#col1999

[marveltrumpshate]

January 2024 MTH fills

The best way to see all the fills that have been shared with us is our monthly roundups tag or our #MTH-fills channel on our Discord, but you can also view them through the following methods:

Our Tumblr tags: 2018, 2019, 2020, 2021, 2022, 2023

Our AO3 collections: 2018, 2019, 2020, 2021, 2022, 2023 (only has works posted to AO3)

Completed works tag list

To find specific content, use our completed works tag lists above which includes instructions on how to search for a particular character, gen or romantic relationship, universe, and fanwork type. 

SOLO CHARACTERS

Goose

@secondalto - Cross-stitch piece of Goose for @rivetheadgirl

GEN/PLATONIC RELATIONSHIPS

Pietro Maximoff & Wanda Maximoff

Lalaith Quetzalli/@lalaithquetzallicaresi - Mood board for rufferto9 for their fic, "An Archer's Tale"

SHIPS

Arthur Harrow/Khonshu

@tiptapricot - "Consummation of Consumption" (MCU Arthur Harrow/Khonshu fic about unhealthy, codependent sex featuring religious fanaticism and devotion) for @lintillathearchaeologist

Bruce Banner/Tony Stark

heyjupiter/@twentyghosts - "Under the Tuscan Mistletoe" (Bruce/Tony 1990s non-powered AU fic where Bruce and Tony have a holiday fling) for @kalika999

Bucky Barnes/Clint Barton

@claraxbarton - "Running Start" (Bucky/Clint non-powered soulmates identity porn AU fic) for Col1999 (MTH 2022) - "where we go" (616/MCU fusion Bucky/Clint asexual relationship fic) for @foxprints (MTH 2022)

Lalaith Quetzalli/@lalaithquetzallicaresi - Fic cover for @rufferto9 for their fic, "An Archer's Tale," a Clint/Bucky werelion AU - Mood board for rufferto9 for their fic, "An Archer's Tale," a Clint/Bucky werelion AU

Bucky Barnes/Darcy Lewis

@anonymousmink - Art of Bucky cuddling Darcy from behind in bed for @bekala

Bucky Barnes/Howard Stark

@ruquas - A wartime epistolary fic in the form of handwritten letters between Bucky and Howard for @fuckyeahhowardstark

Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers

blackthorn_possum/@possumwoodpie - Podfic of "Surprise of the Night," a 1930s Bucky/Steve fic where Bucky and Steve go to watch a blue movie by and for lou2

Clint Barton/Phil Coulson

@cakeisnotpie - "All the Difference" (Clint/Coulson AU fic where Phil is a homeless vet who crosses paths with Clint, who takes contracts to go after bad guys) for @oper1895 and stillcentre

Jake Lockley/Marc Spector

@tiptapricot - "Warm Pipes" (MCU Jake/Marc shower fic where Jake helps Marc find their body again) for @rufferto9

Loki/Mobius

Lalaith Quetzalli/@lalaithquetzallicaresi - Loki/Mobius edit of them smiling fondly at each other with the phrase "Wherever you are, that's home" for @t0nystark1er

Steve Rogers/Tony Stark

Juulna/@juuls - Podfic of "felt with your two hands," a post-Endgame Steve/Tony fic where Tony helps Steve shave by and for @ishipallthings - Podfic of "lonely rivers flow to the sea (Topographies Remix)," a post-AoU Steve/Tony mutual pining fuck buddies fic by and for @ishipallthings

@longhornletters - Beta service for "Behind the Mask," a Steve/Tony Noir/Civil Warrior identity porn fic by and for @gottalovev (posted December 2023)

[copperbadge]

Why do you love Hogs Killing a Snake? Just curious.

Honestly the first time I saw it, I was just captivated by the sheer raw violence of the content. It was just such a weird painting to see in a gallery, a painting of pigs and death, and then I turned around to look at American Gothic and found that the woman in American Gothic, across the gallery, was staring directly at me, and through me at the pigs. 

Probably I would have just laughed and gone on my way, but the wonderful positioning of the two paintings, so that a farmer was looking at livestock, was something that I wanted to share with anyone who was interested in seeing American Gothic. Which meant that I saw Hogs Killing A Snake a lot, and especially after it was one of the pieces in the amazing America After The Fall exhibit, I spent a lot of time contemplating it. It’s become like an old friend. 

One time I was showing the painting to a friend and talking about it, and a tourist visiting the museum started listening in. Once I was done she very hesitantly asked me, “Are you a curator here?” and I have never been more flattered in my entire life.

Anyway, the main appeal is still that it’s just so weird. You don’t often see pigs in fine art and you really never see violent pigs. But it also strikes me now as a really interesting reaction to the pastorality of American painting at the time. Most portrayals of rural life have always struck me as a bit static -- that’s not a bad thing, there’s a lot of paintings of rural life that I love, but you almost never see a painting like Hogs Killing A Snake anywhere, where it both celebrates rural life and violates the serenity we expect of it. Pigs lived and died and killed snakes on American Gothic’s farm, behind Monet’s haystacks and next to Van Gogh’s olive orchards, but only in Curry’s painting do we ever see it. 

[i-m-snek]

Please help my baby snake ignorance- why are the Ball Pythons kind of bulgy on their bottom half? It looked like the Mexican Black Kingsnakes were just sleek adults in miniature, while the pythons look more chonky. Is it just a species difference? Do the pythons have baby fat? Did the kingsnakes poop before you took their pictures, but the pythons hadn't yet? I'm sorry if these are dumb questions- I've just never seen baby snakes before and I'm so excited!

Hey no worries! :) So ball pythons tend to have a lot of yolk to soak up out of the egg, and they don’t soak it up until after they pip. So they soak the whole yoak up within a 24 hour period and it makes them look super chubby :)

[aurumacadicus]

How? Are all your fics so good? You've made me fall into each ship you've done so far! Ships I never thought of! And all different scenarios. You are so creative and I'm SO GLAD you chose to share your creativity this way!

Thank you! I appreciate that a lot!

[girl-next-door-writes]

End of 2021 Reblog Draw

@col1999 @coldgothapricotalmond @cookingglitterfairy @cool @cool-on therun-world@cool-ontherun @cosicas-cuquis @crazybutconfidentaf @cruuelty @cynic-spirit @damalseer @damnitasshole @dancing-the-hellfire-rumba @dark-academics-and-florals @datajana @datboifinnadie @daughter-of the-underworld@deadlymistress24 @deandreamernp @deanjeansenfics @deanjensenficsandart @deanwanddamons @deanwinchesterswitch @djinny-djin-djin @doctorlilo @drbaureid @dreaming-about-fanfictions @dumbasscorn @emma-the-duck17 @empressnataliep27 @emzus-posts @estoniacobaltpayne @ethekitchenator @evangeliamerryll @everlynreddington @fablesrose @falling-solar-system @fandomscombine @fanficreblogged @fanfiction-stuff @fangirlextraordinaire @fantasias-creativebubble @fantastical @fantastical-67impala @fantastical-67impala-fangirl @fantasyfan4life @feelmyroarrrr @feeropop @feffffffy @fgw-and-gfw @ficpixiesingeekland @firefly-in-darkness @fixatedfandomhunter @flamencodiva-reblogs @foxyjwls007 @freesiaries @freshmoneyalmondathlete @friend0walterson @frootwhoops @fuiabarcelos @gazzelli-reposts @generalthirst @georgeandiareinparis111 @georgeswheezy @ghotifishreads @godricsswords @gone-to-fight-the-fairies @goroakechisusedm712 @gred-n-forge @grellsutcliffsworld

[supervillainny]

Winterhawk Fic

Breathe You In by Nny 

The guy pictured was in profile, most of his back to the viewer, and he was braced with a bow in his hands, the bowstring pulled back to his far ear. The sleeveless shirt he was wearing was an eye-searing purple, and the musculature it revealed was enough to catch the eye, but it was the red words that curled along his forearm that had caused all the outrage. It was absurd that they’d have been nothing special if only they’d been black and already matched.

World’s Greatest Marksman, huh? they said, and underneath in white the poster blared YOU DECIDE, with a list of dates that were all sold out.

Written for @col1999 for the @charityhawktion​ - I was asked for soulmates and a happy ending, which I think I delivered. 

[hopelessly-me]

tag game

tagged by @loonyloopylisa <3 

Rules: Tag 9 people you would like to know better/catch up with

Last Song:  George Ezra- Pretty shining people <3 

 Last Movie: Hmmm. I think it was “Divergent”. My friend swears I’m a divergent person. I don’t really get it but Woodley is kind of a badass so I’m okay with this?

Currently Watching:  Not a thing. =) I was watching “My Haunted House” or something like that earlier tho

Currently Reading: fanfics. I’m actually reading through on of my wips current;y trying to decide how to fix it.

Currently Craving:  I am in a constant state of craving cherry pepsi and some form of mexican food.

Tagging.... @original-cypher, @shatteredhourglass, @vexbatch, @red-is-not-my-colour, @kidd-you-not, @kalika999, @not-the-blue, @pherryt and last but not least @col1999

[amethyst-noir]

I wish you would write a fic where...A parasite drains Stephen’s soul and the only way to stop it is for Stephen to admit his love for Tony. Too bad the parasite chose the most stubborn and insecure host ever.

BreathingWhile You Drown

(AO3, 5.283 words)

It’s fireunderwaterBreathingwhile you drownFeel me inthe saturationWhen the sunburns out*

@ironstrangebingo prompt: Soul Mates | @badthingshappenbingo prompt: Dying in Their Arms (bingo card behind the cut)

I’ll just drop this off and run away. The usual applies: Read the tags and remember that I don’t do character death but I do happy, sappy endings. 💞

Thank you for this gorgeous prompt, dear Anon, I had a blast writing this! @notfergusmom & @col1999 (Tumblr let met tag either of you, I hope you see it!) voted for this as my next square ages ago and here you are. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did. 

* Corner (Ad Astra Remix) by Blue Stahli

Stephen was hurting, badly, andTony wanted nothing more than to take him into his arms and try to make itbetter.

“Let me help, please,” Tonywhispered again. He didn’t even notice the tears in his eyes and the empty,hollow feeling in his heart, too consumed by worry. Filled with a cold sense offoreboding he stood up, ready to go over to the Sanctum and demand someanswers.

Or beg for them. Whatever. He wasprepared to do both.

[copperbadge]

pipgraham replied to this post

but is it gay?

Six Harvests? Not especially -- the protagonist and his wife are both straight, and it’s set in a small town in Texas in the 1930s with all that entails. There is a secondary character, the protagonist’s sister, who is a lesbian, but that really only comes into play in the last third or so of the book, and isn’t a major plot thread (she’s not living in the town for most of her story). 

Nameless is significantly more gay; it’s not especially overt, like there’s no sex scenes or anything, but it’s very clearly a love story between two men who are both excruciatingly bad at being in love. 

archwrites replied to this post

Is it Bunburying if you didn’t invent the dying relative 🤔

BUNBURY BY PROXY. Even funnier! 

col1999 replied to this post

I just switched to A&H litter because the store was out of my regular one, and my cats L O V E it. Like 'enthusiastically tossing it everywhere' love it. Which is not awesome, but what IS awesome is that the litter clumps like a motherfucker, so. Pros and cons.

It might just be a function of A&H litter, too -- mine also like to kick it everywhere, especially when I’ve just refilled the box. Polk will get in and kick litter out of the box until the level is precisely to her liking, and then Deebs will go garden in it for half an hour, the little filth monsters. 

ilacatz replied to this post

The annoying thing is that each time I see that ask I get tempted to find out if the fic mentioned actually exists because bile fascination

So the good news is 

[Description: A screengrab of AO3 search results; the search was for tags Mpreg, Jesus Christ, and Seahorses, and there are no results found.]

Not to be judgey, but the unsettling news is that if you remove “Seahorses” you get seven hits. Now, only two of those are Pregnant Jesus, but both are Pregnant Jesus in an A/B/O AU, and I read them both with my own two eyeballs, and I blame you. 

annechen-melo replied to this post

I know it would be treif as all get out to use the onion jam I have in the fridge (which has bacon in it) but what about a savory version with caramelized onions?

I’ve definitely seen savory Hamantaschen before! I will say I wouldn’t use the cookie recipe -- if you’re going to use something like caramelized onions, I’d use pie crust and essentially make little onion tarts. 

[what-is-your-plan-today]

Ransom Advent Day 2 🎄🎅

Tagging reblog 2

Ransom Drysdale

@patzammit   @lcandothisallday @capsiclewinter @this-is-serenaa @alexakeyloveloki   @perplexed3001 @maan24 @itgetsdarksometimes35 @arianabrashierstuff @hevens-fallen-angel @thefaerygrove @sage1998c @lharrietg @lifeizlife @waywardodysseys @spookyscot @iamwarrenspeace @illyrianprincess @mjey12 @rayofdawnworld @jevans2 @col1999

Non dark

@twittytelly @aldu-p

Real Life Tasks With Ransom Drysdale

An Advent Calendar of 24 Normal Human Tasks As Performed By A Huge Man Baby. 

Day 2: That’s Not Exactly Folgers In Your Cup

Warnings: Smut (Oral) and Bad Language Words

Pairing: Ransom Drysdale x Reader

A/N- Hello! I hope y’all are as excited about this holiday special collaboration made with @what-is-your-plan-today​ and @jennmurawski13​ as I am. It all blossomed from early morning (for me) ramblings and we decided to do it. 2020 has been a hell of a year and we all needed a little something to smile about. And come on, whats funnier then imagining Ransom Drysdale trying to be domestic? Plus it gives some feels. There will be smut written in occasionally, so please heed the warnings to each individual fic. 

Also, we are alternating, but will reblog on our accounts, if you don’t want to miss any, send a message and we will get you added to the tag list. Happy Reading. 

Series Masterlist

Keep reading

[girl-next-door-writes]

May Reblog Draw!!!

Here we go guys. I'm putting your names into the wheel of names and we will see who the winners are.

@abigfanoftolkien @absentmindeduniverse @achataaa @alicenwrites @allmyfanficfaves @atomicloverdonkeyperson @averyrogers83 @awesomesusiebstuff @beksib @biiskuitx @caritobbg @chameleon-junkie @cluz1babe @col1999 @coldgothapricotalmond @cosicas-cuquis @damalseer @daughter-of the-underworld @dumbasscorn @everlynreddington @fantastical-67impala-fangirl @fantasyfan4life @freshmoneyalmondathlete @generalthirst @guiltylitpleasures @heloisedaphnebrightmore @hidden-archive-mm @honeypirate @hufflepuff-in-narnia @introvertedsweetpotato @iwasbusybeingdead @iwillbeinmynest @jim-moriarty-is-me-bae @lavendersblued1llyd1lly @lehns-herr @lunariasilver @malfoysqueen14 @megreblogshefaves @memyshit @mizlaurenalexis @moriartyscrumptious @mrswhozeewhatsis @musicalmuffindog @nerdyfangirl67read @nerdyjediartist44 @noturningbacknow @okaygraceee @peridottea91 @persephonehemingway @ppletmeflyawaywithyou @princessmisery666 @raventhelostboy @russion-soft-bitch @sammywinchester5283 @sherlockfan4life @sm1727 @sofreddie @specialk-18 @sssjuico10 @starlightsearches @subline-marvel-blog @sugar-chrysanthemum @sweetjedi @thatfanficstuff @thedevine666 @theshadowhunterofbakerstreet @thlostsheep @usernamesarebitches @vintagevalentinex @wildfirewinchester @witchygagirl @writingthingsisdifficult @yellowbadgergirl

[supervillainny]

gonna dump this here because I’m probably not going to finish it - 5000 words of the first attempt at @col1999′s soulmates fic which I didn’t like enough to do the worldbuilding it needed. XD

“Barnes, James.”

 The man’s voice echoes in the huge room, even filled as it is with the mutter of guys talking to their neighbours, the rustle of paper and clothing and the anxious movements of all the potential recruits.

 The shot of nerves that floods his stomach in response is completely irrational. It’s not like Bucky has anything to be ashamed of, even stripped down to his shorts like he is. In fact he’s pretty sure he stacks up pretty well against the rest of the half-naked guys here, which he should maybe thank Steve for – the punk’s the reason he had to get stronger, the amount of fights he starts, and Bucky’s caught a couple of sideways looks at his muscles from the skinnier guys.  

 Not that he’s looking at any of the other guys here. Not that he’d ever let anyone catch him look back.

It’s not like he doesn’t think he’s doing the right thing, either. He thinks this, the army, is something he could actually be good at – maybe better than Steve, even, because there’s only one of them any good at following someone else’s lead. It’s better than his job at the store, or working in a factory, or down on the docks. He likes the idea that he’s going to be doing something good with his life, and the prospect of cheques that’ll got to look after his ma and the girls doesn’t exactly hurt.

 Plus this way he gets to get his astrology chart worked up. He gets to find out a little about the person he’s meant for, the person that’s meant for him. He’d never admit it to anyone else, not even Steve, but even if he’s not recruited today he’ll have got a hell of a consolation prize.

 Brooklyn isn’t exactly bare of astrologers, of course; every other window around his tenement has a propped up damp-warped card advertising their wares, and some of them will throw in a palm reading for free. Spending money on that, though, when his little sister needs new shoes and his mom insists on feeding Stevie every time he’s within reach… his mom had encouraged him, even, told him to spend his wages from the grocery deliveries he’s been doing any way he likes, but it feels like the kind of selfish that Bucky’s never wanted to be. The kinda selfish that his dad drank down every night, out of bottles that Bucky would gather up and return for a couple of cents apiece.

 Besides, what if his soulmate was born in Australia, or England, or Washington State? While he’s still stuck working for Mr Levy, hauling crates and charming old ladies, travel like that is a distant sort of dream.

 “Barnes, James.” It’s a little louder, this time, and Bucky shakes his head.

 He pushes himself up, the cheap wooden chair he’s sitting on scraping a little on the hard wooden floor. He tries on a smirk, same way he’s been wearing one for Steve for a while now, and walks up to the guy who called his name, but the man doesn’t look like he thinks much of him. It would probably take a bit to impress him, come to that; he’s got the cropped hair and the solid physique of a career soldier, and there are more than a few medals pinned to his chest. Maybe they’re there to intimidate people, maybe they’re not even his, but Bucky’s reluctantly impressed.

 The man – Sergeant, by his stripes – flips open a buff folder and runs his finger down a typed page, looking at Bucky’s family details and his medical history before looking him up and down impersonally, like he’s meat on a stall.

 “You looking for the army to make a man outta you, Barnes?”

 Bucky shifts his weight, doesn’t know exactly what to do with his hands. He’s not sure what the right answer’s supposed to be, so he figures he might as well go with what’s true.

 “I’ve been the man of the house since I was 14 years old, sir,” he says.

 “So what the hell are you joining up for?”

 It takes all Bucky’s got to resist a shrug. Instead he squares his shoulders, puts his hand behind his back, and talks to a spot on the wall just over the guy’s head.

 “Kinda got used to looking out for the little guy, sir.”

 “Jesus Christ,” the man mutters, “another hero complex.”

 Bucky can’t help grinning a little at that.

 “No sir,” he says. “I just finish up what the heroes start.”

 That gets a small smirk from the man, much as it looks like he’s trying to resist.

 “Don’t we all, Barnes. Don’t we goddamn all.” He flips another page, scans down it, tapping his finger a couple times against an item on the list. “No astrologer’s report – you’ve not had a soulmate chart done before?”

 “Not a priority,” he said, which was as good as code for a life that had always made pennies stretch just as far as they could.

 “Well, looks like the boffins have done the math and –“ The man stopped and flicked a look up at Bucky, his eyebrows raised and his eyes curious. “They told you about this?”

 “Only person I’ve spoken to is you.”

 “Huh.”

 The man spins the folder around so Bucky can take a look at the birth date and place of the person who’s supposed to be his perfect match. He blinks a couple times, trying to make sure he’s reading the numbers right, his mouth opening and closing in some kind of useless protest.

 “But –“

 “Don’t know what to tell you, Barnes,” the recruiter says, “looks like they checked it twice. Still, guess we don’t have to worry about you leaving the fight any time soon, do we, soldier?”

 “No,” Bucky says faintly, his stomach sinking down through the floor. “I guess not.”

 He has no idea how right he is.

  * * *

 The astrologer in town when Clint was a kid wasn’t like the ones you see on TV. His gold braid was fraying in places, and the robe was threadbare and stained. His prices were still sky high - you get to charge what you want when you’re the only game in town - but the rumours were that all the money he’d earned was buried somewhere in his back garden. 

 Clint had always been pretty sure that most of it went on the clinking glass heap that was hauled away by the garbage men every Tuesday morning, same way it did with his dad, but he also figured out fairly early on that there probably wasn’t so much money to be had in a small town like that. Sure, you could get a side gig writing horoscopes for the newspaper or something, but once everyone in a small population had had their charts worked up, had found out the date and time and location that their soulmate was born, there wasn’t so much for an astrologer to do. 

 Once everyone that could afford it had their charts, that was. Or who gave enough of a shit to pay, unlike his dad.

 Needless to say, when anybody asked, Clint told a whole lot of lies. 

 He wasn’t sure when the whole thing had been discovered. He had a vague notion it had something to do with Queen Victoria and spiritualism, but his education couldn’t really be relied on ‘cos it had mostly come from PBS specials with the volume turned down low. He knew that the tradition was a century or so old, though, and that midwives had started needing qualifications in astrology in the early 60s. That was when his mom had been looking for work, and maybe if her podunk highschool had been able to afford a decent astrolabe - but instead she’d wound up marrying Clint’s father, who had never been able to afford getting his chart read, and Clint wasn’t sure his existence could justify the shitshow that that had turned out to be. 

 See, it turned out that through some obscure branch of mathematics, people could predict successful relationships with a level of accuracy that bordered on the supernatural. Plotting people’s star charts and predicting likely matches wasn’t anything new, but the level of detail had been honed and refined. Now it was at the point that, given the maths that was done upon your entry to this world, you could work out the exact time and location of birth of the one person most suited to who you’d turn out to be. 

 There were still doubters, naturally, but the statistics didn’t lie; people who met their predicted matches lived longer, reported that they were happier, and had more successful relationships than the average Joe. So who wouldn’t take that chance if they could?

 It isn’t until years later that Clint has scraped enough money together to get his chart done, though, and by then they’re states away from the house he grew up in, carried by brightly painted vans that are dimmed by the dust kicked up by the wheels. Almost every town they roll through has an astrologer advertising their wares, but Clint’d spent half his savings on a worn-down bow, so he couldn’t go to the guy with the flickering neon that Barney picked out somewhere down in Texas.

 “They got a database,” Barney’d told him, eyes all lit up like Clint wasn’t sure he’d ever seen them. “It’s all tied together with phone lines, and you can put your results up so people all over the country can see them.”

 “A lot of astrologers on this database, then?” Clint had asked, and Barney had practically swelled up with pride. 

 “Nah, he’s one of the very first, he says,” and Barney had looked so goddamn pleased with himself that Clint chose not to point out the hole in his logic, there. 

 But Clint’s tapping his fingers later that night, staring up at the bottom of Barney’s bunk that’s sagging down towards him even without the addition of his brother’s weight. As much of an idiot as Barney is, as little as this new database thing is gonna help him find The One, Clint’s not sure if he can bear his brother knowing something he doesn’t, and lording that over him for years to come. 

 So instead he takes the money he’s saved and sneaks between tent ropes and trailers and the twilight-dark shadows, rubbing his duct-tape wallet between nervous fingers because he’s wise enough not to let it go for a second - he knows the kinda games the circus runs. 

 The trailer door he stops at is faded white and finger-stained, because all of her finery is kept for the small tent where she sells her wares. A dog starts barking as soon as he steps onto the stairs, and scrabbles at the door when he knocks. Madame Esmerelda has a gnarled hand wrapped in its collar when she cracks open the door, and she drags it backwards so Clint can get inside. 

 As soon as she lets go, turning to switch on the coffee pot, Clint is on his ass with 80 kilos of delighted dog on top of him, her paws scrabbling at his shoulders and her tongue bathing his face. 

 “Crina,” he says, pushing her face away from his, “you smell like ass.” 

 “Because she’s had her face stuck in Sorin’s,” Es tells him, and Clint grins up at her, then makes a face when Crina licks over his mouth. 

 “He’s back from the vets?” 

 “There’s nothing more they can do for him,” she says, and her hands are swift and sure as she pours them both coffee, and her voice is steady and her back is straight. And Clint knows exactly how much effort that is taking, too. 

 “Shit,” he says. “Shit, I -”

 “It is his time,” she says, her voice brusque, and sets the mugs on the card table with a clatter. “You did not come to talk about Sorin, I think.” 

 “No,” Clint says, and pushes Crina away so he can get to his feet and take the mismatched chair opposite Es. “No. I came to ask if you would do my chart.” He fishes the money out of his pocket, unfolding the crumpled bills carefully and piling them into a small stack that he slides across the table to her. He can feel the dull colour rising in his cheeks as the moment drags on, as she fans out the money in silence and sees how little of it there is. “If you give me a couple weeks I can get more, I just -” 

 “Clint,” she says, and reaches out to squeeze his hand, the lines of her bones making her grip almost painful even through her age-soft skin. “It is enough. It will be enough.” She smiles, lopsided. “One less mouth to feed.” 

 “I’m sorry,” he says, and she pats his cheek and lays her finger across his lips. 

 “You have your numbers?” is all she asks. 

 It’s about the only thing he’d taken out of the house their dad had owned: a crumpled beer-stained paper covered with calculations in the midwife’s precise hand. You get a printout these days, Clint’s heard, neatly formed numbers on perforated paper, maternity wards filled with the buzzing clatter of technology. It’s probably more accurate, down to the nanosecond, but he’s relying on the chance that Es can work with what he’s got. 

 Es reaches behind her, fumbling at the kitchen counter until she finds a dented samovar that’s stuffed with pens, having to try three of them before she finds one that works. Her glasses hang on a chain around her neck and one of the arms has been lost, so she holds them up to her eyes as she writes, her letters scratchy and all in capitals and in a language that Clint can’t read. She makes a dissatisfied noise after a while and shoves her chair backwards, going to rummage in a few of the many cupboards before she finally makes a triumphant noise and returns with a chunky Casio calculator that seems to be missing half of its buttons. She’s kept the star charts under the bench seat that runs down the side of her trailer, and when she hauls them out they make Clint half-choke from the dust on them. 

 For a while, the trailer is quiet, just the tap of her fingers on keys, the gentle squeaking of her astrolabe and the scratch of her pen. Crina has wandered into the back bedroom where Sorin must be, and Clint wishes he had one of them to fuss over, if only to break the silence. He sips at cooling coffee and chews on his lips. 

 “Ah!” she exclaims at last, tapping her pen against a nine that was masquerading as a four. “Ah, I see.” Her writing has more purpose now, and then she barks out a laugh that is inelegant and graceless and startles Clint enough to splash coffee across chipped formica. She slaps a hand over her mouth, looking at him guiltily, and Clint gets a sinking feeling that seems to curdle in his stomach. 

 “So you know where and when they were born?” he asks, not sure if he wants to know. 

 A little more convinced that he doesn’t, when she reaches out again to gently take his hand. 

 “Ah, puiul meu,” she says softly, more gentle than she’s ever been with him, and Clint blinks rapidly ‘cos of the way his eyes suddenly sting. 

 The walk back to the small trailer he shares with Barney is kind of a blur, and he’s all bundled up in his blankets when Barney comes home, brandishing a small piece of paper like he won some kinda prize. 

 “I’m gettin’ an older woman,” he says, with a smirk and a shimmy, “born all the way up in New York, New York. Maybe I’ll find myself a sugar mommy, huh? Someone who can keep me in the style I’m owed?”

 “Sounds good,” Clint mutters, and scoots out the way when Barney flops down to sit on the edge of his bunk. 

 “You get yours?” Barney asks idly, reaching over to scruff at Clint’s hair.

 “Sure,” Clint says, and pulls on a grin, and tells a whole lot of lies.

* * *

TWENTY YEARS LATER

  Bucky looks up at the ragged-edged brownstone with a hell of a lot more trepidation than somewhere so unassuming warrants, his hands tightening on the cardboard box he holds until the left side begins to crumple. He has to take a hurried step closer to the kerb when some asshole with a Lexus and a personalised soul-plate drives past like he owns the road, and it takes a second for Bucky’s heart-rate to return to normal.

 “You got this?” Steve asks, and Bucky lets out the breath he’s been holding in an explosive rush and a fricative curse. 

 “Sure,” he says, trying to muster up a grin. “You know me.”

 A heavy hand lands on his shoulder and squeezes a little, then Steve’s walking past him with his head cocked to look past his own stack of boxes. 

 “Then quit slacking, soldier,” he says, in full Captain America voice, before mounting the steps and leaning his elbow against the buzzer at the top. There’s a clattering at the other end for a second, then a muffled voice speaks. 

 “Oh, shit, Steve?” 

 “Morning, Clint,” Steve says, sounding amused. “You got the keys for us?” 

 “Sure, I’m awake, c’mon up.” There’s a jarring buzz and Steve pushes the door, holding it open so Bucky can just about squeeze past. 

 It’s nicer inside than the outside suggests. Still worn down and a little battered, but it’s clear from the welcome mat and the neatly sorted mailboxes that the tenants here care about each other, about the place they live. Bucky pauses by the noticeboard at the foot of the stairs for a second - something about a bake sale, someone else selling a bike - but follows after Steve’s impatient ass when he starts hauling Bucky’s boxes up the stairs. A kid with big eyes and even bigger hair watches them from between the banisters, and flees up the stairs ahead of them to slam through the door of an apartment on the third floor, nearly tripping over clothes that have clearly been handed down more than once. Bucky hears the door crack open again behind them when they’ve struggled past, hissed whispers in two kids’ voices, and he grins a little but doesn’t turn to look back. 

 They’re nearly at the top when a guy appears at the top of the stairs, hauling on a shirt over a well-muscled chest that’s covered in mouth-shaped bruises and failing miserably at straightening his tousled dark hair.

 “I’ll call you, Lewis,” a voice calls after him, and the guy rolls his eyes hard.

 “It’s Lucas,” he calls back without turning around, and shoves past Bucky, who stares after him for a second, almost tripping up the stairs and losing the boxes he’s carrying. When he turns back around he almost stumbles again. 

 The guy leaning against the doorframe, purple front door standing open behind him, is just about every fantasy Bucky’s ever had come to life. He’s tall and just as tousled as the other guy, with haystack blond hair and his mouth bruised red. Unlike his guest he hasn’t bothered with a shirt, and his shoulders are things of the kind of beauty you mostly find in museums. He grins when Bucky can’t stop himself from staring, but it’s not smug and it’s not sly. Hard to say quite what it is exactly, except for something that’s meant to be shared; Bucky finds his lips quirking up a little at the corner without any conscious thought. 

 “Steve,” the guy says, dragging out the vowel and not taking his eyes off Bucky, “you can feel free to pick out my tenants any time.”

 “Steve,” Bucky says flatly, propping the box he’s carrying on his left hip, heart beating a little hard at speaking up, “is my landlord a stripper?”

 “You should just see me get my hands on a pole,” he shoots back, and Bucky huffs out a soft laugh that’s almost lost beneath Steve’s voice.

 “Clint, this is Bucky, Bucky, this is Clint, you guys are both terrible people so I’m sure you’ll get on famously.”

 “Aw, Steve, you say the nicest things.” Their voices overlap on it, words almost in sync, and Bucky can’t help his reflexive grin, his cheeks unused to the stretch. Clint grins back, clearly delighted, and Bucky clears his throat and shifts his feet, looking down at the crumpled cardboard of the box he’s carrying. There’s something inside his chest that feels a little strange about falling into a rhythm like this with anyone that’s not Steve.

 “Here,” Clint says after an awkward second, holding a set of keys out to Bucky, who is careful not to let their fingers brush when he takes the cool metal. “You’ve got the front door and your apartment door there, plus a mailbox key. If you need any more storage space there are some storage lockers in the basement, and that’s another couple keys that I can arrange for you with a couple days’ notice. If you need anything my door’s always open, and if you want to get your social on there’s a barbeque on the roof every other Friday, starting at six.”

 “Thanks,” Bucky says, trying out another smile – it’s always good to get the landlord on-side – and then turns to the left before Clint reaches out to tug gently on his sleeve, nodding down the corridor to the right.

 “You’re on the end,” he says, “and the unit next to you is empty for now. Steve said maybe you could use some space.”

 “Thanks,” he says again with sincerity in his voice, and then ducks his head and walks down the hallway, listening as Steve says something to Clint in a hushed voice. It’s probably better he doesn’t know the kinds of warnings Steve feels the need to share.

 The lock sticks a little, but he’s got the door open by the time Steve reaches him, the cardboard box Bucky’s been lugging around placed just inside the front door. It’s a nice place, probably nicer than he should be able to afford. There’d been something in one of the briefings about compensation, about back pay, but Bucky’s fairly certain he’s being supported on Steve’s new boyfriend’s dime.

 Light pours in through the tall windows that line two sides of the room, and he’s pushing back hard against the part of him that’s thinking of them in terms of sightlines. To the left of the door there’s a kitchen area bracketed off by an island with two tall stools; the rest of the room is empty space and wood flooring that’s only occupied by dust bunnies. Two doors on the right hand wall lead into a small bathroom and a mid-sized bedroom, which has only one window and a black-out blind that he’s going to appreciate if he keeps being unable to sleep when it’s night. The previous tenants must have left behind the slatted futon base that takes up a portion of the floor, and Steve grins when he sees it.

 “At least it’s a step up from a mattress on the floor,” he says, and Bucky knocks his shoulder against Steve’s.

 “Just ‘cos you’ve bagged the fat cat in the fancy tower…”

 The ensuing argument encompasses cradle-robbing, and being a kept man, and Steve’s mom’s thoughts about capitalism, and with every jibe that Bucky doesn’t flinch away from Steve’s grin widens, just a fraction. Eventually Steve shoves him and calls him a jerk, literally kicking his ass out of the door, and they make a few more trips up and down the stairs with the few possessions Bucky’s gathered and a bunch more that Tony’d had ‘lying around’. Bucky can’t help hoping that Clint will show his face again, but there’s no luck on that front – he’d looked more than halfway like he was ready to just roll back into bed, only this time maybe with no one else in it.

 It’s not much, when they’re done. Nothing all that fancy. But there’s a mattress and some sheets on the futon base, and there’s a couple stacked plastic crates that hold all his clothes. In the bathroom there’s a half-hung shower curtain that’s terrifyingly decorated with Iron Man’s mask, and a Captain America mug to hold his toothbrush. The living room is mostly still empty space, but there’s an easy chair that Bucky’d spotted on the curb side on his way over that’s floral and hideous and musty-smelling and the kind of comfortable that’s built over years. It’s as much of a home as he’s managed to have since he joined the US army, and more than that it’s potential.

 “Aw, Buck,” Steve says, and Bucky can tell from his tone how close he is to insisting – again – that Bucky come live with him in the tower, so he cuts him off before he can say anything else.

 “I like it,” he says, firmly. “Sure, it’s kind of a mess, but I think it’s gonna work out okay.”

 The hug Steve gives him, tight and long and unrelenting, probably means the asshole’s taken what Bucky’s said as a metaphor, again. The guy really needs to quit doing that.

  *

 Clint keeps an eye out for the guy that's moved in on his floor, and not just 'cos Captain America told him to. And - despite what Kate says - it's not just 'cos he has the jawline of a movie-star and the eyes of a lost puppy, either, although admittedly that doesn't hurt. Clint is guided by more than just the physical in the people he finds attractive (although Natasha says he's just a slut).

 No, what he likes about Bucky is his dry sense of humour, and how much he likes ragging on Steve, and the way he hasn't asked a single person in the building for their birth date yet, because he's more interested in talking about other things. Clint likes how Bucky had looked just about scared out of his mind, the first time he'd made his way up to the roof on a Friday, and how he'd stuck it out anyway and made conversation with the shy kid who moved in on the first floor.

 Clint had watched him from across the roof where he was checking in with the tenants as usual, making sure that everyone was happy and everything was working and there was no vigilante justice he had to go dole out. He was no Captain America, maybe, but he was persistent and annoying and had a decent grasp of his tenants’ rights.

 Bucky had inched out onto the roof like there was a team of armed ninjas lying in wait, his eyes scanning his surroundings while his hands curled into fists at his sides.

 Clint likes how Bucky intrigues him, and that's not just 'cos of the endless nights when Clint goes around to check the security one last time and sees light spilling out from under Bucky's door. He's a whole mass of contradictions - shy and sarcastic, fiercely intelligent and dumb as a rock, flinching and ready to fuck you up.

 "So how did you meet Steve?" Bucky asks on his second Friday, a beer dangling unregarded from his hand. Clint shrugs.

 "I told him he was an asshole," he says, and Bucky looks like he's wavering between laughing his head off and kicking Clint's ass.

 "First person this century who's worked that out," Bucky says eventually, and Clint snorts.

 It was more complicated than that, obviously; Clint doesn't just walk up to national icons and insult them on a regular basis, although there was that incident at a fancy gala with Donald Trump. He'd been steaming, though, and a few beers down, and when Steve had walked into the bar Clint had claimed in Brooklyn he'd had to stagger over and tell him what he thought of him.

 It's not that Clint even wants a soulmate, any more. He got over that at the age of seventeen. It's one thing to know your whole life that you can't have something, though, and another to discover that maybe you could've but the asshole's banging Tony Stark.

 Steve hadn't even had the right birth date, in the end, which was insane but still something of a relief; no way there's gonna be another guy hanging around who was born at the beginning of the last century, but the idea of Clint being a perfect match for Steve Rogers gives him hives. Still, they got on well enough to go out drinking every now and again, get insanely competitive over pool, and when Steve had mentioned that he had a pal who was looking for somewhere to live Clint had been more than happy to offer up one of the units in his building.

 "We disagreed about soulmates," Clint says eventually, which seems like the easiest way to sum up that story without starting a conversation that could well turn into an argument. To his delight, Bucky rolls his eyes.

 "I take it the punk's still evangelical?" he says, and Clint can't suppress his grin.

 "I take it you're not?"

 "I don't give a shit about meeting my soulmate," he says. "Pretty sure I'd hate anyone who matched up with me."

 "I'll drink to that," Clint says, lifting his bottle to clink against Bucky's, and taking a moment to appreciate his grin.

 They don't really talk about soulmates again, but there's something about having an ally that takes a weight off Clint's shoulders. The knowledge, maybe, that the conversation's never gonna be wrenched around to where he's come from, and all the things Clint would rather forget. He finds himself seeking out Bucky's company more and more, taking every opportunity that offers itself to invite Bucky to spend the evenings at his. It makes sense - Clint has a couch, and a TV, and a dog, all of which Bucky seems to appreciate. And the fact that Clint hasn't leaned in close and looked to extend the evening yet doesn't mean anything about Bucky being special. That's not it at all.

[hopelessly-me]

rules: you can usually tell a lot about a person by the type of music they listen to! put your favorite playlist on shuffle and list the first 10 songs, then tag 10 people. no skipping!

1) Like I love you- Lost Frequencies

2) Georgia- Vance Joy

3) Quarter Past Midnight- Bastille

4) Uncharted- Sara Bareilles

5) Fairytale- Sara Bareilles

6) Perfect- Ed Sheeran

7) Hold My Girl- George Ezra

8) Someone Like You- Adele

9) Jar of Hearts- Christina Perri

10) Eet- Regina Spektor

Thanks for the tag @loonyloopylisa! =D

Lets tag some people: @hawkeyeandthewintersoldier, @disruptedvice, @misterknife, @col1999, @clintscoffeepot, @wolfarrowepz, @jazzrose343, @fanbinbun, @bigwolfpup, and @tak-cajaz

[the-writing-fandom]

I am the Dreamer! I see symbols and hidden meanings in everything around me. My match would be an Innovator, who would inspire my imagination.

I’m tagging: @writtenbyhal @crystal-siren @ownworldresident @leave-her-a-tome @jellybeanwriter @col1999 @writer-jessicac

Find your match: tag game

Hi lovesies, I kinda had an idea, after taking this test I found on @matstegen blog, about Creative Types.

So, I found out that, out of the eight possible creative personalities, I’m a thinker (the description totally suits me, btw lol). And I thought “How cool would it be if among my lovely mutuals I could find the other seven personalities that match and complete mine?”

So here I am, starting this ‘tag game’…

Rules:

Take the test

Reblog this post with what type you got

Tag 7 mutuals to do the same!

Let’s find our matches people!

I’m tagging: @sweetgcreature @its-a-metephor-brian @bohemiandelilah @gottabecool-relax @instantezra @radio-ha-ha @littledarlingwellaway cause they are my squad, but if you want to try and do this, you’re more than welcome!

Xx 💖

PS: my matches would be Adventurer and Visionary

[copperbadge]

rogue-panda

So I should try the hardware store for a fake tree ... good to know. (Yes, I'm procrastinating.)

Yeah, I think a larger store would have more selection, but mine had about ten fake trees of various sizes left. I bought the floor model of that one :D

kimmiesue13

Are you decorating with the word ornaments? I still have that file somewhere!

I’m not, because I already have too many ornaments, BUT the file is also available online still! Man, it’s been a minute, hasn’t it. 

speedgeek

How do the kitties like the decorated trree?

They’re a little curious but mostly haven’t really shown much interest -- they’ve sniffed around the base, but they know when I say “Nuh uh uh!” that it’s off limits. That doesn’t always stop them with other stuff, but with the tree there’s not enough dangly things or loud noise-making things to interest them. 

writingcaterpillar

This is exactly the sort of tree that would come to life as a hilariously incompetent sidekick in a 1990s Disney direct-to-video animated sequel. It's perfect for you!

LOL. Frozen 3, or rather...Frozen: Tree. 

col1999

Jolly! On a side note, I am jealous of how deep your window sills are. More specifically, my cats are jealous of how deep your window sills are.

Yeah, the cryptids love them. They can cause some difficulty with hanging drapes, insulation, etc but I do really like having recessed windows. 

[what-is-your-plan-today]

Tagging reblog 2:

Ransom Drysdale

@patzammit   @lcandothisallday @capsiclewinter @this-is-serenaa @alexakeyloveloki   @perplexed3001 @maan24 @itgetsdarksometimes35 @arianabrashierstuff @thefaerygrove @sage1998c @lharrietg @lifeizlife @waywardodysseys @spookyscot @iamwarrenspeace @illyrianprincess @mjey12 @rayofdawnworld @jevans2 @col1999

Non dark Ransom

@twittytelly @aldu-p

IF YOUR NAME IS ABOVR BUT NOT LINKED I CANNOT TAG YOU. I'll try 3 times before removing x

Real Life Tasks With Ransom Drysdale

An Advent Calendar of 24 Normal Human Tasks As Performed By A Huge Man Baby. 

Day 1: The Case Of The Mysterious Shrinking Sweater.

Warnings: Bad Language words

Pairing: Ransom Drysdale x Reader

A/N:  So this all came about as myself, @sweater-daddiesdumbdork​ and @jennmurawski13​ saw a post about Ransom doing everyday things…and yeah, it kinda spiralled. The series will consists of one-shots and drabbles, all light hearted…and the occasional little bit of smut thrown in for your pleasure and we hope a nice countdown to Christmas after what has been an utter shit-show of a year.

We will be taking it in turns to alternate posting so keep your eyes peeled for the next instalments as they arrive. I’ll be re-blogging and tagging my list. 

Series Masterlist. 

Keep reading