untangling the web

Brooklyn nine-nine  sentence starters 

change pronouns as fit, lots of trigger warnings ahead, taken from multiple characters

  • “Click. I just captured the exact moment you realized you had failed. I guess we all got something out of this.”
  • “I appreciate the offer, but I work best alone. Except when it comes to sex. Actually, sometimes including sex.”
  • “People receive meaningless threats all the time. It’s really no big deal.”
  • “I’m surprised you’ve read Othello.”
  • “Well, no one asked you. It’s a self-evaluation.”
  • “We’re a package deal, everyone knows that.
  • "Oh, great! I’ll take my shirt off.”
  • “I’m in unspeakable pain.”
  • “Oh, I really came in here with the wrong energy.”
  • “I am flummoxed! That’s a word I learned for this party, and I am it!”
  • “Anyone over the age of six celebrating a birthday should go to hell.”
  • “I’d rather walk into the freezing ocean.”
  • “I remember that old bag. She was my favorite.”
  • “Thanks, good note. I was going for extremely harsh. I’ll turn it up.”
  • “"Kind, sober and fully dressed.” Good news, everyone. We found the name of [name]’s sex tape!“
  • ” Can you magically make everyone kind, sober, and fully dressed?“
  • "Of course. Totally. I mean, why would a death threat be a big deal? Oh, that’s right ‘cause it threatens death!”
  • “ When it comes to shooting patterns, I like to go PB&J. Penis, Brain, Jaw.”
  • “You don’t out grow punk, sir/ma'am.”
  • “Here, wear my shirt. I was gonna take it off anyway.”
  • “I’m really into rented clothes. I love how many butts have been in them.”
  • “ No one knows. I am a rock. I am an island. I have lapsed into song lyrics again.”
  • “Not a gift, snitch. It didn’t cost me anything. Just my worthless man hours.”
  • “Don’t remind me. I’m going to be untangling that web for a month.”
  • “And when this is over, I’m going to find you, and I’m going to break those little fingers.”
  • “Nope. I’m gonna wait 'til I’m on my deathbed, get in the last word and then die immediately. ”
  • “I’ve only said I love you to three people. My mom, my dad and my dying [relative]. And one of those I regret.”
  • “ I’m gonna punch him so hard in the mouth that he bites his own heart.”
  • “Thank you, [name]. Your entire life is garbage.”
  • “I cannot believe that I’m considering a non-violent option.”
  • “My [erelative] always said, "Bad news first because the good news is probably a lie.” Fun fact: she/he/they made me cry a lot.“
  • "Yeah, I might buy my shoes at a kids store and yeah, I might be scared of geese, but I am a damn good [profession] and I will not be made a fool of.”
  • “I thought he was faking it. I wanted to splash the lies out of him.”
  • “Seriously, you are beautiful. If he/she/they ever lies to you again, you can call me.”
  • “Okay, just so we’re clear, from this point forward, my call sign will be Death Blade.”
  • “Yeah, I’m not an idiot. I know how to trick my best friend into eating his/her/their fiber.”
  • “Why are you giving candy to a baby in the first place? Don’t give candy to a baby! They can’t brush their teeth!”
  • “ I’ve talked a lot about [name] in my departmentally-mandated therapy sessions.”
  • “You should take my minivan.”
  • “ I was working out and I saw a muscle in my shoulder I’d never seen before. I thought it might have been a scientific discovery.”
  • “Your head is so small. It is so small. Where do you keep your brains?”
  • “Probably not. I mean he/she/they seems like the kind of laid back guy/girl/person who delights in having his/her/their mistakes exposed.”
  • “ Don’t move as a group! You’re not gazelles!”
  • “I feel like a proud mama hen whose baby chicks have learned to fly!”
  • “Baby, I’ve got some bad news. Someone painted a giant penis on our minivan.”
  • “I threw away the photo because I think it’s ostentatious to hang pictures of yourself, especially when you haven’t earned a place on the wall.”
  • “I even managed to eat some plain toast this morning.”
  • “So nice of you to greet us, [name]. I thought surely you’d still be crushed under that house in Munchkinland.”
  • “approval ratings are - pardon my language - in the commode.”
  • “Look at that. You’ve helped me find my smile.”
  • “That is amazingly funny.”
  • “You’re a grown man/woman/adult, [name]. Strong like an Oak.”
  • “Their components have a long shelf life, they’re cost effective, and they’re so simple a child could make them.”
  • “Dress it up however you want, that’s some disgusting animal kingdom nonsense.”
  • “So you choose your [relative] over me, your co-worker who hates you?”
  • “Every time you talk I hear that sound that plays when Pacman dies.”
  • “Honestly, I’m going to last forever. You hear that bitches? I’m gonna last forever.”
  • “My mother cried the day I was born, because she knew she would never be better than me.”
  • “All men/women/people are at least 30% attracted to me.”
  • “At any given moment, I’m thinking about one thing: [name] hunkered over eating dog food.”
  • “Turns out I gave up easy. You hear that bitches? I gave up so easy.”
  • “Mmm-kay. No hard feelings, but I hate you. Not joking. Bye.”
  • “Hi, [name], the human form of the 100 Emoji.”
  • “Hold it up. You’re gonna let some quack doctor just knife around down there?”
  • “You are blessed with a great power, and you should never snip its wings. You should let it soar.”
  • “I am prepared to light [name] on fire in protest.”
  • “After zero consideration, I’m happy to say, "hard pass.”“
  • "Sounds like a genetic disorder.”
  • “We didn’t want to say anything that would get us uninvited.”
  • “You called us useless. You called us incompetent. You called us zeroes in the sack.”
  • “Yeah, no doy. How do you think we got to be the oldest guys here?”
  • “Get your act together, or so help me God, you won’t live to see retirement.”
  • “Oh, I am as serious as a heart attack. No offense, [name].”
  • “Just drop down onto the ground and wiggle.”
  • “Who wants to have sex with a tree?”
  • “Take me to the land of vending machines.”
  • “It takes a big person to admit when they’re being a total dumb-dumb.”
  • “Can’t spill food on your shirt if you’re not wearing one.”
Double Oh My

Because I only have my iPad and some time to kill, and a Secret Agents AU post @jandjsalmon reblogged inspired me - enjoy!


He saw her at the bar, perched daintily on leather stool, one leg crossed demurely over the other. She was wearing white satin, the colour popping brightly against her sun kissed skin, material shaped to her every curve and then some, the bodice unable to stop the soft flesh of her breasts from spilling over. Jughead tore his eyes away as quickly as he looked, gaze moving to the deep crimson painted across her full lips. The makeup smudged against the clear rim of her martini glass as she took a delicate sip, muscles in her throat bobbing as she swallowed the drink – the extremely dirty drink.

Jughead glided through the crowd, slipping unnoticed past the throng of people gathered at the gala. His invisibility in his younger years had been disparaging, now it was his greatest asset. He knew the drop is going to take place here, sometime in the next hour the informant had said; he’d been told during his briefing this morning.

The Blossoms had been getting cocky during the past few months. Untouchable and untameable, they’d made little attempt to be discreet when expanding their drug ring past their usual exports. The FBI had been working for years to untangle the web they’d been weaving, not only in the nondescript town of Riverdale but also rapidly spreading down most of the east coast. And being the bountiful, charitable donors they were, most authorities were loathe to stop them in their little business ventures, no matter how soiled the money they put back into the community was.

Things had progressed to top priority when a new strain of cocaine had hit the market a few months back, locally known as ‘Whyte Wyrm’. The incorrect dosage with the wrong mixers created a lethal cocktail, the disastrous likes of which had never been seen before. The lab was still working on finding out what the drug had been cut with, using the small sample Jughead had managed to acquire during his last visit to the backwards town where it all began. It appeared that local gang members had been pulled into the ring, becoming the most efficient distributors of product while doubling as the perfect fall guys for if things went south. However, new pushers meant that the reins would have to be handed over at some point, which is what brought Jughead to this event, at this time, at this bar.

Jughead snorted internally as he glanced around at his surroundings; what better place to hand off the ledger containing the entire company history of suppliers, import routes and clientele than your own charity benefit. He caught the smug expressions of Clifford and Penelope Blossom as they appeared on the screen before him, a number of televisions around the venue playing a highlights reel of the family’s good deeds. If he weren’t so stoic towards these kinds of circumstances nowadays it would have made Jughead’s stomach turn uncomfortably.

His narrow-set eyes moved back to the blonde, watching as she tipped back the last of her liquor and slid gracefully off her chair, throwing a thankful smile at the bartender on her way. This was also mentioned at his briefing. Reports of a suspicious woman at many of the tipoff locations over the last few weeks had increased in number; medium length blonde hair, roughly five foot seven, small build. Unidentifiable. Jughead was sure this was the woman. In between keeping his eye out for the drop he’d been paying pretty close attention to her. She didn’t appear to know anyone in attendance, only muttering a quiet ‘excuse me’ on her way through the crowds in leu of holding any actual conversations. He wasn’t sure when she’d arrived either, seeing her checking her phone whilst leaning against one of the marble pillars where she wasn’t seconds before. She moved through the gala like a ghost, Jughead determined to be her shadow.

He strode purposefully to the bar, picking her up her discarded glass and slipping it into a plastic zip lock before the bartender had a chance to clear it away. The prints and DNA of this woman had just been handed to him on the wooden bar top equivalent of a silver platter; if this woman was working for the Blossoms he have to let them know they needed to find more discreet employees, this one was sloppy.

Jughead held the bag close to him, tucked slightly out of view beneath his black suit jacket as he made his way back towards the main gala, turning at the last second down a secluded hallway where he could hand off his evidence and make it back in time to intercept the drop. If he was successful – which he usually was – this would be the biggest break they’d had for months, or better yet in the entirety of the case. If the Feds got possession of this ledger, the Blossoms were all but done.

The creak of a board had Jughead turning to look over his shoulder instinctively, dark curls falling into his eyes as he checked his back, still moving purposefully towards the ballroom. A low grunt slipped from his lips as his cheek met the hard, varnished wood panelling of the wall, one arm twisted uncomfortably up his back, dropping the glass as a knee pressed into the base of his spine. He struggled, attempting to wrench himself free, before an ominous click filled the air and a barrel settled between his shoulder blades.

“You’ve been following me,” a husky voice came from behind him, warm breath fanning against his ear. The hairs on the back of his neck rose. “I don’t like to be followed. Who are you working for and what do they want?” Out of the corner of his eye Jughead caught a flash of white, blonde hair brushing his shoulder.

“I could ask you the same question,” Jughead replied with a cocky smirk, flexing the muscles of his back against the gun. The woman huffed out an unamused laugh, keeping the weapon in place as she began to pat him down, hand dipping inside the pocket of his pants as Jughead bit the inside of his cheek in an attempt to keep his body from reacting to the beautiful blonde pressed against the length of his back. The thrill of the situation was not helping much – he was an agent that lived for the danger. Finally she pulled his badge out of the inside pocket of his jacket, lips dropping along with the gun.

“FBI?” she asked, raising an eyebrow when Jughead finally had room to turn and face her as she took a step back from him. He leant against the wall, one leg bent at the knee as a smirk slipped onto his features. “Jughead? I’ve heard worse code names… but not many,” she quipped, watching in satisfaction as his expression dropped.

“I could arrest you for taking an agent’s badge,” he said, one hand moving subtly to where his gun was holstered in the back of his pants. She shook her head with a roll of her exquisitely green eyes, throwing the badge back to him so suddenly he fumbled to catch it.

“Not likely,” she deadpanned, pulling out her own badge. “Betty Cooper, CIA.” Jughead’s eyebrows shot up to meet his hairline. “I assume you’ve been notified about the drop, too?” she asked. Jughead’s eyes narrowed.

“I wasn’t informed that the CIA were working this case,” he told her suspiciously, straightening up and taking a step closer to her in case she decided to book it. In those heels he thinks he could catch her, but then again she had managed to sneak up on him.

“Likewise. It looks like someone over on your end isn’t doing their job properly,” she smirked, taking her own step towards him.

“What makes you think it’s our end?” he replied, offence colouring his tone. Betty shrugged lightly, both of them still drifting together as if by some unseen pull.

“It always is,” she murmured, now close enough for Jughead to hear even the smallest of whispers from her lips. They stood for a beat, gazes locked together unwaveringly. She’s just as beautiful up close, Jughead noted. Dangerously so.

“Well since we’re both here,” he began, dipping his chin as she tilted hers upwards. “Perhaps we can work together.” Her lips parted slightly, Jughead watching the action closely.

“I work alone,” she whispered.

“So do I,” he challenged.

He didn’t know when his hand settled against her hip, thumb rubbing the silken fabric softly, but she hadn’t moved it away. Their mouths were inches apart, breath mingling between their faces. Her eyes were hooded, pupils blown slightly and swallowing the forest Jughead found there. She pressed even closer, their bodies lining up in a way only kismet could allow.

Fuck it, Jughead thought, readying himself to close the last of the distance between them.

A shot rang out, followed by one scream at first, then another. They duo snapped apart, glancing towards the ballroom in tandem before turning back to regard each other with wide eyes.

“Come on,” Betty commanded, her voice strong. She turned to jog back into the main venue, not before grabbing Jughead’s hand and pulling him along with her.

“Hey,” Jughead started, running alongside her. “Where on earth do you keep a badge and a gun in that outfit?” he asked incredulously. The look she threw him had his breath hitching. They’re pressed against opposite walls, waiting for the perfect moment to round the corner and head to work.

“We intercept this drop and maybe later I’ll show you,” she called back above the clamour, sending him a wink before darting into the action. Jughead floundered for a second longer than he should, springing forwards to follow her steps with an entirely new determination to get this job done.

morcey  asked:

Do you have any Gotham Rogue fics in particular you'd recommend?

idk about gotham rogues fics because i don’t really read that much fanfiction and then they tend to be about main pairings, but i’ve got some pairing fics (of the gotham rogues) that have good rogue gallery interactions :) 

  • fight back by amanda-jp (harley/ivy) - after a drunken night on the town, ivy confronts harley about joker’s continuous mistreatment, culminating in a short trip to hell.
  • mistletoe by amanda-jp (harley/ivy) - after getting kicked in the face by batgirl, arrested right before christmas, and an unwelcome surprise in the arkham cafeteria, harley deserves a kiss under the mistletoe more than anyone. definitely more than mr. two-sides mcsplit-face laughing it up with ivy.
  • feel human by amanda-jp (harley/ivy) - harley comes to ivy on a rainy night, bruised and beaten but with a big smile on her face. what else is new?
  • (basically any fic on @amanda-jp‘s fic section, she’s amazing.) 
  • mad love: a new beginning by amberz10 (harley/ivy) - what if dr. harleen quinzel stopped in front of poison ivy’s cell that first day rather than the joker’s? how would things change?
  • coffee stains by psyonixre (harley/ivy) - a short harlivy one-shot about shared apartments, sunflowers and cherry lip gloss.
  • i know you said no man-bats in the house but… by imbatgirl (harley/ivy) - harley has a bad habit of gravitating towards anything that even slightly resembles a cute animal so, when harley brings home an injured man-bat, ivy is less than pleased.
  • a thousand masks by mix stitch (harvey/bruce, harvey/gilda) - after eight years abroad, bruce wayne comes back into gotham just in time to celebrate the new year. apparently, being gotham city’s hard-partying prodigal son is hard work, and bruce seems to have no time for a lowly ADA. even if said ADA is probably the only real friend that bruce even has left in this godforsaken city. four weeks to the day after his arrival back in gotham, bruce waltzes into harvey’s office on the third floor of the district attorney’s office as though it hasn’t been a month of harvey playing phone tag and dealing out assorted excuses.
  • scars, warm against his palms by mithen (harvey/bruce) - bruce comes home to gotham and harvey.
  • a great leap into the dark by havisham (harvey/bruce, all-female au) - vignettes about vigilantes – a caped crusader, how the perfect sidekick is forged (tragedy!), a felonious feline-fancier, a tragic district attorney, and a reformed (reforming) tire-thief.
  • unmasked by unpretty (bruce/selina) - catwoman is selina kyle, and bruce has always known it. batman is bruce wayne, but selina just found that out. shockingly, it turns out the dude has issues.
  • batman: crimson by severina310 (bruce/selina) - selina kyle returns to gotham with her sights set on a big score. on the night of robbery, everything goes wrong. batman and catwoman team up to untangle a criminal web that leads them from gotham to bludhaven and beyond.
  • it’s an illusion by pluppelina (edward/jonathan) - the story of arkham asylum, arkham city, and a developing relationship, told through the point of view of nobody at all.
  • a little sincerity by rhadamantelope (edward/jonathan) - in the words of oscar wilde, “a little sincerity is a dangerous thing, and a great deal of it is absolutely fatal.”
Before the Line (Prequel) Part 4

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Summary: When Clint enlists the help of a former SHIELD agent to help during Civil War, will a new friendship blossom or will it become something more?

Warnings: Fluff, Language

Words: 1499 (yeah not really a drabble)

A/N: Trying to get back into the grind of writing. Also, I didn’t edit so pardon the errors. Hopefully y’all enjoy this!

Part 3

Originally posted by weslehgibbins

As everyone leaves to suit up, I stay behind already in my fighting gear and waiting for everyone to return. I hear heavy footsteps behind me and I turn around to see the reason why I am here. Bucky Barnes. He’s dressed in an all black attire and a ski jacket which just so happened to be missing a left sleeve, exposing the terrible gift HYDRA bestowed upon him. He makes his way over to me but keeps his distance, almost as if he’s afraid to  get close to anyone, physically or emotionally, in fear of inflicting harm.

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Valentines Day


Three months on.
I hadn’t wanted to return to group therapy. I was genuinely hoping that I wouldn’t be having therapy at all, but there I was, nervously gazing at the door, once again dreading attending a bloody group therapy session.
There were a million reasons I was anxious to enter that room. I was going in there with a completely different mindset to how I had the last time. I was a little more open minded, I was intrigued about how I would feel at the end of session, how I would feel after once again voicing the reasons behind my therapy. The last time I’d been there I’d been so sarcastic, and sceptical. I hadn’t taken it seriously and I’d bullshitted the reasons behind my being there. I knew it wasn’t going to the same this second time around.
And then of course, the main reason behind my rigid frame, the reason my anxieties were engulfing me, was the thought of walking into that room and seeing Harry.

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lottemalou  asked:

If D and C were dating, why don't they say so? Chris is out of the closet and it's not hurting him right? So what could be the reason that they keep it secret? No hate just generally curious

The reason is simple. Legal, contractual obligations cloaked into something called a morality clause. Because when Darren was 23 years old a decision was made by Fox, Murphy, and his incompetent team that he was much more marketable as a straight man and that they can make tons of money off young girls who thought of him as their teenage dream. And sadly, those obligations have not ended. The situation has been further exacerbated a million fold by the decision to hire M.  In my eyes the single biggest mistake made as she will not walk away and whatever power she wields is strong enough that Darren has not been able to untangle himself from her web.

Voice of Reason

“Why would you do this to me?”

Raven stared at her perfectly manicured fingers as she tried to ignore his judging stare. Every second that passed between them was tense and thick, emotions running on high, so much so that it put the simple empath on edge. His perfectly pressed suite hugged his fit figure in all of the right places while his indigo tie hung loosely around his graceful green neck. He paced erratically, never staying place in one spot for too long. The goth was afraid of what he must have though of her as she barged into him on this day of all days. How could he ever forgive her for what she had to do.

“I’m sorry Gar, I really am I just-”

“You just what? Can’t stand to see me happy! Is that it? Your miserable so you have to make everyone like you?” Her body subconsciously flinched at his harsh, judging tone. This isn’t what she wanted to do today. No, all she wanted was to stand beside the beautiful bride and pretend to be happy for the man she secretly loved. Although he failed to see her true feelings all she wanted for him was happiness, honest and true happiness. Happiness that she herself knew was never possible for her. However, fate had another plan for the skidish Titan.

“That’s not it.” she managed to force past her tongue. “I know what you must think of me, but you needed to know the truth before you walked down that isle.”

“So you expect me to believe you? You expect me to go up to her and accuse her of that! You must be out of your mind!” His tone rose with every syllable that was thrown her way but she did not sway. This was too important, he was too important to life in the dark forever.

“I am not out of my mind.” The empath whispered to her fingers, choosing to advert his gaze still. “I know what I’m talking about. I can sense it on her Gar, I’ve heard her say it to her friends, she’s admitted it to everyone and-”

“But not you! She never admitted it to you!” he bit harshly. “You hate her, why should I even believe you!”

Her empty gaze met his for the first time in what felt like ages and what he must have seen forced him to take a few steps back in shock. Tears welled up in her eyes as the last ounce of her composure slipped through her frail finger tips. His never ending forest eyes watched her as she stood from his hotel bed. Her frilly indigo dress fell back against her knees causing a tingling sensation to slip up her soft skin. “Never in our friendship have I lied to you. No matter how much we fought, no matter how much hatred I felt from you, I have always told you the truth no matter how much it hurt.” A broken intake of air cut through the tension in the room and her hands instinctively moved across her chest providing a false sense of security. “I know you love her. I sense it from you every time you two are together, it is so overwhelming that I have a hard time-”

Her voice dropped just before she was able to finish her pathetic sentence. Years of self control all built up only to fall at the hands of the only person she ever loved. Her mind cursed her for what she had lost, for what she allowed herself to loose. It wasn’t him, it never was, it was always her. Always closed off, always rude and selfish. Eventually he had given up on her, moved on to someone who accepted his affection with open arms. She had kept her mouth shut, watched as their new found love blossomed, she was their when her proposed and even though she died that day, she told him the truth. That she wanted what was best for him and at the time she believed that was another woman. Even when she had been asked to be a bridesmaid she only accepted because he had asked, so here she was in a ridiculous dress attempting him to see something that she had been blind to. If she hadn’t left the room with Star for that split second she would have never known, she would have let him live in some sick fantasy of a girl that only existed in his head. God she felt stupid. “I love you Garfield, as a friend, as a team mate and as something so much more.”

Her pathetic confession seemed foreign on her lips, like the taste of a new drink. In so many ways it felt wrong, but in so many more it felt so right. His awkward tick kicked in as his hand rose to rub the back of his head, breaking the eye contact that she had initiated. “Raven. I-”

“That is why I had to tell you the truth. That woman is bad news. She is cheating on you, her lover his here waiting for her, taking her every chance he gets. You may love her but I can tell you without a shadow of a doubt that she does not love you. Weather you believe me or not, that is up to you.”

Silence fell on the two as what was spoken sank into the room. The truth hurt but with truth came something so much more important. Freedom. Finally the empath knew that she had gotten her point across and with one swift motion she scooped up her jacket along with her the idiotic purse Star forced on her and walked towards the door. Her heels hit the carpet, matching the beat of her breaking heart. “Where are you going?” He asked softly.

“I don’t know.” she replied honestly as she whipped the tears that still fell from her face. Makeup smudged against her palm but that didn’t matter, she didn’t need to impress anyone anymore. “But I’m not going to stand around and watch you marry someone like that.”

“Your a bridesmaid, what am I suppose to tell-”

“I don’t care what you tell people.” she bit almost harshly. “Tell them I’m sick, that I had an emergency. Hell, tell them I ditched the wedding to go get drunk on the strip, it doesn’t matter.” Her body turned one last time towards his green figure and her lungs took in the sweet smell that haunted her dreams. “I’ll be leaving tonight.”

“When will I see you again?” The simple question took her aback slightly, almost stunning her in the process.

However after a moment she gained what little composure she had left and whispered, “I wish I could lie to you,” after a hollow chuckle she answered him in the most honest sentence that she had ever let slip past her lips. “after today we will probably never see each other again. Not after this.”

“Raven, wait-”

But she didn’t. No she couldn’t. Her sanity was long gone and there was no way she could bare another moment in his God like presence. Her letter of resignation had already been filled and placed under the door of her leader, after the wedding her would open it and everyone would know. After tonight she would no longer be a Titan.


The train station smelled of feet and decaying food. Passengers grunted and muttered as they loaded and unloaded their designated shuttles. A grey mist settled around the empath as she waited for the 9:00 passage to California. Not her first choice in destination however, after much arguing with Jinx she had agreed to stay with her and Wally until she decided what she wanted to do. Her fingers twisted and pulled at her done up hair as she tired to untangle the web that they called beauty. Bobbie pin after bobbie pin fell to the station floor and at some point she actually believed that her scalp would bleed from all of pinching.

After on final pull the last of the pins fell to her lap allowing her plum hair to fall gracefully to her shoulders. A satisfied sigh passed her lips and with one flinch she shot the dreaded pin towards the trash next to her. Out of pure dumb luck the pin bounced off the rim of the can and landed directly into the sack below. A stupid smile crossed her face and she couldn’t help bask in the simple pleasure that it offered her.

“Nice shot.” A voice said from behind. The goth didn’t bother to turn for she knew who the voice belonged to, she could always tell it was him by the way his voice slipped down her skin like honey. Her back straightened and she found herself holding her breath as he took the seat beside her.

“I mean really, you should play basketball.” he joked lightly as his gaze shifted to her. She could feel the burning sensation on her skin, the same one she felt every time he looked at her.

She watched her heels as they planted themselves firmly onto the tile floor, “What are you doing here.”

A light chuckle erupted from the person beside her and she could sense the relief that he admitted to her. It confused her, hell it scared her. “It took me along time to find you Rae. I never took you for a train person.”

“I asked what you were doing here.” she hissed as she turned to face his twisted face. He looked as if he was deep in thought, as if the question was surprising to him.

“I’m here to avoid the disaster that I left behind.” her replied softly, running his green hands through his perfectly sculpted hair ruining it forever. “Everyone was pissed and rude. Specifically her family.”

It was her turn to offer the confused look. She could not place the feeling that was seeping form him. It was weird, almost feeling new to the young woman. “I don’t understand.”

“I confronted her and she admitted everything. I was surprised honestly, she had never told me so much during our whole relationship.” Although his voice was upbeat, Raven could sense the undertone of hurt that he was trying to hide from her. “She has been cheating for months now, hell she even invited him to our wedding. I feel like a fool.”

“It’s not your fault.” the goth whispered softly. His gaze met hers and he offered the toothy smile that she had fallen in love with as a child. Nothing could stop the gentle smile that grew on her face. Although tragic that his relation ended she was happy. Happy that he found out, happy that she had taken her advice and confronted his fears. The truth had set him free.

His hand slid over hers sending a spark up her arm without her consent. Slowly his fingers interlaced with hers and she couldn’t help but stare at the action. “Thank you Rae.”

“Yeah.” she whispered to their conjoined hands, “For you anything.”

The sound of her train nearing the station pulled her out of the moment and back into reality. They watched as it slowed to a stop before them, opening their doors to her and sending a sinking feeling to her stomach. “Is this yours?” he asked squeezing her hand tightly.

“Yeah.” she whispered half hearty, not knowing what to do.

A few moments passed and finally he removed his hands from hers clearing her throat in the process. “Well, are you going to take it?”

Her breath quickened as she pondered the question. Did she take it? Her brain screamed at her to get up and leave, to take every grueling moment she had experienced and leave it with him, to start over and hope for the best. However her heart told her otherwise. “No.” she replied almost silently. “No, I hate California.”

“Hmm.” he sneered undoubtedly allowing a smirk to cross his face. “Yeah sunshine, fun, who loves that?”

“Not me.” she replied ignoring the happiness that radiated off of her and allowing herself to bask into in his radiance.

“Well,” he cooed leaning in closer to her form causing a pink tint to grow against her skin. “since your already missing your train, how about I buy you a drink.”

Her face turned to reply in a sly tone, however she was cut off by his lips as he captured her into a sincere, almost overwhelming kiss. The station began to melt around them and she allowed her hand to raise to his neck in order to pull him closer. He obeyed her silent command and brought his hand and placed it softly against her exposed knee. Her skin burned with passion while every nerve of hers stood on end.

Perfect. It was perfect.

Miss Fisher when Everybody Hurts: the May trope challenge

“What just happened?”

Although April is supposed to be the cruellest month, in the MFMM fandom that designation must be given to May instead, as it saw the monthly trope declared as hurt/comfort. What, we asked ourselves, were the poor lambs going to be put through now? Haven’t they already been enough through the wringer?

Hurt can come in so many different ways – physical, emotional, or maybe more symbolical or feared than actually happening. Unsurprisingly, the Miss Fisher fanfic included them all. It has – again – been a delight to read the trope fics of the month! (here is the full collection: Everybody Hurts.)

So, how to structure the hurt and its comfort in the best way? I decided to do it based on where the hurt comes from, and how the comfort for it is created. Most of the hurt is comforted through the relationship between Phryne and Jack, while some of the hurt also comes from it. As a rule, Jack takes most of the hurt, but there are also quite a lot of Phryne hurting.

First, there is hurt through what could have been. The hurt is coming from the fear of things that could happen, the ever present possibility of a sad ending.

First, @firesign23‘s beautiful and intense “Blame It On The Wireless”, where Phryne receives bad news about a raid Jack was leading. In the view of fatalities and Jack not contacting her, she fears the worst. One of the beautiful things with this fic is the way that nothing has happened to Jack, it is all in Phryne’s imaginations and fears and in the failed attempt to communicate. She is driven by worry and by the nagging feeling from never having told him to be careful. As Phryne drives to the hospital she fears the worst, and when she there encounters a Jack without a scratch, behaving as if nothing was unusual, she explodes. 

Time stopped, her stomach flipped, a small, strangled sob escaped her mouth. He was standing in the hall, deep in conversation, with nary a scratch on him. Her eyes flicked over him twice. His suit wasn’t even rumpled, for heaven’s sake! As if sensing her presence he looked up, excused himself, and began to walk over.
   Phryne did the only thing she could think to do: she turned on her heel and walked away.

She drives home without a word, and when Jack comes to see what’s the matter, she tries to expel him but instead drags him into a frantic lovemaking: “She screamed when her orgasm hit, guttural and unfamiliar. The sound of grief that almost was.” The things that could have happened are looming above them, and the need to learn to deal with these kinds of things is pressing.

Another version of the “what could have been” is @scruggzi’s “Without Regret”. Thos gives – in a unrelentingly sad and poetic way – small snippets of alternate endings to Phryne’s and Jack’s story. The alternate endings are given shape and weight, flesh and blood, and the sadness is both in how they would not work out, and in how Phryne would die, proudly, but incredibly sad. There are lines like “When she sells the house, Mr Butler, with a sense of trepidation, returns a toy badge to its owner by request” and “The crystal glasses that never made it to his wedding arrive for him with her Will. He can’t believe that she is really dead. Then he can’t believe that after all this time he has finally succumbed to the myth of her invincibility.” In the end, @scruggzi not being an incredibly cruel writer, there is the possibility of those versions not happening – but the conjuring up of them and giving them this weight lingers with the reader. In this way, the happy ending stands out as even brighter, in contrast to the sadness of the ones never (probably) really happening. If the answer to “who is hurting” in @firesign23’s fic is Phryne, in @scruggzi’s, it is rather the reader that is hurting the most.

Another unabashedly both sad and sweet hurt/comfort fic is @loopyhoopyfrood‘s “Last Words”. Here, the soulmate trope makes a comeback, in an ominous way. The system of soulmates is rather cruel – the words you have on your skin are the last ones your soulmate will say to you. What this would mean in terms of worrying, I can see this world consist of rather neurotic people. In this case, it turns out that the last words Jack’s soulmate will tell him is “Come after me, Jack Robinson”, and when Phryne says this to him at the airfield, he becomes scared. When he later receives news that a plane has crashed over the Indian Ocean, it’s perhaps not so surprising that Mac finds him “with bleeding knuckles and a hole in his office wall” – a wonderful image. And yes, it’s definitely Jack that hurts on this one. There is comfort too, but how I’ll leave for you to read.

“Do you love her more than you once loved me?”

One fic has taken the trope outside of the Phryne/Jack relationship, exploring Rosie’s hurt and heartbreak in a lovely, and lovingly, way, @longlineoftvdetectivesWhat Comfort in Truth”. “Do you love her more than you once loved me?” That is Rosie’s question to Jack as she has been bound to stay over at Wardlow for the trial after “Unnatural habits”. It is such a poignant question – how does one compare loves? – and it is beautifully done since the answer is not a simple one. We follow Rosie’s perspective and feelings at meeting Phryne and seeing Phryne and Jack together, and it’s really agonizingly heart clenching.

“I love you too darling,” Phryne said, in the easy manner of a woman who said this to the man on the other end of the phone several times a day.
   There was a time Rosie was that woman. But now she was utterly alone.

I just want to hug Rosie, and I feel so much for Jack too and how this makes him feel, and this fic shows us how they cannot really help each other, but that a third party like Phryne can step in and help untangle their complicated web of guilt and sorrow. The solidarity between women, Phryne’s way of being, is what finally provides some kind of comfort for Rosie, who then proceeds to give her testimony in court in a confident and strong manner.

The next group of fics is those where the hurt is coming from the outside, and the comfort is the relationship itself – either given as a part of an established relationship, or the comfort is the very breakthrough and start of the relationship.

Have you been drinking, Inspector?

Two fics that capture sad, grieving Jack is @ladyroxie‘s “Bid farewell” and @omgimsarahtoo‘s “Fault Lines”. The settings are different – in the first, they are not in a relationship but there are promises of one in the end, in the latter they’re in an established relationship. In the first, Jack learns about the death of a longtime friend, having survival guilt, and in the latter the guilt is acutely present, as a young man under Jack’s command has died. Both explore beautifully how Phryne reacts to a Jack in grief.

In @ladyroxie‘s fic, Phryne telephones since Jack has forgotten they had a rendez-vous:

When she spoke, her voice seemed to reach through the telephone and stroke his cheek. He bit the inside of it, hard.
“Do you need anything, Jack?”
He willed himself to picture soup and headache powder though her voice suggested other things.
“No.” He swallowed. “Thank you. Goodbye Miss Fisher.”

but Phryne sees through this and comes over:  “Why are you here, Miss Fisher. I told you, I’m -” / “I know what you told me, Jack. You’re a terrible liar.”

The fic mirrors some of the ways the show lets Jack take care of Phryne, like the protest against her guilt. In @omgimsarahtoo’s story, Jack is even more wallowing, stricken by guilt, and in his sorrowful and drunk state he feels he is not worthy of anything, definitely not of her, and he takes the blame for people getting killed under his command:

“Superior officer,” he murmured. “Inferior, more like.” He took another swig of his drink and turned his face away from her.
Phryne took a mouthful of her own whiskey, not knowing quite what to do. Jack’s quiet confidence was so compelling—it had never occurred to her that he had moments like this, where he doubted everything. 

But Phryne figures out how to be the comforting figure, cradling him and telling him “I’ve got you. It’s all right.” A night’s sleep is the best remedy. In”Fault lines,” this is then ending in a real bout of love-making, and Phryne thinking “It was good, she thought as her mind drifted into sleep, that his cracks lined up so perfectly alongside hers.”

@adverbally‘s fic “Sillage” – her first for MFMM, welcome! – has Phryne as the one hurting and needing their relationship as comfort. A case with domestic violence reminds her a little too much of René and what could have happened if she had stayed with him. Jack comes home to her to check on her, after she disappeared suspiciously quickly from the crime scene, and Phryne compares the two men, seeing how Jack is different, strong without being dominating:

She leaned in and pressed their lips together, relishing the way he relaxed against her and opened his mouth to her. It was moments like these that made her most aware of how unlike René he was. René was all fire and urgency where Jack favored tenderness and sensuality. René kissed as hard as he hit and used his touches to force her into submission. Jack touched her like she was something precious and awe-inspiring and let her guide their love-making.

In @whopooh’s ”The Marrying Kind” the hurt is so small, and the comfort unexpectedly rational for this trope. The hurt is the outside world’s view of Phryne’s and Jack’s relationship, and how Phryne sees this giving Jack problems, so it is rather related to the group of fics I will talk about later on – where the relationship in itself is the hurt. The twist here is that although the relationship is the comfort, it is so in an unexpected way, by denying it to become too ‘conventional’. Phryne attempts to provide comfort by offering to marry Jack, but he says no – not wanting the easy way of making everything right. If the relationship is going to be a comfort or a haven, it has to be in another way, not via the formality of their bond, and not by Phryne offering to give in to a demand he hadn’t even made.

A similar way of holding the most thorough comfort at bay is @longlineoftvdetectivesHead Injuries” that explores the time when Jack is out cold from the nerve tonic and the blow to his head in “Death Defying Feats”. It is a short scene where Mac comes by to assess the assault victim, and also sees through Phryne and her feelings for the unconscious detective. The comfort is not the relationship per se, but the offered possibility that there might eventually be a relationship, and Mac telling Phryne, from her long-standing friendship, “Let yourself be happy”.

There are so few pictures of Mac and Jack together, but here’s one!

Over to three fics where the burgeoning relationship is the actual comfort.

First @flashofthefuseTwo’s Company” that has some real physical hurt – Phryne and Jack have been injjured in the job, and while Jack is recuperating, Phryne is simply not waking up after surgery, to Mac’s and Jack’s great worry. Just as in @longlineoftvdetectives’s above mentioned fic, Mac is the pillar of reason and loveliness, and also huge amounts of sass. Here it is with Jack she has her conversation. So even if the end point of the fic is comfort from starting the relationship, there is first the very important – equally important – comfort of Mac’s friendship, which is wonderful.

The first chapter is all about Mac and Jack bonding over their joint love for Phryne. Jack refuses to leave her hospital room – “The look he gave her was one of a man that knew he had no secrets and didn’t particularly care.” And they come to a mutual understanding: ”Their eyes met and something passed between them. An understanding that of all the people that knew and loved Phryne Fisher, they were, perhaps, the two that knew and loved her best. Unconditionally.” Then, when Phryne wakes up, Jack retreats, and so the hurt is double – not only the fear for her life (and before that his, since he was injured too), but also the hurt of his withdrawn attention and the insecurity of what their relationship actually is, as well as a call-back to the hurt of “Blood at the Wheel” too – altogether a delicious mix. Phryne realises something of her affections when she sees Jack hurt, but he retreats so much she doesn’t know whether he wants them, which results in a lovely mutual pining. The way she slowly worms her way into knowing this, via a case and with a good help from Mac, is lovely and with a lot of tension.

In @missingmissfisher‘s & Comeaftermejackrobinson’s “Of hope also one lives” (not yet completed) there is also a real physical hurt. Jack has lost his memory after being hurt on the job, and his mind has decided that he is Archie Jones, and that Phryne – Fern – is his wife. Phryne thus finds herself in a situation where she must play wife to Archie Jones while worrying whether Jack will ever come back to his right mind again. The hurt is extra tangible because they had just been on the brink of starting something – Phryne had invited Jack to dinner, when he had to enter into the raid and was hurt. First, Phryne is fearing for his life, remembering her time in the war, then she has the scare of him not knowing who he is, and then small snippets of him coming back. As the fic is not finished, we’ll have to see how the comfort part will play out. 

In @rositalg’s chapter 9 of “Chasing Shadow”, we are given a new ending to “King Memse’s Curse”. The hurt that permeates the fic is the close call that was Phryne’s dealings with Murdoch Foyle and that Jack acutely feels:

All night long, he’d stood along the fringes of the party observing, quietly acknowledging that all of this might have been lost if Phryne had been allowed to let herself die at the hands of Murdoch Foyle.

This night, after all this has happened, when she asks he cannot say no: “If it were any other day, he might have been stronger. Any other day, her touch, her eyes might not have broken him. But here, on this night, standing in her parlor, he didn’t have the will to deny her.”

Jack practicing his “letting Phryne go”-technique.

Then, we move on to the really hurtful things: hurt that comes not from outside, and is not physical, but emotional and from the relationship itself: their differences, doubts, and the way they can hurt each other – particularly the problem of holding fast or letting go. 

The first one is sassasam/ @phrynesboudoir’s “Goodbye Hello”. This is a kind of melancholy diptych, like two ‘still lives’ of Jack and Phryne respectively, alone, contemplating the relationship and what they might be heading towards, while the other one is asleep beside them. There is something serene in these two nights, and their symmetries and asymmetries say as much as possible of the respective character. First it is their last night, the night before Phryne is flying to England with her father, and Jack thinking about perhaps losing her. Then it is their first night, after reuniting, and Phryne thinking about perhaps staying with him. They both need to understand what might be their biggest fears, emotionally, while thinking about the other’s personality as well as physicality, as s/he is sleeping just beside them. The longing, the fear, the love – all very beautiful. Jack, the last night, wants her to stay but is letting her go, and he notices he has left a mark on her neck: 

He’d marked her, branded her, wanted the world to see that for one shining moment she had been his and his alone. He imagined her waking in the morning to find the mark, winding a scarf about her throat to hide it but still, knowing it was there. And for a few days hence, she would carry his mark with her and remember Jack Robinson.

There is a slight hopelessness to Jack, and he has difficulties aligning what has happened with that:

And so they’d had their gaudy night. Or at least that’s what he’d told himself it would be. One night of passion and possession. One night and then he’d let her go.
But he hadn’t expected her to love him back.

Phryne, in chapter 2, is watching Jack and thinking about “the way her body responded to his every touch, ignited with a passion and longing for closeness that she’d thought long gone in her.”

In @ollyjayonline‘s “Old Habits Die Hard” Phryne and Jack have trouble adjusting to a life together; as the title says, habits and ways of behaving are hard to change, and in some ways, they are very different people. They don’t manage to speak (yes, this would be an excellent contribution also to the Miscommunication trope) about their needs, especially as they hardly see each other, but keep different times and more or less communicate through notes and absences. What starts as a generosity – to let the other do their thing, and that is something that is so much Phryne and Jack – instead develops into a nagging doubt that the other might not want them anymore, small snippets of un-generosity slipping in at the hurtful feeling of that. There is a fine line between letting the other make his or her decisions and not seeming to care, and that is really explored by this fic, all from Phryne’s perspective. The questions she asks are legitimate and hard: "Christ, did they even have enough in common to be in a relationship? Come to that, what did she know of relationships anyway?” And then the comfort, them actually talking and understanding each other, is a wonderful oasis just when you thought you would choke on all that desert sand.

In @whopooh’s ”Retreat Is Impossible” it is again their differences that are the problem, and the idea that one of the things Phryne loves about Jack is what makes it impossible for her to have him: “She had come to count on Jack to do the right thing, to resist her, to jokingly lock eyes with her but to not take any of her suggestions seriously.” When Jack at one point ceases to resist Phryne and gives in to her flirtations, kissing her, she realises this problem. Phryne rejects him, and a hurt Jack has to come to terms with what happened. This is a Jack that knows how to keep his emotions in check, knowing that he cannot force Phryne into something, and knowing that it isn’t fair either to call her fickle or cruel. “I know I cannot make you love me,” he says to her, and promises that he won’t disappear on her again, the way he did after the car crash. His repressed pain is rather palpable, and when the comfort comes, it’s from Phryne realising that she does want him fully, a realisation she can only have because he didn’t pressure her or tried to force her hand.

“That’s all I have to say.”

Finally, there are two wonderful fics that scrutinize the trope through joking with it and ideas about trust, betrayal, hurt, and comfort. @kidnthehall‘s “Breakfast in bed” is a wonderful romp where Jack is upset that Phryne has finished all his favourite cereal, a type of food she doesn’t even like, and he challenges her about this betrayal:

”I thought I could trust you. I asked for one thing!”
”I don’t…”
”One thing! And behind my back? All you had to do was ask first!”
”You don’t feel like you’re overreacting just a bit?”

Apart from joking with the hurt/comfort trope, the fic also has a glorious take on Jack’s liberal man-talk: ”I need to make something perfectly clear, Phryne. You know I’m a generous man, maybe not as generous or sharing as you’d like me to be or as much as I would like me to be. For you. But I don’t want you to think that my breakfast cereal is like all the other food.” To which Phryne can of course only react in one way: ”What other food?” And once the hurting is finished, there is plenty of comfort taking place through the specific delights of the relationship.

The final fic is @olderbynow‘s “A Shortage of Sympathy”, where Phryne is portrayed as rather “cruel”, not being very sympathetic to a Jack in pain. This might seem harsh, especially the way @olderbynow teases us in her way of writing it, an impression that lasts until we realise what his pain is about.

He looked very much like she ought to expect to be breaking in a new detective inspector in the near future because her current one wouldn’t be around much longer.
She nearly felt sorry for him. But not quite. “Come on, Jack. It wasn’t that bad.”

Then the fic explores what the pain is about –  let’s not give it all away, but just say that this fic too is food related. Phryne teasing Jack is wonderful, as well as the way he manages to almost – but only almost – give as good as he takes. The dialogue and both of them attempting to win over the other just glitters and sparkles all the way to the natural conclusion: that Jack has found a new thing he dislikes almost as much as operetta.

And on that light and lovely note, this trope overview is done, and there is nothing more for us than to look forward to the June trope “undercover”.

Earlier trope overviews of MFMM year of tropes: January (soulmate), February (miscommunication), March (bottle episode), April (bodyswap/role reversal).


• Jacobi falling for Eiffel despite his feelings for Kepler, trying to untangle from that web of manipulation and abuse and fighting for something softer, for gentler eyes and hands, imagining those kinder words and kisses instead of Kepler’s rough commanding ones
• Jacobi watching how Eiffel is so definite in his pacifism, his determination to save Hera, his love for the AI and Minkowski especially burning the brightest, and feeling that pang of jealousy
• Jacobi hating himself for being on Kepler’s side and the obvious disadvantage this brings re getting in doug’s good books
• Jacobi curling up against the edge of Kepler’s bed while his senior snores loudly, rasping beside him, thinking about Eiffel sleeping alone, wondering if he is becoming desperate, convincing himself there is no escape or reciprocation
• be funny, aloof, the demolition’s expert with no strong opinions on anything and happy to snark like a one dimensional comedy archetype
• Jacobi hiding bruises under his clothes, aching to reveal them to Eiffel one night when they chat about who they used to be and who they’re scared they still are
• Jacobi feeling his heart tremble in fear when Eiffel asks him about Kepler, frightened of the eyes and ears everywhere, frightened that his heart can’t break free entirely from that Hell
• the night shift is long, and the silences longer
• Jacobi shaking, stammering, trying to make sense, trying to cover up the obvious
• Eiffel asking: “do you love him?”
• neither of their hands are clean; Eiffel is just as volatile as him, but Eiffel isn’t a ticking bomb, a poisonous chemical hazard bubbling up underneath fragile skin
• Eiffel asking: “do you love him?”
• they both reek of secrets
• Jacobi answering: “yes.”
• Eiffel kissing him, sulphur and alcohol together, bruises graced with kind hands, warm body against cold soul.
• Eiffel kissing him.

Aspect Analysis: MIND

Are you sure? Choose carefully.

  • Pos/Neg: Mind is a Negative Aspect.
  • Nature: Mind removes Emotion from a closed system.
  • Counterpart: Mind’s opposing Aspect is Heart.
  • Symbolism: Brains and thoughts, electricity, coins, sunglasses and blindfolds, scales and justice symbology.

Stop. Wait. What will you do next? Think carefully. The flip of a coin could change the fate of the entire world. The world is a complex waltz of actions and reactions, and if you want to keep up you need to consider every option with care. Concentrate. Free your Mind from distractions. Learn to navigate the tangled web of thought, and you can control the butterfly whose wings start tornados.

Keep reading


This is something I’ve been planning to do for a while. I hoped it would serve the purpose of being both a guide to readers (a most likely futile attempt to untangle the web of relationships that exists between these characters), and a chance to show how I myself imagine the Farseers to look side by side.

I’m sorry there isn’t really much way for me to conceal the spoilers that appear in this image. I’m just going to have to use the excuse that everything on my blog that contains Fool’s Assassin spoilers is tagged to the nines.

Also, i self-indulgently included Shun in this, despite the fact that nothing’s been confirmed yet. But I use the excuse that I drafted this loosely based on Fitz’s perspective (hence why I used “The Fool” and not “Beloved”). Fitz believes Shun is a Farseer, so I snuck her in.


Kylo Ren and Poe Dameron both love the reader. Hard choices.

Warnings: Psychological torture, references to violence.
Plot: Poe Dameron, the best pilot in the resistance, has been captured and tortured for the whereabouts of the droid. Kylo Ren now has a chance to see into the man’s mind; under the guise of searching for the map, he probes and finds information about the woman he once loved.
A/N: I think this might be my favourite thing I’ve ever written. Man, I’m reeling from emotion here. Part of my series where the Jedi reader was not killed in the temple onslaught, and has joined the Resistance to amend her guilt for not being there to stop Ben. Super super angsty.

His boots clinked against the hard metal floor, his breathing echoing through his mask as he pressed open the door to the interrogation room. Kylo Ren felt the man’s defiance as though it were his own; felt the pilot’s rage reverberating in his blood.
The rush was tangible, and he felt the Force moving through them.
“I had no idea we had the best pilot in the Resistance on board.” Ren began, his eyes travelling to the pilot clasped to the table.

Poe Dameron. He’d heard the name as though it were a legend.
But all Ren saw was a stubborn man. A child.
“Comfortable?” Ren smirked, his mask making him sound cold and clinical.
Poe’s eyes moved to the retraint on his right arm; he flexed his fist against the steel backboard.
“Not really.”
“I’m impressed” Ren added, moving towards the restrained pilot “no one has been able to get out of you-”
Control. Focus.
He felt anger sweltering within him, threatening to break his calm demeanor. A storm, raging in his chest.
“-What you did with the map.”
Poe’s brow cocked, his lip tightening into a hard line. Ren could see the blood crusting around his hairline, scarring from the previous attempts to extract information wore at his cheeks.
“You might want to re-think your technique” Poe breathed, his nostrils flaring in defiance.
Ren could have laughed.
Slowly, deliberately, he raised his gloved hand, his fingertips pulling at the strings of the Force. Emotions and messages unfurled inside Ren’s mind; not his own. Nothing like his own.
…Recalibrating for the drive matrix, shields running at twenty percent and…
…Seven units? Galactic credits aren’t worth a damned thing these days…
Ren felt Dameron resisting; felt his mind filling with useless information. Hyperdrive specs. Gun calibrations. Useless.
Poe gritted his teeth, sweat beading on his forehead. He let out a cry, and Ren released him, allowing him a moment of respite. Poe breathed, and then, Ren bit his teeth and grinned.

He threw his mind into the pilots, Ren throwing images of searing pain through his mind. Of devastated worlds, and vast nothingness, and burning laser shots. Poe’s eyes rolled back, and this time Ren found his resolve was weaker.
…The X-Wing has…Maps when they said they lead to Skyw-…
…If she’s there, she’ll wait, she’ll wait…

Ren caught a flash of an image; the cockpit of an X-Wing, slender hands clasing his shoulders. Poe’s shoulders? Familiar hands.
Control. Focus.
“Where is it?” Ren asked, his voice dead as his mind projected more images. His slaughtered friends. Burns and cuts and broken bones scattered across the tarmac, Resistance symbols blazened across their chestplates.
“The Resistance…will not be intimidated by you.”
Ren felt anger wash over him again; this time, it was just what he needed. The anger channeled through him; he tasted blood in his mouth. Was it his mouth? Cuts deep across his forehead.
No, not his forehead.
…If I never see her again…
…Rolled off on Jakku, likely in a ditch by now. Hope it was worth it…
Sunlight rolling off of Ben’s hair, eating a crust of bread as he looked out over the setting suns.
“Don’t go getting yourself killed” she whispered, her lips brushing against his dark, thick hair.
His hair?
“You know me. Can’t stay out of trouble too long.” he smirked, the voice leaving his mouth not his voice, not his tone. His pilot gear pressed against his chest, his gloves numbing his hands.
Ren felt a wave of panic, his mind returning to the present. His hands trembled; he’d lost control for a moment. But a moment was too long, here.
Control. Focus.
His thoughts returned to the map, feeling emotion rush through him.
“Where is it?” Ren repeated, his teeth gritting as he poured his anger through the ties holding him to Poe.
Poe’s face contorted, and in a howling scream, he broke.
Images scattered, thoughts and emotions and moments breaking free of their barriers. Joy, and freedom; defiance and pain. Heartbreak, and courage, and unity. Images of hangar bays, of the cold grip of a gun in his palm, the way his boots felt against his skin in the warm mornings.
He saw the droid. The map. A BB8-unit. Rolling through the sands of Jakku. Be safe; make it to the nearest settlement. Find help. Keep the map away from the First Order.
He had what they came here for. He saw the map.
And yet…
Ren felt his mind move to another time, another place.
“You think being a Jedi is a fun hobby?” she laughed, fixing her hair back against the wind “I don’t carry around the glowstick for entertainment, you know.”
“It’d make for a great party trick” Poe said, his hands shoved into his pockets “I’ve got some tricks of my own, you know.”
She’d laughed then, and Ren had almost stopped breathing.
It had been…years. He’d assumed the worst. Assumed she was dead. Hoped, in some part, she was dead.
And now she was there. With the Resistance.
Ren’s lip curled, rage surging through him.
And the pilot cared for her.
Ren’s breathing became jagged; the world untangling from it’s web. Poe’s mind slipped away from Ren, and the pilot slumped back into deep sleep, trying to repair what damage had been done.
Ren felt himself sweating, his hands balled into fists through his gloves as his face surged with hot anger.
Control. Focus.

And yet.
The suns rose over the temple, the light scattering as Ben took her hand. His hair had grown unruly, dusting his shoulders as he looked up at the canopy. Thousands of birds swooped overhead, their bright, glowing colours lighting the treetops in rainbows of colour.
“They’re beautiful” she’d breathed, her robes draped around her wrists, tickling at his palms.
If he had noticed the birds, it was only for a moment; her eyes reflected the dimming light, her lips parted in awe as she took in the scene.
Ben Solo didn’t know much about love; except how it felt.
He knew that all too well.


Jacob Black imagine requested by anon. “Could you please do an imagine with Jacob where Y/N has a nightmare and Jacob comforts her and calms her down so she slowly falls back to sleep?” Hope you like it!

Considering the sufficient amount of highly-flammable fuel your reality supplied, nightmares should have been more common than they were. Your nights were usually graced with fantastical versions of your every day, given how happy you found yourself upon resting your head. After a particularly stressful evening, perhaps, you’d find yourself plagued by demons splaying images of horrific proportions across the blank landscape of your closed eyelids. The darkness became a promise of injury, the night a herald of danger. Despite your relative safety, you found yourself locked away in the steely grasp of sleep, forced to face your every terror, unable to wrench yourself from the dream. Your nightmares, when they planted their claws in the tissue of your brain, were violent, graphic displays. They were never of phobias, as many friends claimed to experience; there were no heights, no sheer drops, no arachnid assaults or lack of oxygen, no confines too small to function within… no, your nightmares were bred for your mind specifically, trained by the Devil himself to come after the only subject they could use to cause you unimaginable pain and suffering.

The death of Jacob Black.

You’d lost him in so many ways behind closed eyes. He’d fallen from great precipices, struck rocks below or even waves, never to resurface, never to move. His comparatively weak human body had been torn apart at the diamond hands of a faceless vampire, or perhaps he’d phased too late, only to find his paws rendered useless once the blood drinker wrapped their hands around his ribs and crushed inwards. There was no sound that could combat the pain of a wounded animal… no sound except for that very same coming from on you knew to be human. You’d watched him phase, a slower event than you would have imagined, to lay boneless and broken against the forest floor, his eyes rolling backwards in his head. One eventful evening, you discovered him outside of your bedroom window, clutching to a throbbing bite mark, his scarlet blood seeping though his fingers. By the time you’d reached the ground, he had collapsed to the earth below, his chest rising and falling at an alarming rate as he struggled for breath, the venom coursing through his veins, entirely incompatible with his body, icing-out the flames that leapt within his veins. You had held him to your chest too many times to count, your tears falling on skin void of warmth, so foreign, so strange. Thus was the essence of your every nightmare. It didn’t help, of course, that you’d seen his bones be crushed in real time (that was when your faceless nemesis began visiting you while you slumbered), but even if you hadn’t been witness to that particular attack, his line of work (though some would hardly call it a profession) put him at risk constantly. There was kindling everywhere you turned, coating the earth in preparation for an unsightly bonfire, roasting everything you loved alive. You had only to wonder who would strike the match.

Tonight’s nightmare was particularly grotesque, but not in a way you were expecting. You were so familiar with the thought of losing Jacob, of an end to his existence, that you were fully expecting to witness his death that night. What you saw instead rocked you further. He was smiling, happy, his russet skin glowing against the obsidian backdrop so common in your nightmares. In fact, the darkness was the only giveaway that this dream had ill intentions. His eyes glowed with warmth, his hands hung freely by his sides… there was no scratch or bite to be seen on his flawless, velvet skin. He was perfect. He was healthy. But as he smiled, he was not looking at you. His gaze passed through your body as if you were no more than cellophane, no more than air; it was so unlike him to stare through you like that. There was a reason you never had dreams of him leaving you. It was an impossibility. He was tied to you as you were to him, if not in love (which, thankfully, there was plenty of), then in nature. Being Jacob’s imprint made that genre of nightmare insubstantial, as even in your vulnerable dream state, you knew the threat was falsified. But as his eyes followed a movement behind you, the scenario felt strangely realistic.

To your horror, a figure emerged from the darkness to your side, brushing up against your shoulder, unbothered by the contact. You, on the other hand, had quite the opposite reaction. Ice crawled over your skin like frost froze dew, sending frigid tentacles through your veins, chilling your blood as it coursed from heart to fingertips. The creature carried on as you trembled, immediately aware of what was happening. You knew before your eyes fell on the milky hand extending for Jacob’s face, knew before the sickly sweet aroma flooded the air, making breathing near impossible. You cringed, out of fear and confusion, as Jacob bent his cheek to meet the monster’s icy palm, closing his eyes as their skin met. This was wrong. He would never willingly surrender himself in such a way as this. His eyes opened then, as if listening to your panicked thoughts, his dark irises reflecting two versions of the same cadaverous white. Jacob’s mouth twitched towards a reluctant smile, his face turning until his features were out of view, blocked by the mass of shining hair sprouting like weeds from the villain’s scalp. The being turned, and your heart stopped. Your own face was smirking back at you, your flesh leeched of all colour, your eyes a startling crimson.

You jerked awake, two obscenely warm hands shaking your shoulders as if reviving you from the dead, sound fading from silence to bombard your ears as your vision blurred into precision. Jacob’s face, twisted by his alarm, came into focus, his eyes darting over your face, concern furrowing his brow, setting a quiver in his lip. He relaxed some when you began to right yourself, untangling your limbs from the web of cotton bedsheets constricting your skin, his hands smoothing over your upper arms in soothing, relieved strokes. Your eyes caught familiarities in your surroundings; the windows were open, carrying the soft sounds of night into Jacob’s bedroom, sea salt lingering on every passing breeze. You were in La Push. You were in Billy’s house. You were fine. Jacob’s massive palm smoothed over your hair, his thumb lingering on your cheek, rubbing circles over your cheekbone. His breathing calmed alongside your own, his quiet exhales blowing hot air over your face, chasing the last of the vampire’s ice from your veins.

“You’re okay, Y/n. Honey, you’re okay,” he whispered, his voice strained and torn by something similar to grief in the agonized twang his tenor carried. He ducked his lips to your cheek, cradling your face in his hands, shrouding you in comforting warmth. His lips moved to press against your temple, your forehead, his lips ghosting down the bridge of your nose until his forehead rested against yours. His chest expanded with his breath, his hands drifting downward to grasp your shoulders, fingertips tightening just slightly as his movement stilled. He was gauging your movements, your every intake of breath, how often you blinked. He knew you better than he knew himself; he needed no more than twenty seconds of analyzing to realize how unstable you’d become, how jarring your nightmare had been. His arms circled around your back, pulling you against his chest in one swift motion, his breath rushing over your ear as he buried his face in your hair. You clung to him like a drowning man would a last life preserver, your hands clutching at the muscles of his back, cementing yourself to his side. “Y/n, honey, you’re safe. Nothing’s going to hurt you. I’m here, honey, I won’t let anything hurt you.” Your chest constricted as you began to cry, saltwater flowing freely over your cheeks. If Jacob wore shirts regularly, you’d have wept a splotch on the fabric covering his chest. His hands smoothed over your spine, working the tension from your muscles, his voice quieting your sobs.

“It was… it was so real, Jake. I thought…” your voice trailed off, replaced by a feeble choking sound as your throat closed up against your desire to speak. You settled for burying your face in his shoulder, relishing in the heat you found there. Jacob made a sound of understanding, a low, wordless grunt of sympathy. “You were… you were…”

“I know, but I’m here now. It wasn’t real, Y/n. I’m right here with you.” You shook your head, too upset to properly word how very wrong he was. He was under the assumption that your nightmare had proceeded along its usual course, that another gory rendition of his death had shocked you so completely. He loosened his embrace, holding you from his body, one hand smoothing upward along your arm, the other pressing a palm to your cheek. You caught yourself before you leaned into his hand, into the warmth you found there. No, that reaction was far too familiar for your liking. Jacob’s dark eyes bore downward into your very sou, burning with an intensity you couldn’t imagine. “Y/n, I am here. Nothing could take me away from you. I’m right. Here.” To further stress his point, the hand he held on your shoulder dropped to your wrist, moving your palm to press against his heart, A steady thrumming met your skin, pulsating with unnatural warmth. His heart was strong, but it was also the only factor that could bring his downfall.

I could take you away,” you argued, your voice trembling like the last of the autumn leaves as it clung to a branch in the gales of a coming winter. His brow furrowed, his thumb stroking your cheek. “You were right there in front of me and… Jake, I was so cold… you were holding me, but it wasn’t me and I was so cold…” Something like recognition clouded his eyes, stealing their intensity, snuffing the flame within. You needn’t say any more. He understood. His jaw hardened as he clenched his teeth together, flexing the muscles in his face rather drastically. When he spoke, his voice was hardened, angry, flowing with every steely emotion he could muster in attempt to paint over the terror lingering at the end of his every word.

“I would never,” he spat the word, his shoulders shaking, “let that happen to you. I wouldn’t let it happen. Not you, Y/n, not you.” You ducked your face, but his hand caught your chin before you could hide the new wave of tears rolling steadily from your eyes. “Hey,” his voice was softer now, reverberating with the softened melody of adoration. “Y/n, look at me. Don’t ever think that I wouldn’t go to the ends of the Earth to keep you safe. You are my life now. Nothing would get close enough to hurt you, I promise you that. You don’t have to worry about becoming… like them. I’ll keep you safe.” You nodded slowly, allowing your thoughts to scramble as he spoke, his voice banishing every terror but one; if you were to turn, would he love you still? Would you become like the monster from your nightmare? His lips pressed to the corner of your mouth, lingering until you turned your face to his. His lips moved with yours seamlessly; there was no end to Jacob and beginning of you… you were one person, moving too intricately to keep track of. When he separated himself from you, his eyes kindred, soft, you had forgotten your worries… for the time being. He opened his arms, inviting you to the safety and comfort of his blazing chest. You happily accepted (or, indulged, rather), laying your cheek against the beating of his heart, his hands smoothing over your back as you drifted to sleep. Jacob’s heat chased the terror away. You dreamt of growing old.


Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader 

Authors Note: this request was from like maybe two months ago but this one was a bit difficult to write, but alas I finally got the chance to finish it up. I hope you enjoy! 

Originally posted by dunbaerrito

As Peter opened the door to his aunts apartment, Y/N, his girlfriend barged in while holding the newspaper. 

Peter raised his eyebrow, “Nice to see you too?“ 

You held up your finger for Peter to be quiet. “Did you see this? Captain America is in town!” You said excitedly.

“What? Really? What the hell is he doing over here in Queens?” He asked you. 

You shrugged, “No idea, but I’m gonna go find him.”

Keep reading

Water Stains

Requested by @potter-at-the-disco

Based on the phrase “She’s everywhere”

[She’s nowhere]

They’re second years when it happens:

A girl dies in the second floor bathroom, locks eyes with the basilisk and only has time to manage a bloodcurdling scream – She isn’t saved and she isn’t mourned, but black is draped throughout the castle and knots of teary eyed girls who’d said maybe a word to her in passing hold tissues to their noses in class and a funeral is held beneath the weighty boughs of the trees on a sweltering summer day.

The world doesn’t change. There is no grand reconfiguration of the star’s alignment or the tilt of the axis or the bones of their skeletons and Draco –

Draco forgets.


It’s noon, and ghosts are swarming in the autumn damp walls of the castle, all voices and no bodies, all clinging to Draco’s skin.

And he’s running. Down the hallway and towards the bathroom, tugging at the tie tight like a noose around his neck because he’s shot down an albatross and nothing has seemed to go right since.

There’s a mark on his arm. A task on his shoulders. A reflection in the mirror that he can’t quite bear to look at, not when there’s blood on his hands that no one else can see yet – a prophecy and a foretelling and a waking nightmare.

He stops in the second floor bathroom, shoes sloshing against puddles mottling the tile floor. A faucet is leaking in time to his heartbeats. Thump. Drip. Thump. Drip. Sobs that are torn at the edges and hanging in tatters around Draco’s ribs. He’s sixteen and he’s a ghost that can’t quite escape the things that are haunting him.

“Are you all right?” a voice – honeyed and soft – echoes against the chipped wall tiles.

Draco whirls around. Claps an instinctive hand over his forearm and stares at the girl, at the voice, at the ghost.

She doesn’t look twelve, no, not at all like the last time he’d seen her; all gap toothed smiles and bouncing pigtails. He’d never said a word to her. She’s sixteen, now, wide bright eyes and an inquisitive smile and hands that fluttered like wings as she stepped closer. She’s insubstantial, wispy, a pearlescent memory that’s managed to make itself real.

“I’m-” he shakes his head, is unsure of just what to say.

“Not fine, clearly,” the girl informs him. Folds her fingers over her hips. She’s still wearing the school uniform. “I know you,” she says, then steps closer. Till he can see the flickering film of her body and – oh why do people insist on breathing life into dead things?

And Draco does the only thing he can think to do –

Draco runs.


Some facts:

1.      Draco Malfoy is a ghost town

2.      It’s a coin to pass the river Styx

3.      They can’t quite see through the stones on their eyes

It’s a week before Draco goes back again, before he’s mustered up enough courage to do precisely what he wants to. And what he wants

Blood simmers beneath his fingerprints. Secrets lurk in his eyes. There are so many things he wants to say only his molars are super glued together and he can’t, he can’t, he can’t.

And he’s not quite sure why he feels the need to return to that bathroom and talk to that girl – ghost – only knows that she’s lurked in the fuzzy corners of his dreams and coiled herself tight around his lungs.

It’s nearly midnight the next time he goes back to the bathroom. Shadows are dancing against the walls and gossamer has festooned itself across the window panes. The skin around Draco’s bones is inordinately tight as he peers into the dim puddles and empty stalls, calls out, tentatively and wavering, “Hello? Anybody there?”

There’s a moment of static silence. A dripping faucet. Winds that shudder as they grip the stall doors.

And then –

“You’re back,” she says, curling in like a summer wind. Strawberry stains like blood oaths against her fingers and vines tangling around her ankles. “I didn’t think I’d see you again.”

Draco smiles. Takes a moment to scrutinize the way that he can almost ache her into realism, forget for a moment that she’s dead. “I should really be the one saying that, don’t you think?”

She giggles. A wind chime sound that echoes in his ears and plucks at his heart strings. He doesn’t remember her giggling while alive, doesn’t remember much, actually. “It’s not as though ghosts are unusual around here.” He thinks he can detect the peach ripe tinge of an accent. “And besides, you’re the one who ran away the other day.”

“I know,” he says, collar brushing against his jaw, starch stiff.

“You’re the one who was in here crying the other day,” she says, softer this time.

He thinks he might have taken offense, had it been anyone else. But it’s her and for some reason – one he can’t quite dig up out of his gut – she’s a better option than sullen Blaise and smothering Pansy, indifferent Theo and dull Crabbe. And the word stuffed parchments that he quietly rips up and tosses into the fire don’t seem to help, anymore.

“Which, of course begs the question, why are you here?”

He doesn’t know quite how to answer.


[She’s everywhere]

It becomes a habit. The nicotine stab of addiction in his lungs and the alcohol swirl of need against his teeth.

He visits the bathroom numerous times a week, sneaks out of the common room when the grandfather clock has struck midnight or in the suffocating haze of late afternoon, finds himself telling her things he’d resolved to keep under lock and key.

He rolls up his sleeve the day before term ends, feels guilt pool bitter sweet/ bitter sour in his mouth as he thinks about Katie Bell and Ronald Weasley and the list of victims that was supposed to have been only one.

And Y/N only blinks at him. Crosses her legs and offers a smile that wilts at the corners.

Her toenails are still painted a shimmering green.

“We all make mistakes,” she says, soft as a lullaby. Draco’s never been more awake. “It’s never too late to make things better.”

He wishes that he could hold her hand.


He reads Hamlet over Christmas break in the damask curtained dark of the library and traces his fingers over the wailing hymn, rosary clutched words of Ophelia; thinks about ghosts and haunted houses and things that can never quite be bleached out of your bones.


She tells him who killed her the day he comes back to school. Light is popping like soap bubbles against the wall as he watches lazy wisps of light imbue the end of his wand, murmurs incantations while trying to ignore the dull throbbing in his ears.

Because Tom Riddle had set the basilisk on her, was the beginning and the end of everything.

Because he can’t quite untangle himself from the spider web stick of the mess that he’s made.

“I think I made a mistake,” he tells her. Hands shaking and jaw aching and magic trembling in his bloodstream.

Her fingers linger over his. “I can help you,” she says.


She’s the one that he doesn’t have to die for.


every poem I ever wrote about you revolved around the concept of noise,
like an acrobat
across a tightrope.
like the soft sound made by a cassette tape
between songs,
like slamming doors
and startling laughter, like colorful shoes
on slick concrete.
the way you say
my name
unleashes a spectrum
of colors in my mind.
though I could never figure out
what the loneliest sound is,
I know that you are
the producer
of the loveliest noises.
they say a picture is worth a thousand words, but it would take me millions
to properly convey how you look
when you smile,
or when you take a drag of a cigarette,
blowing smoke out into the atmosphere.

fast forward.

breathe in. breathe out. breath me in. breath you out. breathe you back in; breathe me out and
my god, I’ve forgotten how lungs work,
I am drowning in thoughts of you,
while you are off somewhere, floating in a pool of my tears
and sipping some fruity cocktail.

rewind. play.

I watch the smoke drift and fade away,
and it makes me wonder if that is what it will be like when you go;
me, with the taste of second hand nicotine on my tongue,
between my teeth,
and you,
ascending to the sky on a plane, slowly fading into the horizon.
out of sight,
in mind.


I wish I could freeze this moment and trap your vibrant energy like fireflies in a jar.
when you left me
I left my door ajar
just in case you decided
to come back

fast forward.

I sleep on one side of my bed
instead of the middle
just in case you come back in the middle of the night
and crawl under the covers.
when I go out,
I sit at a table for two
and make small talk with the ghost of you
and though the food is spicy,
all my tastebuds receive are bittersweet memories
of you.


you look at me and a smile
crosses your face
one that makes it all the way to your eyes
my chest aches,
in a pleasant kind of way,
as if you were keeping my heart inside of yours.
behind the hazy cloud of smoke residue,
I can see love in your eyes.
you slide your sweaty palm into mine, and give it a squeeze.


the way your lips move, shaping around the words
“I love you,”
the way they coat me like caramel on an apple,
the sticky, sickly sweet sensation clogging my pores and enveloping me whole.

pause. fast forward.

he smiles at me.
I smile back,
but can’t help but notice
his nose doesn’t scrunch like yours,
his lips don’t curve the same.
but you are thousands of miles away,
forgetting me with every breath you take,
memories of me fading like smoke
in the distance,
while I try to memorize someone else’s landscape.
I wear the perfume
that you loved the most
and it makes me think of you
so while he tells me he has finally found
the one,
that I feel like home
I get lost in thoughts of you,
hands in my hair,
tangled up in a warm, golden kind of silence,
not caring nor knowing
where I begin, and you end

pause. rewind.

you squeeze my hand once more,
to stop me from trembling,
because I know that all too soon,
we will untangle
from the web of love
that we have weaved,
sit in a melancholy blue kind of silence,
and say goodbye.
and when you walk away for the last time,
I will finally know what the loneliest
sound in the world is,
that even the supernatural power of phantoms will pale in comparison
to the noise made by your footsteps when you walk away,
because that fading sound will haunt me forever.
and when the door shuts between us,
we will finally learn
where you start and I end.

—  if missing you is art, then I will be creating masterpieces

anonymous asked:

I love seeing representation of femme in nb folk because I hate how nb is always seen as "on the masculine side"! I do also want to emphasize that it is still revolutionary to be very feminine and a lesbian while still being cis because we know that the feminine presentation is not for men, but for ourselves. Men (in an ideal situation) should not choose a lesbian's gender presentation OR identity (or cause us to want opposite of what they would choose. We shouldn't have to consider them atall).

yeah and like………..gender identity/expression NEVER exists in a vacuum free from other various intersecting axises of privilege/oppression you face. learning about your own perceptions of gender is like untangling a massive yarn web that got caught up in things you didn’t even REALIZE were in any way connected until deconstructing them. imo everyone should do this (not just trans and nb people) cuz a lot of people don’t know they’re not their assigned gender at birth until doing this, yanno? especially cis LGBP people, cuz our same gender attraction fundamentally goes against what society tells us our assigned gender should conventionally BE. it’s a helpful thing to do for everyone, but it’s also extremely exhausting to do this, so i wouldn’t blame people for not doing that much. sometimes it’s truly better to take a step back and say “i am what i am and i’ll figure out what that is later” and just exist and see how you respond to gender stuff in the moment. but i do see value in examining how other forms of oppression may have impacted your own gender perceptions, since you’ll learn more about yourself than you knew was possible that way.