Request: I feel really dumb and embarrassed for asking this but do you write song fics at all? If you do, would you be willing to write a Steve fic using the song “Photograph” by Ed Sheeran? Maybe set it around Christmas time? It can be smutty or non smutty, it’s completely your pic!
Warnings: Softcore smut, oral sex, face sitting, unprotected sex, ridiculous amounts of fluff
Author’s Note: I wanted to dedicate this one to my good friend @gstaceys, who’s having heart surgery on Wednesday. She’s one of the kindest people I have ever met, and I think she’d be perfect with Steve for that reason. We love you Chrissy, and I hope you like this. ❤
I looooove your fic!!!! It's so great!!!!! Just curious though, why Geneva and not Laoghaire?
I just thought that maybe we could direct our hate towards a different girl this time around lol. And - on a deeper level - I think perhaps Jamie had more in common with Geneva than Laoghaire. The posh english girl served my fic’s plot best, too. Thank you!**
You know, it’s weird. Three weeks ago, a little, half-feral, half-mangy furball of a kitten literally showed up on my doorstep, looking pretty thin and just wanting food. I didn’t think she would stay after she ate, I know how feral animals act around humans.
She only seemed about 4 months at the time. But wouldn’t you know it, she bonded with me. Heavy. After two weeks, I brought her on a short trip with me, staying over at a friends place for a couple nights and she was so well behaved, aside from a couple bathroom accidents.
Now, she even sleeps under the covers with me when she has the chance.
Maybe I’ve spent too much time around animals but it seems like she has a hard time believing I’M real. Every now and again, I’ll catch her staring intensely at me and, when I’m close enough, she’ll reach out with her paws, claws retracted, and touch,almost stroke, my face 2 or 3 times before staring again. She kind of reminds me of this girl I dated a few years back, which isn’t a bad thing.
I’ve raised dogs for 20 years of my life, and then this feral kitten shows up to say ‘it’s you and I now, buddy’.
The Batman: On the anniversary of Robin’s death, the mysterious Red Hood leaves a trail of bloodshed throughout Gotham City. When the trail goes cold, Batman gets word of a dirty bomb being planted in Arkham Asylum by the new foe. In turn of event, Batman is lured into a trap by the Red Hood without a bomb. The Dark Knight is now faced with the task of survival and facing old demons locked inside.
Here’s something I want you to do for me : go to a blog that you appreciate, or someone you see on your dash right now, or someone who you think could use some cheering up. On or off anon, tell them something nice.Spread positivity because we’re a community of writers. Let’s not make drama and hate make us forget that ! (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧
I said I was writing a Gramander AU fic where Graves ran the mafia and here is the first chapter. He *spoilers* hasn’t actually started running it yet but you will see what goes down there next chapter. Hold out for it please, I swear it is all planned and it will be better than what is here, I am just very very tired and the clock has just struck three am as I write, which means this was all written in about 3 hours. Also, can you tell I am not a very practiced writer? Please give constructive criticism if you want. Without further ado, here we go. Chapter one.
Chapters: One, Two, Three
“The inheritance ceremonies for those pure of Magic, whether Dark or Light, is a matter of some dispute amongst those not directly involved in the process. What is known can be summarised thusly; that there are two types of magic to be inherited: the Lordship and the Heirship, that the former outstrips the latter in magnitude and variety of Magics, and that the inheritance thereof is precipitated by th emergence of a certain trait distinctive to each bloodline of import. The training of these magics and the exact skills they impart unto the fortunate few who gain access varies considerably ‘tween Families, and are unknown to those uninitiated in such deep magics as these. Surely the hopes our our community rest upon these few people’s shoulders, those who hold the balance of Law and Order; indeed it is this author’s belief that the restriction of their use is causing the present unrest in our glorious Britannia. Of the strengths of our cousins over the oceans I know not, they ever hold secrets in their hearts…” - Excerpt, “On the protection of the Wizarding Community and Our safe continuance within the Fiefdom of Lady Hecate.” by William Urquhart
The chill of a New York October hit Newt first. As he stepped off the boat, his blue coat wrapped tightly around his thin frame, he instinctively huddled down into himself, one hand hand tightening around his cases handle. Passing through customs was a matter of activating the muggleworthy section of his case. Thankfully, Newt’s magic was not acting up for once in his life, and he got through without any unexpected plant growth or animal attraction. He loved all animals, he really did, but when one got accused by wealthy women of carrying catnip around to entice their doubtless horrifically smothered cats away for the fifth time, one got rather tired of all the attention that a posse of animals following him around brought.
A shudder shook his shoulders. He should find some kind of lodging for the night, before the sun sunk too low and he was out on the streets after dark. Newt ended up wandering the wide boulevards, passing by the imposing Woolworth Building that housed MACUSA to pick up his wand permit from a sour faced man on the sixteenth floor, and in a stroke of good luck, found board from a flyer in the lobby there. By sundown, Newt had moved into a shabby room above a bar. He could taste copper on the back of his tongue as he settled his friends into their homes for the night. His dear creatures seemed to sense his failing body; Pickett whined on his shoulder, gently patting his hair and clinging to his ear and the mooncalves whimpered at him, gently nuzzling their oversized heads against his legs. Even Aziza let him administer the weekly tonic that stopped her breath filling with transmittable disease without much complaining.
It was, much to his surprise, Dougall who was the least worried, which gave Newt some heart. He had just stared at Newt, the blue of his eyes shining with foresight, and then wandered off quite happily. Perhaps that meant some kind of remedy for whatever was wrong with his magic would be found in New York. Once he had settled his baby Occamies in the hatchery, his limbs abruptly seemed to fill with lead and he headed off to bed, exhaustion pulling at his frame. Collapsing into the cot by his shed, his eyes closed into an inexorable sleep so deep he missed the wave of magic that uncoiled from his torso, its passing marked only by the sudden lack of tension in his slumbering body.
Director of Magical Security Percival Graves did not have that luxury. From his office in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement (or the DMLE for short), he was wrecked by a shudder as his magic tried to calm the frantic energy it was getting bombarded with. It failed miserably, his own magic was far too unsettled at the intrusion to try to calm down that of his unknowing assailant. All he could do was weather the storm, and as the assault on his magic diminished he began to breathe more freely. What in the name of Hecate was that? The ribbons of fractured light fluttered into the visible spectrum as the urgency of the foreign light was swallowed by its seeming joy at having found what it had been searching for.
Sitting back heavily in his seat, Graves raised one hand to caress a golden-rose band of pure power, dispelling his own magic as navy-black smoke to surround the tangle currently trying to curl itself into his core. As it calmed under the buffering of the Graves Heirship Magic, it disintegrated into small rivulets and slid deep into the astonished man, saturating itself utterly with Graves’ magic. That magic seemed to lift weight from his shoulders, his crushing loneliness checked somewhat by the flecks of sunlight running through the Dark. His magic gently folded back inside himself as he hoarded that precious Light to himself. This had been no accident. Someone out there has magic that was completely complementary to his, someone who, from the taste of their magic, was scared and alone and didn’t understand what was happening. His lips curled up one one side, his eyes darkening to near black as he dispatched a few wisps of his own power to settle back into the unknown wizard. He would find them.
Newt awoke feeling a hell of a lot better than he had since entering the outback of Australia, where he had spent a thoroughly unpleasant two weeks baking under the sun in full dress, studying the habits of Fire Salamanders. He felt well-rested, his magic was purring like a happy nundu, and he had arranged to meet the supplier of some dittany plants in the afternoon; leaving his morning free to spoil his creatures and let them play a little. Charlie, the mischievous bugger, had been quite eager to get out and play ever since the halfway point of the voyage from England.
He absently fed and doted on all his creatures, his children really, as he transfigured a little minefield of fake golden nuggets for Charlie to enjoy hunting down. The five little occamies whom he had yet to name chirruped and nuzzled into his body while he cooed at them as he let them climb up over his shoulders to watch the ecstatic niffler stuff his pouch full of transfigured fake gold. Charlie liked shiny things, he didn’t really care about the worth of the treasure so would be just as happy when the transfiguration wore off and they became glittery paper once more. The clock struck midday while he was mucking out the mooncalves’ enclosure, the owl eyed creatures eyeing him through the twilight of their habitat as if weighing up the likelihood of more cuddling and games of ball once he was done with clean up.
Sadly, he was due to meet his supplier at 1pm, and had to reluctantly leave. He bundled himself into his best outfit for it; that is to say, he put on a new shirt, polished his boots and ensured the cleaning charms on his waistcoat and peacoat had done their job. He carefully locked his case as he left the room, leaving it under heavy disillusionment and notice-me-not charms to ensure nobody would think to steal it away. Heading off to the little underground bazaar where they had arranged to meet, Newt considered the letters they had exchanged. When he had inquired of his usual contact about getting actual dittany plants rather than just the distilled essence thereof in a quest to become more self-sufficient, they had gone quite quiet for some time. Only two weeks after his initial enquiry had they directed Newt to the person he was going to meet that day, and the tone of their letter had been somewhat odd, as if they were not quite happy with their choice. Upon initial reception of the letter Newt had written this apprehension off as disgruntlement regarding his choice to switch suppliers, but as he approached the door to the market in the side of a dingy alley, his instincts flared wildly. This was not safe.
Nevertheless, something urged him on. The flame of his magic tugged him forth, as he dropped down a ladder and entered what he had come to realise was most certainly a Black Market in a daze. Once he saw what was happening inside, a burning rage took hold of him. Stalls were set up in a labyrinth of illegal goods; plants from every nation, artefacts that he was sure were cursed and worst of all, tortured creatures in tiny cages being used for their blood and bones, their feathers, fur or horns. Newt could feel them crying out to him; his magic swelled and ignited as he swept through the crowd, soothing the terrified animals and freezing the sellers as he went. Silence fell for a moment as he halted in front of a brutalised fwooper on an open perch, its feathers half plucked. The poor tiny bird cringed in his hand but remained silent, utter terror cloaking its mind. The tension broke.
Pure magic emitted from him in a wave as he was lit from within by the force of his fury. Sellers of all species tried to portkey away in vain and the magical blast shattered glass, ripped through the wooden stalls and threw the immobilised black market dealers to the floor. Newt himself was shaking with anger as he picked up the ring of keys from the terrified hags belt and unlocked the cages of all the birds she had confined. As he opened the last one to reveal four half dead jarveys and one rotting corpse, he lost any remaining semblance of control. His magic, gentled by the grief-inducing sight, swept the room, burning locks into melted sludge and sliding doors open to free the creatures imprisoned behind bars, trying to heal their wounds and calm their minds.
He did not notice the arrival of the Auror department. They had had their eye on the market for a long time for the trade of illegal goods through the USA, but the surging spikes of power emitting from the subway tunnel it was located in was unusual enough that headquarters was contacted. Graves perked up at the patronus report. A wizard with a power unlike anything Auror Slayde had felt before had entered the market - that had to be the man behind the mysterious magic last night. Rising from his desk, he immediately issued orders via communication mirror for anti-portkey and anti-apparition wards to be put in place while he got a team together. As he swept through the main office space for the DMLE, he hit an alarm and barked his orders.
“Slayde has blocked off the Black Market in quadrant four, we have reason for entry. Shafiq, Fleamont, Brandt, gather your teams we are doing a sweep and clean. Ricci, Moore, I want your teams on frontal assault. We have powerful pissed-off wizard in there and I don’t want to risk anything. I will run point. Let’s go people, we move in two minutes.”
The department behind him was a mess, people running this way and that as the four man teams lined up, summoning their dragon hide armour and secondary wands in preparation. Within the time limit, they were ready to portkey out to the coordinates Shayde had given.
Once in the field, they fell into their practiced habits, the frontal assault teams joining Graves and the cleaners waiting further behind, expanded sacks at the ready to tag and bag the contraband they would find. On Graves’ signal they moved. Senior Auror Johann Brandt blasted the boor open and they immediately entered the disused sewer-cum-market, only to halt at his outstretched arm, falling silent. Now Graves was certain it was the magic from the previous evening, the little tendrils he had sent out to mark the source of that power were reacting to his presence, urging him closer to the man who from the back seemed silhouetted by Light magic so powerful he felt compelled to- to sweep him close and let their power mingle, become one whole rather than two halves, to meet the magic that could complete him and bask in their glory.
A breath on the back of his neck brought him down to the realities of the present. With a hand gesture, Graves indicated the teams forward to collect the contraband items and detain the immobile sellers. He himself approached the wizard. As he stepped closer he took a gamble and carefully unleashed a little of his aura in the other man’s direction, just enough to get his attention. The copper head spun round from where he was intensely focussed on the small animal cradled in his hands to stare into his eyes, their colour the blue of the sky as the sun rose. Graves took another pace and unravelled more of his power at him, making sure to keep it away from the Aurors in the background. Familial Magic was rare and he was not known to be the Heir of the House of Graves; it would not do to reveal himself now.
As he entered the wizards personal space, the man turned fully to face him, his visible magic obviously attuned to the lure Graves was putting out. Graves barely had time to take in the blood trickling from the other’s nose before he collapsed forward into the Aurors arms, whispering pleas into his ears to save the creatures as that beautiful magic cut out with the man’s consciousness.