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silverarmedassassin · 4 years

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Goodness & Light

Pairing: 40s!Bucky x Reader

Warnings: None

Word Count: 1030

Summary: Bucky’s home. You’re married. And you have one hell of a Christmas present for him.

A/N: Lol so this has been seven months in the making. And it’s still trash. But happy Christmas in July! I’m taking a page of Sebastian’s book and just celebrating Christmas early, I guess. Anyway, this is the last part of the little 40′s series thing I did back at Chrismtas time. You can read the first part here, or find all my Christmas stories here. You don’t have to read the other parts for this to make sense, but just know that they are all in the same universe!

Thanks for reading! If you’re feeling generous, reblog and leave me a comment❤️

Masterlist

It’s Christmas morning. A thick blanket of shimmering snow is covering the quiet streets of Brooklyn. You’re up early. Earlier than normal - even earlier than your husband. But today was special and you needed to prepare.

Husband. You sigh as your mind drifts back to that thought, subconsciously playing with the two golden bands that had found a home on your left hand. Although it’s been six months, you still find yourself signing your old name on letters. A half dozen Christmas envelopes had been tossed because Mrs. Barnes still didn’t flow easily from your hand.

You’re silently finishing up stuffing a little package into Bucky’s Christmas stocking when you hear him get up and start his day. He’d be upset with you, of course, since you’d both agreed on no gifts this year, but this little offering was important and so worth his upset. Having spent a little more on your wedding than you should have didn’t leave you with much disposable income, even with Bucky’s military compensation. In some twisted way, you think, you’re lucky he was discharged after almost losing his left arm. Without the medical assistance he received from the government and the wages he earned back at the docks, you’re not sure you’d been able to make ends meet this far into the year.

But your wedding was worth it. Bucky was worth it. Four months after he returned state-side, cleared from medical with a relatively clean bill of health, you were married. It was a June wedding - all yellow flowers and sunshine - held at the church Bucky’s family had attended for years. Becca was your maid of honor. Bucky’s side remained empty, a sad reminder that one of the most important people in both your lives would be forever absent for whatever awaited you as a married couple. It was a happy day, though, one without war or death. It was just you and your James. Your Bucky. And it had been that way ever since.

Butterflies pick up low in your belly when you think of your little family and all the ways it has yet to grow and change.

Bucky finds you in the kitchen where you have attempted to busy yourself. An uniced gingerbread cake sat on the counter, patiently awaiting the icing you’ve just now started to mix.

“Mornin’,” he draws, voice thick with sleep, as he wraps his arms around your middle. A chaste kiss is planted to your cheek before he burrows his face into your neck. “Merry Christmas, baby.”

Baby. The word bounces around in your mind. Baby. A name that has been reserved for you and only you for seven long years now. A name that, up until recently, you hadn’t given much thought to. Bucky breaks your train of thought when he sneaks his finger into the icing bowl and scoops a large helping out just for him.

“James,” you chastise, only half angry as you swat him away. He only laughs, swings you around until you’re face-to-face. Any annoyance you may have had instantly dissolves when you’re met with piercing blue eyes and a goofy smile. “You’re such a menace,” you laugh as you reach up to kiss him.

“Why don’t you go busy yourself somewhere else,” you giggle as wipe away a small smug of leftover icing on Bucky’s lips. “We don’t have to be to your ma’s until noon. Go start a fire and we can listen to that Christmas special they’re having today.”

Another kiss and a pinch to your bum before you find yourself alone in the quiet kitchen again. Your hands shake a little now, knowing how close he is to finding his gift, knowing what you know.

“Baby, I thought we said no gifts,” you hear Bucky say from the front room. You peak around to find him standing in front of the mantel, holding the red and gold package you had expertly placed just so he would see it. You discard your apron, wiping your now frosting-covered fingers off on the thin cloth, before making your way to your husband.

“I know.” It’s your turn to snake your arms around his middle. You look up at him, take in the way his face is flickering and aglow thanks to the fire. The war may have aged him, but he was still as beautiful as ever. “But I saw this and I had to get it. I promise it didn’t cost me a thing.”

Bucky looks down at you with speculation written all over his face. “But I have nothin’ for you.”

You shrug and guide him back to the loveseat as best as you can. “You’re more than enough for me, always. Now, open it.”

As the two of you settle into the worn fabric of your tiny sofa, you feel your excitement growing. But there’s also a hint of fear threatening to wash over you, drown any feelings of happiness and replace them with that of disappear. What if this was exactly what Bucky didn’t want?

He fiddles around with the paper for a few moments before he picks carefully at the tape, mumbling something about not wasting such beautiful gift wrap. He’s slow to open the small box that rests inside the paper, and you think you might pull your hair out before he removes the lid.

But, when he finally opens it all the way and registers what’s inside the little box resting on his lap, it’s like time freezes. Nestled inside the sweet little package is the first pair of shoes Bucky’s mother ever bought him. There were countless times throughout your life that you were grateful for Winnifred’s sentimentality, and this moment will forever be your favorite.

“I-Is this…” Bucky looks from the shoes to your face, eyes shimmering with unshed tears that are threatening to spill over at any second. “Are you...pregnant?”

Your own tears glid down your cheeks as you nod. Not too far along, just past six weeks if your midwife was correct. With a sniffle and clear of your throat, you reach out for Bucky’s hand and place it on your still non-existent bump. “Merry Christmas, Bucky.”

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kiwibes · 4 years

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So, you cant live the "cottagecore life"?

I am here to tell you that you can!

Wether you're poor, living in the city with no garden or terras, living abroad, have a disability, are poc or still living with your birthgivers, cottagecore is also there for you.

IMO cottagecore (and the like) is about appreciating the smile things in life. Nursing a plant, watching the sun carress the surface, enjoying rain drops falling down, finding fun and love in small acts like cooking, baking, sewing, knitting, gardening, painting,etc. U dont need grand architecture, expensive technology or 'cheap thrills' if you seek small thrills in the simple things. U dont have to like ALL things (I hate crocheting but I like seeing others enjoy it), but I think nearly everyone has a little bit of cottagecore in them. (If smn disagrees with my view, that sounds like a them problem)

So, having lived in cities, suburbs and only very briefly the countryside. Having had a nice income and no income at all and spending a lot of time on how to find these small joys, I will share some tips on how to incorporate some cottagecore into your life

No garden? Not even a terras? Windowsills are your best friend. They are great place for some plants, herbs and regrowths. Some plants dont even need direct light and can stand on your table/desk/shelf

Don't have money for plants? The world is out there! Even the grayest most concrete city I've lived in had some uncontrolled shrubs or weeds growing. Weeds are just as much awesome plants and calling them weeds feels like discrimination? I prefer wildlings. Anyway, you have to be a little more carefull if you go scavenging plants because of private property and hygiene but it is a good excuse for an adventure and remember to bring gloves and take enough surrounding soil to ease the transition of your scavenged treasures. Daisies and dandelions in grassy patches are easy, pretty starters. Love them.

Now you got the plants but not the money or availability of pots? Fear not, almost everything can be a pot. Soda bottles, milk cartons, jugs, chipped mugs, food trays, cardboard packages if lined with some plastic/alu foil,...you might want to put some holes in the bottom to let the water run trough. Put a plate or tray under it. If you need the 'pot' to be raised I found that bottle caps and empty tea lights can do the trick often.

You did get your gruby hands on some store bought plants? Cool, maybe they come in a brown/black plastic pot? You can paint it and reuse. I do recommend to put the plant from that pot in a bigger recipient cuz store plants are usually put in just-big enough pots with lots of fertilizer to keep them looking fresh for sales but they cant survive them longterm. The pots can still be used for smaller plants though. Some plantshops also have a recycle bin for these pots. You can sneak some of them with you. They won't really care

For all the above plant holders, u might think 'it will look ugly, all that plastic and non-unity. If that bothers u, u can paint them, glue them with nice colours or newspaper, make a fun craft project from it. Newspaper, glue and acrylics can hold for quiet some time!

Name tags can be crafted out of popsicle sticks, branches, writing on cobbles, etc.

Regrowths. Propagate some plants, herbs, vegetable. Cheap and fun. Internet is full of tutorials on how to propagate.

Idigenous climate and plants are your best friends. Research the practices of your ancestors/the native settlers. Learn from their lessons and mistakes. You might want to check google books and archive.org for reading/loaning old books about your region.

Sos sewing kits can be your hero if you dont have a sewing shop nearby. All u really need is needle, thread and scissors and you can get started on small projects. Dont aim for a ball gown from scratch though but you can refurbish old/ugly/cheap clothes with a small travelling sos sewing kit.

No fabrics? Use old clothes, blankets, tabletops, curtains or some scarfs. I've found no place yet where I can't buy some scarfs. They are basicly long, rectangular fabrics that can be used for some sewing projects like plushies, head band, tops, pillow covers, etc.

No kitchen? No bake recipes, microwave recipes, what to make in a water kettle etc. Many before you have suffered the lack of a kitchen, including yours truly!

Wall decoration. Print old photos, press leaves or flowers or herbs, calligraph, paint, draw, etc.

No money to buy fancy frames? Not allowed to drill in the wall? Tape and sticky hooks can hold some light weight deco. Tape some paper clips to the wall to hold photos, maps, botanical drawings,...

Laminators are too expensive for my liking. For smaller things you can use tape. Stick it on, fold the tape double, cut. You just laminate a flower. Cut it out, make a frame from leftover paper or cardboard or not, hang it. For the larger things you can us stronger plastic from folder splitters, packing, those slide in things u have to put your front page/homework into. Squash it in between 2 layers and tape/glue/staple/paperclip it together.

No signing voice? Just talk to your plants! The CO2 will do them good.

You dont have to spent money on a plant water diffuser thing. Any mechanical spray thing will work like parfume bottles, sunscreen spray bottles, etc. Make sure they are clean inside before using.

Dont feel bad about plastic flowers

Dont feel bad, ashamed or like you have a short coming for not achieving the ultimate cottagecore aestethic cuz 1. It is an aestethic no one has it. It is meant for inspiration, relaxation and feel good vibes 2. Everybody has as much right to relate to any -core as any other next person. 3. If you enjoy it, it has fulfilled its purpose. Enjoy!

If I think of sth else I will add it. If anyone else has an idea please reblog it with an addition.

Dont hesitate to ask any questions!

#cottagecore #forestcore #garden #gardencore #nature #naturecore #flowercore #forest #cryptidcore #elfcore #everybody welcome #witch tips #tips #life hacks #crafts #craftnotcrap #plants

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not-poignant · 4 years

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1/2 I've had a discussion about commissioned fanart/fanfic with a friend lately, and we disagree. For me, it goes against everything I know ff to stand for to get compensation for it (though freely donated ko-fi by readers, that I can get by). But my friend asked, how ff is different from fanart? "Fanartist strive on ko-fi, patreon, etc, they regularly sell fanmerch... it's a discrimination against ff writers if they are not allowed to get the same support fanartists get".

And I get where she's coming from... but I still think FF are different, and I can't articulate why. =/ I know you feel similarly, your patreon is always strictly for your original creations. I'm wondering what your thoughts are about this? *Why* is fanart different? *If* it is. (Btw, you don't need to reply, I just figured I ask because you always seem to have such insightful comments and opinions. But anyway, have a great day!!)

Hi anon!

I apologise because I doubt I’m going to have a very clear answer to this. So I’m just going to highlight my wishy washy thoughts because that’s all I have.

* Firstly, I think there is a huge double standard for anyone who thinks it’s fine to accept money for fanart but not for fanfiction. Both are transformative works that take a lot of time and effort to make. Period.

There is a reason for the bias that I’ve observed. And that’s because most professional authors, creators, directors and scriptwriters have - for decades - been pro-fanart and anti-fanfiction, and some of that has trickled down into attitudes in fandom. Even today, pro-fic scriptwriters will say ‘oh I love the idea of fanfiction but legally I can’t read any’ while repeatedly reblogging or retweeting or sharing or even reposting fanart with delight. And that’s the ones who are pro-fic.

But over the decades, there have been plenty of famous authors and properties in particular, who were pro-fanart (though not pro ‘profiting off fanart’), but anti-fanfiction. Anne Rice and Robin Hobb come immediately to mind. Some of these people even commissioned fanart themselves, while taking fanfiction authors to court. The double standard there is huge. If you’re posting fanart on your page but hating on fanfiction authors as a professional, you probably need to examine your biases.

* Secondly, personally, I think it’s unethical for me to accept money for my fanfiction OR fanart. I have no double standard, they are both the same to me.

* Fanartists literally making entire livings off their fanart makes me uncomfortable. Particularly when they’re making more money than the original creator or the original property. I have less of an issue when it’s like, Marvel or Disney, but then, those huge organisations can afford lawyers and send C&Ds (Cease & Desists) and are powerful enough to shut down and destroy accounts (and sadly, artists). But in the case of smaller fandoms, unfortunately it means you can end up with scenarios where some fanartists are making much more than the creators who created the property in the first place. Imho, I don’t like that. But that’s a nuanced, complicated issue for which there are no easy rules.

There are definitely increasingly ways people can profit off fanfiction and do. I think it is immensely hypocritical for anyone who financially supports fanartists to then draw a dubious/mythical line in the sand re: saying fanfiction authors making a profit is wrong. I’m sorry anon, but it’s an attitude that’s literally ‘They can do it but you can’t lmao I have no reason sorry but I guess you don’t deserve to pay your bills for your fanworks but these people do because of their fanworks have a nice day.’

***

Sometimes I wish I really did feel better about making money off fanfiction. I think I’d be making more money if I did. But I just don’t feel okay about it, personally, in myself. I don’t expect anyone else to hold themselves to the same standard, a person’s gotta eat. I’m just lucky I can eat because of Fae Tales.

Fanfiction authors are definitely finding more and more ways to make money off their fiction, usually via Ko-Fi tips, or even just placing fanfic on Wattpad and getting money via that. Even through Patreon (though if they get reported, their account will be closed down and suspended). But the struggle is real. Meanwhile the big name fanartists get huge booths at all the conventions and are treated like celebrities making profits off of fanart, and are more likely to get professional offers re: jobs, including fanart in their portfolio. Try doing the same thing as a professional author. You’ll be treated as a joke.

Yes, the double standard is fucking annoying, and it’s also just crap. There’s probably a reason most people can’t think of a good reason why one group should get paid but not the other, for both doing literally the exact same thing in different creative forms. And that reason is ‘because there is no good reason.’

If fanartists can make a profit so boldly and wildly off of other creative properties, then fanfiction authors should be able to as well, without fear of criticism that’s directed specifically at them but not fanartists. That’s just...internalising the hate that professional creators put out into the world, and that hate came from a fear of their works being stolen by writers, but not by artists. There might be a secondary fear around it hurting fandom, but that’s something that most people don’t really talk about, and it’s not like anyone brings it up re: fanartists selling prints.

Imho, for me personally it’s complicated. I follow a set of rules for myself that I created over twenty years ago, and I don’t know if I’d have the same rules if I was only just starting out in fanfiction now.

But also I’m just grateful that my fanfiction is just always free, and I can do whatever I want without ever having to worry about the bottom line, or income. That’s very freeing for me on a literal level, and it means I can relax. I would lose that if I was making a profit off of it.

But yeah otherwise, in a world where fanartists get to make wild profits off of what they’re doing? It’s frankly just straight up unfair if fanfiction writers can’t. It’s a double standard that hurts people.

#asks and answers #pia on fandom #sometimes it's actually really hard seeing fanartists selling prints #knowing that they're going to make money #and knowing that i can't make money #off of my own fanfiction #like okay i *could*#but then i'd have to deal with people being like 'oooOOOoooo that's so wRONG'#while never saying it to the fanartist lmao #like i gotta say #living that double standard sucks. it's not like it's tempting to start making money off my fanfiction #with the current *general* shitty atittudes of fandom #so while i'm happy with my decision #i'm not happy with how fandom is on this issue overall #it's an unexamined double standard that means some people can afford more and others can't #and it creates financial inequality within fandom #Anonymous

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aceveria-art · 4 years

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stop stealing/reposting my art -- goodbye fandom

EDIT 1/28/21: i’m returning to this account because drawing is now my only source of income. i still don’t like reposts, but i need to use my platform to help me financially

original post 7/3/2020:

i’m sick of being nice about this. i’m tired of begging and pleading and being polite.

stop using me to grow your instagram account. stop using me for your personal gain. i don’t make art just so you can take it and use me.

i have made so many posts explaining why i don’t allow reposts. yes, there is a difference between reblogging and reposting. reblogging is good. reposting is bad.

i said i wasn’t going to stop sharing my fanart, but every single reposter has made it a nightmare and i’m done.

if you see my art anywhere that doesn’t have me (instagram/twitter: aceveria, tumblr: @aceveria-art) as the original poster, know that i did not consent to the reposts. (this drawing is the one and only exception because they commissioned me and i gave them permission to post it.)

there’s nothing worse than seeing my art reposted, but especially within the last month. something about using my art for your ~aesthetic~ while i’m trying to focus on the black lives matter movement and activism in general, rubs me the wrong way. stop. (btw fighting for the rights of marginalized people isn’t political. it’s just. caring about people.)

anyway. this blog is officially an archive of my fanart. i would say i’m sorry but honestly i’m not. (i’m only sorry to those of you who sent in excerpts for the flash prompts. didn’t mean to get your hopes up, but 2020 has been unpredictable and messy. sorry.)

i know what i want from my online experience and this isn’t acceptable for me anymore. i can’t keep expending my energy on fandom when half of the community disrespects me.

if anyone has a problem with anything i’ve said, just remember that i’ve been dealing with reposters for years now. it’s only gotten worse within the past year and it’s finally worn me down.

thank you for taking the time to read this. and thank you to everyone who respected and encouraged me. some parts of fandom were fun but maybe now i can actually focus on art and enjoy it.

#p.s. if u still have a problem with anything i said then just don't engage with me #i really don't have to explain myself further bc i'm just someone on the internet #none of you actually know me and my internet persona is only a fraction of who i am blah blah blah #edit: i unfollowed some mutuals but it's absolutely nothing personal. i just don't want to see That Ship anymore

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twit-moonstar · 5 years

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as long as we’re together - brian may x writer!reader

N/A: This is purely a self-indulgent fic I wrote mainly for myself, but I though it be nice to share and see what happens. First half of it it’s just y/n having a crisis, tho, and the second part is like domestic fluff. hope u enjoy! comments, reblogs and likes are greatly apreciated <3

As if being an adult wasn’t difficult enough, you had the dream of becoming a published author and, before starting to try to write, you hadn’t thought about the bohemian lifestyle you would have to face and embrace.

Your parents had pushed you—well, forced seemed a more appropriate word—to study Law, but after a few months after starting you dropped it. It wasn’t what you wanted, you were constantly stressed and unhappy by the prospect of the future that waited for you once you graduated.

Abandoning your career, though, meant the extra help your parents offered was snatched away from your hands. Rent wasn’t extremely expensive—you shared a little apartment with Brian and you only paid half of it—, but you still had to buy food and other necessary things.

Without your parent’s income, you had found work as a waitress at a restaurant and started to send your short stories to some newspapers and magazines to get a little extra money.

You had been suffering from a hard writer’s block lately, though.

Rereading for the second time the paragraph that you had already written five times, you ripped off the paper and made it a bun, throwing it on the floor. A new blank sheet confronted you and you decided to throw away your notebook and pencil with fury.

You were at the edge of tears. Not even that glass of cheap wine you swallowed half an hour ago had helped you to take off the feeling of utter desperation and defeat. If anything, it had only made you feel worse.

The words your father spate at you once or twice came to your mind. ‘All writers are just a bunch of alcoholics’. He had never appreciated your art, no one on your family did actually.

They wouldn’t probably support you until they had a properly published book of yours in their hands since your short stories on newspapers did not seem to impress them.

People have the impression that anyone can write but the truth is very few can manage to write words in a way that has any meaning something. Of course, you were starting to doubt you had that kind of talent.

You check the clock on the wall. 1 a.m. Fear starts to creep from your chest to your throat where it left a lump to settle on your head at this hour, usually, if you’re not sleeping.

These quiet moments at night are where you feel the most that you will never make it, that all your dreams are not more than a little dumb girl’s dream. The letter you received today just seems to fuel that thought.

It’s like running behind a car, you think. You can never be fast enough to reach it, no matter how fast you run.

You look at the notebook on the floor, just a few steps ahead of where you are sitting. You need to write something and send it to the newspaper tomorrow but nothing you wrote was good enough. You needed the money. You couldn’t allow Brian to pay again for your part, he was as short of money as you; especially now that his band was spending their money in their first album.

"What are you doing?" Brian asks with his arms crossed and his head resting against the wall, one of his curls falling over his eyes, but he doesn’t bother in push it away.

You don’t dare to look at him in the eyes, so instead, you keep your eyes down. "Just writing," you mutter.

He enters the living room, sitting next to you on the sofa. "Something is bothering you, isn’t it, my love?" Brian takes a lock of your hair and puts it behind your ear, then cupping your cheek.

You lean into his soothing touch with a heavy sigh that comes from the deepest of your chest.

"I- I just -" you sobbed and Brian hugged you immediately upon realizing it, his arms drawing you to his chest and one of his hands caressing your back in circles, comfortably. He shushed softly, whispering sweet nothings in your ear, but you couldn’t hear more than your sobs drowned against his shirt.

Your eyes land on the ripped envelope on the table. You could recite the words on the letter inside by memory by how much you’ve stared at it.

“What’s wrong?”

I’m a fucking fraud, that’s what’s wrong. What if I’m not good at writing? What if this isn’t what I was meant to be? If I’m not a writer, then who am I? But you can’t bring yourself to say that, the lump on your throat doesn’t allow you, so you just pull away and after taking the letter, you hand it to him. He starts to read with a careful expression. You recite it internally.

‘Dear Y/N Y/L/N Thank you very much for allowing us to consider your novel, which we have looked at with interest. However, I regret that we have reluctantly concluded that we could not publish it with commercial success…’

Did I waste all these years?

“This is bullshit.”

You don’t expect to hear him curse so angrily, but his brows are furrowed and his usually soft hazel eyes are sparkling with fury.

“You’re extremely talented and your book is amazing! You spent years working on it!”

“Yeah.”

“I think it would be a fucking commercial success,” he states but you bite your inferior lip to avoid the tears from spilling. The editorial doesn’t think that way and seems like the rest of the others who received your novel didn’t either.

At least you got a response. Most people don’t even get that.

“It’s the only response I’ve got, Bri. I don’t think I’ll ever get published,” you whisper and he throws the letter to the floor and kneels in front of you, wiping away your tears.

“Whatever. I’ve got to keep working,” you reply dryly, cleaning your face with your hands and picking up the notebook and the pen. Brian stares at you.

“No, you’re tired. I’ll prepare you a bath and then you can go to bed,” he states, taking away the notebook from your hands and you whine.

“Brian! I have to do this!” You say furiously, but he doesn’t even flinch to your elevated tone of voice. You, on the other hand, close your eyes with regret and breath deeply.

“Bri, I’m busy. Let me alone.”

You hate yourself for asking him that because you don’t mean it. Being alone is the exact opposite of what you need, but you decide the money is far more important than your emotional state at the moment.

You could always cry later.

“No. I know well enough to know what you’re trying to do. You’re overworking yourself while you drown on your self-pity.”

“I’m not doing that,” you say but the quickness on your reply gives you away.

“Please, take a bath,” he asks, taking your hand.

You shrug. “I guess I could drown in the tub.”

He laughs with little amusement and leaves to return for you after ten minutes. You would be lying if you said the hot water didn’t look appealing. Brian helps you to take off your clothes and you sit on the tub.

“Please tell me you didn’t use my oils and scents.”

“Uh, I did.”

“That was the last I had! I was saving them for a special occasion!”

“Drowning seems special enough,” he says with a shrug.

“Very funny.”

“What were you trying to write, anyway?”

“A story for the newspaper.”

“Why have you been selling your stories for cents? You know they have much worth than that,” he asks. He reaches for the shampoo, putting a bit on his hands and starting to wash your hair. You close your eyes and let him do it. Brian’s hands always find a way to relax.

“I need the money,” you reply.

“What for?”

“Rent and food.”

“Y/N, you know I can take care of it,” he says, almost reproaching you.

You feel a little uneasy before the idea of Brian paying for you, you didn’t like to ask money borrowed and less if you knew that he would be too gentlemanly to accept your money later, even if he needed it.

“We’re not a married couple in the thirties, Bri. I can’t ask you to pay for me. I don’t even know where did you get the money from last rent. I didn’t cover my part.”

“You don’t need to ask for anything, love.”

“Still, I don’t want you to do that”

“I know you just said we’re not a married couple but as long as we’re together, I’ll support you when you need me, y'know?”

Your eyes teared once again and you smiled as you tried to prevent crying again. How were you blessed with such a kind and considerate man like Brian? You were such a mess, lately, but he never backed off from being a firm yet gentle shoulder to cry on.

“Thanks. I promise I’ll repay you,” you say.

“You don’t have to. C’mmon, let’s get you out of the tube before you start to get too wrinkled,” he replies, helping you to stand out. As Brian leaves you to dry yourself, he gets you some comfortable clothes. Once you were dressed, you both lied on the bed, you on Brian’s arms.

“Tell me about your day,” you said and you felt him smile against your hair.

“We tried recording a new song today, I’m not quite sure if the name is good, though,” he commented, running his hand through your hair. You closed your eyes and let him ramble about the problems they had with today’s recording.

“You’re falling asleep already?” he asked in a whisper.

“No, I’m listening,” you mumbled but you felt yourself drifting away more and more.

“That’s okay, my love. Sleep.”

“I love you,” you mumbled.

“Love you too,” he replied and you finally fell asleep.

#brian may x reader #brian may x you #brian may x y/n #brian may fanfic #brian may fanfiction #brian may headcanon #brian may x female reader #brian may x male reader

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alyas-ladyblog · 5 years

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A Not So Brief Hiatus P.7

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Ao3

Hey everyone! Sorry this update’s so late, school kicked up, so I’ve been trying to juggle that, my internship and this. I’m super excited that we finally got to the introduction of the Fox hero. Alya’s section of the fic will end soon, and we’ll be moving onto the next character, which will be fun :)

Anyways, hope you enjoy, and likes and reblogs are always appreciated.

Corporislatro, I am Hawkmoth. Aren’t you tired of your best friend acting as though she’d be anything without you? I’m giving you the power to make your best friend walk in your shoes, and you in hers. In return, you must bring me Ladybug and Chat Noir’s miraculouses.

Do we have a deal?

“Yes Hawkmoth.”

---

“shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!” Marinette whispered, clambering downstairs, Tikki floating close behind.

Tikki suddenly yelped, and dove into the fruit bowl on the counter.

Before she could react, Marinette heard a noise.

She stiffened.

Sabine walked out in her robe, blearily rubbing her eyes.

“Marinette honey, what’s going on?”

Marinette shushed her.

“It’s an akuma. Go back into your room, and stay there,” she said, pushing her mom back towards her parents’ room.

As she moved to close the door, Sabine grabbed her wrist.

“What about you?” She said, and began pulling Marinette in.

Another cackle sounded from outside, and Sabine paused.

“Marinette,” Alya’s singsong voice floated through the house. “Where are you girl?”

Sabine’s eyes widened. “Is that–”

Marinette shut the door on her mom’s face.

“I’ll be fine!” Marinette said through the door. “I’m just going back up to my room, and I’m gonna lock myself in. I’ll be safe, I promise.”

She heard her mom pounding on her frame as she dashed off.

She wondered how long it would take before Sabine remembered that that door locked from the inside.

Marinette ducked behind the couch, away from the living room window.

Tikki zipped out of the fruit bowl.

“That was a close call,” She said.

“Yeah, no kidding,” Marinette replied. “Let’s get this done quickly, I owe Alya an explanation. Tikki, Spots On!”

The transformation washed over her.

Ladybug emerged from behind the couch, sneaking into the hall and out the backdoor, and swung her way onto the roof of the school as quietly as she could.

She surveyed the area, spotting Alya’s akumatized form pacing back and forth on her the Dupain-Cheng balcony.

Ladybug pulled out her yoyo, using the camera to get a closer look.

She started when she saw Alya.

Her hair was pulled into two ponytails at the back of her head, and she wore a light grey, almost white jacket, and a black shirt with white cherry blossoms and pink vines on them. Her pants were a darker, more muted version of the same pink, and she wore a similarly colored cross body purse.

“She’s wearing my clothes,” Ladybug breathed.

Akuma Alya turned, and stomped her foot.

Ladybug noted the black tears running down her face, and her white eyes, devoid of any pupil or iris.

Ladybug’s eyes narrowed, and she zoomed in with her yoyo, looking for anything that stood out, that might house the akuma.

“Fancy mew-ting you here, milady.”

Ladybug let out a startled squeak and fell forward.

She felt someone grab her wrist, and pull her back.

As soon as she regained her footing, Chat let go of her wrist.

“Sorry,” he said quietly, running a hand through his hair. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

He crouched next to her. “So, what do we know?”

“The akuma is Alya Césaire, the author of the Ladyblog. Still not sure what her powers are, or why she got akumatized, but I’m guessing it has something to do with Marinette Dupain Cheng, her best friend. She was looking for her earlier, and that’s whose balcony she’s standing on. And before you ask,” Ladybug said, holding up her hand as Chat tried to interrupt her, “Marinette is safe. I have her in a secure hiding place. Alya won’t find her.”

“Okay good,” Chat said with a nod. “Alya again,” he murmured. “Seems the poor thing’s having a rough go at it. Oblivio only happened a few weeks ago.”

Ladybug felt a twinge of guilt at that.

“Well, if we get this done fast, we can talk to her afterwards and check on how she’s doing,” Chat said.

Ladybug nodded.

“Okay,” she said.

The two sprang forward, and Ladybug swung onto the balcony, Chat Noir touching down a second later.

Akumatized Alya shrieked, seemingly put on defense. She hopped back, sprinting across the rooftops, Ladybug and Chat Noir in hot pursuit.

The two followed her onto the roof of a greenhouse, where Alya gave them a mocking salute and fell back, shattering the pane she fell on.

The duo hopped in after her, landing in the middle of a variety of plants.

Ladybug backed up slowly until she bumped backs with Chat Noir. She drew her yoyo, but waited to turn it into her barrier, knowing the light it gave off would put a target on their back.

Chat did the same, holding his baton with one hand, his other hand ghosting Ladybug’s hip, assuring her of his presence.

They held their position, looking around for Alya.

The greenhouse was unnaturally quiet.

Ladybug felt the hairs on her neck stand on end.

“Look out!” she yelled, just as Akumatized Alya dropped down from a bar on the ceiling, firing beams of light at them from two wristlets.

Ladybug and Chat Noir dove in separate directions, and dodged the incoming beams.

“Stand still!” the akuma roared.

“Keep her busy!” Ladybug commanded.

Chat nodded.

He ran right for her, batting the beams of light out of the way with his baton. “You trying to get a picture of me for the Ladyblog Alya?” He asked, bringing his baton down, right where the akuma was standing.

The akuma sidestepped the attack, and drove her elbow into Chat’s ribs. “It’s not Alya anymore, it’s Corporislatro,” she said, smashing her hand into his face.

Chat flew back and rolled back into a somersault, landing on his feet. “Don’t you know Alya? Cat’s always land on their feet.”

Corporislatro bared her teeth. “I’m going to relieve you of all nine of your lives kitty cat,” she hissed, charging Chat.

Chat’s eyes widened, and he leapt out of the way, tripping the akuma. “Meowch,” he said, “I love a good cat pun but that one was just plain vicious.”

He saw a flash of light out of the corner of his eye, and Ladybug holding what looked to be…a box of tea?

Ladybug’s eyes lit up in recognition. “I’ll be back!” She shouted, throwing her yoyo out through the shattered window, launching herself into the sky.

Chat cursed under his breath.

Guess he was gonna be babysitting.

He turned back to Corpwhatever and sighed at the wolfish grin she threw his way.

“I hope I don't have to get a rabies shot after this,” he said, and drew his baton.

---

Marinette burst into Master Fu’s studio.

“Master! I need your help.”

Fu nodded, and turned to the phonograph.

He drew the miracle box from it, and opened it in front of her.

“Pick an ally to help you on this mission,” Fu began, and Marinette tuned him out.

She looked down at the options.

Turtle?

No. Corporislatro was too fast.

Bee?

No. She was too evasive, and could switch to using those beams to attack from a distance.

Dragon?

There wasn’t any point. The akuma didn’t seem to have any weakness to the elements.

What she needed was a distraction.

Marinette’s hand drifted towards the Fox.

She hesitated.

Was that too soon? Would bringing out Alya’s old miraculous to use against her be rubbing salt in the wound?

“Trust your intuition Marinette,” Fu said.

Marinette nodded, and grabbed the Fox Miraculous.

Fu handed her the box, and she gingerly put the necklace inside.

“Do you have someone in mind?”

Her phone vibrated.

Luka⚡️10:58pm: There’s an akuma in the greenhouse near your house. Stay inside. Stay safe.

Marinette smiled. “I think I have the perfect candidate.”

----

Ladybug cursed, leaping onto another rooftop. The boat had been empty.

She sprinted past her bakery, then came to a screeching halt.

Her parents were outside the bakery, talking with someone.

She dropped down in front of them. “Monsieur, Madame, you need to get inside, it isn’t safe for you to–”

Her sentence trailed off, and she realized who her parents were talking to.

Luka raised his hand in greeting.

“The akuma has our daughter!” Sabine sobbed, quickly drawing her attention back to the problem at hand.

“It’s alright love,” Tom said, pressing a kiss to his wife’s forehead. “Ladybug is here now, she’ll fix this.”

Ladybug took Sabine’s hand. “Marinette is safe. The akuma was targeting her, so I took her somewhere protected. She’s hiding now and she’s in good hands: the akuma can’t get to her. I apologize for the scare.”

Sabine nodded, and gave her a watery smile.

“Thank you, Ladybug.”

Ladybug smiled back. “Is there anything you can tell me about this akuma?”

“Her power seems like it makes people switch personalities,” Luka responded. “She hit my sister, and my sister started acting like her girlfriend. It even changed her hair and clothes to match, and she was crying these black tears,” he said with a shudder.

“After hitting her, the akuma tried hitting my mom and I, but lost her patience and left, and Jule-Rose seems fine. The akuma had said something about finding Marinette, so I ran here, to try and make sure she was safe.”

Ladybug nodded. “Any other details?”

Luka shook his head.

“Well then, we best be getting you home.”

Ladybug looped her free arm around Luka, and turned back to her parents.

“Monsieur, Madame, for your safety, please get back inside.”

Sabine squeezed Ladybug’s hand, and her and Tom went back into the bakery.

Ladybug breathed a sigh of relief, and grabbed her yoyo, launching them into the air.

She dropped them in a nearby alleyway.

“Ladybug why did we–” Ladybug thrust the box at him.

“Luka Couffaine, this is the Miraculous of the Fox, which grants the power of illusion. You will use it for the greater good, and when the mission is over, you will return it to me. Can I trust you?”

Luka’s eyes crinkled in confusion.

“What about Viperion?”

“Not the right choice for this mission,” she said.

“But isn’t there already a fox?”

“She asked to be retired,” Ladybug explained, feeling the familiar tightening in her chest.

Luka nodded, not pressing the matter, which she appreciated.

He opened the box, and Trixx shot out.

“Heya new guy! The name’s Trixx, I’m your kwami, you know the drill. Remember to focus when you cast your mirage, and keep playing until you want it to fall. To detransform, it’s Trixx, let’s rest, and to transform, just say Trixx, let’s pounce.”

Luka slipped on the necklace. “Trixx, let’s pounce!”

The transformation washed over him, giving him a fur trimmed hood, and a sharper mask, with an orange line under each eye, coming down to a point on his nose.

Ladybug tilted her head.

His suit was mostly cream colored, with gradients of orange concentrated at his joints and on his head.

She’d never seen a fox quite like it.

“Let’s head out,” he said, leaping onto the roof.

“So, what do you want me to call you?” Ladybug asked, jogging next to him.

Luka hummed. “Euterpe,” he said finally.

The two stopped across the way from the greenhouse, where they could see flashes of bright light coming from within.

Euterpe’s eyes widened. “Is Chat–”

“Alone in there with Corporislatro? Yeah. Listen, I need you to stay hidden, alright? This is Alya, even in her akumatized form, she'll know what having the fox around means, and she'll be on the lookout for illusions.”

Euterpe nodded. “I’ll stick to the shadows,” he said, peeling off from their spot and perching on the roof, watching the fight from above.

Ladybug dropped down through the roof, landing in front of Chat Noir, reflecting one of Corporislatro’s beams back towards her.

“I thought you were bringing a friend!” Chat said, knocking a beam to the side with his baton.

Ladybug threw her yoyo, the end wrapping around the ceiling beam, and swung at Corporislatro, driving her feet into the akuma’s chest, sending her flying.

“I did!” she said, dropping back onto the ground. “I told him to wait to make his appearance.”

Chat feigned offense. “So when he makes a grand entrance, it’s ‘fine’, and ‘Ladybug approved,’ but when I make a grand entrance it’s ‘a strategic misstep’ and ‘showboating’, I see how it is Bugaboo.”

Ladybug laughed, her back turned to where the akuma was.

Chat’s eyes widened when he saw the beam coming for her.

“Ladybug watch out!” He thrust his hand forward.

Ladybug turned, and the beam hit her square in the chest.

Chat flung his baton like a boomerang, sending Corporislatro flying once more.

He caught the baton, and turned back to Ladybug, who was doubled over.

Chat watched in horror as her hair receded, changing into a short pixie cut. Two antennae sprung from above her temples, and her suit turned black, with a solitary red spot spanning the majority of her mask, her face covered in the same black tears as Alya’s. Shiny, bug-like armor covered her torso, and her yoyo disappeared.

She stood up, eyes still closed, and Chat noticed two red spots, one on each cheek.

Her eyes opened, and Chat recoiled.

Ladybug’s eyes were indigo.

Her now-indigo eyes widened.

“Oh no,” she breathed. Chat rushed forward.

“What happened?” He asked, placing his hands on her face.

The second he touched her, he flinched.

Waves of pure energy rolled off of her. This was not Ladybug, this was something even more powerful, something ancient.

He recognized the energy.

“Tikki?” Ladyb-Tikki nodded.

“Alya’s power seems to swap whoever gets hit’s body with their best friend.”

Something bubbled up in Chat’s chest, but he shoved that feeling down.

This was serious.

Chat grabbed Tikkibug, who responded with a small, “eep!” and jumped out the building, stumbling upon the white fox.

“Change of plans Foxtrot, we need to go, now.”

The new hero nodded, tucking his flute in between his sash and his back, and ran after them.

Once they were far enough away, Chat placed Tikkibug on the ground gently.

“Is she…” Chat’s sentence trailed off, not sure how to finish the thought.

“Ladybug’s fine,” Tikkibug confirmed. “I can sense her freaking out, but she’s aware of what’s going on. It just means she’s having to control our powers now.”

Tikkibug held out her hand, and the yoyo appeared in it in a flash of light. “I haven’t been in control in a couple of millennia, but I have access to more power than Ladybug does at the moment. I would prefer not to use it, because without me moderating the flow of power it can get a little…messy very quickly.”

“What do you mean by messy?” The fox hero asked.

Tikkibug winced. “I just wanted to summon some water, but ended up submerging an entire city.”

“Oh, that kind of messy,” the fox hero said, his voice an octave higher than it was before. He took a breath and turned to Chat. “Nice to meet you by the way, I’m Euterpe.” He stuck his hand out.

Chat took his hand, and shook it, marveling at how soft his suit looked, and tried not to think about Tikki admitting to sinking Atlantis. “Nice to meet you, Euterpe.”

“What’s the plan?” Euterpe asked, turning to Tikkibug.

She furrowed her brow. “We need to get Alya into an enclosed location, so we can limit her potential targets, and corner her, but one big enough to maneuver in.”

“What about the Grand Palais?” Euterpe suggested.

Tikkibug nodded. “That should work.”

#ansbh #miraculous ladybug #marinette dupain cheng #ladybug #chat noir #luka couffaine #fox!luka #tikkibug #my writing #alya #corpislatro

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autodiscothings · 5 years

Photo

Hello pals! Would you like to know what I’ve been up to, and what I'm working on?

what do you mean no

ANYWAY, what a week incoming!

Despite having two paintings of scenes from the upcoming chapter of Repetition already done, I decided to paint a new cover, because of Reasons. It’s the WIP above.

I’ve booked a quiet room for myself to work on Sirens this week. I am currently re-reading it to triple-check a few things, and it isn’t as cringe whiplash as I think it is.

I have 8 unpublished chapters of Repetition written out, all beta’d and on a Friday posting schedule. You’d think this would mean I can be productive and write new things, but it’s oddly making me nitpick at them instead.

The backlog gives me time to paint complicated chapter covers, though. Which is fun. The painting for Friday is 90% done, so can work on Sirens instead.

I’m going to see Hozier tomorrow. Today is meant to be Bastille, but I’m out of spoons. Even with a season pass to the venue there is no guarantee i’ll see both, though.

My brother somehow found my art instagram, and knows I draw scowling lizard men and women in purple an awful lot. He told my mum, because of course he would, and mum (bless her) decided to print out something and frame it on a canvas. It’s on the wall of my old bedroom back home- thanks mum.

Which brings me to next point. I am tentatively wondering if I should draw more... risque paintings of Kol and Ori, and put them on Patreon. Things will be on show, and not hidden by covers, shadow, and Fish. I’d put it behind a (modestly priced) paywall; please let me know if you want to see it, and are happy to pay a few dollars to access them.

I am still wondering where to print my things- Society 6 and Redbubble charge a lot, and local services so far are vague in quality. Still looking, though.

I know a couple of people that want prints and stickers that aren’t my mum, and I’d like them for me, too. If I can cope with old art on the walls. Because it be like that, sometimes.

Another few things:

I actually don’t know who reads the stories, unless you’ve commented or told me one on one that you do. I’m just going think you’re humouring me when I waffle on about the characters via Asks or painting tags here.

I am not a smart woman; a mutual recently recc’d my work, and I was so surprised they did. Even though we’ve been friends for a year now, because I just didn’t know.

Despite that, I am happy how Repetition is actually being read, even though it’s an odd story and another WIP. A tough sell, for fanfic.

Thank you for supporting me, it means a lot. My content is niche, and that I get any comments, reblogs and likes on anything is still amazing to me.

-Autodisco/Soigs

#my art #my words

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donnerpartyofone · 6 years

Text

21 Questions

Tagged by @getoutofmyhouse who had oddly similar answers to mine

Nickname: only the one I use here, that I gave myself--Claire Donner, which has to do with my famous love of cannibalism. Claire is my real first name, though.

Zodiac: I am so very cuspy. I was born at about a quarter to midnight on April 20, so I tend to relate to, and feel insulted by, the suppositions about Aries and Taurus equally. I’m one of those jerks who will tell you astrology is a bunch of hoo ha...and then drone on with my Many Esoteric Ideas about it, so I’ll just stop myself right here.

Height: 5’ nuthin is what I prefer to say...because saying I’m 5 and 3/4′ sounds a little like saying I’m 10 and a half years old.

Amount of sleep: It’s all fucked up. Until I got into my 30s I could, and would prefer to, sleep endlessly. Now I go to bed around 10 (depression), get up around 5 or 6 (being old), and for extra fun, I’ve developed this insomnia that often keeps me up from about 2am-5am. I try make the most of it by getting up, getting high, watching a movie or two, writing...basically just having a secret private day by myself. I’d really rather go back to just sleeping constantly though.

Last movie I saw: I saw GRETA in theaters tonight, which was ok. I guess I thought any Neil Jordan film would be headier than this, but watching Isabel Huppert just running around acting like an absolute maniac is a rare treat! My last video experience was RAW, which I put on to bother my husband right when we got home from the theater. (I think he liked it more than I originally did, to my surprise)

Last thing I googled: The correct spelling of Sylvia Likens’ last name. I’m obsessed with this type of crime where a group of people (usually a family and/or some of their friends and neighbors) fall into some kind of shared hysteria where they protractedly torture to death an acquaintance for no particular reason. Some times there’s an element of mystery as to why the victim didn’t leave while they were still able to, which suggests to me that the murdered person was just as much a victim of the groupthink as the perpetrators. Other example victims include Suzanne Capper, Vera Jo Reigle, and I think to some degree Sophie Lionnet, James Bulger, and Junko Furuta. (Also a crime they briefly discuss in the book Lords of Chaos, where several people murder a friend in their trailer, but I can’t remember it specifically enough to look up the names--the other last thing i tried to google) I keep thinking there should be a psychiatric and/or legal term for this kind of crime, but I’ve never heard one, so let me know if you got one!

Favorite musician: I have trouble with questions that involve ranking anything, so I’ll just say that right now I’m listening to a lot of old White Zombie. I didn’t know anything about their origins as an East Village noise band, and I’m fascinated by the stories about how apocalyptically miserable it was to be in that group. I’m increasingly obsessed with people who work their asses off doing something they barely even enjoy, for what must be borderline spiritual reasons.

Song stuck in my head: Nothing right this second, for which I am very grateful. There’s something awful in my brain that causes me to wake up with some maddening, babyish tune stuck in my head more often than not. It is most frequently the Ten Little Indians nursery rhyme. This is literally killing me.

Other blogs: @anhed-nia, which started as a dumping ground for long posts about mental illness, and turned into almost only movie writing. at some point there was just so much movie shit that i started to feel awkward about posting anything personal there again. i also got @getoffyrass which is a group blog, and a repository for images that make great drawing references. everyone is encouraged to post their drawings, too, although it is seldom used. i still like having it around, for when i have time to draw. my “real” drawing blog is @neveratendermoment but i don’t draw often enough anymore...

Do I get asks: i used to get tons! i really enjoy them, even the trolls to some degree. i must have seemed like more of a regular tumblr geek girl back in the day. also tumblr has just changed a lot since then. my blog was definitely a casualty of Best Stuff First, i think my follower count stopped dead forever right when that happened, and now that practically every single fucking thing on this entire site is either fandom shit or *discourse*, i really have nothing to offer tumblr anymore, anyway.

Blogs following: 1,057.

Lucky numbers: 2! Also 5.

What I’m wearing: black wool long john pants from Chrome, and a white v neck teeshirt with the words BLACK MAYONNAISE on it in black Rocky Horror font. i live near the notoriously toxic Gowanus Canal, and “black mayonnaise” is the actual term used to describe what’s on the bottom of it, by the scientists who are trying to figure out what to do with it.

Dream trip: i am really excited by travel, it’s hard to pick. i’m hopefully making a dream trip soon though: my father’s mysterious finno-swedish family is from the åland islands, and my husband and i will be planning part of our honeymoon there, whenever that happens.

Dream Job: i think about this a lot, because the older i get, the more i object to the entire concept of having to work to live. i’m into the whole universal basic income thing. i’m at this point where i can barely stand to think about capitalism in any way--like i think about how the need for money is so mortally serious that there’s a lot of physical stuff in the world that only exists because someone was scared of starving, tons of useless products and packaging and factory byproducts and all kinds of fucking straight up garbage that was only invented due to the lethality of poorness. i would rather be left totally alone forever if possible. however, if i HAD to do something and i COULD do anything, it would probably be film criticism. this fantasy takes place in a world where people care so much about what i have to say that i can make a career, not only out of movie writing, but out of only writing about the specific movies i want to write about, referring to nothing other than my personal reactions.

Favorite food: i wish the answer weren’t just “cheese”, but it probably is. also mushrooms. anything cinnamon. i’m a pretty adventurous eater though. the most important thing for me is a variety of flavors and textures.

Languages: english. i took several years of italian in junior high-high school, and did nothing with it. i taught myself to read french pretty fluently, but i would fold right up if someone tried to speak to me. i learned a bunch of swedish on duolingo, shoulda kept it up. i’ll get back to it! i really regret never learning spanish though, so i’m easily torn on what to do with my time.

Play any instruments: clarinet in junior high/high school, also alto sax which i did not enjoy at all, a little guitar. i bought a used electric bass last year that i have really been enjoying, but i feel a lot of guilt around not playing enough. so much of it is just strength training. that’s probably what i like about it, though. also i got a lot of electronic music software and midi controllers and stuff...and then i realized that it could take me months to sort through the thousands of samples i have to program this stuff, and i only got so far into it before i started to get discouraged. i need to get back to it, it’s ridiculous to let that stuff lie around. this is a rare example of me wishing i knew someone local to play with, who could speed me along on how everything works.

Favorite songs: another one of these impossible questions! anybody who is even reading this can probably guess the answers from the handful of music posts i reblog over and over and over. the other night i got all hyperactive and forced my husband to drop everything and listen to “buffalo stance” by nene cherry, which i never ever get sick of. real top contenders for favorite song might be “Stand By the Jamms” by the klf, and this recording, which has gotten me through many difficult hours:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d8k1HsF3EvY

https://www.forcedexposure.com/Catalog/sunray-sonic-boom-music-for-the-dreamachine-cd/STRAWB.003CD.html

Random fact: i’m sure i’m missing out on something really funny and cool, but for now it’s just the well-known fact that i read palms.

Describe yourself as aesthetic thing: man, how do i answer this without being totally pretentious? maybe nobody can! i’m coming up with something really hard to describe but it will be worth it. the other day i watched this insane, completely unnecessary movie about lorca and salvador dali (played by robert pattinson) as gay lovers. there’s a scene in it where lorca does that “pick a hand” thing to dali, and dali picks an empty hand. of course, they’re both poor students who couldn’t be buying any gifts, so they do this obnoxious pantomime where dali pretends lorca actually gave him something--but then it turns out that lorca really DOES have something. he opens his other hand and gives dali...SOMETHING. i don’t know what! they make such a big deal out of it, but what the hell? you see it for a second in this closeup, but it’s shot from like, behind and slightly underneath, and it is just unrecognizable. it’s sort of an orange blob? it’s probably meant to be a sculpture. but, i love the idea of doing the “pick a hand” thing to somebody, and the other person is just like...hey wait a minute, what the fuck even IS this??

it reminded me of one of the most amazing things anyone ever did at my school, bard college. this genius art student who I WISH I COULD NAME TO CREDIT HER did her senior project as this like...made up product. i saw them at the senior show, hanging off a spinner rack, like you’d see next to the register in the drug store. they were called Toilet Buddies. they were these plastic, brightly colored objects that looked like toys, but they didn’t have a familiar earthly shape, and because of the title, it was IMPOSSIBLE to imagine what to do with them. so, she gets the lipstick cam from the film department, and shoots this video of herself sneaking some Toilet Buddies into Walmart. then she takes them to the register and BUYS THEM--the baffled cashier looks for them for a while, and eventually just rings them up as a general grocery or something. then in part 2, the artist TAKES THEM BACK TO THE STORE WITH THE RECEIPT AND GETS A REFUND.

so anyway, i see myself as like a fake product--something that looks just familiar enough to exit, and that appears to have a designated purpose, but it’s just kind of cheap and foreign and it becomes nightmarish to try to imagine what to do with it.

I don’t know if anyone i know will want to do this, but i tag @negativepleasure @moviesludge @former-contender @dimestoreman @thefuzzydave @darkarfs @theoddsideofme @blueruins ...um, i don’t really know who would enjoy this. the ultimate would be @garbagenacht

#long post

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phoutube · 6 years

Text

while the rhythm of the rain keeps time: chapter two

ao3 link (kudos appreciated!)

from the beginning: ao3

Rating: General Audiences (subject to change)

Pairing: Dan Howell/Phil Lester

Chapter Word Count: 4,604

Full Word Count: 8,670

Summary: Phil didn’t very much like the rain, but at the same time, he didn’t very much dislike it, either.

It had a distinctly lonely feeling, like if he allowed himself to get lost in the sights and sounds and smells of the rain everything else would disappear and he’d become the only person in the world.

A little odd, yes, but some days he’d ache for this feeling. He wasn’t sure why, but sometimes all he’d crave was utter solitude, so he’d have space to think his own thoughts and exist without being a bother to anyone else.

a/n: a special thanks to my beta readers, @freckliedan, @shrugs-are-kinky, and @edgylester for making this fic possible! Go show them some love!

likes and reblogs appreciated!!

Chapter Two: Melt Your Headaches, Call It Home

Phil didn’t very much like the rain, but at the same time, he didn’t very much dislike it, either.

It was okay, he supposed.

It made his mornings a bit slower, he mused, but it was also kind of peaceful, listening to it pound the outside world tirelessly.

The rain was melancholy and somber, and it put Phil in an odd sort of mood where all he wanted to do was lay down outside in the grass and let it wash over him.

If it was warm enough. Cold rain was the worst. He was staying inside for that shit.

Today, unfortunately, he didn’t have any time to ponder the different ways rain made him feel, because he had a double shift at the Starbucks next to Tesco and it started in less than an hour and he hadn’t even gotten out of bed.

He’d recently taken up a second, part-time job because as it turns out, a job in graphic design didn’t exactly make the most money--and to put it bluntly, he was broke as fuck.

He went in to the office three times a week, and was expected to finish his assigned projects at home if they hadn’t been completed at work. Which was all fine and dandy, but the little ADHD monster that lived in his brain tended to grab the controls and make him do something utterly ridiculous like hyperfixate on the interesting article he was reading about children’s brain development instead of doing literally anything else he was supposed to.

He had actually been offered a home office, which would have been excellent in the fact that he would have been able to wear nothing but socks and a pair of boxers while working, but it also meant that he probably would have ended up lying on his back and watching the blades of the fan spinning and trying to count how many times they go around in a minute instead of getting any work done.

He was glad, at least, for the fact he had a steady income and he didn’t absolutely hate his job, no matter how slow it got sometimes.

Anyway, whenever it got boring he’d always end up doodling straight onto the desk he was sitting at (he’d have to wipe it off later) or coming up with elaborate daydreams in his head about scenarios that were completely unrealistic (that was the fun part).

Speaking of daydreaming--Phil reluctantly pulled himself back into the present and realized that he’d wasted ten minutes allowing his mind to wander as he sat in bed, being about as useful as a garbage bag full of rocks.

That was the one thing he didn’t like about his job--his mind wasn’t allowed to wander or else he’d lose track of time and five minutes turned into ten and ten minutes turned into thirty and suddenly he’d been thinking about absolutely nothing for the better part of an hour.

Unfortunately for Phil, he got most of his best ideas when he let his mind roam free, and sitting at a desk all day was the perfect way to kill all of his inspiration.

He wasn’t completely oblivious to what was going on inside his mind, however; he had seen a doctor about medication for Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder and while it had worked pretty well at first, at some point or another the doses stopped working as well and it felt like the pills were only taking all his ADHD-fueled ideas and guiding them in the general direction of where they were supposed to go. The side effects were also awful--sometimes it seemed like any noise that was too loud or sudden could launch him into a panic attack and he often felt like vomiting.

He hadn’t had the time to go back to the doctor who had prescribed them in the first place, and so he’d just put the bottle on a high shelf and tried to forget about it.

Alongside battling his attention-disorder, Phil also had to deal with being both physically and mentally exhausted to the point of breaking due to his new part-time as a Starbucks barista.

He barely had any free time, either, and he usually spent his blessed days off sleeping for fourteen hours and ordering takeaway and playing Mario Kart on his couch alone.

Lovely.

With these thoughts in mind, Phil finally rolled out of his bed and dressed in the boring all-black that his job required he wear.

His mind still muddled with sleep (though thankfully warmed up by his wandering thoughts), Phil shuffled his way into the kitchen to get breakfast.

Pulling the coffeemaker towards himself and shoveling generous amounts of ground coffee inside it, Phil wondered if he’d have time to shower before heading to work. Probably not.

He lived close enough to walk to the cafe where he worked (not that he particularly wanted to--it was all drizzly and cold outside) and so he never had to worry about finding a method of transportation (he was awful at driving, the Tube gave him anxiety, and he didn’t have money to spare on cabs). He had a bit of time before he had to leave, enough to finish breakfast and sit and stare at the kitchen counter beneath his mug (or perhaps the telly) and wonder whether it was really worth getting out of bed this early for a job.

Shuffling around the kitchen and pulling a box of cereal from a cabinet, Phil made himself The Breakfast of Champions with little more than dry cereal and a big enough bowl (likely because of all the times his mum had chastised him for eating cereal with his hands straight out of the box, which resulted in a squirmy guilty feeling every time he did it).

There was, however, no point in using a spoon for dry cereal, which really only meant less dishes to wash later.

Pushing his glasses up his nose and sitting in front of the television, Phil wondered whether he could turn it on and watch half an episode without all his self-control going down the drain. Considering… er, previous events, Phil decided to keep the telly off or else he very well might end up marathoning The Office or Food Wars! instead of going to work like he was supposed to.

At least he knew what he was doing tonight.

Before he knew it, fifteen minutes had passed and he had to be at work in ten and he hadn’t even gotten his shoes on- but that was okay because they were just by the door, and so were his house keys-

Running back into his room to grab his phone and to turn off all the lights, Phil skidded back through the kitchen and nearly hit his head on a cabinet door he had forgotten to close.

Damn cabinets.

Phil slid his shoes on and slammed the door behind himself, barely remembering to lock it.

Walking briskly through the lobby of the apartment complex (his flat was on the ground floor, which was by far the Least Cool place he’s ever lived) and stepping through the double doors, Phil immediately found himself standing in the pouring rain.

He wished, as he always did whenever it rained, that he owned an umbrella.

It’s not like an umbrella is always first on his mental list of Things To Buy whenever he went to the store--after all, there were always much cooler and conventionally useful (he had always had trouble preparing for the future--which was why he currently lived on the first floor of an apartment building with one job in graphic design and another at Starbucks).

Phil resigned himself to walking along the sidewalk, already soaking wet and freezing. For God’s sake, it was June! Why was it so bloody cold outside?

Checking his phone and realizing that his shift was supposed to start in three minutes, Phil started walking slightly faster. He could always blame the rain for his tardiness.

By the time he finally set foot in the coffee shop and stepped behind the counter, the rain had relented slightly (although Phil was still very wet).

At the sound of his arrival, Devon (the shift manager) turned and regarded him with a look of slight disapproval.

“Phil, you’re late. Again.”

Phil swallowed. “I’m sorry, Devon- I lost track of time and it was pouring rain and I uh, forgot my umbrella-”

Devon dropped their stony disposition and grinned. “Yeah Phil, I’m sure you forgot your umbrella that totally exists. C’mon, we were gonna draw straws-” They guestured in the general direction of Alex and Liz, who waved, “-but since you’re the late one, you get to wipe the tables!”

Phil groaned exaggeratedly.

“C’mon, Devon, I did that last week! Besides, I’m all wet and-”

Devon held up their hand to hush Phil, and turned towards the back room, chucking an old towel at Phil.

Phil then proceeded to get hit in the face with said old towel, to which the people behind him burst out laughing.

Ignoring Liz and Alex’s giggling, Phil ripped the towel off his face and surveyed Devon with a look of mock disgust on his face.

“Fine,” Phil said haughtily, “but believe me, you’ll regret making me do this!”

Devon snickered.

“C’mon Lester, we don’t have time for dramatics. Just wipe the damn tables down and be done with it, okay?”

Phil rolled his eyes, hiding a smile on his face. Doing actual work might suck, but at least he wasn’t totally alone. His coworkers were pretty cool.

After wiping the tables down, Phil was instructed to make drinks for the morning stragglers with Liz as Alex manned the registers. Devon was in the back doing inventory- something that Phil was very glad he wasn’t in charge of.

Making drinks was fairly simple for the most part--save for the insanely complicated ones. Phil still hadn’t gotten the hang of doing the fancy ones with the custom flavors and customers who knew the menu better than he did--especially the Starbucks “secret menu,” which simply took drinks that already tasted good and added a bunch of complicated ingredients to them. Liz was in charge of those. Phil was fine with making lattes and frappuccinos and tea for now.

He and Liz made a great team, with Devon scrawling the abbreviation of the drinks on the cups and passing them to Phil, who glanced at the order and determined whether or not he could make themself. If not, he would have to pass them to Liz, who had been here for years and knew every possible combination like the back of her hand (that metaphor confused Phil. There wasn’t really anything that distinguished the back of one hand from another, unless you had a tattoo or something). Phil had only been here about a month, which immediately meant he was tasked with the more physical jobs, like sweeping the floor after the shop closed and taking care of the registers when nobody else wanted to.

Phil, Liz, and Alex continued working until about ten-thirty, when the lunch rush was just beginning.

That was when Alex, who looked even more exhausted than usual, took off her apron and hung it in the back. Devon stepped out, and stood in front of Liz and Phil.

There was a chocolate chip in their hair.

“Okay guys, Alex is taking her break and I need Phil to watch after the registers. I’ll be helping Liz make the drinks, and as soon as Alex is back, she’ll help Phil. Got it?”

They all nodded. Alex walked out the back door, likely to go sit at the plastic table out back. In the pouring rain. Sometimes Phil admired Alex for her complete inability to give a shit.

Phil took up his place at the register, and plastered on a smile for the growing queue of customers waiting to order.

God, people were scary.

Taking orders was quite stressful, and he had to remember the correct abbreviations of the drinks and try to understand what the customer said their name was- Riley? It was probably spelled Reileigh or Rylie (he’d had both already) or some other monstrosity sent from hell.

It was during a lull in business that Phil took the opportunity to slump against the counter and stare at the door to the shop, desperately hoping for no one else to walk through so he wouldn’t have to get up.

Devon looked at him pityingly.

Phil glanced down at the counter, swaying slightly and studying the swirling design of the plastic countertop and the crumbs that had managed to stick there.

Lo and behold, someone else stepped into the shop, and Phil smiled automatically while stepping forward to take their order.

An hour later, his head throbbed from talking to so many people, and with a nod from Devon, Phil stepped out of view from the customers and perched himself on an old stool in the corner.

This was exhausting.

Tipping his head back against the wall and closing his eyes, Phil took a few deep breaths. Only a few hours until his break, and Devon was being kind enough to let him relax for a few minutes.

He was already so tired, but that didn’t mean he could slack off his job like this.

After a few minutes of sitting down, he’d surely be able to stand up again and go back to work without wanting to die.

...Okay, maybe that was a bit dramatic, but Phil was a gay twenty-something and also happened to be exhausted to the point of collapsing. He figured he could cut himself some slack.

When the boy with curls damp from the rain and eyes the color of the coffee Phil was making stumbled into the shop like some great force of nature, Phil couldn’t help but glance up.

And he kept glancing, but then he somehow ended up taking longer looks that lasted only a few seconds and then only a few seconds turned to even more seconds until suddenly Phil realized he’d been outright staring at the man for at least a minute.

Behind him, Liz cleared her throat loudly.

“You can’t stare at the pretty boy while I do all the work, Lester,” she teased.

Phil nodded, taking his eyes off the stranger and finishing the iced tea he was making.

At that moment, Alex stepped back into the store, her short hair soaking wet and her clothes dripping water on the floor.

“I’m off my break,” she announced.

“You do know that someone will have to clean that up later, right?” Devon inquired dryly.

Alex said nothing and stepped behind the counter, putting her apron back on and gesturing drippingly to Phil to help her with the cash registers.

Devon sighed and stepped back to help Liz with the drinks.

It was at this moment that the boy (who was still slightly damp and who also seemed to be having some internal battle) stood up from his seat and made his way over to the counter.

Phil’s heart did a funny swoop thing and he was pretty sure he could hear the blood rushing through his ears.

Did he really fall apart this easily whenever an attractive person breathed in his direction? Honestly.

The stranger, who still hadn’t noticed Phil yet, surveyed the pastry cases and stepped closer to study the menu.

With a jolt, he seemed to realize that Phil was there, and proceeded to stare at him, a slight blush tinting his cheeks.

Phil was aware of the fact that his own face was likely bright red.

“Er, hello,” Phil began. “I’m Phil. What can I get for you today?”

It was a miracle he hadn’t embarrassed himself already.

“Oh, er, well- I, I actually haven’t decided yet? I mean, uh, yeah.” The stranger’s tongue seemed to trip over itself in an attempt to get the words out. “Sorry,” he added as an afterthought.

Phil felt his heart soften at the boy’s nervous stuttering.

“It’s fine. Take your time! It’s not like I’m going anywhere,” Phil managed, and then felt himself cringe as he realized that it probably sounded he was implying that the boy needed Phil to make an order, or something. God. Why was Phil always embarrassing himself like this?

The stranger cleared his throat, and Phil snapped back to the present.

“I- could I actually have, um, the er, the Caramel Mocha Latte? That’s good, right?” He paused, considering. “Could I also get an, er, a blueberry muffin?”

“What size?”

The man blinked. “Sorry?”

“What, er, size do you want your drink?”

“Oh, sorry. Um, medium, I reckon.”

Phil nodded, pulling a grande cup towards him. “Could I get a name?”

The stranger looked confused for a second, and then seemed to realize what Phil meant.

“Oh, right. Uh, Dan.”

His name was Dan.

Phil scribbled that on the cup, along with the abbreviation for the drink.

“That’ll be, er, £8 .50. Cash or card?”

Dan, who had seemed to be staring off into space, seemed to jolt himself back into the present. Phil could relate.

“Oh, yes, card, sorry,” Dan said, fumbling for his wallet and extracting a credit card.

Phil nodded and took it. Dan’s eyes were very pretty. So were his curls, and the light dusting of freckles across his nose- Phil shouldn’t be thinking about this.

Dan, as if oblivious to the effect he was having on Phil, seemed fascinated with the way Phil’s hands moved as they swiped the card.

If the twinge of pink lining his cheeks were anything to go by, Phil could guess that it was either very cold outside or Dan was still embarrassed about the loud entrance he had made a few minutes previously. There had to be a reason he was blushing like that, right?

Phil handed the card back to Dan, who now appeared to be staring at Phil’s mouth. Embarrassed, Phil wondered whether he had food stuck on his upper lip or if he had missed a spot shaving that morning.

Ducking his head and reaching into the pastry case, Phil pulled out Dan’s muffin. Tucking it into a paper bag, he set it on the countertop between them.

Clearing his throat, Phil waited for Dan’s gaze to snap back up to his own. God, his eyes were gorgeous.

“Er, your drink will be ready in a few minutes over there-” he gestured towards the end of the counter, “-and here’s your muffin! Enjoy your food,” Phil added, smiling at Dan.

Dan smiled back. He had a dimple. Phil immediately wanted to kiss it. He also wanted to bury his face in the crook of Dan’s neck and stay there for a while, but he had a job to do and also Dan was a complete stranger and- God, Phil was probably so creepy for thinking like this.

As if on cue, Dan took the muffin between them and gave Phil an awkward wave before walking back over to his table and sitting down.

Turning back to face his coworkers, Phil was immediately unsurprised to see all three of them gaping at him. Even Alex.

“That was literally the most awkward interaction I have ever seen.” Devon said, their hand over their face.

“Oh my God you guys, get a room,” Liz quipped, trying not to laugh.

Alex just stared, an expression of shame on her face. “God, Lester, what was that? Have you ever successfully flirted with anyone, I don’t know, ever?”

Phil rolled his eyes, his heart beating unfairly fast in his chest. “Can you guys just make the drink? I wasn’t even trying to flirt at all! I was just taking his order! He probably doesn’t even like guys, for fuck’s sake.”

Devon snickered. “You mean to tell me, the master of gaydar, that that man wasn’t ogling your ass when you turned around to get his damn muffin?”

Phil sighed. These people were relentless.

Alex grabbed his shoulders, looking like she was ready to shake him. “Phil, I swear, if you don’t have that guy’s number by the time he leaves this place, I am going to personally walk to his house and get it myself. You hear?”

Phil shrugged her off. “C’mon guys, seriously. Can you just make his drink?”

Liz raised an eyebrow. Devon smirked. They all backed off a little, although the looks they shot each other definitely meant they weren’t going to leave this alone.

A few minutes later, Dan’s drink was ready and Phil had taken orders from three more customers. Liz had called Dan’s name and he had come up to collect it--and Phil definitely didn’t miss the intense stares all of his coworkers had given Dan as he walked away.

“Nice ass,” Alex commented slyly, eyeing Phil to see his reaction.

Phil resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Again. Honestly, at some point his eyeballs were going to pop out of his head and onto the floor, just like his mum told him they would when he was a teenager.

Phil’s co-workers weren’t the only ones staring at Dan, though. Phil had to admit it was actually quite hard to keep his eyes off the man’s figure, hunched over the table and scribbling in what looked like a journal of some sort.

He was left-handed. Phil wasn’t sure why that was important to him, but it was.

Once or twice, he was sure that Dan was looking at him as well. It was hard to tell, though, and anyway, why would someone as pretty as Dan be looking at Phil?

When it was nearing the end of Phil’s shift and he was glancing anxiously at the clock every few seconds, Devon seemed to take notice of this and casually made their way over to Dan, who was still sitting at his little table.

Phil was too far away to properly hear what was going on, but when Devon first began to speak, Dan’s head jerked up, like he hadn’t expected anyone to take notice of him.

Dan only seemed to look further confused as Devon went on, but when they jerked their head back in the direction of the cash registers, Phil began to have an idea of what was going on. Dear God, he wished he didn’t.

Hiding his face in his hands, Phil wished dearly that Devon had only walked over to inquire about the quality of Dan’s drink, or the weather, or literally anything other than what Phil knew it was about.

Peeking through his fingers, Phil saw just in time Dan scribbling something on a napkin and offering it to Devon. Dan’s face was quite red.

When Devon turned around with a smile big enough to engulf their face, Phil groaned and stood up fully, hands gripping the countertop.

Dan, whose face was still beet-red, stared at the floor and tucked one ankle behind the other nervously. Phil turned his attention back to Devon, who slapped the napkin down on the counter proudly.

“You’re welcome, Lester. I just got you a pretty boy’s number, and you bet your ass you will call him, or I’ll do it for you! ”

Phil sighed. “Like how you got his number from him for me as well?”

Devon rolled their eyes. “C’mon, I’m doing you a favor. He was so cute about it too! I thought if his face got any redder, he’d explode!”

Devon looked at him expectantly.

Phil swiped the napkin off the counter and tucked into his pocket. “There. Happy?”

“Obviously.”

Phil was sitting in his flat.

The rain was still drizzling outside, and the sounds of it hitting the pavement echoed off the tall London buildings and created a peaceful, rumbling sound--like a cat purring loudly or the far-off sounds of a train on the railroad.

The sun was setting, and the darkening sky seemed to breathe with the city, creating that special sense of calm that only a rainstorm at night could produce.

All the curtains in his flat were open, as if trying to welcome the last streaks of washed-out daylight left in the world, and the room was getting darker and darker at such a pace that if you tried hard enough, you’d be able to watch it happening.

Phil, oblivious to the rest of the world, was clutching a brown, wrinkly Starbucks napkin with pen marks messily scratched onto its surface.

His handwriting was adorable. It had a slight left slant, and he had drawn a smiley face next to where he had scrawled his number for Phil.

His number. For Phil.

Phil wondered if he had even gotten out of bed that morning or if this was all a dream.

God, he hoped not.

It was around six in the evening, and Phil, in lieu of turning on Netflix and binging a series like he normally would, was sitting on his couch with his phone in his hand and debating whether to call the number on the napkin.

Oh God, what if it was fake? What if Dan had just given a pretend number to make Devon go away? Phil wouldn’t blame him. Oh God. This was so embarrassing. Phil didn’t even know what Devon had said to acquire the number, and to be completely honest, he didn’t want to know.

This was nerve-wracking.

Should he call or text? A call might look like he was trying too hard, but a text might look like he wasn’t trying enough- oh, he was insane. He definitely wasn’t going to call Dan. Did he have a deathwish? Phone calls were awful.

Before he could overthink it, Phil typed out a quick text.

Hey, Dan. It’s me, Phil, from Starbucks!

Okay, that was simple enough. Phil highly doubted Dan had met another person named Phil and had also given them his number on the same day, but it never hurt to make sure, right?

Phil sent it before his brain’s irrational panicking could get in the way, and tossed his phone down on the coffee table as if it were a bomb.

Staring at it, Phil waited for something, anything, to happen.

Nothing happened.

Phil was forced to acknowledge the fact that no, sending a text before he got the chance to over-think it was definitely not a guaranteed way to stop his anxiety from going into overdrive. If anything, it was worse.

Flopping back against the couch, Phil stared up at the ceiling. Maybe it was a fake number. Dan probably wasn’t going to reply, and Phil would never be able to face his coworkers after this embarrassment.

Suddenly, his phone buzzed with an incoming text, and Phil lunged for it.

hi phil! to what (or whom, i suppose) do i owe this pleasure? :)

Grinning to himself in the semi-darkness of his flat, Phil typed out a response to the boy with the coffee-colored eyes and a blush that happened to be the exact shade of the begonias growing in the dirt outside the building.

Maybe rain wasn’t quite so melancholy after all.

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lenaisanerd · 6 years

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swing a little further

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It's really hot. The gang goes to the park. It rains. (Alternatively: Izzy stares at Clary for 3400 words.)

This was supposed to be shorter, but it turned into something that is not that short while I wrote it. This is my first published fanfic on Tumblr (exciting). Please reblog or like if you enjoy it!

A huge thank you to my friends and editors @disaster-lesbiab , @raisehades , and @beesarekind , who made this fic possible (and who have been very patiently listening to me ramble on about Shadowhunters for months. Thanks.).

One week since the Institute’s AC system had given out. Turns out not even angelic power can withstand a New York heatwave, and with temperatures outside steadily climbing over 30 degrees, the heat had started seeping through every crack and crevice into the normally cool building. The humidity exacerbated the effects of the hot weather, and in Isabelle’s opinion it was a miracle no one had collapsed from a heat stroke yet.

According to the weather report a massive thunderstorm was due any day now, but what did mundanes know. It certainly hadn’t rained any of the previous four days when they had promised the exact same thing. Izzy’s hope and patience were wearing thin.

There were precisely three things that gave her the strength to drag herself out of bed every morning: One, by now being in her room with its huge portion of stained glass window was even more unbearable than hiding from the sun in the armory. Izzy had even tried sitting in the dungeons to do her paperwork, because being underground should be at least marginally cooler. But apparently sitting on the floor leaning against a wall while looking at a tablet in your lap for 10 hours at a time can really fuck up your back.

Two, the Institute was caught up in approximately one fuckton of work. NYC had picked the worst three weeks of the past year for a demon infestation in the Hudson. Getting rid of the little bastards, clean-up of the river, and convincing mundane victims and the police it was just a really violent species of manatee had kept every available Shadowhunter (and quite a few warlocks) busy. And when your brother is Head of the Institute, and also not afraid to barge into your room to kick you out of bed, sleeping late is not an option, even if Izzy was tempted a few times to quit sentient existence and melt into her mattress.

Three, even though the heatwave left everyone sweaty, tired, and often sunburnt, Clary was a literal angel all the same. Isabelle had started mentally drawing constellations between the hundreds of freckles that had popped up on Clary’s face and shoulders because of her time spent in the sun on missions.

She had given up on all black clothing about two days into the heatwave and was now wearing a different, slightly ratty and paint-splattered t-shirt every day, which, Izzy had to admit, suited Clary even better than black leather or skin-tight party dresses. And although a sunburn was starting to colour her cheekbones and the bridge of her nose, Izzy could still see Clary’s adorable blush whenever she complimented Isabelle. Seeing the redhead’s brilliant smile every morning as soon as she spotted Izzy in the op center or training room was truly the only thing that made the heat bearable.

“...and Luke said he’s going to take care of the press stuff, he knows a guy at the Times. We’re still going with the murderous manatee story, right? Izzy? Did you hear me?”

Clary’s question ripped Izzy out of her dazed daydream, where she had been busy appreciating a single frizzy strand of hair that had found its way out of the ponytail Clary had pulled her red curls into.

Izzy quickly took a sip of her water bottle on the table in front of her to stall while searching for an answer in the depths of her mind. She should really pick better moments to drool over Clary than in the middle of being briefed by Clary. Then again, she was. really. tired. 10 hours of work, fixing weapons, debriefing teams back from missions, chasing after reports from junior Hunters. It was high time for a break.

“Yes, of course, the manatee thing. Let’s do that.”

Clary shook her head. “I still can’t believe the shit Shadowhunters get Mundanes to believe. You would think after a while someone would pick up on the weirdness.”

“You didn’t.”

“Touché, Lightwood.”

Isabelle grinned, Clary smiled back. Maybe a little longer than was justified, given Izzy’s weak attempt at banter. Not that Izzy minded.

A distant, sustained honk cut through the silence between them. At the same moment both their phones buzzed. Clary was the first to get hers out. She checked the message and frowned.

“A text from Simon: ‘Come outside’?”

Izzy raised an eyebrow in surprise.

“Hey Iz. You get a text too?”

Alec was coming down the stairs and striding quickly towards her on long legs. He looked worn out, dark circles under his hazel eyes. Izzy was fairly certain that he had not left the Institute in at least two days.

She nodded and held up her phone.

“Any idea what it means?” she asked.

“Nope. Better go obey his command though, or someone else will go and strangle him to get him to stop honking.”

Now the connection between the sound and the message clicked into place in Izzy’s mind. The honking had started up again, a long honk followed by several short, irregular bursts. It must have been coming from just outside the doors of the Institute. Walking towards the exit it grew louder. Clary pushed open the door.

Across the way from the steps a painted van was parked under a tall plane tree, its owner stood in the open driver side door to play out a rhythm on the horn. Simon waved when he saw them.

Maia was sitting on the roof, leaning back while her legs dangled over the side. Leaning against the hood of the car, Magnus had taken off his vest to sling it over his shoulder, looking for all the world like a supermodel with his sunglasses, rolled up trouser cuffs and a shirt that was unbuttoned almost down to his bellybutton.

Izzy heard her brother draw in a sharp breath, before he rushed down the steps to greet his boyfriend with a kiss. Clary and Izzy followed more slowly.

“What are you guys doing here?” Clary said as she hugged Simon in greeting. “I thought you wanted to get out of the city, go to the beach?”

Izzy tugged playfully at Maia’s ankle and squinted up at her. The sunlight streaming through the foliage made her coiled hair shine like a ring of gold.

Maia grinned and sighed. “We had planned that, yes. But Thor over here is convinced he can predict the weather--”

“Hey, all I’m saying is that my hair is standing on end today, which normally happens when a storm is incoming, and a thunderstorm is not the ideal condition for swimming--”

“The weather report has been talking about rain for like a week now, it still hasn’t happened. You’re just afraid of the ocean!”

Simon gasped in outrage, though Izzy could see his eyes twinkle slightly.

“I am not! And how dare you suggest I cannot predict the weather. I’ll have you know that my predictions saved Clary and me from getting drenched during the Great Sports Day Downpour of 2014.”

“Simon, I’m pretty sure you just didn’t want to do the three-legged race with me.” Clary was chuckling. “And I remember that we got wet anyways when you tripped and we fell into that huge puddle.”

“No, I remember that you tripped and I only fell in because our legs were still tied together!”

They all burst into a fit of giggles at the mental image. Even Magnus and Alec looked over grinning from where they were still leaning against the hood of the van, a casual embrace tangling their arms and legs with as much body contact as the heat would allow.

Izzy tried to remember the last time the two of them had seen each other. Had it been a week? Two? Magnus must have been kept busy as well. Now it seemed like they had been standing like this for hours, their bodies slotting together with comfortable familiarity. Isabelle let her eyes wander over to Clary next to her. Was it stupid to hope their limbs would fit together in the same way?

“But even if we could go to the beach, which we absolutely can’t, because of the storm, what would we do without our favourite demon-hunting buddies?” Simon added, and then, stage whispering while leaning close to Izzy, “we were starting to think you guys had fused with your desks, or that you had moved to Canada without telling us.”

“Seriously, you had us worried. When did you last have a day off, or at least take a break?” Maia asked.

Izzy’s shoulders slumped. “Don’t ask, I don’t think I could tell you.”

“Well then, it’s good that we’re here to enforce some mandatory downtime,” Simon said while rummaging around in the back of the van. He finally emerged holding two plastic bags and a canvas tote.

“Maia and I picked up the essentials of relaxation on the drive here. Books,” he turned the canvas bag around so they could see the New York Public Library logo on the front ,“and candy. It’s all Fourth of July themed though. There was a sale,” he added apologetically, as if he wasn’t holding the most beautiful things Izzy had seen in days.

“We appreciate the gesture, but there’s still so much to do, all the paperwork for the cleanup,” Alec chimed in, but Izzy knew him well enough to recognize his opposition as rather half-hearted.

She met Clary’s eyes and they both put on their best pleading face. Simon and Maia had witnessed these battles of will a few times before, so they reserved themselves to keeping quiet and glancing between Alec and his opponents.

Alec tried to seek support with Magnus and looked at him instead. Like Magnus was gonna tell his overworked boyfriend to go back inside for second helpings, Izzy thought, especially when he was right here ready to distract Alec. Her brother must have been kidding himself.

After about five seconds, she could see his resolve crumble like a dry sand wall.

“Okay, you know what, you’re right. Fuck this, let’s get out of here. Hey Underhill,” he called to the Shadowhunter standing just inside the entryway of the Institute, who made his way slightly reluctantly out of the shade and over to the van, “you’re in charge until I get back. Tell everyone to finish what absolutely needs doing today, and then to take the rest of the day off.”

Underhill gave a short nod and smiled. His eyes lingered on Magnus and Alec for a split second, still standing with their arms around each other, before he turned to leave.

They left the van parked in front of the Institute and set off on foot. After a half hour of strolling at a leisurely pace they reached Rockefeller Park and settled under a tree in view of the river. The afternoon sun shone brightly and with an intense glare, and only a few people were sitting on the grass, some under umbrellas to provide shade.

Most inhabitants of the city seemed to have traded the sultry climate outside for air-conditioned offices, apartments, or movie theaters. Even in the middle of Manhattan the world moved slowly and quietly. The traffic and buzz of downtown were miles away, a vague hum in the distance. Time was sticky and thick like honey.

Izzy looked up from her copy of Lavinia. She was feeling sleepy and content, her stomach full of sweets, her sneakers lying next to her with her feet naked on the grass. She took in the scene in front of her:

Magnus was sitting against the tree trunk to her left, her brother’s head in his lap. The warlock had one hand in Alec’s hair, the other held Eros the Bittersweet from which he was reading in a soft voice. Occasionally Alec would open his mouth to make an observation or a joke, and Magnus would look down at him and laugh.

A few meters away Maia had abandoned her reading to try and catch the Skittles Clary was throwing into Maia’s mouth. Simon had also put his copy of Kavalier and Clay aside to watch and to distract both of them by plucking out single blades of grass and pitching them at them with pinpoint accuracy like tiny spears.

Finally Maia had enough and sprang like a fox on the hunt to tackle her boyfriend. After rolling over on the ground once or twice, Maia ended up on top, straddling Simon’s chest and pinning him down. She proceeded to rip out a handful of grass and sprinkle it on Simon, while he laughed and sputtered, trying to blow the grass away from his face.

Clary watched from her Skittle throwing spot, The Wicked + The Divine open on one of her crossed legs. Leaf-filtered sunlight dappled her skin, a smile crinkled the corners of her eyes.

Izzy took a deep breath and exhaled slowly through her nose. The air carried the smells of sunscreen, dry grass, and the river. She had the sudden thought how strange and lucky it was that she was here, lying under a tree with her favourite people in the whole world, how somehow they had all made here. Sometimes it seemed like the world was about to end every other week, and they couldn’t go two months without at least one of them almost dying. But it wasn’t, and they hadn’t.

“Izzy, everything okay?” Clary had sat down next to her. There were faint grass-stains on her grey jeans.

“You know, before I met you, Alec, Jace and I didn’t do this sort of thing.”

Izzy gestured to their surroundings.

“Sitting in some park, during the day, just doing nothing. Sure, we had free time sometimes. Mostly after missions, late at night, when we were so keyed up we just couldn’t go home to bed. We’d get some food, or go to a party, or walk through the city for hours just exploring until the sun went up.“

“And we had fun. But it was always just a distraction, something to kill time, until the next mission or training session, until we had to go back to the Institute or our parents would get mad. The stuff we do with you or Simon or Maia is…” she smiled, “nice. Different. But nice. Is this what being mundane is like? Nothing to do, nowhere to be but here?”

Clary had been watching Izzy’s face attentively, but now she was looking out at the park, the people walking by or lying on the grass.

“Simon and I used to do this stuff all the time. Sometimes I used to think we were just wasting time, but we really had some of our best weekends when we were just off doing nothing. I just didn’t know it at the time.”

“Do you miss, you know. Your old life? Being mundane?”

Clary was quiet for a moment.

“I do, yeah. Even now. I’ll be walking down some street in my old neighbourhood, and it just hits me, the memories. I miss it so much sometimes it physically hurts. And I think about the girl I was a year ago, and she seems like a stranger. A totally different person.”

“But,” she said and her eyes met Izzy’s, “I also think about all the things I’ve seen, everything I’ve learnt. The people I’ve met.” She smiled. “If I was still living my old life, I never would have met you.”

“That, Clary Fairchild, would have been a tragedy.” Izzy grinned.

“Exactly.”

A loud rumbling sounded in the mid-distance. Izzy just managed to tear herself away from Clary’s gaze to look at the horizon. Dark clouds were gathering and moving quickly towards the city, blown by high-altitude winds, although the air on the ground remained hot and still. The air was heavy with static and the humidity clung to her skin. The surface of the Hudson rippled with a few tiny raindrops.

“Ha! What did I tell you?” Simon’s grin was triumphant and infectious. He turned to Maia. “And you doubted me.”

Maia obviously wasn’t ready to give in. “This is nothing. I’m sure it’ll pass and we’ll be fine under the tr--”

The rain came down hard. They had just enough time to pack up their things and put on their shoes before the leafy canopy above them gave in to unload large drops on their heads. It became clear in minutes that staying under the tree wasn’t going to provide much cover.

Simon was the first to dash out into the pouring rain, speeding faster than Izzy’s eyes could follow. When he stopped to wait for the others however the rain caught up with him. He yelped and tried to use his jacket as a makeshift umbrella, which was pointless as any and all clothing was soaked through in seconds.

Maia followed, and immediately after her Magnus and Alec, who were jogging leisurely across the lawn under a small shield Magnus maintained with one hand held over their heads. The faint blue glow was almost invisible, but the rivers of rainwater running off it were not, and Izzy hoped quietly that the few mundanes who remained in the park were too busy getting drenched to notice.

“Our turn.”

Izzy’s attention snapped back to Clary. She had stepped out from under the meager protection of the tree canopy into the rain and was tilting her head back to let the raindrops hit her face. Then she turned back to look at Izzy, smiling, red hair darkened by the rain, a few wet strands clinging to her face.

Clary reached out and took Izzy’s hand. There was a sensation, like a spark of static, but somehow more than physical. Izzy was almost ready to chalk it up to the thunderstorm, all the electricity in the air, or her imagination, when she looked up at Clary.

Her green eyes were wide and tiny rain droplets caught on her lashes. She had felt it too. For a moment they both stood motionless, breaths held, hands clasped.

Then the moment passed, and Clary whipped around to drag Izzy into the rain and towards their friends. Hand in hand they ran across the flooded lawn, water splashing up around their ankles with every step. A flash of lightning followed closely by booming thunder accompanied them.

The others stood under Magnus’ shield, which was now several meters in diameter. Alec was grinning at Izzy when she skidded to a stop next to him. His eyes wandered down to her hand in Clary’s.

“Took you two slowpokes long enough to get here.”

Izzy raised one perfect eyebrow and smiled mockingly.

“Sounds like a challenge. Race you to the Institute?”

Alec’s eyes narrowed, obviously incentivized. He shot Magnus a quick glance. The warlock smiled.

“Oh, go on Alexander, I couldn’t deprive you. Besides,” his eyes flashed golden for a split second, “I’m sure I can keep up.”

In the blink of an eye, Alec had given Magnus a kiss on the cheek and had dashed off. Izzy rolled her eyes and followed. As if he could shake her with tricks like that.

Among shrieks, shouts and laughter the group ran through the pouring rain. By the time they reached the Institute they were all out of breath and soaked to the bone.

By some sort of miracle (and through the magic of plastic bags) the books had managed to stay dry, and Simon stashed them safely in the van before he and Maia made their goodbyes and disappeared in the vehicle as well in search of towels.

Magnus, having had quite enough of being wet, opened a portal to his apartment. He practically had to drag Alec, who was still arguing with his little sister about who had really won the race, through. Izzy and Clary were left alone on the steps of the Institute.

The storm had cooled off the air noticeably, and the weird pressure had lifted. Everything felt suddenly lighter, the constant noise of the rain and the thunder drowning out the hum of the city until Izzy barely noticed it.

Standing in the warm rain, drops hitting her shoulders and face until rivulets formed on her skin, the world faded out until only Clary remained, her eyes, her laughter, her hand holding tight. Izzy tilted her head back and looked up at the sky. She smiled.

#shadowhunters #clizzy #shadowhunters fic #sh fic #isabelle lightwood #my writing #sh writing #clary x izzy #fanfuckery

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