somewhere in the south

ok i will try to paint you a word picture
i was on a train going somewhere south with someone i knew well and the train was larger than it should be, not like it would seem for a child in a space where everything is adult-sized but like a space made for non-humans would be for a regular-sized adult. the doors were too wide, everything was rectangular, walls joined together at unnatural angles, door handles were not in places where you’d expect them to be and so on. everything was thunderstorm clouds-grey, made of some soft metal that felt warm and grainy to the touch despite not looking grainy. we entered the train in the morning, by mistake, on a regular human-sized train station and the conductor (whom i don’t remember at all) gave us blankets (old soviet army ones, mine was green) and showed us our compartment. i don’t remember what happened next because i had this dream years ago but it involved some gorey scenes (murder? war? who knows) and literal rivers of dark gleaming gold.. coins i think moving treackle-like down some hill and me having to jump out of the moving train and the feeling of betrayal

tiggerguk  asked:

Do you think there may be wizarding schools in other european countries, like italy (yep, totally random, not my country at all °w° )?

definitely! in my head it’s something like this:

  • hogwarts as we know is up in scotland and takes students from the uk and ireland
  • beauxbatons is somewhere near the south of france and I reckon takes students from france, belgium, luxembourg, and switzerland
  • there’s a school somewhere in spain that takes spanish and portuguese students. they probably learn a lot about harmony between religion and magic
  • another school up in germany that encompasses germany, austria, netherlands, switzerland, and belgium. I think they probably have a much bigger emphasis on muggle studies than hogwarts does, probably looking at the rise of grindelwald and hitler in equal measure
  • a scandinavian school in norway or sweden which also takes iceland, denmark, and finland. definitely a big emphasis on magical creatures here. I like to think they have a lot of field trips to study creatures in their natural habitat, or maybe going to copenhagen to compare the little mermaid statue to mermaids they’ve studied
  • a school for the countries around the adriatic so italy, croatia, bosnia and herzegovina, greece, montenegro, albania, macedonia (though it’s primarily italy and greece) with a huge emphasis on history of magic. also languages, I’m thinking ancient greek and latin- maybe studying how latin is used in spells? and definitely have a mythology class of some sort
  • Durmstrang is somewhere in the region of bulgaria and probably also takes students from romania, serbia, kosovo, bosnia and herzegovina, albania 
  • central european school probably in poland with students from czech republic, slovenia, slovakia, hungary. I kind of hope they study home spells and stuff because that should really be covered at hogwarts! learning how to make pierogi by magic and that sort of stuff!
  • and finally an eastern european school over in russia which also takes kids from estonia, latvia, lithuania, belarus, and ukraine. there’s lots of animals in slavic folklore so maybe there’s a higher emphasis on that? things like training familiars or learning to become animagi as part of the curriculum
Painting meatballs

For @copperbadge: Sounds like you could use some cheering up this week. :) 


Most days, being a superhero did not pay off. He’d been chased through probably twenty miles of tunnel, managed to drop his last nine arrows down an open manhole (who just leaves manholes open?), and it was only by the grace of his fingertips that he hadn’t gone down after them. He’d forgotten to go grocery shopping, he had a headache from somewhere south of hell, and he was almost hungry enough to share a bowl of Kibbles ‘N’ Bits with Lucky and call it a night.

“Happy freaking birthday to me,” he grumbled as he trudged up the stairs to his apartment. By the time he realized that his keys had apparently gone the way of the arrows, he didn’t even have enough frustration left in him to swear. He dropped his head forward, hitting the door about ten million times harder than he’d meant to, and jerked away with both hands over his forehead.

He definitely didn’t think anyone could blame him for being a tiny bit slow to react when his apartment door opened by itself, but he did manage to have a knife up by the time the interloper leaned around the doorway.

Natasha quirked an eyebrow at him. “Is that a sharpened butter knife?”

Clint glowered at her and slid the blade back into his boot – one of only three, but his count, that hadn’t ended up buried in some guy’s thigh, or washed away in Shit River. “I had to improvise,” he defended. “Why are you in my apartment?”

The other eyebrow quirked up to join the first. “Why are you not in your apartment? Also, you smell like sewage.”

“Long story.”

She tipped her head to the left to examine him, and maybe he was projecting or something else that the group home counselor would have said was unhealthy, but he was positive she could see right through the smarting mark on his head and read his mind. Without a word, she stepped back to hold the door open and gestured inside with one hand.

“I’ll get you a beer.”

“Don’t have any,” Clint muttered. He had about half a bottle of Nat’s shitty vodka somewhere, though he’d used the whiskey for antiseptic the week before.

“Good thing Jan knows how to throw a party,” she said. Her smile softened slightly and she gestured in again. “Though Tony thought jumping out and yelling ‘surprise’ was a smart idea for all of twenty-two seconds.”

Clint shuddered just imagining the heart attack he would have had if he’d opened the door and yelling had been the result. He was suddenly grateful that he’d lost his keys – he’d forgotten all about Stark’s threatened birthday party, and he was more than a little surprised that everyone else had apparently remembered. Now that he was paying attention like an ex-assassin and current masked superhero with poor apartment security and lots of enemies should be, he could hear the faint chatter of about half a dozen people and the subtle clinking of forks on plates.

He glanced at the door and then over to the elevator. “Maybe I should just go get some chips or something.”

Natasha shrugged. “If you want. But your meatballs will probably be cold by the time you get back.”

Clint’s stomach emitted a loud snarl, and his mouth instantly flooded with saliva. Nat might have been kinder than most people gave her credit for, but she still laughed at him as he stood rooted to the spot, doing a good impression of a meatball-zombie. 

“Please tell me they’re not those bullshit fancy meatless-meatballs or whatever Pepper had A Thing about,” he begged.

“Nope, they’re the cheap frozen meatballs you get out of a bag and dump in the oven.”

He could have kissed her. He definitely did moan, “My favorite.”

His apartment had been cleaned, and it smelled like Pinesol and sweet sweet processed meatballs fresh from the oven. Every lamp he owned had been moved into the living room, which had apparently not been enough, because there was an Iron Man suit standing in the corner and glowing like a six-and-a-half-foot art deco lamp.

“Surprise?” Tony offered, from the kitchen, and Holy Patron Saint of I’m never letting you live this down, was wearing a bright yellow apron liberally splashed with hearts and smiling sunflowers, a matching pair of oven mitts, and a lime green party hat.

“Why are you like this?” Clint blurted out with a laugh.

“Laugh all you want,” Tony said, setting down a tray of freshly cooked previously frozen guaranteed delicious meatballs so he could point at Clint with one bemittened hand. His eyes transferred over Clint’s shoulder and he nodded faintly. “But I’m leaving this here when I go. You can thank Jan.”

“Happy birthday!” Jan said as soon as Clint turned to face her, looking like she was ready to burst. “I really want to hug you, but you have been out doing things that got you a little too close to a sewer. Air hug!” She announced and crossed her arms over her own chest, squeezing hard and twisting side-to-side.

It looked like a really nice hug, and Clint was even sorrier about the damned sewer. He looked between his bathroom door and the piles of warm meatballs, and made a noise that he normally would have blamed on Lucky, but Lucky was on his back in the middle of the living room, shamelessly soaking up the belly rubs from Thor and getting his muzzle petted by Steve.

Natasha pushed past him to the kitchen, piled a dozen meatballs on a purple plate with the Hawkeye symbol stamped in the middle, and nudged him away with one finger. “They should be cooled down by the time you wash your hands. Go!”

Clint eagerly took the plate, leaned over, and lipped one of the meatballs right off the top. He tried to smirk at her, but was too busy sucking air in around the molten mouthful as she pushed him toward his bedroom.

~*~

Despite orders to the contrary, Clint had devoured the plate of meatballs before his shower, and he felt less likely to gnaw someone’s arm off by the time he made it back to the living room. A long folding table had been wedged between the couch and the bar, and it looked like Jan had dumped the entire Hawkeye section of Party City on top of it. It was cheesy, and stupid, and perfect. He stood in the doorway for a second to just look it over – they were all pretending that he wasn’t staring at them, and that was what good friends were for when you just got off of a Hell Week leading into Nightmare Night. Lucky was up on his back legs so he could have his front paw on Tony’s lap and was doing his damndest to get at the mountain of meatballs in the center of the table.

“I’m not feeding you,” Tony told the dog seriously, but his hand was wrapped around Lucky’s ribs to rub at his belly. “Seriously, have I ever fed a single thing in your entire life? Why don’t you go to climb in Steve’s lap? He’s a dog person, and I know for sure that he’s fed you at least once tonight.”

“That was just a treat, Tony,” Steve protested.

“He said the word treat,” Tony told Lucky, which just got him a messy kiss across the cheek and Tony leaning comically sideways in the chair to in a vain attempt to avoid it.

“Just push him away,” Clint suggested, stepping into the living room and climbing over the couch to get the open chair.

Tony gave him a frankly scandalized look, but turned back to Lucky to say, “You’re not getting anywhere with this. I am immune to canine flattery.”

“Not all canine flattery,” Natasha muttered, and for some unfathomable reason, Steve blushed and kicked her under the table. Natasha neatly dodged, and held an open beer out for Clint, so cold that it had mist curling out of the neck and droplets running down the sides.

“I love you,” Clint told her very seriously.

“I know,” she answered.

He swallowed about half of it before pressing the cold bottle gently to his forehead and rolling it back and forth. This was the life – why did he not have a million roommates again? He set the bottle aside and looked down to realize that what he’d mistaken for plates were actually large plastic painter’s pallets with little cups of “paint” set around the edges. There was a bright purple cup of paintbrushes sitting opposite his beer, and a stack of napkins with the Avengers Assemble cartoon Hawkeye at his elbow.

Jan leaned forward to explain, but Clint just shoved his finger in the yellow paint and licked it off – spicy mustard, the kind he got at Chinese restaurants and poured over everything.

“Or you could just do that,” Jan finished, laughing. “It was Steve’s idea.”

“This,” Clint said, snagging a meatball off the pile and a paintbrush, “Is the best birthday idea ever.”

Jan nudged Tony, who was still not-really fending off Lucky’s affectionate begging. “And you wanted to bring wine,” she scoffed.

Clint had three painted meatballs stuffed in his mouth when Jan climbed out of her chair and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. She leaned over to press their cheeks together and squeezed hard, rocking him gently side-to-side.

“Happy birthday.”

“’appy meathba’ ‘ay,” Clint corrected, but he reached up to squeeze her wrist and leaned back against her.

Maybe he was just imagining it or something, but it seemed like his headache was gone.

Nothing At Stake - 7

[A/N: Your last one for tonight guys, I’ve got work tomorrow and need to head off to bed at a reasonable time! Hope you enjoy this tinsy bit smuttier chapter than the last. I’m kind of trying to keep this real though, if you understand what I mean by that. I don’t want to rush it all. 

Also this fic is now in celebration of reaching 400 followers tonight! Thank you guys!!]

Word Count: 1198

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4] [Part 5] [Part 6]

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anonymous asked:

37, Clexa (would love to see what your mind does with this one)

“You’re leaving.”

Lexa closed her eyes at the soft sound of Clarke’s voice. She kept her back to the door flap, to the midnight storm she knew she would find brewing in blue eyes.

“Clarke.”

“You don’t have to do this, Lexa.”

A slow stream of breath slithered across Lexa’s lips. She let her head hang. “Yes, I do.”

“You can stay,” Clarke said, and Lexa finally summoned the courage to face her. Her eyes were every bit the tragedy she imagined them to be. A thousand shades of sorrow. “You can choose to stay.”

Lexa looked her over, took in every inch of the woman who had stripped her every defense. The woman who had walked right up to the walls Lexa had spent years constructing around her heart and demanded entry. She took in her gentle hands, soft and deadly like Lexa’s own, curled into fists. Her quivering bottom lip. Her furrowed brow. Her pleading gaze. Her unsteady, shifting feet.

“We cannot hide from the war, Clarke,” Lexa said. “This life…” She glanced around their small hut, a shack Clarke had shakily thrown together. A place hidden by brush and debris, buried in the deep woods. Off the grid. “It is not sustainable.”

“That doesn’t mean we have to rush back before your wound is even healed,” Clarke said. She shook her head. “It doesn’t mean we have to go back at all. We can move forward. Find a place, somewhere south maybe, over the–”

“They are my people, Clarke,” Lexa said, the words hardly more than a whisper. She shrugged a single shoulder, a blip of movement, and cast her gaze to the floor. “My responsibility.”

“They tried to kill you!” Clarke tossed her arms up and then crossed them over her chest. She clenched her jaw and blinked back tears of frustration. “You were practically dead when I found you.”

Lexa could still feel the sting of the wound, the deep slice in her abdomen, patched by Clarke’s hand and slowly healing. She often woke to the feeling of the spear going in, the looping memory of the haunt in her warrior’s eyes as he turned on her. The warm gush of blood over her hand as she ran, lost herself to the woods, her great mother. She could still feel the cold press of Clarke’s hands to her cheeks, hear the trembling in her voice as she beckoned Lexa up from the curling dark. Open your eyes, Lexa. Please, please, open your eyes. Look at me!

“And I am grateful to you, Clarke.”

“I’m not asking you to be grateful,” Clarke growled out. “I’m asking you to be smart!” Her voice cracked. “Be safe.”

The words burned in Lexa’s cells, over every inch. Clarke’s care was a raging fire. Terrifying. Beautiful. Consuming. She took a slow deep breath, took a step toward Clarke. Then another. When they were sharing the same small space, the same warm air, she reached forward and took Clarke’s hand. “I will be cautious, Clarke,” she whispered. “You have my word.”

“I don’t want your word, Lexa.” Clarke inched forward until she could rest her forehead against Lexa’s.

Lexa squeezed Clarke’s fingers. “Then what do you want?”

“I want you alive,” Clarke whispered. “Here.” She slid her hand from Lexa’s palm to her forearm, over her elbow and up over the ripple of muscle in her upper arm. Her fingers traced over the leather strap of Lexa’s armor as it crossed the expanse of Lexa’s chest. She rested her hand over Lexa’s heart. “If you go back, you’ll die.”

Clarke had already seen so much death, had lost so many. The war had been waging for months now, each rogue faction frothing at the mouth for power. Her own people had been slaughtered in waves, leaving only the stragglers behind, scattering what was left of the sky to the wind. Clarke had barely gotten away, disguising herself when she needed to. Killing when she had to. There would be nothing left when the blood finally ran dry. Just a red earth and an empty sound.

Lexa closed her eyes at Clarke’s touch, the slow swipe of her, the warm press. She leaned further in until their noses brushed, their breaths came shallow. “If that is to be my fate,” she said, her lips grazing Clarke’s with a pop of static. She shuddered. “Then so be it.”

“I can’t lose another person I….” Clarke choked around the words, and Lexa closed the gap. She met Clarke in a trembling kiss, a sharp inhale, a wordless confession.

Their hands groped until their fingers tangled and clamped together. Their chests pressed in, bodies melting together, and the friction sparked a frenzy. It burned them to the ground. Lexa stripped Clarke of her shirt, let eager fingertips yank her armor off and away. Clarke’s skin was salt and sweat and salvation between Lexa’s lips. This, this again. Again and again and always.

Her wound stung when they collapsed onto the pallet on the floor, when Clarke crawled atop her, breathless and rocking, but she paid it no mind. The wound was nothing, an itch, an irritation. Pain was the glistening sheen in Clarke’s eyes  as she peaked atop Lexa’s fingers. It was the hollow spot Lexa felt carving itself inside at the thought of leaving, knowing Clarke could not come with her. Many of the clans wanted Wanheda’s head more than they wanted Lexa’s. But so many, she knew, were still true, still loyal. And suffering. She would go back for them, even if it meant her life. It was her duty. Pain was sacrifice, sacrifice despite the ease with which she could shed her past and flee. Sacrifice despite the way the curl of Clarke’s body around her own could shape her into something new, something free.

When they lay loose and limp together, spent, Clarke rested her head on Lexa’s chest and said, “You’re still leaving, aren’t you?”

Lexa let the words hang for one long, heavy moment. She clung to the silence, to the shocks still rippling between her legs. “What do you wish me to say, Clarke?”

Clarke sighed. “The truth.”

Carefully, Lexa rolled to face Clarke. Her wound objected, but she ignored the pain. She held Clarke’s knowing gaze when she said, “The truth will only hurt you.”

Clarke closed her eyes, a tear slipping free and disappearing into her hair. “Lie to me then.”

Lexa looked at her for a long time, silent. Her heart curled in around itself and clenched, ached in a way Lexa recognized. Something lasting. She inched closer and wrapped an arm around a warm waist, rested her cheek on top of Clarke’s so that her lips hovered just at her ear. “Rest now, Clarke,” she whispered. “I will be here when you wake.”

On History and Dinner

Summary: A non athletic!Jack fic, where grad student and history nerd, Jack Zimmermann meets the cute Samwell student/baker Eric Bittle at the Bread and Butter Bakery.  Picks up right after On History and Pie.  Jack takes a chance and meets Bitty for dinner. It’s their first date.  A collaboration with the wonderful @zim-tits​ featuring her lovely artwork. Also on AO3

Bitty was closing up shop for the evening at Bread and Buttery Bakery when he heard a small tap. Lardo smiled as she looked through the large picture window and saw who was standing on the other side.

“It’s your boy, Bitty,” she said.

He glanced and saw Jack standing outside as he waved shyly.

Chowder unlocked and opened the door. “Welcome! Come on in.”

“Thanks,” Jack said as he came in slowly, looking at Bitty with a soft smile.

Bitty closed the register and smiled in return as he walked from behind the counter toward Jack.

“Hi, Jack.”

“Hi, Eric. Bitty.”

The two wordlessly stared at one another, smiling. Lardo, taking pity on them, cleared her throat, “Uh, Chowder, can you help me with something in back?”

Chowder frowned disappointed he wasn’t going to be able to watch.

“Sure, Lardo.”

“You came,” Bitty said. “Thanks for that. Thanks for trusting me.”

“My uncle says… well, never mind, but I’m the one that should be saying thanks – for the shortbread. It was really good.”

“Really good? I was aiming for so amazing it would make you wanna slap your mama but then again, I’m sure you love your mama, so really good will do.”

Jack laughed softly, “I do. So, are you… that is… if you’re still interested…”

“Jack, would you like to go grab something to eat?”

Jack smiled, relieved that Bitty had taken the lead.

“Yes, I’d like that.”

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Devotion: 1950s!Bucky AU

                                                 Summary:
A summer stuck in the south was not what you expected, nonetheless you spend your time along the porch of your Aunt’s home - placed in a summertime sadness. You were devoted to your image of good girl ways, your family expects nothing less than the perfect little girl to be married off by the age of 19 - that is until you met the boy next door.

Notes: 50s!Bucky AU, teasing, Naked Bucky, smoking

If you’d like to be tagged, send me an ask :) Let me know what you think too! 


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