Welcome to my overly-organized blog. Just follow the links and you'll find everything. (No really, click the links.)

sometimes I:

--write things (slowly)
--make things (graphics and mixes mostly)
--rec things (like it's my job tbh)


blog status

intermitantly active

blogger status

--not-so-quietly amassing an army of The 100 fans.
--forever in mourning for Allison Argent.





tv schedule

the fandom(s)

The 100. Outlander. Continuum.

the ship(s)


the character(s)

Clarke Griffin. Allison Argent. Kate Fuller.


pick apart the pieces of your heart

Title: let me occupy your mind (as you do mine)
Word Count:
Characters/Pairing: Bellamy/Clarke
Rating: T (for language and mild sexual situations)
Disclaimer: The 100 does not belong to me, too many of my faves are dead.
Summary: Getting semi-naked just to spite each other was, in retrospect, probably not the smartest move.

Note: Inspired from wayyy too much time spent staring at this gif set (“ANOTHER CRIMINAL???” Abby wails across the void of space). Special thanks to Rita, who is ever my muse, and Meagan, who kindly agreed to beta for me and also re-invigorated me to actually finish this damn thing. Sorry this turned out more angsty than I had initially intended, but that’s probably not really very surprising.

Alternative sites: AO3 | FFN


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if i look back i am lost

Clarke is at the gates, and the guards start screaming to get them open.

There she is, their brave princess, and it’s like she never left. In she strides, and immediately she starts taking charge, easy as breathing. 

She got taken by Grounders, and she survived. She got taken by Grounders, and she walks back like it was nothing.

And the 100, who have been living in a state of constant terror for the past few days, suddenly find it just a little easier to breathe.

Clarke’s back.

She made it.

She’s here.

She’ll know what to do.

Clarke always knows what to do.

And she says, we have to leave, and so they get ready to leave. Instantly, no questions asked. They leave behind what they can’t carry, and the last remnant of the only home they had ever known not so long ago. They leave behind the home they had built from nothing with their own hands. They leave behind the graves of their dead—Atom. Roma. John. Derek. Conner. Charlotte. Wells—

(Moment’s over.)

And as they move out, the kids keep circling around her, trying not to stare but unable to help themselves. Just close enough to be able to see her clearly, not quite daring to touch. But—she’s here. She’s real. She’s alive. She walked through hell, and she came back.

She came back to us, and she’s going to save us all.

Suddenly there’s a touch at her hand from behind and Clarke starts, but it’s just Skylar, one of the youngest left of the 100. And she looks up at Clarke, eyes wide and open and so, so scared, but filled with so much trust. And in that moment Clarke feels something loosen in her chest, even as it tightens in the darkest part of her (the part she never wanted to know existed).

But she just smiles, squeezes Skylar’s hand back, and then presses a kiss to her forehead. Clarke walks to her tent to get her things, and Skylar doesn’t let go.

(She can be brave, too.)

And as Clarke moves through them, leading them out to the sea, to safety, towards the hope to live and fight another day, hands brush against her on all sides. Whispers follow her. Eyes stare at her unabashedly, as though she’s not quite…something, anymore. As though she’s more. 

Clarke holds her head high, and makes sure no one is left behind. Then she does not look back.

(She will be brave. She must.)





afigureofspeech replied to your post: natasha staunchly supporting steve’s a…

Natasha quietly sitting next to him during one of his darker moments of introspection, making just enough noise not to startle. Without quite looking at him, she offers, “I know what it’s like to be unmade.”

"He thinks I’m worth saving," he says. There’s a bitter taste in his mouth he doesn’t have the capacity to describe. He has killed more people than he can count, cannot even remember killing most of them. Some of them had even been friends. The full scope of what he’s done will likely elude him until he dies. Even to himself, he’s a ghost. "Why does he think that?"

"Because you are." She doesn’t touch him, does not even look at his face. Her voice is quiet and calm and just a touch cruel in its insistence. "I was."

"I don’t deserve…" He doesn’t finish the thought, can’t quite bring himself to break the silence that remains behind. He’s forgotten more than he remembers, though he’s started to piece things back together just by tracing the edges of the empty spaces in his mind. It’s not the void that terrifies him, but what might fill it. Words still don’t come easily.

"It’s not about what you deserve." Her breathing is perfectly even. Too even. She has no tells, which is a tell in and of itself. "You think that forgiveness is the easy road? That being a good person isn’t a choice you make every single moment of every single day? That anything you do will make up for everything you’ve done?" A smile curls around her lips, bitter as the sea. "It’s about knowing all that and doing it anyway."

"How do you do it? How do you—" He can’t control it then: his voice cracks and breaks off into silence. How do you wake up every morning and face what you’ve done, knowing that nothing you do can ever be enough? How do you find the middle ground between wanting not to wake and wanting never to sleep?

How do you quiet the voices in your head when all they do is scream?

"I took the hand offered to me. And then I decided who I wanted to be. Stopping is always an option. Giving up is always an option. Going back, in some ways, is always an option. But I choose not to, and that is mine. Some days, it’s even enough."

"And when it’s not enough?" His fingers curl, restless and without purpose. He can feel her eyes turn to settle on the side of his face, cool and lacking any judgement or expectation. Something inside him reaches back, or wants to reach back, or is afraid to reach back. Or maybe just howls.

"Find yourself something worth dying for. Make a place for yourself. Don’t let go." A flash of teeth, bright blade in the shadows. "Find someone whose monsters play well with your own."

If you put Artemis and Dick into a coffee shop au, how'd you set it up?

Okay so I’m on my iPod rn and therefore would have trouble getting as in-depth in this a I want, but here’s what I’ve got off the top of my head. (Keep in mind, I know absolutely nothing about coffee.)

“I am in love with you.”

Artemis knows the only reason she hasn’t been fired, and won’t be fired, is because she makes the best cappuccinos in pretty much all of Gotham; her people skills certainly leave a lot to be desired. This is a little much though.

"Sir, you’re holding up the line."

"It’s the only explanation. Ardent and soul-consuming," He waves his mocha-chocolate swirl (decorated with a chipper little bird, on a whim, that she’s rapidly regretting) under her nose emphatically, "love!"


"This is literally the best thing I’ve ever tasted."


"It’s like sipping heaven through recyclable plastic." He proceeds to do so, moaning in such a way that it borders on the obscene. Artemis could feel her cheeks hearing up, which only serves to shorten her temper.



She rears back as though slapped. “Excuse me?”

"Dick. My name is Dick."


"Yes…" He smiles charmingly (she wants to take that smile and shove it somewhere unpleasant), leaning on the counter to peer at her name tag, "Artemis." He does a double-take. "Wow, Artemis, really?"

Comments on her name usually put up her hackles (thank you Gotham public education), but there was no mockery in his voice, only genuine curiosity. She arches a brow in return.

"Wow, Dick, really?"

"Point taken." He laughs good-naturedly, and show absolutely no indication of letting any other customers up to the counter.


"Yes, Artemis?" He takes another sip of coffee dreamily.

"You. Are holding. Up. The line."

"Ohhhh, right. Sooo…what are the odds I could get your number before I leave?"

"Pretty slim, fly boy."

"…So that’s not a no."

With exaggerated nonchalance, Artemis examines her nails. She really does need to stop chewing them. “I suppose that it isn’t.”

This time his smile spreads from ear to ear, boyish with delight and entirely unfair. He turns away with a wink. “I guess you’ll be seeing a lot of me then, Miss Art.” And with a wave, he saunters out. Customers who have been waiting behind him shoot dirty looks as he goes, but he doesn’t even appear to notice, humming cheerily to himself.

"Guess I will," Artemis says to no one at all. She’s not entirely convinced whether it’s a good or bad thing, yet—but he shows up every day for the rest of the week, like clockwork, and she figures it out soon enough.

fancy meeting you here

Title: the beast upon your back, part 4
Word Count:
Characters/Pairing: Artemis/Dick
Rating: T 
Disclaimer: Young Justice does not belong to me, I’m just here for the paranormal AUs apparently
Summary: “You’re just a kid,” she blurted, so shocked she forgot to train her crossbow properly. The oversight hardly mattered though, because it was true: rather than a fully grown werewolf, savage and deadly, all she found was a pale and scrawny boy, naked as the day he was born.

Note: Reminded to post this sucker because apparently it was Rush’s birthday a few days ago and somehow I missed the memo. Hopefully this helps to make up for it, my dear. (Bonus points to those who can guess the brief cameo in this chapter~)

Alternative sites: AO3 | FFN

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4


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count to ten

Title: the beast upon your back, part 3
Word Count:
Characters/Pairing: Artemis/Dick
Rating: T 
Disclaimer: Young Justice does not belong to me, I’m just here for the paranormal AUs apparently
Summary: “You’re just a kid,” she blurted, so shocked she forgot to train her crossbow properly. The oversight hardly mattered though, because it was true: rather than a fully grown werewolf, savage and deadly, all she found was a pale and scrawny boy, naked as the day he was born.

Note: A bit shorter than the others, but I promise Dick will be back next chapter.

Alternative sites: AO3 | FFN

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3


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Daenerys/Jorah - space AU

The starmap unfolds before her: the sun and stars, the moons and planets, the shadows and dust, and the projected light catches upon the curve of her face and the curl of her hair. Daenerys Stormborn, last of the noble House Targaryan and Mother of Dragons, spreads her arms to embrace the whole of the spiraling Westeros Galaxy.

“I will take what is mine,” she whispers, a promise slipping between the stars to rattle planets in its wake, as her eyes reflect the cosmos; Ser Jorah’s eyes reflect only her.

called home

Title: the beast upon your back, part 2
Word Count:
Characters/Pairing: Artemis/Dick
Rating: T 
Disclaimer: Young Justice does not belong to me, I’m just here for the paranormal AUs apparently
Summary: “You’re just a kid,” she blurted, so shocked she forgot to train her crossbow properly. The oversight hardly mattered though, because it was true: rather than a fully grown werewolf, savage and deadly, all she found was a pale and scrawny boy, naked as the day he was born.

Note: Officially continued! Holy shit guys, I haven’t had a WIP in literally YEARS. So many years. Kind of nervous to do it now, but my brain just would not. shut. up. about this AU. So yeah. More to come. Enjoy.

Alternative sites: AO3 | FFN

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3


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am i free now

Title: the beast upon your back
Word Count:
Characters/Pairing: Artemis/Dick
Rating: T 
Disclaimer: Young Justice does not belong to me, I’m just here for the paranormal AUs apparently
Summary: “You’re just a kid,” she blurted, so shocked she forgot to train her crossbow properly. The oversight hardly mattered though, because it was true: rather than a fully grown werewolf, savage and deadly, all she found was a pale and scrawny boy, naked as the day he was born.

Note: Requested by anon—Traught Robin is a werewolf and Artemis is hunting him. I’ll have you know, sweet anon, that this fic absolutely CONSUMED my brain. I hope to expand this at some point, but in the mean time here is my answer. Super special thanks to superblys for patiently answering my many questions about flesh wounds. Any accuracy with regards to the treatment of them is due to her, and all mistakes are my own. Please do point them out.

Alternative sites: AO3 | FFN

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3


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i'm not sure if you're still doing this but here: ❤ ❤ ❤ ❤ ❤ ❤ ❤ ❤

Artemis is drawing on herself and it’s altogether distracting.

The pen is blue and the shapes range from geometric to whimsical, and Babs had invited her over so they could study for their looming Trig test, and she was trying to, really, but how could anyone concentrate when Artemis was sprawled casually on her bed, inking pretty patterns over her palm, down her arm, on her wrist, hand hanging limp and fingers curled gracefully.

“What?” The pen has paused in its fluid journey, and Babs drags her eyes up to find Artemis looking back at her. She chokes on her own tongue and feels her traitorous cheeks flush violently.

“Nothing, I just—” She casts around desperately for something, anything, and wonder of wonders, the Trig book in her lap comes to her rescue. “We’re supposed to be studying, not doodling.” She holds up the textbook for emphasis, or maybe as a shield.

Artemis rolls her eyes in a decidedly Artemis-like fashion, but a smile tucks itself good-naturedly into the corner of her mouth. Babs stares in fascination.

(Well, not stares, she’s only looking at what’s right in front of her. Really. She’s not staring. Well, only a bit.)

“I already finished the next problem set and thought I’d take a break. Work too hard for too long and you lose your edge, you know? At least when it comes to school work, anyway.”

Artemis is looking at her intently, unwaveringly. On anyone else it might seem creepy, or awkward; anyone else might not look so directly for so long, choosing instead to focus on some vague middle distance. With Artemis though, it simply means she’s set her sights on you and is giving you her full attention, no games or false coyness. Babs has wondered if perhaps this is why Dick consistently goes out of his way to show off around Artemis, just so that she’ll look at him.

She thinks she understands.

Babs finds herself suddenly unable to meet that steady gaze any longer, and her eyes dance away self-consciously. Internally, she’s panicking, because she can’t think of a single thing to say, and god, Artemis must think her so stupid, and she’s not, she’s really not, but there’s just something about this girl that makes her unexpectedly tongue-tied, and it drives her absolutely batty, and why had she thought it would be a good idea to hang out with Artemis by herself, without Dick to provide a safe and impishly agreeable buffer—

“You look like you could use a break too. Here, I’ll get you started.” Before Babs can react, Artemis grabs the redhead’s extended leg and pulls it into her lap. Babs jerks her eyes back up to find the other girl giving her a very different look, deliberate and mischievous. Still holding her gaze, Artemis casually hooks a finger into Babs’ sock, pulls it under her heel and leaves it there; her fingernail scratches a light, blazing trail that leaves Babs’ mouth abruptly dry.

She feels her jaw drop, feels her chest expand sharply, but can’t think what to do about it.

Artemis finally looks away, down, at the foot held unresistingly in her loose grip. She begins to draw, much as she did on herself: swirling lines, stars and diamonds and triangles, and even little bows and arrows. The pen leaves its scrawling trails of ink, scraping lightly over pale skin. The fingers of her empty hand rub absently up and down, up and down, up and down, teasing and soft and sending pleasant tingles all over her body.

Artemis cups her hand over Babs’ ankle; when she takes it away again, she can see a carefully drawn heart with an arrow etched through it.

Oh, she thinks softly.

Gyda’s mother is a shield-maiden, born with the blood of warriors as surely as the sword sings silver in her hand.

Her mother teaches her this skill, as she does weaving cloth and catching fish and the million other tasks it takes to run a farm or win a battle.

“Your fate shall be your own,” Lagertha tells her, and Gyda takes every lesson to heart; it is knowledge she craves, and the unparalleled satisfaction that unlocked understanding brings her young and eager mind. Sometimes she imagines herself as a great wolf, filling her belly with songs and stories and all there is to know in the world. Sometimes she thinks of Odin, and his missing eye.

So she watches, and she listens, and she learns.

“Do as I do,” Mother says; Gyda copies the motions of her wrist with her own blade, steady and even, but forgets to plant her feet. Before she can blink, her mother tups her right into the grass. Quick as a sparrow she turns the fall into a roll, springing back up. Lagertha smiles, pleased. “We’ll make a warrior out of you yet.”

Gyda is not so sure. Her parents are fierce fighters both, but the call of battle does not set fire to her blood the way it does them, or Bjorn. Already, this she can see.

But maybe she just hasn’t learned how yet. Regardless, she does like to make her mother smile.

Gyda plants her feet and tries again.

She boards the ship alongside Kaldur and very carefully does not think about the tons of water closing in over her head.


She’d learned a thing or two about Kaldur in their time on the Team. He was exotic, sure, and he’d always been about as stoic as they came—so if you really wanted to know what he was thinking, you had to watch his hands.

“Father,” Kaldur says; Artemis stands two steps behind his right shoulder (this is a very deliberate choice).

“My son,” Black Manta acknowledges. It’s difficult to tell through the helmet, but it feels as though she’s being sized up. Casually, she traces the hilt of (one of) the daggers strapped to her thigh. “And who is your companion?”

“This is Tigress. I have chosen her to be my right hand commander as I move forward.”

There is a beat of silence; Manta Senior is definitely staring at her now. Kaldur’s fingers twitch at his side. “Indeed. And what makes you think she is worthy of such a position? I’ve never heard of any Tigress.”

“Then I’m doing my job right,” she says, looking directly at Black Manta, even as he finally removes his helmet. Artemis maintains eye contact until she feels she’s made her point, then drops her gaze to his chin. “Sir.”

(She might be imagining it, but she could swear the ghost of a smile flickers across his lips.)

“Is that so. Tell me, mysterious Tigress, what other names do you go by?”

“I have no other names, sir.”

“Are you mocking me?” The crease of his frown promises suffering.

“No, sir.” She keeps her eyes trained carefully still. “I mean that the person I was before no longer exists. I am only Tigress.”

“Interesting.” He turns back to Kaldur. (Artemis carefully regulates her breathing.) “That still does not explain where you found her, or why you brought her onto my ship.”

“If you would like a demonstration of her skills, I am sure she would be happy to provide one.”

Matna stares at his son searchingly, but Kaldur’s face gives away nothing. (Meanwhile, his fingers tap an faint, unsteady beat.) Eventually, he says, “Yes, I believe a demonstration is in order.” Kaldur reaches for his water-bearers, but Manta waves him off. “No, son, I will be the one putting her to the test.” She has just enough time to see Kaldur’s eyes widen before she has to duck and roll.

Artemis gets enough room to allow for a momentary breath, and then, for the first time in years, holds absolutely nothing back.


(It’s easier than she cares to think about, shedding those restrictions that she had placed upon herself when she decided what kind of person she wanted to be. What her father taught her: aim to kill.)

you ain’t born typical

Title: blood price
Word Count:
Characters/Pairing: Reverse!Dipper&Reverse!Mabel
Rating: T (for some brief strong language and references to animal torture)
Disclaimer: Gravity Falls does not belong to me, I’m just here to play.
Summary: Where Waddles comes into the picture. [Reverse!Pines AUverse]

Note: Dedicated to my lovely Charlotte, who’s been having a rough time of it lately.

I was just going through the Reverse Pines tag on tumblr one day, and suddenly had the image of Waddles the magic talking disembodied head. If that sounds familiar…you might have read Fables.

Alternative sites: AO3 | FFN


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oh hey so machiavelliss prompted me this ages ago for a three-sentence fic meme so yeah here you go girl

mabel/dipper, ghost hunters

Mabel always knows, she’s always known, since they were kids and ghosts started following her like stray, slightly-to-very menacing puppies: this place is haunted.

It kills me to watch you do this again and again and again, he doesn’t say, every time she prepares to get up close and personal with a possibly homicidal spirit; she smiles at him anyway, armed with nothing more than brightly colored sweaters and a cheerful disposition and a brother who won’t let her go in alone (at night she sleeps with a tattered old stuffed pig, but they stopped bothering with separate beds a long time ago when, like as not, she just wakes up screaming and the only thing that soothes his endless anxiety and everpresent fear of being left alone is the sound of her breathing).

Goodbye, she never says, because they both know she’ll never have to.