#╰ xii. ask memes

[cantfixyou]

@madm3 tells charlotte, ❛ you’re finally free, like me. ❜

she feels sick. fever, nauseous stomach, bleary eyesight. she can hear fine, though. the words are almost gentle. hopeful. like they mean something to the both of them. but all charlotte can feel is BAD. everything that could be wrong, is. " the - " she blinks hard, and the whole worlds tilts perilously to one side. she stumbles, almost goes with it. the last time she felt so awful, it was right after she'd been possessed for the first time. bleeding nose, throbbing headache, shaking like she'd just run a marathon. exposed to the horror of a madman and his attempt at immortality. this feels similar. but not. she doesn't know what this is. she is quickly losing track of what anything is. " the fuck do you mean... ? " she can hear herself, and it sounds sick. slurred just slightly. she blinks again, still slow, and everything jitter-jerks to solidify. it almost makes her heave. she has to hold herself VERY still to feel like she's in her body again, like she's not about to glitch out of this plane of existence.

" what did you do ? " it's a huff, a fight, as she looks on at the other. not even sure if they're real either.

[shurisneakers]

unsolved (xii)

Summary: Bucky doesn’t even believe in the paranormal. So who the hell thought it was a good idea to stick him in a series about everything haunted for the internet’s amusement? With his loose-canon of a teammate who has no concept of subtlety or shits left to give, to make things even worse. (Buzzfeed unsolved AU)

Warnings: swearing, frustrated bucky, obnoxious reader, forests, sabotaging

A/N: no memes this chapter i ltrly just wanted to get one out but they will return next chapter trust. please ignore formatting errors and typos. I literally edited this whole thing and formatted it on my phone and it lagged and glitched the entire way.

Previous part || Series masterlist

The morning, though loud and annoying, has a particular ease to it.

There’s ridiculously hot coffee. Scraping forks and crunch from burnt pancakes. Multiple conversations layered over the sound of Bruce’s ridiculously long voicemail playing on speaker.

“--just checking in. Hope you’re still alive. If not, well, I guess you won’t call back. Anyway, Steve, if you get this, tell Bucky-”

Bucky rejects the phone sliding across the table towards him without even looking at it. “I’m not listening to that. Last time spent fifteen minutes before telling me that his shorts were in my laundry load.”

Nat hides a small, amused smile behind her coffee mug.

Clint finishes what might have once been a waffle, but has now been smothered into an unidentifiable state.

Bucky is exactly where he always is, at the end of the table, hoodie sleeves shoved up, coffee in one hand, headphones on with no music playing, just so that he has an excuse to not talk.

Someone’s already taken a bite of his toast and he’s been glaring about it ever since.

Until you walk in. Half-dressed for the day already, jacket thrown over your shoulder, keys spinning on your finger.

He looks up when you walk in, taking his headphone off one ear and giving you a curt nod when you wave at him. It takes him too long to realise his lip is curled up in the corner.

And that someone’s taken his toast.

“You going somewhere?” Sam asks, barely looking up from his Kindle.

It’s offhanded, like he only just registered the way you’re dressed.

“Yeah. I’m leaving.”

The table pauses. Your face doesn’t betray any emotion but Bucky registers your jaw tightening in the most miniscule manner. Like you’re waiting for a challenge, anxious energy vibrating from you, but standing your ground nonetheless.

Steve flips the page of his newspaper. “Eat something before you go.”

“If you’re coming back late, leftovers will be in the microwave,” Nat says, reaching for more marmalade.

Sam's finger swipes across the screen. “Text if you need anything."

Your shoulders loosen a little.

Bucky reaches for another slice of toast, hiding a smile behind the chipped coffee mug that Clint got him from some garage sale in Lithuania? Maldives? Somewhere.

“A'ight,” you say, stealing the newpiece of toast off Bucky’s plate, ignoring his complaints, and taking a bite.

Eventually, Steve asks, “Where you headed, anyway?”

You chew for a second before grinning around your mouthful.

“Bigfoot.”

Another collective pause follows.

Sam exhales. “I don’t want to ask, but I feel like I have to.”

You finish chewing. “Haunted reality competition. Going to Washington to look for Bigfoot. Loch Ness. You know. The classics.”

Nat hums. “Loch Ness is in Scotland.”

You shrug unaffectedly. “Then I guess we’re only finding half the legends.”

“Can I come?” Clint pipes up. “I have exper–”

“No.” Sam shakes his head. “Last time you did one of these, I had to read an article titled ‘Avengers Caught in Paranormal Disaster?’”

Clint hums. “Disaster is a strong word.”

Sam throws a look at him. “You fell through a wall.”

Clint shrugs. “Weak wall.”

“You fell twice.”

“Weak architecture.”

You grin, finishing the toast, before squeezing Bucky’s shoulder. “You coming?”

Bucky reaches for the third piece of godforsaken toasf. “My bag’s in the car.”

“See you there.” You grab your jacket and walk out the door.

The second you’re gone, the entire table turns to Bucky, eerily in sync.

He immediately puts the headphone back on his exposed ear and doesn’t even glance up, even though his face starts burning immediately because he knows. He fucking knows what’s about to happen.

“What,” he bites.

Steve shakes his head. “Unbelievable.”

Sam leans back, stretching his arms. “Man, you’re not even pretending anymore.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He desperately swallows down his coffee to get out of there as swift as possible.

“Dude. You had your bag packed before you were even asked.”

Bucky shrugs, completely unbothered. “Usually I don’t get asked.”

Nat finally speaks, slow, knowing. “Yeah, you made it pretty clear you don’t need to be.”

Silence.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You loser.”

Bucky grabs a piece of bacon and makes an ungraceful exit like the superstar that he is.

Someone steals his stupid toast for the third time.

_________

The road stretches out ahead, empty and winding.

The kind of road that doesn’t feel fully real. Just an endless stretch of trees and sky, the occasional fading sign pointing toward a town no one’s heard of.

The car hums steady beneath you, the windows cracked just enough to let in the cool air.

The radio is low, playing some random playlist, but mostly, the background noise is Bucky’s occasional exhale at the nonsense you're spewing and the smooth glide of the tires on the road.

You’re driving, one hand lazily on the wheel, the other resting near the console. Bucky is in the passenger seat, hoodie sleeves pushed up, one knee braced against the door.

He looks comfortable.

That only means it's time to ruin it.

“I looked up the competition details again.”

Bucky hums, shifting slightly. “And?”

“Wanna guess what the prize is?”

“Please don’t say money. That would make this worse.”

You glance at him, amused. “Why would money make it worse?”

“Because then I’d have to think about the fact that you’re technically employed by cryptid clout chasers.”

"That's not how it works." You snort, shifting gears. “It’s not money.”

“Then what?”

You pause, letting the anticipation build before saying,

“A trophy.”

“A trophy,” he repeats, flat.

You nod, grin widening. “And not just any trophy. A gold-plated bust of Bigfoot’s head.”

“I hope we lose.”

“You’re gonna love it when we win.”

Bucky gives you a look. “What does winning even mean in a Bigfoot competition?”

You shrug. “You have to submit video evidence. Best sighting wins.”

Bucky shakes his head. “What does second place get?”

“A silver-plated bust of Bigfoot’s head.”

He pauses. “…And third?”

You grin.

“Bronze Bigfoot.”

“Fourth place it is, then."

"As if. We're gonna dominate, baby."

The miles slip by, unnoticed.

At some point, you tilt your head toward him. “How’s Alpine?”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “She’s started ripping up my curtains again.”

You nod like this is completely reasonable. “What did you do to her?”

“I’ve done fuckin’ nothing. I got her a bed. I got her some stupid toys. I even made a dumb scratch post. She just won't let up. What’s her fuckin problem?”

“You know she’s doing this to fuck with you, right? She thinks it’s funny that you get mad but then get her new things every week.”

“Yeah, and she told you all this herself, yes?”

“It’s not like we talk about you. We talk about other things, you just come up occasionally.”

“I don’t care about the opinions of some fuckin’ cat.”

“Witch cat.”

“Whatever.”

Bucky shifts, rolling his window down slightly, letting the air move through the car.

At some point, he tilts his head slightly, studying you.

You’re focused on the road, fingers tapping absently against the wheel in time with the music.

The sun filters through the windshield, casting soft light against your face.

Bucky doesn’t look away immediately.

The road stretches on.

_______

The road narrows into a dirt path, the wheels crunching against gravel as you pull up to what can only be described as a God-abandoned nightmare.

The campground cabins sit at the edge of the woods, weathered, slightly crooked, and looking like it has at least five different species living in the walls.

Front porches are warped, the railing missing entire sections, and the windows look more decorative than functional.

Bucky stares out the windshield.

“I want you to understand something,” he says.

You hum, unbuckling your seatbelt. “Yeah?”

“This is worse than any warzone I've been in.”

You snort. “You’ll be fine.”

Bucky just looks back at the cabin and immediately rolls his window back up.

You swing the car door open, stepping onto the gravel, stretching from the long drive. The air is cool, crisp, smelling of trees and damp earth.

Across the clearing, you can see the other teams arriving, unpacking gear, setting up equipment.

There’s a mix of energy. Some people look like actual professionals with camera rigs and audio setups, the other half look like they googled ‘how to catch Bigfoot’ once and immediately packed a bag. You were a healthy middle. This made you better than them in many ways.

Bucky watches a guy in a bright orange jacket gesturing wildly at his partner.

“I’m telling you, we should’ve brought the infrared–”

“We couldn’t afford the infrared, Jason–”

“To win, we must invest-”

“There are people worse than us,” he points out. “I didn’t think that was possible.”

You grin, nudging the trunk open. “Wait till you see the matching team uniforms I got us.”

“I would literally rather die.”

You grab your bag, “Well, you can't right now, because we’re gonna have to socialize.”

Bucky, grabbing the bag from you instead and slinging it over his shoulder, pauses mid-step.

You gesture at the other teams. “We should at least know who we’re up against. Plus, I wanna see who looks the most insane. That’s how we weed out our biggest competition.”

Bucky does not bother saying otherwise, “I’m not doing any talking.”

You grin, pleased at the complete breakdown of his will to your wishes.

“Come on, babygirl,” you say, patting his arm. “Let’s go meet the competition.”

Bucky scans the area.

A guy in a tie-dye hoodie and cargo shorts is holding a homemade electromagnetic sensor, waving it over the ground. To his left, a woman in head-to-toe camo is assembling what looks like a makeshift crossbow.

And then, the competition makes itself known.

A guy in a bright orange jacket and an unnecessarily dramatic scarf saunters over, arms crossed, eyes narrowed.

You immediately recognize him as the guy who was arguing earlier about infrared cameras.

He stops a few feet away, surveying you both.

“New team?” he asks, voice way too serious.

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “No, we’re just tourists.”

Orange Jacket ignores him, turning to you. “What’s your strategy?”

You tilt your head. “For what?”

“For winning.”

You glance at Bucky. “Do we have a strategy?”

Bucky shrugs. “Sex appeal. I thought you wanted me to take my shirt off."

Orange Jacket does not blink. “Unconventional.”

You nod. “We like to push the envelope.”

Orange Jacket finally sticks out a hand. “Jason.”

You shake it. “Nice to meet you, Jason.”

Jason gestures vaguely to the chaotic scene behind him. “We’re one of the top teams here. We’ve been finalists for three years running.

“Wow,” Bucky says. “That’s… impressive.”

Jason squints. “You don’t sound impressed.”

“Oh, no, I am.” Bucky says flatly. “I’m very impressed.”

Jason stares at him. “This is a sport.”

Bucky presses his lips together.

You butt in before Bucky has an aneurysm, “Well, Jason, I wish you the best of luck.”

Jason nods solemnly. “You’ll need it more.”

And then he disappears back into the crowd.

Bucky watches him go, then glances at you. “I hate him.”

You hum. “It’s important to have a nemesis.”

Bucky exhales, shaking his head. “You already took that spot months ago.”

“I think that’s so sexy and romantic. It’s a shame we aren’t making out angrily right now against that tree.”

Bucky stares. You stare at him.

“Which tree?” he asks finally.

“Bitch, why is that your question? Do you have a preference? All trees here–”

Before he can respond with something equally stupid, another group approaches. A trio of women, all wearing flannel, all looking wildly competent.

The one in front nods at you. “You guys here for fun or for real?”

You grin. “Why not both?”

She nods. “Alright, respect.”

Bucky glances at them, mildly suspicious. “What’s your deal?”

“Expedition research group,” she says. “We do deep-dive investigations into folklore and cryptids.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “You’re real scientists?”

One of them smirks. "About as real as it can get.

You pipe in immediately, “So, which one of you has the best Bigfoot sighting story?”

The woman gestures toward her friend, a tall redhead who looks like she could fight God and win.

“She saw something in Oregon once.”

The redhead nods sagely. “Could’ve been a bear. Could’ve been Bigfoot.”

You nod. “Incredible.”

Bucky rubs a hand over his face, muttering, “This is so dumb.”

You grin. “Nah. This is a sport.”

"I guess you guys met Jason," the redhead says. "He can get crazy about these things, so I'd watch out for him. Last time they used signal jammers to make sure people got no cell service so they couldn't go too far."

"Thanks for the heads up," you tell them, glancing at Bucky.

Loud microphone feedback drags your attention away. The organizers stand on a makeshift platform, which is really just the porch of one of the only standing cabins.

A short, stocky guy in a trucker hat steps forward, raising a megaphone.

“Alright, folks!” he yells, voice gravel-thick, deeply unbothered, like he’s done this a thousand times. “Listen up. Time for the official rundown.”

The teams gather around, some paying full attention, others already looking like they’re plotting ways to cheat.

“First off, let’s get the obvious out of the way. This is a competition. So you sign the waiver, you take responsibility for your dumbass decisions.”

There’s a general murmur of understanding.

“Second,” he continues, “this year’s challenge is focused on evidence collection. The goal isn’t just to make contact. It’s to prove you did. That means photos, audio, video, footprints, fur, whatever you can get your hands on. The more convincing, the better.”

Someone from the back shouts, “What about physical capture?”

The organizer blinks, before slowly and deliberately saying, “I dare you.”

You grin. “Alright Bucky, that’s our goal.”

Bucky shrugs. "Sure, what the hell."

“Now, because we don’t want you guys running wild all over Washington state, we’ve set specific boundaries for the hunt.”

He gestures to a giant, laminated map behind him.

“The active zone is roughly thirty square miles of forest. You go outside the zone? You’re disqualified. You get lost outside the zone? That’s not our problem.”

You whisper, “That sounds like a threat.”

“Sounds like a promise," he whispers back.

The guy continues.

“We’re running this for two nights. You report back both mornings with your findings. At the end, our panel of cryptid experts will review the evidence and determine the winner.”

Bucky makes a face. “Cryptid experts?”

Jason, your new nemesis, nods sagely from a few feet away.

“This is a sport,” he mouths.

“Last thing. No physical interference. No touching other teams’ equipment, no blocking their shots, no hiding their evidence. Anything else?”

A girl near the front raises a hand. “What’s the actual prize?”

The guy puffs his chest out. “Pride. Glory.”

Silence.

He deflates. “Trophy and a gift card for 100 dollars.”

“Hell yeah.”

The guy claps his hands once. “Alright, that’s it. You’ve got the rules. You’ve got the map. Now get to work.”

And just like that, teams scatter like they’re already three steps ahead.

“The game is afoot,” you say.

“The game is a bigfoot,” Bucky murmurs distractedly before horror dawns on him. “What the fuck have you turned me into?”

“My boyfriend soon, I hope.”

Bucky ignores your last comment because he’s already dug himself a hole. “What’s the actual strategy here?”

“Step one: Figure out how we’re gonna trick these judges into thinking we actually found something.”

Bucky narrows his eyes. “And step two?”

You pat his shoulder. “Step two is your job.”

“No.”

“Step three: we pick the tree you want to makeout against.”

“Stop.”

The sun is starting to dip, streaking the sky with hazy orange and purple as you and Bucky haul your stuff inside before you start hunting.

The cabin is a structural crime against humanity, to put it kindly.

The floorboards creak threateningly with every step. The walls smell like something died in them a long time ago and no one bothered to check where.

The single lightbulb overhead flickers like it’s debating whether or not to give up completely.

Bucky steps inside, looks around once. “I am going to die here.”

You kick your bag further inside. “That’s the spirit.”

The room is barely furnished, just a rickety wooden table, two mismatched chairs, and a couch.

There’s a wood-burning stove in the corner and a door that leads to what technically counts as a bedroom.

Bucky steps forward, pressing down on the floor with his boot. The wood groans.

Bucky shakes his head, grumbling as he sets his bag down. “I was in Europe last week. I stayed in a five-star hotel.”

You grin. “And now you’re here. With me. Your life is so good.”

A sharp rustling outside makes you both pause.

You glance toward the window, which is so murky and scratched that it’s basically useless.

Bucky doesn’t move. “If that’s Jason trying to sabotage us, I’m going to throw him into the woods.”

You perk up. “Ooh, good idea. Do it on camera so I can get extra footage. I'm gonna use it as B-Roll."

Bucky levels a look at you.

You grin.

_______

The forest is quiet.

The beam of your flashlight cuts through the dark, swinging between thick trunks and scattered leaves.

Bucky walks beside you, hood pulled up because it's fucking cold, hands in his pockets.

The air is cool, the damp smell of earth settling in your lungs.

Bucky breaks first.

“You know,” he says, voice even, “I looked up Bigfoot sightings in the car.”

You glance at him, delighted. “Oh?”

“Yeah.” He adjusts his sleeve. “Some guy saw it in a Walmart parking lot. Someone else swore on his life that he saw Bigfoot at a pool party.”

“A pool party?”

Bucky shrugs. “That’s what he said.”

You squint. “Was he, like, invited? Or did he just show up?”

"Donno. I clicked out of the tab immediately."

You’re about to comment when your boot caches on a branch, making you stumble.

Bucky catches your arm without thinking, steadying you before you can fully trip.

“You good?”

You grin. “Didn’t know you cared.”

Bucky lets go immediately.

You keep walking, slower this time.

Eventually, you swing your flashlight up, watching the glow disappear into the trees. “Okay, serious question.”

“Doubt it.”

You ignore him. “Dumbest thing you’ve ever done on a mission?”

“Define dumb.”

“Up to interpretation.”

Bucky hums, considering.

“2015. Northern Italy. Steve and I were supposed to take out this arms deal happening in a vineyard.”

“A vineyard?”

“Yeah. Nice place. Good wine.”

You snort. “I love that that’s your takeaway.”

Bucky ignores you. “Anyway. Intel said it was going down in one of the cellars. Supposed to be a small, controlled environment, easy to manage. But the problem was, we didn’t have the exact location. Just a general area.”

You nod along. “Okay.”

“So Steve tells me to ‘blend in’ while he scouts the outside.”

“Did you?”

Bucky shakes his head, staring at the trees. “Listen. I was tired. I hadn’t slept. So instead of being a normal human being and just waiting, I signed up for a vineyard tour.”

You snort.

“Like, the full thing. Tastings, cheese pairings, little booklet of wine notes. The whole experience.”

“Did Steve–”

“Found me forty minutes later, mid-tour, holding a glass of Merlot.”

“Were you drunk?”

“No, but I forgot what we came there to do.”

“Did it work?”

Bucky gestures vaguely. “The deal was in the cellar. I was right.”

“Oh, so the Merlot gave you divine clarity.”

“Exactly.”

You shake your head, grinning.

Bucky watches you for a second, fingers tapping absently against his flashlight.

You don’t notice.

You’re too busy grinning at any vaguely strange movement in the woods, too busy leaning into the moment like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

The wind shifts, the leaves rustling softly above you.

The moment sits there, warm and settled.

Bucky clears his throat. “Your turn.”

“Huh?”

“Dumbest thing you’ve done on a mission.”

"Oh, that’s easy.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

You swing your flashlight back toward the trees, stepping over a fallen log.

“i once spent three hours stuck in a vent because I refused to admit that my plan was bad.”

“Three hours?”

“Okay, so Leviathan training programme. Supposed to be simple. Get in, get the intel, get out.” You swing your flashlight up. “And I had a perfect route planned. Minimal exposure, minimal risk.”

Bucky hums, skeptical. “And where did the vent come in?”

You sigh. “See, that’s where things got complicated.”

Bucky snorts. “Right.”

You adjust your grip on the flashlight. “Turns out, the hallway I thought would be empty very much was not. So I had two options.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “Normal options or your options?

“Oh, definitely my options.” You hold up a finger. “Option One: Hide. Wait it out. Find a new route.”

“Sounds reasonable, so I assume you didn’t do that.”

“Option Two: Take the vent system.”

“You looked at a basic tactical problem and decided that the correct solution was to crawl through the air ducts like a goddamn rat?”

“Yes. Anyway,” you continue, unbothered, “I thought it was a genius idea. Until I got stuck. Like, wedged. Completely immobile.”

“Tell me you had backup.”

“Absolutely not. And I obviously couldn’t radio in, because that would’ve been embarrassing. So I spent three hours slowly wiggling backward. Eventually went the wrong way, fell through the vent because turns out, the movies are wrong about how strong they are. Fell into a room with a bunch of agents that were following me around because turns out, vents are also not quiet.”

His laugh is soft, unguarded, a sound you don’t hear often.

You grin. “Anyway, I told them I was from security and that they failed a ventilation breach test.”

He shakes his head, muttering, “Jesus Christ,” like he can’t believe you’re a real person.

You nudge him with your elbow. “You ever get stuck in a vent?”

“No.”

“Shame.”

And then your foot catches on something that shouldn’t be there.

The ground drops out beneath you.

For half a second, you’re weightless.

Then a sharp yank reminds you you're not.

You stumble, body jerking backward as Bucky’s hand locks around your arm, hauling you back onto solid ground.

If you weren't so focused on that fact that you almost face planted, you would have noticed that Bucky's arms were both around your shoulders, holding you steady. Turns out his metal arm ran warm.

There’s a dull, heavy thud as the dirt fully collapses in front of you, revealing a man-made pit.

“What the fuck?”

Your flashlight beam dips into the hole. It’s deep enough to trap someone, but not deep enough to kill. The bottom is just dirt, loose leaves, and some broken branches.

“Okay,” you say, lowering your voice. “So, on a scale from ‘this is fine’ to ‘mild concern,’ where are we sitting right now?”

Bucky remains expressionless. “I’m going back to the cabin.”

“You’re quitting?”

“Yes. None of this is worth it.”

“No, but–” you gesture wildly, “we’re onto something.”

“You fell into a hole. Real something we're onto here.”

You glare. “Well, when you say it like that, it sounds stupid.”

Bucky shoves a hand through his hair, calming the mild racing of his heart in panic. “It is stupid.”

“Okay,” you say, “new plan.”

Bucky doesn’t look at you. “Is the new plan ‘go back to the cabin’?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you can stay here, but– oh,” he cuts himself off when your words register. “We’re going back?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because you said so.”

His eye twitches. “We can’t go back now.”

“You literally just said–”

“Yeah, but you almost fell into a hole. We’re just gonna give up?”

You stare at him. “You’re so confusing sometimes. Can you pick a side?”

“Do whatever you want.”

“And you’ll follow?”

“Conditionally.”

You pat his cheek. “I can work with that.”

____

The cabin is dimly lit, the lantern on the table casting long shadows against the walls.

Outside, the wind has picked up, making the old wood creak and groan like it’s reconsidering its existence.

You’re still ranting.

Bucky, on the other hand, is stretched out on the couch from hell, arm tucked behind his head, looking half-asleep while you pace near the table.

“We could tamper with their equipment. Maybe not destroy it, just… compromise its integrity.”

Bucky cracks an eye open. “That’s literally destroying it.”

“Semantics.” You wave a hand. “Or we mess with their food. Make them sick so they have to drop out.”

“Jesus, no.”

You snap your fingers. “We burn down the cabins.”

“Go to sleep. Stick with the ‘stealing their flashlight plan’.”

You ignore that completely.

“They want to play dirty?” You cross your arms. “We’ll bury them.”

“You almost got buried an hour ago.”

You glare, throwing yourself into the rickety chair by the table.

“You’re not taking this seriously.”

“I did. At 12AM. I’m no longer taking anything seriously at 3AM,” Bucky mutters, shifting to get comfortable. “Go to bed.”

You peek up. “You’re taking the couch?”

“Yeah.”

“You don’t have to.”

Bucky sighs, voice gruff, low. “I’m taking the couch.”

You frown. “It’s like, the worst couch in the world.”

“Not the worst.”

“It literally is.”

Bucky doesn’t argue but he doesn’t move, either.

You sigh heavily, leaning back. “Where’s the washroom?”

“Outside.”

You blink. “Outside?”

A devious smile curls at the corner of his lip. “Yeah.”

You sit up. “Like– where outside?”

Bucky tilts his head toward the door. “Outhouse.”

A long pause follows before,

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Nope.”

You exhale through your nose, standing abruptly.

“Okay.” You gesture vaguely toward the door. “I’m gonna go suffer through the outhouse now. And then I’ll eat barley for breakfast and die from the plague.”

Bucky snickers, drifting off.

“You sure you don’t want the bed? We can share, if you don’t mind.”

He hums. “What makes you think I mind?”

“Well, you’re sleeping on the birthplace of hepatitis instead of sharing a bed with me.”

“I’m being gentlemanly.”

“Oh, is this a courtship now?”

“Depends. You got a prized cow?”

“I got a witch cat and soon, a gold bust of Bigfoot.”

“Insufficient.”

“I can get Wanda to make me a cow.”

“Goodnight.”

"Did you pick that tree out yet? I saw s real good looking one right outside our cabin if you--"

"Good night."

______

The morning rolls in slow, mist curling between the trees, the cold settling into the damp wood of the barely functional cabin.

You wake up to the sound of Bucky moving around, the floor groaning beneath his weight.

You blink, squinting at the weak light filtering through the window.

“What time is it?” you mumble.

Bucky, dressed to the nines in his black hoodie and black pants, shrugs. “Dunno. Afternoon.”

You groan, rubbing your face. “You’re one of those people who wakes up before their alarm, huh?”

Bucky grabs his hoodie off the chair. “I wake up before your alarm.”

“Did you sleep at all?” You question. "I heard you tossing around all night."

He stifles a yawn. “Someone kept scratching against the door every half an hour.”

“What, like a ding dong ditch? That's so fucking lame.”

“People take this shit way too seriously,” he grumbles. “We missed breakfast, by the way.”

You swing your legs over the bed, stretching. “You making food?”

Bucky scoffs. “One spark and this place burns to the ground.”

“We’re stealing from another team, then.”

“Yeah.”

____

The campsite is already alive, teams hunched over maps, adjusting equipment, eating protein bars like they’re rationed war supplies.

You survey the scene, arms crossed, still mildly bitter about last night.

Bucky is too droopy-eyed to care. He could frankly lie down on the ground and go to sleep right now.

Jason’s team is hyper-focused, planning some over-complicated strategy.

Meanwhile, the scientist trio is sitting in a loose circle, drinking coffee, looking completely, utterly relaxed.

Your eyes land on their camera setup.

A good camera. A professional rig.

And a shovel. With dirt on it.

With the tenacity of a circus acrobat, you immediately jump to conclusions.

You nudge Bucky.

He glances at you, mid-bite of a protein bar he definitely didn’t pay for.

You tilt your head slightly toward the table. “It wasn’t Jason.”

Bucky’s eyes track the direction of your stare.

"Having a shovel doesn't mean it was them."

"you see anyone else here with shovels? Look at them. They're mocking us by displaying it out in the open right now."

"Sure. Whatever you say, sweetheart." He yawns, before he stops midway.

You, however, don't seem to notice the sleep-ridden comment that slipped out from him, for which he is grateful. He also decides that he and delirious self is too dangerous to be around you now.

“Do we kill them?” you ask.

"Bit much.”

You huff. “Sabotage them?”

Bucky nods.

You cross your arms, watching them laugh, completely unbothered, completely unaware that they’ve just become your worst enemies.

You plaster on a smile.

“Alright.” You turn to Bucky. “I got a plan. Let's go, partner.”

Bucky makes no effort to finish his protein bar faster, still fixated on where the fuck the term of endearment came from and why it slipped out instinctually.

Most of the teams are already mobilizing, gearing up for another thrilling day of hiking miles and miles through rough terrain in search of a cryptid that does not exist.

You’re currently devising the most elaborate sabotage plan imaginable.

You’re sitting on a tree stump near the cabin, arms crossed, staring daggers at the flannel trio.

Bucky, meanwhile, is standing beside you, now with a paper coffee cup he's attained from somewhere. The coffee is shit. It does not help.

After you spend 10 minutes explaining the most elaborate set of diagrams and graphs, you tilt your head toward him.

“So that's the plan.”

“Right,” he says, with all the confidence for someone who has no idea what you've been talking about.

“So how do you wanna do this?”

Bucky grunts. “Do what.”

You gesture vaguely toward the trio. “Ruining their lives.”

Bucky sips his coffee. “I’m going take a nap.”

You blink. “They ruined our first night!”

“I think they did us a favor.”

Your jaw drops.

Bucky doesn’t even react.

Just downs the last of his coffee, tosses the mug onto the cabin’s front step, and turns toward the door.

You watch him go, completely baffled. “It’s broad daylight!”

Bucky waves a hand lazily. “Give me like two hours. I'll help with whatever once I'm up.”

You watch as he steps inside, not even bothering to close the door properly.

Bucky hopes the couch swallows him whole.

Sweetheart.

Jesus Christ.

______

The day drags on, teams disappearing into the forest, hiking miles into nothingness in search of a creature that absolutely does not exist.

At some point, the sun dips low, the sky turning a hazy orange.

Bucky wakes up slowly, the kind of waking that comes with a vague sense of disorientation, the heavy quiet of the cabin settling thick around him.

His brain catches up in pieces.

The weight of the blanket over him, which he definitely didn’t get for himself.

The smell of coffee sitting on the table nearby.

The lantern glow, still softly flickering, meaning someone had kept it on.

He watches it for a second, expression unreadable.

He pushes up with a groan, stretching his arms overhead, rolling his neck to get rid of the stiffness.

And then he notices.

You’re not here.

Your notebook is still open on the table, full of chaotic, barely legible scribbling. A pen tossed carelessly on top.

Bucky exhales deeply, rubbing his hand over his jaw, waking up properly now.

Just sits there for a moment, drinking the coffee you left for him, letting his mind catch up.

Because, realistically you’re fine.

You’re probably running whatever dumbass sabotage plan you spent all day coming up with.

…But.

Bucky sighs, pushing himself fully upright.

Because he should check anyway.

Because it’s late.

Bucky sets the mug down, running a hand over his face.

Then, with a deep breath, a stretch, and the slow realization that he is awake now and might as well do something about it—

He grabs his jacket, pulls on his boots, and heads outside.

Bucky steps off the porch, rolling his shoulders, stretching his arms, shaking the last bit of sleep off.

The air is cold and crisp, the night quiet in a way that doesn’t quite sit right.

It’s fine.

He’s just gonna find you, help you finish whatever stupid idea you'd schemed up, and then leave.

So he steps toward the trees.

And then–

The ground fucking disappears.

One second he’s walking, fully in control of his life.

The next, he’s airborne.

There’s a brief moment of pure, existential realization.

Suddenly, he is fully submerged.

In cold, thick, swampy-ass water.

Bucky does not move for a second.

Just lets the absolute, soul-deep exhaustion settle into his bones.

"Fucking fine."

It’s dark as shit, his flashlight is gone, and the air smells absolutely rancid.

Something slithers nearby, slow and slick, like something large shifting just beneath the surface.

Bucky tilts his head back, and shuts his eyes. Because of course.

Of course, this is happening.

Of course, he has fallen through something stupid and landed in something worse.

Of course, the literal universe itself has decided that he, a former assassin, a man who has survived war, torture, cosmic-level threats, should now be stuck in some godforsaken backwoods swamp.

He drags himself toward solid land, every step sucking in the mud, his metal hand slipping against the slick earth.

He grunts, pulls, mutters a long string of curses in Russian, and finally hauls himself up onto the dirt, flopping onto his back for just a second, staring at the sky in pure, exhausted disbelief.

He is so fucking done.

He does not investigate.

He does not waste a single second thinking about who might have set this up or why.

He does not care.

What he does care about is getting this shit off of him.

So he hauls himself to his feet, shakes off as much filth as possible, and marches toward the fucking outhouse.

This is a tomorrow problem.

This is actually a never problem because he will close his eyes, go back to sleep, and this will have never fucking happened.

_____

Bucky wakes up slower than usual.

His body aches in a way that suggests something terrible happened last night, which considering that was truly one with mother earth the previous night -- seems about right.

He shifts slightly, blinking blearily at the dim light filtering through the window.

You’re not here.

But that doesn’t mean anything.

Maybe you’re asleep somewhere.

Maybe you’re still out enacting whatever plan you spent all night putting together.

Maybe he should just go back to sleep.

And honestly, he almost does.

Right up until he hears the distant sound of a megaphone crackling to life.

He groans, dragging a hand down his face.

Right.

The results.

Bucky does not care.

He already knows how this goes.

Jason’s team was way too serious, had way too much expensive gear, probably faked some great “evidence” and would be lording their victory over everyone else for the rest of the day.

Which meant if he stayed inside, he wouldn’t have to witness it.

Which meant if he stayed inside, it wasn’t his problem.

Which meant—

Another muffled announcement crackles out, the sound of cheering picking up outside.

Bucky exhales sharply, shoving himself upright.

Fine.

Fine.

By the time Bucky gets there, the entire camp is already gathered.

Some teams look hopeful, some look indifferent, and some already look like they’re preparing to deliver a victory speech.

You are standing front and center, arms crossed, a distinct glimmer in your eyes.

Bucky slows his pace, scanning the situation, suspicion already curling in his chest.

You look far too relaxed.

Bucky narrows his eyes.

The head organizer steps up to the front of the group, clearing his throat, holding a clipboard.

“Alright, folks,” he calls, voice carrying easily over the restless crowd. “After reviewing all the evidence from the last two nights-”

Bucky tunes most of it out.

Jason’s team had the money, the experience, the fake confidence that made up for their lack of real skill.

And you– well.

You had plans.

But those never worked.

“--so, after careful consideration, this year’s winners are…”

A pause.

Bucky doesn’t even brace for it.

But then the announcer shouts your name.

And his.

Bucky blinks.

The camp erupts.

Someone shouts. Someone cheers. Someone yells ‘What the fuck?!’ loud enough to make birds scatter.

Bucky does not react.

Because his brain is not computing this information.

Then, very slowly, very carefully, he turns to look at you.

And that’s when it hits him.

You’re not surprised.

You knew.

You knew before they said it.

Oh.

Oh, no.

And then you whirl around, absolutely beaming, throwing your arms up.

“We fucking won, baby!”

Bucky does not blink.

He does not react.

Because he is too busy trying to figure out how exactly this happened.

Jason, however, is reacting for both of them.

“That’s bullshit!” Jason yells, shoving forward, gesturing wildly. “We had the best evidence! We had thermal imaging! We had–”

The organizer raises a hand. “The judges took into account clarity, legitimacy, and most of all–”

He gestures broadly. “Entertainment value.”

Jason splutters. “You’re saying they won because it was funny?!”

Bucky’s eye twitches.

Oh, you look way too smug right now.

Jason is still yelling about credibility and journalistic integrity, but Bucky is no longer listening.

He just stares at you.

For a long time.

Long enough for Jason’s yelling to start fading into background noise.

You are grinning like an idiot.

Against his better judgment, against every single instinct in his body telling him to turn around and go–

“…How,” he asks, voice even, slow, “did we win?”

You beam.

_____

The screen flickers, adjusting to low-light, night-vision mode.

The forest appears, eerily still.

Then a loud crash.

A thud.

The camera shakes slightly as the sound of splashing, struggling, muffled cursing filters through the speakers.

And then something emerges from the darkness.

Something large. Moving, dripping with swamp water, stumbling onto solid ground, slow and unsteady, illuminated in the grainy green light.

Bucky leans forward slightly, eyes narrowing.

The figure in the video shakes itself off, turns toward the camera, posture stiff, silhouette looming.

A perfect, pristine, unmistakable image of

Him.

Bucky stares.

Just watches himself hoodie-clad and soaked, disoriented, looking every bit like a goddamn swamp monster crawl out of the hole in full, crystal-clear night-vision.

The Bucky on screen glances up toward the camera, features still in shadow.

“Oh my god. I’m actually recording right now," you whisper excitedly in the background.

Bucky, very slowly, very carefully says, “That’s me.”

You shake your head immediately.

“No,” you say. “I just saw Bigfoot. And I recorded.”

Bucky’s brain stops working.

“Did you fucking dig that pit?”

You raise a hand, defensive. “That was for Bigfoot.”

You pause.

“…Or the other team. Whoever fell in first.”

Bucky stares at the ceiling. “And you submitted this.”

“Correct.”

“And this won.”

“Oh yeah. They loved it.”

Bucky leans back against the couch, glass eyed.

He does not respond.

______

The car rumbles along the road, the last of the wilderness fading into the distance, replaced by stretching highways and the creeping return of civilization.

Bucky is driving, one hand loosely on the wheel, the other resting against his thigh.

You’re leaning against the window, legs folded up on the seat, a half-empty gas station cup in your hands.

And a gold bust in the backseat of the car with a seatbelt on.

Neither of you have spoken since you shoved your bags in the trunk and peeled out of camp before Jason could start asking questions.

“I still don’t know how you set that up.*

You don’t even pretend to play dumb. “The pit?”

Bucky nods. “Yeah.”

“Well,” you say, “I had time.”

Bucky snorts.

A small silence follows.

“I fell into a fucking swamp," he says.

“I know.”

“I was in there for a full minute.”

“I know.”

The radio hums softly, a song playing too low to make out.

"I think we did very well. We have a real career in bigfoot hunting if we wanted."

"I'm good, thanks."

Outside, the highway stretches ahead, endless and open.

You shift slightly, getting more comfortable.

“You ever think about what you’d do if you weren’t doing this?”

Bucky glances at you.

You’re still staring out the window, watching the world blur past.

He turns back to the road, humming low in his throat. “Sometimes.”

You tilt your head, watching him now.

“And?”

Bucky exhales through his nose.

Then shrugs, like he hasn’t thought about it much, like he’s thought about it too much.

“I don’t know.”

You nod, thoughtful.

A beat goes by before you ask–

“You ever think about opening a winery?”

Bucky groans.

You laugh.

And just like that, the drive continues.

here’s my ko-fi if you’d like to support my writing!

to those who comment and tell me what u think– i love u. ur the sole reason i haven’t abandoned this lil fic. thank u for everything mwah <333333

to know when this fic updates, please follow @shurisneakersupdates and turn on post notifications! it’s the only way tumblr will let me have a taglist and i don’t post there at all except for fics </3

Next part

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Matt Bors’s “Justice Warriors: Vote Harder”

On SEPTEMBER 24th, I'll be speaking IN PERSON at the BOSTON PUBLIC LIBRARY!

There's no political satirist working today quite like Matt "Mr Gotcha" Bors, whose 2023 masterpiece Justice Warriors just got a timely – and brutally funny – sequel, Justice Warriors: Vote Harder:

https://www.mattbors.com/store/p/justice-warriors-ffzgn

You've doubtless seen Matt Bors's work, which has repeatedly attained viral liftoff, most notably with his Mr Gotcha strips, easily one of the most useful additions to online political debate in internet history:

https://thenib.com/mister-gotcha/

Last year, Bors, along with Ben Clarkson and Felipe Sobreiro, published Justice Warriors, a postapocalyptic cyberpunk graphic novel in the vein of Warren Ellis's classic Transmetropolitan:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/05/22/libras-assemble/#the-uz

Justice Warriors is the tale of Bubble City, a domed enclave walled off from the teeming masses of the UZ (which stands for "Uninhabited Zone" – see what they did there?). Bubble City runs on vibes, therapy-speak, social media nonsense, memes and garbage hot-takes. And while there's a lot of broad satire here, the thing that makes Justice Warriors stand out is how its creators do the relatively straightforward futuristic exercise of asking themselves, "What if deeply unserious nonsense was taken seriously?"

Others have done this before – Mike Judge's Idiocracy, say – but Bors, Clarkson and Sobreiro attain a density of sight gags, trenchant wordplay, and outrageous cyberpunk imagery that is just next level. Think Al Jaffee meets William Gibson, with art direction by Vaughn Bode, who's had one too many at the Mos Eisley Cantina. To that, mix in all kinds of MAD Magazine style fake ads and social media postings, layering joke on gag, all of it walking the fine line between "you gotta cry" and "you gotta laugh."

Justice Warriors did big numbers, selling out three printings, and now the gang is back together for the sequel, Vote Harder, which drops just in time for the final, all consuming election-season media apocalypse.

Vote Harder sees Bubble City facing its first election in living memory, as the mayor – who inherited his position from his "powerful, strapping Papa" – loses a confidence vote by the city's trustees. They're upset with his plan to bankrupt the city in order to buy a laser powerful enough to carve his likeness into the sun as a viral stunt for the launch of his comeback album. The trustees are in no way mollified by the fact that he expects to make a lot of money selling special branded sunglasses that allow Bubble City (and the mutant hordes of the Uninhabited Zone) to safely look into the sun and see what their tax dollars bought.

So it's time for an election, and the two candidates are going hard: there's the incumbent Mayor Prince; there's his half-sister and ex-girlfriend, Stufina Vipix XII, and there's a dark-horse candidate Flauf Tanko, a mutant-tank cyborg that went rogue after a militant Home Owners Association disabled it and its owners abandoned it. Flauf-Tanko is determined to give the masses of the Uninhabited Zone the representation they've been denied for so long, despite the structural impediments to this (UZers need to complete a questionnaire, sub-forms, have three forms of ID, and present a rental contract, drivers license, work permit and breeding license. They also need to get their paperwork signed in person at a VERI-VOTE location, then wait 14 days to get their voter IDs by mail. Also, districts of 2 million or more mutants are allocated the equivalent of only 250,000 votes, but only if 51% of eligible voters show up to the polls; otherwise, their votes are parceled out to other candidates per the terms of the Undervoting and Apathy Allotment Act).

Despite the structural advantages afforded to Mayor Prince – like the fact that residents of District 12 on floors 120-145 of the Bubble each get 2048 votes, while District 1 (floors 1-7) only get a single vote – he's not taking any chances. Officer Schitt (a humanoid poop emoji) and the lovelorn Officer Swamp (an anthropomorphic catfish) are each prowling the Uz . Swamp – suffering from a head injury and gripped by a delusion that a TV cowboy has sent him to infiltrate the Flauf Tanko campaign – is playing spy/provocateur, while Schitt hunts dangerous subversives.

What unfolds is a funny, bitter, superb piece of political satire that could not be better timed.

The paperback edition of The Lost Cause, my nationally bestselling, hopeful solarpunk novel is out this month!

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/09/11/uninhabited-zone/#eremption-season

[ginneke]

10 and 22 for the fanfic ask game please 👀

10. Is there a character or ship you'd love to write for, but haven't yet?

I recently started replaying two of my favourite Final Fantasy games (X and XII, for the record). Both of them are games I first started playing over a decade ago, but for one reason or another I never got around to finishing them. In both cases I love the ensemble casts -- though not necessarily through a shipping lens, especially in the case of XII. I much prefer the platonic/familial/friendship ties in this particular entry.

Once I've finally got past that point in the story, I'd love to write something with Dr Cid and his wayward son, or perhaps something to do with the missing Judge Zecht (if you know, you know). Or something with Fran and Penelo (Ashe gets so much of the development already within the main storyline, but I love how Fran and Penelo check in on each other throughout the cutscenes). And in X, I would want to explore Lulu's backstory some more sometime, or to try to give a difficult character like Kimahri some justice.

...On the LoZ side of things, I would love to give SkSw!Link a try some time. I've been replaying that as well (note: it says, having got scared and given up for now at the lanayru silent realm) but there's so much character in this version of Link. I love, for example, the way he pauses before cautiously entering each dungeon -- and the way he seems to gain confidence with each one but never quite lets go of that caution. Something about that, in a sea of Links who charge headlong into danger... I dunno, it just feels very quietly real and human to me, and I love that about this Link.

22. Did you do anything special to celebrate finishing a fic?

Not really?

Well... I suppose heleentje and I *might* have done something a little more "special" had we been in the same country as each other when Moonlight (every single night) finally came to an end. As it was, we missed the mark on that by a few weeks.

Mostly, I suppose, the celebration comes in the posting (for a oneshot). Or in case of a zinefic -- particularly if I was struggling with getting it to the standard I wanted -- getting it into the final submission folder is cause for celebration in itself, and typically results in a burst of continued writing in some random and unforeseen direction, most of which never see the light of day. That might not sound much like a celebration! But it's as close as I can really get.

Questions? Curiosity? Ask meme questions available here: [link]

[chaparral-crown]

Headcanons To Sound Off Every Hour Ask Meme

✨Got a characterization colonizing your spinal cord like termites in a wood beam? Wish in your darkest of hearts something would or could happen? Tell your fellows, friends, fandom about your headcanons. Convince the rest of them it's true. ✨ I - What's an imagined habit/trait of one of your favorite characters? Does it have any basis in the source material?

II - What's a canon event that you have a strong interpretation of that might be different from the popular ones?

III - What's a headcanon you have that you think would be unpopular?

IV - Who do you think your favorite character should have interacted with more?

V - If you had to choose one person other than who your favorite character either ends up with, or who you ship them with, who would it be and why?

VI - Your fave must choose an accessory to wear that isn't shown in the context of the source material - what is is?

VII - There's something nostalgic in the character's hall closet that they don't share with other people - what is it?

VIII - What alternate universe setting would your fave absolutely thrive in - just have an absolutely fabulous time? In contrast, where would they fail?

IX - Have you drawn or written anything to make just one stray headcanon more real for you, or to explain it to someone else?

X - It's ten o'clock at night - do you know where your fave is at?

XI - Change one thing about a scene - how do you think it alters the narrative? How do the people in it react?

XII - What headcanon do you have that you've never shared, and probably couldn't explain if you tried?

✉️Send your asks and comments for all this occupied headspace and more! Tagging @zipegs, @stranded-labyrinth, @chaotic-plotter, and @dreamerinsilico to answer the same, should they feel so inclined. :)

[rainedflower]

for the ask meme: final fantasy :3 (keeping it open since idk what all games in the series you played!)

i will answer broadly bc i've played quite a few of them but i don't want a shitton of answers

Favorite Male Character: gotta narrow it down between zenos yae galvus from xiv and sephiroth from vii. i know these are basic bitch villain answers but i like what they did for their respective series

Favorite Female Character: aerith from vii and terra branford from vi!

Least Favorite Character: someone is gonna shoot me for saying i don't really like prompto argentum from xv or jessie from viir

Favorite Ship: sefikura and aerti :>

Favorite Friendship: aerti again! although i really like cid and vincent from vii as well as wakka and tidus from x! last one kinda more of a mentorship though in some ways (tho not as much as tidus and auron)

Favorite Quote: "Why do you build, knowing destruction is inevitable? Why do you yearn to live, knowing all things must die? Knowing that none of it will have meant anything once you do? Life. Dreams. Hope. Where do they come from? Where do they go? Such meaningless things…" from kefka, vi!

Worst Character Death: for me? reks from xii. it was just a very "ah" moment when it happened, considering you aren't planning on dying that soon?

This made me so happy you have no idea Moment: god. the laughing scene in english in x. there's no mood i can be in that can't be fixed with watching it sometimes.

Saddest Moment: there's a moment in shadowbringers in xiv that made me put down the game for three days because it fucked me up that genuinely. it's in amh araeng if you're curious.

Favorite Location: i can't really think of just one? but i really like the fields in viir2make... so pretty and fun to play in. ultima thule in xiv. zanarkaand in x. altissia in xv

[4th-make-quail]

16, 21, 23 for the fandom ask meme

gonna do xii for this as well since i'm on a roll~

16. a tiny detail in canon that you want more people to appreciate HOW CID AND VAYNE ARE IN LOV- *is forcibly dragged off stage* no okay fine!! honestly I just want more people to appreciate the fact that Judge Bergan had nethicite implanted in his fucking bones. NETHICITE! IN HIS BONES!!!! CONSIDER THE IMPLICATIONS!! CONSIDER THE PAIN!!! CONSIDER THE NON-DISCLOSURE AGREEMENTS!!! he's a one-man fucking lunatic lmao

21. a fandom you’re not active in anymore but that you still really like my fandom activity tends to ebb and flow, but i'm taking activity to mean creating things, so i guess ffxiv! i'm caught up with the msq, and i log in very occasionally, but outside of typesetting my Sart/Basch series, i'm really not in the fandom any more, and glad of it tbh. i love my blorbos, i will talk about them any day of the year, but i will respectfully decline the ffxiv fandom lol

23 i answered in my last lot!

[cassandra-allegra]

༻ pinned post ༺

✦ hey there! i'm michelle and i paint occasionally (which you can find here!) but i mostly spend my time yelling about fictional characters

✦ if you're looking for more of my ffxiv content, i've moved it over here~

✦ this is a multi-fandom blog and i reblog a little bit of everything from mood boards to silly little memes. i'm not the most diligent of tag users but i try my best. i'm an adult and as such i occasionally post adult content. 18+ only and browse at your own risk

✦ my main fandoms include final fantasy vii/ix/x/xii/xiv, persona, witcher, stardew valley, cowboy bebop, and dragon age/mass effect.

✦ thanks for reading and as always asks/dms are always open :)

[brooklynislandgirl]

YOUR MUSE'S INVENTORY. [original meme from @treasurechestrpmemes​.]

rules: list the things your muse carries in their pockets or bags in their every day life. (optional: explain their significance.) repost, don’t reblog.

The Nurse Shark || Beth Riley

I. Phone ~ Perpetually at 6-15% battery yet never actually runs out of power. She has the standard apps on it, plus ones she uses for work reference: NDR, PDR, CCN, Epocrates Essentials, Medscape, Pedi-Stat, and so on. Beth does have an Instagram account but rarely uses it. She also has a YouTube channel where she doles out advice on occasion. She isn't fond of social media. She does, however, enjoy having portable music. Her Hanai-Sister Jay is her ICE contact, and the first number on speed dial. The next 7 numbers are various take out places with delivery options.

II. Bone athame ~ This is probably Beth's most important item, one she never forgoes. Over eight inches in length, carved with sigils and symbols of her craft, this is her most unique foci, and also her most personal as it is made from her own bone, stained with her own blood. It was created during her initiation into her tradition with all the seriousness one can imagine. The ordeal was gruelling and is not something she really talks about. Typically if someone sees it, either their circumstances are dire or they've made a very final mistake. If Beth can't wear it openly or tuck it into her bag, she does have a space for it that isn't for the squeamish. Best not to ask questions.

III. A full advanced trauma and surgical kit ~ literally everything she would need to preform surgery in the most inconvenient place possible. And while the kit might actually weigh a full third or so of her body weight, there's still a coincidental effect overhanging it. She received it as a gift from her Hanai-Sister. Beth keeps everything fully stocked with fresh supplies.

IV. Leatherman Raptor ~ Sometimes you need the right tool and quickly. Can't waste time searching through your bag. Which is where the raptor comes in handy for Beth. The multi-tool combines stainless steel folding medical shears, a strap cutter, a ring cutter, a ruler, an oxygen tank wrench, and a carbide glass breaker, for mobile/crash emergencies. V. Her brother's zippo/matches ~ For reasons, sometimes a girl needs fire. VI. Coffee ~ Not exactly carried in her bag, Beth typically is never seen out of her house without roughly 30 ounces of Kona coffee, often time a quad shot vanilla coconut milk or soy latte.

VII. Snacks ~ nuts, seeds, granola, shelf-stable applesauce or pudding, maybe pop-tarts or whatever small and quick thing she can get her hands on. Great for a quick boost to one's blood sugar, and often time the only meal she can manage to get in a typical day.

VIII. Burt's Bees Lip Balm ~ Beth keeps two tubes of it with her all the times, a coconut & pear clear balm, and a tinted lip balm usually hibiscus or red dahlia shares.

IX. A novel or two ~ whatever book Beth is reading at the time. She prefers actual books with pages. She has no preference between paper or hard back.

X. A spare pair of slippahs ~ You never know when you're going to have a flip-flop incident, so it's better to be prepared just in case.

XI. A few travel sized toiletries ~ clean pair of underwear {or bikini bottoms}, toothbrush and paste, hair brush, deodorant. Shampoo and conditioner, moisturiser, soap, lotion, her favourite essential oil perfume, dental floss. XII. Wallet ~ ID, credit cards, debit card, somewhere in the neighbourhood of one hundred dollars in various paper money, half used subway passes, upwards of four half used loyalty cards for Jay's coffee shop, spare car key, spare house key. And three non-slip, tangle free hair elastics {rubber bands}. XIV. Almost comically oversized sunglasses ~ {which can, if need be, slip over her regular reading glasses. Beth does not like contacts. XV. Her work keys/hospital credentials. Because she works. And stuff.

tagged by: the ever lovely Bun who pretends to be in charge of @hxllblazer tagging: Heave-ho, all together {but particularly @kylo-wrecked and @nightmarefuele}

[wastrelwoods]

XII for the ask game :)

XII - What headcanon do you have that you've never shared, and probably couldn't explain if you tried?

HM HM I guess as far as esoteric and inexplicable it's less a headcanon per se and more of a pairing vibe. The notion is that I remembered one day the way Jodie Foster's queerness kind of bleeds through into her portrayal of Clarice Starling and combined that vague notion with the way I love to read queerness into Abigail Hobbs and. Well. In my head the version of Clarice who enters the TV canon might be closer to Abigail's age and they might have a yuri thing. Could mirror Will&Hannibal in some fun ways. Possibly also it was Will or Hannibal who killed Clarice's dad in this AU where NBC had the rights to this character and she's around. Just so they have something in common. I've spent time envisioning this and to me it's a real season 3 subplot except when I step back and remember I made that all up in my head.

[headcanons to sound off every hour ask meme]

[halofcrged]

RULES.

            going to try and keep this pretty simple & straightforward.

I.  You must be 18+ to interact with me. I am 42 years old.

            There will be not safe for work content on this blog of the sexual and potentially of the graphic violence nature.  I do tag everything that might be triggering and am happy to tag whatever you ask me to so long as I remember!

                            I ask that you tag any visuals containing spiders with spider tw* spiders tw* arachnophobia tw* etc etc and yes, I know it’s a weird one but anything about the taste of soap or eating soap is a trigger so just tag it with soap tw* or penny don’t look* as I have that blacklisted too.  I don’t have any triggering fcs or what not.

II. This blog is multi-ship, multi-verse, crossover & au friendly.  

          Every ship is in its’ own verse unless previously discussed with all parties.  Every thread or set of threads takes place in its own universe unless previously discussed with all parties.

III.  I write anything from one-liners to novellas, it really just depends on life, my headspace, how much sleep I’ve been getting, how much else I have going on in real life, etc.

IV. My activity is NOT consistent.  I am infamous for blog hopping.  I have literally replied to some starters / replies two years+ after they were originally written.  I am not fast.  If I am fast, it’s by some small miracle and perfect storm of brain, muse and free time.  It will not last.

V.  I have kids, cats and dogs; I am in college, I have a household to take care of and I have many physical and mental handicaps that can affect my ability to function and write, including but not limited to rheumatoid arthritis, osteoarthritis, spinal stenosis, ganglion cysts, torn meniscus, migraines, hypothyroidism, PMDD, nerve damage, herniated disc, ADHD, depression, anxiety, C-PTSD and severe insomnia.  

                          Roleplay is something I do for fun.  

                                  If it isn’t fun, I don’t do it.  

                                         If it’s stressing me out, I’ll avoid it.  

VI. I do graphic commissions.  

          I run @tuppencetrinkets where I post the millions of screencaps and 200x100 icons that I make.  The resources are free but donations are always appreciated as I pay about $40 in hosting / program fees a month.   My commissions are always pay what you can.  I hate setting prices because I want everyone to have pretties if they want them and I don’t know what anyone can afford at any given time.  I do everything from base icons to edited icons, backgrounds, headers, dividers, promos, videos, you name it.  I try to be quick with turnaround but again – sometimes I just can’t be.

VII.  I am fine with plotting things out in advance or winging it.  I really don’t care, whatever you are more comfortable with is fine with me.

               I like all kinds of plots.  I like fluffy things, slice of life, broships, frenemies, enemies, familial, found family, long arcing, one shot throwaway, dark and twisted, you name it plots.  I will not write n*ncon or anything nsfw themed /even hinted at with minor characters and I won’t write any explicit child death etc. but most everything else is fair game.

VIII.  You can throw a million memes at me any time you want to.

IX.  You can throw any and all starters at me any time you want to.

                I’m not necessarily mutual exclusive but I don’t guarantee I’ll respond to memes or starters from non-mutual blogs.

X. I use icons, headers, promos etc. that I make myself 99% of the time.  Please do not use any of my edited graphics.  All base icons I use are free and available on my resource blog.  

XI. I use small text and my icons are 200x100 with empty space to make them 540x130 so that they don’t stretch out on mobile.  I prefer not heavily edited replies in terms of font variance and colors but really don’t care that much.

XII.  I’ve probably forgotten relevant things but, who knows.

XIII.  No drama.  Period.  I’m not interested.  

XIV.  I’m here for fun.  I’m really pretty easy going.  If you have any questions feel free to toss them into my inbox!

[lilu-the-almighty]

For the draw your OC ask meme:

XII for Lamb

Finally finishing these up! sorry it took a minute!!!

Lamb in an era 3 stage fit! Realistically this would go terribly, do not put this man on stage he will have a panic attack and then kill someone. Also I know they put their heir behind the mask but hes fluffy and i wanted that to be shown lol

[imakemywings]

Ransom of the Fairy Twins (3/4)

Fandom: The Silmarillion

Relationships: Elrond & Elros, Elrond & Elros & Maglor, Elrond/Gil-galad

Summary: Maglor and Maedhros trade Elrond and Elros to King Gil-galad in exchange for a Silmaril, but they have miscalculated.

A fill for this prompt on the Silmarillion Kink Meme.

AO3 | Pillowfort | SWG

Previous chapter | Next chapter (TBP)

XI.

            One day in mid spring, they celebrated the birthday of a woman so old Elros could hardly fathom how she hadn’t withered up entirely yet.

            “How old are you?” he asked in astonishment when she beckoned him over to refill her drink.

            “Eighty-five,” she said with a cackle.

            Eighty-five. Oropher, Elros knew, had seen Cuivienien. Oropher was thousands of years old, in all likelihood, though he himself could not put a number to his age. Among Men, Madelyn was remarkable for her age—hence the scale of her party.

            “Are you not grieved?” Elros blurted out, setting the pitcher of cider back on the table. They had dragged a good number of them outside, as the birthday girl wanted to make the most of the lovely weather.

            “Grieved?” she said. “What about?”

            “You’re so old now,” Elros said uneasily.

            “And you think I shall die soon, is that it?” Elros blushed, feeling the rudeness of his inquiry. “So perhaps I will,” she said with a shrug. “Why should I be grieved about it now? It hasn’t happened yet!”

            “Are you not afraid?” he asked wondrously.

            “Come here, let me tell you something, Peredhel,” Madelyn said, crooking her finger at him. Elros leaned in towards her wrinkled face. “A great many things have I feared and grieved in my life,” she said more quietly. “A great many. Many of them were silly to fear. Many warranted every bit of it. Some I probably should have feared more. Here is the secret: if you get old enough, death loses its shadow. I have watched men and women cut down in the prime of life; I have watched babes perish in the cradle, some of them my own. That was something to fear. Now? When death comes for me, I imagine it will feel just like laying down and taking a nap, and just as easy.

            “If you spend your life always looking over your shoulder for death, you let it rob you of your chance to live,” she said. “There’s your birthday wisdom. Now, go and bring me one of those honey-cakes, like a good lad.”

XII.

            Elros insisted they stay a full year and a half with the Edain, as it was only fair given how long they had stayed in Balar, and Elrond could not dispute with that. But as the eighteenth month drew near, both brothers became increasingly aware that they had made no plans beyond this deadline. Their only thought when they left the Greenwood had been to learn more about where their families came from, with the idea that it might help them understand their own places in the world.

            Furthermore, it was apparent that Elrond was eager to be on, while it was Elros’ turn to drag his feet about leaving.

            “Elrond,” said Elros to him one day in early fall. “We need to talk.”

            “I’m busy,” said Elrond, who was at the butter churn and definitely not so mentally occupied with this task he could not bear to converse.

            “Are you really?”

            “I am,” said Elrond. “Certainly this talk can wait.”

            “It really cannot,” said Elros sharply.

            “Well I’m busy,” snapped Elrond, pumping the butter churn viciously.

            “This is important,” said Elros. When Elrond said nothing, Elros went on: “We need to talk about what we are going to do after our last month here is over.”

            “I told you I do not have time for this now.”

“You’re being a child!” Elros shot back, which earned him a furious glare.

            “You’re the one who’s not listening!”

            “Well, if you don’t want to talk about it,” said Elros, aware even as the words were bubbling up in his throat that he was saying something he didn’t mean, “perhaps I should just be off! You can find someone else to walk you back to Balar! Since Elrond always gets what he wants in the end, doesn’t he?”

            Elrond tore off his apron and threw it on the ground, storming out the back door and leaving Elros with the half-churned butter. For a long moment, Elros watched the door, but in the end, he did not follow Elrond out. Instead, he picked up the apron, tied it on, and silently took Elrond’s place at the churn.

            “Ah, thank you, Elrond,” said Rusbes, who was hosting them in her home, when she passed through the kitchen. “I shall sorely miss having you to help out when you and your brother are gone!”

            “Of course,” said Elros with a small smile.

            When he had finished, and his back and underarms were beaded with sweat from the vigor of his churning, he went out into the front yard to draw in the fresh air.

            “Hello, Elros,” called a familiar voice from the street. Elros opened his eyes and turned his face from the sky to smile at Madelyn. Immediately he crossed over to the fence.

            “How did you know it was me?” he asked.

            “I can tell,” said Madelyn confidently, waving a hand as if to scoff at the notion she might confuse the two of them.

            “Are you going to the butcher or the baker? I can carry something for you,” Elros offered.

            “Oh no, I’ve just promised to meet Arn for tea this afternoon,” she said. “A fool thing of me to promise, now I’ll have to finish that embroidery tomorrow.” But she didn’t sound too terribly put-out by her own social engagements.

            “Ah, well, have a lovely time,” said Elros. “And take a good helping of honey!”

            “You know I will,” she said with a mischievous grin, and then she carried on, slow, but not unsteady.

            When she was gone, Elros let out a sigh, and went back inside to hang up the apron. He said little at dinner that night, picking over his food in relative silence. When Rusbes’ husband and the two younger children retired to the hearth to play dice and sticks, Elrond joined them half-heartedly, but Elros merely sat on one of the chairs and watched with disinterest. He and Elrond said nothing as they prepared for bed. It was only when they were tucked into their bed with the candles out and the curtains drawn that Elros spoke.

            “Elrond?”

            Elrond pretended to be asleep.

            “I know you’re awake!” Elros did not know, but he felt quite sure. Still, Elrond did not respond. So Elros said nothing more, and waited until Elrond might truly be asleep before he slid out of bed and pressed his feet into his shoes.

            In just his nightshift he went out into the cool autumn air, passing through the rear yard until he was beyond the shed. He leaned back against the far wall of it, out of sight of the house and out of earshot, too, and then he cried. He wasn’t even sure he could name what he was crying for, or perhaps it was that it seemed too frightening to give it a name, or outline in his thoughts that he might understand the true shape of it.

            When he had begun to weary of his crying—when his throat ached and his eyes and nose felt raw—he heard a rustling in the grass too strident to be an animal. He wiped his nose on his forearm and swiped the heels of his hands over his eyes, so that he might look a bit less pathetic when Elrond rounded the corner of the shed in the silver moonlight. He stopped when he saw Elros there, and for a moment they just looked at each other.

            At last, Elrond said: “I’m sorry. I acted a fool today.” Elros nodded somewhat stiffly. The sight of his brother made the lump in his throat return instantly. “We do need to talk,” Elrond agreed, quieter.

            “Where are we going after this?” asked Elros, his voice not quite as steady as he had hoped it would be.

            “I…suppose I thought…back to the Greenwood,” said Elrond. “Or I suppose we could return to Balar. Gil-galad wouldn’t turn us away.” But Elros was already shaking his head.

            “I’m not ready to leave the Edain,” he said. Elrond said nothing. “Come on, Elrond,” he urged. “Our whole lives we have spent with Elves. Do you not wish to see something else? Are you not curious about them?”

            “I think we’ve gotten to know them relatively well,” said Elrond with a shrug. The truth was, of course, that he missed the Elves. He missed their philosophic conversation, and the beauty which imbued seemingly everything they did, and the libraries, and the way their thinking stretched so far into the future.

            “I am not ready to go back,” Elros repeated.

            “We could stay another month,” Elrond proposed generously. Again, Elros was shaking his head.

            “That is not enough,” he said.

            “Well, how long do you want to stay?”

            “I don’t know. I don’t know how long will feel like enough to me.”

            The twins stared at each other.

            “Elrond,” said Elros very softly. “Do we not both know where this is going?” Elrond looked away, fisting his hands in his nightdress. “We won’t be apart forever,” he insisted. “Just a little while. Until we both have what we want.”

            “What do you want?” Elrond cried, looking back at his brother. Elros tensed and scratched the back of his head.

            “I don’t know,” he murmured. “I…feel like I’m looking for something, and I have not found it yet. But I’m close.”

            “How can you do this?” Elrond whispered, his eyes welling up. “Just leave? Just break us apart?”

            “I don’t wish for it!” Elros exclaimed. “But I see no another answer, do you? You will be unhappy if I make you stay here indefinitely, and I will be unhappy if you make me leave. Is that what you want? For us to end up like them, hating each other?”

            “I would never hate you,” said Elrond furiously, hands balling up. “How can you even say that? That we could be that way?”

            “We won’t,” Elros said. “But I do not know what else to do. Do you?”

            Elrond said nothing.

            “It shall not be forever,” Elros repeated quietly. Elrond still said nothing, for he could think of nothing to say, no way around the conclusion Elros had drawn. Instead, he only came nearer, and the two embraced tightly, both tight in the throat.

            “Not forever,” Elrond echoed, holding Elros as tightly as he could.

            “Not forever.”

XIII.

            The roads had grown ever more dangerous since Elrond and Elros’ youth. Morgoth’s hand now stretched effectively over the whole of the continent, and among most villages, there was a gloomy sense of when not if his forces would ravage their homes. Nevertheless, life went on, if more warily than before, and a small merchant wagon accompanied Elrond back to Lindon, hoping to trade some of the village’s wares with the Elves.

            Elrond and Elros hugged another goodbye, but Elrond looked back many times at the village as he departed, and before it was out of sight, hurried back.

            “I forgot,” he said—Elrond hardly ever forgot anything— “I wanted you to take this. I don’t wear it anymore.” He handed off a cloak clasp to Elros, whose lips were twitching slightly.

            “Very well,” he said.

            “I shall want it back later, so keep track of it.”

            “Very well.” Elros was outright smiling by then.

            This time, he really left. They camped within sight of the road that night, and Elrond had little to say, leaning back against the trunk of a tree and watching the flames dance in the firepit. He had been looking forward to returning to Lindon someday, to seeing Gil-galad again, but it felt now overborne by his grief. It seemed to him that some line had been crossed, to which he and Elros could never return. They had broken the heretofore impenetrable barrier of their togetherness—and now that they had parted once, who was to say they wouldn’t part again? If they could part, then what was keeping them together? Only the presence of the merchants kept him from breaking down in tears.

            He barely slept the whole journey back, and abruptly left the Mannish traders as soon as they had arrived in the city. He made straight for Gil-galad’s castle, and the sentries must have seen him coming and announced his coming, for Gil-galad was in the front courtyard when he arrived.

            “Elrond!” the king greeted him warmly as Elrond dismounted his horse. Gil-galad tilted his head and looked past his guest. “Where’s Elros?”

            Elrond’s throat was aching at once. He said nothing, only came nearer, and Gil-galad opened his arms in invitation. Elrond nearly collapsed into this embrace, and could not stop himself from weeping, even if it seemed childish.

            “He stayed,” he managed to get out, lest Gil-galad think the worst, but no more could he say after that.

            “Ah,” said the king softly, his arms light around the young man. “I see.”

XIV.

            There had been a time he had not believed the world could keep turning if he and Elros were parted, a time he would have sooner died than let go of his brother’s hand, but alone in Balar without Elros, he found that life did, in fact, continue.

            It soothed the pain that Gil-galad was so genuinely pleased to have him there. Were he less pressed by the loss of Elros, Elrond might have been less willing to impose his company on Gil-galad, but as it stood, the loneliness that threatened him was immense, and he would cling to whatever could alleviate it. He asked to accompany Gil-galad on the hunt, and invited him to play games of chess and go, and took seats nearby him without being asked, and through all, Gil-galad seemed to have infinite patience. It reminded Elrond of all the reasons he had been reluctant to part with the king in the first place.

            He picked up a correspondence too, with Thranduil: He wrote to let the prince of the Greenwood know what he and Elros had been doing, and that he had made it safely back to Balar. Thranduil sent him a response, and Elrond was happy to continue it. Parchment was in increasingly short supply in Balar, as was everything else—the more entrenched Morgoth became in Middle-earth, the less trade went on, and Balar being an island was a boon to its security, but a terrible detriment to its import/export industry. As a result, Elrond and Thranduil were often obligated to re-use the same paper for a reply as they had gotten from the other, writing crossways between the other man’s lines. Occasionally, Thranduil included a greeting from Oropher, and Elrond found it warmed him, to think somewhere beyond his sight were people wishing him well.

            When Elrond had left Lindon last, he had still been quite young. A year and a half made no difference at all to an Elf, and yet Elrond was changed when he returned, and so too was his relationship with the king. Gil-galad looked more on him as an equal now, a fellow adult, and not a wayward child for which he felt some responsibility. Gil-galad even honored him with an official position at court: the king’s herald.

            “This way, you have a reason to stay,” he said with a smile, pinning a little ribbon of office onto Elrond’s robe.

            Elrond wanted to sweep him off his feet.

            He so wholeheartedly threw himself into any task that Gil-galad gave him that the king had to laughingly insist he take more rest, and on this account, Elrond was only too happy to accompany Gil-galad on slow walks around the garden, or down to the market to browse aimlessly, or to watch Gil-galad at play with some of the other Elves in the games they enjoyed in Lindon. (Any of these were preferrable to watching the far more common instances of Gil-galad rubbing his temples or wringing his hands over the state of Middle-earth and his fear for the future of the continent.)

            Still, he watched for correspondence from Elros. Letters took a good long while these days, as there were fewer travelers, and they were less likely to make it to their destinations than during the Long Peace, a time Elrond and Elros had never known. It took five months for the first of Elros’ letters to arrive, announcing he had gone south to a larger village—a real town, he said—and that he was staying with the lord there. Pages and pages he wrote about everything he had seen and everyone he had met, and he waxed rapturously about the Edain and their mythology and philosophy, and this he followed up with a full page of questions about what Elrond was doing and an exhortation to give Gil-galad his best.

            Elros sounded happy, and this made Elrond cry over the letter, because his brother was happy, and because his brother was happy without him. It felt right, and wrong, and he was too tangled up to sort out what was the most sensible thing to feel.

            When he raised the letter with Gil-galad later, he knew everything was different. When Gil-galad touched his cheek in comfort, he knew that the hammering in his heart was not his imagination running away with him again. Yet he demurred, accepting the nominal comfort without acknowledging what lay beneath it, and so he demurred onwards. He drew near to Gil-galad, only to pull back at reciprocity; he invited Gil-galad’s familiarity, then turned away from him seemingly on a whim; he let them dance endlessly around each other, both feinting towards crossing a line that Elrond was keenly aware of, and pretending he did not see.

            It was during one of their many late nights on the balcony of Gil-galad’s personal study that Elrond felt he needed to give the king an unwelcome reminder. He felt that he needed to do this because of how deeply Gil-galad was looking into his eyes, and how, over the course of the last few hours, they had been shifting nearer and nearer together, until they were almost shoulder-to-shoulder.

            “Gil-galad,” he said softly, then glanced out at the horizon, behind which the sun had disappeared and from which, to Elrond’s eyes, the last of the light had faded. “Ereinion,” he said, turning his gaze back to Gil-galad’s eyes. The king was certainly listening now. Elrond forced himself to hold Gil-galad’s stare and keep his face neutral when he said: “I am mortal.”

            “I know,” Gil-galad replied, too quickly.

            “Sometimes I think you need to be reminded,” said Elrond.

            “Perhaps there are more important things to remember of you,” Gil-galad replied. Elrond said nothing, but averted his eyes again, and Gil-galad straightened up, shifting slightly away. “If I have misunderstood…” he said. “If I have done anything to put you ill at ease, Elrond, then you have my sincerest and most profuse apologies. It was not my intention to do anything unwelcome.”

            “You did not…misunderstand,” said Elrond very quietly. “I simply feel I must warn you. You are immortal. I am not.”

            “Neither was Dior Eluchil,” pointed out Gil-galad, and Elrond’s eyes snapped up to his. “Yet still Nimloth wed him.” It seemed to Elrond he could hear the beat of his heart in his ears. “Neither was Tuor, who wed Idril. For that matter, neither was Beren, though Lúthien was still counted among immortal Elves when first they pledged themselves to one another.” And Elrond was silent, searching for some irrefutable point on how this was different. “As I said,” Gil-galad concluded cautiously. “If I have overstepped…then I will withdraw, and say no more of it. But if your only concern is for some future pain of mine…I would beg you trust that I know what I am doing. That I understand what I desire. At any rate, it may not matter much one way or the other,” he added, casting a gloomy look out at the invisible coast of the mainland in the dark distance. “Mortal or immortal may make no difference within a few years.”

            And he had been on such a romantic bent up until then.

            “I would not wish to cause you pain,” said Elrond carefully.

            “You would not,” said Gil-galad.

            “I do not wish to play with semantics,” Elrond replied a bit sharply. “But perhaps none of it matters, if we are doomed to see the end of a free Middle-earth.”

            Both men lapsed into silence, studying the orange glow of the city below, which from on high felt so achingly small relative to the great darkness of the night.

            “If we are to see an end,” said Gil-galad at last, very quietly, “I would rather have what joy we may, first.” Elrond looked over to see Gil-galad looking at him.

            “So would I,” Elrond agreed, his voice barely above a whisper. A slow smile spread over Gil-galad’s face.

            “Then, at last, we agree,” he said. Elrond nodded mutely, and, in lieu of words, took Gil-galad’s hand tentatively in his, and they went back to watching the city.

XV.

            Two years after they had said goodbye, Elros returned to Balar. He had written ahead to suggest he might be in the area sometime in the future, but not to say specifically that he was coming, so when the message from the guard came, Elrond was caught entirely by surprise. Gil-galad was meeting with some of his advisors, so Elrond alone rushed out to the courtyard in time to see Elros returning from leaving his horse at the stables.

            “Elrond!” he cried, waving. “I brought you—”

            Elrond said nothing, but charged at his brother, a run that Elros met until they crashed somewhat painfully together, immediately wrapped up in a hug. For a few moments, they stood silently holding each other, and then Elrond said: “Your hair!”

            Elros drew back with a grin and raked his hand back through his short black hair.

            “Do you like it? The Men down south wear it like this. You wouldn’t believe how much easier it is to care for! It dries so quickly now!”

            “I suppose people will stop confusing us now,” said Elrond, and he felt curiously sad about it.

            “One solution to that, brother,” said Elros, grinning again and raising his eyebrows.

            “No.”

            Elros said nothing else then, just stood grinning at him, then grabbed his shoulders, then let go again.

            “Ah! I brought you something.” He handed over a leaf-wrapped sweet bun.

            “This is…is this from the market here?” Elrond asked, taking it.

            “I didn’t say it was an exotic gift. I stopped through on my way up here.” Elrond looked at the pastry again, then carefully split it in half and gave one side to Elros. “I already had one,” said Elros, but Elrond just waved the pastry half at him, and he took it with another grin. He threw an arm over Elrond’s shoulder and steered him towards the castle.

            “Now, you must tell me everything you left out of your letters,” he insisted.

            “I didn’t leave things out!” said Elrond. Elros just looked at him skeptically, and Elrond sighed and looked askance. “Very well, I left some things out. Some things are better discussed in person!”

            “Agreed,” said Elros.

            Elrond was relieved to see much about them was still the same. They were still the same height, and there were no great changes to Elros’ face. Neither of them had ever much come into growing facial hair the way Men did, and that hadn’t changed. Elros seemed to have put on more muscle since Elrond had seen him last, and he’d obviously spent a lot of time outside, but their builds still largely matched, and somehow, Elrond was relieved.

            Very soon, it felt as if no time had passed at all. Elros was sitting cross-legged on Elrond’s sofa, telling him about a party he had attended recently, when Gil-galad announced himself, and then let himself in, as was his custom by then.

            “Elros!” he exclaimed, glancing between the twins. And then: “Your hair!” Elros grinned, but rose to his feet and offered a bow to the king.

            “My lord Gil-galad,” he said. “Forgive me for not writing to announce myself. I wanted to be something of a surprise.” Gil-galad smiled.

            “No apologies needed,” he said. “As I have always said, you are both always welcome here. And of course, Elrond is permitted whatever guests he likes.” Elros looked over at Elrond, who glanced away from both of them, slightly flustered, but not displeased.

            “Come and sit with us,” he said to Gil-galad. “Elros has some very entertaining stories of his travels.”

            “Oh, don’t let me do all the talking,” said Elros, noting that Elrond had not risen when Gil-galad entered. Elros took his seat again once the king had done so also. “I’m sure you have things to share also.”

[fiddlin-across-faerun]

Twenty Tav Questions Meme!

tagged by @clandekariios idk who to tag

I. what do they smell like at their freshest? (and/or after a tenday. your choice)

Probably pine, you can actually make soap out of pine tar and remember the inspiration for him is "Devil Went Down to Georgia" and pine trees are super common in Georgia...don't ask about after a day of fighting or working on the farm you don't wanna know.

II. what would their blood taste like to vampires?

Either incredibly sweet, or like whiskey. Depends on if he's had access to sweet tea lol.

III. how would they kiss their LI?

Depends. Could be just a cute little peck on the cheek all the way up to the we might die in this next fight so let's make out like our lives depend on it. Without any constraints I think he'd just like a long slow kiss.

IV. how do they sleep with their LI (what position, does one steal the blankets, is one too hot/cold, etc)?

I think this is going to vary depending on the love interest. But I imagine Johnny runs a bit hot so he probably doesn't like too much cover, but he likes to cuddle so...good luck.

V. what does their tent area look like? where do they prefer to pitch their tent (next to water, covered on three sides, etc)?

He'd have a very simple tent, he's not a fancy guy. Probably a stool or a rug to sit on. His violin and a bottle of whatever he's drinking. He would probably prefer under a tree or by the water. Later it will be whichever spot is closest to the companion he's the most interested in.

VI. if they had a set of dnd dice, what would they look like?

Ah...blue? He likes blue.

VII. do they collect anything (gems, bottles, keys, etc)?

Instruments, hats, boots, animals and booze.

VIII. if either, are they part of the astarion/gale book club (magic & literature) or the wyll/shadowheart book club (trashy romance novels)?

This man can't read. He's either in the animal loving or whittling corner with Halsin or having three am thoughts with Karlach.

IX. if they had to be put in a “get along shirt” with a companion, who would it be?

Either Minthara or Astarion. He legitimately tries to get Astarion to like him, but is always putting his foot in his mouth. Minthy just scares him.

X. do they prefer speak with dead or speak with animals?

Speak with animals 100%.

XI. what are their thoughts on clowns?

Johnny likes clowns...up until Dribbles.

XII. their companions are gossiping about them behind their back! who is it and what are they saying?

Could be anyone. Complaining about his accent, phrases they don't understand, his music and when he's opted to practice, bringing in another stray, bad decisions, his intelligence, and maybe an instance or two where he failed persuasion or performance rolls.

XIII. what makes them laugh? what does their laugh sound like?

It's pretty easy to make Johnny laugh. It's a pretty warm laugh, but also a little goofy, the kind that makes you want to laugh too. He will also do the classic slap his knee and you'll probably hear "Oh/now that's funny!"

XIV. do they have any inside jokes among their companions?

Probably the fact that only Wyll and Halsin know when Johnny says "Bless your heart" that's not a good thing. Maybe he might have a silly one with Karlach.

Ok this is a correct me if I'm wrong, but I think one companion has a line that's like "They could argue in an empty room." that's a southern phrase and Johnny would agree with them

XV. what’s the description of their camp clothes in the inventory menu?

Johnny's simple sleepwear, These well-worn clothes have been repaired several times, but some fixes are coming undone. As if whoever was repairing hasn't been able to do so in some time.

(his mother)

XVI. what’s the description of their underwear in the inventory menu?

Johnny's "drawers", surprising to find these in his inventory and not in someone's tent.

XVII. how do they celebrate their birthday?

Nothing too special, maybe have a casual hang out with friends and or family. Maybe sleeping in and having breakfast in bed with his partner.

XVIII. what modern day tv show would they binge over a weekend? do they get their LI to watch with them?

He would probably be into shows like Yellowstone, maybe the singing contest shows like American Idol. Then again he'd probably watch a lot of stuff like America's Funniest Home Videos and Ridiculous. The man appreciates some good slapstick humor.

XIX. do you have a playlist for your tav? if so, what’s the title + description

Yes...it is 81 songs long (bc I am a country music girlie). Just his name, and it's nothing but country music. As recent as Dixon Dallas's latest song all the way back to Conway Twitty.

XX. if you were to try pickpocketing them, what would they be carrying?

Fiddle, harmonica, Bean, shovel, at least one bottle of whiskey or moonshine, a few pieces of gold, lasso, crossbow. If you're pickpocketing him in Act 3 you can get his recently obtained golden fiddle (yeah the one he bet his soul for).

[aetherose]

In the ruins you smile / For you, my light, my sun / I'll sacrifice / Eternal night, my last dance / Survive, you whispered / In the moon's embrace / Our destiny's planned / Let us fly, to the twilight road / Where joy and sorrow meet / Reborn with raven wings, I soar / In the arms of fate / To the sun I swore / Give all to you

#𝑨𝑬𝑻𝑯𝑬𝑹𝑶𝑺𝑬 — An independent, selective, mutuals-only, multiship & multiverse, multifandom multimuse roleplay blog that's OC, crossover, & duplicate-friendly — 𝑩𝑳𝑶𝑶𝑴𝑬𝑫 𝑩𝒀 𝑹𝑶𝑺𝑬, your local 𝘘𝘜𝘌𝘌𝘕 𝘖𝘍 𝘉𝘙𝘈𝘐𝘕𝘙𝘖𝘛. Originally established as @/popolaroleplayhub (later renamed @/etherose) on 12/01/2021, re-established on 03/29/2024. Mun began RPing on 10/29/2021. Activity is often sporadic.

PLEASE READ THIS POST IN FULL & THE CARRD & THE MUSES YOU ARE INTERESTED IN'S BIOS BEFORE INTERACTING!

Currently in semi-hiatus. End date unclear because I've been very overwhelmed since the end of December. Thank you for understanding.

Featuring muses from Hoyoverse's games, Project Moon, Baldur's Gate 3, Punishing: Gray Raven, other miscellaneous fandoms, & personal OCs. Also features various verses for many of the muses. Elysia from Honkai Impact 3rd is the muse you'll see most often & is who I usually default to when unsure who to throw at folks.

𝑪𝑼𝑹𝑹𝑬𝑵𝑻 𝑳𝑶𝑼𝑫𝑬𝑺𝑻 𝑴𝑼𝑺𝑬𝑺: Luna, Ishmael, Elysia. (Last updated 02/12/2024)

NON-RP BLOGS ARE BLOCKED ON SIGHT UNLESS THEY HAVE A RP SIDEBLOG OR ARE A FRIEND OF THE MUN. Additionally, THIS BLOG CAN ONLY UTILIZE THE BETA EDITOR.

I do not claim ownership of anything I utilized for my graphics or icons besides my own art and the work I put in editing the images used. Most of the images are from official media. However, if any fanart used is your own & you are uncomfortable regarding its usage, message me and I will stop using it immediately. Here is the credit for the fanart used in my current graphics; ye_rhythm / STAR影法師 / setsumushi.

𝑾𝑨𝑹𝑵𝑰𝑵𝑮𝑺 𝑭𝑶𝑹: Spoilers for all media featured on this blog, muses being heavily headcanon-based & sometimes canon-divergent, violence, death, murder, grey morality, unhealthy coping mechanisms, mentions of various types of abuse, mentions of human experimentation, childhood trauma, self-worth issues, & general existential & philosophical ponderings & horrors. This list isn't exhaustive; each muse has warnings of their own on their bios, and I could have always missed something.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ"𝑻𝒐 𝒘𝒆, 𝒘𝒉𝒐 𝒂𝒍𝒘𝒂𝒚𝒔 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒍𝒂𝒎𝒆—"

I. CARRD​​       II. OPEN STARTERS​​​​​​       III. PATCH NOTES​​       IV. PROMOS​​       V. ASKS VI. THREADS​​       VII. HEADCANONS​​       VIII. OC LORE​​​       IX. WISHLIST​​       X. MEMES XI. DASH GAMES​​​ ​​       XII. GALLERY​​       XIII. MUN ART​​        XIV. EDITS​​       XV. DRABBLES

𝑨 𝑺𝑻𝑼𝑫𝒀 𝑰𝑵: The meaning of existence and life; what makes someone human & the nature of humanity; whether ends justify the means; the weight of self-sacrifice; the cost and value of freedom; the suffocating nature of loneliness; the cycle of abuse; horrible truths; new beginnings; pushing onward despite everything; absurdism; & 𝘯𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥, 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘫𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘶𝘯𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦.

[brokeniisms]

| ⁱⁿᵈᵉᵖᵉⁿᵈᵉⁿᵗ ʳᵖ ᵇˡᵒᵍ ᵒᶠ ᶜˡᵒᵘᵈ ᵒᶠ ᶠʳᵒᵐ ᶠᶠᵛⁱⁱ ˢᵉʳⁱᵉˢ | (⌐■_■) ( ᵖʳᵉᵛᶤᵒᵘˢˡʸ ʷᵒᵘᶰᵈᵉᵈ--ʷᵃʳʳᶤᵒʳ )

'Do you see a real person, or just, a lie?' -- This is an independent, and semi-selective blog for Cloud Strife. I take a lot of inspiration from the game but have crafted my own backstory to Cloud that heavily ties into the reasoning of his character traits.

Navigation: | about. | verses. | other blogs. | MEMES | credits for dividers

↓ Guidelines ↓

My portrayal of Cloud is based on my headcanons with insp from their original content.

Blog is not spoiler free so I will be tagging spoilers, rebirth spoilers ♥

My activity mostly depends on my health conditions(GERD & IBS) and the fact I am dealing with job hunting. This will be the main reasons if I am every slow/ever go a bit MIA. But if I ever go on break I will make a post about it.

I am a semi-selective blog and mutuals only! I am OC friendly.

I do have a discord! You may ask for it if we are mutuals and if you want to plot and what not and of course just chat ooc.

TRIGGERS, PLEASE TAG - TW: GORE, TW: SPIDERS, TW: BUTTERFLY, TW: ZOMBIES !!

About mun: Jupiter. Pronouns: she/her. Timezone: EST!

ALSO, I want to make a statement that is blog will not tolerate ship hate. This has been an ongoing thing for vii but I will not be a part of it. Ship freely, and respect others. Okay? Thank you c:

↓ Rest of rules in full detail BELOW ↓ 

✶ FIRST AND FOREMOSTS ✶

I. This is a mutuals blog only, please respect that.

II. I  deal with something called GERD, which is Gastroesophageal reflux disease, and IBS, which is Irritable bowel syndrome. It is a big reason, along with anxiety/depression that sometimes makes it hard for me to focus a lot and if I suddenly have low activity that is a big reason why. I'll do my best to not complain about it a lot ooc cause I do not wish to bother ppl with it, but it's just a heads up.

III. Please note that the mun is going through the job hunt process so sometimes I may be active for a while but then I may disappear for a bit, causing me to take some time with replies. Please understand♥

✶ IMPORTANT NOTES ✶

IV. Please, no godmodding my characters! Thank you ♥

V. I have a discord! If we are mutuals feel free to ask for it to plot and whatnot!

VI. SEMI-SELECTIVE BLOG. If I do not rp/follow with you, please do not take offence. Sometimes I may not because I don't see a way for our muses interacting/I may not know character too well sorry :x 

VII. I am open to AU’s and rping with OC’s! If you are an OC though, it would be nice if you would have an about page. Just so I can get the feeling of your character. Or, just make sure to tell me about your character if you wish to RP with me c:

VIII. When it comes to rping with characters from the same fandom, I roleplay the way I believe they would act with this person based on my idea of their relationship. This does not mean I am forcing you to automatically like/act the same way toward them. It’s just the way I believe they would act towards him/her.

✶ TAGGING & WRITING ✶

IX. I am open to any type of threads except extreme gore. Action is fine, and talk of blood is as well but if it goes into great detail I can not handle it. I am very sensitive about it, sorry.

X. If you ever reply to one of my asks, I prefer it if you put it in a separate post c:

XI. Please!!! tag these things if you post them because I am very sensitive: TW: GORE, TW: SPIDERS, TW: BUTTERFLY,  TW: ZOMBIES

XII. While rping Cloud, I have my own headcannons about him.. You do not have to agree with them but please respect them. I also wanna give a shoutout to my one friend who has helped me develop so many of my headcanons. She a real one♥

✶ SHIPPING ✶

XIII. I am open to having relationships built with my muse but please do not force it on me. I’m not trying to be mean, and it does not mean I do not like you. I just believe that our characters need to get to know each-other and develop their relationship. Again, don’t take offence if my muse does not get along with yours.

✶ OTHER ✶

XIV. If you are curious and may think you know me hah, here are my other blogs I used to rp my muses on: Noctis, Yuri, Alm, Aladdin, Cloud, and others but.. So long ago lol.

XV. I will not interact with muses from the following fandoms: fruit basket, anything fully associated with FULL ON horror.. If you are a multi muse and happen to have characters from these fandoms that’s fine, as long as you have others I can interact with.

✶ NSFW ✶

XVI. Mun is of age. Cloud is as well and nsfw may be present on the blog. This can go from headcanons written about them or rp threads. I will not do nsfw with minors. PLEASE do not lie about your age.

XVII. There will be dark themes on this blog due to Cloud’s story and past.

XVIII. I always tag topics like, suicide, abuse, self hate, depression, blood. The way I tag triggers is tw: word. Or word // If you want me to add any/if I forget to tag something, LET ME KNOW♥

XIX. What will NOT be present on this blog ever is, rape, incest, pedophillia, racism, homophobia, transphobia, sexism. (I’m running blank but these seem like the obvious, will add to it if I think of any.)