For the watch-inclined amongst you, there’s a pretty interesting article up right now on Hodinkee about the Bulova Accutron Astronaut being issued to pilots of the SR-71 and its predecessor. The Astronaut was unique because it uses a tuning fork instead of a balance wheel.

It’s not the best known watch nowadays, but I’ve known about it since I was a kid, as my dad received one as a gift for passing his Ph.D. quals in 1969. I’d like to think that stylistically it inspired my GMT purchase earlier this year, and someday the two will make a fine pair side by side.


A/N: so this was supposed to go up on Friday in honour of our super soldier’s 100th birthday but I was away for a wedding and had no time to put this up. Hope you enjoy this fluffy piece I put together xx

Summary: It’s Bucky’s 100th, there’s a poker game going on, and you’re stuck in Spain with a marmot. 

Word count: 2,242

Warnings: a couple swear words

You were late. You  were so late. You planned to be back at the compound almost five hours ago now, but a storm had ripped your plans to shreds and you had been forced to wait in the quinjet in the midst of the Pyrenees mountains along the border of Spain and France. You were alone except for the marmot that seemed to be following you around but niether you nor the marmot were enough of an expert pilot to navigate the jet through a storm this sizable. With a dying phone, you had managed to contact Clint and let him  know that you were safe but also forced to wait out the heavy wind and rain. 

You were lucky that your mission hadn’t resulted in you getting too scuffed up; after some file retrieval, you simply had some difficulty getting back to the quinjet thanks to the start of the storm so the only damage was that you were starting to sweat despite the cold temperature of the mountain. 

You were beyond pissed at yourself and this weather - tonight was poker night. You usually played on Thursdays but since Bucky loved it and today was his birthday, there was a huge poker session going on at the compound. 


It was also your boyfriend’s birthday. 

Tony sighed sharply as he tossed the watch that evolved into the protective glove onto the growing pile of poker chips in the centre of the coffee table. He was met with confused eyes.

‘I’m out of chips,’ he argued and Clint and Steve snickered at the emptiness in front of him.

‘That means you’re out of the game,’ Natasha corrected. ‘You can’t even call, Stark.’

‘Let him play,’ Bucky smirked, meeting Tony’s eye. ‘That watch’ll come in handy. Maybe I’ll have Steve hit it around a little with his shield.’

Tony glared at him. ‘You’re pretty confident, Robocop.’

‘Says the man with no chips left,’ Bucky countered, and Tony’s eyes drifted to the columns of colourful poker chips that surrounded the soldier like a small fortress. 

‘Why does everyone think it’s a good idea to give shit to the man who shelters you?’

Sam reached behind him to the bookshelf; he brought and held out a glass jar to Tony who sighed and dug around in his pockets, only to pull out an expensive fountain pen which he then put into the jar.

‘You guys think I just carry around cash?’

‘We use the swear jar to pay for our annual dinner at Masa. We can’t pay with a pen,’ Steve argued. 

‘Someone remind me why Steve’s even part of that?’ Clint piped up. ‘’s far as I’m aware, it’s only Sam, Nat, Tony, Barnes and I who even contribute enough to earn that dinner.’

‘Cap’s put in more than you think,’ Nat reasoned, a taunting smile playing across her lips as she tossed twenty dollars worth of chips on the coffee table to stay in the game. ‘First time, he put ten bucks instead of one, he felt so bad.’

How do you know that?’ Steve cried, as Clint fell back cackling. 

Bucky watched with bright eyes the people around him, taking the scene in as a break from the game. The remnants of his birthday cake (which were the parts that had been covered in candle wax thanks to Natasha’s brilliant idea of stuffing exactly one hundred candles on the surface) lay forgotten in the kitchen. Packaging from the take out from Bucky’s favourite diner lay scattered around them as they played. The lights were dim, the background music was nostalgic, the food was good (there was still another bag of burgers left to get through) and Bucky was holding a full house (three queens, two jacks) in his hand. Plus, this June would mark his first ever Swear Jar Dinner at New York’s most expensive restaurant, a tradition that had only started two years ago.

When Bucky had first come back into the world, his birthday was the last thing on his mind. He had confronted his mortality in many ways other than celebrating a year past. And then, to his surprise, this was the night he was met with. For some reason, he hadn’t thought birthdays were on the Avengers’ agendas but he realised that he appreciated the sentiment. After a moment of bashfulness when the cake was presented to him with Sam recording his reaction, Bucky found himself melting into the custom.

There was no existential crisis; there was no breakdown. Bucky knew he was older than time should have allowed, in a world much different to the one he used to be rooted in, but he had confronted these worries and discomforts on so many other occasions.

It should have been perfect. Poker, food, the prospect of winning Tony’s mechanical glove. Except you were missing. The last contact he had had with you was before you had left on your mission; the last word he heard was from Clint who said you were waiting out a storm. Bucky knew you would be alright - at least, he hoped and convinced himself - but in simple terms, he wished you were with him.

‘I checked the forecast,’ Steve muttered, as if reading Bucky’s mind. ‘The storm’s clearing, I’m sure she’s left by now.’ 

After another twenty minutes of game play (Tony having thrown in another watch and his glasses), the round had come to an end when Clint lay down his hand, showing four aces and a king.

Sam groaned loudly, almost like a battle cry, and threw his arm through the bettings, making them scatter all over the table. 

‘This fucking close,’ he grumbled, throwing his cards down to show a full house with tens and jacks. 

Bucky grinned sheepishly, completely unwavered by Clint’s win, or Sam’s frustration. ‘Not quite, Pigeon Toes,’ he smirked, laying his own cards down for him to see. The icing on the cake had been Tony’s junk of a hand - a melting pot of threes, twos, and fives. 

‘There you go, birthday boy,’ Clint succumbed, sloppily tossing Tony’s mechanical watch to Bucky, who smoothly caught it and grinned, as Sam stuffed a dollar bill into the jar. ‘I’ll let you keep that. Give ‘im hell.’

Bucky held the watch up as if toasting him. 

By the time you reached the compound, it was nearing two o’clock in the morning and you had managed to leave the marmot behind in the mountains. A heavy weight rested in your stomach; this was Bucky’s first birthday he would actually celebrate since before the Second World War and you missed it. You knew Bucky was in good hands while you were away and you knew that Bucky wouldn’t actually be upset with you because it wasn’t like him to get upset over something like this. But that only made you want to be there more because Bucky deserved the small pockets of happiness amongst the big ones. 

You landed the quinjet in the hangar; your tactical suit was unzipped halfway so that its torso hung around your hips revealing the full-sleeved black t-shirt you wore underneath. Your boots were caked in melting snow-covered mud; consciously, you ran your fingers through your hair to tame it after having it attacked by the rough winds and went to see if Bucky was still awake.

Poker tournaments tended to last a while so you figured he was. 

When you exited the lift, however, you were met with minimal sound. You walked through the corridor and saw Steve leave the kitchen; he turned when he heard your footsteps.

‘Nice to see you in once piece,’ he grinned amusingly, but you could see relief in his eyes. The guy had so worried about you while you were gone. 

‘You guys finished?’ you asked quietly. 

‘Yeah, not long ago.’ Steve didn’t look pissed; his eyebrows weren’t creasing in the disappointed father style they tended to do. Good signs. 

You groaned. ‘I can’t believe I missed it,’ you grumbled self-deprecatingly. ‘How was it?’

‘Tony went bankrupt and then started using his actual possessions to stay in the game; he was bluffing the whole time and lost anyway. Sam threw a tantrum.’

‘Sounds like the best time,’ you smirked. ‘Did Bucky have fun?’

‘He did,’ Steve replied. ‘It was nice to see actually. He’s still awake I think, he’ll be happy you’re back.’

You smiled at him, making your way to Bucky’s room; you caught a glimpse of the living room - leftover poker chips and a deck of cards messily packed up and the scent of burgers from the diner you had been to a few times with Bucky lingered in the air. You could tell you missed a good night. 

Bucky’s door was ajar, you pushed it open further and knocked on the door frame, standing in the entrance to his room. 

‘Hey, Soldier.’ 

Bucky, who had been sitting on the edge of his bed reading a book, looked up, seeming thrown for a moment before he regarded you with the same warmth he always had done. Light blue eyes blanketed in familiar comfort. 

He smiled and stood up, walking towards you and wrapping his arms around you, pulling you close to him despite the dirt on your clothes. You instinctively reciprocated, your arms going around his waist and head buried in his chest, the material of his t-shirt soft (much softer than the tree trunk you had fallen into earlier in the mountains, but that was another story). 

It was quiet for a moment, Bucky’s face buried in your hair before he spoke.

‘Hey,’ he murmured, the simplicity making you snicker.  

‘Happy -’ You glanced at the clock on his wall ‘- belated birthday, Bucky.’

He kissed your forehead and lead you to sit down on his bed with him. 

‘Are you okay?’ he asked, hands running over you arms like he was checking for wounds. 

You smirked at his worry. ‘I’m fine, Bucky, I promise.’

‘I missed you,’ he said just as quietly but you detected no disappointment in his voice. 

You nuzzled his neck and pulled his arm around your shoulders, completely unable to tear yourself away form him. He was so warm and soft. 

‘I would say the same but,’ you sighed, ‘the marmot I ran into was much more interesting so …’ 

Bucky nudged your ribs making you squeal lightly and jolt in his arms at the contact. 

‘Bucky, ‘m so sorry I wasn’t here,’ you groaned quietly. 

‘’s okay, I’m not mad,’ he murmured back. ‘I knew you wanted to be here; I get the job, doll, I do the same one,’ he joked. 

You leaned down to untie your boots. 

‘Steve said you all had a good time. You owe me a game, Solider.’

‘Clint kicked our asses and we didn’t even see it coming. Sam took it hard.’

‘He can be such a brat when he loses,’ you giggled, already coming up with ways to tease him for when you saw him next. ‘He’s great though.’

‘Is Sam as great as the marmot?’

‘Nothing will ever be as great as the marmot.’

You rested a hand on the back of Bucky’s neck, toying softly with his hair. He hummed appreciatively, leaning into your touch.

‘Tony put a pen in the Swear Jar.’

‘Doesn’t he just carry out cash at all times?’

‘Apparently not. We’ll treat it like a placeholder, I guess.’

‘Was it one of his fountain pens? Those things can be like two hundred dollars a piece.’ 

Bucky traced patterns along your shoulder, playing with your hair and brushing it aside, making goosebumps rise all over your skin. 

‘I can’t believe you’re a hundred years old,’ you admitted. ‘We joked about it but now it’s actually true.’

can’t believe I’m a hundred years old,’ Bucky murmured. ‘It’s kind of the same feeling I got when I turned twenty-five - that I was finally getting old. Now I am old.’

‘Did you have an existential crisis over the passing of time and age?’ you asked, your tone slightly teasing. 

‘I actually didn’t,’ Bucky admitted. ‘I just … I’m one hundred years old.’ 

You snickered at the tone of wonder in his voice. 

Bucky was quiet for a while, fingers still tracing patterns on your skin; leaning into his chest, you could feel him relaxing into your touch.

‘You know, when I was in college, I said that the maximum age gap I would accept between me and the guy I would end up with would be, like, four years or something.’

‘I think I’ve exceeded that, doll.’

‘Only a little,’ you reasoned humorously.

‘A couple years,’ Bucky bargained, pretending to be completely serious. ‘’m glad you could make an exception for me,’ he snickered.

‘A couple years,’ you agreed fondly. ‘For what it’s worth, you don’t look a day over eighty-four.’

Doll,’ Bucky sighed with feigned sentiment, ‘that’s all I’ve ever wanted to be.’

You chuckled at him. ‘You’re such a loser,’ you muttered. ‘But before I forget, I need to give you your birthday present.’

‘[Y/N], you di-’

‘I swear, James, I will ban you from our Masa dinners.’

‘Okay, okay,’ Bucky chuckled, still not letting go of your hand. ‘Just, later, yeah?’

You smiled questioningly at him but allowed him to pull you back onto the bed anyway. 

‘What are you doing, Buchanan?’ 

‘I love you,’ he murmured as though that offered an explanation, pulling you to his chest where you nuzzled comfortably. ‘Just wanna lie here.’

‘Bucky, I smell like a forest,’ you groaned tiredly. 

‘Shh, ‘s fine.’

You felt him draw the blanket at the foot of his bed over you, the two of you getting lost in the hazy warmth of his room and each other’s comfortable body heat. Bucky’s fingers were trailing through your hair.  

‘What even is a marmot?’ he asked after some time.

You blinked. ‘’m not even sure. It kind of looked like a beaver. Maybe they’re snow beavers.’ 

‘You must be a scientist or somethin’, doll,’ Bucky murmured sardonically, snickering when you flicked the back of his head sharply. 

‘For all you know, I could be. Part of day I’m an Avenger. Other part of day, I’m a  zoologist.’

He smirked lazily.

‘Bucky?’ Your tired tone paralleled his.


‘I don’t want to keep you up if you’re tired.’

‘What is it, baby?’

‘I get the sentiment,’ you mumbled, ‘but ‘m really hungry.’


‘Oh my God, yes. Can we play poker, too?’

Pocket Watch
Victo Ngai
A piece in the PLANSPONSOR July! This piece is about “Watching your pocket/saving with the amount of time till retirement in mind’;  we decided to run with the pun:”pocket watch“.  (The sketch was flipped to work better with the right-facing layout in the final. ) Working with AD SooJin  is a blessing as I always get to sneak in subject matters I love into the assignments. I am such a sucker for clockwork and mechanical watches. 
ADs, please keep hiring me so I can burn my cash on a Blancpain moonphase one day… 
Bated Breath (mReyder)

@ladyinthebluebox Thank you for giving me a chance to write some mReyder! Scott is just 💕

Scott’s fingertips were tingling. It was faint, at first, like popping candy dissolving in the oils on his skin. The sensation intensified with every passing minute. He was brimming over with nervous energy - and the overflow had nowhere to go.

“Is there a reason to be nervous, Pathfinder?”

“Maybe.” SAM could be so human, sometimes, but this wasn’t one of those times. “I’m not nervous, SAM. Not really.”

“Your heart rate is elevated, and you are exhibiting numerous other signs of agitation.”

Scott sighed. The cryo bay was cold even outside the pods. If he reached out - just briefly and barely - he could coat his fingertips in ice. His warmth left tracks through the frost on mom’s pod.

“I didn’t say I wasn’t agitated. How much time do we have left?”

“The cryo bay security staff will return to their posts in a little over twelve minutes.”

“Then where the hell is Reyes?” Twelve minutes was hardly time at all. “Try calling him again.”

A few moments passed in silence. Scott took the time to try to quiet his pounding heart. Scott’s deal with the security chief would only be in effect for so long, but Reyes wouldn’t be late. He wouldn’t let him down. This brief window - these precious, ephemeral minutes - had been weeks in the planning. Scott had traded away more goodwill with the Hyperion staff than he would probably ever earn again.

Scott brushed his hand across the pod again; his palm, this time, clearing away a swathe of ice. He couldn’t see mom’s face, of course, but it was nice to imagine that he could.

“Mr. Vidal is not responding.”

Scott swallowed hard. The chill was creeping through his skin; eking into his muscles and pooling in his gut. “He promised he’d be here. Keep trying.”

Scott stood there for precisely twelve minutes, watching the ice crystals reform. SAM never let up on the comm requests, but he didn’t receive a reply. Scott’s fragile certainty was the first thing to break, followed by his denial - and finally his composure. He blinked away tears that froze on his eyelashes almost the instant they appeared.

SAM felt it, too. His voice was almost gentle. “The security staff are returning to their stations, Scott. We have missed our window.”

“Reyes has, you mean.”

“That is correct.”

Scott was back on the Tempest by the time Reyes finally called. Meridian’s pseudo-sunset had turned the Pathfinder’s quarters into a white-gold grotto, but Scott saw none of it. He was curled up on his couch, eyes shut tight against the world.

“Scott.” The tension in Reyes’ voice was plain. “I’m so sorry it took me so long to call back. Are you all right?”

It felt like Scott’s teeth were glued together. “Yes.”

“Good.” Reyes sighed explosively - and though the comm channel was audio only, Scott could practically see him raking a hand back through his hair. “Today has been an unending series of disasters. I barely managed a moment to think, let alone -”

“I can’t believe you forgot.”


Scott’s throat was constricting, but the words burned their way to open air like a fire chasing oxygen. “This was important to me, Reyes.”

“Ryder, I -” The moment realization hit him was tangible, in the way that negative space was visible and silence was heard. “Shit.”

“You fucking forgot.”

“I didn’t forget, Scott, I just - shit.” Reyes sucked down a harsh breath. It hissed through the comm link like air escaping into vacuum. “I’m so sorry.”

Scott sighed. Sorry didn’t cut it. He knew that Reyes loved him, and he knew that he loved Reyes, too - but there were moments when he wondered how a relationship like theirs stood a snowflake’s chance on Elaaden. This was one of them.

“It’s fine,” Scott croaked. The words left a bad taste in his mouth.

“Can you forgive me?” Reyes’ voice was soft - always soft, when he wanted something - and Scott was utterly powerless to refuse him anything.


“Yes.” It was a lie, of course, and he suspected Reyes knew it. Scott had left all his capacity for forgiveness stuck to the ice on the outside of mom’s pod. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“I love you,” Reyes began -

Scott hung up before he could finish. Climbing to his feet felt like pushing against a supergiant’s gravity, but he managed to stumble over to his bed, kicking off his boots as he went. He didn’t want to talk, and he didn’t want forgive. He didn’t even want to drink - which, on reflection, was a little surprising. He just wanted to mope.

He threw himself onto the bed, burying his face in his pillow. “If anyone asks, SAM, I’m sleeping.”

“Are you all right, Scott?”

Scott sighed. “Maybe.”

The message came when Scott was buying coffee the next morning. No one had managed to cobble together a half-decent espresso machine yet, but hot and caffeinated would suit Scott just fine. SAM chirped in Scott’s ear as he transferred the credits.

“Pathfinder. You have received a message from Mr. Vidal.”

Scott thanked the barista - hoping his smile didn’t look too strained - and waited until he’d moved out into one of the Hyperion’s external plazas before he responded to the AI. His fingers danced around on the coffee cup, carefully mapping that line between pleasant warmth and burns. “What’s the word count?”

There was a pause. “Although I can answer that question, I do not understand your reason for asking.”

Scott scoffed. He took a sip of his drink. Hot. Caffeinated. Good. “A short message could be anything. It could be an apology, but it could also be a joke. Could be a link to a picture of a puppy. But a long message means a long apology, or an explanation. I hate long messages.”

“The message consists of nine words, Scott.”

Scott shrugged, balancing his cup against a railing so he could open the message. “All right, then.”

To: Scott Ryder

From: Reyes Vidal


Come to the cryo bay. We have thirty minutes.

The letters seemed to blur across the surface of the omni-display, twisting and shifting until he couldn’t be certain if they had ever really been there at all. “SAM -”

“The cryo bay security staff are not at their posts, Pathfinder. I suggest you hurry.”

For a moment - so fleeting that it could have been imagined - the air around Scott turned thin. It was like he was in a bubble, invisible and impenetrable, and the space it contained had suddenly and dramatically expanded. He could breathe - but he couldn’t. He could think, but he couldn’t.

Coffee forgotten, Scott took off at a run. The looks he received from unsuspecting bystanders ranged from shocked and affronted to scathing or amused, but Scott hardly noticed them. He ran like he had an architect on his heels, leaping flowerbeds and sliding down handrails; skidding around corners and hustling through empty security posts. Port Meridian’s delicate balance of the sleek and the vibrant was utterly lost on him - because he had thirty minutes.

Scott sprinted through the doors to the cryo bay on a bated breath and a staggered heartbeat - because he still hardly dared to believe his luck. But Reyes’ words proved true; the cryo bay was silent and empty.

Except for one man. Reyes smiled as Scott approached. There was something hesitant about the way his lips quirked; something wary, and maybe a little afraid. There were deep shadows under his eyes, presumably from a sleepless night. His habitually perfect hair was mussed. Looking into his bloodshot eyes was like looking at a star afraid to burn.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d come.”

Scott couldn’t find the words to answer, so he seized him by the collar instead, pulling him into the most purposeful kiss of his life. For another ephemeral instant, Reyes froze up - then melted into Scott’s skin, calloused fingertips tugging at his wrists. When they came up for air, Reyes’ hesitation was gone.

“How did you do it?” Scott asked. He couldn’t help the awe in his voice. “When I asked for fifteen minutes, the security chief practically demanded a kidney.”

Reyes chuckled. “Everyone has something they want, Scott. The nature of my work requires me to keep on top of them.”

“Four minutes have passed since you received Mr. Vidal’s message,” SAM reminded them.

“We shouldn’t delay,” Scott croaked. His throat felt suddenly dry.

Reyes’ fingers twined with his, comforting and warm. “Which pod is your mother’s?”

The walk down the cryo bay storage corridor always felt like mapping the path of a funeral procession, but having Reyes at his side made it easier. He found mom’s pod easily, of course; he didn’t think he’d ever forget that ID number. He keyed up the command to operate the mechanical extraction arm and watched as the machinery retrieved the pod from its berth. Once it was at eye level, Scott could quite clearly see patterns in the layers of frost on its surface. He’d left them there himself.

Reyes’ expression was solemn. His voice was a little tight. “What now?”

Now that the moment was on him, Scott didn’t really know. “Shit,” he muttered. He could feel a flush creeping up his neck.

What was he thinking? Mom couldn’t hear him. For all the difference that dad’s crazy plan made, it was as if she really had died back on Earth - and there was a good chance that it would all end in failure anyway. Some diseases just couldn’t be cured. Some things just couldn’t be fixed.

“This is stupid,” Scott croaked. He shook his head frantically, trying to blink away embarrassing tears. “I really shouldn’t have -”

“Shhh,” Reyes murmured. He pulled Scott into a hug, one palm smoothing up his back to cradle his head. Gentle fingers carded through the short hairs along his hairline. “It’s important to you,” Reyes said softly. “So it’s not stupid.”

Scott pressed a kiss against Reyes’ shoulder, hoping his tears weren’t too obvious. “Thank you.” He pulled away slowly, like he was just a hair’s breadth clear of escape velocity, then reached out to brush his fingers over the pod again. “Hi, mom.”

Shit. It did sound stupid, but Reyes was right. It was important. If he didn’t do this - if he walked away and wasted this second opportunity - Scott would probably never forgive himself.

“Sorry I haven’t been back to see you in a while. It’s weird, talking to a cryo pod. And I’ve been busy.” Scott glanced at Reyes, ready to hone in on any hint of pity or mockery - but Reyes was smiling gently, amber eyes encouraging. Scott straightened his shoulders.

“I quite literally smuggled someone in here to see you,” he went on. “This is Reyes. He’s my -”

What was Reyes, precisely? Boyfriend sounded too casual, and they’d left casual somewhere back in Kadara’s caves. Partner was far too formal, and ambiguous besides. Crime lord lover sounded like something teenage Scott would have said just to shock his mom.

“He’s the man I’m in love with.” Scott was hyperaware of the little catch in Reyes’ breathing; of the minute increase in the pressure on his fingers. “I thought you might want to…I don’t know. I thought that I should bring him here, just in case you don’t wake up.”

“Hello, Ellen.” Reyes spoke up - hesitantly, again, but it had Scott fighting off a fresh wave of tears. “Can I call you Ellen?”

“Shit,” Scott muttered again. He covered his eyes with his forearm, giggling helplessly. “This is nuts.”

Reyes squeezed his hand. “Your son is an incredible man,” he said quietly. “I’m glad to have the opportunity to thank you.”

Scott’s laughter abruptly died. His ribcage felt full of something magnified and tender, like his heart had inflated to occupy the space.

“You must be a wonderful woman, to have raised someone like Scott.”

Scott was finding it hard to speak. “How long do we have, SAM?”

“Twenty minutes.”

Scott looked back at Reyes; at the shadows under his eyes and the sympathetic tilt to his lips. It was a struggle to recall how he could ever have been angry with him. It was a struggle to recall how he had ever felt complete without him.

“Thank you,” he said simply. He couldn’t think of another way to say it; couldn’t think of words quite beautiful enough to sum up what he felt.

But Reyes knew. “There’s no hurry, Scott.” He brushed his lips across the back of Scott’s hand. “We’ve got all the time in the world.”

anonymous asked:

i don't wanna let the dean-banging-random-chicks thing bother me but yet it does /sigh/

Hey there! :)

In all honesty, I haven’t consistently watched the show since the end of season 9, so at this point I’m detached from canon to the point where I’m just like ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ whenever something like that happens. I guess it’s like that when you’ve been living in fanon world for this long. :p

However I do remember a time when this was upsetting to me as well, so I’d say that an earlier version of me can definitely relate.

But when taking a step back and really looking at it: Dean/random woman number 23 don’t have 64.208 stories written about them on a popular online platform. Dean/random woman number 17 never won an award for best chemistry because fans cared so much that they were determined to make it happen. Dean/random woman number 9 didn’t inspire tons of fanart, or cosplays, or friendships formed between fans from all across the globe over the story of them. Dean/random woman number 18 didn’t have a slow burn love story (including all of the classical tropes of romance) developing between them that’s been 8 years in the making, to the point where people love to speculate about it in what little spare time they have when not going to classes or picking up the kids from kindergarten or working that boring office job.

Don’t get me wrong, character development is very important to me, and even if I’m looking at it from the point of view of someone who is not a shipper (which I can, after not actively watching the show for 3 years) I get why it’s frustrating that they keep playing this card with Dean, always one step forward, two steps back. He’s still where he was at 10 years ago, using alcohol and meaningless sex as a coping mechanism instead of finding healthier ways. But at the same time, that’s all it is; a coping mechanism.

I haven’t watched this week’s episode, but from what I’ve been told Dean’s hookup doesn’t even have any real lines except for introducing herself, and she’s completely irrelevant to the plot because that is how little even the writers care about the random fling that they’re throwing in there, they don’t even care enough to make it a one/two episode arc that at least still makes you feel something, like for example with Sam/Sarah.

And in that you have your answer; Whenever a random hookup pops up, everyone in the Destiel corner of the fandom deals with it differently; some get angry, some are (like me) numb to it after 12 seasons of the same nonsense, some come up with great meta to turn it into something less aggravating. But at the end of the day, I can only say this: There is nothing to get angry about. There isn’t even a pressing need to meta anything away, per se.

In the end, the stories that matter, they matter because we care enough about them to ensure that they’ll be spread and remembered for years to come. As fans we decide which ones remain relevant and which ones will be forgotten within a matter of weeks. 

The relationships we’ll remember (and that the show will be remembered for) are the ones fleshed out, the ones that actually mean something. And that’s what counts, so don’t let something like this get you down. ♡

Peter: Culmination

Summary: The story of Peter and Y/N boil down to unsettled feelings and could’ve/should’ve/would’ve’s, until now. 

Word Count: 5,165

Warnings: cursing

It was supposed to be another Saturday in Queens.

Those were nothing new. Peter Parker usually spent his Saturdays being thrown towards buildings at breakneck speed, some villain high above cackling at his misfortune.

“Is that all you’ve got itsy bitsy spider?” Doctor Octopus sneered, his mechanical arms digging into the skyscraper adjacent to him. Peter swung on his web, landing feet first onto a balcony and perching there, rolling his eyes under his mask.

“If I had a dollar for every time one of you losers called me “itsy bitsy,” I’d be rich enough to retire from this—oh!” He ended with a shout as a panel of glass was flung his way. Kicking it away with ease, Doc Ock laughed. He was making his way back down to street level, where hordes of citizens screamed in panic and terror. The ground was littered with glass and rubble, most awnings ripped with heavy cement bricks falling through them. Peter grunted, wishing that Kinesis was here to help shield them from shrapnel, but the alien girl was nowhere to be found.

“You’re under the assumption that justice pays, Spider-ling,” the villain cackled, crushing cars beneath his mechanical legs. Peter watched him for a moment, calculating how best to take him down when he noticed the familiar purple sparkle of light.

“Lucky for us, crime does not pay either!”

The mech arms lifted from the ground, steadily at first and then WHAM! He was smashed, body first into the Oscorp building sign, sparks shooting from his enhancements. The arms went limp, taking the rest of him down, cracking the pavement as he fell into a smoking heap of rubble.

Peter balked, turning to face where he’d heard the shout. His mouth fixed into a grin, seeing Kinesis standing on a taxi for leverage. Cupping his hands, Peter yelled, “Glad you could make it!”

She shouted back, mirth in her tone. “The subway was late!”

Keep reading





It’s been 2 months since we lost our beloved Carrie Fisher and her mother. Sadly, in the eyes of the media that makes her passing “old news” unless it’s in regards to Episode 8 reshoots. But I, like many fans I’m sure, do not want her be forgotten so easily. 

While she wasn’t personally in “A Princess on Lothal” the character she gave life to is and as such I felt it was proper to acknowledge he in this video. Also if you like number, this is video 21 and Star Wars came out in ‘77 when Fisher herself was 21 years old.

Also in this video we see Chopper as the loyal saboteur, mechanic, watch guard and pest controller. He wears many hats for just one droid and he does it all with sarcasm and gruffness. Also in my personal opinion…he knows who Yoda is and probably met him once or twice. Anyone who served in the Clone Wars knows who Yoda is, so when talk of going to Lothal and reconnecting with Yoda was a goal, I’m sure he was very eager to help.

I Don’t Dream At All. Chapter 1

May have gotten some of the details/lines wrong.
References to David’s assault on Daniels, TW for that.
Anyway, my addition to the Walter x Daniels collection! I Hope you enjoy!

“Is that how it’s done?” his voice is devoid of any warmth, colored by malice and sickening curiosity. His body pressed down onto hers as he whispered the words too softly, too gently to her face.

Daniels strained against him, not wanting what was being forced onto her at all, but knowing it was fruitless. David was much too strong. The harsh power in his limbs pressing into her–


–feels trapped. pounding against the glass, looking into the green eyes of her captor. The hiss of the glass door sealing shut–


She should have seen it. It’s the eyes. Walter’s were always more blue, and they were kind.

Daniels begins feeling claustrophobic immediately, struggling against the oncoming sluggishness of the pharmaceuticals in the stasis pod. David’s depraved smiling face looming above her. Promising nothing but anguish.


“Look out!” She is pushed to the ground as Walter jumps in front of her blocking the oncoming attack. Daniels’ heart is beating too fast. Her breath coming in ragged shallow bursts.

Hands are touching her face.

David’s hands. She can’t breath. She can’t move. She lashes out and catches something in her hand, but suddenly she’s back on that slab of rock, beneath David, struggling to move away from his mouth as he takes from her what he wants.

“Captain Branson, open your eyes.”

This scene is unfamiliar. She catches a glimpse of the creature–pale. white. splayed open on the table of a cold, stony room. Its skin stretched, pinned to the table, entrails spilling out. But, she can still hear a beating heart. A pained and desperate breath coming from that direction.

Daniels finds herself moving closer to the table. The ragged breaths louder than ever. Her throat and chest aching, but not understanding why.

“Walter. What’s going on here?”

Tennessee is at the mouth of Daniels’ tent peering in, flashlight in hand and worry evident on his face.

Walter has the fingers of his right hand on Daniels’ wrist. “Her heart rate is currently 170.”

“Jesus Christ.” Tennessee steps fully into the tent, placing his flashlight down and kneeling next to Walter. “What, I mean…what can we do? Should we wake her up?”

“I have been trying to gently coax her awake, but my attempts appear futile.” He motions to his left arm, showing Tennessee just how tightly she is gripping his new hand. Her nails biting into his synthetic flesh hard enough to break it. “I have turned off the nerve receptors in that hand for now.”

The Covenant had a small stock of android parts for repairs Walter would have needed to make to himself during the voyage to Origae-6. With Daniels’ mechanical help, Walter was able to replace his missing hand. Tennessee didn’t know shit about mechanics, but watching Daniels and Walter interact was one of his favorite pastimes.

Approaching the stone table, the shape of the creature morphs before Daniels’ eyes. Her heart stops and she feels her blood run cold.

“I am detecting heart palpitations.” Walter’s focus moves back to Dani’s face immediately. “Her nightmares have yet to be this severe. I was hoping that this would pass without interference, as it is unwise to suddenly wake someone from a nightmare. However, it seems the more time spent asleep, the deeper she is delving into whatever trauma this nightmare is making her relive.” Walter reaches out with his free hand to firmly grip Daniels’ shoulder, leans his face closer to hers and says her name loudly and forcefully.

Tennessee doesn’t have much time to process this information as a heart-stopping scream erupts from Daniels in front of them and she sits bolt upright. Eyes open, red from tears, and wild, they erratically move around the tent.

Daniels still feels trapped. Her right hand feels crushed. Immobilized. She remembers pounding on the glass of her stasis pod looking into the face of the Devil. Everything feels and sounds chaotic. The voices around her a mad jumble.

“Dani. Jesus shit, are you alright?” at the same time, “Daniels please focus on your breathing.”

The hand on her shoulder a confining pressure, her right hand trapped in something, all the muscles in her body are taut and her breathing is rapidly getting worse.

She needs out.

“Daniels, I need to you focus on the sound of my voice.” Dani’s eyes snap to Walter. There must have been something in her eyes that told Walter that even though she was looking at him, she wasn’t seeing him, because at that moment, Tennessee could see Walter very quickly adjust his stance to face Daniels fully as her eyes went even more wild and she lunged toward him, her left hand grabbing at his neck and jaw and her right hand digging even deeper into his new hand, twisting and gouging out his flesh. Walter let her weight knock him over. His right hand having slid down to her left, holding it in place at his neck.

“Let go of me!” Dani screamed into Walter’s face. “You monster!” She tried to rear her left hand back to attack, but found it trapped in place by his. She snarled and twisted Walter’s left hand back to an unnatural angle.

Tennessee hearing a mechanical pop in the android’s wrist, sprung to action. He reaches toward Dani, only to be stopped in his tracks when Walter fixes his eyes on him. Walter’s message, though unspoken, is loud and clear, Please do not interfere yet, for your own safety.

“Daniels,” Walter’s right thumb begins gently stroking Daniels’ hand at his neck. “I am Walter. You were dreaming. David has been decommissioned and you are safe.”

“Fuck you!” Daniels’ spat back into his face. How dare he. How dare he take everything from them, from her. How dare he masquerade around with Walter’s face. Kind Walter. Her tears of grief and rage flow down her face. She follows a drop that lands in the corner of David’s eye

David’s…blue eye. She falters.

The image in front of Daniels’ eyes begins to rapidly shift–the android pinned below her changing from cruel to innocent and back again. Her breath stops and her vision begins to blacken around the edges as her muscles begin to shake.

Feeling her strength waning, she is no longer clawing at his neck with her left hand, though her right still has his left in a death lock. That’s alright, Walter thinks to himself, as he slowly moves his hand from hers around his neck, to slide up to her elbow and brace it there so she won’t fall over.

There’s a long tense pause in the tent, where all that can be heard is harsh breathing, and then…

“..Walter?” It comes out heartbreakingly unsure.

Tennessee is familiar with nightmares. He’s had his share since they’ve touched down on Origae-6. He understands what PTSD can do to a person better than anyone, and if they were back on Earth, between him and Daniels, they’d be any psychoanalyst’s wet dream.

Tennessee shifts forward cautiously, hands raised in front of him, “Hey, Dani…” Daniels lifts her face away from the pinned android and looks in Tennessee’s direction. “We only found one spare hand part for Walter on the Covenant,” nodding his head down to where her right hand has mangled Walter’s left. “Now, I know how long it took y’all to put that hand on him, I would hate to see that good work get fucked up so fast.”

Daniels looked quickly down to where her hand was clenched tightly around the hand of the android beneath her. Her fingers coated in the synthetic’s white blood and sees it dripping to the ground, the wrist at an extreme angle, with some carbon-fiber poking out where bones would be if who was beneath her was human. The back of the hand has deep gouge marks on it and she can feel the colloid material under her fingernails, three of the fingers on the hand appear broken.

Her breath leaving her body in irregular pants, she continues to stare at her hand grotesquely entwined with his.

Walter, attentive as always, notices a shift in Daniels’ demeanor.

She seems to be coming around to herself, he thinks, “I have lost this hand before for you. I am unafraid to lose it again, if I must.” is all he says, looking up into her face from his supine position underneath her.

Her eyes move to his again. “Walter.” this time certain. There she is.

All of a sudden the fight drains out of her and she heaves a couple broken sobs. The proverbial floodgates now open, Daniels removes her hand from around Walter’s neck and tries to disentangle her hand from his. It’s hard though, she can barely see through her tears and her hand muscles are clenched so tightly it feels as though they are stuck that way.

She is sobbing uncontrollably, the muscles in her whole body spasming with each convulsive gasp. Daniels’ is trying to speak past her tears but all Tennessee and Walter can make out is variations of, “I’m so sorry,” and “Fuck, I am so sorry.” sometimes interspersed with Walter’s name.

Daniels moves back, though not completely off of Walter, giving him room to sit up. His right arm moving from her elbow to her waist. His hand coming up to rest against her ribcage.

“Daniels. I need you to breathe in on four and out on eight.” Walter begins counting, his hand at her waist giving her something to focus on to regulate her breathing. “Good. 1…2…3…4…” Daniels pulls in a shakey breath and releases it on his count of eight. Tennessee having moved forward works on dislodging her hand from Walter’s, wiping both their hands down as best he can, and despite his inexperience begins inspecting the structural damage to Walter’s hand.

Fuck Weyland-Yutani. Fuck the Company. is all Tennessee can think at the moment as Walter works to calm Daniels down. She is all but cradled in the android’s lap, her face now buried at his neck. The same spot she had been gripping him by earlier.

Tennessee looks up and makes eye-contact with Walter. We’ll be fine, thank you for your assistance, is written all over Walter’s face. Another silent message Tennessee picks up on easily.

He gives a nod to his robot-pal and quietly leaves them, trusting Walter to deal with the aftermath. Stopping in front of his own tent, not too far away from theirs, he looks up at the sky–the foreign stars of this new system winking down at him. Tennessee takes in a deep shuddering breath as all that they have lost to get to where they are flashes before his eyes and, raising his middle finger to the night sky, picking out one especially bright cluster of stars, he softly says, “Fuck. you.”

Jared answering a question about healthy coping mechanisms:

[I just watched this panel and I thought it was important to type up Jared’s response to a question a fan had.]

In response to the question: “Have you guys ever had, like, some kind of unhealthy coping mechanisms and how did you get out of it?”

Jared: “That’s a huge, that’s a huge, huge, huge, wildly important question. And very, very, very, very near and dear to me and my heart and my family and my soul. Unhealthy coping mechanisms are…. very unhealthy.”

Jensen: “We established that.”

Jared: “Yeah. I consulted and still consult a professional—a doctor— about how to cope more properly with pain and sadness and depression and with anxiety. It gets really scary sometimes. The world’s a scary— it can be a scary place. Even from where I stand, you know? And I’m a six foot four white dude who has [a beard], you know? Like, I get— and I get pretty scared sometimes, and I get pretty worried. And sometimes my wife isn’t there to tell me it’s alright, sometimes [my boys] aren’t there to tell me it’s alright, sometimes my friends aren’t there to tell me it’s alright, and I, I choose to listen to the bad instead of the good. So I went to a professional and am proud of it.
I’m certainly not qualified to give proper advice, but to say— I hope this doesn’t sound like a cop-out—but to say, if I want to learn how to be a kickboxer, I would go to a kickboxing professional. If I want to learn how to be a nutritionist, I would go to a nutritionist. It I want to know how to be a surgeon, I would go to medical school. I wanted to learn how to take care of my mental health, so I went to a mental health professional. And I’m proud of it.
And I truly wish that for everybody. I think there’s a weird stigma right now where if you go like, ‘hey,’ if you say, ‘I’ve got cancer, so I went to a doctor.’ People are like, ‘Well, yeah!’ But if you say like, ‘Hey, man, I’ve got some wild anxiety.’ They’re like, ‘Oh! Well, just relax.’ You know? Which doesn’t make sense. I think we’re moving in the right direction as a society. But there was something going on in my head that I wasn’t controlling, that is not dead today, you know? So I go to— I go to a doctor, you know? Because something’s going on and I just want to get answers. There’s not— there’s no shame. There’s no like, ‘Oh, you know I talked to somebody about I’m feelings sad.’ ‘What?! Why are you sad, you know? You’re rich!’ or whatever, you know what I mean? F*** that. F*** that.
So I say to everybody that one of my greatest blessings in life was realizing before it was too late that I wanted to figure out what was going on in my head. So that’s my answer.”


As someone with a tiny bit of archery experience i find the range of bow skill interesting at Achievement Hunter. These photos are all from the mail-opening stream they did recently.

Ryan has pretty damn good form, which is odd considering I don’t think he’s done much archery in videos before. I’m insanely curious about whether or not he has done serious archery before.

Jeremy seems to understand some of the mechanics? Perhaps from just watching Ryan. His elbow was waaay the fuck out in space though.

Michael…is trying so hard. His draw arm is so tense. Micoo boy please put the bow down before you hurt yourself.