#stuff i'm kind of proud of

[mcfiddlestan]

Ten Random Lines

Ten Random Lines

Rules: pick any ten of your fics, scroll to the midpoint, pick a line (or three) and share it. Then tag ten people. I was tagged by @mischief-and-tea-by-the-sea.

Tagging anyone who sees this and wants to do it! Also, I did not go to the midpoint on some, lol.

P.S. Not all of these are published. Some were and were taken down, and some aren't finished yet...and may never be, idk.

From Just A Fool, Chapter 5: Clint Throws A Hissy Fit and Natasha Packs a Punch (Frostiron, post-Avengers AU)

Natasha relaxed minutely, dropping her arms to her sides, absently fingering the handle of the knife she kept strapped to her side. “Stark—”

“When did it start?” he blurted out over her soft voice.

“When did what start?”

He turned, setting his dark, determined gaze on her. “You and Barton.” Tony’s lips quirked up at the way Natasha visibly bristled. It was the first time he had ever seen her, this agent of S.H.I.E.L.D., caught off guard. “Was it in Budapest?”

“How is that important to this discussion?”

“What discussion? You dragged me out here to badger me into breaking up with Loki.” Her head jerked in surprise and confusion and he nearly groaned in frustration. “I am, on occasion, not stupid. I can read a room.”

She scoffed and rolled her eyes, even moving away from him, and now he could add seeing genuine emotion to the list of firsts. He didn’t follow her, but he turned to watch her, leaning against the railing casually, enjoying how he was getting to her. “I wasn’t going to badger you, for the record. I was just going to…forcibly convince you.”

From Blank Page, Chapter 14: Waiting for You to Bring Me to Life (Frostiron, Modern AU, friends to lovers to exes to lovers again)

Loki glanced down at one arm, then the other, then his lap. “Including the serpent…nine.”

“Nine?” Tony’s eyes nearly bugged out. “Well, let me see ’em.” Again, Loki made no move to show Tony anything. Tony tilted his head. “Hey, I showed you mine.” He tapped a finger twice to the arc reactor and grinned. “Now show me yours.”

Damn it. That was a fair point. Too fair for Loki to ignore. Moving quite slowly, he tucked one arm into his shirt, then the other, and carefully tugged it over his head. He kept the soft, green garment bundled in his lap, over his right hand. Loki wasn’t normally shy to show off his ink when asked, but it would be different with Tony. His reaction would be different.

He sat there, giving Tony time to take it all in — at least, to take in the tattoos that were visible to him. The most obvious of which was the one of Jörmungandr. It was in varying shades of blacks, greens, and golds, winding around his thin but muscular arm. The head, jaws open in a silent roar, red tongue lashing out, took up a good portion of the left side of his chest. The serpent’s tongue seemed to be licking at the sparse patch of hair in the center of Loki’s chest. Tony angled his head, touching a hand lightly to Loki’s right arm, and he obligingly turned so he could get a look at the emblem of theatre masks in the form of skulls, black and gray, with red accents, surrounded by the words Laugh Now, Cry Later on his right bicep.

“Did Bucky do all this?”

“Yes,” Loki answered softly. “He’s quite talented. Steven initially helped with some of the drawings and outlines, and he provided many samples displayed in the shop and the books. But, James has become quite a proficient artist himself.” He was rambling; words were tumbling out of his mouth. “The shop is doing quite well, actually; well enough that he and Steven are thinking of purchasing a home and marrying next year when Steven completes his army service.”

Tony made an impressed face but said nothing else on the subject. “Where are the other ones?” Loki hesitated again, briefly, before turning his back to Tony, showing him the side view of a black raven with its wings spread across his left shoulder blade. He slightly shivered when Tony brushed his fingers over the wings. “Wow…nice.”

Righting himself, Loki bent over to lift the legs of his loose-fitting pants, and Tony lowered down to a knee on the floor, his mouth still hanging open. “That is James’ design of a rising phoenix.” He pointed to the black, red, and gold design rising from a bed of black and red flames that encircled his right calf.

“Damn, that’s kick-ass,” Tony murmured.

Loki grinned softly, then pushed his pant leg down and put forward his left leg. “And, obviously, those are flames.” The flames seemed to emit from Loki’s ankle, starting in deep reds and oranges, and bled into cooler blues and purples.

“Those are really nice. Bucky does good work.” Tony spoke his complimentary words and moved to sit on the bed again.” What about the other ones?”

Loki dropped his other pant leg and fixed Tony with what he knew was a serious gaze. “Uh, well… they’re not anything spectacular, like the others you’ve seen — just a, um…,” he glanced down toward his lap, and clamped a hand over his right wrist, still hidden beneath his removed shirt.

“What?” Tony chuckled. “Show me.”

“Yes, of course,” Loki murmured. He didn’t pull his hand from under the shirt. Instead, he shoved his hand through the neck hole, exposing just enough of his wrist to reveal a thick-lined, black symbol. “There’s not much else to it. It’s a Norse rune. It means peace.”

“Cool. Let me see.” Tony reached for him, getting a loose grip on Loki’s forearm, and pushed at the shirt. Loki tugged, trying to snatch his arm away. “Wait—”

“No. Anthony, don’t.”

“I just wanna see — let me see—” There was a brief struggle before Tony ultimately yanked the shirt away. And he spotted the three dates inked into Loki’s skin beneath the rune. “What the…?”

Once Tony’s fingers loosened from around his wrist, Loki pulled his arm back, covering his wrist with his left hand, and holding it to his chest, where his heart was racing.

“What is that?”

“Nothing,” Loki muttered. Tentatively, he lifted his eyes to Tony’s. Then dropped them again when he held out his hand, palm up.

“Loki.”

He was kicking himself for these particular tattoos now. Bucky had warned him. Get them in a more hidden place, he’d said. Remember, not remind. But, stubborn as a mule, Loki wanted what he wanted, where he wanted it. And Bucky acquiesced. Breathing fast, squeezing his eyes shut tight, Loki lowered his arm to Tony’s hand.

To Tony's view, the dates, inked in the simple format of the numbers of the months, days, and years, were upside down, so he shifted to read them better. His breath released in a quiet gasp that Loki felt fan over his skin, followed by a swipe of his finger. When Loki finally opened his eyes, he saw Tony was pointing at the first date.

“That’s the day your mom died.” It was a statement, not a question, but Loki still felt compelled to confirm it.

“Yes.”

He watched Tony swipe his finger over the third date in a darker black than the others, which meant it must have been more recent. “This…” His finger still on Loki’s racing pulse, Tony flicked his eyes up. His voice was barely above a whisper and tight with emotion. It cut deep, right into Loki’s soul. “This is the day I came home.”

Straining to keep his cool, to control the trembling of his chin, Loki nodded.

“Why?”

Loki moved his eyes to his wrist, quickly flicking away a tear that rolled down his cheek. “They…” Loki cursed the cracking of his voice. “Those are three important dates for me. Something significant, something that changed everything from that day forward, happened on each of those days.”

Loki’s bottom lip was still quivering as Tony ran his finger over the middle date. “Loki…what…what happened on this day?”Oh, gods. Loki’s left hand curled into the material of his shirt in his lap, and he cleared his throat so he could speak clearly. “It was…the day that Steven Rogers saved my life.”

From Empire State of Mind, Chapter 2: An Offer He Should Refuse (Frostiron, post-Avengers AU)

“Stark…”

“You shouldn’t have come here, Loki.” Tony spun around. “This isn’t a sanctuary for the criminally insane.” Tony thought about Clint and Natasha — and himself. “Mostly. You can’t just show up here and think everything is forgiven and —”

“I can make you a deal.”

Tony drew up short at the interruption. Once again, common sense was telling him he shouldn’t even listen, shouldn’t even consider the deal. But if Tony only relied on common sense, he wouldn’t be one of the richest men in the world. “What deal?”

Loki rose from the stool and slowly stepped to him. “Allow me to reside here for the week…and I will never bother you or the others again.”

Tony’s face relaxed, and he brought a hand up to stroke his goatee. It sounded too good to be true — which meant it probably was. “How do I know I can trust you?”

“You can’t,” Loki answered simply. “Just as I cannot trust that you won’t contact your agency or your Director Fury and turn me over to them. But I can set your mind at ease on one point.”

‘What’s that?”

“You need not worry about any impending chaos or destruction. My magic is,” He lifted his hands, turning them as he looked at them. “Quite limited right now. And courting chaos is the farthest thing from my mind at the moment, to be honest.”

Tony’s eyes shot down to Loki’s hands after he lowered them to his sides again. “So you’re not going to conjure up your glow stick of destiny and try to put me under your magic spell or anything?”

Loki fought a smile. “No. My sceptre has been….” He looked away annoyed and sighed, “Confiscated. It’s hidden somewhere on Asgard by the Allfather’s magic. It would drain my own magic if I tried to search for it. And if I recall correctly, that didn’t work the first time.”

“Yeah,” Tony agreed with a laugh. “I know. I just wanted to remind you of it.”

From Stay With Me, Chapter 1 (WinterFrost, Modern AU, mechanic!Bucky, graduate student!Loki)

Bucky stuck a cigarette between his lips and rose to excuse himself. He had been outside for a few minutes, enjoying his cigarette in silence when he felt another’s presence. He didn’t have to look to know it was Steve. “I’m fine,” he murmured while exhaling a thick plume of smoke.

A chuckle sounded beside him. “How’d you know I was gonna ask you that?”

“‘Cause I know you.”

“Ha, yeah.” Both men went quiet again, the crickets’ song and the clinking of ice in Steve’s tea the only sounds between them. “You gonna come around on Sunday?”

Bucky glanced at his friend, in the middle of taking another drag from the cigarette. “Remind me…?”

“Peggy’s birthday.”

“Oh! Yeah, absolutely.”

“Good,” Steve breathed the word out on an almost relieved sigh. “I need you here. Peggy and me, we’re gonna tell Abraham about the engagement.”

“Shut the fuck up.” Steve barked out a laugh. “No — sorry,” Bucky chuckled. “You know what I mean.” Steve nodded and took another drink of his tea. Bucky frowned in thought and glanced at him. “I didn’t know you still kept in touch with him.”

Steve shrugged. “He and his wife raised me, Bucky.”

Bucky’s lips twitched. “You lived with them for four years, Steve,” he pointed out. “Until you aged out.”

“I know,” he responded softly. Bucky took one last drag before stubbing out the cigarette and shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “He wrote to me, Buck,” Steve mumbled into the silence. “His wife sent me stuff…while I was over there.” He continued to speak softly, but with conviction, as he always did when he spoke of his time in Iraq.

Bucky stood completely still, forcing himself not to shuffle his feet or make some excuse to go inside. He always felt a little uncomfortable when Steve brought up Iraq. Without ever delving too much into his reasons, he blindly assumed it was guilt; guilt he carried for not going back for a second tour with Steve, for choosing to walk away from the army to be a regular mechanic in a regular garage in a regular city, leaving Steve without the expert sniper that he was.

That Steve had a rougher time there, saw worse things than the first time, and lost some men, only made Bucky feel worse. They never discussed it after that first time. And even now, as the two friends, who had known each other since they were boys in Brooklyn, stood under the dim yellow porch light, it grew more tense by the second.

"I better get going," Bucky finally said, unable to take it another minute.

Steve’s head shot up. “Already? You sure you’re all right to ride?”

“Had a long week. And I’m fine, Stevie. Don’t worry so much.” Bucky held out a hand to him, and Steve gripped his tightly. “I’ll see you on Sunday. Promise.” He released Steve’s hand and moved to head down the walkway to his motorcycle parked in front on the street.

“You’re not gonna say bye to the others?” Steve aimed a thumb behind him at the house, even as Bucky swung a leg over the bike and reached for his helmet.

“Do it for me?” He chuckled at Steve’s eye-rolling and started up the motorcycle. “See you later, buddy.”

From All I Ask, Chapter 2 (WinterFrost, Modern AU, veteran!Bucky, artist!Loki)

April in New York was beautiful. New York was beautiful; he mentally corrected himself. California had been nice; Los Angeles was sunny, warm, and very laid-back. Too laid-back. Loki thought he would go mad if he spent too long there. It wasn't as if he wasn't inspired by the snow-capped mountains in the distance, the sandy beaches that stretched for miles north and south, or the acres of orange and lemon groves he'd seen once on a helicopter ride. But that much free time, in that beautiful of a place, turned out to be detrimental to his productivity.

New York was more to his liking. Bustling city life was where Loki needed to be. Taking up his pencil, he began to sketch his view of the horizon languidly. The sun was starting to hide behind some skyscrapers, but the sky was lit up in so many vivid colors that it was difficult to resist putting it down on paper so he could add the colors later. Colored pencils, perhaps. Maybe watercolor.

As he sketched, the pungent odor of cigarette smoke reached his nose. Confused, since it wasn’t usually cigarettes one could smell around here, Loki searched for the source. He found it on the balcony just below his.

There was his hearing-sensitive neighbor, one floor below, straddling the sill of his open window, taking a deep drag off a cigarette. Irritation hit Loki first — at the cigarette stench and because the man had made more complaints about Loki's music and work hours. And because deep down he'd never lost the enjoyment of being a pain to others – and because he was such a little shit – Loki was all set to yell down for his downstairs neighbor to put out his cigarette when the light of the setting sun hit a window somewhere across from them. It reflected onto the other at just the right angle.

Loki went still. The picture of him sitting on the sill brought an image to Loki’s mind, and, quietly, he flipped a page. He began a light outline, moving his pencil blindly over the page as Loki watched his neighbor bring the cigarette to his lips again. He shot a quick look down at his sketch, using the tip of his finger to smudge a line here and there. Catching movement in his vision, Loki saw his newest subject – he was horrible with names, honestly – had risen and stretched out his arms.

That was when Loki caught sight of something abnormal on his left arm. Marks – no, Loki decided. Scars. Deep scars, only shades lighter than his other arm, were etched into the skin, from shoulder to wrist. Perhaps his hand, too, but he wore a black fingerless glove hiding the majority of his hand. Loki inhaled sharply, seeing the beauty in the marring of his otherwise flawless skin, seeing the potential of how he could recreate it on paper. Or canvas. Or anything. 

It was too late when Loki decided to call out to him – and say what, he questioned himself. His neighbor had ducked back inside. Loki looked over his rough drawing, wondering if the man downstairs would sit for him just a couple of times. Maybe.

From Untitled SamTasha fic, Chapter 1 (SamTasha, Stucky, Modern AU, firefighter!Sam & Steve, musician!Bucky, businesswoman!Natasha)

Sam Wilson wasn't paying attention. A swift sucker punch to the gut brought him back around. Groaning, half bent over, he glared up at his friend and working partner, Steve Rogers. "What the fuck, Steve?" Steve only shrugged and grinned. That stupid, boyish little smile that made everyone back at the firehouse think he was such a sweet guy. "This is what happens, my friend, when you sleep on the job." Sam straightened, keeping a hand pressed to his stomach. "Excuse me if I'd rather watch a pretty lady box than be your damn coach." "Hey, don't do me any favors. But I'd be careful with that one." Steve glanced back at the redhead and the man with a bun at the back of his head sparring in the boxing ring. "Pretty sure she could wipe this entire gym floor, the one above it, and below it, with your ass in a cinch." Sam chortled. "You know I'd let her, too. Look at her." He urged Steve to turn around completely and bit into his bottom lip. They weren't the only ones being spectators. Several of the gym's patrons had taken a break from their regimes to watch the skilled match. Grunts of exertion and cries of both defeat and victory sounded between the man and woman as punches were blocked and kicks were averted. "What is that?" Sam asked, crossing his arms. "That's no regular boxing." Steve made a noise of uncertainty. "Looks like some mix of martial arts. Krav Maga maybe." The man ducked a deft sweep of the woman's leg by dropping into a split and Steve's brows lifted, impressed. He chuckled and slapped a hand to his friend's chest. "Come on, Wilson. We're wasting time. We have to head back in a bit." Sam sighed, torn, and not a little disappointed. "Yeah…wait." Steve scoffed under his breath and looked back in time to watch as the redhead landed a swift kick to the man's chest, making him stagger back. And she spared no time to let him gather himself; she launched herself at him, clasped her hands onto his broad shoulders and used them to swivel herself around him, not once but twice, propelling herself with her legs – short as they may be, but clearly strong – and ended it all by trapping his neck between her thighs and landing with a slam that echoed through the gym to the canvas.

“Son of a bitch,” Steve muttered in a shocked gasp. He looked over at Sam and saw the curve of his lips. “No.”

“I have to.”

“Damn it, Wilson.”

“Five minutes. I swear.”

“We're gonna be late.”

“I'll make it up to you, okay?” Sam pleaded even as he started to back away, moving toward the ring where Natasha was helping Bucky to his feet.

“Damn right you will. You're buying the food tonight.”

Sam stopped. “What? Why?”

“I'm on chef duty for tonight; you're making me late, so you have to buy the food.”

Sam lifted dark eyes to the ceiling, brushing Steve off. “Fine, whatever. Meet me in the locker room.”

“Oh, no.” Steve began to unravel the tape around his large hands. “I'm watching this. Gotta make sure I get all the details to tell the guys.”

Sam frowned hard at him, but Steve merely sent him that boyish grin again. Steve got one hand free, and watched as Sam approached the redhead, her dark-haired friend practically limping away. He noted Sam’s usual moves; a bashful smile, maintained eye contact that thankfully, was more flirtatious than creepy, and an offering of his hand. He gestured as he spoke and Steve had to bite back a chuckle at the indifference on the redhead’s face. He turned away briefly, to toss the tape from his hands into a trash bin, and when he turned back, Sam was on his way back. With a giant smile on his face.

“Shit,” Steve breathed to himself. “You mean you actually got her name and number?”

“Better. I got her to agree to get a drink with me.”

Steve raised a brow, surprised yet skeptical. “A drink?”

“Yeah. Sort of a pre-date date. If we hit it off, she'll consider going on an actual date with me.”

Steve made an impressed face. “She's screening you. I like her already.” He started off toward the locker rooms and Sam fell in step beside him.

“Hey, you're not busy tomorrow night, right?”

“No, I'm off the next…” Realization dawning, Steve stopped and looked at Sam, jaw tight, eyes bright under lowered eyebrows. “What did you do?”

“Nothing!” Sam protested; but his smile was still too big. “All right, look. She agreed to drinks…but to make it more casual, and less like a real date – I get the feeling she's been let down a lot,” he added as an aside, “I agreed to bring along a friend. And she'll bring one, too.”

Steve's head fell back, an exhalation of breath that sounded like a pained groan released. “Sam…”

“It's just drinks!” He promised. “And it'll be my treat.”

“You bet your ass it's your treat. Come on,” he started for the showers again. “I’ve got a meal to plan and you’ve got some begging to do.”

Sam rolled his eyes, grinning like an idiot, and followed.

From Dark Side (Part One of the Picture Perfect series), Chapter 23: The Definition of Gay and Birthday Sex

When Loki opened his eyes, Darcy had taken the seat directly across from them. He frowned at her and sat up. Tony moved to rest his head on Loki’s shoulder and curl himself around Loki’s arm, but he didn’t wake up.

“Has something happened?”

Darcy shook her head, her dark curls, spilling out from the bright turquoise knit beanie she wore, bounced around her shoulders. “Nah, I just felt like I was invading their time together. So, I came out here.” Her smile grew to show big white teeth. “And found you guys cuddling.”

Loki chuckled softly. He saw Darcy’s gaze focus on Tony, almost narrowing, and turned to look down at him himself. “What are you looking at?”

“How’d you do it?” she asked, her voice full of what sounded like wonder.

“Do what?”

“How’d you get Tony Stark to commit? Nobody’s ever been able to do it. Is it because he didn’t know he was gay?” She turned those big blue eyes on Loki and asked the question like she was asking if he wanted a piece of gum.

He grinned. “You’re under the assumption that people only fall into the two categories of ‘gay’ or ‘straight.’”

Darcy’s face contorted. “Tsch, yeah! Well, I mean, I know you don’t.”

“Do you?” Loki raised an eyebrow, crossed one long leg over the other, careful not to jostle or move a still-sleeping Tony.

“Yeah, because you were with Bucky, then Maria, and now Tony. So, you’re bi, right?”

Loki shrugged. “If that’s the name you wish to apply to it.”

Darcy tilted her head to the side and mimicked Loki’s position, crossing her legs. “What would you call it?” she challenged.

“I don’t attach any labels to myself, dear. Others seem more inclined and happy to do it for me.”

“But you guys,” she aimed a black-polished finger at him, then at Tony, back and forth a few times. “You and Tony, you do it a lot. I mean, that’s what I heard.”

Loki couldn’t help the curve of his lips. He glanced down at Tony when he buried his nose into the sleeve of Loki’s sweater for a brief moment. “You heard as in from someone else, or you heard as in you were eavesdropping outside my door?” 

Darcy made a horrified face. “Eww, gross, no! I meant like gossip. I. Hear. Everything, Loki,” she said with an authoritative air, pressing a hand to her chest. “That’s why I’m so surprised that Tony’s been with you for so long. Even with Pepper, it was off and on. And only for, like, a month at a time.”

“Is that so?”

She nodded knowingly, almost wisely, like she was teaching him a lesson. “So, what’d you do, huh? Did you use magic on him? Did you put him under some spell of yours?” She wiggled her fingers like a magician.

Loki’s chin lowered. “You jest, but your question suggests the only way Anthony Stark could fall in love is if he was tricked into it.”

Darcy’s shoulders and hands lifted in an innocent gesture. “I’m just saying, as far as I know, you’re the first person he ever said he’s loved. Besides himself, of course.” Loki smiled, chuckled, and nodded his head more in acknowledgment than agreement. “So…?”

Loki lifted his gaze to hers and smiled politely. “Sorry — Darcy, is it?” She nodded. “I’m afraid I am not inclined to discuss the details of my relationship with you. I mean, no offense. But I especially won’t discuss it when the other half of said relationship is awake and listening.”

Darcy blinked, and her mouth fell open as her eyes shot to Tony.

“Aw, man!” Tony sat up and playfully shoved Loki. “How’d you know?”

Loki cocked his head to the side. “I believe I’m familiar as to when you are awake or asleep after spending the last four months sleeping beside you, Anthony. Also, you laughed when Darcy said you’ve never loved anyone but yourself.”

“Shit, I gave myself away. You’re no fun.”

From As Long As You're Mine (Frostiron, post-Avengers AU)

“You lost?” he quipped.

Loki’s eyes remained fixed on Tony’s, and that sexy little smirk curved his lips. “Not at all. Thought I’d pop in and say hello.”

Tony forced out a chuckle, but that’s exactly what it sounded like — forced. “Yeah, right. Where’re your horns, Reindeer Games?”

Loki’s smirk melted into a dreamy grin and, clasping his hands behind his back, moved toward the bar. “I’m sure you’re aware I’ve managed to escape Odin’s clutches, yes?”

Tony nodded.

“Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to retrieve my sceptre or much else. I’m lucky I managed to snatch this off the hook in the prison they tried to secure me in.” He flicked the lapel of the coat before shrugging it off his shoulders and setting it aside as he slid onto one of the barstools.

“I’m not sure luck is a word that applies to anything that you do.” Tony hadn’t moved from his spot; he didn’t dare. If he moved over to the bar or anywhere near Loki, he knew they would both be in serious trouble.

Loki laughed softly, then gestured lightly toward the collections of bottles and glasses behind the bar. “Aren’t you going to offer me a drink?”

Damn it all to hell. “Fine,” Tony muttered and reluctantly made his way behind the bar, setting down his glass. “What’s your poison?”

“I am sure whatever it is you’re drinking will suffice.”

Without another word, Tony pulled out a tumbler from under the bar and filled it halfway with Jack Daniels. Seconds after sliding it across the counter to Loki, it slid back, empty. He looked at it, frowned.

“Why won’t you look at me?”

Fuck. Deeply inhaling, Tony’s eyes flicked up, meeting a pair of deep green eyes. Green? Tony could’ve sworn Loki’s eyes were blue. He must have looked confused because… 

“Is there a problem?”

“No, I…I thought your eyes were blue. That’s all.” Dropping his gaze, Tony refilled his glass and Loki’s before placing it in front of him. He watched Loki’s fingers wrap around the glass, felt that damn rush again.

“That day, they were. A side effect of the Tesseract’s influence, thanks to the Chitauri. You’ll remember the Hawk’s eyes were similarly blue. More so than usual,” he added before Tony could respond. Loki took a long drink, swallowed, and sighed a bit at the burn down his throat to his empty stomach. When was the last time he  refueled? He couldn’t remember. He drank again. It wasn’t what he was used to on Asgard, he thought as he ran his tongue across his lips, but it was good. “I must admit, Stark…” 

Tony looked up at his name. It was the first time Loki had ever used it.

“I’m surprised you would remember the color of my eyes.” He lifted the glass again, fixed Tony with a steady gaze over its rim. “Should I be flattered?”

Tony feigned indifference, though inside everything was fluttering, beating a mile a minute, or generally spazzing out in a way he refused to acknowledge on the outside. He finished off his drink to calm it all down. “Are you asking permission? I thought you did what you wanted. Or is that just a bunch of bullshit?”

It was silent for a beat. “Quite right.”

Tony jerked back but could go nowhere when Loki’s arm snaked out, his hand fisting in Tony’s black Aerosmith tee, and pulled him across the bar to plant his mouth on his. Tony’s lips parted to object, but when he felt that long, velvety tongue slide into his mouth, he forgot whatever it was he was going to say.

From Second Time Around, Chapter 1: Thirty-Six Days Later (WinterFrost, Modern AU, disgraced vet!Bucky, college student!Loki)

The August sun was blazing down, overheating the concrete of the sidewalks and the black pavement of the parking lot, when James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes stepped through the sliding doors of the pristine white medical building. He slipped a dark pair of shades over his sleepy ice blue eyes and idly wished he hadn't worn a black t-shirt and dark jeans. But he always favored dark colored clothes. He took a deep breath, and though the air was thick and hot, he was just grateful to be outdoors for the first time in over a month.

A car horn sounded and an old station wagon pulled up to the curb. Bucky saw a female hand push out from behind the lowered window and wave him over, followed by his mother's overly sweet voice saying, "Yoo-hoo! Bucky, dear!"

A little embarrassed, Bucky gave a small wave back and turned to the orderly that had escorted him out, shook his hand, and laughed at the man's attempt at humor when he told Bucky to not call or write or visit.

He picked up his duffel bag of personal items from the bench he stood next to and headed to the station wagon, where both of his parents now stood outside the car, waiting for him. They both welcomed him with a hug; his mother's, as usual, feeling just a bit more genuine than his father's. They all climbed back into the car and started the drive back to their quiet little town, a couple hour's drive.

Bucky stared out the window, blankly watching the world pass by, barely listening to his mother rattle on, filling him in on everything that had happened while he was cooped up in a rehabilitation facility for the past thirty-six days. Intermittently, he brought a cigarette to his lips and inhaled the rich taste of tobacco and smoke. Apparently, nothing much had changed; summer block parties were had, recent graduates both left for college and returned from it — nothing Bucky really missed out on. But the big story of the week, and likely for the rest of what was left of the summer, was about the bravery and courage of the town's favorite war hero, Captain Steve Rogers  — who also happened to be Bucky's best friend.

Steve, an Army captain, had been going on his daily jog one morning, running from one part of town to another, and back. He often liked to run alongside the ravine that crossed through the city, as it veered away from the heaviest parts of traffic. It just so happened on this particular morning, a young girl had fallen into the ravine, chasing after her ball and couldn't climb back out, after twisting her ankle. Steve had heard her cries, climbed down and carried her, and her ball, to the nearest medical office, and saved the day.

Bucky's mother fed the tale to him, sounding as prideful as a mother hen. Rightfully so, though, as she had taken on the role of parent after Steve's mother died when he was just eighteen, not long after both he and Bucky had left to join the army. Her death left his childhood friend an orphan, as his father had died when he was barely out of toddlerhood. Bucky leaned his head back against the red leather bench seat of the station wagon, concentrating on his breathing, exhaling long plumes of smoke, letting those pesky feelings of resentment and hurt seep from him, like a drop of water sliding down his back to eventually dissipate in darkness somewhere. His mother always spoke of Steve in high regard. And why shouldn't she? The guy was the shining example of the all-American good guy.

From Untitled MaLoki fic, Prologue (Maleficent/Loki, AU crossover between Maleficent (2014) and Thor (2011))

The explosions were getting louder, closer.  Maleficent, the Younger, could feel the ground shake and the windows with it. She heard voices outside and downstairs, yelling and screaming. When she looked out the window in her bedroom, she could see tunnels of smoke in the distance and shadowed figures fighting on the hills of Svartalfheim. Father was out there somewhere. 

There was so much happening, but she didn’t know what to do. What she could do. Her magic was still too powerful for her to wield. Mother was training her. But then the war happened. 

“Maleficent!“

She turned her head at her mother’s voice, shaken by its urgency. She slipped on her shoes and ran to find her. “Yes, Mama?” She stood looking over the railing where Mother was searching for her frantically in the foyer. 

“Come. Quickly. We must go.” She met Maleficent at the bottom of the stairs, and took her by the arms. “Where is Astrid?”

“I am here, milady,” a voice spoke from a doorway leading to the kitchen. 

Maleficent’s mother took her hand and reached for Astrid’s — then placed Maleficent’s into Astrid’s. “Take her. Make haste to the field beyond the forest.”

“No, Mother, I want to stay with you.”

Maleficent, the Elder, knelt before her young daughter, her fingers trailing down her chestnut hair, falling over her shoulders on either side of the horns growing out of her head. Maleficent saw her swallow thickly and her stomach twisted with anxiety. “I’m afraid you cannot, pieni korppi. The Einherjar are getting closer. You must go.” [Little Raven]

Maleficent felt tears sting her yellow eyes. “But I could help. I could—“

“No.” Maleficent the Elder was quick to quiet her daughter, her only child. She rose again and turned to Astrid. As she spoke to her, Maleficent the Younger looked past her, out of the entrance to the home she lived in with her mother and father. She could see the explosions growing nearer and nearer. 

“And remember, Astrid: Neshihi rouhilejee, tifidhoh djonta elithidheene yr ajamihi/.” [To save our people, there is nothing I would not sacrifice.]

“Yes, milady. And may the threads of the Norns guide you on your journey.”

Maleficent the Elder nodded. She turned as Maleficent called her, expecting the young fairy beside her, but found her just inside the entrance. “Maleficent…?”

Maleficent stared, frozen in horror, as a ball of orange fire headed straight for them. Her mother shouted and instinctively, Maleficent raised her arms, her magic — purple at its edges — coming to her fingers. But she never got to use it. An arm wrapped around her waist and she was hurled in the air, her young but powerful wings spread and wrapped around her body protectively as she landed directly in the arms of Astrid. 

“Run!“

“Mother!”

Maleficent reached for her, but Astrid was strong. Tears streamed down her face as she watched her mother — her strong, willful mother — hold the ball of fire back, her own magic a cobalt blue. The elder Maleficent strained and the younger knew she wouldn’t hold it much longer. 

Their eyes, matching sets of yellow with dark green edges, locked, and Maleficent heard her mother’s voice in her mind: Go, my child. I will always be with you. Kira liljal nol. Now! [I love you.]

Maleficent stopped struggling and let Astrid take her from her home. As the image of her mother being consumed by a wall of fire burned into her memory, Maleficent vowed revenge on Bor, son of Buri, and the realm of Asgard.

Apologies for the length. LOL. Three or four sentences is hardly anything. If you read this far, yay! Thanks!

xoxo, La

[butch--dean]

I was housed by your warmth / thus, transformed

my manifesto on dean's relationship with love and faith and what it means to be saved <3

hozier // shrike - yt

[iceclew]

I'm cracking up so much right now like....I really did it, wtf XD

First I wanted to go like "this is not my fault, this is @mechazushi's idea", but to be honest.. I had so much fcking fun with this.. ( ‾́ ◡ ‾́ )

The idea is just *glorious* and so fcking stupid, it's perfect again.. https://www.tumblr.com/mechazushi/754110618707066880/so-this-isnt-so-much-an-incorrect-quotes

So this was her original post, the idea sprouting, so to say :D

Credit on your brain rot, it's hilarious @mechazushi :D

The less I get done in RL - the more creative I get, it's such a horrible curse..

Should I do a split up version of this as well, I wonder..? Like..all of them in seperate pics? (¯―¯ ٥)

[iraprince]

Hiii, i love your stuff and kinda from a distance really look up at you for, in my perception, being able to express yourself without giving a fuck. Thats sick dude, Im so so afraid, of absolutely everything, its nice to think like i might grow into someone less apologetic of my existence. Nice to see people just being yknow

hey, thank you, this is really really nice. the secret that is probably not a secret is that i am also deeply afraid a lot of the time lmao -- but less than i used to be, and in ways that feel less stifling and self-suffocating, if that makes sense.

like, it used to be "i'm scared that if i express myself the way i want to, everyone will find me obnoxious, so let's just sand those edges down to be safe" -- now my fears are more like "now that i'm expressing myself in a way that feels natural and real, i'm afraid that it's all stupid/vapid/not worthwhile or meaningful" (<- specifically abt my art) or "i'm happy that i talk and act the way i want to now, but what if it makes me impossible to befriend," etc etc etc. which still feels bad and puts me in a funk a lot of the time but at least it's a fear that comes After/in reaction to doing stuff, rather than a fear that STOPS me from doing stuff, you know? like, it's evolved into a kind of fear that's less in my way.

anyway. i believe you'll experience something like this, because wanting to grow is the first step of growing. the fact that u hope or wish for something different means you're already on your way. to fewer fucks!! or at least distributing the fucks u give in a way that serves u better

[ruvviks]

// wip day.

i'm working on a new project that is (for once) not connected to any of my bigger original universes, so i thought i'd share some of the writing i have for it! taglist down below, feel free to take this opportunity to share your own wips (in a separate post of course) if you have any!! the first part is a sort of introduction to the story, from the perspective of main character marshall! the second part is a snippet from a scene much further into the story, to kind of paint a picture (for both you and myself lol) of what the setting and the tone of the story is gonna be like. it's a bit different writing than what you're used to from me so please take a moment to read the warnings first!! warnings >> blood, cult, death, implied cannibalism, gore, religion, violence

God won't speak to me.

He spoke to my sister when we were eleven, her howls echoing through the backyard of our childhood home as the venom of a wasp spread quickly through her veins.

He spoke to my mother the day we buried her oldest son, the hem of her alcohol-stained dress torn where it had caught on the thorns of a blackberry bush she had blankly passed through.

He spoke to my father the day he put the barrel of a .44 in his mouth, reenacting what he had classified a sin for all the wrong reasons, his trembling finger on the trigger strong enough to rip apart the last tendon holding our family together yet not to finish the job.

I was eighteen, when I was found on the river bank near Overture, Louisiana, the sharp end of a jagged knife plunged deep within my side and my bloodied hands clutching the cross necklace of my brother, my breathing akin to the ice cold shallow water grazing at my ankles as I stared up at the star-spotted sky with glazed over eyes, blue chapped lips shaped in the final hum of a prayer.

A black abyss stared back, a strained vacuum without comfort, leaving me with a plea unheard and the metallic taste of blood in my mouth.

And God did not answer.

'Gotta dig… Just gotta dig. Gotta get 'em out of there… Gotta take 'em home…'

The physical distance between Marshall and the grave did not muffle the continuous mumbling, the shaky voice of the young priest clear as day like a whisper directly in his ear as the eerie silence looming over the church's cemetery left him with not much else to focus on. He knew he should turn around and leave, at that hour of the night— get back in his car and return to Posey in the motel, get some sleep while he still could— yet curiosity held him tight within its grasp, and each step he took pushed him closer into the wrong direction.

'Just the bones… Just the bones…'

The man was hunched over, back turned towards Marshall and partially obscured by the few last rows of gravestones stood between the two of them. His neck twitched— a sudden and unexpected movement at an angle Marshall did not hold for possible, yet it had happened entirely too fast for him to clearly see.

'Hey, is everything alright?' he called out; well against his better judgment, hairs on his forearms standing up straight as his feet carried him another few inches closer to the priest.

And the closer he got, the more he wished he had listened to himself.

If he had just turned away, he wouldn't have had to notice the unusual and unplaceable noises bubbling up from the priest's direction. He wouldn't have had to realize the priest was sat next to a coffin, yet to be lowered into an undug grave. (A curious practice, but Marshall was not one to judge— Overture'd had to endure a rather tiresome series of curiosities as of late, and an unburied corpse in the middle of bumfuck Louisiana in the midst of a yet to be explained power cut would be the least of its problems.)

'Just the bones…. Gotta dig… Gotta bring 'em home.'

'Do you need help?' Marshall persistently asked, his voice muffled by the thrumming of his own heart in his eardrums while his eyes trailed over the coffin— splintered and shattered at the lid, the glimmer of the distant church lights barely enough to reveal the outline of an axe resting on the dirt at the priest's ankles.

'Have to do it, there's no other way. Gotta dig, gotta dig, gotta dig—'

'Hey!'

Marshall should have never stayed in town.

He realized that now, as the priest's obsessive muttering came to a sudden stop forcing Marshall to hold still too— yet he had already approached too closely, and realized that no dirt had been dug in at all, and realized that the priest's hands were instead stuck inside the coffin repeatedly plunging deeper and deeper into the rotting remains of the corpse inside, once white vestment covered in blood and gore and he stared up at Marshall with a faint glow in two milky white eyes and with a wide grin exposing bloodied and shattered teeth, much akin to a predator looking at its next prey.

'Just the bones,' he repeated, the nodding of his head nearly belittling— as if to convince Marshall this was how it was supposed to be, as if to convince him the Word of God was not to be neglected and his fate as a sinner was a gift to the Divine Light and as if to convince him as long as he would not struggle it would all be over soon.

'Gotta dig.'

Marshall could not move, lamb to the slaughter as the priest rose to his feet with the axe in his hand.

'Just the bones! Gotta take 'em home.'

taglist (opt in/out)

@velocitic, @deadrlngers, @euryalex, @ordinarymaine, @gurathins;

@mojaves, @shellibisshe, @dickytwister, @mnwlk, @rindemption;

@ncytiri, @calenhads, @noirapocalypto, @florbelles, @radioactiveshitstorm;

@strafethesesinners, @fashionablyfyrdraaca, @aemondtargeryen, @radioactive-synth, @katsigian;

@estevnys, @elgaravel

[enbysiriusblack]

i'm not really a barty fan, but he's still very interesting to me (from how i see him)

like. him growing up with a very distant and abusive father and a very caring mother. him getting into ravenclaw house, the same house as his father, and getting scared he'll grow up to be just like him. and so he starts rebelling. he gets detentions, he gets angry at teachers telling him what to do, he gets angry at the fact he still loves learning and listening in class and reading and revising and getting good marks because it means his father will be happy and think he can still control him and is still on his way to being him. but he can't help himself- he loves learning too much. so instead he befriends slytherins, notably a rosier and a black, the kinda people his father despises and is publicly against. and his father talks about and works on getting higher up in the government with his anti-death eater agenda and so barty starts getting into the small wannabe death eater circle at school. and then he gets to go to his first meeting and he gets the mark and he gets to go on missions and his father can't stop him, can't control him anymore, and he doesn't even realise he's lost his son until barty's getting arrested.

[finniestoncrane]

kkjahsd felt social today but now i feel like i'm just annoying everyone but it's fine it's not even 2pm yet we can regroup!! i'm holding on to my pleasant mood with my non-existent little fingernails

i hope i can finish off my character doc today for my oc at least and then i can maybe be brave and share it later u-u 💚

[pl0xm4st3r]

I made new new icon for my discord profile.

[ittyybittybaker]

A Rose By Any Other Name:

a Romeo and Juliet inspired mascarpone and pistachio praline filled cream puff topped with raspberry-rose panna cotta, rose shaped raspberry-rose pate de fruit, candied Sicilian pistachios, and a chocolate dagger.

Sometimes, when it's slow, we get to practice our skills at work, and this is one of those times! today i was paired with a coworker to make a buffet portion dessert for a randomly assigned theme- ours was Shakespeare and we were inspired by Romeo and Juliet! We had 24 hours to plan and 4 hours to make everything start to finish, and this is what we came up with!

Thank you @darcyshire for inspiring me to post more of my work!

[thedreadvampy]

The thing is I am definitely not happy or chill in the Immediate Sense lately but I am, big picture, so fucking happy with the person I am.

It's like. My brain was made by and for consistent trauma and since that trauma stopped about 5-7 years ago, it is incredible what the amount of resilience and cleverness and flexibility and thoughtfulness I developed to survive can do when it's not being all spent on surviving. like I had a hundred ton weight on me so I had to get REALLY STRONG to stay in the same place and not get 100% crushed, and when that weight came off I found I can use the strength it used to take to stand up and I can leap tall buildings in a single bound.

I was talking to my mum the other day and she said, "you've got the 'fuck it' energy at 30 that most women don't find until their fifties at least" and I'm like yeah man. Imagine how unstoppable I'll be in 20 years.

[pardonmydelays]

i had so much fun last night omg

[deoidesign]

happy birthday! I just wanted to let you know that I came across this account after seeing this sick horror piece of old time churches, decinding to follow the page, and then realising that it was the same artist who'd written that sick comic on time travelling werewolves and vampires which I'd lost. and they're both t4t too ! effervescent

thank you!

Honestly it is an extremely unfamiliar reality that someone could know me from multiple different things... Not sure what to do with that but I'm glad to have impacted you in small ways and I hope to continue to do so! So thanks for being here, I'm glad that fate brought us back together haha

[longeyelashedtragedy]

damn...it is honestly a bit intimidating just how much trauma has fucked up my entire life. there's virtually nothing it hasn't touched. it's a wonder i made it this far and had fun along the way.

[drop-the-curtain-123]

ok very specific gripe about assassination classroom

But how comes the series is all "be yourself, use your hobbies, despite everyone judgement, for good" then just... Never questions the roasting of Mimura air guitaring?

Look at my boy! He's so unwell afterwards

Ik now there are more scenes later in the manga that again use it as a Punchline. It just encapsulates that weird gap of "things that are just never Not the Joke/Mocked" which kind of defeats the show messaging 😭

t's not even used in a "do it anyway, grow strong and proud" like some others, it's just. There.

(hi rinka btw happy belated birthday to you)

Anyway unconsequential nitpicking rant over, have a good day.

[ravencromwell]

For the last half year, I've watched @pinkcupboardwitch periodically wax rhapsodic here on the delights of chai tea. Having finally taken the plunge I can report apparently I shall be learning the intricacies of brewing chai because I'm thoroughly hooked. I had a chai latte, rather than the straight tea, but some cursory googling informs me milk is the best complement to the flavors, so fortune smiled in that regard.

Two things surprised me most: what a full sensory experience it was, and just. how well flavors my very American self wouldn't put together naturally gel. The spice aroma almost scared me off: it was strong and I'm not used to teasing out cinnamon and cardamom etc. When my nose smells "strong" I instinctively default to pepper and oh, hell it's going to be _hot rather than flavorful. But once I took that first tiny sip--think kid inching their toe into water and you'll have a good idea--and the flavor burst, not exactly sweet but bright and rich across my tongue, I started prolonging the experience. Inhaling the spice became aslow prelude, sweetening the anticipation of the flavors bursting across my pallet again.

I like wine, but I'll be honest. About all I can smell when I try to "discern its bouquet" is sharp and acid, to the point I have to work actively not to inhale because I know I'll enjoy the flavor once it's on my tongue if the aroma doesn't put me off entirely first. But this was strong, bracing and made me want to go sniff cardamom and ginger etc. to se if I can untangle the individual notes.

And erm. ginger is actually quite good in certain combinations, apparently? My (again very American. very southern.) take on ginger was too sharp, too _bitter in all the dishes I'd had it in except gingerbread but well. we Southern folks put so much sugar in gingerbread, I figured it could cover up *anything*. I couldn't imagine how vanilla would clash with what I expected to be a bitter ginger note. So I was delighted to learn that ginger, in small quantities, actually seems to contribute to the brighter notes, cutting through some of the sweet richness of the milk and (maybe) cardamom and vanilla along with the cinnamon.

When I've had coffee, I'm the kind of person who has to spice it up: yeah, I'm drinking coffee, I'll say as I drink something decadent with peppermint and white chocolate and a coffee base--it's less about the coffee than the frills, downplaying coffee's strength rather than complementing it. (My subsequent google made me cackle, because apparently a lot of coffee people actually really love black tea, and I couldn't find them more different. Mom was a coffee person, so I tried a fair bit of it and without an infusion of something, it was always so _bitter to me. But the dregs of the cup--which I figure come closest to the original tea flavor just tasted a little nutty, but so _fresh. Just such a different flavor profile, at least for me.)

[girlfox]

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