ophelia rising

ophelia-rising  asked:

Hi! For the Bucky-fest, I was hoping for something with Bucky and Izzy in the "Hawkeye and Anklebiter" 'verse. If you don't feel like writing in a 'verse that would feel strange for you, feel free to ignore this request. I just think a piece of day-to-day life (What happens after Izzy comes back from school having learned about biology and nervous systems? Many, MANY young girls idolize boybands, what does Bucky do when Izzy happens on a preteen crush on a boyband "bad boy"?) would be fun!

Aw, I love Bucky and Izzy. I went for something a little younger, hope that’s ok…

Title: Tea And Superheroes
Rating: G
Summary: Nothing can shake Izzy’s faith in the superhero Bucky Barnes.  

Clint had done his best, when Izzy was small, to shelter her from the realities of his life, and when he joined the Avengers he tried to keep it up, but the older Izzy got, the damn cleverer she became, and he just couldn’t hide everything. 

Especially the action figures.

Good Christ, the action figures. 

Tony, damn him, had put all of their likenesses under his protection and licensed them appropriately, and thus Tony was the one who got big boxes of merch every time some new marketing venture took place. Fury had sent Izzy one of the very first Hawkeye action figures as a birthday gift, but since then, thanks to Tony, her collection had grown extensively. She liked to set them all up at one of her dolly tables like some kind of deranged Last Supper, serve them tea, and make them pretend to have argument with each other over who got to save the My Little Ponies. 

“How come you don’t have an action figure?” she asked Bucky one day, after she’d hijacked him into having “tea” with her. He spread some almond butter on a cracker and offered it to her.

“Because I’m not a superhero,” he said, his voice neutral. 

“Izzy, leave Buck alone,” Clint called from the kitchen.

“She’s fine, Barton,” Bucky called back.

“You are so,” Izzy argued, getting up from the table. 

“Iz, where are you going?" 

"Just to the bookshelf, Poppa,” she replied, standing on her toes to take down one of the books. She carried it back to Bucky and presented it to him. 

It was a pictoral history of Captain America, one of Phil’s books, and it was, Clint had to admit, chock-full of Steve looking heroic and Bucky in the background looking amused. 

“See, there’s Steve, and there’s you, and that says heroes,” Izzy said with the air of a lawyer during closing arguments.

"Well, I’m unemployed right now,” Bucky said, with what Clint recognized as his driest smile. 

“Are you gonna be a hero again?”

“Maybe one day,” he said, offering her another cracker. 

“But who’s looking after Steve?” she asked.

“Hey, it takes your Poppa and Auntie Natasha and Bruce and Tony and Thor to replace me,” Bucky said. “Steve’s just fine.” 

Izzy looked sullen. “You do it better. The book says so.”

"Thank you, zaichik,” Bucky said. “But I don’t do it right now." 

"I’m gonna be a superhero when I grow up,” Izzy said.

“No you aren’t!” Clint called.

“I am so, Poppa!”

“Not if I have any say in it!" 

I’m gonna be a superhero in space,” Izzy confided to Bucky in Russian. “You can be my sidekick if you want.”

It would be my pleasure,” Bucky replied. “Clint, you’re going to have to tie her to some heavy furniture.”

"That can be arranged!”

It’s okay, I’ll come break you out,” Bucky whispered. Izzy beamed and hugged him, smearing almond butter in his hair. 


Amata Appreciation Week, Part 2: more beautiful illustrations from A Walk-on Part in the War

Here’s a link to Part 1

1. from chapter 4, Loki cleans a small cut on Nadia/Sannaet’s cheek when “his eyes traveled down her neckline and got caught by a small image just below her collarbone … He pushed the fabric aside so he could see the entire mark … a man hanging upside down from a bare tree by his ankle.”

2. from ch. 6, in a dream-vision Loki follows Nadia/Sannaet through a valley pathway, she “stood just ahead of him … looking … up to a point where a break in the clouds shone onto the side of the hill. In her hand she held a ball of light that pierced through the gloom of the clouds.”

3. from ch. 8, Loki decides it’s time to deal with Odin: “He screwed up the side of his mouth, and sobered as he thought things through, then he added, “I think I will need a mediator.””

4. from ch. 10 – mmmm … Jotun Loki: “Thor’s attention, however, now became fixed on Loki, whose skin had turned a deep blue, traced by swirling patterns in a lighter shade. His eyes had become blood red, and as he breathed, great puffs of frosty air drifted out of his mouth and nose.”


freudensteins-monster laterovaries wine-o-clock-somewhere maxwell-demon marvelousmindloki lokiofmiddleearth icybluepenguin whittyonernc smittentomkitten larouau12 hornedchick ophelia-tagloff crescent-moon-rising d-m-jonas missviolethunter winterheart17 museofcherry awolfbeneath andlifeisgrand antyc67 wolfsmom1 curryradishfish notpedeka incredifishface loki-in-winterfell kissimmmeme @notafraidofducks @i-have-a-serious-problem mssissypooh tomforachange @ourqs @my-muse-compels-me quoting-shakespeare-to-ducks tarrysmith jossisgod beaglebitch angryschnauzer sarabeth72 the-haven-of-fiction kissimmmeme velvet-muffin lokis-ice-queen triski73 nightmareofcat

“What Do Women Want?”

by Kim Addonizio

I want a red dress.
I want it flimsy and cheap,
I want it too tight, I want to wear it  
until someone tears it off me.
I want it sleeveless and backless,
this dress, so no one has to guess
what’s underneath. I want to walk down
the street past Thrifty’s and the hardware store  
with all those keys glittering in the window,  
past Mr. and Mrs. Wong selling day-old  
donuts in their café, past the Guerra brothers  
slinging pigs from the truck and onto the dolly,  
hoisting the slick snouts over their shoulders.  
I want to walk like I’m the only
woman on earth and I can have my pick.  
I want that red dress bad.
I want it to confirm
your worst fears about me,
to show you how little I care about you  
or anything except what
I want. When I find it, I’ll pull that garment  
from its hanger like I’m choosing a body  
to carry me into this world, through  
the birth-cries and the love-cries too,  
and I’ll wear it like bones, like skin,  
it’ll be the goddamned
dress they bury me in.


Day 14 of National Poetry Month (from The Poetry Foundation):    freudensteins-monster  laterovaries amatasera   wine-o-clock-somewhere  maxwell-demon  marvelousmindloki lokiofmiddleearth  icybluepenguin   whittyonernc  smittentomkitten larouau12  hornedchick  ophelia-tagloff crescent-moon-rising   d-m-jonas  mssissypooh winterheart17  museofcherry awolfbeneath andlifeisgrand antyc67 calgal48  wolfsmom1 curryradishfish  pedeka

Let me know if you want on or off the tags.

“I feel as though I have escaped drowning,” Sannaet whispered as she set the triptych on a table.
Loki pulled her close and replied, “So many years lost to the wine dark seas. It feels good to walk on the shore at last.”

Here it is, the very last illustration for A Walk-on Part in the War by the amazingly talented amatasera. This beautiful picture goes with the very last chapter, “Of Beginnings.”

I cannot even begin to express my gratitude that amatasera has been willing to loan her talent and creativity to my  story. She has been so very generous. Feel free to re-blog – she deserves all of the recognition we can give her.

freudensteins-monster  laterovaries   wine-o-clock-somewhere  maxwell-demon  marvelousmindloki lokiofmiddleearth  icybluepenguin   whittyonernc  smittentomkitten larouau12  hornedchick  ophelia-tagloff crescent-moon-rising   d-m-jonas  mssissypooh winterheart17  museofcherry awolfbeneath andlifeisgrand antyc67 calgal48  wolfsmom1 curryradishfish pedeka  nightmareofcat incredifishface 

Legacies – by me. 

I think it’s about mothers and daughters? Maybe more. Probably more. Maybe about starting over and trying to get it right the second time through. Happy new year : )

This poem is for @chaosandcocks, who, aside from being just an all-around cool person, is a fantastic mom, and a supportive friend. She is a hoot-and-a-half, has impeccable taste in dream homes, and has a spine like a steel last. If I ever get in a fight, I totally want her in my corner, ‘cause she’s a mother-fuckin’ bassass bitch, and I love her. Merry belated Christmas, dearest, and may you have a new year so wonderful that it makes you forget 2015 ever happened.

Notes and tags below the cut.

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(for Sharne midnightxmasquerade)

Ophelia rises from the meadow,
her mind a green blue mirror
and all her words intact,

rosemary at her fingertips,
no rue inside her thoughts,
the rose herself, and in her heart

room for honey music vows.
Pandora has strapped into leather
a book that holds each hope,

more kinds of hope than there are
feathers in the world,
and with this catches every phrase

once fallen from her singing mouth,
and lifts it back into the sky.
Penelope lines up her suitors

and has them bar the door,
Astarte rides the evening star
into a red new dawn,

her garments pure as hemlock,
her mouth a bolt of silk.
Athena gives her liquid eyes

a final touch of black,
takes the sun god by the hand,
spins him into lucid night.

Beatrice speaks low to the doves
bringing silver charms, love and death
at her shoulders, life in her chest,

and casts her poppies high.

Writer Waiting by Shel Silverstein for day 15 of National Poetry Month.  freudensteins-monster  laterovaries amatasera   wine-o-clock-somewhere  maxwell-demon  marvelousmindloki lokiofmiddleearth  icybluepenguin   whittyonernc  smittentomkitten larouau12  hornedchick  ophelia-tagloff crescent-moon-rising   d-m-jonas  mssissypooh winterheart17  museofcherry awolfbeneath andlifeisgrand antyc67 calgal48  wolfsmom1 curryradishfish  pedeka incredifishface

Let me know if you want on or off the tags.

Verse Epistle (to the Silver Child) – this is a poem I wrote for Tumblr’s official cinnamon roll, @sarabeth72, based on a few ideas that she sent to me. 

Happy belated, dearest. I hope you like it – there is a small possibility that I made myself cry just a tiny little bit, maybe. I also think I gave myself some Loki feels, as well.

And thank you very much, also, to @notpedeka for being my long-suffering sounding board. You and Sara are both sterling, as far as I’m concerned, and you both glow.

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Psst! I’ve been writing.

It’s been so long since I’ve posted a story, that many of you may have forgotten that I write fiction at all. Well the long dark night of writer’s paralysis seems to have partially lifted, and thanks to the cheerleading of @incredifishface, and the expert coaching and editing of @icybluepenguin (she really is an outstanding human being about whom not enough good things can be said), I finally have enough of a story plotted out to begin posting.

As a result, very soon in this space (tomorrow, actually, if I’m lucky), you will find chapter one of Fallen Angels.

Descriptions rather fail me at this point, other than to say that it’s a multi-chapter-post-apocalyptic-Norse-mythology-MCU-Logyn-AU-mash-up. All of which was inspired by this image (sent to me by @prudenceevenstar at least three months ago – I think it’s by Peter Vidani).

The tag list I use for my stories is pretty old at this point, so if you want on or off it, please let me know, and I will be happy to oblige.

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Being Grateful

[I posted this back in May. I am re-posting for the US Thanksgiving, just because I still mean it.]

I want to say thank you to all of my Tumblr friends, but I also want to do more than that.

I want to somehow convey to you how valuable it is for you to do all of those tiny – seemingly inconsequential – things that make existence more bearable for those around you.

Being cruel, even being indifferent, is easy. Even though we all know the damage thoughtless cruelty can be. We all know how it feels to leave home after dressing with care – maybe wearing a favorite new shirt or pair of shoes – and to have someone turn up their noses at our choice, or make an offhand remark.  It takes so little to make us doubt ourselves.

In the classroom, it takes only one SWA (student with attitude) to make me dread going to work. There might be 20 other students open to new ideas and willing to respect me as long as I respect them, but if one student in the back radiates hostile indifference, then I have to psych myself up to walk through the classroom door. The joy of my job turns to dread. It’s not as though these students commit any great atrocities. None of them ever voices their resentment. No one has ever threatened me. But facing such negativity is exhausting.

And it’s easy for us to see only this negativity.

We forget how much power there is in the small gestures of kindness – how we feel when someone notices those cool new shoes you’re wearing, how it feels when someone offers a heartfelt thank you when you hold the door open, how it makes you glow when a friend’s face lights up as you enter a room just because she’s happy to see you.

This is what you have given to me – every time you send me an ask or a note, every time you re-blog one of my posts, every time you like on of my stories.

These little emotional gifts have been especially important to me this winter and spring. I have spent my entire life being what I thought I was supposed to be.

I was a good girl in high school. I got good grades. I never partied. I never got in trouble with boys – hell, I never even went to prom (nerd). I was a pretty good girl in college. I got good grades. I never got in trouble. I wasn’t the friend who drank, but the friend who sat with my alcoholic best friend so she wouldn’t drink alone. I didn’t go out and party, but I sat with my friends and agonized about their self-cutting. I visited my friends in the psych ward after they attempted suicide. I went to parties and sat on the edge of the room so my friends wouldn’t be out alone. I became whoever they wanted me to be.

When I got married and moved to the mid-west, I buried all of my non-mainstream interests. I don’t often openly declare my political leanings, because I live in a small, conservative, mid-western town. I wear clothes as armor, rather than as a declaration of personality, because I have to create a persona that will simultaneously command respect without being threatening. I have stopped talking about many things with my husband, because well, just because.

I am not who I am.

I have never thought of myself as a writer of fiction. Once upon a time, I was a poet. But then I “became a grown up” and I did what has always come naturally to me – you see, I have a talent. I am a chameleon. I become what other people want me to be. I reconciled with my husband (whom I had been separated from), and took a job at a small, conservative mid-western university (gratefully – the job market for English professors was and still is dismal). I no longer wrote poetry. I no longer looked for obnoxious, guitar-and-angst-heavy music. I no longer spouted feminist rants. I worked very hard at doing what was asked of me, and at being noticed only for my willingness to be helpful.

I squashed myself, in order to make other people happy. It’s what I do.

Recently two things changed, however.

First, I decided to take a class in creative writing. I missed poetry. My very good friend teaches creative writing, and I asked if I could just sit in on her poetry class. She graciously agreed.

Poems rushed out of me like water out of an unplugged dike.

Then this character got in my head and wouldn’t leave me alone. As in, I became clinically obsessive. I nearly got into car accidents on two occasions because I was daydreaming about this character instead of watching traffic. In a desperate attempt to get him out of my head, I started to write him down, hoping that would exorcize him and I could get on with my life.

It turned into a novel-length story.

Here’s the problem, though. It was fan fiction. With sex. Professors of Shakespeare in small conservative towns do not write sexy fan fiction.

Suddenly that part of me that I had squashed for so many years had bubbled back up to the surface and refused to shut up.

But who could that person talk to?

Not anyone at school – that would be a horrible idea. Not my husband – who still sees these stories as a waste of time (and is perhaps a bit jealous of their focus). Not my kids (at least not yet – maybe in tree years when my daughter turns 18).

So I opened a Tumblr and posted my story here.

Here is my safe place. I am allowed to be weird here. I am allowed to be a ranting feminist. I am allowed to write and read fan fiction.

Better than that, though, is you. I get you.

There is a gap between the half person I am in person, and the half person I have repressed.

I would like to offer this note as a deeply felt thank you, and as a personal testament that small deeds of kindness matter in ways that we are often oblivious to.

For many reasons, I do not share what I write with my face-to-face acquaintances. In my world, professors of Shakespeare do not write sexy fan fiction – certainly not professors of Shakespeare in small, conservative mid-western towns, at small, conservative schools. I am fairly certain that my 60-something boss would not approve of my hobby. Nor would my many conservative Christian students. Nor would my conservative Catholic colleagues and friends.

In this sense, my writing, which has become an enormous part of my life, is also something that I cannot talk about. Even my husband thinks it’s a waste of time, and I will not ask him to read anything I write ever again (I did that once, and it was a mistake).

I tell you this because I hope it explains in some small measure what it means to me when I log in to Tumblr, and someone has liked or re-blogged something I have written –how it makes my heart press up against the sides of my chest when someone sends me a note to tell me they liked what they read. These are small gestures. They take next to no time at all, and I am sure you do them without really thinking at all about the impact they have.

To me, however, they have made an enormous difference.

So I want to say thank you to all of my Tumblr friends for your notes and kind messages, but I also want to do more than that.

I want to somehow convey to you how valuable it is for you to keep doing all of those tiny – seemingly inconsequential – things that make existence more bearable for those around you.

Being kind takes so little effort.

Yet little kindnesses sometimes are the only lights in what can be a very dark room.

Thank you.

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“Pronouns” by me. I must be feeling epigrammatical today, in addition to misanthropic.

@freudensteins-monster @incredifishface @chaosandcocks @marvelousmindloki @notpedeka @maxwell-demon @lokiofmiddleearth @icybluepenguin @whittyonernc @smittentomkitten @amatasera @larouau12 @hornedchick @ophelia-tagloff @crescent-moon-rising @missviolethunter @awolfbeneath @antyc67 @sarabeth72 @wolfsmom @curryradishfish @loki-in-winterfell @kissimmmeme @mssissypooh @tomforachange @catedevalois @nightmareofcat @jossisgod @indomitablemegnolia @scribbling–away @quoting-shakespeare-to-ducks @prudenceevenstar @a-wild-loki-appears @asilhouetteindreams

Let me know if you want on or off the tags for poetry.

Mobile-friendly Master Post of Poetry

As promised, here is a mobile-friendly list of links to the original poetry that I’ve posted on Tumblr. Feel free to share, re-blog, and/or send comments. I would dearly love to hear from folks.

Ruby Slippers (1)
Ruby Slippers (2) — Every woman needs a pair of red shoes

If Dante Was a Tourist — And Virgil his tour guide

Half Dozen One Way, Six the Other — A life on a doorsill

Di/vi/ding /up/ the / day — Here is a list of things to do

Cozy, but Slightly Scratchy — The world like a woolen lover

Mother Love — Look

Penelope and Odysseus — So many years ago

Domestic Zen — All the world, like a woolen lover

Verse Epistle 1 — You love pomegranates

Newton’s First Law — (Just     keep     breathing)

What My Mother Taught Me — Tracking his progress was simple

Visiting Nana’s House — Over here, / she bent double

At an Impasse — The last time I spoke to God

Perspective — Sometimes something matters so much

Potential Energy — It was / an abyss

Negotiations — The red-haired man hands me a glass of Irish Cream

Verse Epistle 2 — It’s not that I don’t love our little talks

Verse Epistle 3 (Dear Reader) — When you read poetry

Definitions — I wonder if the kind of love we’ve found is love at all

Sirius Business — I live my life being judged by dogs

Taking Care of Business — Outside, / big fat snowflakes come straight from God

Ars Poetica — She reached into her word hoard

Knowledge Is Water Soluble — It comes out in tears

Just Testing — just a little blood

Epigram — When I walk in winter

The World Is Full of Bad Jokes — Whimsey with a lead feather

Of Marriage and Comfort Food – You’ll need to find a sturdy iron pot

Verse Epistle IV – You are sharp shiny flashing

Power Play – They / play solitaire / in the bathroom

Verse Epistle V (to Pilgrim) – I don’t even know where to send this

What My Father Taught Me – He is the loudest-quietest man I’ve ever met.

Verse Epistle VI (So, This Is What Today Is Like) – The stars were not as bright as they should have been that night

Link to master list of fiction

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Cover Art!

Look, look, look! amatasera make cover art for my Loki fic, A Walk-on Part in the War!

Isn’t it gorgeous? wine-o-clock-somewhere, ansgarmartinsson, mssissypooh, sarabeth72, marvelousmindloki, lokiofmiddleearth, andlifeisgrand, maxwell-demon, quoting-shakespeare-to-ducks, eve1978, laterovaries, crescent-moon-rising, timelady12, ophelia-tagloff, leostorridteatime, @hallotom, icybluepenguin, beecreature, whittyonernc, xawesomeangel, @allthatandasideoftom, smittentomkitten, siyoteodiara, noiramador, nooligan82