasn’t wrong.

“Did I do something?” Bucky asked nervously, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to come between you and your relationship-”

“No no!” Y/N burst out, shaking her head, “Please don’t think like that. It’s not like this is the first time it’s happened!” She laughed nervously, but the boys were still staring at her. Goddammit, stop talking! she begged herself, letting out a quiet groan when she realized what she had admitted.

Bucky’s heart was falling. So he had been the reason for all those nights she cried and wondered if she’d ever find love? “It’s happened before?” Bucky asked slowly, shoulders falling. “Fuck, how many of your relationships have I ruined?”

“Bucky-” Y/N started.

“I think this is our cue to leave,” Sam mumbled, nudging Steve’s arm. The two of them patted (Y/N) on the back before sliding out, Sam sending Bucky a supportive grin and a thumbs up before closing the door behind him.

“How many?” Bucky asked again, standing up stiffly.

“What?”

“How many times have I ruined a relationship with a person you really liked?”

Y/N swallowed hard, her mind racing as she tried to find the words to explain what it had all been about, “Bucky please, it’s not what you think-”

“Not what I think? You’ve been in and out of flings and relationships this whole time and now you’re telling me that this isn’t the first one to end because of me? What did I do? Is it because I’m around you lots?” Bucky looked angry and desperate for answers. Y/N’s heart broke seeing him like this, unsure of how to explain.

“B-Bucky, please, let me explain-”

“Damn, what kind of friend am I to be in the way of all your relationships? How could you not tell me? You could’ve told me to back off or something! How many of them did you actually like and I fucked it up?” Bucky ranted, his voice raising.

“Bucky stop!” Y/N yelled, eyes desperately following him. “I-It’s not like that. It’s not just because we’re always together. These guys just get jealous and...and...” Y/N swallowed hard, trying to figure out what to say. Was now a good time to admit all the feelings that were bottled up?

“Jealous of what? Of how you spend time with me here? Of how you take care of me? Is it because of who I was? Because of what I did?” Bucky pleaded, begging for answers. Why wouldn’t she just tell him the truth? “All those nights you spent in my room, crying over boys, and it turns out it was just my fault all along-?”

“Bucky Barnes, it’s because I’m in love with you!” (Y/N) yelled out, a desperate attempt to pull him out of spiralling.

Bucky’s eyes shot over to her, wide as he processed her outburst. There was a dead silence as the two of them stared at each other.

“You what?” His voice was barely louder than a whisper.

Y/N sucked in air, heart pounding against her chest. There was no turning back now. “I-I’m in love with you, Bucks... and they all knew it. I tried to play it off as them just being jealous of my best friend being a guy but... I’ve always known I was in love with you. Even the girls knew,” she sighed, thinking about how Nat and Wanda were so relieved to finally hear Y/N admit she may have feelings for the soldier.

Bucky suddenly felt incredibly lightheaded. He searched her expression for any sort of sign that she was lying, but she sounded so genuine. “Y-You can’t,” he told her softly. “Not me.”

(Y/N) felt defeated, her heart was falling every second, “Because you don’t love me back,” She stated softly and Bucky’s eyes looked like they would pop out of his head.

“No! Of course I’m in love with you, doll, who the hell wouldn’t be?” He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. His shoulders fell from his normally straight posture, eyes dropping to the floor. “My heart’s been yours since the first time you smiled at me. But what could I give you? I’m an old man, I don’t understand anything you grew up with, anything we’re going through right now. Not to mention the obvious,” he scoffed, closing his eyes slightly. “I couldn’t live with myself if one day I snapped back and you were scared of me.”

(Y/N)’s heart was in turmoil. On one hand, he had just admitted he loved her too. Her heart soared at the thought of them being in love, at having a chance to be with her best friend. And then it fell. Bucky was stepping away from her, as if distancing himself would do anything. “I can take care of myself,” she said firmly, frowning at him. “Do you really love me?”

Bucky looked at her with a sad smile, moving to sit on the armrest of the couch. “With everything this broken body has.”

“Then kiss me,” she demanded, surprising herself with how confident the bold statement sounded.

Bucky stared at her for a moment, his fears and his feelings mixing together. He was in such turmoil, watching as she stepped closer moving to stand between his legs. “Doll, I-”

“Do you not want to?” She asked quietly, watching his eyes. She needed to know how those lips felt on hers, if the spark that she had fantasized about was real.

“Of course I want to-” He insisted, searching her earnest eyes. “But what if-”

“Then kiss me, Sergeant.”

Bucky watched her for a moment, deciding that this was the one moment that he got. Steve told him that he deserved to be happy, especially after everything that happened. Did he? Did Bucky Barnes, a trained assassin that became a murdering tool deserve to be happy? He stared at this woman standing in front of him, a glow on her skin after such a passionate confession, eyes fiery with confidence and demand.

“Fuck,” Bucky muttered to himself. He stood up swiftly, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her to him. And he did it. He kissed her. His lips eagerly pressed against hers, her arms finding their way around his neck in an attempt to pull him closer.

It was everything the two of them had dreamed of and more. Y/N thought about all those people who said you know it’s love when there’s sparks flying. The comical idea of fireworks off in the background played in her head as his lips moved along hers. It was magical, it was fantastic, it was everything.

The two pulled apart for a moment, eyes fluttering open to see each other, to make sure that this wasn’t just a dream, “I really really like you, Bucky Barnes,” Y/N whispered against his lips, pecking them again gently.

Bucky smiled, brushing her hair from her face as he tried to bring himself back to earth. There was no way a girl like this wasn’t an angel, he had to have been brought to Heaven or some etherial plane,“I really really really like you too, Y/N Y/L/N.”

** ** ** ** ** ** **

I hope you guys enjoy this!! I’ve been toying with this WIP for a while now and just figured it was time to post it :) Please let me know if you like it! I love to hear from you all!

Masterlist

[hockeyismyboyfriend]

My hands through your hair...again

Hey guys!! Sorry if this is super weird haha, but I had originally written and posted my story about Brady, and have just been feeling like i wanted to update it and make it Matty instead. So if you’ve already read this, i’m so sorry!

Pairing: Matthew Tkachuk/Reader

Relationship: F/M

Rating: M for smut/Dirty Talk 

Length:1731   

Summary:

You were childhood best friends with Matthew Tkachuk, and despite how close you had been, you’d never really allowed yourself to feel anything more than friendly for him.

Until now.

```````````````

It’s Saturday night in July, which means you’re with Matthew.

The two of you had met in the 2nd grade and had been inseparable ever since. You’d survived high school, bad relationships, teenage mood swings, and even Matthew being drafted by the Calgary Flames and moving cross country. It didn’t matter how far apart you were, the second Off season hit and he came back home you were attached at the hip once again.

Generally, one or both of you had a significant other or casual fling on the go, but this year for the first time in forever you both found yourself single at the same time. If you were being honest, you were happy to just hang out together and not have to continuously defend your close friendship to anyone.

Not that you’d ever admit it to Matthew, but more than a few of the fights you’d had with your previous boyfriend had been about that very topic. You and Matthew had never hooked up, not even as teenagers, but no one seemed to believe you.

It’s not that you had never thought about it, because you’d be lying to yourself if you’d said you never had. You were aware of the fact that lots of women thought Matthew was attractive, but for you it went so much deeper than just his looks. He was your best friend, the person you wanted to share everything with, happy or sad. Personality and professional athlete body aside, the way Matthew would genuinely smile at you, his entire face lighting up, was more than capable of melting your insides and setting your nerve endings on fire.

There had even been about a month in the 11th grade where you’d had the biggest crush on Matthew. Where your heart would just explode at even the thought of him. You may have lingered a bit longer than normal that month when giving hugs or touching him in passing, but Matthew never called you out. You’d even allowed yourself, just once, to think of him late at night in the dark privacy of your bedroom, fingers rubbing tentatively at your aching core, as you imagined that every touch was him. When your orgasm hit, his name escaped your lips.

But he had shortly after started dating someone else and you had pushed your feelings aside and vowed to be the best friend that he deserved. You’ve kept that promise ever since and never looked back.

Though tonight, like every night that either of you could spare in the off season, you found yourself pressed against Matthew once again as you mindlessly rewatched Parks & Rec for the hundredth time; and suddenly your iron clad will began to waiver.

Which is how, while seated on a big comfortable couch, running your fingers through his soft curly hair, you heard the words leave your mouth without your consent.

You felt Matthew freeze beneath your fingers; his big muscular body flinching almost imperceptibly as your words sat heavy in the air.

“Um...” He choked out, words getting caught in his throat.

He slowly extracted himself from the spot on your lap where he had been resting his head;, and sat up, turning to face you. You could almost swear you detected a hint of pink to his cheeks.

He looked at you expectantly, eyebrows furrowed in confusion, hesitant to speak.

The words replayed in your head as you attempted to form sounds yourself.

‘You should fuck me’

It must have been the reminiscing that caused this, or maybe it had been the seven months that had passed since your last boyfriend. After the breakup you had completely thrown yourself into your work and hadn’t made time for dates or hook ups. You had managed fine on your own, very familiar with your own body and what worked for you; but as you sat here with Matthew, tension thick in the air, and close enough to feel the heat of his body, you realized just how much you missed the touch of someone else.

You hadn’t realized how long you allowed yourself to sit lost in Matthew’s eyes until he reached out towards you and gently touched your shoulder. The feeling of warm fingers against your bare skin lit something deep within your stomach; for the first time in an extremely long time, you allowed yourself to feel. You welcomed the wave of desire that had been shoved down so long ago, your body yearned for it and you refused be ashamed.

You realized that It wasn’t just the touch of someone else you craved, but Matthew’s touch; now that the idea had been set free, it expanded and grew.

“You should fuck me”. You stated as boldly as you could muster, and if your voice shook Matthew didn’t point it out.

Time felt as though it was standing still as he contemplated his next move, your body tingled in anticipation. His normally bright blue eyes seemed to darken at your words, and his tongue darted out to wet his lips as his gaze lowered to your mouth.

“Just...why?” He asked as the fingers pressed against your shoulder flexed, gently squeezing. If his resolve were a brick wall, you could see it start to crumble before your eyes.

You hesitated before speaking, wanting to really portray to him exactly how you felt, how you’ve always felt but never allowed yourself to acknowledge. You realized that what you would say, and how the rest of the night turned out would alter your friendship forever. Despite the unexpected turn the night had already taken, it was still salvageable, but beyond here there would be no turning back. At least not for you.

You took a deep breath and spoke.

“I want you.” His mouth opened to speak but one look at the intensity in your eyes and he closed it back up.

“I’ve always wanted you.” Your hand reached out towards him, yearning to feel, your fingers made contact with the scruffy skin of his cheek. As you ran the pads of your fingers over the tickle of hair threatening to grow along his jaw, his eyes closed.

“I tried not to think this way about you Matty...” Your fingers dropped below his jawline, tracing the lines of his throat, pulse quick and demanding beneath your fingers.

“But if you’ll let me, there’s so much I want to do.” His Adam’s apple bobbed at your words, your fingers traced along the collar of his shirt, aching to remove it and touch every inch of his glorious chest.

“Tell me.” He pleaded, voice low and thick with need. You had never heard him sound that way for you, and your body responded to the plea.

You felt emboldened by his words, and the sight of him in front of you, eyes squeezed shut, skin receptive to every exploring stroke just encouraged you further.

“I want to feel every inch of your skin, trace every muscle, learning where and how you like to be touched.”

Once you gave flight to your words they flowed out of you like second nature, every dirty thought you had ever allowed yourself to feel for him rushed out. You didn’t typically speak this way around him, often more shy and reserved when it came to sex, but all of that melted away with every touch.

“I want to get on my knees for you and take you deep into my mouth.  I want to taste you so bad, and feel you thick and heavy on my tongue as you fuck my mouth, fingers tangled in my hair.“

Matthew’s breathing got shallower with every word you spoke, lust darkened eyes now open watching you intently; it only spurred you on further.

You grabbed his large hand, which made you feel so small, and placed the tip of his middle finger between your lips. Your tongue darted out and tickled the pad as you took it deep into your mouth, giving him a preview of what you would do to his thick cock given the chance.

“And I’d beg you to come down my throat so I could really taste you...would you do that for me Matty?”

Pulling his hand away, he reached out for you, but you stopped him with a strong hand on his muscular chest, heart thumping beneath your palm. You weren’t finished; it made you feel surpisingly powerful making him wait.

“Then,” You continued, smirk on your mischievous lips.

“I want to watch you crawl between my legs, head buried deep in my core, licking me until I come on your tongue with your fingers deep inside of me.”

“Make me drip for you Matty.” You grabbed his hand and press it to the outside of your centre, he bit his lip at the warmth, fingers aching to touch you without your clothes.

You reached your hands to thread through his hair again, and pulled him towards you. A bolt of desire shot through you at the ease in which he follows, he would go anywhere you led him and the thought is irresistible. You closed the gap between you, stopping when your lips just barely brush together, both of your breaths coming out in little puffs of air.

“I want to kiss the taste of my orgasm out of your mouth.” You whispered against his lips, pressing down briefly in a chaste kiss, before pulling back once again. His body tried to follow you, wanting more, but you stop him again. Your ego stroked at the small sound of protest that escapes his gorgeous mouth.

“And I want you to touch me.” His hands gripped your thighs, fingers digging deliciously into your skin.

“Fuck Matty, I’ve dreamt of those hands on my body, hungry for me” His body practically shaking with desire, but he waits for your instruction.

“And I want you to fuck me, and I don’t want you to hold back.” You gaze intently into his eyes for emphasis, hoping that he understands how much you want this, how badly you need him.

If the insistent tent pushing proudly against his sweatpants is any indication, he needs you just as badly.

“I want to be taken, I want you to make me feel it, I want to remember you for days.“

“So tell me Matty...will you do that for me?”

[katnissmellarkkk]

Summary: At the Seventy-Fourth Reaping for The Hunger Games, volunteering is outlawed, thanks to a tribute four years prior. Because of this, when Katniss’ sister Prim’s name is chosen from the bowl, there’s nothing she can do but hope that Peeta Mellark, past victor and now Prim’s mentor, can somehow bring her sister home alive. (Obviously heavy on Everlark.) 

AN: Hi! I don’t really have a big author’s note or anything--at least, I don’t think I do? We’ll see how long this trails on--but this is one of the fics I’ve been working on for a while. It’s multi-chaptered so there’s gonna be a lot more coming in the future, but this first chapter is honestly a little similar to the original book, with some (significant) deviations here and there, but after this first chapter, this story becomes extremely different from canon. I gotta thank, obviously, @rosegardeninwinter​ for a). making me my pretty lil banner and for b). reading the million, unpolished, unedited screenshots of my drafts that I’m sure ya’ll got tired of really quick. And also for encouraging me to write this in the first place. And also, I gotta thank everyone who liked and reblogged the lil story edit I posted months ago for this concept. It really encouraged me to write this concept out. (I’m talking about this edit right here if you forgot or never saw x). Okay, anyways, I’m talking too much but thank you! Also link to this story on AO3 [x].

Chapter One :

I stare out into the sky, introspective, as I wait for familiar footsteps to approach. The footfalls of my hunting partner, my friend even, Gale, still remain absent, despite our longstanding agreement to hunt on Reaping Day, no matter how hot it is, or how scarce the game, or how worried we may be deep inside.

Of course, how could a couple kids from the Seam not worry about Reaping Day? At least a slight bit, deep down?

Reaping Day. The day that decides the almost absolute fate of a lucky—as our assigned escort, straight from the Capitol itself, so proudly proclaims—boy and girl.

We're District Twelve. The smallest and one of the poorest districts in the country of Panem. There's an almost guarantee that whoever gets their name picked from the reaping bowl, even the strongest eighteen-year-old boy in the district, will have an almost sure fate of death. Likely before the number of tributes drops below twenty.

Tributes from our district almost never fare well inside the arena.

Almost never.

We have had a few winners in history, two of which are still around, but a few out of seventy-three games isn't inspiring much hope in anyone today.

The wind breezes against my arms, prickling the hair at the back of my neck, and I'm struck by the memory of being out here, in the forbidden territory of the woods, outside our district limits, when I was just a kid. When my dad was the one hunting and I was just along for the ride. Just along because I wanted to be with him. When I used to blindly trust him and my mother, when I thought he'd live forever, when I was too young to truly grasp the concept of the Hunger Games. When I was too young to truly grasp the concept of the world in which we live.

When I was eleven my every illusion was shattered violently. Almost as violently as the death in which my father must have endured, underground in those mines, as they exploded.

I remember hearing the alarm at school, blaring so cacophonously over the speakers that it shook the schoolrooms themselves. I remember blindly grappling through the scurrying bodies of my classmates, until I found my way to my little sister, Primrose. Her room was completely empty, but she still remained, sitting behind her desk with small folded hands, waiting for my arrival with excessive patience.

I'd always coached her on what we'd do, if there ever should be a mine accident. I made sure she knew the drill, just as I knew it. Like the back of my hand. Like a prayer or a lullaby. I could recite it in my sleep. Because my father had just as sternly instilled it into me.

I wove my way through the chaos of bodies and white-hot panic, towing Prim only inches behind me by the hand, as the kids from town lingered in the hallways, their classic, bright blue eyes large and their voices all quivering, and as the kids from the Seam dutifully made their way to the nearest exits, hoping and praying and begging silently that it wasn't their parent who had been hurt. Hoping the accident hadn't taken what was typically the sole provider in most households, here in the poorest section, in the most impoverished district.

Prim and I must have not hoped hard enough, because we learned almost immediately upon finding our mother, who was now immobilized with grief, her characteristic gentle smile eviscerated and in it's place, a blank stare, void of any life at all, that our every fear from hearing that alarm were coming true.

My mom was supposed to get a job. She was supposed to find a way to provide for us, to take care of her two daughters, who were grieving her husband just as much as she was.

But instead she lay in bed day after day. On the good mornings, maybe if Prim begged and pleaded, she'd move to a chair, in front of the fireplace and stare at the flames with the same vacant expression that had replaced the loving, kind woman who'd raised us.

The money from the government, the minuscule amount of money given to keep us afloat until our mother found work, ran out. The meat our father had hunted, the plants he'd saved, ran out. The food we had the small luxury of sometimes buying—or more times than not, trading for—quickly ran out.

And our mother still did absolutely nothing.

I take a deep breath now and try to force myself to forgive her. Forgive her for not being strong enough to keep going, forgive her for not caring enough about her own children to keep them alive in the face of her grief, forgive her for being so in love that losing my father had almost killed her too.

I know it's what my father would want. And I know it's something I can't let myself do. Because if I let her off the hook, it's like saying it's okay that she almost let Prim wither away to nothing. Forget me. I will never forgive her for almost taking my little sister away from me.

Our mother did absolutely nothing until Prim's ribs were prominent, until my stomach was nearly hallow, until our cheekbones were so blatantly obvious you could count them from down the road.

And all my fears, all my resolve, to keep the three of us together as a family, went out the window. There was nothing left to do, but wait for me and Prim to be taken to the Community Home, with the other orphans or kids from unsafe families. Kids who still remained too thin, who's eyes told stories no ear wanted to hear, who still wore bruises upon their skin like freckles from the sun, who looked nearly worse than the corpses I encountered every winter, while walking from the Seam to town. Those corpses were the unlucky ones who'd actually starved to death, who had sat down to merely rest, because they had no substance to carry them any further, and somehow never got back up.

On that day, at eleven years old, living in the Community Home sounded no worse than living with the immobilized shell that had once been my mother. My resolve to hold out until my birthday, until I could get the tesserae that would feed my family for an entire year, was shattered by the harsh raindrops pelting me from the grey, unforgiving sky.

I vaguely heard the baker's wife, the mean-spirited woman, with her deeply embittered, hostile blue eyes that somehow seemed black, scream at me, calling me names, shooing me from her property.

I'd simply wanted to rummage her trashcan, so desperate for any small morsel to take back to Prim, any motivation to take even another step forward, when I felt her rough and calloused hands shove me away.

I toppled over, my legs already weak and shaky from lack of nutrition and substance. My depleted form laid on the ground, my eyes bleary from exhaustion and the shivering wind and rain.

The witch went back inside the bakery as I scarcely conjured up the will to sit upright. I was beyond done. The fighting to even gain a fraction of my mother's awareness, to get something, anything, to feed myself and my starving sister, to even stand up, became overwhelming and I felt the last bit of my resolve crumble from deep inside.

Let them come and take me and Prim to the Community Home. I don't care any longer. Let them come.

Out of the corner of my eye, a boy exited out the same backdoor the witch had gone through. He was carrying a bag of trash in his hands and my famished mind focused on that first, focused on what could be inside the contents of that bag, on what a baker could potentially be throwing away, before I realized the boy was in my year at school. I knew him, or at least, I knew his face. But he stuck with the other blonde-haired, fair-skinned town kids and I didn't even remember his name in that moment.

In hindsight, that's absolutely hysterical now.

But he evaporated as soon as he'd appeared and I closed my eyes and let the rain drown me, hoping perhaps I could be swallowed up within the downpour itself. Hoping that perhaps I'd never have to face the reality that I was out of options and I had nothing of subsidence to take home.

But then I heard a clatter and a clang and the sound of a scream. It was her, the witch. She was screaming and calling someone names my own mother had never even uttered in my lifetime.

I mentally prepared myself for her to come back outside, to drive me away with a stick or a knife. Or possibly even a hot, scorching prong.

But it wasn't the witch. It was the boy, the one from my year. The one I thought went back inside after taking out the trash, that I believed didn't even notice me before.

He was carrying bread. Two loaves, in fact. The crusts were black and burned and the welt across his face told me, without a doubt, that he was the target of the witch's insults. That he was the victim of whatever clanging noise I heard.

And though I was the one starving to death, I didn't envy him having her for a mother.

I remember vividly, the most crystal clear image I have of this day, the boy checking and making sure the witch's attention had been claimed elsewhere. And then, without even glancing in my direction, he tossed one loaf of bread to my feet. Seconds later, the other followed.

He didn't hesitate to head back inside after that, and I've spent more time in these last four years than I'd more than likely care to admit, wondering what possessed him to commit such an act of kindness. No one was kind for free, I'd learned by that point.

And yet, as I shook myself forcefully out of my stupor, and carried the loaves back to my house at the edge of the Seam, I had no explanation for his simple act. I had no basis to explain why he would help me, when no one else ever had.

The next day, I saw him at school. I passed by him in the hallway, and saw his eye had now blackened, his cheek welted, but somehow he still managed a joyous smile. He didn't notice me then. He was surrounded by his friends. Like always, he was surrounded by a constant crowd.

He is, after all, one of the most charming and sweet people Panem's ever known.

Later that day, when I was about to walk home with Prim, who was excitedly chattering about the leftover bread awaiting us on the kitchen table, the bread I'd brought home the night prior that had filled our stomachs for the first time in months, I caught the boy looking in our direction. My grey Seam eyes met his baby blues for a microsecond, before he looked away. I snapped my gaze downwards too, embarrassed, when I caught sight of a dandelion.

It was that moment that a bell went off in my head. That I saw how I could survive, how Prim could survive. How, through the things my dad had taught me, I could keep me and my sister alive.

After that day, I could never stop associating the boy with the bread, the one who gave me hope, with the dandelion that reminded me I wasn't doomed.

I never stopped associating him with his simple act of kindness, even when he became famous for some much less appreciable acts.

And I never stopped kicking myself for failing to thank him, for saving my life and my family's life, before he was whisked away, to a land far from Twelve, called the Capitol. When he later returned, now a part of a much more elite social class, thanking him for his kindness became even less of a possibility.

A girl from the Seam had no business seeking out a boy from Victor's Village. Even if I did have the guts.

Though he isn't exactly in good company here in Twelve, seeing as the only other person who holds the same title is a drunken, middle-aged man who can barely form a coherent sentence most days and lives like a hermit by his own volition.

My thoughts are interrupted by the quiet—almost as quiet as mine, but not quite—steps of Gale.

"You're late," I state without turning around, pulling the cheese from my pocket. "You're lucky Prim's cheese held up under the sun."

But Gale pulls something even more impressive from behind his back. "This will probably go nice with it," he says and I almost gasp.

Fresh bread is so rare in our district, generally reserved for the Peacekeepers and perhaps a merchant who is having a good day. Here in the Seam, fresh bread from the bakery is as common as new school shoes.

Gale updates me on his day as we split the bread and cheese and have our own version of a small feast. He'd gotten to the woods early, while I had been still at home, and shot a squirrel to which he traded for the bread.

"The baker really went for that?" I ask in disbelief. The baker was a subdued, large man, who resembled all three of his sons quietly strongly, and was one of my dad's best customers. Sometimes I think he still trades with me and Gale out of respect to my dad's memory, but a simple squirrel for a loaf of fresh bread isn't common.

"I think he was feeling generous this morning," Gale suggests a little snidely, his bitterness leaking through. "Besides. It's not like the Mellark's need the money they ask for bread. They could easily skim off their precious son and he'd probably never notice."

Gale has a special affinity for hating anyone and anything associated even minimally with the Capitol. He was lost his father in the same mine explosion I lost mine in. But whereas I don't let myself get too worked up over the inequities between the town and the Seam, and especially between us all and the victors, Gale takes a special pride in fuming over the things he cannot change.

I don't mind listening usually, since neither of us can speak our minds in public or even within our own homes, out of fear small ears will pick up on our words and repeat them elsewhere. But today, I just don't have the energy to be a sounding board.

Instead I take a segue towards a slightly different topic, but one, without a doubt, weighing on both our minds. "Prim has been having nightmares of the reaping," I murmur solemnly. "She's convinced they're going to call her name."

Gale shook his head, his demeanor becoming more subdued now. "Least Prim's name is only in there once, Catnip. Rory had to take tesserae this year."

I nod silently at that admission, knowing what it must have cost him to even allow his little brother to take additional risks of being called. Knowing it meant his family of five must be even more hungry than he leads on.

We don't say much more after that, only lingering in the woods long enough to catch some additional game from what I've already collected, and hurry back to town to trade.

As we walk back to the Seam, having divided up our goods evenly, Gale murmurs suddenly, "I might be able to stomach the idea of Rory's name being in that bowl six times if we were still allowed to volunteer."

I bypass his words the best I can. I don't want to think about what Gale must be going through, making himself sick with worry, not for himself but for a sibling in which he considers himself responsible for. And, as it happens once in a lucky moon, I feel grateful that my tesserae is still sufficient for a family of three, and I don't have to worry about Prim the same way. Her one entry pales in comparison to the thousands that are piled in that bowl.

Still, the silence between us as we walk is deafening and I can't take it any longer as we come closer to my house. "At least then, you'd get to see the Capitol," I say lightly, as a means to brighten his mood, even just a little.

At that, Gale rewards me with a humorless smirk. "Generous of the president, isn't it? To allow us district people to experience the great Capitol firsthand while they slaughter our family."

And it's true. Just a few years ago, it was allowed to volunteer as tribute in the place of whoever's name got chosen, as long as you were the same gender and between twelve and eighteen on Reaping Day.

But four years ago, when a twelve-year-old boy volunteered for his seventeen-year-old brother, an outrage sparked across the entire country. People are never happy, in any district, to see a twelve-year-old be chosen for the games. They're the youngest, the smallest, the most innocent, and never in history had a single one made it past the Final Fifteen in the games.

So when one volunteered, the country wasn't pleased in the slightest. However, like always, the anger was contained by Peacekeepers in a matter of weeks, and promises came pouring out from the Capitol that a change would be made after the games that year to ensure never again would this situation occur.

And it never again could. Because three days after the Seventieth Hunger Games, President Snow announced that all volunteering, from that point forward, was officially banned.

This new law is even more ironic when you realize that the twelve-year-old volunteer from that year became the youngest victor in the entire history of the games.

Still, I suppose the president was feeling generous that day, and he threw in a bonus treat for us in the districts. Now when someone is chosen from the reaping bowl, though their fate is sealed definitively when their name is uttered, they get to choose one family member to take on the train ride to the Capitol with them, to get a special viewing of the games with the mentors and the sponsors and the past victors, to get to experience the wonder that is the mysterious Candy Capitol firsthand.

However, when all is said and done, twenty-three family members must ride the train home alone to their districts, with their loved one in a casket beside them. The thought chills me to the bone and I shiver as me and Gale wish each other good luck. We probably won't see each other again until it's time for the customary dinner we all try to put on with our neighbors to celebrate, even minimally, that we've survived another year unchosen.

Prim is already wearing my first reaping outfit when I enter the house, though it is a bit large on her. She's slimmer than even I was at Twelve, despite her having months on me when I attended my first reaping.

I get ready quickly, if only because I want to spend time with her before we have to go. I protect Prim in every way I can but I'm powerless against the reaping.

Still, she's only entered once and that's as safe as anyone can get from being chosen. It's almost unheard in the Seam to be that safe from the games.

But my sister never did appear like she fit in here anyway. Her golden blonde hair and sky blue eyes resemble the merchants, not the Seam, and her and our mother stick out like sore thumbs next to our neighbors.

Our mom is restless now, busying herself with preparing the food for our small feast tonight and braiding Prim's hair and then mine.

I still haven't fully forgiven her for leaving us when we needed her most, but I also can't imagine how difficult it must be to have to send both your children off to be potentially chosen for an absolute death. And I let her hug me as I guide Prim out the door.

Attendance is mandatory for all in the district, but the ones viable for being chosen and those just watching don't typically enter together.

I guide Prim by hand into town, the walk feeling longer than it did with Gale. Perhaps it's the trembling twelve-year-old I'm towing, or perhaps I'm more afraid than I'm even admitting to myself.

After all, unlike my sister, I have twenty slips with my name splayed across this year. It's not as a bad as someone like Gale, who has forty-four chances of being called. But it's not as safe as the kids from town, who likely only have to worry about a handful of slips with their names.

Its not that they're rich by any standard, but they get by better than those in the Seam. Even if they're hungry, they're not at risk of starving, and no one is going to sign up for tesserae unless there is no alternative.

A year ago, my mother let it slip once over dinner, just out of the blue really, that my father had always sworn no child of his would be in need of tesserae.

I shake my head, as if to physically rid myself of the reminder. I don't want to dwell on what my father would feel if he were here. I don't want to be reminded how different things would be if he hadn't died.

I help Prim sign in and then drop her off, as gently as I can, with the other girls her age. At the last minute, she pulls on my hand, yanking me back to her with surprising force.

"Prim, I have to go stand with the sixteens," I say as she leans up and kisses my cheek.

"I just wanted to say I love you," she whispers softly, her big blue eyes so terrified, and then she steps back into the crowd of twelves surrounding her.

I sigh softly and give her what I hope is a reassuring smile. She truly is the best of our parents. Kind, smart, level-headed. She's funny and resourceful too, even if she can't take hunting animals herself.

She is the only person I'm certain that I love. And just about the only thing that keeps me going most days.

As I make my way to the sixteens, straightening my mother's dress on my hips, I check the clock. Only five minutes before we start. Before our lovely Capitol escort, Effie Trinket, reads off two names in her distinctive, afflicted accent. Before two kids know they're never coming home again.

This place isn't much. But it is all we've ever known, and no one wishes to leave it.

As more people crowd in, I begin to pick up an excited buzz in the girls surrounding me. Already knowing what I'll see, I crane my neck just the same, to peer up at the stage ahead.

Sure enough, I see exactly what I knew I would.

There's four chairs set up on the stage. One for Effie Trinket, because no one from the Capitol could ever bear to stand for more than three minutes at a time and she must have a seat to relax in before she calls out the names and sends two of us—a lucky boy and girl, as she says it—to the slaughter.

One of the other chairs is occupied by Mayor Undersee. A man who looks like he's been beaten down by life too many times as it is and would rather be anywhere but here. His daughter is my age. She sits with me at lunch, since Gale is two grades ahead of me and we rarely see each other at school. We make polite small talk but other than that, I barely know anything about her, and by association, her father.

However, it's neither of them that's stirring up the buzz within the crowd—admittedly, more so with the female portion of the crowd—and it's definitely not Haymitch Abernathy, who's stumbling on stage right at this moment. He managed to win the Fiftieth Hunger Games and I still can't imagine how. He's a paunchy man my mother's age and he's never sober, on the rare time he's even seen in public. Today is no exception, as he flops onto a chair gruffly, and murmurs something unintelligible with his eyes closed.

No, the murmuring, the now batting eyes and coy smiles, the soft vibrato still traveling within the crowd, are all because of the last guest of honor, walking upon the stage right behind his old mentor.

Peeta Mellark.

Winner of the Seventieth Hunger Games. Youngest ever. District Twelve's first and last volunteer. The twelve-year-old that changed the rules for the entire country.

The youngest mass murderer in history of Panem.

And now one of it's most beloved celebrities.

Peeta is smart—brilliantly smart—and he's always been charismatic. Even at twelve, he had the Capitol audience, as well as every single soul watching on television at home, eating out of the palm of his hand.

It doesn't hurt that at sixteen, he's become quite a looker. His blonde curls, his blue eyes, those long lashes and bubblegum pink lips. His fair, perfect skin that has not a blemish in sight. His toned, muscular body and devastatingly genuine smile that no one can help but fall in love with.

He's also the boy who saved my life. The one who committed the simple act of kindness, knowing it would cost him, to help me.

I never thanked him. And now I never can, as I'm sure he has zero memory of me. After everything else that's happened to him since, after the last four years of living as a Capitol darling, as one of the country's most cherished victors, he'd never remember the starving eleven-year-old he threw some burned bread to in a rainstorm.

But I remember him. I don't know if it's what he did for me that day or what he did for his brother only a matter of weeks later, but something about Peeta Mellark crawled under my skin four years ago and ever since, I've never been able to completely shake the feeling I get inside upon seeing him.

I break my gaze away, refusing to stare at the boy, who I will always accredit as the one who saved my life. I venomously refuse to gawk at him, like every other girl in the district.

He rarely comes out of his house when he's home here in Twelve, and I know the overzealous amount of attention he receives just by going to his parents' bakery has to be at least a part of the reason. Unlike Haymitch, who has lost his clout and his appeal with age and with deterioration, Peeta has only gained more and more notoriety as the years pass by.

You'd be hard pressed to find anyone in Twelve, outside of a few outliers like Gale perhaps, who'd say a negative word about Peeta Mellark.

Of course, rumors about his random and long stretches spent in the Capitol itself are always floating around, no matter what time of year it is, but they don't affect his public persona or anyone's opinion of him. He is, after all, the most valuable figure Twelve has and perhaps the only thing we can take any pride in.

Effie Trinket steps up to the microphone just as I turn my head away from the stage. "Welcome!" She greets, so vivaciously, so brightly, I can't imagine it even resonates in her head that she's just moments away from announcing two of our impending funerals. "Welcome, everyone! To the reaping for the Seventy-Fourth Annual Hunger Games!"

I can't even bear to listen as she prattles on, with too much confidence and dignity for someone dressed in every neon color known to man, speaking in such a peculiar accent, with a thickly painted face that is so blatantly visible to the every eye here today, even in the back row. Doesn't she realize how ridiculous she is to us? Doesn't she realize how wrong it is to preach about the morals and disciplines of the Capitol, in such a prideful voice, when they're the ones about to murder us for entertainment, and in repentance for a long over war that only a few elders can still remember?

As I advert my eyes, my gaze travels once again to the back of the stage, and I'm more than a little surprised to see Peeta Mellark with a similar expression as mine. He, too, is shifting his eyes elsewhere, away from his own escort, looking sick to his stomach.

Of course, it still can't be easy for him, even with his own games four years in the past. He was a literal child when he volunteered and it's fact that he didn't understand what he was getting himself into when he took his brother's place that fateful day. His innocence was stolen as soon as the countdown ended and talk still circulates, even in the Hob, that he wakes up screaming most nights, calling out the names of fallen tributes. Though those words are not given much weight in the Seam, as we all know, people get bored in this tiny district and bored people begin to spew lies whenever encouraged.

Effie continues, in a long overdone mantra, one I could recite in my sleep, the same one she spews every year, that two kids from every district must be chosen to battle to the death in a new and invigorating—one of her favorite words—arena, in order to pay for the blood shed during the rebellion and war, in order to ensure we'll never again even think to rebel.

It would almost be easier to swallow, this whole charade, if the people sent from the strange land of the Capitol would just be honest and blunt with us. If they'd just admit that they see us as lesser than, as animals or beasts of some sort, as less than human beings. It'd be easier if the Capitol spokespeople would just outright say, "we'll take your children, we'll starve your district, we'll ruin your homes, we'll broadcast the deaths of those you love most, all to keep you too powerless to fight. In order to make sure you never are able to stand strong, we have to kick your legs out from under you first."

Instead of being honest though, Effie Trinket is reiterating the Treaty Of Treason, in a tone so serious that it takes all the self-control possible to stop several boys standing in the fourteens from bursting out laughing. Her accent and a serious tone do not mesh well together.

Once she's done though, my heart automatically skips a beat. Because, after four years of standing in this square, I know exactly what's coming. "Ladies first!" Effie announces and I feel a bead of sweat glide down my forehead, both from anxiety and from the overload of heat. Reapings always take place in the start of the hottest month of the year.

Standing in my mother's well-crafted dress, one of the most luxurious pieces of clothing we own, only makes my perspiration worsen, as the dress was clearly made to keep the wearer as warm as possible.

Our district escort makes her way over the bowl containing the names of every girl eligible to be picked in the entire district and I feel myself take in a breath involuntarily.

There's twenty chances she's going to call out my name. Twenty chances I'll be sent to an almost imminent death. Twenty chances Prim will grow into her teen years, and later adulthood, without a sister.

The gut-churning fear I'd repressed all morning, in that moment, overtakes my entire being, curling up like a ball in the pit of my stomach, as I do my best to listen on baited breath, somehow expecting to hear my own name spoken through the raucous microphone for all to hear.

Don't be me, I whisper inside my head, more fearful than I'd ever admit out loud. Don't be me. Please, don't be me.

And, as it turns out, it's not me.

Instead it's the name I never in a million years thought I'd hear. The name I believed to be so safe I didn't even allow myself to worry about her.

"Primrose Everdeen!"

[lightsinthedistancee]

Violation: Poe Dameron x Reader

Pairing: Poe Dameron x Reader

Word Count: 1k

Summary: “He was drowning and flailing in the whirlpool of his memories. Barely staying above and being forced to surrender to something that he had once controlled.”

Reader comforts Poe through trauma developed during his time within the First Order.

Warnings: mentions of torture

A/N: Hey guys! I know this is super similar to the works I’ve been posting lately (ptsd/trauma and stuff) but I actually wrote this a while ago and have been trying to stop being a lazy bum and finally get all my stuff transferred over from AO3 (which I told myself I’d do a month ago and still haven’t oops).

It was cold. Too cold. Air was drafting in through the open window, running across her skin, caressing her arms in a chill that she yearned to shake. She reached for Poe on the other side of the bed, only finding empty, cold sheets.

“Poe?” she murmured groggily, opening her eyes. He was nowhere to be found, the door ajar, suggesting that he’d left.

She frowned, for she knew he only got up in the middle of the night when he was distracted, and that distractedness was generally the result of a devastating, all-encompassing emotion that he was experiencing.

She had theories of what it was about…well, only one.

Kylo Ren.

She knew that the First Order Commander had done something to Poe, something terrible, something that broke something in him. She’d spent countless nights up, pleading with Poe, begging him to trust her, to confide in her with his pain. Each time had ended in failure, leaving her only with a self-loathing for not being someone that he could trust.

She rolled out of bed, goosebumps dotting her arms as she wrapped a fleece blanket around her shoulders. The apartment was dead silent as she paced down the stairs, the only exception being the sound of the perpetual Coruscanti traffic filtering through the walls. City lights harshly illuminated the rooms, giving them a painfully bright shine. His presence was found in neither the kitchen or the living area, but she spotted him on the balcony, his form a black silhouette against the lights.

He clutched a warm mug of tea between his hands, and the moment she stepped out, she shivered at the breeze. “Poe?” she said quietly. He looked up at her, his eyes sad and empty, seeming to travel for miles into his skull.

She sat beside him, wrapping her blanket around his shoulders too. One of her hands found its way into his curls, running her fingers through them comfortingly.

“Why’re you up?”

“Had a dream,” he muttered, avoiding her gaze.

“About?”

“You know,” he simply answered. And she did. It was always the same thing nearly every time.

He felt her presence radiating from her center, washing over him, wrapping him in warmth and familiarity.

“Can you tell me what happened?” she questioned tentatively, bracing herself for rejection like all the other times.

He wanted to tell her…he’d never wanted to tell anyone anything more than he wanted to tell her what had happened. But his pride and shame blocked him. It hadn’t been excruciating pain or torture that had broken him. It’d been something else, something seemingly far less sinister.

His thoughts were taunting him, telling him that he was supposed to be stronger than this. That what had happened should have barely fazed him. All of it made him feel overwhelmingly weak, like he was drowning and flailing in the whirlpool of his memories. Barely staying above and being forced to surrender to something that he had once controlled.

And for a reason he didn’t know, he didn’t want her seeing him like this.

“Please….” She was practically begging him, changing positions to sit on her knees, looking at him with acute worry, one stronger than he’d ever seen before. She was scared for him, about to burst into tears.

And that look broke something else inside him. He hated seeing her scared or in pain. It’d always made something in him contort in discomfort, in fear, in uncertainty, for she was the strongest person he knew. And he especially hated it when he knew that he was the very cause of it.

He wanted to embrace her, hug her and love her till her features melted into one of comfort. He wanted to murmur to her that she shouldn’t be worried about him because he wasn’t worth it. But with her sad eyes reflecting the city lights, he had only one option.

“He used a mind probe,” he simply said, taking a deep breath, averting his gaze once more. “He saw everything, Lexi. Every memory I’ve ever had, every experience, every emotion.”

Poe began to shake, his hands trembling to the point that she took the cup of tea away from him.

“He saw every private, intimate, secret thought I’ve had in my life. Every thought I’ve had regarding my mother, my father, my friends, myself, you…”

His eyelids fluttered in quick succession, holding back tears, desperately trying to keep his voice from cracking. She felt her fingers interlace with his, holding him steady in his moment of vulnerability.

“Every aspiration I’ve ever had, every desire, every regret. It was like he reached into my head without permission, and took everything out, examined it, scrutinized it, before shoving it all back in.

“And…and I don’t even know why it bothers me. It shouldn’t. I shouldn’t be this weak.” His voice grew in urgency. His pent-up emotions spiraled out. “I mean…how many others has he done this to? I doubt he even remembers any of the stuff he saw, so…so why does it makes me feel so…violated?”

Poe often imagined people’s minds as walls filled with hundreds, thousands, millions of memories. It felt as if Ren had barged into his and then examined and ripped the memories off one at a time, throwing them to the ground like filth. 

The pilot stared at the ground, his breath coming quicker as he forced it to slow. Before he knew it, she was wrapping her arms around him, cradling his neck beneath her chin. And then he was sobbing, his whole body trembling.

She held him tighter as he shook, painful noises escaping his throat, murmuring things to him. He was physically releasing every anxiety and fear he’d had since his time on the Finalizer.

“You’re okay, baby,” she whispered. “I’m right here.”

He clung to her, breathing her in, feeling her. In his vulnerable state of mind, an overwhelming sense of gratefulness found him.

There were things that were always going to be eternal. War, violence, pain. Patience, honor, and affection. Space. Life. The stars.

And her love. She’d always been there; she always was. And he relished the thought that she would be far into the future. “I love you so much,” he whispered.

...::::.. ..::::.. ..::::.. ..::::..

If you wish to be tagged on future works, just leave a reply/comment or do the form on my Masterlist for specific preferences.

Taglist: @synical-paradox​ @dark-academics-and-florals​ @paper-n-ashes​

“Violation” originally posted on AO3 on 11/23/20.

[imclumsy]

Livestream

(peter parker x actress!reader)

Summary: the reader is an actress starring in stranger things. she starts a livestream as she chills with her best friend, peter. they get flustered when her fans point out their flirting. the fans go crazy once something happens.

Warning: idk, language maybe? if that counts??

A/N: i found this in my drafts on wattpad lmao. thought it was cute and decided to continue writing it for my first tumblr imagine post. oh and ‘Y/c/n’ means ‘your character’s name’.

“Hey, guys.” You smiled at your phone screen, holding up a peace sign as you started a live stream on Instagram. Comments started to flood in.

avengersfan01 - OMG UR LIVESTREAMING FOR THE FIRST TIME IN AGES

y/niswifey - WHERE HAVE U BEEN,, LAST TIME U POSTED WAS A MONTH AGO

msmarvel19832 - notice me senpaiiiii 😭

strangertingzz4life - hiiiiii ❤️❤️💖

"So, I'm kinda bored, my parents aren't home and I thought 'Why not do a Q&A?' since I haven't been so active on Instagram lately because I’ve been busy filming." You shuffled, trying to find a comfortable position to sit in.

"Stop moving, Y/n. I’ve almost got a 10 streak kill." Peter nudged you, keeping his attention on his video game as he ran someone over with a car.

Who knew Spider-Man would enjoy running over pedestrians.

"I'm trying to get comfortable, dickhead, let me be." You smiled, moving the camera so it was away from you and Peter. You finally decided to lay your head on his stomach as he let you lay between his legs.

"Ok, sorry about that, technical- well, physical difficulties." You laughed at the camera, making Peter chuckle, "Anyways, questions anyone? I'll answer as many as I can."

You waited for the comments to load and read out the first one you saw, "From captainamericaswhore, love the username by the way, 'Who's legs are those?'" You giggled as soon as you finished reading.

Everyone in the comments started to freak out.

y/n.y/ln.is.my.queen - YO I BET IT'S PETER SKSJAK

dontreadmyusername - who tf is peter-

peterxy/n.otp - ALJSSJAK IT'S MY SHIP OMG I CAN'T BELIEVE I'M WITNESSING THIS

madmax751300 - [dontreadmyusername] get outta here u uncultured swine

elevenseggos - those r some thicc legs wInK wOnK

suziep00 - [elevenseggos] and i fucking oop-

“Are you livestreaming?” Peter asked, pausing his game and taking his headset off, reaching away to place it on the table.

“Yep,” You replied, popping the ‘p’. Your fans already knew who Peter was since he made a regular appearance in all your social media, especially your stories. “It’s Peter’s legs by the way. Say ‘hi’ to everyone, Pete.” You turned your camera to him.

“Hey.” He waved, sending the fans a charming smile.

“Alright, next question-“ You said, sitting up before hitting your head on Peter’s nose.

“Fuck.” He held the bridge of his nose. You laughed, letting your head fall forward as you clutched your stomach. “That fucking hurt, you idiot!” He shoved your shoulder, laughing to lighten up the mood instead of making it serious.

You turned around, looking at the tears welling up in his eyes, “Aww, alright. I’m sorry.” You reached behind him to grab a tissue from the tissue box on the small table and wiped his tears, “You good?”

"Yeah, kinda hurts, but I'm fine." He laughed, giving you a smile to reassure you that he's okay.

“You’re such a baby.” You playfully rolled your eyes before quickly kissing his nose. “You know, my lips kinda hurt too.” He smirked.

“Nice one, Parker.”

“I try my best.”

“Well, it might just be working.” You flirted back, making Peter blush profusely.

You completely forgot that you were still livestreaming as you felt your phone violently vibrate in your hand. Everyone was going crazy; crazier than normal.

noahpotatoes - WTF WTF WTF WTAF I’M SCREAMING

lucasisunderrated - Y'ALL SHE SAID 'WELL IT MIGHT JUST BE WORKING' OMFG ALL THAT FLIRTING IS GONNA PAY OFF I’M GONEEE

finnwolfhardofficial - real smooth peter,, real smooth

dustybun4life - i wonder what’s gonna happen after this livestream ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

steve_the_mom - [dustybun4life] SOME OF Y'ALL ARE NASTY OML-

Your face heated up after reading some of the comments. “What can I say, Finn? Practice makes perfect." He managed to say one last bold comment before his face turned completely red after reading all the comments shipping you two.

ironlad01762 - PRACTICE MAKES PERFECT-

elizabethz04 - SO I WASN’T HALLUCINATING LAST LIVESTREAM WHEN Y’ALL WERE FLIRTING OML I’M GONNA PASS OUT

sadiesink_ - you guys better get together by the end of this live otherwise we’re no longer gonna have movie nights in my trailer

therealcalebmclaughlin - your flirting is so cute it makes me want to puke

gatenm123 - just saying.. i better be in the front seat for your wedding

elevenseggos - I'M LOVING THIS INTERACTION AND ALL BUT PLS CONTINUE THE Q&A, I WANT THE TEA SPILT ALL OVER THE TABLE CLOTH

You felt really flustered now, feeling Peter’s body heat radiate as he wore his headsets to continue his game in order to avoid showing his flushed face. You cleared your throat, “Alright, guys, come on. Elevenseggos is right, let’s continue the Q&A.”

elevenseggos - OH MY GOD I'VE BEEN NOTICED, WHAT A BLESSED DAY

gayforrobin - [elevenseggos] CONGRATS

milliebobbybrown - [elevenseggos] "I WANT THE TEA SPILT ALL OVER THE TABLE CLOTH" I'M USING THAT FROM NOW ON

flayedforbilly - [milliebobbybrown] MILLIE OMG @elevenseggos IS HAPPY-CRYING ALL OVER ME RN, WHAT DID U DO

You waited until some questions pop up and read the first one I see, "From stony4life, 'What's it like playing a fan-favourite character in Stranger Things?'" I bite my lip as I think of an answer, "I mean - obviously - it's really cool. I actually originally auditioned for a smaller role since this was my first big thing but ended up getting the role of Y/c/n. It’s really fun to be able to play this character; she’s strange but in a mysterious yet cool way, she clicks with everyone in the group and she just straight up vibes.”

You waited for another comment, “Ooh, from peterxy/n- oh, hah, okay.” You blushed because of the username, “Have you met your celebrity crush? See, I actually ran into him 3 years ago but that crush has worn off now.” You shrugged, “But! But this guy,” You turned the camera around to face a deeply concentrated Peter, “does have a celebrity crush and he won’t tell me who it is.”

He immediately paused the game again and took off his headsets, “Because it’s embarrassing.”

“I’m sure it’s not, don’t be so dramatic.”

“Trust me, it is.”

“You know I can probably get my agent to get you to meet them.” You pointed out.

“Yeah, but what if I already met them?”

milevenisrealmfs - OH MY GOD GUYS BRACE YOURSELVES IT’S GONNA HAPPEN

eggosaresuperior - SHIT SHIT WAIT LEMME GET MY SCREENRECORDER ON

milevenisrealmfs - omg y/n better get what he’s saying otherwise i’m gonna cry

“Oh my God, when? Why didn’t you tell me?” You asked. He looked at you like you were joking, “Seriously?”

“What?” You furrowed your brows in confusion.

“You’re actually so dumb.” He said before softly grabbing your jaw and kissing you. You almost dropped your phone from the sudden action but he pulled away just before you could.

You were left with a dumbfounded gaze, you glanced at your phone and saw all the comments flooding in again, “Alright, gotta go guys, bye.” You quickly ended the live.

You sighed then looked at Peter, “You like me?” You asked.

“Well, yeah. I thought it was pretty obvious.” He shrugged, nervously avoiding your eye contact.

You studied his features before gently placing your lips against his. He kissed back, leaning into your touch as you held his cheek. You pulled away, both of you smiling, “Then it’s a good thing I like you too.”

-

-

-

[bleepblopbloop56]

Covering the Soul

okay so I've had this in my drafts for a while and the reason I'm posting this and the sequel is all because of @stormcrawler75 who convinced me this would be a good idea

this a sequel to Discovering the Soul so read that first, please! 

warnings: soulmate au, arguing, and a little bit of crying 

It was common knowledge that soulmarks couldn’t be tattooed. Many people have tried to cover their soulmark with the “permanent” ink when a relationship ended badly and they rejected their fate, but it never stayed. After a week or so the ink would fade and the soulmark shone through once again. But this wasn’t tattoos, this was hair dye.

One month ago

“Virgil, honey please come on just talk to me! What am I doing wrong?” Roman pled. It had been a rough week for Virgil, his anxiety was through the roof. The last thing he wanted to do was touch another person.

“It’s not you! I just can’t handle this right now” he silently begged his voice to stop shaking, he couldn’t handle another attack this week either. Roman placed a hand on Virgil’s shoulder, the now familiar sensation of physical contact jerking him out of his head.

“Roman, I’m sorry, I’m sorry I just.. I’m new to this.you know that”

“ This is new for me too…I don’t want to argue Virgil... I just want you to talk to me” ‘god why was Roman so nice to me?’ a part of Virgil thought Roman only acted the way he did because he thought he was supposed to.

“I love you..”

Virgil didn’t answer. He wasn’t ready to say it yet.

“I want to dye my hair” logans head shot up from his book in interest. They were sitting in Logan’s room, alone. It was one of the rare times Patton wasn’t glued to his side. Virgil secretly wondered if Logan enjoyed the breather.

“You want to dye your hair…” he repeated, “back to the original color I presume?”

Virgil nodded. If he ripped it off like a bandaid and get it out in the open he wouldn’t let himself back out of it. “I think… I think it’s for the best” he mumbled quieter this time, no going back now.

Logan closed his book and walked closer to Virgil, towering over him as he examined the colorful strands. ¨ I’m not sure if that would work… It’s worth a try but if tattoos can’t cover them I doubt something like hair dye would… although it is interesting… is your soulmark on your scalp, the colors just being a side effect or is it just your hair.¨ Logan was talking to himself now as he absentmindedly began pushing his hands in Virgil’s hair trying to get a better look.

“Well, if it was just the scalp then the hair wouldn’t change colors immediately, would it? But tattoos inject into the skin and the soulmark rejects the pigment, this is hair dye that simply clings onto the stand of hair…. Interesting”

“So? Do you think it’ll work?” Virgil asked, trying his best to stay still so Logan could look. Logan touching his hair felt different from Roman… When Roman ran his hands through his hair it sparked, and it made him feel happier, calmer, no doubt a result of soulmarks touching. But logans hands just felt, dull.

“It’s worth a try. I’d like to see how your hair reacts myself actually.” Logan finally pulled away from the assault on Virgil’s hair. “Would you like me to keep this to myself?

“Yes, please… I don’t want Patton to know yet, and I really don’t need Roman knowing”

3 weeks ago

Roman reached down to grab Virgil’s hand, they were in a crowded cafeteria, no one would see. Just another two soulmates holding hands.

“Roman,” Virgil warned, shoving his hand in his pocket and hunching his shoulders.

“Why don’t you ever wanna hold hands with me? I don’t understand-”

“Not now Roman, not here.” he didn’t know if he was talking about the inevitable argument this would bring or the hand holding, but Roman should have shut his mouth.

“Logan and Patton hold hands all the time.”

“I’m not Logan or Patton!” his voice held something a bit more than an annoyance, something bordering on hurt. “I’m your boyfriend. You have nothing to worry about okay so just let it go.”

Virgil looked into his reflection with hate. His hair was back to its inky black color, and for a moment it was like he woke up from a dream. He had to remind himself again and again that YES he did have a soulmate, and YES it was Roman.. outside the bathroom door he heard someone walking around with Logan. He had decided to do his hair here to get away from his parents, and the talking coming from the hallway could only mean one thing. Patton. Logan’s parents were out on a business trip, as they usually were, leaving only his boyfriend and soulmate as the intruder.

Virgil waited a moment more before opening the door and walking out.

“Virgil!” Patton gasped, walking closely, eyes focused on his still wet hair.

“Don’t touch it, it’ll get on your hands,” Virgil warned, avoiding eye contact. From the way he stood, it was clear that Virgil was upset.

“Why’d you dye it back?” He knew better than to ask, but the question left his mouth before he could stop it. Logan spoke up to say Patton’s name as a warning from his spot on the couch. He had been watching the scene unfold, not saying anything until then.

“I.. we got in a fight and.. I just… I didn’t wanna look at it” tears filled his eyes as he used all of his will power to stop from crumbling in on himself. Patton’s eyes were filled with worry, closely examining his face as if he could find exactly what was bothering him and smash it like a bug.

Two weeks ago

“Why don’t you talk to me?! Just let me know what’s wrong so I can fix it” Roman practically begged, no matter what he seemed to do Virgil kept himself closed off, he didn’t talk about his emotions, he didn’t let him touch him in public, he refused to let him meet his family.

“it’s not that easy Roman! God, what don’t you understand?“Virgil was getting snappier than usual, not on purpose by any means but the constant pestering of Roman… "Let’s hold hands” “let’s hug” “let’s snuggle” yes they were soulmates but did he have to act like that all the time?

“I.. I just want to show you how much you mean to me” Roman was breaking too. All his life he had shown love through physical affection. Hand holding, cheek kissing, hugs, pats on the back, arms around shoulders. Roman lived his life through touch, and Virgil had shut himself away.

“I don’t need you to,” Virgil mumbled, “I’m trying my best…”

“I know… I’m sorry…”

By the next day, the colors were just barely starting to show through the dye, subtle but there if you looked. Roman wanted to come over and talk, Virgil was ignoring his texts.. everything in him wanted to run back into Romans’ arms, hold him close and cry. To say he’ll try harder, that he’s sorry, but another part of him knew it wasn’t his fault. It was Roman who was being irrational and taking things too fast, expecting too much. If the whole relationship was going to be Roman wanting and expecting things from him, it wasn’t going to work.

From: Nerdboi

3:47pm

“fair warning, Roman just texted informing me that he is on his way to your house because you are refusing to answer his messages.

He is worried, and frankly so am I. Will you please send some sort of response to calm our nerves?”

God they were always so worried about him, that was one time like a year ago, let it go.

From: Virgil.

3:49 pm

“I’m okay”

He threw his phone and ran his hands through his hair again. As much as he hated the color, he hated that it was fading. By tomorrow morning you surely be able to tell he was covering his purple’s and blues and bright explosions of colors.

That was one thing he always hated about soulmarks, they demanded to be seen. To be felt. To let you know that you’ve been tied to someone for the rest of eternity. The first touch was fireworks, the next was Sparks, flaming that little fire of love within you.

One week ago

“I don’t know what you want me to do!” Virgil cried. “I’m not Patton! I’m not logan! I don’t know how to do all this romantic stuff!” Roman had spent his whole life trying to imagine his soulmate. He always imagined that when they met they’d be holding hands and kissing and always being around each other, but Virgil was so closed off. Sometimes, if they were alone, he would hug up to Roman, and kiss his cheek.

“You always say you’re trying… But are you?” It was mean. Hurtful. It was meant to send knives through his heart. And he immediately regretted it. A hand shot up to cover his mouth, stopping any more poisonous word from leaving

“get out.” Virgil snapped, wiping his eyes on his sleeves.

“Virgil-”

“I am trying Roman! Do you understand how hard to is for me?! Everything you do is so new and different and SCARY!” Virgil crumbled to the ground, breathing heavily. He didn’t know how to put his thoughts into words anymore. Roman took a step closer to him before pulling back. He hurt him.

“I’m sorry” he tried, the two words not doing nearly enough justice for the meaning

“just get out Roman… Please”

And he left.

“Virgil?” Roman walked in the house without knocking, he didn’t need to, he knew he’d be home alone.

He was almost knocked off his feet by a blur of black hair tackling him in a hug. He muffled his sobs into Romans’ chest and held him as close as he could.

“Virgil your hair…” Worry laced Romans voice, making it abundantly obvious that no one had told him about the hair dye incident.

“I’m sorry”

“Virgil this is NOT your fault. I wasn’t.. thinking straight. I know you’re trying honey I know and I promise you I’m not mad. I love you, Virgil.” Roman ran a hand through the black hair, admiring how it almost immediately began fading faster, leaving the rainbow to come shining through.

“I love you” Roman couldn’t help but smile. That was the first time Virgil said it out loud. Virgil leaned forward on his tippy toes and placed a kiss on his lips, and that was the first time Virgil’s done that too...

[psychologymajor226]

Drafted: Chapter 2 Preview

I know it’s been months since I’ve posted anything on any story, but I wanted to let you know I’ve got almost-ready drafts of Engines, Between and Drafted. As an apology for my absence, here’s a gratuitous portion of the beginning of chapter 2 of Drafted for you to read until I finish things. (A reminder: Drafted takes place after the events of part 1 of Fray, and follows Logan’s life during the mutant-human war.)

Thanks, all. Especially for the readers who haven’t given up on me. ❤️

Chapter 2: To Lose

(Pinwheel Universe: Original Timeline, March 2017)

Logan knew what it meant to feel a heart stop beating. His own had, more times than he could count. He’d fucking survived without a heart at all, wiped down to just a fucking skeleton, and he had, only hours later, stood up a whole man and walked off without a mark on him. But while he’d felt his own heart shudder and still, that wasn’t the only heart he’d witnessed end. He’d felt many hearts cease, not only hearts he’d intentionally stopped, but others, too. He knew what it meant in that moment when somethin’, call it a soul, call it somethin’ else, left. The body settling. The will of life…just gone.

He had faint memories, ones that might make themselves more vivid in nightmares, of death being more familiar to other folks, too. Back when it happened more often. Famine, disease. His mind groggily pulled words forward like consumption and scarlet fever. You saw death. Children died. Families lessened. You’d wrap a black band on your arm, women would drape themselves in the color. Back then, there was a certain respect, Logan understood, about grief. A knowing. A recognition. A moment people took to pause.

But then, his memories had revealed the obvious. Vaccinations for Polio. Smallpox. Shit got easier. People lived longer. Children died far less often, to the point where families started having less of them. Death, in a temporary sense, evaded. And it stopped appearing in the streets. It stopped being in the homes. He watched, as folks began seein’ death for what it wasn’t instead of what it was; in one word: commonplace.

What did it mean, anyway, to be alive? Was a sense of self, a consciousness, enough to constitute a life? He’d seen men without souls walk and talk and command the deaths of thousands. He’d killed Nazis, after all. But he’d also seen the last breath leave the lungs of kind and gentle souls to the point where the body wouldn’t quite stop, confused somehow, pining, maybe, for why it had been abandoned.

To die. To sleep.

He’d read Shakespeare. He’d read everything. It’s what you did, back then. You wanted entertainment outside of a woman’s thighs and the bottom of a booze bottle? You read. And he’d read them all. Faulkner. Joyce. Walker. Hemingway. Woolf. Fitzgerald. Tolstoy. The ancients, too. Aristotle. Plato. Odysseus.

But Shakespeare, that sonofabitch sometimes would stick with him. He’d forgotten it all, after Alkali, but in the months of the waning year of 2015, the year he’d found her and lost her all over again, his memories, along with memories of all the stories he’d read, came back to him. To die, to sleep. No more—and by a sleep to say we end the heartache and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to—‘tis a consummation devoutly to be wished.

To die, to sleep.

Jesus fucking Christ, how many times had he wished for it.

Death had a way of coming ‘round though. Another year after her death. Then another. In the field he’d witnessed slaughter after slaughter. The jet would take him to places like Mongolia, Russia, Brazil, but everywhere it was the same. Mutants bein’ rounded up. Internment camps more common. Torture. Greif. The face of death, returning. You never stopped the fuckin’ wars for long. Humans were always keen on killin’ one another.

To die. To sleep.

Another life, sugar. A better one.

North Point though, it remained, and the temporary shelter the X-Men had taken up became more permanent. As Logan’s grief steadied, as he shoved down the fucking torment and heartache of it all, he’d been reestablished as lead of all team missions, but, more imporantly, Storm and Logan had made it a monthly resonisbility to oversee the rations and wellbeing of North Point. It was something, from that fateful windy day he’d escaped from the bowels of the place, he’d relearned. Sustainability, too, had found its way into the commune. Working sanitation systems. Plastic partitions instead of tents and lean-tos. Furniture in places, a community area to live and work. In the summer, community gardens and a small farm on the edge of the property, shielded by tech that had been put in place. In a sense, a semblance of a life. Storm served on the board of community members dealing with grievances, but Logan, he’d stayed in the shadows, much more apt to stalk about the place, checking in on the people he’d grown fond of, the people that had helped him get through the worst.

A warm hand on his naked shoulder, for one. He shot upright, after a short, quaking nightmare of his mother with a shotgun pointed at her temple, one of his oldest memories he suspected and feared was real, when he felt her warm naked body move closer even as he reached for his clothes.

“Already?” she asked simply. He jerked his head back to her face, the bright white of her hair partially covering the angry dark green lines of scarred skin mimicking the “M” that had been carved along her purple eyes years ago. Her thin arm of paler green skin that graced her entire body slung around his body that he gently moved aside. She had been one of the most abused at Two Rivers long before he had met her, beaten and tortured mostly, for having a complexion so different. A damn shame, because she was so fucking beautiful.

“Sorry, sweetheart. Been here too long as it is. Didn’t mean to fall asleep after,” he murmured, but upon sensing her grief, he turned to her once more, murmuring a “hey,” briefly running a sturdy, heavy hand along her delicate jawline, which she leaned into and closed her eyes in response. It was a somewhat false intimacy, they both knew it, but it was the respect they felt they both owed one another after the sex they both so desperately craved, but rarely received, except for in these stolen moments slipped between plastic partitions of the mutant compound in the middle of the night.

“Ok,” she whispered, pulling her naked form more into itself. “Ida will be up soon anyway,” she said, running a hand through her long thick hair, throwing her purple irises across the room to another plastic partitioned space, where her daughter, also brutally maimed across her right eye with the same green skin slept.

“You get the extra provisions I sent you, baby?” He asked, even as he pulled on his military grade cargo pants, and she looked up to him meekly on the mattress on the floor and military grade blankets, offering him a small smile.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “But the Pepsi was too much.”

Logan only smirked oddly at her, and winked.

“Kid’s gotta have some luxuries. I nearly lost my neck on that raid,” he said as he finished pulling on his boots, sitting in the one chair at the card table of the dwelling.

“She was bouncing off the walls because of the sugar,” the woman said, rolling her eyes and clutching her blankets tightly. Then, her smile fell as she knowingly looked up to him again.

“How long this time?” she asked through a quiet grimace. Logan immediately frowned, even as he shrugged on his jacket.

“Months, kid. They’re sending me to Antarctica,” he muttered, walking back to the mattress and the woman on the floor.

“Why there?” she asked hesitantly.

“There’s a mutant compound that’s thrivin’. Chuck’s gonna have us try to form an alliance. If we do, it could mean a lot better life for you all here,” he muttered, kneeling once more on the mattress to lay a hand on her thin shoulder.

“You, always running off to save the world,” she smiled coyly, but he only snorted in jest.

“Just tryin’ to survive, baby. You know that,” he responded, now glancing at the other partition where he knew the little girl slept with a soft brown teddy bear Logan had managed to procure for her, who she had deftly named “Fable.”

“You and Ida gonna be alright?” he asked carefully, sullen hazel eyes looking to the woman, even if he already knew the answer.

“You know we will,” she murmured knowingly, and then he leaned into kiss her simply, delicately, like the relationship they shared with one another. After that, he stood back up, eyes on the door. But he could still feel her watching him.

“Don’t die,” she said simply.

He turned back to her for the last time, an odd smirk on his face.

“Not possible for me, kid. Take care, alright?” She only nodded, once more accepting his absence and the immense loneliness that would most likely accompany it. And then he was gone, along the winding row of the compound, one hand in a tight fist at his side, his eyes on the exit, on the next thing to keep surviving.

[freyjawriter24]

Advent Omens: Laughter

I started this one a while ago (probably on the day it was meant to be posted...) but it’s been sat unfinished for months, and I finally got around to finishing it yesterday, so here you are. My response to day 15 of @drawlight‘s advent omens prompt list. Many thanks again for these great prompts!

-----

They were there for the first rain, the first storm, stood up on the Wall of Eden together. One used his wing to shelter the other, and so something began – something over six thousand years long, something still growing and evolving to this day.

But there were other firsts. And they spent some of those together, too.

“Gosh, I think this is as cold as it’s ever been!”

Crawley didn’t reply. The demon was currently wrapped up in several layers of fluffy animal skins, which the humans had recently taken to wearing to stave off the cold. Only her sharp golden eyes peered out of the bundle from where she was huddled on the ground.

Aziraphale looked out over the view before them. Everything looked rather grey at the moment, but this was still a world where everything was new, so even that was beautiful in some strange way. Slate-coloured clouds above gave way to rocky, smoke-coloured ground below, and there was very little of anything living around here to add a splash of brightness to the scene. It was monochromatic simplicity, and in a way, it reflected what Heaven currently looked like, which... Well, Aziraphale didn’t exactly like it, but he could appreciate the elegance of the design.

Crawley was trying very hard not to shiver. Apparently that was something these corporations did when it got too cold, and now that it was at the point where water was casually freezing into an intriguing new thing called ‘ice’, her human-shaped body was attempting to do so almost non-stop.

The demon wasn’t precisely cold-blooded, but it certainly didn’t help that her original form was a snake. The chill air seemed to cut right to her bones, no matter how many layers she wore, and she was almost considering starting a fire and then jumping into it just to feel warm again. Discorporation via flame almost seemed worth it right now.

She scowled out at the cold air from her little nest of not-enough warmth, and looked up at the angel. He was surveying the area with chilled-to-pink cheeks, wearing barely more layers than he had in the heat of the desert, and she should have been annoyed at him, angry at his joy, jealous at his ignorance of the cold. But there was such... wonder, there, in his face, as if all of creation was just making itself known to him, in secret, and he was the only one who knew it all, and he knew the value of that knowledge.

And then Aziraphale looked down at her, and saw her shivering, and leant down to add another fur to the pile, pushing a warm miracle into her back as he draped the covering around her, and he sat beside the demon and talked about the world as if it was new (which it was) and precious (which it was) and all theirs, made just for them (which it... wasn’t, not really). But the angel was inviting her into his knowledge, his secret gift of creation, and Crawley couldn’t help but feel something warm bubble up in her chest at that.

Then the angel gave a cry, and pointed upwards.

“Look, Crawley!”

She followed the line of his finger into the air, upwards at the pale sky, and at first it looked like there was nothing, just endless rolls of grey and white obscuring the only colour that would be visible for miles around.

Then her eyes caught a hint of motion, and then again, somewhere else in her field of vision, and then another, and then another. She tracked the movement downwards, and it was only when the background wasn’t clouds anymore that they stood out against the grey enough to be seen.

Snow.

Where the word came from was anyone’s guess – had Adam named this, too? Was it Eve’s word, plucked from the ether in the same way these little white flakes were? Had Crawley made it up herself, in her head, without realising? Had God dared reach into the demon’s mind to put it there herself?

Neither of the celestial beings had seen snowfall before – which made sense, this being the first in all creation. Aziraphale stood and grinned up at the new phenomenon, floating from the sky like his own feathery down, all soft and graceful and near-weightless. Crawley watched too, but from the safety of her huddled pile of furs, not daring to risk the cold to try this new thing before she knew what it was.

Aziraphale was excited for it, though. His eyes were wide and sparkling with awe, his mouth open and gasping exclamations every few moments.

“Oh! It’s cold!” he said, allowing flakes of the snow to land on his outstretched bare hands.

He brought it to his face for closer inspection, and the demon watched as a confused frown creased his brow, before it smoothed again in surprise.

“Crawley... I think it’s ice!”

“Hmm?”

“You know, frozen water! It’s the same stuff, but... rather than freezing in sheets, it’s formed crystals of some kind...” He peered closer still, forehead crinkling again as the snowflakes in his palm melted, then reaching out for more and this time stabilising them with a miracle.

“Here, look,” the angel said, moving closer to Crawley, and in that moment she saw a flash of white movement at the edge of her vision, and started.

Because of the angle of her body, and the many layers of furs piled over her shoulders and around her head, her periphery was reduced slightly, and turning her head made little difference to what she could and could not see. As a result, it wasn’t until the angel had crouched down right beside her and held out his hand for her to see this new secret, that she realised that his wings were out. That one was hanging softly behind him, relaxed. That the other, the left, was extended, just as it had been before.

She looked around herself, and sure enough, there was a slight ring around her on the floor. Where the snowflakes touched the ground, they were settling, making the frozen rock their home – but the flakes stopped a short distance from Crawley’s furs, prevented from touching her by the angel’s protective wing.

The strange sensation in the demon’s chest flushed warmer.

Aziraphale was pointing out the details of the snowflakes he’d managed to preserve on his skin, and Crawley came back to herself in time to hear the important parts of what he was saying.

“...six sides too, I wonder if they’re all like that? They’re all so different, some of them flat, some of them like tubes, some of them pointing out at all angles – I wonder if any are the same?”

Are there matching pairs, somewhere out here, lost and separated from each other amidst the endlessness of creation, kept apart by circumstance?

Crawley wasn’t sure where that thought came from, but she quickly shoved it aside and busied herself with being extra demonic.

“Shame it has to be so bloody cold for them to happen,” she grumbled. “I wish it would just warm up.”

“Here,” the angel said gently, and he was offering his hand to her again. She looked at it for a second, stretched out towards her, questioning. And then she nodded.

Aziraphale moved his hand to the furs, burrowed into them, and touched her chest over her corporation’s heart. She’d expected him to feel cold, either the contact itself or the draft of the parting layers, but neither was true. And from the instant of contact, she felt her whole body flood with heat, the sensation rushing through her right to the ends of her fingers and toes.

“Ngh,” Crawley said, somewhat involuntarily. Then, “thanks, angel.”

“No problem at all,” he said, smiling down at her with that radiant smile, and oh, that would be enough to warm her up too, if he hadn’t already set her on fire.

She stood, testing the limits of her newly-miracled warmth, and the angel rose with her, face tilted upwards to the clouded sky, his wing still unobtrusively extended over her head.

“It’s beautiful,” the angel said reverently, and the demon looked at the softness of his face, the beauty of his awestruck eyes, the flush of pink at his cheeks and the surprising brilliance of that small smile, and she was inclined to agree.

Then, suddenly, Aziraphale stuck his tongue out.

Crawley couldn’t help but let out a little unbidden laugh. “What are you doing?”

“Tasti’ i’,” the angel said, pink tongue still extended, and Crawley laughed again in strange exhilaration. Then the tongue suddenly vanished back in, and Aziraphale turned to her with a new layer of excitement to him.

“It’s ice! It’s cold!”

“I thought you’d already established that?” she said, raising a sceptical eyebrow.

“But I was right,” he said enthusiastically, and somehow that was wonderful, somehow that was so incredibly endearing, somehow that was so damn hilarious.

Crawley started laughing, and she couldn’t stop.

“What?” Aziraphale asked, tilting his head to one side. When no reply but laughter came, his face dropped slightly and he repeated the question.

“Just you, angel,” Crawley managed to choke out.

“What about me?”

She stopped laughing abruptly at his expression, and couldn’t help but reach out and touch his shoulder, just for a second.

“Nothing bad, angel, just... You’re so... happy, about all this. It’s so sweet and innocent, and, you know, angelic and pure. You’re so joyful, and it’s just so...” She trailed off, at a loss, and shrugged. “Look, it’s not a bad thing. I’m not laughing at you, promise. Just think it’s cute, you know? How excited you are.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, uncertain for a moment. Then he brightened. “Thank you.”

She frowned. “What for?”

“Oh, I don’t know. The compliment, I suppose.” He paused, turning to look out at the steadily-filling snowscape before them. “But also... being here. Sharing this with me. Listening to me talk. I don’t get that much.”

A switch flicked somewhere inside Crawley, and suddenly she almost felt like crying.

But then that radiant smile was back, and the angel gave her a mischievous look.

“I wonder what it feels like to walk on.”

“Wha– Oh, angel, no, it’ll be freezing, you can’t –”

But it was too late, of course – Aziraphale had already freed his foot of its warm covering and stepped forwards into the crystallised ice. The footfall made a soft, muffled crunch, and then a visible shiver ran over the angel, and the two celestial beings locked eyes and laughed, harder and more joyfully than... well, than ever before on Earth. Than ever before in creation.

They passed the rest of the snowfall in unabashed pleasure, the demon laughing harder and harder as the angel experimented with what this new substance could do – touching it, lying down in it, balling it up in his hands, making himself shiver with the cold of it, and eventually watching the melt of it against a tiny lick of Crawley’s hellfire. The angel watched, entranced, and then froze the water up again, and exclaimed when he found that he couldn’t replicate the soft patterns of the flakes in this little puddle of melted snow.

“Amazing,” he breathed, and the demon couldn’t help but laugh again, and Aziraphale caught her eye and laughed with her, and it was like all the joy in the universe had been caught up and sprinkled around them in this snowy little corner of Earth, just for them.

“I think I like the snow,” she admitted later, eventually.

“Not the cold, though,” the angel pointed out.

“No, not the cold. But I like the snow.”

The two shared a secret smile, and then parted ways in the fading light, tucking away the memories of that laughter for when they might need it another time.

[didimentionthatimawriter]

The Book So Far... Now vs. NaNoWriMo

It’s been a few months since I’ve announced that I’m writing a novel. A lot has happened since then. I finished up school and took two weeks off before I started work at a theatre internship several hours away from my hometown. So far I am a little more than 30,000 words in, and I’ve been making good progress. It’s not always daily, but so far I’ve been doing a good job with meeting my monthly goals. This month I want to hit 50,000.

Like I’ve said before, this isn’t my first time trying to write a novel. There have been many attempts before, but this is the second one where I have made this much progress. The first time was when I was writing for NaNoWriMo, and I successfully wrote 50,000 words within the 30 days. Lately, I’ve been comparing this experience with that one. At this point in the novel during NaNoWriMo, I was starting to get exasperated and writing every day felt like a chore that most days I was too tired to do. This time around, I still get days like that but it isn’t every day like it was last time. For the most part, I’ve been kept motivated to work on my book. I was thinking about this earlier, and I decided to make a list of differences and reasons why it seems easier this time. I thought by posting it, maybe other people who are struggling with their writing might look at this and be motivated to try something new. There’s no guarantee that these things will work for everyone because every writer has a different writing process.

1. I have more time. This may be the biggest thing. It’s a lot easier for me to write 1,000 words a day, five days a week instead of 2,000 words every day. There’s a lot more flexibility in that schedule, and having a steady weekly goal of 5,000 words means that when life happens (exam I forgot to study for, friends wanting to go out for the night, or just feeling burnt out or stuck) then I have some space to catch up later. Whereas with NaNoWriMo I pretty much had to stick with my schedule and if I fell behind it was a huge pain to catch up.

That being said, this has also reminded me that established, professional writers with much tighter schedules have to write a lot more in a shorter amount of time, especially when they have a contract for a series. But I’ve also reminded myself that I’m not a professional writer yet. I’m a full-time student and part-time worker, so I don’t have six or more hours to spend writing, and at this point in my life, that’s okay.

2. More time means it is spread out more, so I’m not just writing during the busiest time of the semester. 

3. I have beta readers. I asked three of my close friends to be my first readers for this book and told them specifically, “You will have this book in your hands by December 31st.” Originally, I was thinking I would have to throw together the 100,000 words before the deadline and shove them a mess of raw, unedited prose in all of its typoed and misspelled glory, but since I’ve been making good progress I’m thinking that I’ll have more time to edit the book and I can spare them the cringe so that they can actually tell me if it’s a good story or not. I like to talk to them sometimes and tell them about the progress I’m making, and they all have been really supportive and great at holding me accountable. Plus, one of them has asked me to beta read her story in return, and I am really excited to return the favor.

4. I’ve taken the time in the past few months to read up on writing advice from my favorite writers; namely @neil-gaiman. I just finished his Master Class and his words of advice were relatable and inspiring, and it taught me a lot. I wish I could share everything I learned, but that would take too much time and it would be so much better if you heard his advice from him. I will say the biggest thing I took from the class was trying to establish what your story is about. The example he used was that Coraline was about bravery. Establishing that my story is about growing up and keeping that in the back of my mind has helped me lay out a path for my novel that I can try to follow, (even if I do fall down a few rabbit holes or wander into fields of daisies along the way. But hey, isn’t that what the rough draft is for?) 

With this, I found a new way to motivate myself. Reading advice from other writers has helped me realize that all of my struggles are part of the process that everyone faces. It really boosts your self-esteem when you know that your favorite writer also suffers from writer’s block from time to time. The best part, though, is that they have enough experience that they can give you suggestions on how to get out of it and help yourself. Most writers won’t say that their way is the only way to do it because they know that every writer works differently. 

5. Motivation. Some free time over the summer has given me the chance to play with different ways to motivate myself to keep writing. So far the best things I have found revolve around rewarding myself for work. 

I tend to be a visual person, and something that I did was from a suggestion I found online that said to get a calendar and some stickers to mark every day that you write. This has helped me a lot because it is really satisfying to see all of the stickers line up and remind yourself of all the work you’ve done when you feel bogged down. 

I’ve also started keeping a bag of mini Reeses’ Cups on my desk and give myself one whenever I finish a writing session. Yes, treats. Just like a dog. They work. 

So I guess the point of all of this is to try and find ways to motivate and reward yourself based on your process. Set a goal for yourself, establish how you will treat yourself when you reach that goal, and you will find that your reward plus the satisfaction of knowing you’ve made some progress will motivate you to keep going. 

Edit: Hahahaha I meant to post this a year ago.... I’m posting it anyway because I think I’ve got some solid things to say. 

Also, in case you were wondering, I finished my book in September and sent my rough draft to my beta readers in December. They are currently reading it and leaving helpful comments for me, and I’m working on the editing process and my new goal is to have a solid draft by the end of June so I can maybe start sending it out in July. 

[wildflower8281]

Am I a Gypsy?

Today I sat down at a periwinkle wooden table with lime green cushioney chairs and journaled out how I want my life to look and feel for the next few years. All of the realms of it - feelings, body, home, work, friends, lovers, leisure. I’m currently house & pet sitting in a beautiful home in Scottsdale, with a huge pool, spacious, bright interiors and the sweetest, shaggy dog you’ll ever meet, Murray. It feels like a rather large Airbnb experience to me and has given my mind a place to rest and a bit of a vacay vibe, which is welcome after a few weeks of transition and seeking some new work opportunities.

So here I am: Age 37 and in a place in my life, yet again, where I can totally recreate my world in a new way. I’ve done this a few times already in my life and I look at it as a gift each time, albeit not always arriving when Kelly feels ready, or in the way Kelly thinks it might arrive, but a gift nonetheless - a space in time where I shed a version of myself that is no longer and step into something new, yet at the same time, is still fundamentally me.

(Photo: Current View, #house-sittinglife)

Past and Present

To give some perspective, 10 years ago, Summer 2009, I was halfway into a 4 year stint as a missionary nun in East Harlem, having 5 years of convent life under my belt. I spent a good part of that summer in Guyana, in S. America, living the adventure, sleeping under a mosquito net, driving on the left side of the road and boating down the river to visit remote communities. We organized a girls summer camp, bathed in the river twice a day and slept in tents for 2 weeks. It was pretty awesome honestly. Guyana and Harlem were both vibrant communities, with beautiful people and so many lessons. And yet, that life - as a religious sister - was not one I wanted to live for the rest of mine, so in 2011, I walked and it was one of the best decisions I’ve ever made.

(Photo: Bright Lights of Guyana, 2009)

So, when I say I’ve been here before, in this space of recreating my life and who I want to be in this world, I most definitely have been and returning home from the convent was one of those moments. At age 30, I came home from religious life with a few-inches-past-buzzed hair situation, 1 pair of sports pants, a few t-shirts, sneakers and sandals much too worn. For the past 8 years, my identity had been Sister Lumen (and/or Madre Lumen, at least in Harlem)....Now, I had to re-take-up my birth name and being of KellySue...Who the heck is that and what is she like at age 30 out here in this new world where people curse, read magazines and don’t ask permission for things?!

Holy Fucking Shit! (I wrote that honestly prior to realizing the amazing irony of the phrase...needless to say, I’ve come a long way.) Yea, the journey back into ‘the world’ is pretty fantastic actually, even though it’s laced here and there with some tears and fears. Everything from shopping for clothes, applying to jobs, making friends and, gasp, dating is like navigating uncharted waters when you haven’t even really been trained in how to sail. I have an entire post dedicated to “Things They Don’t Tell You When You Leave” here if you’d like to walk through the details: 15 Things They Don't Tell You When You Leave the Convent

So, post-convent I was faced with creating not only a new life in pragmatic ways, but truly a new identity. Or more accurately, finding the original one! So, while I dabbled in teaching and other cool gigs, flitted around with a few cool folks and loved a magical man from Brooklyn, the most important thing I “did” in New Jersey was find KellySue. And it was with that Found-Self that I boarded a 1-way flight to Arizona and knew in my gut the bright, mystical southwest would be my next home, and in many ways my first home - a space and life that I had created from the ground up, from the desires and images in my heart, to the colors that hang on my walls, the geeks and artists I spent my time with and the friends and lovers who have traversed my life here.

(Photo: Essequibo River, Guyana where we camped & bathed for 2 weeks)

And yet today, about 3.5 years into my Phoenix stint, I sit here at this table that 

is not mine, before Life Herself yet again. I have moved on from the Art Center, my first landing and family community here (aside from my real family of course,) a place that held me as I grew and challenged me to thrive. I rent The Dollhouse (a fabulous casita snuggled in the backyard of the main house, in the eclectic hood of #Coronado) and love her very much, but have very few possessions - no car, the bike I ride is not mine, no large appliances. I have clothes, a phone and my laptop. I have a great mattress, 1 dresser, 1 couch, 2 pretty teal chairs and a table from #Target. My smaller tables & most art supplies are from my Aunt, my dishes are from #Goodwillphx, as are mostly everything of decorative purpose. I don’t own many books by choice and prefer the #phxpubliclibrary. Even though I’ve curated my space lovingly and it most definitely echoes my vibe of colorful, bright and cozy - none of it is stuff that anchors me in this city. If someone offered me a job or to house-sit for a few months in Spain or Belize or pretty much anywhere new to me, I’d be off in a heartbeat!

(Photo: Unsplash)

That Time on Mt. Washington

So, today I sit here and ask myself, “Kelly, what do you want in your life?” I dedicate 1 page per theme: Feelings, Home, Work, Friends, Leisure, Lover. And I feel and write, imagine and think. And it crosses my mind more than once that not many people have this luxury. Well, I consider it a luxury! Perhaps some would consider it frightening or some other adjective, who knows?! To be 37, no kids, no pets, no house, no partner (3 out of 4 are very intentional...the 4th is seasonal, lol!) To sit at a table and draft & craft some Life up for the next 3-5-10 years or so. To be open to all the opportunities the Universe offers me, to list and discern and choose things I desire, experiences I want, types of people and energy I seek to feel. To me, this is luxury.

But this moment of vision and serenity hasn’t come without some unrest and many months of annoyance! It’s been a long journey to arrive to this table, to my journal, to feeling calm and open to the Universe’s next plans for me. Read on...

This arises in me every few years now, since I’ve been home. I feel like I’ve landed, I settle in, get cozy and then, kinda little by little, but eventually all of the sudden I look around where I am and my eyes grow wide….

I pause, really look around, almost squinting to make sure, like, “No, it can’t be. Not yet. Not already…” That takes a good 3-4 months.

Then, I sigh and look around again, really feel into the energy of the space I’m in in my life and interiorly nod my head, as I think, “Uh-huh, yep...Alli esta….There it is...Ha llegado la hora…..It’s time.” This phase lasts another 1-2 months….

I think on it, ponder it, hold that feeling between my fingers, feel the texture of it and ask Life, “Really?! Again?! Already?!”

And, as I’m examining this situation from all angles in fits and starts, Life leads me (kicks, shoves me) right out the door because It Is fucking time, Kelly!

She ushers me into a brand new space (in all the senses) and opens the Doors of this new space so wide that the bright light actually hurts at first glance…

Like some aching pain, squinting, not seeing quite clearly, some fear, uncertainty, wanting to turn around and run back to where it’s darker, but familiar and I’m good at the stuff back there….

One thing the convent teaches you is humility….for better or worse, ha (#chapteroffaults.) It is a good virtue to possess and it has been a tool I have wielded in these moments in my life many times, a trusty friend if used wisely and, seemingly ironically, with confidence. Because humility allows me to be a novice each time, to be Ever-the-Learner, to be always open to the new. Humility allows me to be ok with not knowing everything, to be ok with being the new girl yet again, to be ok with waking up for weeks on end not knowing where you’re going to land, but trusting that you will, indeed, land, and land amazingly well because that’s what you do! Because ultimately, humility is not just relying on myself. It’s Me & The Universe. It’s trusting the shove out the door and believing the blinding light will one day actually clearly guide your path onto your next adventure and into a fuller version of yourself. Humility is like that time we (the nuns) hiked down Mt. Washington as the sun was setting, lead by only a flashlight, in the dark, wet forest, holding hands and trusting that if the sister in front of you landed her step safely, then the tiny light was all you also only needed to land safely. Humility allows for the one small step at a time, even if you don’t see the end or full picture yet, you know the Universe is showing you what you need in the moment you need it….

Also, Nature Herself is Humble, so there’s that….

Trees thrive where they’re planted.

Flowers are brilliantly radiant, yet silent.

The Ocean ebbs and flows forever without fanfare.

Birds unknowingly bring joy with their songs.

Mountains rise in splendor and ask no glory.

Gypsy Secrets

For someone who left the missionary life proper, who considers herself a homebody and most definitely a lover of the reliable routine, I find it funny that in the grand scheme of things, I actually move through life quite like a #gypsy! I’ve always been someone who leads with simplicity and doesn’t need many material items to feel happy, and I have never set an anchor in a place so deep that it forfeited my freedom to roam - a desire I’m learning is an essential part of my being. It’s a paradox of myself that I find really interesting. I will be the most reliable worker, on top of all my shit, I will work out faithfully and read daily, I eat the same things most days because I like them….and yet, every 4 years or so I will hop on a plane, take of my habit, walk out of a job and just fling myself into the Universe in this kind of radical, unconventional way (‘You’re leaving your job and you don’t have the next one lined up?!’….I’ve done this now 3x in my life quite successfully thankyouverymuch!) only to be explained by a feeling inside of me that I can no longer ignore. Or, more accurately, that no longer lets me ignore it. And so I go, I leave, I move, I reconsider, I recast dreams, I open, I sigh alot...I take that one clear step and then breathe, wondering what the next version of myself and my life will taste and feel like, grateful for the adventure and most importantly, knowing that “home” is not a place, but rather is within me, the liberating secret that every true #gypsy lives by.

[lastdancewith-mj]

Catch Up. (HP)

Hi! After all these years I still have strong feelings for Harry Potter and this has been in my drafts forever. This isn't my best or favorite work, but I do like it. When I wrote it eons ago, it was meant to be a dramione fic. This takes place after the war. Comments are appreciated and encouraged :)

Masterlist

Warnings: None. People are dealing with the aftermath. 

Note: I will be posting You’re Special (billy x oc) part 4 in a few days, as well as adding this to my masterlist.  

Summary: Hogwarts is opened after the war, and students are trying to deal.

Hogwarts was closed for one year until it re opened, welcoming back new and old students. The first years were in a shock, their eyes wide open and staring up at the castle in wonder. Hagrid stood by them stiffly, ushering them along to the canoes. 

The old students, however, knew better.

They knew that there were new ghosts that roamed the Great Hall, and that some paintings were a blank canvas from lost artworks. New walls and new bricks lined the halls that they used to know so well and there were different twists and turns that rendered the Marauder's Map useless. 

Hermione Granger sat in Great Hall, dragging her peas around her plate. The enchanted ceiling showed a cloudless sky, and the constellations shown down on them. Sadly, she was never very interested in astronomy, and wasn’t able to name any of the stars. She thought back to the night of her sorting, smiling gently at the memory. Then she looked up to notice that Lavender Brown’s usual seat was empty further down the table.

Ron Weasley didn’t want to be there. He wanted to be at home, wanted to be with his family. It made his heart ache knowing he couldn’t see anyone, save for his little sister. But when his mom begged him to go back to school, he agreed. He would do it for her, and he would be there for Ginny. She was down one brother, and she couldn’t do without another. 

Harry Potter got an owl last night from George Weasley. He poured his worries out to Harry, warning him about Ron’s temperamental mood that had taken over him. He also thanked him again, like many others. For once, people kept their distance from the trio. They must have understood for once that they needed time to heal, like everyone else.

“It’s strange, isn��t it?” said Harry, finally breaking the tension. “I keep thinking I’ll wake up, and nothing bad had ever happened.” Harry watched his friends across from him pick at their food, their gaze fixed pointedly downwards.

“It really is different this year, you know. I feel it. Hogwarts's changed.” said Ginny, sitting down next to Harry. She placed her hand gently on his knee, giving him a sympathetic smile. All Harry wanted was his two best friends back. “But I’m glad it opened, of course. Where else would we go?” she tried to keep it light, but the words hung in between the four of them.

Where would they go?

“It’s home.” said Hermione. “We would be lost without it. I can finally return all of those books I had to read last year.” She smiled at Harry, hoping the small joke would reassure him that she was okay.

Because she was, really. She was going to get her parents back soon, as Mcgonagall had promised. Her friends were alive, she had her health, and she was getting her very own head girl common room.

Things were looking up, it was just hard to fixate on them.

Across the Great Hall, the Slytherin table was being completely ignored, as always. Because they were trapped in the dungeon during the battle, their parents chose their destinies. Because if you were sorted into Slytherin, you might as well have the Dark Mark. 

It was silly to think anything would change, but when old Slytherins couldn’t help but to believe in something better. 

Draco Malfoy was sitting in his seat alone. Two days ago, his father went to jail, and Draco stood in court wearing the same suit he wore on that night and watched his father get carried away without saying a word. One day ago, His mother was free, and he knew it was better this way. Yesterday night, Draco’s mother told him they would be moving, and that they were due for some change.

They couldn’t stay in the Malfoy Manor a second longer. The memories haunted both of them, and his footsteps echoed in the halls, and Narcissa still heard her sister’s evil cackling.

Draco wanted to change. It seemed like a fog was lifted, and suddenly, everything he knew was rubbish. He was working hard to prove that he wasn’t like he used to be, but his peers were holding him back. They looked over their shoulders to catch a glimpse of the famous coward, of the screwed up son, of the bully, of the tormentor. He was stranded in his own house; a true Slytherin would have known where his loyalties lay, whether it be with Harry Potter or Voldemort. If anything, they pitied him. 

Just has Draco shoved a fork full of mashed potatoes into his mouth, Pansy Parkinson sat down in the seat next to him, a plate magically appearing for her. “I didn’t think I would see you here.”

“I sent you an owl telling you I would be, Pans.” The nickname rolled off his tongue naturally. 

She eyed him carefully, taking in his familiar profile. He looked better. In a way, he looked healthier. His skin was back to it’s normal ivory shade, and his eyes had lost their dullness. However, his demeanor was rigid, compared to his typical relaxed posture. Now he looked on edge, hovering over his dinner, eyes skirting around. Rejection hurt.

“I know you did, but I didn’t let myself believe it until I saw you.” She said. “How are you?”

“I’m okay.” Draco was glad that Pansy was painfully oblivious of others (or that she didn’t care), and that he had an old friend to sit with. “I’m glad you’re here, I couldn’t take another second of this.” Pansy regarded him with a sympathetic smile. To her, Draco was Draco, forever and always her oldest friend. 

Pansy patted his shoulder. It was the first time someone had touched him besides his mother in months. He leaned into her hand instinctively, his shoulder pushing into her hand. Draco turned slightly and offered a smile, for old time’s sake. “Consider me your new, personal bodyguard.” she said.

Blaise came into view and sat down across from Draco. He wasn’t wearing his tie, and he left a few of his buttons undone. He never saw the uniform as mandatory, but merely a suggestion. “Excuse me, but I don’t think you can just replace me like that.”

“We can work together and be a duo.” said Pansy, laughing. She reached over and took one of Draco’s meatballs with her fork. 

“Double the trouble.” said Blaise. “What do you think, Malfoy?” Malfoy only thought back to his old bodyguards for a moment. It was weird, but he couldn't but feel like he was replacing Crabbe and Goyle. (With one dead and one in Azkaban, though, he figured he had to leave them behind.)

“Double the trouble, 2.0." Blaise and Pansy highfived as a seal of agreement. The noise caught the attention of the other houses, who were so eagerly waiting so something. But instead of a confrontation-a fight, they got joy. That would show them, thought Draco. Slytherins are nothing but people, and it was time they understood that. 

He was going to get better sooner than he thought.

[minifuckingshaw-blog]

I’m sorry//Simon Minter

Request: Nope

Warnings: Sad?

Prompt: You’re a famous singer with over 15 million subscribers and you and your boyfriend recently broke up Not because you weren’t in love because you were, you just didn’t tell him everything that was going on in your life. Like your mental illnesses, the reason you left him.

You wrote two sons for him, Jet black heart and where ever you are (Originally written by 5 seconds of summer, check the songs out!)

You felt your chest tighten as you tried to finish singing your newest song, Jet black heart. You’ve already revealed a song this week called where ever you are.

Your fans were going crazy over it, wondering who it was about and some already had their suspicions it was for Simon. You hadn’t said anything about even releasing a song, you’ve been locked in your room for the past 4 weeks, re living the worst moment of your life. 

*flashback*

“Simon, Please, let me go!”  You looked up and into Simon’s red, puffy and tear filled eyes. His hand was tightly grasping your wrist. “No! Y/n i love you! y-you cant just leave with out telling me what i did wrong!” He sobbed as his grip loosened a small bit, cheeks turning slightly red from the tears.

You yanked your arm out of his grasp causing him to let out a small whimper. You avoided eye contact with Simon as you whispered, “Simon, I need to go” Simon dropped to his knees in front of you, Wrapping his arms around your legs and laying his head against your belly, body shaking with rough and loud sobs.

Your heart clenched as you sub consciously laid a hand in Simon’s silver hair, gently brushing your fingers through it. “You did nothing wrong Simon. You did everything right” You whispered as he sniffles, nuzzling his face further into your large hoodie.

“Then why, why are you leaving me Y/N?” He whimpered and you sighed. “The blood in my veins are made up of mistakes, I have to leave. I’m a hurricane, I destroy everything in my way, I need to go before I hurt you Simon”

You felt as Simon slowly stood up, gently pushing you against the wall, his forehead laid against yours. “What you’re doing now, it’s fucking killing me. I’m so in love with you. You’re amazing. You’re everything I want.” He breathed, the hot air fanning against your face.

You shook your head and gently pushed him away. “That’s what you think Simon. I’m broken. I’m so broken Simon. I have to go. I have to leave. I just, I can’t be with you.” He let out a low growl and punched the wall beside you roughly, fist going through the poor wall. You yelped and covered your face with your hands, starting to cry a little. Simon’s never been this angry near you, and definitely not at you.

Simon’s facial expression changed greatly as he realized you thought he was going to hurt you. Another sob left his mouth as he slowly pulled his hand out of the wall, instead placing it on your cheek.

“Y/N I’m not going to hurt you. I-i can help you….I-i” you shook your head and pushed his hand off. He looked at you and gently locked his lips with yours. He pulled away and said “please don’t leave me, Y/N. I love you. I don’t know what I’d do with out you.”

“No Simon, I don’t love you” those 6 words, that one huge lie, Destroyed Simon. He stared at you, tears forming in his eyes as he slowly sunk to the ground, hands covering his face as he sobbed once again.

It took everything in you to step away from him and open the bedroom door, Walking out to be met by a pissed off Jj and 5 upset boys. You put your head down and sprinted to the stairs, running down them and out to your car.

~

That was 4 weeks ago. In those 4 weeks you’ve written 2 songs about Simon. The first one was you thinking about all the good times you had with Simon, the second was much different.

*present time*

“Everybody's got their demons, even wide awake or dreaming, I’m the one who ends up leaving, make it okay” you finished the verse, surprised you made it through with out letting the tears flow.

Thought you thought too soon. You opened your mouth to try and finish the chorus but you broke down, you stood up abruptly causeing the mic you were using to fall down and smash.

You ignored it and walked to your bed, flopping down and curling up. With a pillow shoved in your face you let out loud cries.

Your crying lasted for quite awhile before you felt your chest grow tight from crying too much. “Simon” you whispered, voice hoarse and tired.

Little did you know, half way across the world Simon was curled up in a ball, staring at the wall with blood shot eyes.

He hasn’t left his room in the last month, he hasn’t posted a video, he hasn’t showered, he’s eaten barely anything making him skinnier than he already was. He’s been crying non stop. Though when he does stop it’s because he’s literally unable to cry anymore.

Simon laid there on his bed, staring at the wall, one name leaving his lip, voice rough and raspy. “Y/n…”

This is my third time writing this. I posted it to my draft to edit it on my laptop, didn’t save. Then i posted it to my Queue, didn’t save. Now I’ve written it all on the laptop (there’ll probably be mistakes because of it but what ever) And posted it. Was worth it, kinda, in the end.

[yenneferw]

1, 3, 4, 5, 7, 8, 10, 12, 15, 20, 27, 28, 30, 36, 39, 40, 42,46, 50, 51, 54 (sorry for all the questions 😓😓I'm just really curios about your writing!

woot no it’s okay i love talking about it!! also thank you so much!!!!! :-)

also i’ll just skip past the ones i’ve already answered 

1. Favorite place to write? 

this is a lame boring answer but just my desk. i’m very comfortable at it as long as my dog isn’t asking to be in my lap bc then i can’t focus

3. Least favorite part of writing?

the writing,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, but no probably writer’s block. like even when i’ve done other productive things i don’t feel productive unless i’ve written so i hate being writer’s block

4. Do you have writing habits or rituals? 

when i’m really really really stuck i’ll try to talk to my friend ash about the parts i’m most excited about to get myself pumped back up for it 

5. Books or authors that influenced your style the most?

i’m sure there are some bc i’m so easily influenced but i can’t pick them out necessarily. probably partly the song of achilles bc i loved that book so much and i loved the style but i can’t tell for sure

8. Favorite trope to write?

idk power couple? i love having natalia and rosie from my novel be equally badass together. also heterobaiting bc for a hot second i made it seem like it was gonna be natalia and their friend elias but haha nope. i don’t know tropes well enough to say for certain but these are some of the things i like about my own novel

10. Pick a writer to co-write a book with and tell us what you’d write about.

madeline miller and i are gonna write some more killer gay greek rewriters like a love story between icarus and apollo or some shit

12. How do you deal with self-doubts? 

i reread my favorite parts sometimes and i’m like wow,,,, goddamn,,, did i write that for real?? or i just say “fuck it fuck it FUCK IT i’ll rewrite it later” and try to power through 

15. Where does your inspiration come from?

it depends on what i’m writing. for things like fanfic it comes from the fact that i love hearing back from people like everybody does but genuinely i just love hearing that someone else’s day was made bc they read my work. i love hearing that they think i got the characterization of something right. it makes me so happy. for my novel i’m working on rn, it at first came from the fact that i love 3 things a lot: queer rep, magic, and knights. so i put all that in a book and rolled with it. now it’s because rosalind is my heart and soul and i love writing about her so much that i just wanna keep going

20. Post a snippet of a WIP you’re working on.

i already did this but fuck it i’ll do more of this one. i wanted to do a fic but i don’t have anything started on my fic sdjfsljdfl 

Rosalind woke up to Natalia crawling into her bed and planting herself on top of her legs, and then saying, “Rosieeeeeeeeeeee,” until Rosalind found the energy to swat at her. Her curtains were already drawn, and when she lifted her head to look around, she saw that breakfast was waiting for her at her table. She wondered where Jenna was and why she hadn’t woken her up. Natalia started her whining again, so she groaned and shoved her off of her legs. “Finally!”

“Where is Jenna?” she asked instead of answering Natalia’s impatience. “Why are you waking me up?”

“Why can’t I just wake up my best friend on this fine morning?” Natalia said, with no small amount of grandeur in a gesture toward the window. “The birds are singing, the sun is shining, there is a gentle breeze.”

(followed later by:)

She was holding her head up high like she knew what it was that she was doing out here, but really she was just desperate and scared. But the birds were singing, the sun was shining, and there was a gentle breeze. And above all else, Natalia was a spark of life all around her.

anyway i just love showcasing how much rosalind loves natalia

27. Do you share rough drafts or do you wait until it’s polished?

it really depends on the case but i share rough drafts sometimes

28. Who do you share them with?

well currently i have my doc shared with @the-voice-of-night-vale and @kiss-my-asthma-bitch

30. Favorite line you’ve ever written?

I can’t remember but I really fucking like “She had gone to everything that she had never thought of before except in passing, with a tightness in her chest and a voice screaming, Do not break this. Do not break something so priceless as us.”

36. A spoiler for story: 

well for my novel a spoiler is that rosalind defects from her country later on although no one but ash and sarah will get that

a spoiler for the fic i’m gonna write is idfk bc i haven’t planned it yet someone needs to hold me accountable for this shit asjdklfjd

39. Do you base your characters off real people or not? 

I don’t think I do really. I might because I’m like that but I don’t notice it if I do

40. Original fiction or fanfiction, and why?

a month ago i would have only said original fiction but i’ve gotten back into fanfiction recently. both have their perks i mean original fiction is completely mine and i can do with it what i want without worrying about canon or aus or characterization and i can be proud of every single aspect since it’s all original, but fanfiction is a lot more interactive and gives validation a lot easier and quicker, which i like lol but also it’s easier to get around to people and i like to see how my writing affects other people so that’s important to me

42. How do you figure out your character’s looks, personality, etc?

looks: i base them off of real people sort of bc i fucking suck at appearances (rosalind looks like janelle monae). personality: i fucking wing it. i do a skeleton of the character and let them figure out who they are themselves as i write it

46. What would your story ____ look like as a tv show or movie?

my novel would be hella fucking cool, it would look probably a bit like merlin bc it’s a castle with magic but it would be very colorful and a lot more diverse and everything is very aesthetic hopefully and janelle monae herself is my girl rosalind,,,,,,,,,,,, in a perfect world at least

51. Describe the aesthetic of your story __ in five sentences.

my novel is: pink flowers. bright flames. the top of a castle against a cloudy sky. the way brown eyes look golden in the sunshine. a sword surrounded by vines. 

that sounds really fucking extra but that’s how i think of it at least. with emphasis on the pink flowers bc that’s for rosalind and she’s the mc 

54. Any writing advice?

love your main character. whatever you do, fall in love with them. that’s what’s gotten me through. also OUTLINE!!!! but even with an outline, if you don’t love your main character i don’t think you can keep going. if they’re not a good person, love the idea of them. love writing them. i wouldn’t be able to keep writing if i didn’t have all these emotions about rosalind. and know them. even i, who is the shittiest character builder in the world, have found that writing is so much easier when i can spend hours pacing up and down my room thinking about who rosalind is on the inside, and what she would be in modern times (she’d own a lesbian blog, 10% bc she likes lesbian positivity and 90% bc she likes to gush about natalia) 

thank you for all these!!!! this is fun

send me sleepvoer asks?/asks to keep me motivated?