Packing

“May.”

She nearly had a heart attack, squeaking in the most undignified way possible as she spun around, soap suds covered frying pan flinging bubbles onto the black vest of the Asgardian Lord of Chaos.

Loki frowned and swiped the bubbles away. “I suppose I startled you. My apologies.”

“What are you doing here?!”

“I haven’t heard from the boy in a week and three days. This is...unusual. I merely wanted to be sure that the paultry team my brother seems to have stumbled into was not once again down a teammate.”

“Jesus, Loki,” May sighed, finally putting the pan back in the sink and wiping her hands, “you know you can just say you wanted to check up on Pete, right? Like, I’m not gonna judge you for that, by all means, come ask about him if you’re worried.”

“I am not-”

“Whatever dude.” She smirked slightly at the indignant twitch of Loki’s mouth. “Pete’s fine. Finals time in school, he hasn’t really had time to do anything but study and sleep, and you can guess which one he does more than the other.”

Loki nodded slowly. “Well. That is good to know. I shall be on my way then.”

As he lifted his hand, possibly to gesture grandly as he was fond of doing before he left, May took a step forward. “Actually, wait a second?”

He froze, studying her, and she suddenly found the floor very interesting.

“I just wanted...y’know, you two have been hanging out a lot recently...and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t worried at first, because of course I’m gonna be worried when my nephew’s hanging out with literally the god of mischief, but...” She managed to look up. “I just wanted to say...thanks. Pete, he doesn’t have a lot of people to look up to, but between you and Mr. Stark...Just...Thanks. For everything.”

He was silent for a long moment. Neither of them moved. Then, finally...

“There is no need to thank me. If anything, I...” He paused, and shook his head. “There is no need to thank me.”

And he was gone.

As she turned back to the sink, May thought that her life could never get stranger than when Pete brought new people into it. Especially when those people are weird, practically immortal gods who feel like they have to thank you for keeping them calm but can’t.

She wondered if she ought to invite him for dinner sometime. Did Loki like subs?

Scenes I need...

Peter Parker: -on meeting Loki, offers his hand- Hi, I’m Peter!

Loki: -shakes his hand- Loki of Asgard.

Peter: Aren’t you like…a bad guy?

Loki: It varies from moment to moment.

Peter: So like…on a scale of one to ten, ten being the worst evil imaginable, like…killing puppies, and one being I’ll spit on your hotdog…where are you right now?

Loki: …maybe a three?

Peter: Cool. Lemme know if it gets above a six.

Loki: -thinking- I like him.

Mini fic time!

As if the screaming on the grounds wasn't telling enough, a young girl with bright red hair coming flying into his office yelling "THERE'S A DRAGON ON THE GROUNDS, PROFESSOR!" would've been more than enough to alert Neville to the fact that a contender for the newly opened teaching position at Hogwarts had arrived. Neville grinned at the breathless, giggling child before him and stood, pulling his robe from a nearby hook and shrugging it over his jumper and jeans. "Is it really a dragon, Lil?" "It really is!" Lily Potter laughed, pulling him by the hand like she'd done when he'd come to visit her family when she was a young child. "He's really done it this time, I mean it. Mum'll have his hide the next time he comes to visit, I just know she will." "Your mother? Never," Neville scoffed, following at a leisurely walk to Lily's sprinting bursts. "No, your mother will want to know all the details. But only after you've gone to bed of course." He turned his attention to the dragon rider as they stepped out onto the lawn. "Hello, Charlie." "Alright, Nev?" Charlie Weasley smiled as he slid off of the large dragon's back, patting its neck as he did so. The dragon nuzzled into his scarred hand, looking rather like an enormous, scaley dog. Charlie was looking good for a middle age man, still remarkably fit and healthy, and showing no sign of inheriting the baldness of his father. Scarred all over and reasonably well tattooed, he would probably look to Muggles like a biker, but to the wizarding world, he was a dragon tamer, and that was possibly the coolest thing you could ever be. At least, that was what Lily seemed to think, as she ran and jumped into her uncle's arms, begging him to tell her everything about the flight, and about the dragon he'd flown in on. "Later, Lils, later," Charlie chortled, squeezing his niece's shoulders as the teen pouted. "First off, Norbert might like something to eat. Could you go ask the house elves for something for her?" "Oh, fine," Lily sighed, but skipped off, patting Norbert the dragoness affectionately as she went. Neville shook his head, the smile still unfading. "Do I even need to ask what brought you here today, then?" "'Course not, if you're willing to take my resume!" He pulled from the pocket of his leather jacket a folded envelope that seemed to be well overstuffed. Neville took it and opened it, eyes widening as he sifted through the various sheets of parchment within. "One from Hermione, of course, one from Harry, from Hagrid himself...good lord, two different Scamanders? And...Oliver? Why Oliver?" "I dunno, he insisted." Charlie pulled up the very last sheet, a one-page quick summary of all the work Charlie had done in the last decade alone, lists of various species he'd worked with and research he'd done. "I had a couple more, from various old Order members, and one from Luna, but you know Luna, her writing's..." "A little different? Yeah," Neville laughed. "I was actually just about to head into the headmaster's office to hand over my recommendation." "Neville, you're a gem," Charlie said, clapping him on the back as they walked toward the castle doors. Neville thought perhaps he'd have a good chance of getting the job, even forgetting the fact that Norbert would be sure to make her preferences known before they left.

Whenever Hagrid finally decides to retire as Care of Magical Creatures professor you can bet your last knut that Charlie Weasley flies back to England the following week excitedly waving his resume and recommendation letters from no less than two Scamanders and the Minister of Magic, Hermione Granger.

this blog doesn’t support bullying over fictional characters and ships(￣▽￣)ノ

Mark out here doing what he does best and giving his fanbase a damn heart attack.

Ah thank you! I couldn’t read it!

COUNTY OF LOS ANGELES SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT COURT SERVICES DIVISION

NOTICE TO VACATE CASE NUMBER: 14052018

TO: Judgement debtor, members of the judgement debtors’s household, and any occupants residing with the judgement debtor.

By virtue of a Writ if Possession of Real Property, a copy of which is attached. YOU ARE ORDERED TO VACATE THE PREMISES DESCRIBED IN THE WRIT NOT LATER THAN: September, 2019.

SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT INGLEWOOD, CA. 90301

By: ??? (Deputy)

Date: 08/11/2019

76N054E SH-C1-52 (REV. 9/94)

NOTICE TO VACATE

Right so I just finished watching “Quit The Game To Win” (stupid busy work schedule), and I’m gonna be honest here, that is the most terrifying Anti footage we’ve ever gotten.

Why?

There’s no glitching. There’s no effect.

This version is realistic.

We called him the Glitch Bitch, so guess what? He’s dropped the trademark giveaways.

“Who do you think you’ve been watching all this time?”

How will we tell?

oh friend.

Today’s Teaser (Sept 7, 2020)

FRIENDS. THINGS ARE HAPPENING. I’M BACK ON MY THEORIST SHIT AGAIN.

So I watched the clip several times, at varying speeds, and tried to transcribe what I heard:

[loud screech, metal on metal]

[crash, again seems to be metal on metal]

[hiss, as of steam being released]

[car engine revving]

Unknown Voice: Everything is happy…

[sound of a train going over tracks, faint train whistle]

Unknown Voice: [unclear] living his life to come through…

So that second voice line is one I couldn’t quite make out. The top two interpretations I got were “He’s living his life to come through” and “He’s giving his life to come too.”

I also snapped a picture of whatever flashed on screen in the darkness:

So you can’t see much here, but when I brighten it…

A door? When the image keeps moving, there are lights at regular intervals along the roof. Coupled with the sound, my guess is this is a train compartment, possibly in the style of Murder on the Orient Express.

Are we getting a new adventure? Possibly another murder mystery?

Such interesting developments, and with Halloween right around the corner…

About feedback and sending me headcannons, questions, submissions, prompts, etc.

THANK YOU SO MUCH!!

I love this?! I love seeing this kind of thing?! I’m glad you like my silly writing?! I would love it if you sent me headcannons?!

I don’t care if you’ve never spoken to me before, I’m totally chill with chatting with you guys, on and off anon! It makes me super, super happy when people like my stories or theories and ideas (it boggles my mind that some of my posts have 200-400+ notes, like how, and there’s 126 of you guys following me here?! why?! I love you?!), and I love being a part of the community and having conversations with people who love the same internet nerds and characters that I do. Send me all the things, ask me all the things, submit stories and theories and prompts and anything and everything, tag me in things, all of it, yes please! I love this.

So Question.

Would anyone be interested in commissioned writing from me? I was thinking of looking into comprable work pricing and opening up to writing fiction (fan and original), and some nonfiction, for commissions. Is that something anyone would be willing to do?

Wandering (A Robbie the Zombie drabble). Feat. Post-Apocalypse Robin!

A/N: I’ve never written Robbie in his own story before, but he’s a sweetheart and I thought I’d give it a try, and also try to explain his name, maybe. Enjoy!

He doesn't know how he died. All he knows is that one day, he woke up, and he was staring at the open blue sky. He sat up, looked around at the lonely street he was on, stood slowly, and wandered off. That's what he does best; he wanders. He's not much for deep thought, and trying to plan out where you're going, trying to find things or do things that take a long time, they take too much of his energy. But wandering? It lets him enjoy the quiet. Sunshine in a forest. An empty highway at night. A beach in the off season. Well, he supposed every season was the off season now.

He doesn't remember who he was before he died. Doesn't even know if he had a name, not that there's anyone to call him by it anyway. He supposes he was young; the glances he's gotten of his reflection make him think twenties, but he could've been in his thirties. A little bit of facial hair is eternally stuck at the same length on his face, a short scruffy beard and mustache, and two bushy eyebrows that've all turned an ashy brown with death. Pale, grey skin sits tight over a smaller, fairly slim frame. Grey eyes stare at the grey-scale world through a thin white film (it doesn't affect his vision that much). A striped white and black shirt and black jeans cover him with relative modesty, though they’re ripped and dirtied with who knew what. No shoes. It’s not too bad, but he is easily pleased. Something he very much likes about the way he looks, however, is that he's got a mop of unruly, electric purple hair on the top of his head. It's the only bit of bright color in his appearance, and he feels like maybe Living-him would've liked that. He sometimes wonders who Living-him was. What did he do for a living? He isn't particularly muscular, or big, so nothing sporty or physical. His clothes are very casual. Had he worked from home? Been off-duty when he died? He doesn't know.

He discovers he's in Brighton, and that he can read still (though not very quickly), when he finds a yellowing newspaper on a bench by the pebbly beach. An old copy of the local news, warning about the deadly outbreak of something, and somewhere testing nuclear weapons, and other sad things. He puts it down again and walks away. He's glad he remembers where Brighton is, and that he has a vague impression of what the city would've looked like way back then: a woman's laugh and the pressure of her hand in his, the sound of cars driving by on his quiet street. He wonders if Living-him had lived here all his life, or if he'd come from somewhere far away. He turns slowly toward the sound of something moving, which wasn't his imagination.

A man is staring at him, standing, frozen, on the other side of the street. He is fairly tall, with short brown hair and wide-open eyes, the blue of which are overwhelmed by the black of his pupils. He has a gun slung over his shoulder, and seems to be considering reaching for it. Surely he's not afraid of him? One dead man against a living man isn't much of a match; guns have quite a reach, and rigor mortis tends to slow down your running speed significantly. He doesn’t see any other option for it. Might as well be polite. He waves. The man frowns, confused. Stares at him for a few moments longer.

Waves back.

He smiles, glad that his gesture has been returned, and turns to move on down an alley. "Wait!" He raises his eyebrows and turns back to look at the man, who is now crossing the street toward him cautiously. He stops a few feet away and considers him. "Can...can you understand me?" It amuses him that he remembers enough to know that this is not an English accent, but is disappointed that he can't remember what accent exactly that it is. "You don't have to talk," the man continues as he receives no response from the purple-haired stranger, "you can just...y'know, nod, or shake your head?" He thinks for a moment, then nods. The man smiles. "Really? Cool." They watch each other for a moment. "Do you have a name?" He shrugs, slowly. "Okay," the man nods, folding his arms with a smirk. "Well. You don't look like you're in a big rush to kill me, which is nice." He extends a hand. "I'm Robin." He stares at Robin's hand. "You're...supposed to shake it?" Oh. He shakes Robin's hand, and is surprised that he doesn't flinch away from the cold of his skin or the unnatural stiffness of his movements. He does note that Robin's easy-going smile quirks slightly at the contact. Their hands drop back to their sides, and he decides to try something new.

"R...R..." His voice is rusty and crackly from disuse, but apparently still functional, much to both of their surprise. Robin huffs out a laugh. "You can talk! Why didn't you tell me?" He frowns slightly and tilts his head. "I'm kidding, man, relax," Robin grins. "Were you trying to say my name?" "R..Ro...b..." He nods as he tries again. Robin puts a hand over his heart as if he's touched by the gesture, then chuckles again as he starts to walk. "You wanna come with me? I've never met a zom' that  can talk to me. Let's see if we can't get your voice to work." "Y...eah." Robin looks so proud of his first proper word that he can't help but smile back, the muscles in his face tight with the movement. "C'mon then, uh..." He falters slightly, and the purple-haired man shrugs. "Well...pick a new name then. I have to call you something." "Ro...b...?" "You want me to pick?" "Mm...hm..." "Hm..." He thinks for a minute, then smirks. "Well, the only thing you seem to be able to pronounce is the first half of my name. So let's call you Robbie!" "R...Ro...b...bie.." "See, you're getting better already!" Robin moves off down the street, still laughing and swinging his arms at his sides. Robbie (he likes the ring of it) stumbles after him, listening to him ramble. It's a nice change from the usual silence.