#i could’ve sworn i already posted this but i can’t find it on my blog so here *shoves post at you and runs away*

[bizarreandjarring]

thats gay

[heraldofzaun]

This is my “Viktor has never been a stereotypical evil villain, you guys are just mean” post.

Hi. Well. That says it all, really, but I guess I should elaborate. I think that Viktor has always been a victim of society [cue Joker meme], it’s just that what society has shifted over the course of his lore update.

With new lore, it’s very clearly Piltover casting him out for his (in my opinion, pretty unethical from the get-go) ideas on free will/worker safety/etc. and that subsequently making him worse. But with his previous lore - what I run off of on this blog - I’ve seen a lot of commentary about how he’s always just been “evil”, or that his motivations weren’t defined, etc. And while I can agree that his old lore certainly has less of a word count (5x less, actually) and doesn’t make his motives crystal-clear, it’s just not true that his original incarnation was just a villainous scientist. (Nor is it true that he was perceived as one by his old fans!) It takes a little bit of looking at Blitzcrank’s lore, and the Journal of Justice (hey, remember that?) to see, but it’s there... So, here goes. I’m sorry for how long this ended up being (2k words!) - it ended up touching on a lot more than just Viktor.

Viktor’s always been stolen from. (Except for Blitzcrank’s newest lores, which contradict Viktor’s new lore, which... That’s a topic for another time.) It’s always been Professor Stanwick Pididly (now Professor Stanwick) who’s done the stealing - originally, he was a professor at Zaun’s “prestigious College of Techmaturgy”. In new lore, he’s a professor at an unnamed academy in Piltover. I think the best way to track the new/old changes is bullet-points, rather than writing this all out. Tumblr doesn’t allow T-charts, sadly.

Professor Pididly in old lore:

Zaunite professor.

Stole Blitzcrank (well, the accolades for developing Blitz’s sentience) from Viktor and Viktor’s doctoral team. (While this is headcanon, I’ve always assumed that Stanwick was Viktor’s (and Viktor’s team’s) doctoral advisor. I can’t quite imagine how else he’d pull off stealing a group project like that.) Viktor subsequently withdrew from the college and “barricaded himself in his private laboratory”. (Which is his house in my personal take, because really - what sort of doctoral student can afford a lab?)

Blitzcrank’s case reached Zaun’s legal system, resulting in a “legal maelstrom” (Blitz’s original lore) that ended with Stanwick presumably being legally declared Blitzcrank’s creator.

Blitzcrank’s lore states that “most now know the truth” in regards to who his creator is. This is important for later, so stick that in your back pocket.

Pididly is referred to as “Professor Pididly” in JoJ issues 3, 18, and 23, which are given the dates of August of 20CLE, March of 21 CLE, and June of 21 CLE.

Side note: According to Orianna’s judgment, which is dated May of 21 CLE - stay with me here, it’ll make sense - Blitzcrank entered the League “years before”. As League at this time was mostly running in time with the real world, this makes sense - Blitzcrank was a 2009 champion and Orianna was released in 2011. Judgments seem to be dated to a few days before a champion’s release, in order to tie with the lore - one had to be “Judged” before made a champion... but I’m rambling. Anyways, years before, back pocket.

Is referred to as “Chairman Pididly” in JoJ issue 27, dated August of 21 CLE. “Chairman” seems to be a title given to those in political power in Zaun. Another example is Chairman Magnus Dunderson, Zaun’s “Chief Executive” (issue 5). (I could’ve sworn that there is canonically a “Board of Executives” in old lore Zaun, but scrubbing through the JoJ on the wiki hasn’t turned it up - just Blitzcrank’s lore mentioning the “Council of Zaun”. Maybe it was fanon? Anyways.) Back pocket!

Also stole some work from Viktor in order to revive Urgot. Urgot’s revival was reported on in issue 3 of the JoJ, and the confirmation that it was from Viktor’s work is in Viktor’s original lore.

Professor Stanwick (Pididly? I feel like they ditched his last name because it was “too silly”, also because Stanwick sounds British-adjacent anyways and that’s Piltover’s “thing” - but anyways) in new lore:

Piltovian professor.

Stole Blitzcrank from Viktor alone, who made the robot to help clean up a specific chemical spill. Viktor went to Zaun for a few weeks and came back to find that Stanwick had “held a symposium on Blitzcrank and presented Viktor's research as his own”. Viktor subsequently continued on his studies, culminating with him later being expelled for “violating basic human dignity”. Viktor returns to a laboratory that he had in Zaun.

Blitzcrank’s case is solely a university matter. Viktor petitions Jayce to help support his claim, but Jayce is Jayce and doesn’t help out. The “matter [is] decided in Professor Stanwick’s favor”.

Blitzcrank’s lore doesn’t really say anything about if people know that Viktor made him (them, technically, but Riot doesn’t get to make the robot non-binary), but I guess it’s implied in the 3rd iteration? (That would be the first new one, after the IoW retcon making most champions’ 2nd lores being the same lore with any reference to the titular League of Legends removed.) He works with Viktor in that one. It doesn’t fit with Viktor’s updated lore at all, actually, because it mentions Stanwick absolutely zero times. (A post for another day...)

Has nothing to do with Urgot, since Urgot’s different now.

So, the general plot of “professor rips off a student” is there, it’s just got an added layer of “professor rips off a foreign/out-group student” in new lore to tie into the overarching idea of Piltover exploiting Zaun. (Is Zaun considered foreign? Yes? No? It’s sort of textually implied sometimes to be another city, but can it actually be when it’s physically underneath Piltover? Is the metaphor in new lore a class thing, then? Is it both? Am I supposed to take Viktor’s Russian accent into account when reading this text? I don’t know.) Anyways, so far so... same, in the broad strokes. Unless Viktor’s villainy in old lore is specifically because someone from his city ripped him off, I don’t know how you can compare new/old lore and say that old painted him as a villain.

But what about the everything else I put there? We’re getting there - that’s part of Viktor’s in-universe stuff. I’m taking a quick detour out of universe, to Jayce’s very first lore...

Which had Viktor stealing a techmaturgical device from Jayce. While I can’t cite this, sadly - thank you, Riot deleting the old forums and me not having the patience to look through archives at the moment - there was a backlash around this on the forums. Why would Viktor, a character who’d been stolen from, steal in turn? So Jayce’s second lore, the one that most people were familiar with before the new lore update, was made. Now Viktor stole a crystal after trying to partner with Jayce, Jayce was less well-established as an inventor, he had a bit more character... All good things. (Also, this is probably where the new lore direction of them being former college colleagues come from.)

Also, as an aside: this is the first use I can see of crystals specifically being described as arcane power sources... The only other discussion of magical crystals was the Brackern... which was then merged into magical crystals having to be from the Brackern... Which means that...

But anyways! Clearly Viktor fans didn’t see him as a villain in 2012, or at least not one that would victimize others in the same way that he’d been hurt. They made such a fuss about it that Jayce’s lore was changed to paint Viktor more sympathetically! (When’s the last time that there’s been that much backl- oh. It’s Seraphine again. Anyways.) So, again, Viktor’s perception as an evil scientist mostly seems to have come from people who weren’t really familiar with his lore. So... case closed?

Except that I also want to talk about in-universe things! Everything that I told you to put in your back pocket! Because this post is already over a thousand words and I have thrown myself firmly into this vortex.

Viktor’s victimization by society [Joker meme] is actually probably worse in old lore, which is a fact that I think has been pretty overlooked. While new lore Viktor gets kicked back down to Zaun and gets his work stolen in academia - with Stanwick presumably never being questioned on whether or not he made Blitzcrank, because there’s that whole “Zaunites are bad” thread that is both in and out of universe... Old lore Viktor sure does get it worse, although I admit that this requires some interpretation of canon. His thing with Blitzcrank was, again, a “legal maelstrom” - and with Blitzcrank being considered a Zaunite celebrity before this court case, it seems relatively easy/logical to infer that this maelstrom was a very public case.

So all of Zaun gets to see Viktor crash and burn in court. I’d say that’s a bit worse than just academia seeing it, as is the case in new lore.

And then there’s Blitzcrank’s lore flat-out saying that “most now know the truth” about who made him. (While this lore does predate Viktor’s existence - isn’t it odd to think about a Blitzcrank made by a faceless team of generic doctoral students, rather than Viktor... and a faceless team of generic doctoral students? - I see no reason not to take it as canonical for Viktor’s original lore. There’d been minor lore touchups before, so if Riot wanted Viktor’s creation of Blitzcrank to be an unknown... they could have edited Blitzcrank’s lore.) But Viktor’s still on the fringes, and nothing in his lore (which, again, was written years after Blitzcrank’s) seems to acknowledge that by the time he enters the League we have confirmation, date-wise, that it’s been years since the truth came out. (Orianna Judgment, etc.) That’s to say: people knowing that Viktor made Blitzcrank does nothing for him - he gets no apologies or anything like that.

Of course, if you take League lore as happening concurrently and nix the Judgments and the League, I guess that this is tenuous - but working within the framework of when he was released, it seems clear to me that the implication of all this lore is (whether it was intended by Riot to be read this way or not) that no one in Zaun cares that Viktor was stolen from. It’s an open secret. No one’s seeking justice for him. But it gets worse...!

So, it’s generally known that Stanwick didn’t make Blitzcrank by the time that the JoJ is running. And he’s just a professor for most of the run of that part of the lore, until... Issue 27. In which he becomes Chairman Pididly, someone who is now implied to have political power. (I have to assume he gets the position due to the political goodwill from Noxus that his revival of Urgot must have brought Zaun, but that’s just interpretation.) But! Even though most people know that Stanwick didn’t make Blitzcrank - that he stole Blitzcrank - he ends up not losing his university job (he’s still Professor Pididly for most of the JoJ, after all) but... gaining political office!

All of this is to say that Zaun is so crooked that you can have the fact that you stole from someone and ruined their life revealed... and get a promotion to government! You can shatter an idealistic man who had a “hope to better society” and make him into someone like the Machine Herald and face absolutely zero repercussions. I think that that is significantly worse than how new lore Viktor’s victimization by Piltover consisted of an academia-only dispute that left him with just some bitterness... New Viktor was, after all, kicked out of Piltovian academia for ethics violations, not for Blitzcrank.

Everything surrounding old lore Viktor is a bit harder to piece together, since you have to look through a few lores and make a few inferences, which is why I think that people don’t realize exactly how bad he had it... (That and time erasing memories, or people being new to the fandom, or people not being interested in Viktor, or...) But he had it bad, and I’m honestly disappointed that we never got to explore much of Zaun’s particular brand of corporate corruption in canon. Now they’re the perpetual underdogs, both victims and villians, and Riot isn’t quite sure how to write them beyond constant exploitation from Piltover. (Even the chem-barons have taken somewhat of a backseat lately in new lore, from what I’ve seen - Piltover seems to be the primary cause of Zaun’s ills, because the combined region is now an upper city/lower city metaphor about class. The chem-barons just seem to be written as a result of Piltover’s ignoring of Zaun - because Zaun seems to be more of an undercity than a sovereign city or state, but that varies depending on whatever piece of lore you’re reading and... Another post, another time.)

So. TL;DR: Viktor’s always been a character who was victimized by a city, be it Zaun or Piltover. Viktor’s always been a character more complex than just a maniacal villain, although it takes more work to see that in his old lore as compared to his new. (His new pretty much screams “we are trying to make him and Jayce morally grey”, after all.) This victimization is arguably worse in old lore, as it’s implied that he went through a very public legal case that ended with Stanwick taking credit for Blitzcrank. In addition to that, Stanwick’s subsequent shift to politics implies that Zaun is so corrupt that most everyone knowing that he’s a thief isn’t an issue at all. He’s untouchable.

Viktor’s always been the result of an idealistic man being crushed by a society that doesn’t care for him and his dreams. That’s nothing new.

[2dmenenthusiast]

Bring me down (Arvin Russell x Reader)

Plot: Rather than God, you find solace in your only friend in Coal Creak, Arvin Russel, not knowing that he just might need you just as much as you need him.

Words: 4,176

Warnings: None really? Some swearing, suggestive themes, Arvin beating the crap out of people

A/N: heeeeey so first post yay lmao. (I have another blog tho so yeah) but after watching TDATT I just had to write something about Arvin. The movie is so amazing and if you haven’t watched it I suggest you do. Plus Tom Holland in that movie was just absolutely amzing (and hot af). But I hope you guys like this! I also tried to make the reader as gender neutral and non specific as possible for everyone, so let me know if I messed up anything. Also let me know if you’d like to see more!

There wasn’t a whole lot to do in Coal Creek, West Virginia. Besides driving aimlessly or stopping at the few diners around town, there wasn’t much that people did other than go to work and go to church every Sunday morning. However, people that grew up in Coal Creek still found ways to have fun, whether that was getting their rocks off in some abandoned parking lot or terrorizing some unsuspecting soul walking in the night. Most resorted to just getting drunk on a Saturday night before going to church the next morning, pretending that their head wasn’t pounding from the mass amounts of alcohol they drank the previous night.

Which is why you couldn’t understand for the life of you why Arvin did nothing but get himself into trouble.

“Christ, Arvin,” you sighed, rubbing the wet cloth under his nose to try and clean up the dried blood. “I don’t understand how you get in these damn fights all the time. Can’t you just, I don’t know, talk to them maybe?”

You knew immediately how ridiculous you sounded when the words came out of your mouth. There was no talking to Gene Dinwoodie and his lackeys. You just hated seeing Arvin so beat up all the time.

He scoffed and pushed your hand away, looking off to the side to avoid your gaze as you frowned.

“Fuck that. That no good sonuvabitch is gonna keep messin’ with Lenora unless I do somethin’ ‘bout it.” He then let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Fuckin’ talking. Jesus, do you know who you sound like?”

You weren’t expecting him to suddenly face you, and you sighed as you sat down on your bed next to him.

“Emma, I know. I’m sorry. I just…” You reached over and took his hand in both of yours, thumb gently brushing over his bruised and split knuckles. “It kills me to see you constantly getting bruised and beat up. And I can’t even do anything about it.”

You felt Arvin squeeze one of your hands, and you brought your gaze back up to meet his, your eyes slightly drifting to the purplish discolored skin below his left eye.

“Now that’s not true. Who else would patch me up everytime I get the shit kicked out of me, hm?” he asked, his lips splitting into a grin.

You scoffed and took your hand out of his to push at his shoulder before laying back on your bed, resting your intertwined hands on your stomach and staring at the white discolored ceiling.

“You’re lucky I even still do this for you. My daddy’s startin’ to throw a fit, constantly seeing you over here.” You sat up on your elbows to look at the boy. “He don’t like you too much, y’know.”

Arvin hummed and laid down next to you, turning onto his side and resting his cheek in his propped up hand, and you felt yourself wanting to shrink under his gaze. You and Arvin had some unspoken thing between the two of you. You didn’t know exactly what it was, but you knew for sure it wasn’t something as plain and simple as friendship. You had never kissed or anything like that. Well, besides when you both were about twelve years old and wanted to see what it was like, constantly seeing the adults around you kiss like it was something they did all the time. You were both young and curious, and you couldn’t imagine doing it with anyone else, so it only made sense. Of course, it wasn’t anything spectacular. You were inexperienced kids, and at the time you weren’t really aware of your feelings.

Of course, you had loved Arvin since you were little. You met him when he transferred to your school after moving from Ohio. He was pretty quiet at first, didn’t really talk unless a teacher made him, and he’d get picked on and beat up by the older kids. He was new and didn’t have any friends, so of course he was an easy target. It wasn’t until he met you that he actually started opening up. You were friends with Lenora and often went over to her house, spending the night and going to church on Sunday with her and her family. Your relationship with Lenora sparked your friendship with her stepbrother, and you two were inseparable ever since. 

As you grew older though, you grew distant from Lenora. You had stopped going to church ever since your mother died, your faith pretty much nonexistent at that point, and you began to question everything about religion. You didn’t blame God for letting your mother die. In fact, you didn’t really know how to feel. All you knew was that rather than getting her some actual help, all everyone did was pray.

“Pray for her, y/n. God will save her,” is what they said.

What a load of horse shit. Praying only seemed to make her worse. And when she died, you completely closed yourself off from the rest of the world. Hell, Arvin could barely get through to you sometimes. But despite how angry you were, you still found it in yourself to let him in. The town didn’t like you too much after all that. People who didn’t go to church in Coal Creek weren’t really accepted by the public. They were cast out as outsiders for not finding solace in the Lord’s name. Not that you minded much of course. The town was full of fake people that weren’t worth your time. The only person you cared about was the boy laying on your bed at the moment.

“I miss her sometimes, you know,” you muttered softly, teeth digging into your bottom lip.

Arvin raised his eyebrows, a bit surprised by your words. “Who? Your mom?”

You shook your head. “No… Well, I mean yeah, I do miss her, but… I’m talkin’ about your sister.”

It was silent for a moment, neither one of you speaking as you laid comfortably in each other’s presence.

“... Does she ever ask about me?”

Arvin sighed, running his hand through his slightly untamed hair.

“Sometimes. I mean, she doesn’t really ask about how you are or anything. More like she interrogates me about what we're doin’ when we hang out.”

You swallowed thickly and nodded, standing up from the bed and walking over to your bedroom window, watching as the sun began to set. You then heard the bed lightly creak and footsteps getting closer to you, and you’d be able to tell from a mile away that it was Arvin due to his signature boots. He rested his chin on your shoulder, and you slightly tensed up as his arms wrapped around you.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered softly, looking out at the evening sky with you.

You lightly shrugged. “It’s all right. You’re all I need in this shit town anyway,” you said, turning your head to look back at Arvin with a small smile. 

You could’ve sworn you saw his eyes drift down to your lips for a moment, but couldn’t put anymore thought into it as you suddenly felt his lips against your cheek, closing your eyes at the sensation. It was over all too soon when he pulled away, your body feeling cold as he released you from his arms, and you wrapped your arms around yourself to try and get some of that warmth back.

“I should get going. I’ll see you tomorrow?” he asked, picking up his jean jacket that he had thrown on the floor once he entered your room and slipping it on.

You hummed and nodded, giving him a small smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes as you resisted the urge to ask him to stay the night. He’d spent the night at your house before, but asking him now seemed a bit too intimate. As he walked towards the door, you felt something bubble up in your throat, and as he began to step out of your bedroom, you took a step forward, reaching a hand up before you could properly think.

“Arvin, I…”

He turned to face you, all the words you wanted to say suddenly getting stuck on your tongue, and you sighed as you let your hand drop to your side, feeling a bit pathetic.

“Please… Please be careful,” you said softly, your concern clear in your expression.

Arvin gave you a small smile and nodded.

“I always am, darlin’. Don’t you worry about me.”

You let out the breath you weren’t aware you had been holding once he stepped out, and you watched from your window as he drove away in his beat up car. It was a miracle that thing hadn’t broken down already. You two had so many memories and adventures in that car, staying out late at night listening to the radio or going on short road trips outside of town that you wished never ended. It was one of the only times you ever felt peace, being in that shabby old car with Arvin. And as you fell back onto your bed and reminisced, you couldn't help but feel your heart ache a bit, thinking that one day all of this might come to an end.

_____________

“So is there any reason in particular you need me to be here?” you asked, looking at the front of the high school building from the passenger seat of Arvin’s car.

Arvin puffed on his cigarette and turned to you, blowing the smoke in your face, which you in turn punched him in the shoulder for as you coughed.

“You never know when to stop askin’ questions, do ya? I’ll let you know after we drop Lenora off to see her mom.”

Your eyes slightly widened at the mention of his sister’s name. “L-Lenora?”

As if on cue, the girl came running out the double doors of the school, pausing for a moment when she saw you in the front seat, before finally hopping into the back, Arvin turning his head to meet her gaze. He then looked back towards the school when he heard Gene Dinwoodie and his buddies shout for Lenora as they ran towards the car before he sped off, and you could hear vague shouts of “sister fucker” as you drove away.

The tension in the car grew thick, and you could feel Lenora’s gaze burning into the back of your skull as you let out a shaky breath. You were going to kill Arvin once you got him alone. He knew your relationship with Lenora was rocky, and yet he decided it was a smart idea for you two to be in a car together?

“God fucking dammit, Arvin!” you thought, your fists clenching in your lap.

You glanced over at the boy, catching his gaze for a moment before he looked away, fingers visibly tightening on the steering wheel. Once he pulled up to the church, you all sat in silence for a moment, the only noise being the loud rumbling of the engine.

“That preacher’s a little flashy,” you heard Arvin say, and it was clear he was trying to relieve some of the tension between all of you.

Lenora then piped up from the backseat: “Are you not coming?”

Arvin shook his head. “No, I got some things to do before we go home.”

Lenora looked at you again before dropping her gaze to her lap, scrunching up her dress in her fists. “Does it have to do with them?”

You sharply inhaled and dug your teeth into the inside of your cheek, turning your head to look out the window to try and stop yourself from saying anything too mean. Why was it even any of her business? Sure, they grew up together and were basically siblings, but Arvin was a grown adult who could make his own decisions. And what, she had a problem with you just because you didn’t go to fucking church?

“Go on, Lenora. I’ll be back to pick you up,” Arvin said, looking at her through the rearview mirror.

She didn’t move at first until Arvin told her to go again, and she stepped out of the car, slamming the door a bit more forcefully than she needed to before stomping off towards her mother’s grave. Once she was out of sight, you immediately turned to Arvin and sent punch after punch to his arm, brows furrowed and teeth clenched in anger.

“Are you fucking kidding me, Arvin?! You couldn’t have given me a little warning?! Or maybe picked me up after you dropped your sister off?!”

“Ow, ow! Hey, would you just-!”

He grabbed ahold of your wrists, leaning over you and pinning you against the car door as you struggled underneath his grip.

“Would you cool it?! I wouldn’t have had time to come get you after dropping Lenora off, and I want you to be with me when I do this so I don’t fuckin’ kill someone, you understand?!”

You stopped struggling, looking up at Arvin with slightly widened eyes as your chest heaved, trying to catch your breath. You then became very aware of your position, face flushing as your eyes searched his face and trailed down to his lips. Before anything else could happen though, you pulled your hands out of his grasp and pressed them against his chest, feeling his lean muscles through his tight shirt, and pushed him off of you, quickly sitting up and pressing your back against the seat.

“What… What do you mean by that? So that you won’t kill someone?” you asked, finally looking over at Arvin.

He sighed and glanced over at you before putting the car in drive and driving away from the church, hoping that Lenora didn’t just witness the interaction between you two.

“Fuckin’ Dinwoodie and those other assholes aren’t gonna leave Lenora alone unless I do somethin’ ‘bout it. And I really just need you there to keep me in check. Make sure I don’t beat those sons of bitches too bad. You… You’re one of the only ones that calm me down, so…”

You stared at Arvin for a moment, taking in what he said before letting out a light chuckle and shaking your head.

“Fuckin’ christ, Arvin. You’re a damn idiot, you know that?” you said, your shoulders relaxing a bit as you noticed Arvin forming a smile of his own.

“Yeah, but you still put up with me.”

He sent you a wink and you rolled your eyes, letting out a small scoff as you crossed your arms over your chest.

“All right then,” you sighed. “Let’s go beat up some fuckers.”

_____________

It was raining by the time you and Arvin pulled up to the school, Arvin watching the doors like a hawk for Tommy Matson to come out. Neither of you said a word, simply listening to the radio as you both passed around a cigarette. This must’ve been what Arvin meant when he talked about waiting for the right time. He always mentioned it and told you it was something his daddy taught him when he was younger, but you had never seen him get into an actual fight, you were just there for the aftermath. Well, until now, that is.

Once you saw Tommy exit the building with some girl under his arm, Arvin let out a long exhale through his nose and handed you his half finished cigarette, stepping out into the rain as you took a few puffs. Your eyes then widened when you saw him walk towards the buses with a tire iron in his hand, quickly stepping out of the car and grabbing his arm. He turned around to look at you, the look in his eyes asking “what the hell are you doing?”

“I thought you said you didn’t wanna kill nobody. You’re gonna beat his face in with a tire iron?”

Arvin pulled out of your grip, shrugging his shoulders as if it wasn’t a big deal.

“Won’t hurt him too bad. Just enough to teach him a lesson.”

He then shrugged off his jean jacket and draped it over your shoulders, the look in his eyes telling you that nothing was going to stop him from doing this. Not if it kept him from protecting his sister.

“Stay by the car,” he muttered, parting with a kiss to your forehead and adjusting the tool in his grip.

It only took a few minutes for Arvin to come back, his steps a bit faster and his chest heaving, and he gestured with his hand for you to get back in the car as he threw the wrench he used to beat Tommy with into the backseat and got behind the wheel, speeding out of the school parking lot. While you wished that was the end of it, you knew he still had Orville Buckman and Gene Dinwoodie to take care of. And while you didn’t really like all the violence, you couldn’t help but feel a bit of adrenaline course through you as Arvin drove a bit past the speed limit, tongue swiping out to wet your bottom lip as you glanced over at him.

Arvin soon pulled up to the side of a garage, putting the car in park and stepping out, this time without the tire iron. You knew he probably wanted you to stay in the car, but you couldn;t help but let curiosity get the best of you as you quietly stepped out and followed a few paces behind him, watching as he came up behind Dinwoodie and slammed the hood of the car he was under against his head twice. The scene unfolded so quickly, you didn’t really know how to react, your eyes wide as Arvin kicked the door into Orville and sent blow after blow until his face was bloody, covering his face with a paper bag after rubbing a Twinkie in his face and punching him some more.

At first you didn’t notice it, but your eyes soon caught Gene getting up, regaining his balance as he grabbed a long wrench and began making his way towards Arvin who still had his back to him, completely unaware.

“Hey, asshole!” you shouted, purely acting on instinct as he turned to face you, and you sent a right hook straight to his face, your foot coming up to kick him in the groin afterwards.

You felt a strange, sick satisfaction as you watched him crumble to the ground, hands over his crotch as he wheezed, and Arvin looked at you in amazement for a moment before crouching down next to the moaning boy and putting a paper bag over his head as well. His hands held him by the neck as he made threats to kill him if Gene or his buddies ever messed with Lenora again, the boy wheezing out apologies through the bag, and once Arvin was satisfied, he got up and stepped over Dinwoodie, grabbing onto your hand and dragging you back to the car.

He drove until the garage was far behind you two, pulling over onto an abandoned stretch of road and letting out a shaky breath as he parked the car on the gravel. You two sat there for a moment, listening closely to the sound of Arvin’s heavy breathing before he reached across you and into the glovebox for a rag to wipe his bloody knuckles with.

“Here, let me,” you said softly, grabbing the rag from him and gently dabbing his knuckles with it.

You could feel gaze on you, staring so intently it was like he was trying to burn a hole through you.

“You’re staring, Arvin,” you said, your voice still quiet like you were afraid to speak up.

He didn’t answer, still staring as you grabbed his other hand to clean it as well. You let out a sigh, looking up at the boy.

“Arvin-”

His lips were on yours before you could get another word out, inhaling sharply and tensing up as you felt his hands on your face. It took a second or two for you to relax, melting into the kiss and placing your hands against his chest, gripping his shirt as you felt one of his hands slide around to the back of your neck, pushing your lips further against his as his arm looped around you to pull you against him. This was overwhelming, your mind not able to catch up as Arvin kissed you with everything he had.

“Arvin,” you muttered against his lips, trying to get his attention.

But he didn’t stop, his kisses only becoming more desperate as the rain pounded harder against the windshield, almost as loud as the drumming of your heart. You felt a calloused hand slide up the front of your shirt, and that’s when you knew you needed to stop this before things got way too far.

“A-Arvin!” you persisted, pushing against his chest, and you couldn’t help but feel a shiver go down your spine as he let out a growl against your lips, not happy with being interrupted.

“Fuck, what?” he asked breathlessly, his hand still pressed against your side underneath your shirt as your wide eyes searched his expression.

You swallowed the lump in your throat. “I… I-I just-”

“Y/n,” Arvin muttered softly, his thumb gently brushing over your bottom lip as you caught his gaze.

You let him kiss you again, Arvin capturing your lips with his and being a bit more gentle and slower than he had been before. However, when you let out a soft moan against his lips, it only seemed to spur him on, causing him to part your lips with his tongue and deepen the kiss as he gently pushed you until your back hit the passenger door. Your whole body felt like it was on fire, your skin hot to the touch, and you didn’t know if it was just you or if it was Arvin’s hands that were causing your whole body to heat up.

You let out a small gasp when you felt his hands go to the front of your jeans, attempting to make quick work of the button and zipper, but your hands stopped him, causing him to pull back with his brows furrowed.

“What’s wrong?”

“I-... Isn’t your sister waiting for us? I mean, we’ve been gone for a while,” you said softly. Not that you really cared, you were just trying to buy some time so you could catch your breath and think for a second.

Arvin scoffed in amusement and smirked down at you.

“Since when did you give a shit about what my sister thinks?”

You knew he had you there, and you saw he was about to say something else, probably just to tease you, so you quickly reached up and laced your fingers through his hair, pulling him down to shut him up with another heated kiss. His smirk remained as he kissed you, and in that moment he knew he would never be able to get enough of you. He had always been aware about his feelings for you, and he realized that waiting for the right time could be applied to more than just beating the shit out of people. But perhaps he had waited a bit too long this time, because as his lips locked with yours over and over, he realized he should’ve done this much sooner.

“Arvin, um…”

He pulled away when you began to speak, bringing a hand up to gently hold your face as his thumb caressed your cheek.

“Do you think we could um… maybe do this somewhere less cramped? My dad aint gonna be home til later, so…”

Arvin looked at you for a moment and nodded, giving you one last kiss before pulling away from you and putting the car in drive again. You would occasionally glance at each other during the ride back to the church, not able to help the blush on your face from appearing, and he chuckled at your embarrassed expression, reaching over to hold your hand. He knew once he got you alone, he wouldn’t be able to keep his hands off you. 

By the time you got back to the church, the sun had started to set, and Lenora didn’t say a word as she got into the backseat. And if she noticed Arvin’s hand resting on your thigh, she certainly didn’t say anything about that either. She didn’t even question her brother when he didn’t get out of the car after he dropped her off at home, just watching the both of you drive back towards your house in the rusted vehicle. The giddiness was practically radiating off of the two of you as you thought about being alone with each other, Arvin’s hand squeezing your thigh.

But little did you know, your lives were about to get a lot crazier in the months to come.

[ddarker-dreams]

Hello Miss Lock! I am an avid reader of your blog and I’m absolutely obsessed with everything you write about, especially the bits with Childe haha.

I had a question because I don’t know if you intentionally deleted it or if tumblr glitched (I know it does that sometimes, so I just wanted to write this to ask abt it or inform you) and deleted it themselves, but I could’ve sworn that you had a yandere MBTI for Childe, and when I tried looking for it again, it said that there was nothing there.

My apologies if you deleted it on purpose and explained it somewhere, I just couldn’t find any explanations and it just seemed strange for it to suddenly disappear.

I love your content so much, please keep on doing what you’re doing, and remember to take breaks and rest! You are doing the yandere lovers such a great service 🥺

hello hello!!! thank you for shooting me a message, i’m happy to hear that you’ve been enjoying the childe content. i can’t wait for him to show up in the main story again, i miss him already 😭😭

the yan MBTI childe post is here! tumblr does have a weird knack for randomly making posts difficult to find. all my yandere behavior posts are under the tag yandere behavior if you ever have difficulty finding them again! it can also be found at the nav page which is pinned to my profile, under common tags. 

[watchathon]

Book 3, Chapter 17: The Ember Island Players

In case you’re finding this post just by browsing the tags I’ve used for this post, this is the Watchathon, a blog where I’m hoping to watch an episode of a TV show every weekday, with a short blog post where I write down my thoughts as I watch. Each new thought starts with a hyphen and a bolded first word.

- Like so. Now that the introductions are over with, here’s my thoughts on The Ember Island Players:

- We are literally one episode away from the series finale and Katara in the theme song still says that Aang “has a lot to learn before he’s ready to save anyone.” I could’ve sworn they cut that part out by now. Not complaining, though, it’s kinda funny.

- It’s nice to see Aang and Zuko practicing Firebending. Firebending just looks awesome, even when it’s not actually a fight scene.

- Nice detail that the poster for the play is based on the box art for the Book 1 DVD.

- I never would’ve taken Zuko for the type of person who would have critiques about a specific theater group and how a play’s been “butchered.” And I’m assuming these are opinions he held when he was taken to see the Ember Island Players as a little kid, to boot.

- “This is the kind of wacky time-wasting nonsense I’ve been missing!” I like the subtle leaning on the 4th wall here, referencing how the series gradually got more and more serialized.

- Oh, I’ve got to love the absolute 180 in Katara and Sokka’s reactions just as soon as their fictional counterparts open their mouths.

- It feels kinda weird to watch this episode after having seen countless videos of the Gaang reacting to the live-action movie.

- Toph is just having a blast, ain’t she?

- I just can’t get enough of the Gaang’s reactions to their equivalents in the play.

- Now I can’t help wondering what Peter Pan’s reaction would be to the genderbent casting for him.

- Well, you know what they say, Zuko: “Art imitates life.”

- I get the feeling that the real King Bumi would have as much fun with his interpretation here as Toph is having.

- Nice detail that the Ember Island Players don’t know the Blue Spirit is Zuko. And another thing I couldn’t help but notice: Zuko here takes the place of Admiral Zhao. Zhao’s just been forgotten completely in, what, half a year? For someone as obsessed with glory and legacy as Zhao, it’s an even worse punishment than whatever the Ocean Spirit did to him.

- You can already tell the Gaang’s not gonna end up the heroes of the play when Player Katara is totally supportive of Jet wiping out that Fire Nation town.

- There’s definitely at least a bit of self-deprecation on behalf of the showrunners, with stuff like this joke on how the Great Divide was the only true filler episode.

- I like this scene of the Gaang discussing the play during the intermission.

- This play’s having a lot more luck with its rope effects than that Spider-Man musical did.

- Again, Toph is having a blast. Katara’s waiting for Toph to react the same way the rest of the Gaang did to their portrayals, but Toph is just positively delighted.

- Do you think Toph would want Dwayne Johnson to play her in the upcoming live-action reboot? ...Scratch that, of course she would.

- Added to the list of reasons to get my hands on good video editing software: replace Player Toph’s scream with the audio from the “AHHHHH” video.

- I’ve just come to a realization: this play is the theater equivalent to an abridged series.

- Seems like the audience isn’t all too enraptured by the play, or at least the drill scene.

- I get the meta gag, I think it’s hilarious, and it makes a great meme to boot, but... Jet’s death wasn’t too unclear, really. Sure, they don’t explicitly say “Jet’s dead”, but it’s so strongly implied that there’s very little room for an alternate interpretation.

- This play is hilarious, but it’s clearly bringing back some bad memories for Zuko. He almost definitely doesn’t want to be reminded of how he betrayed the best father figure he had so he could go back to the one who scarred and banished him for speaking out of turn.

- I like the bait-and-switch when Sokka asks Suki if she can get him backstage.

- It’s nice to see Toph chatting with Zuko about Iroh, complete with a callback to when she met Iroh.

- I could’ve sworn there was more mention of the scar being on the wrong side in the play before this...

- I bet Zuko wishes it had been that easy to join the Gaang.

- Y’know what, I’m just gonna say it: the ribbon-bending is also pretty cool. 

- Do you think in like, a few years, the Ember Island Players are gonna revise the play to not only depict how the war actually ended, but also depict the Gaang as definitive good guys?

- You know it was a bad ending when you completely turned around the opinion of even your strongest supporter: Toph.

- You could really just replace the word “play” with “movie” and then you get the general opinion on The Last Airbender...

- I didn’t think this episode would just end there.

[fanfic-reading-challenge]

How’s it coming along, all? :)

Hey everyone!!!

I hope everyone’s been enjoying their challenge so far! We’re 6 weeks in and I thought I’d do a little check-in, totally informal and absolutely voluntary, to see how everyone is doing, check if there’s anything that needs clarifying, or if there are any other questions... stuff like that. :)

I thought it would also be a great time to share a little bit about what we’ve been up to! Favourite fic we’ve read or are currently reading, what book we’ve read or plan to read IF we’re doing said Hard Mode task, how many fics we’ve read, unique authors, different fandoms, if we’ve read a fandom crossover fic and what type... how many words total we’ve read and, if we’re feeling really geeky, how much that averages out to per fic? per chapter? What ship or fandom have we read the most of? Rating? Favourite trope so far, if our data even bears that question out? Have you discovered any new fandoms or ships—new to you, that is? Is there a fic or a fandom or ship you haven’t read in more than 10 years, and somehow, someway, found your way back to? Is there a deep quote you’ve come across? Written by the author or quoted by them from someone else? (Totally valid too, with accreditation!) Have you changed your view on something huge because of a fic you read? Have you found a new favourite ship? Or, like me, have you just added another warship to your giant ship armada? (Pretty sure I’ve read five new-to-me ships already; I love this challenge!)

And so much more! Feel free to talk about, list, or mention anything you like!! Even things you’d like to see next year, or that could’ve been done better or not at all. While being polite, of course. ;)

I’ll leave these questions here for now, answer a couple myself, head to bed, and then tomorrow I’ll share some more of my own stats, favourites, and even some of my frustrations with you! I look forward to it, and to hearing from all of you as well!

If you don’t feel like sharing publicly in reply to this post, please feel more than free to tag me in your own post (and ask me not to reblog) or send me an Ask, or a Submission to this blog that I can approve, or as a Direct Message to this blog or to @juuls — my main blog. I would love some distraction tomorrow, instead of going off on another rant about the world being stupid. :P

I’ll leave you with a few stats to get this started, however!:

I currently have over 700 fics listed on my Reading Log, and only 72 have been read completely!

I read The Library at Mount Char by Scott Hawkins for my Hard Mode book-not-fic task (though I could’ve chosen from 13 other books I’ve already read for that spot!).

I’ve read 52 unique authors.

A new to me fandom (well, sub-fandom, as I’ve read DS9 and AOS/TOS) is Star Trek Discovery, and I’ve even found a fic for literally the very first fandom I became obsessed with as a wee little fanling: Escaflowne. Man! This fic dates back twenty years, back to when I read it on freakin’ GEOCITIES lmaoooo. But then again, I’ve also found some HP fic that goes back further than that, even if I wasn’t actively reading it until one or two years later. My goodness, time flies.

I have also read 25 unique ships and am well on my way to probably tripling that by year’s end. I just love everything, how could I not?

I’ve definitely read short fics, but it looks like my average completed fic (71 fics -- 1,393,005 words total) works out to around 19,620 words! Not too shabby!

The total word count (so far) of the fics I’ll possibly read is creeping well past 12 million now.

I may have a (many) problem(s).

The longest fic I’ve completed so far is a Doctor Who fic at ~207k.

The longest fic I am currently reading -- and it’s still being written!!! -- is an ASoIaF/GoT fic that is ~407k words and counting.

BUT I also have eight fics set in Potterverse waiting for me, which are all more than 600,000 words each. (and tons others in the more than 200k word range -- what is it with that? Do we just love the sandbox or do we want to make Rowling’s characters touch in ways she would despise? 

................ maybe a bit of both.

Yes, dear ones, I am insane. And loving every minute of it.

I may share some more stats tomorrow, but that’s a lot right there! For now, I’m going to go back to an A/B/O guilty pleasure fic (oo, there’s one task down!) I found... ;D 

Anyone have a copy of Draco Dormiens? Coulda sworn I had one hiding out in my hard drives somewhere, but for the life of me I can’t find it... Hm.

Anyway! Have a good night or day y’all! Be kind to one another. <3

And hopefully this rambling made at least one person smile, for that was my aim! I just want this to be fun for everyone and a happy event. No pressure, no best or worst, no comparisons to each other, just to yourself.... learning new things about your own self, too! That’s always wonderful. :) And reading fic in a way that makes it feel like we’re accomplishing something, by making a fun little game/challenge out of it with an aim and a purpose for all those words going in one eyeball and out the other! You can read a book and feel like you’ve “added to your repertoire” and I just want this to feel the same way. :)

It does for me, and I hope it will for you too.

Much love, all.

<3

[alienoresimagines]

Bad liar | Bill "Hoosier" Smith x Gender Neutral!Reader (Part 1)

As requested by @1-800-sharpshootershifty : Hi! I was wondering if you do fics? If so, can you do “Dear lord have mercy on my soul, this women/man will be the death of me.” I forgot what number it was on the dialogue prompt list. But I was wondering if you could do it with Hoosier from The Pacific. Thank you so much your whole blog makes me happy! I don't know what account of mine this is showing up on but my Band of Brothers/the Pacific account is @1-800-sharpshootershifty. Sorry this was really long!

A/N : I'm glad to hear that this account is making you happy!!🥰 This is really short but part 2 will come next week hopefully! I hope you'll enjoy this even though I'm not all that happy about it😅 I changed the prompt to try to make it gender neutral, I hope you don't mind!💚Part 2 here!

Tag list : @wexhappyxfew @inglourious-imagines @floydtab @ray--person @punkgeekchic @luz-lovebot 

Posted : 29/05/2020

Masterlist Taglist Prompts

~The atmosphere was heavy despite the rain and you could distinctly feel the sweat running down your neck making you shiver. Your green, dirty, ripped in places uniform was sticking to your beaten and bruised body, itching for you to readjust it. But you didn’t. Because readjusting your uniform would mean having only one hand on your weapon. You saw enough boys, no, children, doing this and getting killed in the blink of an eye because they weren’t prepared to see hell breaking in front and their cherubins’ faces. Instead, you forced your right hand to relax on the death grip it holds on the weapon in your now calloused hands. If you closed your eyes, you could still remember a day where your hands were soft and warm. When they weren’t the hands of a cold-hearted killer but the hands of a loving teenager who once dreamed of being a teacher, helping people. You remembered singing kids to sleep, watching their eyelids fluttered as you ran your hand through their hair soothingly. And now, as they closed their eyes, the sun is rising as the sky bleed and their eyes will remain closed in the cold. You swallowed thickly as the wind whispered to the trees, a feeling of unease spreading throughout your being. For a second, you could have sworn you saw a pair of eyes shining in the dark. Turning suddenly, weapon raised, you looked at your surroundings, breathing erratically. Your darting eyes were only met by the shadow of the rain. You sighed, heart beating fast. Just another illusion drawn by your worn-out mind, just another day fighting inner demons as well as an invisible enemy.

“(Y/N)!” You jumped, raising your weapon once again as a voice whispered urgently from behind you.

“Hoosier! What are you doing ? I could’ve killed you!” You hissed, a wave of anger flowing through you. However, it disappeared in a heartbeat when you saw the glimmer of worry in his blue eyes, itself masked by the fear and anger you knew wasn’t completely directed at you. Which didn’t mean he wasn’t upset because of you…

“You could’ve got yourself killed!” If there weren’t any chances of the Japanese hearing and shooting at you, he’d probably scream. So would you truthfully. You would scream until your voice was raw and hoarse, just to feel something again, even if it was pain. A firm hand on your shoulder took you out of your trance, stormy blue eyes staring into your broken soul. That’s when you took note of the lack of noise around you. There weren’t any rustles of uniforms, quiet breaths and yet so loud with meaning, sinking into the mud and the occasional swearing under one’s breath. You were alone. No, that wasn’t right. You got behind and Hoosier had to come find you. Cursing yourself in your head, you bit your already bruised lips.

“What are ya thinkin’ about?” He was looking down at you with furrowed brows, dirty blonde hair sticking to his forehead.

“Nothin’” You lied easily, a small smile forcing its way onto your face as you patted his chest while passing him.

“We should get going before they mark us MIA.” you called over your shoulder before you looked in front of you, the smile disappearing from your face almost immediately. Lying was beginning to be an easy thing to do by now, you didn’t even think twice about it anymore. A pang of guilt in your heart made you winced slightly but you were so accustomed to the feeling, it was more of a reaction out of habit than authentic.

Hoosier frowned as he watched you go. He was soaked to the bones, fingers itching for a cigarette and heart aching for your smile that he didn’t see in ages. He couldn’t remember the last time he saw you throwing your head back as you laughed, nor could he see the light of hope in your gorgeous eyes. This situation, the war, all of the things about this place were getting to you and he couldn’t do anything about it. He couldn’t throw himself between you and the rest of the world, cradling you in his arms until this was all over.

“Hoos, what are doing? I can’t have my knight in shining armor getting lost on me, can I?” That’s what you’d say, just a few months ago. He could hear it in his head just as clear as the bells of the church near his house, back in Indiana. He was far too gone for you, he realized with a fond yet pained smile and a shake of the head.

Sighing, he began to follow your steps, walking fast.

“Dear lord, have mercy on my soul, this person will be the death of me.” He muttered a rapid prayer to whoever was there, up above, as he finally walked beside you. Neither of you let your guard down but he made sure that your arms were brushing every now and then, just to see your eyes soften the tiniest bit. Little did he know how truthful these words were and how much he would regret them.

[absolute-barbarism]

Didn’t you once have a sickfic prompt where the whumpee recovers from the flu, starts throwing themselves at their work again, and eventually the caretaker forces them to rest and they wake up feverish all over again? I could’ve sworn it was your blog and I need to find it—

I can’t seem to remember but that sounds EXACTLY like something I would write so it’s gotta be on here somewhere uhhh...

Welp Tumblr’s search function is as helpful as ever so I can’t find it, but fuck it I’ll just write a new one here you go fresh from my ass:

B has been peering over at A for the last hour now, and their attempts at discretion have made it all the more obvious. A wants to snap at them to mind their business already, but they’re so overloaded with paperwork that there’s just no time to chat or chastise. A lot has built up over the last three days they were out. It’s hard to say they don’t resent themselves for their own absence, although with the chills and vomiting in their few waking hours, not much would have gotten done anyways. B cranes their neck a little too obnoxiously, and A finally speaks up.

“Can I help you?” they mutter. Against their sluggish reflexes, they turn to hide their surprise at how hoarse their voice is. 

“Are you sure you’re, y’know, fully recovered?” asks B.

“What, are you that scared you’re going to catch something from me?”

B is undeterred. They get up from their seat, come over to A’s and without warning put their hand on A’s forehead. A tries to smack their hand away with pathetic results.

“I knew it, you’re warm.”

“So? I just got over the flu.”

“Barely. You know, if you push yourself too hard too soon, it’s gonna come back like Flu-Zilla.”

“Funny,” is A’s only bitter response. B looks at them skeptically. Skipping lunch was one thing, the sniffling and coughing was one thing, but to concede like that during their usual work banter was too concerning.

“There’s only ten more minutes until close, let me take you home.”

A sighs, pinching the bridge of their nose. They know B’s right, but they don’t want to accept it. “I still need groceries, and I need to run by the post office before they close, and--”

“You need rest,” says B. “I mean it. I’ll tell the boss if you keep overworking yourself like this.”

B would never, but A tiredly accepts defeat anyway and gathers up their things to go home.

In the car, all is quiet. It’s a long drive and B can tell A’s not up for conversation. When they arrive in A’s driveway, they casually announce “We’re here,” and look over at them, but there’s no response. A is fast asleep in the passenger’s seat, their head lazily rested against the window and their arms crossed around their waist. B reaches over again to feel their forehead and cheeks, and tsks at what they find.

“Told you. You’re burning up...” they mumble under their breath. With a nothing-for-it sigh, they get out and open the passenger side door, unbuckle A’s seatbelt and awkwardly hoist A up into their arms. Seems like they’re gonna have to let the boss know after all. Neither of them are going to make it in tomorrow.

[laurelsofhighever]

*author interview*

I could’ve sworn I’ve answered some of these questions before, but I can’t find the post now, so you get them again! Tagged by @ladymdc and @out-of-the-embers, who are both wonderful people - thank you!

In return, (rattling my brains for people who haven’t already done this) I’ll tag @elgara-vallas-dalen @naiatabris @pigeontheoneandonly​ and @ma-suranas​

-

Name: Lykegenia in most places that aren’t Tumblr

Fandoms: I’m active in Dragon Age and Mass Effect, have several fics in Avatar:The Last Airbender, and tend to hover around other things but not participate. I recently started Fallout 4, so I’ll probably fall down that molerat hole soon.

Where You Post: Both here and on AO3

Most Popular One-Shot: Going by kudos, it’s Jubilant, which is something I wrote very long ago as a standalone entry for Zutara week, that has Zuko and Katara practicing bending together and realising they maybe don’t hate each other as much as they thought. Interestingly, it’s closely followed by Hot Water, the first piece of smut I ever wrote and which I am too embarrased by to ever go back and read.

Most Popular Multi-Chapter Story: My Zutara story, The Things We Hide, an AU where the Southern Water Tribe wasn’t conquered until the return of Sozin’s Comet, and Katara ends up as a political prisoner secretly working to bring down the Fire Nation from the inside. It’s got political scheming, bending battles, Blue Spirit/Painted Lady shenanigans, jail breaks, daring rescues, and Zuko being an utter dork around the girl he loves.

Favorite Story You Wrote:  It’s still ongoing, but I’ve been obsessed with writing The Falcon and the Rose for pretty much three years now, and aside from still being very invested in the story, it’s taught me so much about how to write longfic, how to worldbuild, and how to build character arcs. It’s an AU centred around what would have happened in the Fereldan Civil War if the Blight hadn’t interrupted. It’s got action, tragedy, slow burn romance, political scheming, tests of loyalty, and an ace-spec main character determined to do the right thing.

Story You Were Nervous to Post: More than anything else, A Way To Relieve Tension is one where I posted and ran, and didn’t even really stop to edit on the way. It’s a NSFW oneshot about a first in Alistair and Rosslyn’s relationship, and while I’m proud of it in a way, I’m also still very surprised I wrote it in the first place.

How You Choose Your Titles: I don’t, really. They come to me while I write, and if they don’t, then I just stick anything in there and hope it sounds profound. I haven’t had to resort to the Hozier lyric title generator, though I might in future...

Complete: The Things We Hide, and The Best Laid Plans, a Green Rider fic from before I lost interest in the series. There are a few more from back in my old ff.net days when I wrote for Inuyasha and Torchwood/Doctor Who, but I don’t have access to that account anymore and I’m also super embarrassed by everything I wrote back then.

I have two collections that are technically complete because there aren’t specific plans for future chapters, A Life, Together which is a collection of oneshots held together in the same universe for Zutara Week, and Your Humble Narrator, where I collect

Incomplete: There’s Falcon, and Falcon’s “deleted scenes” counterpart, Feathers and Petals, but right now I’m really good at being hyperfocused dedicated to a managable number of stories at a time.

Do You Outline? Ohhhhhhh yes. I start playing about in notebooks to work out plot order and details about worldbuilding, then I create a full chapter-by-chapter plan building up from dialogue and basic scene setting. It’s really helped keep the plot on track and keep my writing energy from fizzling out because I know how far ahead I need to look for the scenes I really want to write.

Coming Soon/Not Yet Started: I have two AUs in my scopes for when Falcon is (almost) finished. The first is a retelling of Origins where Alistair is a prince raised in Castle Cousland, and Rosslyn is the only one of them who gets made a Warden. The other takes place after the game with Alistair made king by my Tabris Warden, falling in love with a non-Warden Rosslyn who spent the Blight leading the rebellion against Howe and Loghain. I keep veering between which of the two would be more fun.

Do You Accept Prompts? I have a list of prompts on my blog, and I’ll take them, but because I’m focussing so much on my WIPs, it will probably take a lot of time to answer any. And I still have to upload the last few to AO3.

Upcoming Story You Are Most Excited to Write: As I said, I’ve got two new stories coalescing out of the aether, but for now, I’m just really excited to get Falcon finished because it’ll be the biggest thing I’ve ever written, and getting to the end will be an amazing achievement for me.

[nerdypinupcrystal]

Every Breath You Take Chapter 2: A New Me

Iris has moved to Hell’s kitchen with only a backpack and a past she struggles to leave behind. Will a budding romance with the kind and enigmatic lawyer next door help her move on? Or will the monster from her past find her and destroy them both?

Hey guys! I’m back with chapter 2! I’ve been obsessing over this story and I couldn’t wait any longer to update.  Thank you so much to those happy few that have read and liked the first chapter, I hope you continue to enjoy it, and please be sure to reblog and leave some feedback! I’ll do my best to create a masterlist for this story, I’m new to doing these kind of posts so bear with me.  Enough of my rambling, onward to chapter 2....

Chapter 2: A New Me

The walk to the nearest grocery store was thankfully not as long as I anticipated, since there was a Walgreens a few blocks down. Not exactly ideal for grocery shopping, but at least they carried some kind of food at all, plus I was able to get some hair dye, plus essentials for the bathroom and kitchen that the store carried, saved me an extra trip. There was a small linen store not too far from there where I was able to get a cheap comforter set, a couple of pillows and a set of towels. Thank god I brought my backpack, otherwise I’d have a hell of a time carrying all this stuff. Not wanting to add to my load, I decided to make my way home.

It was already dark by the time I reached the familiar apartment building. I’ve heard Hell’s Kitchen can be pretty dangerous at night, but I guess the same can be said for New York in general. Either way, I had no intention of staying out longer than I needed to.  I’ve managed to escape one Hell, no way do I want to push my luck in a city that literally has the word “Hell” in its name.

As I crossed the street to the building’s entrance, I couldn’t help but have the nagging feeling that I was being watched. The hairs on the back of my neck stood straight up, my breath stuck in my throat as I checked my surroundings. Aside from a few people walking by, there was no sign of anyone that looked suspicious as far as I knew. Then suddenly I heard a noise above my head. I quickly turned and looked up towards the roof of my apartment building. It was hard to tell for sure, but I could’ve sworn I saw a dark figure move from the roof. I blinked for a second, and it was gone.  

Pull yourself together, girl. You’re just being paranoid. It’s all in your head. Your brain is just hanging on to those old ghosts you’ve left behind. It’s not him, he couldn’t possibly know you were here. You’re free from him. You’re safe.

My pep talk (that I didn’t realize I had said out loud) snapped me out of my paranoia...a little anyway, and I made my way inside the building.

As I walked down the hall, I slowed to a stop, thinking about my literal run-in with my new neighbor. I feel like such a jackass for how I acted earlier. I can’t imagine what he thinks of me.

I was tempted to knock on his door to apologize for my weird and rude behavior.  But I didn’t.  Perhaps it’s for the best. If my behavior put him off, then that means he’ll stay away. It would be a terrible idea for me to get close to this guy, or anyone for that matter. It doesn’t feel safe enough for me to get that comfortable and I have no right dragging anybody else into my problems. If my experience has taught me anything, it’s that I only have myself, I can only trust myself. I’m better off alone.

With that mindset in place, I made my way into my apartment and locked the door.  I set my stuff down, grabbed the boxed dye and started the process of changing my hair.

As the dye was processing, I put away my groceries and heated up my frozen dinner.  I practically inhaled my dinner in no time, I didn’t realize how hungry I was; so I grabbed my new linens and headed for the bedroom.

By the time I had made my bed and hung the towels up in the bathroom, it was time to hop in the shower and rinse the dye.  It was the first shower I’d had in days; it was such a refreshing feeling, and the water was so soothing on the aches and bruises of my body, I didn’t shut it off until the hot water ran cold.

As I towel dried my hair that was first light blonde, now a vibrant shade of red, I looked over where my new hand towels were hanging.

They weren’t hanging evenly.

My first instinct was to quickly adjust the towels so they were hanging at perfectly even length.  As I laid a hand on one of the towels, my mind went back to an earlier time...

I was sitting on our patio overlooking the beach in the early morning when I heard footsteps approaching behind me. I turned to look up at the familiar cold blue eyes staring into mine as his tall intimidating frame towered over me, casting a looming shadow. “Come with me.” He calmly requested as he held out his hand that easily dwarfed mine, leaving me no other option but to take it. He guided me through the house, the silence deafening. “Isn’t it a little early for this?” I asked in a nervous giggle, assuming he was leading me to the bedroom. Instead of the bedroom, however, our journey stopped in our bathroom. He let go of my hand as he stepped further into the bathroom, his back stiff straight facing me with his hands crossed, looking militant like a drill Sergeant.   “Is everything as it should be in here?” He asked expectantly, giving me a quick second to realize my mistake. “I don’t know why I forgot.” I replied, my heart racing in panic as I rushed to adjust the hand towels on the rack so they can hang evenly as they’re supposed to. He was still tense as he looked at me through the reflection in the mirror. “That’s alright, Princess,” he responded with a tight smile, “That’s why we have to remind ourselves every day.” “Thank you.” I replied softly as I stood obediently with my eyes towards the floor, waiting for further instructions from him. He spared me a glance and nodded, implying I was dismissed. I exited the bathroom, thankful that my mistake didn’t make him too angry this time. 

I snapped out of my memory and took a deep breath. He’s not here. It’s okay. You’re safe. With that moment of clarity, I reached for the towels and shuffled them around until they were completely unkempt. They were messy, lopsided, and twisted up, and it felt so satisfying!  I let out a giggle as I looked at my work.  It wasn’t until that moment that it really began to sink in. I was free. I could feel the weight lifting off my shoulders from this revelation.  I felt like I could really breathe again. I checked myself in the mirror again to observe my new look. I actually loved the red. I thought I would miss my long blonde hair, and I suppose part of me will, but my new hair has immediately become my new favorite look. Cutting it had already relieved part of the heavy burden weighing down on me, changing color relieved it even more.  The expression “New hair, new me” couldn’t be any more true. After double and triple checking the locks on my door, I fell asleep in my new bed feeling better than I’ve felt in a long time.  Outside in the city may be still hard for me, but in my own little world of solitude, in my new  home, I was safe. I fell into a deep, blissful sleep; unaware of a familiar dark shadow on the roof of the building next door, facing my window as he kept a curious and protective watch over me. 

@cametobuyplums

@jobean12-blog

@tomhollandeu

[paleandmoonstruck]

Half-Sick of Shadows CH 2

The next chapter is up! You can go read it on AO3 here. I’ll be properly updating/keeping you guys posted on this blog from now on, so stay on the look out for snippets and the like. As well, if it would so please you, you can leave little prompts in my ask box and I’ll write you a drabble from the universe of this fic! See you soon! <3

“I just think that maybe working in the Peaky Blinders’ pub is a bit too much for you,” Alice fretted, wringing her hands as Lucy slipped into her shoes.

Rolling her eyes, Lucy turned to face her. “And what do you mean by that?”

“You’re a bloody trouble magnet!” Alice said, “I swear you can’t walk two feet down the road without bumping into something you shouldn’t.”

“I’m a big girl,” Lucy said, tugging on her hat. “I can take care of myself around these kinds of people. You know that. And need I remind you who suggested I apply there?”

“You know full well I meant Kelly’s,” Alice hissed. This was true. What Lucy wouldn’t give for someone to have snapped a photograph at the exact moment when she informed Alice that she had been employed at the Garrison. Her face had lost all colour, jaw practically hitting the floor. “How was I supposed to know that the Blinders were looking for staff as well?”

“What’s done is done. I’ll be fine, provided I’m not late like I will be if we continue this conversation. Then they might cut my fingers off.”

Alice lifted her hand to her forehead, sighing rather dramatically as she went to flop down in the armchair. “You’ll be the death of me, Lucy Frasier, you will.”

“See you tonight,” Lucy trilled, stepping out onto the street. The walk was long enough to be pleasant, but short enough not to feel like a trip. She wore her same blue coat, but earned fewer stares. Something warm settled in her chest; a nice familiarity. It made her strides more purposeful, lifted her chin.

The Garrison was empty when she entered, despite the door being open. She locked it behind her according to Arthur’s instructions. Making for the back room, she shrugged off her coat. She nearly jumped out of her skin when she heard a sharp “shh!”

“Hello?” Lucy whispered, whipping her head around the back room. A flicker of movement in the corner of her eye. A small girl crawled out from beneath the desk, face and hands streaked with dust and dirt.

Unsure how to respond, Lucy stared down at the girl. She looked to be around ten, and was staring up at Lucy with an equal amount of bafflement. She, however, was not at a loss for words, “Miss Charity?”

Blinking, Lucy snapped out of it. “No, my name is Lucy Frasier. Is that who’s watching you?”

“I wish,” the little girl said. “I’ll I’ve got is Katie, who’s a right pain. That’s fine, though. I’m playing hide-and-seek with her, and she’ll never find me.”

“Right,” Lucy said slowly, “and who might you be?”

Sticking her hand out like a prim and proper young lady, she ducked her head in greeting. “Georgina Shelby, Miss Frasier. Pleasure to meet your acquaintance.”

She mispronounced ‘acquaintance’, and Lucy felt a small bubble of affection rise in her chest. Shaking her hand, she offered Georgina a bright grin. “And I yours, Miss Shelby.”

Then she realized exactly what the girl had said. “Shelby? Like the Shelbys who own this pub?”

“Yep. It’s my Uncle Arthur’s pub, but everyone knows that Uncle Tommy is the one who really owns everything,” she said matter-of-factly. A shadow passed over her face, and she narrowed her little eyes, “if everyone knows, then why don’t you?"

Despite herself, Lucy couldn’t help the relief blooming in her gut at the words ‘Uncle Tommy’. “I’m not from Birmingham,” she said. “I’ve just arrived to live with a friend. I’m working here as a barmaid and a singer.”

Georgina nodded, understanding glowing in her eyes. “So you’re here to replace Miss Burgess?”

“I suppose so,” Lucy said, utterly confused but not unhappy. Setting her hat on the coat rack, she offered Georgina a hand, “why don’t we get you cleaned up, and you can help me set up in here if you want to hide from Katie?”

Tommy Shelby had never felt uncomfortable entering the Garrison before.

This is ridiculous, he thought, standing outside the door of his own bloody pub like an idiot. He reached into his jacket pocket, thumb tracing the worn gilded letters of the book that lay there. He was loath to part with it, but it had never been his.

Pulling off his cap as he walked through the front door, he sped up as he took in the sight of Georgina talking Lucy’s ear off. He had no idea how she had snuck in here; Esme was going to have a heart attack.

“What are you doing here, Georgie?” he said by way of greeting.

Spinning around in her seat, Georgina’s face lit up, “Uncle Tom!”

He allowed her to fling herself at him, meeting Lucy’s gaze over her head. A soft grin was tugging at the corner of her mouth, her eyes warm.

He had the random urge to crack a joke, just to broaden her smile, and force her dimple to appear.

Instead, he pulled away from Georgina, leaning against the polished wood of the bar. “I see you’ve met our Georgie. I hope she hasn’t been too much trouble.”

“She’s a delight,” Lucy said, voice utterly sincere. God, did he love her accent.

Georgina peeked up from where she had burrowed into his chest, “isn’t she wonderful? And so beautiful? I thought she was Miss Charity at first!”

He regarded her suspiciously. Georgina never acted so stereotypically childlike unless she had an ulterior motive. “Very wonderful, Georgie. Now where’s Arthur? Tell him I’ll watch the pub for a bit so he can bring you home.”

The soft puppy-dog look in Georgina’s eyes died immediately. “I don’t want to go home.”

He sighed, bracing himself for a negotiation session. A true Shelby, Georgina never did something for nothing.

“Say,” Lucy said, just a little too pointedly to be off-hand, “you remember that princess you were telling me about? With the flowers in her braid?”

Flipping to face Lucy, Georgina narrowed her eyes at her. “Princess Lyra?”

Shrugging, Lucy leaned over the bar to get closer to the eight-year-old. “If you go home with your uncle, I’ll drop by on my next day off and teach you how to braid your hair the same way.”

For a moment, Georgina looked as though she was considering getting that in writing. Instead, she held out a small hand for Lucy to shake, “sounds like a deal.”

There was the grin. As Lucy curled her fingers around Georgina’s, her lips curved into a dazzling crooked smile, revealing the dimple in the hollow of her left cheek. For the briefest of moments, Tommy’s breath caught in his chest.

You’re an idiot, he thought, tapping Georgina on the shoulders. “Alright, deal struck. Go get Arthur.”

As soon as Georgina scampered off towards the back room, Lucy arched an eyebrow at him, “who is Miss Charity?”

“One of those newspaper cartoons,” he said. “She’s a debutante, supposed to teach young girls lessons in etiquette. Georgie’s obsessed with her. She wants to be the next queen.”

Her smile grew mischievous, “I am exceedingly well-mannered.”

He couldn’t help shooting her a disbelieving look, “from what I remember of you, you’re far from a lady.”

For the briefest of moments, the air in the room seemed to still. He cursed himself. The memory of her flashed across his mind: their fingers interlaced, the soft curve of her waist, the faint taste of champagne that had clung to her mouth.

Her eyes narrowed, then she rearranged her posture. Spine straightening as though she wore a corset, her limbs gained a fluid, airy quality. She composed her face into a perfect mask of neutrality, settling on one of the bar stools with all the grace of a duchess. “My grandmother was very big on etiquette,” she murmured, offering him the small smile permitted to proper ladies. He preferred her grin.

He grabbed a cigarette, striking a match as he lifted it to his lips. This was interesting information, it could be of use. “Full of surprises, I see,” he said, turning his attention to the burning in his lungs.

She dropped the charade, propping her head up on her fist. “I’ve got plenty of hidden talents.”

Was she really looking at him like that, or was he imagining it? Either way, he needed to change the subject before he did something inadvisable. He reached into his pocket, pulling out her book of Tennyson and laying it on the bar.

He didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing. She paused, lifting up her head and flicking her gaze back and forth between the book and his face. Her hands shook as she reached for it, picking it up off the bar like it was something holy. He watched her fingers trace the letters of the title, and when she looked back up at him he could’ve sworn there were tears in her eyes. “You kept it?”

“It brought me comfort,” he said, coming to stand rather abruptly. Picking up a glass and a bottle of gin, he gestured towards the snug. “I’ll be in there, if you need me. Pleasure to see you again.”

So he left, cigarette still trailing smoke in his hand. She would have asked for explanations he didn’t have. This was for the best.

“You motherfucker!”

Lucy’s head snapped up, already coming around the corner of the bar to break up whatever was about to happen. Two men stood in the half of the room closest to the door, barely two fists apart.

One was slightly taller, with slicked-back blond hair and a wicked scar across his cheek. His bone structure was both fine and sharp, like someone had decided to fashion a knife into a man. He was exactly the kind of person she’d cross the street to avoid.

The other was no more comforting. His dark hair was cut short on the sides in the modern fashion, a peaked flat-cap clutched in one hand. He was a Blinder, and he was currently punching the blond man in the face.

She winced. The Blinder looked strong, built broad and muscular. By the time she made it three paces they were exchanging blows, and the door to the snug was billowing open.

Something about the idea of Tommy watching made her a little braver. She stomped across the shining floors of the pub — floors she had just scrubbed this morning — and wedged herself between the men, planting a hand on each of their chests. “Hey — Hey! Stop it!”

The men came to a pause, panting heavily. The blond glared down at her. “I’d move, if you don’t want that face of yours to get a lot less pretty.”

“Shut the fuck up and save it for someone who cares,” she spat. Something warm and wet splashed against her neck, and she realized the Blinder behind her was bleeding. Turning to examine his face, she found bright green eyes trained on her. He was somewhere between fury and curiosity, and she couldn’t help but shiver beneath the intensity of it. His eyebrow was split, dripping blood down his cheek.

“This fucking cunt just stuck his hand up my friend’s skirt,” he said, nodding towards a young woman who was cringing away from them both.

“I don’t care if he tried to kiss the fucking queen,” Lucy said. “If you have something you’d like to sort out with fists, by all means take it outside. But keep it out of my pub.”

Before she knew what was happening, the blond had reached out and wrapped his hands around her neck. For a heartbeat she was frozen, brought back to a different day, a different set of fingers curled around her throat.

She slammed her fist into his nose.

He reared back, bellowing as his hands flew up to his face. Blood hit the polished wood, and he stumbled away from her, reaching for his coat. “You fucking bitch!”

The Blinder called out to him, “this isn’t fucking over, McCreedy!”

Lucy stepped away, desperate to shake off the claustrophobic feeling that surrounded her. She looked at the young woman ‘McCreedy’ had grabbed. “Are you okay?”

Lifting her timid gaze, she spoke with a strong French accent, “quite alright, thank you.”

“Are you sure?” Lucy asked, switching to French, “I’ll get you a drink for your nerves, on the house.”

The girl’s face softened, relief blooming across her features. “Merci beaucoup.”

Turning back to the Blinder, she tugged on his wrist, picking up his half-glass of whiskey. “Come with me, you idiot.”

He followed her obediently to the bar, and she pretended not to notice Tommy making his own way over. She tugged the handkerchief out of the Blinder’s pocket, dumping his whiskey on it. “Stay still,” she instructed, reaching up to clean out the cut on his eyebrow.

“Pleasure to meet you,” he said dryly. “The name’s Gideon, by the way.”

“Lucienne,” she murmured, focused on the split. “But English folk call me Lucy.”

“We’ve heard of you,” he said, trying his best to gesture back to his table without moving. “Arthur Shelby’s been telling everyone who’ll listen about the pretty new face he’s hired.”

She hummed noncommittally, trying to ignore the burning feeling of Tommy’s gaze on her neck. The skin there still throbbed, and she redoubled her focus on Gideon’s cut. Snapping open the first-aid kit she had made up, she used a clean pair of scissors to cut a butterfly bandage. She lined up the layers of skin with careful precision, sticking the bandage solidly in the middle of the wound.

“There,” she murmured, “shouldn’t even scar.”

He grinned, “much obliged. Now, I’ve heard you’re a singer. How true is that?”

“Depends on the day,” she said, turning to her first-aid supplies to avoid eye-contact.

“We’re musicians, my friends and I,” he said, grabbing her hand. She stiffened at the sudden contact, but he didn’t seem to notice. “You should perform with us, we come in here with our instruments sometimes.”

Sighing, she turned to look at him. His eyes were bright, face like a kid on Christmas day. She offered him a small smile. “We’ll see.”

“Let me walk you home.”

Tommy’s voice floated across the empty bar. The cleaning was finished for the night, and Lucy was about ready to lock up.

She tossed the idea around in her head. Did she want to prolong her time in Tommy’s presence? Undeniably. Despite herself, every moment where they were in the same room felt important and precious. She couldn’t go longer than a few minutes without flicking her gaze over to him.

But this was a different time; a different place. Whatever had been between them in France had disappeared, and there was no use trying to fool themselves into thinking otherwise.

“It’s fine,” she assured him, shrugging on her coat.

His eyes caught on the bright blue of it. She watched him swallow, eyes flicking over her with a look she couldn’t quite place. “After this evening? Please, for my own peace of mind.”

“Okay,” she murmured, something wondrous and strange unfurling in her gut as he offered her his arm.

The walk was quiet. She supposed neither of them knew what to say. It was like one of Alice’s terrible romance novels come to life in the most terrible way. Their steps were aligned, every thump of their feet beating in perfect time with one another. She wanted to bottle the sound for later and write a song.

A cry of pain tore through the night buzz, shaking her from her thoughts. They stopped dead, and Lucy cast her gaze up at Tommy. He was already reaching for the gun at his waist, shifting to curl himself closer to her. Another loud cry echoed from the alley they had just passed, followed by a whimper of pain.

Without thinking, she peeled herself out of Tommy’s arms and sprinted towards the shadows. Someone was hurt. Her mind raced, fingers already reaching for the first-aid kit in her bag. She heard Tommy curse behind her; the sound of his feet following hers.

A girl leaned against the alley wall, head tipped back in pain. She clutched her abdomen. Blood stained the gray concrete.

Lucy approached slowly, speaking soft, “what’s happened?”

The girl turned, and Lucy saw that she wasn’t bleeding from anywhere on her torso. She was young, maybe sixteen. “I got pregnant,” the girl whimpered, eyes wide and wild with pain.

“And then what?” Lucy coaxed, crossing the alley to come to her side.

“My man went and left me. I had to go and get the baby handled.”

“Tabarnak,” Lucy cursed. She turned to Tommy, who had his gun pulled out and a strange look on his face. “She’s dying. I need to help her.”

“You can bring her to Watery Lane,” he said. “It’s closer than the Garrison at this point.”

She nodded, turning back to the girl. “Can you walk? I can help you, but I need to get you somewhere safe and clean first.”

The girl nodded, and as Tommy rushed them along, Lucy asked for her name.

“Angeline.”

“Very French,” Lucy mused.

“My mum read it in a book once. It means ‘angel’. Guess I’m not an angel anymore though, am I?”

“What makes you say that?”

“Thou shalt not kill. One of the imp —” Angeline cut herself off with a cry of pain, and Lucy shifted to take more of her weight. By the time they reached the front door of Watery Lane, she was practically dragging her across the sidewalk.

Tommy nearly flung open the door, sidestepping out of the way to allow Lucy some room. She placed Angeline on the floor with little grace, already scrambling for her bag. She heard a cacaphony of voices from a nearby room, but her entire world had narrowed to what was in front of her.

She worked methodically, cleaning her hands with Dakin solution and snapping on a pair of gloves. “Angeline, what did the abortionist use?”

“A knitting needle.”

Lifting up Angeline’s skirts, Lucy gently removed her bloody undergarments. “Jésus et tous ses saints.” It was likely an internal bleed; something she was not authorized to — or capable of — fixing.

Swishing black fabric entered her line of sight, and Lucy looked up to see an imposing older woman standing above her. “Who are you?”

Lucy took off her hat, laying it to the side.“Miss Lucienne Frasier. A pleasure. Do you have any red raspberry leaf tea, perchance?”

The woman blinked at her. “You’d like some tea?"

“Not for me. For Angeline. It’ll slow her bleeding, hopefully.”

“Right,” the woman said, nodding and turning on heel.

Lucy refocused. Angeline was crying, body shaking against the hardwood. Shushing her, Lucy rubbed gentle circles on the back of her hand. “It’ll be alright, ma chouette. I need to know, how far along were you?”

“Six weeks, I reckon,” Angeline choked out. “I wanted to keep it, at first. Had names picked out and everything.”

Lucy kept talking even as her mind raced, “what were the names?”

She was bleeding somewhere Lucy couldn’t stitch without cutting her open. She needed to clean the wound and stop the bleeding. Angeline hadn’t been far along enough to need anything removed. Any embryo or the bare beginnings of a fetus would have been swept out before Lucy had stumbled upon her.

“If it was a girl, I would’ve named her Elizabeth Jane, after my mum and my aunt. She could’ve been Eliza, for short. If it was a boy, it would’ve been James Henry, after my brothers. They died in the War, over in France.”

“Those are beautiful names,” Lucy murmured, racking her brain. She needed to stop the bleeding, but not by closing the wound. The next best thing would be pressure, she supposed, but how could she apply pressure to an internal wound?

“You’re a nurse, are ye?” Angelina asked, “were you in France?”

An idea struck Lucy. Slapping on a pair of gloves, she tore open her bag for her roll of bandages, beginning to wrap it into a ball. She answered Angeline’s question absentmindedly, “I was.”

“Was it horrible? The dying and all?”

“A moment,” Lucy said, pouring Dakin solution on a smaller wad of cotton gauze. “I”m going to use this to clean the wound. It will feel very, very strange, but you have to trust me. Keep talking to me, alright?”

For a brief moment, Lucy came back to where she was. Tommy was on the other side of the room, standing with the older woman from before. They were next to one another, but both staring at her. She was still in her coat and shoes, kneeled before a stranger’s gentials on the floor of a near-stranger’s entryway.

“Right,” she said, turning back to Angeline. “France was horrible, I suppose, but not in the way you’re imagining. You get used to everything eventually.” She tied her soaked gauze to a thin metal rod she’d typically use to set a broken bone. Inserting it as smoothly and quickly as possible, she focused on cleaning where her approximation of the wound was.

“The first few times a man dies underneath your hands, it’s awful. There’s a moment, you know, where you can feel it. It’s like when the string of a kite snaps. There’s so much movement, and energy, and then suddenly there’s nothing; you’re left holding a bit of loose thread. And you want to snatch at the kite — get it back, somehow — but it’s already so far away. But the first time I had a patient die on me, and I felt nothing? Nothing worse. I felt like a monster. That’s what was horrible about France. It did something to people; took away their humanity. We were packs of beasts hurling lead at each other and crawling back a few kilometres to lick at our wounds.”

The rod came out soaked in blood, but it sizzled against the Dakin solution. This was working.

“What was the worst thing you ever saw?” Angeline asked.

Balling up more clean gauze, Lucy had to stop and think about that one. “I once held a toddler as he died,” she whispered, her voice nearly echoing in the dead-silent room. She kept cleaning the wound. There was resistance at the cervix, but whatever the abortionist had done to enlarge it originally was still holding true. Voice shaky, Lucy kept going with her story.

“He was a civilian casualty. Covered in massive burns. The skin was peeling off of him, almost down to the bone. I couldn’t do anything but ease the pain.” She tried to keep her movements smooth and slow, her fingers flexing jerkily. “He was so tiny. Malnourished, probably. I took him out of the tents, away from the noise and stink. And I held a globe of ether to his face, and sang until he died.”

The older woman spoke from behind her, “what did you sing to him?”

Lucy turned to peer over her shoulder, the woman standing there with a pot of tea and tin mug. “An old Jacobite song,” she answered. “Something my grandmother would sing as a lullaby. I suppose to me, it’s a promise.”

“Of what?” the woman asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Protection. The song was written about Bonny Prince Charlie. For me, it means ‘I will keep you safe, even at my own peril.’”

Angeline closed her eyes. “Will you sing it?”

Lucy stiffened. She had sung the same song for Tommy. He would remember that. What would he think of it? How could she explain the strange sense of connection she had felt for him since the beginning?

But Angeline looked so small. So tired. And Tommy wasn’t dumb. She had already tipped her hand by describing the song. Might as well thoroughly fuck herself over. So as she tended to Angeline, she began to sing:

Speed, bonny boat

Like a bird on the wing.

’Onward’, the sailors cry.

Carry the lad, that’s born to be king

Over the sea to Skye.

Loud the winds howl,

Loud the waves roar,

Thunderclaps rend the air.

Baffled, our foes stand by the shore;

Follow, they will not dare.

Tommy had drawn in a sharp breath behind her, but she just kept working. The cotton was coming back less and less red.

Speed, bonny boat

Like a bird on the wing.

‘Onward’, the sailors cry.

Carry the lad, that’s born to be king

Over the sea to Skye.

Though the waves leap,

Soft shall ye sleep;

Ocean’s a royal bed.

Rocked in the deep, Flora will keep

Watch by your weary head.

She gestured for the older woman to approach, still singing. Angeline looked as though she might fall asleep, and though she hated to disturb her, she needed to drink her tea. Flipping around, she lifted Angeline’s head into her lap, lowering the mug to her lips.

Speed, bonny boat

Like a bird on the wing.

‘Onward’, the sailors cry.

Carry the lad, that’s born to be king

Over the sea to Skye.

Many’s the lad, fought on that day

Well the Claymore could wield.

When the night came, silently lay

Death, on Culloden’s field.

Angeline drained the cup, and Lucy gently shifted out from beneath her head. Balling up yet more gauze, she tied it with medical string, measuring it against her fist. Hopefully it was small enough to fit, but large enough to actually apply pressure. Cutting the song off for a moment, she forewarned Angeline, “this is going to be very, very painful.”

Angling the rod, she wished for the umpteenth time that she had proper equipment. With careful hands, she began to stuff Angeline with the gauze.

Speed, bonny boat

Like a bird on the wing.

‘Onward’, the sailors cry.

Carry the lad, that’s born to be king

Over the sea to Skye.

Burnt are our homes;

Exile and death.

Scatter the loyal men.

Yet ‘ere the sword, cool in its sheath,

Charlie will come again.

Speed, bonny boat

Like a bird on the wing.

‘Onward’, the sailors cry.

Carry the lad, that’s born to be king

Over the sea to Skye.

Over the sea to Skye.

Through it all, Angeline cried and bit her palm. Lucy desperately wanted to cry too. Her chest was too tight, her head light. Instead, she kept at it, reaching up to hold Angeline’s free hand. By the time the song was over, the gauze had gone where it needed to. The string still hung out, leaving the ability to remove and replace it.

“Shhh, mon gentil ange,” Lucy murmured, drawing Angeline back into her lap. “It’s over now. You did such a good job.”

Crying into her legs, Angeline choked out a response, “do you think I’ll go to Hell?”

“What, for getting an abortion?”

Angeline nodded, her small frame shaking.

“I don’t know if you’ll go to Hell or not. Though — and I’m not much for church anymore, but —if I remember correctly, that’s what repenting’s for? God knows that we are but weak mortals, prone to sin, and all that. And I have to say, if you've decided you're going to Hell, ma chérie, it should be over something a little more exciting than making sure your eventual child doesn't grow up in poverty, shame, and suffering.”

After a beat of silence, the older woman spoke up, “do you have anyone you can call for, sweetheart? Someone should stay with you.”

“Me mum. She lives on the other side of the cut.”

“Right,” the woman said. “I’ll take her address, and I’ll get one of the boys to take you there in the car. Miss Frasier, would you like to take a seat? Tommy will you get you something to drink, I’m sure you’re in need of it.”

Stripping off her gloves, Lucy reached for her notebook. “I’ll take your address too, mon ange. I’ll come visit you in the morning and redo your gauze. You should stay in bed until I give you the clear to move about.”

Copying down the street and number of her apartment, Lucy supposed she would need Alice’s help to find it. She made to stand, but found that her legs gave out beneath her. She nearly fell, a strong arm wrapping around her waist to steady her.

Looking up, she saw Tommy standing there with a glass of whiskey. “Careful,” he murmured, leading her to a small couch.

“Thank you,” she said, taking the glass and knocking it back greedily. The burn centred her, brought her back to where she was. Warmth bloomed in her chest, though whether it was procured by the alcohol or the way Tommy was looking at her was up for debate.

He leaned towards her, and despite herself she rested her head on his shoulder. He was solid beneath her, unwavering. It brought her an indescribable comfort. His voice was soft, “you just can’t help yourself when you see someone in need, can you?”

“You should be grateful for it,” she said, “it’s what kept you alive in France.”

“And here I thought I was just that charming,” he said, smiling into her hair.

She snorted, “you wish.”

“You mean you weren’t overcome with the desire to save me after glancing at my beautiful, sleeping face?”

“Oh, of course.”

Someone cleared their throat, and they tore themselves away from each other to see that same older woman. “I thought I’d introduce myself,” she said dryly, “my name is Elizabeth Gray, but you may call me Polly. Lucienne, is it?”

“Please, call me Lucy.”

“Right. So, how exactly did you come into the acquaintance of my nephew?”

Suddenly, Lucy realized that this was the ‘Aunt Pol’ she’d heard so much of. “I met him in France,” she said softly, scrambled brain desperately trying to gauge how she should be acting in order to win the woman’s approval. “I was a nurse. He was dying. I fought to be allowed to try and save his life. He stayed with me for a time, in recovery.”

Polly seemed to weigh this, dark eyes glinting in the low light. “So we owe you a debt.”

“No,” Lucy said, shaking her head. “It was my job, and my pleasure. I’m in Arthur’s employ now, too, so consider any perceived debt repaid.”

“Then you have my gratitude,” Polly said. “Feel free to stay here for the night, we’ll send a message along to your home.”

Lucy accepted the offer, giving Polly Alice’s address. She was swept upstairs, given an old dressing gown, and settled into a guest room. Lying in the dark, she stared up at the ceiling for what felt like hours. Her mind raced, with thoughts of Angeline, thoughts of France, thoughts of Tommy.

Like the act of thinking his name somehow summoned him, she heard a gentle knock on the door and a slow creak as the man himself slipped into her room. “Are you alright?”

Sitting up, she gathered the blankets around her bare shoulders. “I suppose so.”

“I couldn’t be sure, and I knew you wouldn’t say anything in front of Aunt Pol,” he said, settling on the foot of the bed.

“She was so young,” Lucy murmured, “and she was bleeding so much, and it’s not like I could just stitch it up, you know? God, I was so terrified. She came so, so close to dying.” She laughed bitterly, “there’s still no guaranteeing anything. Maybe I just prolonged her agony.”

Something was making a pattering sound, and she realized that she was crying, tears falling onto the quilt. Tommy hovered for a moment, tension seemingly corded into his every muscle. Then he came forward, wrapping his arms around her.

She felt something snap in her chest, the tears coming in sharp bursts. Burrowing her head into the crook of his neck, she finally let herself sob the way she had wanted to for hours. He held her quietly, thumb tracing soft circles into her shoulder until her crying lessened. “What do you need from me?”

“Just this,” she managed, curling closer. He smelled like leather and fresh cigarettes, and all she wanted was to stay there forever.

“Alright,” he murmured, “however long you’d like.”

Chapters: I, II ...

Ao3

[thepatricktreestump]

You Dangerous Man: Suga imagine

A/N: so i have a lot of little BTS drabbles in my phone notes and i thought maybe i should post some of em? they’re kinda naughty and the formatting sucks but oh well heehee

Out of all the members of BTS, you could’ve sworn it was Min Yoongi who hated you the most. While the others liked to play with your hair, cuddle you on the couch, or dress you up like a doll, Suga would have none of it. You constantly flirted with the boys with full knowledge that they were head over heels for you, kissing them on the cheek or shooting them a wink, but Min Yoongi never bought into it. You’d ask him how you looked in a dress, twirling around and beaming, and while the others would gush over you and shower you in compliments, Suga would only narrow his eyes or shake his head. He called the others dumb and foolish for falling for you, even sometimes saying hurtful comments like “she’s not even that cute” or “all the attention you give her is going to her head,” but you were sure you were going to win Min Yoongi over one day. 

After dinner, you’re sporting a new lipstick that Jungkook had bought for you, and you’re showing it off. 

“She is so beautiful! Wow.” Taehyung gushes. 

“So gorgeous.” Jimin sighs. 

“You look like a princess!” Hobi nods his head. 

“What about you, Yoongi? What you think about y/n’s lipstick?” Namjoon asks.

“Yeah! Isn’t it beautiful?” Jin wonders. 

“She looks like a whore.” Suga mutters under his breath, going to leave the room. 

“Hey!” Namjoon gets heated easily, tugging on his arm and pulling him back. “What did you say?” 

The other boys are staring in shock, some in hurt. You’re just surprised. “She looks like whore,” Suga shrugs. 

“You know what, I think you need to spend some quality time with y/n to make up for the rude things you’ve said. Maybe apologize to her while you’re at it too.” Namjoon decides, still angry. “How about you bunk with her for the night?” 

Yoongi rolls his eyes and groans. “Sure,” he mumbles. “I’d love to sleep with a whore.” 

While Namjoon follows at his heels, scolding him and shouting at him to be respectful, the other boys console you and comfort you, although you’re not bothered or offended in the slightest. You’re just infatuated with the mystery that is Suga Min Yoongi. 

That night, crammed in a bunk, staying up late and laying with a now asleep Suga, you were quite bored. So before you know it, after hours of scrolling through army blogs and accounts, you find yourself reading bts smut. Mainly because you’re curious as to what the army writes about them, but also because you never had before. It doesn’t take long before you start getting turned on and making whimpering noises and halfway through a Suga fic in which he’s fingering you raw, you click your phone off and close your eyes, trying push the impure thoughts away to go to sleep. God, he’s right beside you anyways. 

You close your eyes, but almost a split second later, you feel his arms pull you close and Min Yoongi whispers “now what might you be reading that for, you naughty girl?” 

You swallow hard and reply “uh n-nothing” and he shakes his head.

“I don’t think it was nothing,” he murmurs. “Because correct me if I’m wrong, but that was the fourth one you were reading.” 

You take in a sharp inhale and he chuckles softly, slowly gliding a hand down your side. 

“Don’t think that just cause I don’t speak a whole lot of English doesn’t mean I don’t know what smut is, y/n.” He starts kissing the back of your neck and you turn around to kiss him. “God,” he smirks. “I knew you were a whore.” He ends up fucking you rough, saying things like “if I knew you were so desperate for attention I would’ve given it to you already” or “don’t think I didn’t know you were getting turned on while reading those, I have this dripping wet pussy to prove it” and he’s telling you to call him oppa and how he’s been dying to fuck you and finally afterwards he says that he always knew you’d fall for him and you thank him and he mumbles “you know honestly, if there was shit like that written about you, I’d be up late reading it and jerking off too” with a smirk before sighing, wrapping his arms around you, and closing his eyes. 

You lay in silence before you bring it up. “You know, I always thought you hated me,” you admit. 

“No, I just didn’t want to come to terms that I was so caught up with you like the rest of them. I didn’t want to lose you. And I didn’t want to let you know,” he confesses. “Sorry if I was a dick.” He looks at you apologetically and you just chuckle. 

“You infatuated me more than you’ll ever know,” you whisper, planting a kiss to his lips. “I’m just glad you could finally unravel the little secret you’ve been hiding.”

You wake up in the middle of the night, fluttering your eyes open until you come to the realization, absolutely shocked that you’re in someone’s arms, Min Yoongi’s of all peoples. You squirm and try to escape but he just tugs you back. “Where do you think you’re going, little one?” he hums. 

“Yoongi, the others cant-“ before you can even finish he digs his nails into your hips to scold you. 

“Oppa. When we’re alone together, you call me oppa. Understand?” he instructs. 

“Look, the others can’t know about this.” You narrow your eyes, annoyed. 

“Sure they can. You are mine.” he replies, digging his nails in harder. 

“Yeah but you’re gonna break their hearts. You know I have my little flings with the boys,” you whine. 

“What? You need me to add some hickeys for more convincing?” he threatens. 

You stay silent, unsure of what to say.

“Look, they just have silly crushes on you. But me,” he drags his lower lip between his teeth before letting out a low moan. “I’m absolutely obsessed.” 

You turn around and kiss him, and things escalate even more throughout the remaining hours of the night. The next morning you’re sure to be the first one out of bed, dragging Min yoongi out with you, so the others don’t suspect anything. But all throughout breakfast, you’re reminded. The fingernail prints in your hips, the ghost of his lips on your mouth, the smirks and glances he gifts to you across the table, and the casual brushing against or gentle hand on your shoulder when he passes by. The others don’t seem to notice, but you do. And you can’t wait until you’re alone with him once more.

[gothamstodd]

White

1940′s!Bucky Barnes x Reader Colors: Part 6

Word Count: 1.5k+

Summary: In which the color looks brighter than ever.

Warnings: None!

Author’s Note- I honestly hope I get someone to cry with this chapter (happy tears, HAPPY TEARS, because I almost cried writing it lol). There’s only one more part after this, then probably an epilogue so hey!! I worked really hard on this series so I would love love love to hear what you guys think of it so far!

Masterlist | Ask Box | Taglist

Blue | Red | Violet | Black | Gold | White | Green | Epilogue

1944

The scent of coffee filled your nose, a newspaper lay under your hand unread, a mug filled with the cause of the aroma surrounding you sitting in front of you untouched. Your eyes traveled over the ladies around you, you wondered how many of them were thinking about their husbands or fiances, their sons or their brothers. And how many of them couldn’t be bothered, maybe they thought of work, or the news as they read it, maybe they thought of the weather, or of their children, a few talked to their friends as they sat with their breakfast or their coffee.

There was so much gray at that cafe. The ladies mostly wore black and white, the coffee cups, the newspapers, and the buildings all matched them, along with the overcast sky and the tables in front of you. You almost felt out of place in the blue dress you wore.

It was too quiet, almost in tandem with the lack of color. No paperboy stood on the corner shouting headlines, no mother walked the streets with a screaming child. The cars on the street passed almost silently, as if they were too exhausted to announce their arrival. The world seemed unbelievably still. The Brooklyn streets suddenly seemed to move like molasses. The world looked empty, and tired.

You took a deep breath as you thought about how dull everything was, beginning to look around desperately for some kind of vibrance, and some type of life.

The sweet smell of pancakes joined the aroma of coffee, and you watched as a waitress bought two plates of shortstacks to two women sitting at breakfast together. A flower sat in the vase between them, though you barely managed to notice its’ violet color. You looked up to the sky, searching for sunlight, waiting for it to break through the overcast sky and stream down on the cafe- it didn’t. Finally, you looked back down, staring straight at the table Bucky had been sitting at the day he first talked to you. You wondered if maybe they’d moved it sometime since, or if perhaps you were thinking of the wrong table.

It didn’t matter much, the fond memory came to your mind anyways. Maybe the world wasn’t too incredibly dull- not if something like that could happen to someone like you. Of course Bucky was always telling you he couldn’t believe you were still single when he finally worked up the courage to talk to you, he always said you were way out of his league, and he could never believe you chose to stick with him, you were a ‘catch’, he’d say. But you always thought he was too bright for you, too vibrant, a color you wouldn’t dare to be around to dull. Still, there was no staying away from that color you loved.

You turned your eyes to your newspaper, finally resolving to at least check out a few of the headlines.

“Hey, doll.” A familiar voice interrupted your reading and caused your heart to nearly jump out of your chest, “What are you reading?”

You jumped up from your chair and immediately turned to face him, tears already pricking at the corners of your eyes. “Bucky…” You whimpered.

You threw your arms around his neck, breathing in the scent of his uniform. You held onto him tight, pulling him close as you possibly could. And you just held each other, feeling your bodies slotted against one another for the first time in ages. 

You just held each other and watched the colors show up, the cornflower blue of your dress, the bright scarlet of the rouge painted on ladies lips, the purple of the tiny flowers sitting in the cloudy vases at the cafe tables, the olive green of Bucky’s uniform. You just held each other and let yourselves remember the feeling, remember the warmth, the comfort, the memory of being at home finally, at home in each other's arms. You just held each other, and didn’t bother to care that people stared at you. You just held each other, so tightly that maybe your joints would begin to ache when you finally let go of one another. You held on to each other as if it was the only thing keeping you from falling to your deaths.

“I love you.” You cried into his shoulder, “God, I missed you so much.”

“I love you too.” He said into your hair, tears streamed down his cheeks, he breathed you in, the scent of the soap you used almost bringing him back to the apartment you shared. “I missed you too.” He continued, voice coming out sloppy, words running together because he didn’t bother to annunciate.

“Are you okay? Are you hurt? Why did they let you go home?”

“I’m okay, I’m okay.” He answered quickly, “They let me go on leave because I complained enough. And there were a few special circumstances.” He chuckled.

“Okay.” You breathed.

“Okay.” He replied.

“Okay.” You said again almost unsure whether you were laughing in relief or simply crying.

“Okay.” He echoed again.

You decided to ask him the question you dreaded the answer to, “When do you have to go back?” You sniffled, head still buried in his shoulder as you held on to each other.

“I leave mid-day tomorrow.” He said. “But you and I are gonna make the most of every second that I’m here. I swear to you.”

“Okay.” You said once more, nodding quickly. “Okay.”

“Okay.” He laughed weakly.

“How did you know I’d be here?” You asked quietly, you knew more questions would come spilling out as soon as you started to ask them, but you were okay with that.

“I checked home first and you weren’t there so I asked the neighbors if they knew where you went-”

“Their names are Anne and Henry. Jeez Bucky, how many times do I have to tell you before you remember?” A smile came to your lips at his antics.

“I remembered, I just elected not to use the names.” Watery laughter escaped both of you. “Anyways, so I asked our elderly neighbors, Anne and Henry, and they said you went to breakfast. Naturally, I knew exactly where that was.” He smiled as he pressed a kiss to the crook of your neck.

You shook your head, “And you just had to use your famous pick up line?”

“Exactly.”

“I love you so much.” You lifted your head to finally look into his eyes. The familiar blue eyes you caught yourself drowning in again and again.

“I love you too.” He replied. The words weren’t enough for him, he’d have to say it to you a thousand more times for it to add up to even a sliver of what he felt for you. “I love you so so much.”

He leaned forward and kissed you with so much fire you could’ve sworn you got a little bit dizzy, not caring that an old lady gasped loudly at your racey show of affection. You giggled against each other’s lips at her reaction. You suddenly felt the vibrance of being around him again, the youth, and the unmistakable spark in your heart.

“Hey let’s get married.” Bucky pulled away and shook his head, “Let’s get married right now, at city hall. I can’t stand another minute not being your husband. Let’s get married.” He said.

“I- I don’t have dress.” You sputtered.

“Pick the first white dress you find in your closet, we can put a towel on your head for a veil for all I care.” He laughed.

You frowned, “What about rings?”

“Don’t you have your grandparents’ old rings somewhere?” He asked.

“Yeah, I guess I do.” You shrugged, “In a box in my underwear drawer, I think.” You giggled.

“Let’s get married. What do you say?”

“Okay.” You nodded, and kissed him again. “Yes.” 

You both cried, shining grins adorning your faces.

Soft white fabric between his fingers. Holding you. Happiness; overwhelming happiness. A plunging neckline and a long white skirt.

“You’re beautiful.” He shook his head with a disbelieving chuckle and said it again, “You are so beautiful.”

He carried you bridal style into a shabby and dimly lit apartment. Even with the shades pulled open, barely any light filtered onto the old record player, the piles of worn out books he’d read at least two times over each, or the wobbling dining table that barely stood on three and a half legs. It didn’t matter. This place was home. You were his home.

Any place would count as home, as long as you were in his arms.

“We’re married.” You said giddily, the grin unable to leave your face.

“We’re married.” He echoed, the beam on his face matching yours.

“I love you.” You both said in unison, followed by giggles. Nothing would bring you down now. You had until noon the next day to not have to let go of one another, to stay completely intertwined with each other, to be overwhelmingly, impossibly ecstatic, and you were going to be.

Read part seven here!

I would love to hear what you guys think so far!

@fuckthatfeeling

You can add yourself to my taglist here if you so choose! (rip it’s so puny now lol. at least I’m not one of those writing blogs who have a tag list that’s a WHOLE pain in the ass to scroll all the way past)

(or you can send an ask or reply to this post or shoot me a message or whatever if for some reason the form is not working for you)

[inakua]

See What Tomorrow Brings

Request:  HP/Draco x Hermione/a love/hate relationship? That stems from having to prefect duties together? Jealous Ron?/no smut or anything extreme, just fluff? - @hermione-who​ for @fanficnet​

Warnings: n/a (I will always try and tag as many warnings as I can think of for each writing, if you read through and find something that I haven’t listed which may be a trigger for someone please send me an ask or message me so that I can add it to this list, thanks!)

Pairings: Draco x Hermione

Words: 1,739

A/N: hi guys! sorry it’s been a while since I’ve posted anything, I’ve recently restarted my fanfic and writing network back up, a part of this net is that people send in oneshot requests and then our writers (around 6 of us so far) will write for the requests we want to, meaning that some people will get more than one oneshot for their request! It would be really appreciated if you could check out the net @fanficnet​ and send in a request for us to write :) We also review others writing, have a ficrecs page and post prompts every Monday and Thursday, if you wanted to send any of your writing in there! All info is in the blogs description! 

Hope you like this oneshot, i love Dramione so this was great for me to write! Although I did veer more to the ‘love’ part of the love hate relationship ;)

Okay so I realised when I finished this that there isn’t really that much fluff and their isn’t any jealous Ron, but I like it I hope you do too! Even though I went a bit rogue and didn’t comply fully to your request <3

Just a bit of background info, basically this is set in their 6th year, so when Draco has already taken the mark, the two of them have done prefect duties since 5th year and they started becoming friends, albeit slowly and with a lot of arguing. This turned into a relationships, which they have successfully kept a secret.

Sorry for this super long A/N, hope you don’t mind :/

REQUEST A ONESHOT

Harry was confused.

Today was a Wednesday, which meant that tonight was the night that Hermione had prefect duties with Malfoy. Why did this confuse him? Well almost every Wednesday evening since the beginning of term Hermione had ran into the common room, ranting about something or another that Malfoy had done.

This evening though, she’d been quiet, if Harry hadn’t been actively waiting for her then he doubted he’d even have been able to tell she’d entered the common room.

She’d made her way over to her arm chair, the one that stood directly in front of the fireplace, and was facing away from the door. It was her favourite spot because not only was she kept warm by the fire, but people generally either forgot she was their or didn’t notice because she was hidden behind it’s large back, a book usually in hand and silent as a mouse.

As he watched her sit, not even picking up a book, but just staring out at the rain smashing against the window panes, he thought back to just last Wednesday when she’d arrived back from prefect duties.

...

“He’s so infuriating!” Hermione cried, Harry could’ve sworn she had smoke coming from her ears. She’d been like this ever since she’d stormed into the common room, a regular occurrence now that she was doing prefect duties with none other than Draco Malfoy.

“What did the Ferret do this time ‘Mione?” Ron asked, jumping at any chance he could to bash Draco Mafloy.

“He - He just - I can’t, he’s so obnoxious and self absorbed” She screamed, hurling herself onto her arm chair, before springing straight back up and again and pacing in front of the fire.

...

As the memory replayed in his brain Harry couldn’t help but be curious about her change in attitude, what had happened?

Cautiously, and against his better judgement, he made his way over to where Hermione was sat, her body still and rigid.

“Hey, you alright there ‘Mione?” Harry asked, placing a hand on her shoulder. At the contact Hermione jumped, not expecting the sudden touch as she was ripped out of her thoughts.

“Harry?” She asked, blinking slowly as her best friend came into focus. 

“Yeah,” He replied, his worry increasing at her behaviour, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing I - I just - I just need to get some sleep?” She asked, as if she wasn’t too sure herself and was trying to convince herself just as much as she was Harry.

“You sure? You know you can tell me anything,” Harry assured her, grasping her hand in his and squeezing reassuringly.

“No, I - Uh, it’s fine, really. I’ll just go up to bed now,” Hermione replied, her voice broken and slow.

As she stood up, she squeezed Harrys’ hand, offering him a hesitant smile, before making her way up to the girls dormitory.

She wished she could tell him was was going on, she really did.

...

The next morning Hermione awoke to find that it was still dark outside, checking the time she realised that it was only 5am. 

Blearily, she got out of bed, groaning as her body clicked after staying in one position all night. 

She knew that it was too early for anyone else to be up, so she made her way into the bathroom, making sure to cast a silencing spell on the door so no-one would hear as she turned the shower on and got in.

As she showered her thoughts strayed to the events that had transpired yesterday evening,

How could he have been so stupid? He just had to go and get a bloody dark mark, I knew he’d have to get it eventually, but why now? Why didn’t he tell me about it? Why was old Moldyshorts branding a 16 year old? I didn’t think he’d get it until he was of age. He’s going to get himself killed, I wouldn’t be able to bare it if he wasn’t here with me.

Hermione didn’t even realise she was crying, that the water had gone cold and the only warmth was that of the tears running helplessly down her cheeks.

She needed some fresh air, to get out of the castle, she couldn’t stand the thoughts that were swirling through her mind.

Getting out of the shower, she pulled on some joggers and a vest top, before making her way out of the bathroom, down the stairs and out into the corridors of Hogwarts, not caring that the air was cold and she was sure to freeze with just a vest top on.

Walking along the corridors, she couldn’t help but jump at every shadow, created by the barely there moon as it descended into the horizon,

The silence was deafening, as ridiculous as it sounds, but it was true. She was so used to the hustle and bustle, to the busy corridors in between lessons and the cries and shouts of students as they tried to shuffle their way to wherever it was they were heading.

Just as she was about to turn up a flight of stairs, a figure appeared from around the corner in front of her. Quickly, and without any hesitation, she whipped her wand out from the pocket in her joggers and help it in front of her, ready to defend herself should the person attack her.

“Mia?”

“Draco?”

They both asked this at the same time, Hermione tried to keep the smile of her face at his nickname for her, but didn’t succeed. Luckily it was just dark enough that she didn’t think he’d noticed.

“What are you doing up?” Draco asked, waking towards her, just as she began taking steps towards him.

“I - I just needed some air,” She replied, trying to stay strong after seeing him for the first time since yesterday.

“Me too,” He admitted. The two of them stood there for a minute, neither talking, never making eye contact.

“Look - “ Draco began, at the same time Hermione opened her mouth to say something.

“I don’t -”

You go first,” Hermione said.

“Okay, I - I’m sorry about yesterday, I didn’t mean for you to see my mark, I just, I didn’t want you to see it,” He told her, reaching out and hooking his fingers under her chin, lifting her head so that she was looking at him and not the floor.

“So you were going to lie to me?” She spat, eyes glaring daggers and nose flared at his declaration.

“I - no. I was just - yes. Yes, I wasn’t going to tell you,” He admitted, dropping his head to look at the floor. Hermione, not caring that he was ashamed carried on with her rant, 

“I knew it was going to happen eventually! But I thought you would’ve told me! How did you think I felt when I pulled your sleeve up and saw that branded on your arm, like nothing but a cow put up for slaughter. Then - Then you had the nerve to tell me that it wasn’t my place, that it wasn’t my place to know that the boy that I loved had the dark mark. I can’t let you die Draco! I don’t know what I’d do if you died! It would ruin me, all of this, everything we have, it would be for nothing, because you wouldn’t be there. You wouldn’t be there to hold me in your arms, you wouldn’t be there to kiss me or hug me or love me because you’d be dead.” 

Hermione had tears streaming down her face, fists were clenched at her side and the volume of her voice rising and rising until she practically screaming at the boy in front of her. Draco didn’t know what to say, he just stood there numbly, her words vibrating around in his head.

“You - You love me?” He mumbled.

“All of that and all you get from it is that I love you? Of course I love you, you idiot. Why would I be stood here, broken because of what you’re doing if I didn’t love you? I - I can’t Draco, I love you so much, what if you die? I don’t - don’t want to live without you - I -” 

Before Hermione could get herself anymore worked up, Draco dragged her into his arms, clinging to her for dear life. His heart breaking as her sobs tore through the silence, he could feel her tears on his torso.

“I love you too Mia,” He whispered, which only proceeded in making her sob harder. “I - I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you, I just - I didn’t want you to be disappointed in me. I had to take the mark. I need you to understand that. If I didn’t then he would’ve killed mother, he would’ve killed everything that he knew I loved.”

The pair stood, neither wanting to move or leave the warmth of the other after their adminssions. Draco stroked her hair as she continued to sob into his chest, her cries diminishing as they stood there. 

Hermione clutched onto him as if he were the only thing left, her sobs ceasing when she felt the tell tale wet drop of a tear falling onto her shoulder. 

“I don’t want to lose you Draco,” Hermione whispered, now much calmer than before and content in the arms of the one she loved.

“You’ll never lose me Mia, I’m always with you and after the war -” 

“Don’t finish that ... please,” She asked, her voice strained as if she was in real pain. “We might not make it to see the end of the war, so for now can we just live in the moment and see what tomorrow brings?” 

“See what tomorrow brings,” Draco smiled, “I like it.

The two of them held each other until the moon had disappeared and the sun was poking up from behind the castle walls.

“I love you,” Hermione mumbled, removing herself from his arms reluctantly, placing an affectionate kiss on his cheek. 

“And I you,” He replied, grinning cheekily as he lent down and pecked her on the lips, squeezing her hands in his before they walked away, both back to their respective common rooms, but not before stealing one last glance at each other as they made their way around the corners.

[fairytalelovr]

Winter Roses Fanfic

Completely AU from the end of the Rebellion! After Ned takes Jon from the Tower of Joy, he stops by King's Landing to see Robert crowned. There, they discover the former Queen had died in childbed. But while Prince Viserys escaped Dragonstone, the baby Daenerys was not born soon enough and was brought to the capital to face justice for her family's crimes. This story is about Robert allowing Daenerys to live in Winterfell, betrothed to Jon to sully her line, rather than disgrace himself by murdering a baby.

A/N:  I've started posting this fic in AO3 back in November, but now I'll begin posting the chapters here. You can find the link to the fic in AO3 in my blog. I'll post one chapter per day until Tumblr is up-to-date and then I'll post here and in AO3 at the same time.

Prologue — The Betrothal

Ned looked to the child in his arms, Lyanna’s words echoing in his ears despite his sister having fallen silent over an hour ago. The boy was quiet, but his eyes were open and curious, even though the maid had told him the baby was only hours old. Eyes that were dark, though Ned knew babies’ eyes changed after birth. The wispy hair on the top of the child’s head was the same dark brown of Lyanna’s, the Stark brown. It was said that Targaryens had magic in their blood, and that is why they married within the family, to keep the magic strong. Perhaps the magic in the boy understood having silver hair and indigo eyes, like his father, rather than status would be only a death sentence. He looked up as he heard heavy footsteps. It was Howland, coming down the hallway, limping a bit, though his wounds had been seen to. “Maid told me what happened. I’m sorry, Ned. I know you only wanted to save her.” Ned nodded. “Nothing we could do, after all. Guess it makes sense now why Rhaegar left his best men behind.” “To protect a bastard?” Ned winced. “Lyanna wouldn’t have done that. I… honestly, it doesn’t matter anymore. She’s gone, Rhaegar is gone. By now Stannis will have taken Dragonstone. House Targaryen is over.” Howland nodded. “What… what are you going to do? You… you saw what happened to Rhaegar’s other children. And he… this baby has a stronger claim than Robert, than anyone else. If people were to find out…” Ned sighed. “I… I hate to ask this of you, my friend, especially when you have just saved my life. But Lyanna asked me, on her deathbed, to protect her son, and that I will do. For such, no one must know who he really is.” Howland frowned. “I will claim him as my son.” The other man was shocked. “Ned, but… you… and Lady Stark! How…” “I will not be the first lord to have a bastard, nor will I be the last.” “He will be forever tainted by that.” “But he will be alive. Robert trusts me. He won't think twice about it. No one will.” Howland nodded. “You have my word. I swear, on my and my family’s honour, for everything I owe your sister, that I shall never speak of this to anyone else.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The trip from Dorne back to King’s Landing was long and hard, especially the stop at Starfall. The maid that had been with Lyanna was in fact a woman from the village whose child had perished from a fever less than a week before, so she had vowed to keep the secrecy if she could care for the baby. “My babe was taken from me, milord, and the Princess was ever so kind, to send food and aid once she heard my little Rya was sick. Even the Prince, he sent his maester down to my hut before the man died. My payment for their kindness will be to protect their babe.” And as such the matter of the child’s wet-nurse was handled. Next, Ned needed to prepare his sister’s body for the voyage. The High Septon himself brought three Silent Sisters on the next morning. “I was saddened to hear, I was,” the man said. “They were so young and in love! Of course, I worried when the Prince asked me for his annulment, but then once he told me about… the annulment was correctly given, Lord Stark, and my Septas assured me the next morning that on their wedding night your sister was pure. So it was all done very correctly.” Ned wasn’t sure if it was as much consolation as the man had hoped. “I’m sure you understand, Your High Holiness…” “No one will ever hear the truth from my lips, I swear it. No one will know what happened here in this Tower. The Sisters I’ve brought can’t read or write, and they’ve sworn a vow of silence. Even if they wanted to — which they don’t — they couldn’t tell anyone the nature of the Princess’ death.” Ned thanked the man. “You are, of course, welcome to join my group as we make our way back to the capital, your High Holiness. Now that it’s safe to return to the city.” The man smiled and accepted the offer, leaving the room Ned had taken as a solar. Sighing, the northerner went back to organising their contingent. They were no longer a handful of men riding hard to save a distressed woman (who had never been in distress in the first place). Now he had to account for Lyanna’s bones, Howland’s wound, the baby, and his wet-nurse. And the High Septon. The arrival in King’s Landing was not as he had hoped either. He’d told the nurse to stay as quiet and out of the way as possible, hoping the seven months it took him to return to the capital would have made it reasonable to be believed he had stopped somewhere to pick up his bastard son. Or at least that no one would question that in his grief for losing his sister, Lord Eddard Stark had forgotten his vows and allowed a woman to console him. As it turned out, Robert was too distressed over the box with Lyanna’s remains to care. It was only on the next afternoon, as Ned was watching the nurse take the baby for a walk in the sun, from the balcony of the chambers Robert had given him that the new King approached. “So, whose is the child?” “Mine,” Ned said, hoping his friend would take his blushing for shame and not guilt. “I'm not proud of it, but I have claimed the boy.” “Ha! You! With a bastard!” “I'm no saint, Robert. We were at war. I'm a man. And my wife is all the way in Riverrun.” “You could’ve left the boy. Sent some money.” “This was my misstep and I’ll take responsibility for it. The boy comes home to Winterfell with me.” “And what’s his name?” “Jon,” Ned said. His name is Aegon Targaryen. “Jon Snow.” “But the surname should come…” “It matters not who his mother is, let alone where she is from. He is my son, and he will be raised in Winterfell. His name is Jon Snow.” “A whore, then?” Ned clenched his jaw. He knew Robert would keep asking until he got an answer and then wouldn’t care about it again. “Wylla was her name.” “Pretty?” “I was too drunk — we’d just won a battle.” “Ha! Didn’t I tell you? Nothing gets the blood flowing better!” Robert laughed, as if it was the funniest joke in the world. “What happened to her?” Ned was growing each moment more uncomfortable. He was shit at lying. “Don’t know, don’t care. For all I know, she’s still a whore. I offered a pension, but she said no. She wanted to send the boy to an orphanage. No interest in being a mother. So I took him.” “I could legitimise him, you know,” Robert said, looking at the boy again. “Say the word and I’ll sign the damn paper.” Ned blushed. On one hand, no child deserved to grow up a bastard. But then again, he had to think about Catelyn and the shame he was already forcing upon her. He knew his nephew was a few months younger than his son, so there would be no question on the line of succession — and bastards, legitimised or not, always ranked behind all trueborns. On the other hand… to legitimise him would spike people’s curiosities. Especially about his mother. And Ned really was shit at lying. The less people who asked, the better. Besides, even legitimised, Jon would never be treated the same as a trueborn. “No. Catelyn… she doesn’t deserve this. We haven’t had a proper marriage so far, what with the war keeping us apart, but she is my wife and she deserves better. It’s enough that I’m claiming him and bringing him to Winterfell.” “Your Grace,” called a squire, interrupting a conversation that had gone on too long already. “Your Lord Brother has just returned…” Ned almost sighed in relief. He knew his friend. Robert very rarely took interest in things to ask twice about them, unless it was a particularly pesky whore, a good wine, or a worthy opponent. The chances of him asking about Jon’s origins again were slim. “Well, that knucklehead certainly took his time! Where is he?” the King asked. “In the Small Council Chamber, Your Grace. He wishes to speak with you, Lord Stark, and Lord Arryn as soon as possible.” Ned followed the King, relieved that Robert had bought the lie without question. Once they entered the right room, Jon was already there, conversing with a clearly distraught Stannis, as a young woman held a baby nearby. “What is the meaning of this?” “I’ve taken Dragonstone, Your Grace,” said Stannis. “My men are securing the castle as we speak.” “And the baby dragon and his infernal mother? Where are the last two of that retched family?” “Viserys escaped, brother. I know not whether they were tipped off or if they knew we would come eventually, but servants said three loyalists absconded with the boy to Essos. The former Queen died,” at this Robert laughed, but Stannis wasn’t finished. “In childbed.” The King’s laugh died abruptly, finally realising what the baby in the room meant. “And you bring it here! Your orders were—” “My orders were to secure Dragonstone and bring the last of the Targaryens to justice. I have fulfilled those orders. I will not, however, murder a babe just for the sake of your revenge.” “Take care of how you speak!” “Take care of how you behave!” “Enough!” Jon interrupted. “You are brothers, behave as such! Lord Stannis is right, Your Grace, you gave him orders and he has fulfilled them. He brought the Targaryen he was able to find so you could dispense justice.” “Please,” the woman begged, “she is but a babe! Just a babe, barely out of her mother’s womb, innocent of any crimes!” “No Targaryen is innocent!” Robert yelled. “Robert, be reasonable,” Ned interfered, understanding why the cold Stannis had asked for his presence, “the girl is days old. You can't blame her for the name she carries.” In the back of his mind, Ned knew all too well the name the little boy he was protecting carried. His name is Aegon Targaryen. What if anyone else had found Lyanna before Ned himself? What would his nephew’s fate have been? You have to protect him. Promise me, Ned. Had Rhaella had time to beg the same? Would she even have tried with Stannis Baratheon, who was no kin to her? “Targaryens murdered your father, brother, and sister!” Robert exclaimed. “The woman I loved!” “The Mad King murdered my father and brother, and he has paid for his crimes. Rhaegar kidnapped my sister,” Ned clenched his jaw at the lie — besmirching the honour of his good-brother was the only way to save his son, so he hoped the man would understand, “and he is also dead. That girl has committed no crime. Do you really want your reign to begin by murdering babies in their cribs?” Robert clenched his jaw. It had been bad enough when Tywin Lannister had the Prince and Princess murdered along with their mother. “Very well. She won't be killed. But she will not be rewarded either. House Targaryen is finished. She is stripped of all her titles. Send her to an orphanage for all I care,” the new King decreed. The others in the room paled. An orphanage was no place for a highborn girl, be her stripped of her family titles or not. “Perhaps we should consider…” Jon hesitantly started. “No considerations! I won't have a child flaunting about and threatening my throne! It’s not as if there aren’t Targaryen loyalists still lurking! I want her poor, honourless, and supportless! And if she shows the smallest hint of madness, I’ll have her killed at once!” “Robert!” Ned exclaimed. “Kill the girl then, instead of leaving her to die slowly. You know what happens to girls in orphanages! She’ll be raped before she turns ten!” The maid started to cry, bothering the baby, who also started to whimper in protest. “Raped like your sister!” the King bellowed. Ned bit back a response. To offer too much kindness would be suspicious, but the babe was his family now too. “You know, I’ve decided! I want her weak, so let’s weaken her! Some might support the Mad King’s daughter if they think she’s not like her father, but no one would support a bastard line!” “What do you mean?” Jon asked, apprehensive. “Rhaegar Targaryen stole a daughter of House Stark and ruined her, leading to her father’s and brother’s deaths. Nothing more fitting that House Stark should be responsible for the fate of the last daughter of House Targaryen.” Ned felt cold gripping his heart. Robert was always unreasonable when he was blinded by what he felt for Lyanna. “Ned! You have a bastard son! A son set to inherit no lands and make no good marriage. Very well, I give him a bride. He will marry the Targaryen girl!” The room was frozen for a beat. “Robert, I can't…” “Nonsense! Your son is a Snow, you just said so yourself. He’ll marry the girl, have a highborn bride, what is much more than any bastard can expect, and they shall have a castle and lands. I'm sure you can find an empty keep in the North, give them a lesser title. They’ll live up there, a dragon in the ice! This way she is hidden from the world and no one can accuse me of mistreating babies!” Ned didn’t know what to do. Honestly to wed aunt and nephew! But no one knows he is her nephew, he thought, no one can know. And how to refuse, really? What Robert had just done was an honour. How to refuse without an explanation? You have to protect him, Ned. He nodded his acceptance. They were Targaryens, after all. Targaryens married brother and sister. What were aunt and nephew in that? “Wonderful!” Robert yelled. “The girl will be raised…” “In Winterfell,” Ned said. He knew what Robert would say, that he’d have the girl in Court, just so she’d be humiliated and laughed at by everyone. That was going too far. “But Ned…” “If she is to wed my son, I’d like to oversee her education.” “I hardly think it’s proper,” said Stannis, “to have them grow up in the same castle.” “Are you implying that I can't teach manners to my son? That I would allow dishonour in my own home?” “Nothing of the sort, Lord Stark.” “Oh, what does it matter!” said Robert. “She’ll be marrying a bastard. Let them speak.” So Ned returned to his chambers to arrange for the extra members of their contingent, his headache — an ever-present companion since being shooed away from his dying sister’s side, holding his nephew — growing.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“You bring a bastard home and expect me to foster him!” Catelyn yelled. Ned recoiled. “I can't express how sorry I am to have broken my vows and shame you in this manner. But the boy is my responsibility and I won't dishonour that.” “His very presence dishonours your name and your House!” “Catelyn, please. I have wronged you, and for that I can only say I know I was wrong and hope you can forgive me. But the child is innocent.” “And to bring a Targaryen! To force you to marry your bastard to the daughter of the man who murdered your father and brother!” Ned sighed. Honestly that was the least of his concerns. “As I said, I can't blame a babe for the crimes her father committed before she was even born.” Catelyn huffed and burst out of the room, furious. Ned was certain she was going to make her fury known for the next weeks perhaps months. Of course, the gossip had reached Riverrun that Ned Stark had had a bastard during the war, so Catelyn had been quite cold as she reached Winterfell that morning with their infant son, whom Ned had decided to name after his friend. He rubbed his forehead as Benjen walked into the room, barred the door, and poured them ale. “So, of whom is the child?” Ned rolled his eyes. “I've said his mother is…” Benjen looked seriously at his brother. “Ned. I know my siblings. Who do you think helped Lyanna leave?” “You cannot…!” “I do regret the outcome, of course, but I do not regret helping my sister. So, again, of whom is the boy?” Ned sighed, and nodded. Benjen exhaled, sitting back on his chair. “Now that is a nice kettle of fish we have on our hands. How’d he manage it? Convinced the High Septon?” Ned nodded. “Don't know on what grounds. But I made my sister a promise on her deathbed. I will honour that. Robert can never know.” “There's been worse cases in that family,” Benjen agreed with a sigh. “I should've been there with you. Could’ve claimed him as mine. Then you wouldn't have had trouble with the Lady.” Ned waived dismissively. “It's done, and I don't regret it,” he sighed. “My wife came home with one son and now she has three babies to care for. What kind of a husband am I?” “An honourable one, who cares about his family. Perhaps you should tell her.” “No. This secret has already been told to enough people. If she learns the truth she might one day let it slip if someone goads her about her husband’s bastard. I can't take that risk.” “What will you do about the betrothal?” “Find an empty keep. Robert said he'll send some funds, but I doubt it'll be enough, so the lands should be able to sustain themselves, and produce quick profit to support the building or maintenance of the castle. Howland had a suggestion, and I was thinking to go see it. The Blessed Island. It’s very defensive, even in ruins. We can make it into a trading spot on the Narrow Sea, and they’ll have taxes. And they could take fish from the sea.” “This might take more years than we have,” Benjen said worriedly. “Maybe. But they can live here in the meantime. Can I… I know you spoke of joining the Watch...” “I won't. At least not now. From Lady Stark’s fury, you'll need all the help you can get.”

[lrrwithoutcontext]

Today is the Two-Year Anniversary of LoadingReadyRun Without Context

Honestly, this surprised me as well. I wouldn’t have even noticed except that I was looking through the archives yesterday, making sure I wasn’t repeating an image I could’ve sworn I already did. But anyway, here we are. Two years. It doesn’t feel like it. I’ve posted a lot more of these images than I expected. I’ve gotten substantially more followers than I ever expected (largely due to Graham’s shout-out on a podcast and my apparent popularity with the tumblr MTG community.) I’ve even had people tell me that they’re “a big fan of my work,” which with all due respect, feels a bit silly to me. LRR is who makes this stuff. I’m just over here screenshotting, cropping, and posting without a caption. Thank them.

In any case, this has gotten me in a retrospective mood, so I thought I’d talk about some of the more popular, notable, and my personal favorite entries, giving a bit of context to two years of no context.

In (let’s say roughly) chronological order:

While this wasn’t the first one I posted, this is, to the best of my memory, the first screenshot I ever took for this blog. (If it looks familiar, that’s probably because I recently revisited this concept because I love it so much.) I was originally just going to post it to my main blog, with the standard caption “someone who doesn’t watch LoadingReadyRun explain this,” but then I realized that LRR has such an extensive backlog and has done so many silly things over the years that maybe I could make an entire sideblog out of this concept.

So I did.

And now you know... the Whole Story.

This is actually something I had saved to my computer long before this blog existed. I used it as a reaction image. I should do that again.

This is the first image that really took off, with upwards of dozens of notes. In hindsight, it’s pretty obvious why. It’s Dave’s Spokesman. Everyone loves Dave’s Spokesman. (Except Dave.)

This is, to this day, my favorite image on this blog. There’s just so much going on here, and Kathleen’s expression sells everything perfectly. It’s beautiful.

Okay, so the previous one is still my favorite, but this is a very close number two.

Occasionally, there are times when even I am unaware of what the image’s context is or possibly could be. This is one of those times.

Another of my favorites. That is... one hell of an expression you got there, Graham.

This is the image that Graham mentioned when he plugged (and praised) the blog on a LRRcast. I got over 300 new followers within two days. Thanks, Graham.

I still can’t believe that LRR correctly predicted the Intercontinental Title Ladder Match at 2016′s Wrestlemania four years before the event.

I’ve actually used this image to explain to someone what an auspistice is.

As of this writing, this is the screenshot on this blog with the most notes. So naturally, it’s the one I didn’t post myself. (While I’m still not in the habit of accepting submissions, this one was at-messaged to me and was too good not to use.)

This was the first image I posted while watching the livestream it was featured on. Even with new material, I try to wait a couple of days before posting it here to give people a chance to watch the actual thing before they potentially see a joke within it, but I couldn’t wait here. I mean, just look at it. I’ve posted during livestreams a few more times after this, and it seems to be fairly well-received. 

I said in the tags when I posted this one that it might be the most obscure video I’ve used, and as far as I can tell, that’s still the case. This is an image from a video marked Unlisted on YouTube, the link to which was only given to backers of the Season 11 Kickstarter. As of this writing, it has less than 500 views.

Some days, I worry that as deep as it is, the well of silly LRR screenshots will eventually run dry. Then I remember that LoadingReadyLive exists. I don’t worry anymore.

And that’s not to say that the well of old material has run dry either. I still go through the archives from time to time, and I’m still finding good material from older videos that I haven’t used, to say nothing of the years’ worth of Loading Time videos that have gone largely untouched. I didn’t expect to be doing this for two years when I started, but now? I could see myself going for another two, no problem.

To the crew, to all my followers, and to anyone else who read all the way to the end of this silly thing, thank you. You’re letting me feel like in some small way I can give back to a group and community that has given me so much over the last nine years. I appreciate it, all of you.

-Rytel