The Blakes are both nerds, Lincoln is too pure, Monty has to deal with Octavia & Lincoln’s awkwardness, Raven goes to the infirmary a little too often, Clarke & Lexa are gross in every universes, and the Gryffindor’s 7th year class might be the worst that Hogwarts has ever seen.
Other students existing in this AU: Maya, Murphy, Emori. Edit: cute tiny second year Aden.
Tell me a lame joke/bad pickup line, please! ([whispers] Or make a character tell them to another)
Holy mother of god, SHE’S ALIVE! After months in the wilderness (my room) without a shred of fic writing motivation I return with a ridiculous offering. Sorry for the long wait.
A few things you should all know about this fic: 1. It’s really, really stupid. 2. It’s set some vague time post-series, but the details don’t really matter. 3. I’ve never been to North Africa OR the Caribbean, so if I’m wrong about what either place is like then blame google or just assume Silver’s a lying turd. 4. Yes, this is my sense of humour in a nutshell. And 5. I know I’m not as funny as I like to think I am. Fair warning.
“Did I ever tell you about the
time I stumbled upon a very strange marketplace when I was lost in the desert
Silver adjusted his crutch where
it stood propped against the arm of his chair and then lounged backwards, his
leg outstretched beneath the table and his half full mug of ale resting against
his stomach, rising and falling slowly with his breathing.
“No,” Flint said, pulling his
gaze away from where it was roving across the faces of the less than respectable
clientele of the tavern and settling it instead on Silver. “Was that before or
“Oh, before. Long before,” Silver
His eyes were bright and
mischievous, and Flint knew that there would be no escaping whatever manner of tale
it was that he was about to recount, no doubt in wildly vivid detail and baring
only a passing resemblance to the truth. Not that Flint wanted to escape the
storytelling. The rumbling roll of Silver’s voice always washed over him like a
lulling tide, familiar and settling and warm. Flint could almost taste the salt
on his lips again whenever Silver spoke.
Okay, now the big one because I AM LIVING AND DYING RIGHT NOW for captainharrie‘s amazing Franmaya Fake Dating plot.
And how do you get Franziska going? By giving her either a goal to work towards or someone to compete with.
So Maya’s main plan for success around Operation: Get Pearl to Leave Me and Nick (But Mostly Me) The Hell Alone With The Lovey-Dovey Stuff revolves around some big formal lawyer-event thing that everyone will be at so this is PRIME REASON for fake date, but obviously there must be MINOR fake dates first before the big one because GOTTA MAKE THIS CONVINCING AM I RIGHT? (also fuck it, it’s like lawyer prom. What? You’re telling me that lawyers don’t have proms? WE’RE DOING FAKE DATING HERE, I WILL MAKE THIS AS FANFIC AS I WANT)
So Franzy is a bit bewildered by all this for a while as she’s going along with it because she doesn’t quite understand the purpose for this fake dating? But she has a certain fondness for the odd spirit medium girl, she’s less tedious than most people she knows, so fine she’ll do this. But then the ~event~ is coming up and Maya mentions she has no idea what she’ll wear, she doesn’t think medium’s robes are going to cut it this time and Franzy SEIZES on this and SUDDEN SHOPPING MONTAGE HAPPENS because if you are going to be seen on Fraziska von Karma’s arm you are going to look YOUR BEST POSSIBLE SELF. So there are LOTS of dressing room shenanigans where Maya’s mostly like “I don’t know, this could be cute?” and Franzy goes “Cute? Why you you wish to settle for merely cute? You want to be DEVASTATING. And that color is not doing anything for your eyes, TRY THIS INSTEAD.” And Franzy is QUEEN OF HAGGLING and demands the top notch customer service for Maya at each store and Maya is suddenly really enjoying all this attention.
So then THE EVENT happens. Franzy and Maya show up looking GORGEOUS, THE BOTH OF THEM, but Franziska’s gone back to being a bit off-course without a concrete goal to work towards again. (“Okay the small child Fey saw us together. Now what?” “Now just relax and let’s have fun!” “????”)
Until she sees THEM.
And who is it off to the side together, CLEARLY on a date, but her foolish little brother and even more foolish Phoenix Wright?
(they’re not on a date officially because they’re still being THEM at this point. Miles is off to the side because he kind of hates these big social gatherings but is required to be there. Phoenix made a beeline for Miles immediately upon entering and hasn’t left him alone since. Miles will tell him to bother someone else … you know … eventually … sometime … maybe …)
And this activates something inside Franziska because HOW DARE Miles Edgeworth be on a date HERE with all the lawyers in Japanifornia able to see, and PHOENIX WRIGHT no less, people already spend too much time talking about them and their ~weird court tension~ SHE WILL NOT BE UPSTAGED, I mean does Miles Edgeworth even know HOW TO DATE? SHE WILL WIN. SHE WILL SHOW EVERYONE HOW TO BE THE PERFECT DATE.
So for the rest of the night Maya does not need to get any of her own food or drinks, Franzy gets them all for her. She compliments Maya constantly in front of other people. Leads her around like some goddamn CHIVALRY going on here. And then music happens (BECAUSE SHUT UP, LAWYER PROM) and MAYA FEY, WE WILL CONQUER THE DANCE FLOOR, I HAVE MASTERED TEN DIFFERENT STYLES OF DANCE and everyone is in awe of the great Franziska von Karma and her ~mysterious lover~ and “Oh no” thinks Maya. “This is happening for real now. This is real. Shit. This wasn’t the plan.”
And Franziska goes up to Miles and says “And THAT is how you take someone on a date,” and Miles is like “… okay …” “I HAVE WON AGAIN, MILES EDGEWORTH.” “… I wasn’t aware we were competing …” “IT WAS TOO EASY, YOU NEED TO STEP UP YOUR GAME WITH PHOENIX WRIGHT” and then he chokes on his wine.
In the usual ones, he’s cold. He’s disgusted. He can’t look at you the same way again. Sometimes he stops talking to you. Other times he doesn’t, but every word out of his mouth is a knife, driving deep. You’re not friends anymore. You know you’ve ruined it because you couldn’t keep your fucking mouth shut.
In the worst ones, you kiss him.
A series of interrelated canon-compliant snippets chronicling Ronan’s struggle with his feelings post-The Dream Thieves and onwards. [ao3]
There were any number of places you could find Steve Harrington after school on a Friday afternoon. Swim practice was most likely, but he’d also become a fixture at the Hawkins Library, seated next to his girlfriend, passing her notes while she studied. When the pair weren’t there, noses buried in books and magazines, they were almost always found with Jonathan Byers, at the movie theatre, grabbing milkshakes, sprawled out across the Byers’s living room.
But on this particularly Friday, Steve wasn’t in any of those places. Rolling his thumbs anxiously, he trod through the soggy ground of the cemetery behind the old Catholic church at the southern edge of town. As he crossed the grass, careful to keep to the well-worn path, Steve wondered if he should have brought flowers or some other token to leave behind. He almost felt improper, sneaker-clad and empty-armed as he was.
Still, he pressed on. There was no point in turning back and he had been meaning to do this for a while.
Chewing his gum tensely, all flavour practically gone, Steve turned a tight corner and came across a comparatively fresh grave—the name engraved on its marker the only one amongst the many that he recognized or had any connection to.
“Hey Barb,” he mumbled, crouching low, running his tongue over his teeth as he gathered his thoughts. “Just thought I’d come say hi.”
Steve paused, biting into his lip. He felt heat pressing at the corners of his eyes, but resisted the feeling.
“I’m, uh, I wanted to say sorry too,” he continued, thumbing his nose, “I should have been more careful, you know? I should have made sure you were s—safe.”
His voice cracked and abruptly he got to his feet. He’d never handled death well, locking himself in his bedroom for his grandmother’s funeral and refusing to shake anyone’s hand at his uncle’s.
Steve swallowed. “I’ll take care of Nancy. I promise. I’m going to look after her, for both of us.”
And with the wind whipping at his cheeks, Steve turned to go, squaring his shoulders. Next time, he thought, next time he’d bring flowers.
“Jesus, Sammy,” says Dean, “did that shrink in the wash?” It wouldn’t be the first time. Laundromats are always a slightly unstable quantity. Dean’s lost all kinds of beloved clothing over the years. (The Stanford T-shirt Sam mailed him during his first semester at college. A vintage Iron Maiden tour T-shirt he’d picked up for cents at a Goodwill in Philly. Shreds of pink satin, six months after Rhonda Hurley, pulled and pocketed surreptitious from a malfunctioning machine outside Cleveland.)
Sam looks down at his chest, at the logo straining tight across the taut-pulled fabric. “No-oo?” he says. Dean raises an eyebrow.
Two patches of pink blossom rosy over Sam’s cheekbones. “I went shopping,” he says, “the other weekend. In Kansas City. When I went to see that film.”
“Yeah,” says Dean, carefully neutral.
“Well,” says Sam. “The sales assistant. Uh. I did think it was a little tight but.” He rubs a hand over the back of his neck. The movement tugs the T-shirt even tighter, emphasising the curved lines of Sam’s pecs, the rounded swell of his bicep. “Threw it in half-price,” he mumbles. “Said it would be a shame.”
Dean’s amused, mostly. Sammy’s taste in clothes is… idiosyncratic. He can’t imagine his brother in the kind of boutique that might sell him something like this. He tries to picture her, the salesgirl, heart-eyed over this big scruffy scarecrow. She was probably tiny, tiny and glamorous and young.
“Lady-killer,” he says.
Sam turns pinker, looks up to meet Dean’s eye. Aw, Sammy, Dean wants to say. He doesn’t quite understand how Sam can still be so clueless around women, so surprised every time he gets hit on. And it doesn’t sound like this chick was trying too hard to be subtle. Half-price.
Then, “Who says it was a lady?” Sam says, and Dean’s world tilts a little bit sideways. The tiny blonde saleswoman in his head dissolves, resolving into a hard-bodied, chisel-chinned dude, a guy looking Sam up and down as he twists in the mirror. This isn’t. Dean doesn’t.
He blinks at his brother, open-mouthed, but Sam’s already shrugging, looking away. “Yeah, I don’t know. You’re right, it’s… I’ll go take it off.”
“Hey, no,” Dean says without thinking, his own cheeks heated now, tingling-flush with an indefinable anxiety. “Leave it, Sam. It looks good.”
Sam wrinkles his nose.
“Really,” Dean says. His eyes skitter again over Sam’s chest, the breadth of his shoulders, the veins that twist down his arms. “You look good,” he says.
I saw your post about you needing fluffy headcanons and I am here to help. When Miles is super sleepy he gets all gross and cuddly and he will deny it to the grave even when given proof.
DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOU’VE DONE
DO YOU??? KNOW??? WHAT YOU’VE DONE????
You can’t just mention “Miles Edgeworth” and “cuddly” to me in the same sentence I am not strong I am weak and terrible
I just can’t
Phoenix and Miles staying up super late working on a case (IDK?? EUROPE?? SEVEN YEAR GAP?? LIKE WHO EVEN LITERALLY GIVES A SHIT ABOUT FITTING THE CANON TIMELINE RIGHT NOW, SLEEPY CUDDLY MILES) like on the couch or something and like Phoenix tries to be good about ~giving Miles his space~ because you know, HIM (I say as if I don’t also have personal space issues for people who aren’t friends but YOU KNOW)
But they’ve been kind of moving closer together on the couch and Miles doesn’t seem bothered and they’re not actually touching really so it’s fine.
And Phoenix notices Miles suddenly loosing steam (and given how Miles works I think he probably goes on for too long and will BURN OUT SUDDENLY when his will gives in so he’ll go from like 0 to mega-tired seemingly instantly), and he’s starting to feel sleepy himself so he says “I think it’s time we wrap things up” and he suspects NOTHING so Phoenix kind of stretches him arms over his head and yawns really deeply
and when he opens his eyes, Miles is all but asleep. ON HIM.
In that opening Miles somehow managed to get right all up on Phoenix, arms around his waist and his head on his chest and nuzzling he’s fucking nuzzling his head into Phoenix’s chest
And Phoenix is wide awake again and he can’t even enjoy it at first because for the first fifteen minutes so he is SO CONFUSED like HOW IS THIS HAPPENING. MILES EDGEWORTH IS FUCKING NUZZLING INTO HIS CHEST. IS THIS A TRICK? A TRAP? IS HE GETTING PUNKED RIGHT NOW? It’s only after fifteen minutes of panic that he realizes Miles lacks what he would call a “sense of humor” so NOPE, THIS IS TOTALLY LEGIT.
A part of him seriously considered grabbing his phone for PHOTO EVIDENCE because Phoenix of course isn’t above that, but it’s too far away and HE CAN’T!! HE CAN’T MOVE!! HE CANNOT POSSIBLY WAKE MILES AND ALLOW THIS TO STOP!!
So he throws one arm around Miles and doesn’t give a shit about how this is a bad position he’s going to sleep like this and feels wonderful.
And of course Phoenix wakes up second because it’s him, so he’s sprawled out on the couch ALONE and Miles walks in already showered and dressed and goes “Wright please tell me you weren’t planning on wasting the entire day” and Phoenix is a bit bewildered (did he dream it? NO HE DID NOT) and gets up and says “It was nice last night.” “What was?” “You know the cuddling.” “I have no idea what you are talking about.” “Come on, it was cute! Look, I have a stain on my shirt from when you drooled on me!” “Nothing I ever do is ‘cute’ and that’s probably your own drool, you’re a slob.”
HE’LL NEVER GET HIM TO ADMIT IT, but Phoenix gets over that need because HE HAS LEARNED SOMETHING VERY IMPORTANT ABOUT TIRED EDGEWORTH ON THIS DAY.
Urban fantasy/human(ish) AU Eng/f!Port. Saying much more for this is a spoiler, but it’s pretty much safe-for-work fluff. Gloria is f!Portugal.
Gloria had had her fortune read once, when she was nineteen, home from university for the summer and burnt by the hot sun and her relatives’ expectations for her future. Tarot.
It’d been Toni’s fault that the teller had read the cards looking for a prediction of Gloria’s love life; he’d been teasing her about their grandmother asking her before when she was going to bring
a nice boy
home. So Antonio had draped himself out over Gloria’s shoulders like an unwelcome blanket, her in a tank-top, him naked from the waist up, their skin sticking together with summer sweat, and asked the tarot-reader what the cards had to say about Gloria and
Tarot cards are not terribly direct things, building upon information already known to grasp at answers. To Gloria, they had just been pictures, but the fortune-teller had told their stories for Gloria and Antonio to hear. Major arcana cards, cups, many cups. Ace of cups. Ten of cups. Knight of cups. The Lovers. Gloria forgets the details, but the reader tells her that her future is full of love, with a heartfelt suitor, and tied to the element of water. Perhaps she’ll love a sailor.
TUMBLR NEEDS MORE JURI/WAKABA, AND I HAVE TAKEN THIS DUTY ONTO MYSELF.
Imagine a post-series Ohtori.
Imagine Wakaba wandering around, in search of something, something that’s missing but she can’t put her finger on what it is. She goes to the kendo practice, recalling that she used to enjoy it, but it no longer moves her. So she finds the fencing team practicing, she always thought that Miki Kaoru was pretty impressive after all. But now she’s drawn to Juri Arisugawa. Her form, her speed, her bearing, how she carries herself is almost … princely. Wakaba thought she didn’t believe in princes anymore, but there is something captivating about this assured upperclassman.
Imagine Juri opening her locker and she finds something there she hasn’t seen in a long time: a love letter. Juri hasn’t found love letters to be special for a long time. She received dozens in middle school and she never cared to respond. But it’s been so long since she’s gotten any, people find her so scary and remote now, that she’s almost … impressed with whoever sent it. She decides to open it and the script looks … feminine? Writing of her grace on the fencing strip, and imagining she must be just as graceful on the dance floor … what girl could have sent this?
Imagine Shiori noticing the brown-haired girl with the little ponytail that now comes to every fencing practice. Fangirls aren’t anything new, but usually they get bored after a while and drift over to other clubs. But this one is different. Not only has she stayed, but she cheers so loudly throughout that she’s almost the official fencing team cheerleader. Shiori leaves after one practice and the brown-haired girl approaches her, introduces herself as Wakaba Shinohara. Shiori is instantly charmed by this cheerful underclassman that they talk for a while before Wakaba remembers what she came here for: “You’re good friends with Arisugawa-senpai, right?” Shiori is a bit uncertain how to answer at first, her and Juri are still working on … how things are now, but at this beaming young face she says, “Juri and I have known each other for a while, so I guess we are close.” Wakaba beams brighter and says that Shiori-senpai must know what Juri’s favorite foods are.
Imagine Juri eating alone in the cafeteria (Miki is giving piano lessons today), which has suited her just fine for a while. Then she notices something brown out of the corner of her eye: that girl who’s always at fencing practice. And she’s holding a lunchbox. “I’m sorry, Arisugawa-senpai, I hoped to find you before you ordered food, but I’d be so honored if you ate this!” She bows and holds the lunchbox out. Juri is speechless, taking the box, and before she thinks to ask the girl’s name, she’s gone. Juri opens the lunchbox and finds an adorable arrangement of some of her favorite foods. Could this be … the love letter’s author?
Imagine Juri looking at the fencing club’s cheerleader as the underclassmen have a bout. Shiori comes up and says “She just started the first year of high school you know, perhaps it’s not too late to recruit her to the team proper.” Juri frowns. “Do you know this girl?” Shiori smiles. “Wakaba Shinohara. We’ve talked a few times. She’s a very sweet girl. But I think she’d be even happier talking to you, what with that lunchbox and the letter and all.” Juri detects not a hint of jealousy. Is Shiori … giving her blessing?
Imagine Wakaba finally getting the nerve to ask Juri how she liked the lunch. Juri says she’s impressed with her great cooking, but Wakaba says it’s nothing special, anyone could do that really. Juri doesn’t agree, but keeps it to herself. She asks Wakaba why she’s always at the fencing club. “It’s just nice to watch people who are so talented. Especially people … like you Arisugawa-senpai.” Wakaba blushes. Juri isn’t sure why, but she decides to ask if Wakaba has ever been bowling.
Imagine Wakaba going to Juri’s room. They’ve been out bowling a few times, and Wakaba still can’t get the hang of it, but it’s been so fun. But she hasn’t seen Juri around the campus for a few days. Juri told her where she lives, but she hasn’t exactly given her permission to stop by unannounced. Perhaps she’ll be angry with her, but Wakaba is worried. She knocks on the door and waits a long time. Finally, Juri in a robe with her hair down answers the door. Wakaba is surprised, but somehow Juri looks as beautiful and as princely as ever, even like this. Except for that Juri won’t look her straight in the eyes. Wakaba asks if everything’s okay. Again, the usually bright and bubbly girl shows a determined patience as she waits a long time for Juri’s answer. “Sometimes … sometimes I’m just not okay. I don’t know why. Sometimes I just don’t want other people to see me … when I don’t like myself.” Juri closes her eyes. Why did she say that? She’s never said so much to even Miki about her … moods. Wakaba admires a strong and beautiful prince, not the pathetic creature before her now. Surely she’ll leave. But something stirs in Wakaba. Something from a dream perhaps … surely not a memory. Wakaba rises on her tiptoes, takes Juri’s shoulders, and softly kisses her on the forehead. Juri opens her eyes and looks down at the shining younger girl. “That’s okay.” She smiles. “I like you. If you want to be alone that’s okay. But when you don’t like yourself, know that I like you.”
Imagine a year later. It’s been a year, right? It must be. Juri only became so close with Wakaba in her third year of high school. So it must have been a year, no matter how long it’s actually felt. It just makes sense.
After the graduation ceremony, Juri meets Wakaba at the rose-laid archway that delineates where Ohtori ends and the rest of the world begins. Wakaba is holding a bouquet of orange roses. And there’s something a bit different about her today. “You’re wearing your hair down now.” That shining smile again. “Well … I want to try growing it out a bit more. I haven’t in a long time. I never thought I was pretty enough to do that.” Juri smiles now. “You know how I disagree with that assertion.” Wakaba just laughs and looks away. “Anyway, I wish I could come up with a better graduation present. The flowers won’t last. I should’ve tried to find something more permanent.” Juri takes the bouquet. “But they are so beautiful, Wakaba. You can give me a new bouquet the next time we meet after you’ve graduated.” Wakaba is startled, they have never spoken of “after graduation” before. Wakaba had assumed that what they shared would be beautiful but brief, like these roses, not surviving outside of the comforting garden of school. “Are you sure, Juri? You have so much ahead of you Juri. You can go anywhere in the world, where ever you want. I’m just … me.” Juri shakes her head. She knows Wakaba has more time here. Until she makes peace with this, Wakaba must stay, she understands. But someday … Juri bends down and kisses her forehead and says, “You know what they say. Believe in miracles …”
During the day, they are Marinette and Adrien, classmates and maybe even friends — maybe even more, when they don’t care to hide the teasing banter, the affectionate looks. Daytime means stolen glances, fingertips barely touching, and smiles with secrets only the other understands.
As Ladybug and Chat Noir, their evenings hold a sense of freedom they’re deprived of during the day. There are no classmates to hide from on the rooftops of Paris, no nosy best friends to avoid.
He is free. She sees it in his lively expressions and his restless energy — a result of repressing it every day behind a mask he can’t remove; she sees it in how openly he loves her, the fear of getting caught insignificant because, well, everyone already knows how Chat Noir feels about Ladybug.
She doesn’t have the same freedom. Not as Ladybug, not while there are akumas to be fought and people to be saved. Not when her love can be used against her.
No, her freedom comes at night, in the form of a black cat slinking through the hatch in her ceiling. Her freedom is the sharing of covers as they lie beside each other, conversations whispered in the dark, and smiles pressed against pillows — things that started the first night he ever came to her, to Marinette, as Chat Noir.
(“Why are you in my bed?”
“Why are you not?”)
Now, when she curls up against him, ear pressed against his heartbeat, she’s not quite Marinette but not quite Ladybug either. Just as he isn’t completely Chat Noir or Adrien. Because at night, when it’s only the two of them lying awake in her bed, all that matters is the whispered I love you’s before they, too, fall asleep with the city.
NO. SERIOUSLY NO. If it was the game designers’ intention for Will to look actually frightening instead of making the characters look weird when they say he looks frightening then MISSION FAILED. A LOT. Will Powers is a big cuddly teddy bear, he is adorable and not scary-looking SOMEBODY LOVE WILL POWERS AND NOT STICK HIM IN MASKS ALWAYS, HE IS A SWEETIE.
And then there’s THIS:
48:If Apollo got absolutely stoned out of his gourd who’s the first person he would call?
I DID NOT EVEN SEE THIS QUESTION WHEN I REBLOGGED IT AND I AM LAUGHING.
Oh dear lord. So many possibilities. All even more hilarious than the last. I think we need to truly appreciate the possibilities here. (also keep in mind I have never been high, only drunk, so take my opinions on this with a grain of salt)
Okay, as funny as it would be, he’s is NOT calling Phoenix (protest all you like Apollo, you still think he is SENPAI and YOU DO NOT WANT TO DISAPPOINT SENPAI). I feel like why/however Apollo got stoned in the first place, he would end up reacting much like Linsday Weir in that one episode of “Freaks and Geeks” which is that he somehow goes immediately from “this is kind of nice” to “ALL-CONSUMING PARANOIA THAT SOMETHING IS WRONG.” This leads him to calling … Ema. Ema is the first person he calls. What? She knows all about weird and creepy science shit and wayyyy to much about murder, so obviously she must know about drugs too, right? So he calls Ema and she’s all like “What? How dare you ever use this number that I gave you?” And he’s just yelling and freaking out and says “WHAT DO YOU KNOW ABOUT POT?!?!?!” And Ema’s in a particularly bad mood right now and can’t be arsed to calm down Mr. Chords of Steel over here so she just says “I don’t know, I’m not an expert in recreational drugs, why don’t you call your boyfriend Mr. Glimmerous Diva?”
And Apollo’s too far gone at this point to even insist that Klavier’s not his boyfriend, he takes this jibe ENTIRELY TOO LITERALLY and calls up Klavier next. Except then he immediately remembers that despite being a ROCK STAR, Klavier is also A TOTAL SQUARE LAWYER NERD, and tries REALLY REALLY HARD to play it cool on the phone and tries (and FAILS) to casually go “oh by the way, are you familiar with the side-effects of marijuana? Just you know … curious.” And Klavier thinks its for a case he’s working on and immediately goes from Flirt Mode to Work Mode and goes “HERR FOREHEAD, ARE YOU AWARE OF ANY ILLEGAL DRUG ACTIVITY HAPPENING, LET ME KNOW AND I WILL NOTIFY MY DETECTIVES RIGHT AWAY” so Apollo freaks the hell out and just hangs up.
Poor Apollo is full-blown wigging out now. Why did he decide to do this? Why did he ever decide to get high? (because he has a SHITTY STRESSFUL LIFE and even this one moment of relaxation has turned into a COMPLETE DISASTER FOR HIM). He has SINGLE-HANDEDLY RUINED HIS LIFE with the reefer and now he’s probably going to turn into some kind of POT-ZOMBIE like he vaguely remembers from anti-drug PSAs in his youth. HE NEEDS SOMEONE TO HELP RIGHT NOW.
Then he remembers! Phoenix once gave him a number. He never said whose number it was, he only said it was to be used “when he absolutely needed it.” If Apollo was ever in some kind of dire situation where Phoenix was unable to help for whatever reason, he should call this number. “Believe me, he will be discreet and if you need it he will do everything and anything in his considerable power to help you out. I trust this man with my life.”
Apollo calls the number and immediately upon hearing the “Hello?” does not even pause just yells out “MY NAME IS APOLLO JUSTICE AND I NEED HELP RIGHT NOW BECAUSE I THINK THIS POT IS KILLING ME.”
He’s called Edgeworth.
The next day Phoenix is a bit confused as to why Apollo, not exactly the loosest guy in the first place, is jumping all over the place and insists “I’M FINE!!!” and then he gets a call from Miles who tells him “Remember when I said you could give out my number to your proteges? I am revoking that privilege right now.”
I LOVE THIS FIC. Just read it because there’s something in it that I can’t reference without ruining its effect and it’s honestly so fun to read that way. Just know Steve is getting married and Sam and Bucky are in a fight for being the best man.
Uh, I’ve promo’d this fic enough times that it’s probably annoying but I love it because Sam gets kidnapped and Bucky raises hell and I can’t wait to finish the accompany piece where you get to see just how much hell Bucky raises.
Ah yes… a classic. I adore the way this fic is written and the turns it takes and the fucking zine that’s in it that makes everything so much more personal. Like - if you’re looking for something real that tackles both Sam and Bucky’s demons (in human format) then this will be a wonderful read for you.
Confession time, this has been on my to read list for a while but because I am 1. busy and 2. my focus is nonexistent, I have yet to find the time to read it. BUT, I was around for the latter half of its creation and it’s action-packed, tense, and there’s a couple questions that keep you on the edge of your seat. SO! read it! Don’t be like me lmao.
Okay so… this is another wedding fic affectionately referred to as “Automatic Touch of Food.” This is also a big jump in word count from the previous ones lmao. No in between. Anyway, if you like break up/get back together visceral emotion shit then read away. This is actually the last part of a series, but you could read it as a stand alone. (But why would you when there’s a bunch of cool fic before it too).
HEY WOW, so uh, this is another one where I’m just gonna tell you to read it. Its technically OT3 and SamSteve in the beginning, but it transitions into a SamSteve/SamBucky amalgam and watching all that grow while hearing the complaints and worries and fears of all sides is just a wonderful touch so, hell yeah read it.
a tiny tiny Day of the Dead-ish inspired fic. unedited. tell me what you think?
He’s nervous about the flowers. But he’s always nervous about the flowers.
It’s the fourth year he’s found himself here, in the middle of a graveyard with a pouch of various sweets in one hand and a small bouquet of blooms in the other. And each year his fretting over the latter has his heart threatening to beat out of his chest by the time he reaches the tombstone.
It’s common knowledge that the goddess likes flowers, something that’s always struck Robin as a vaguely interesting quirk whenever the thought would cross his mind. The queen of the dead appreciating one of the most striking markers of life; what did she do with all the blooms she was offered, he wondered. In the past few years he’s wondered that more than he’d ever would’ve cared to.
The first year he brought roses, for lack of any other ideas and a desperate need to make an impression. It was a huge bouquet, in an effort to make quantity make up for any possible lack of quality (though the flowers themselves certainly didn’t lack that; they were fresh, stunning red blooms he humbly acquired with a pretty coin rather than his sticky fingers). And make an impression he did, for he was granted an opportunity very few get in their lifetimes – to present the bouquet to the goddess herself.
This year he’s brought marigolds, and the bouquet is barely half the size of the first one, smaller than the one from the year before. Most of the money he and his men had swindled a few days before had gone to the villagers, making sure everyone had enough to spend on preparing for these next few days of honoring their lost loved ones.
Robin’s not the only one with offerings for the goddess Regina.