A shy nerd with no social skills of which to speak. Obsesses over fictional characters to what some may consider an unhealthy degree. Contrary to popular belief does not suffer from insanity but enjoys every minute of it.
Writes fanfiction under the pen name NarutoRox on Ao3 and fanfiction.net, and proud contributor to the ImagineTonyandBucky blog (you can find my ItaB fills here).
(Note that about 90% of this blog's activity is queued in advance, so delays in answering asks/messages are normal and to be expected.)
For extras, meta, or news concerning The Road Less Traveled at the End of the Line and its sequels, follow the #Every Road You Take (Will Always Lead You Home) Series tag.
Catching Elephant is a theme by Andy Taylor
Irish people; The faeries aren’t real
Irish people; No fucking way will I go in that faerie ring
#look#you don’t go in a fairy ring and you don’t fuck with a stone in the middle of a field#these are just facts#nobody does it#fairies will fuck you up#Ireland#folklore#fairies (Via @false-dawn)
Look, I don’t believe in God, but I will not disrespect the Good Gentlemen of the Hills. That’s just common sense.
Between this and the Icelanders with their elves I do not understand what is going on above the 50th parallel.
My general rule of thumb: you don’t have to believe in everything, but don’t fuck with it, just in case.
^^^ that part
This is truer than true. Especially the Irish part.
Let me tell you what I know about this after living here for nearly thirty years.
This is a modern European country, the home of hot net startups, of Internet giants and (in some places, some very few places) the fastest broadband on Earth. People here live in this century, HARD.
Yet they get nervous about walking up that one hill close to their home after dark, because, you know… stuff happens there.
I know this because Peter and I live next to One Of Those Hills. There are people in our locality who wouldn’t go up our tiny country road on a dark night for love or money. What they make of us being so close to it for so long without harm coming to us, I have no idea. For all I know, it’s ascribed to us being writers (i.e. sort of bards) or mad folk (also in some kind of positive relationship with the Dangerous Side: don’t forget that the root word of “silly”, which used to be English for “crazy”, is the Old English _saelig_, “holy”…) or otherwise somehow weirdly exempt.
And you know what? I’m never going to ask. Because one does not discuss such things. Lest people from outside get the wrong idea about us, about normal modern Irish people living in normal modern Ireland.
You hear about this in whispers, though, in the pub, late at night, when all the tourists have gone to bed or gone away and no one but the locals are around. That hill. That curve in the road. That cold feeling you get in that one place. There is a deep understanding that there is something here older than us, that doesn’t care about us particularly, that (when we obtrude on it) is as willing to kick us in the slats as to let us pass by unmolested.
So you greet the magpies, singly or otherwise. You let stones in the middle of fields be. You apologize to the hawthorn bush when you’re pruning it. If you see something peculiar that cannot be otherwise explained, you are polite to it and pass onward about your business without further comment. And you don’t go on about it afterwards. Because it’s… unwise. Not that you personally know any examples of people who’ve screwed it up, of course. But you don’t meddle, and you learn when to look the other way, not to see, not to hear. Some things have just been here (for various values of “here” and various values of “been”) a lot longer than you have, and will be here still after you’re gone. That’s the way of it. When you hear the story about the idiots who for a prank chainsawed the centuries-old fairy tree a couple of counties over, you say – if asked by a neighbor – exactly what they’re probably thinking: “Poor fuckers. They’re doomed.” And if asked by anybody else you shake your head and say something anodyne about Kids These Days. (While thinking DOOMED all over again, because there are some particularly self-destructive ways to increase entropy.)
Meanwhile, in Iceland: the county council that carelessly knocked a known elf rock off a hillside when repairing a road has had to go dig the rock up from where it got buried during construction, because that road has had the most impossible damn stuff happen to it since that you ever heard of. Doubtless some nice person (maybe they’ll send out for the Priest of Thor or some such) will come along and do a little propitiatory sacrifice of some kind to the alfar, belatedly begging their pardon for the inconvenience.
They’re building the alfar a new temple, too.
Atlantic islands. Faerie: we haz it.
The Southwest is like this in some ways. You don’t go traveling along the highways at night with an empty car seat. Because an empty car seat is an invitation. You stick your luggage, your laptop bag, whatever you got in that seat. Else something best left undiscussed and unnamed (because to discuss it by name is to go ‘AY WE’RE TALKING BOUT YA WE’RE HERE AND ALSO IGNORANT OF WHAT YOU’RE CAPABLE OF’ at the top of your damn lungs at them) will jump in to the car, after which you’re gonna have a bad time.
If you’re out in the woods, you keep constant, consistent count of your party and make sure you know everyone well enough that you can ID them by face alone, lest something imitating a person get at you. They like to insert themselves in the party and just observe before they strike. It’s a game to them. In general you don’t fuck with the weird, you ignore the lights in the sky (no, this isn’t a god damn night vale reference, yes I’m serious) and the woods, you lock up at night and you don’t answer the door for love or money. Whatever or whoever’s knocking ain’t your buddy.
^ So much good advice in this post right here
I live in the south and… you just… don’t go into the woods or fields at night.
Don’t go near big trees in the night
If you live on a farm, don’t look outside the windows at night
I have broken all these rules.
I’ve seen some shit.
If it sounds like your mom, but you didn’t realize your mom is home…. it’s not your mom. Promise.
One walked onto the porch once. Wasn’t fun. But they’re not super keen on guns. Typically bolt when they see one.
You think it’s the neighbor kids.
It’s not the neighbor kids.
Might sound like coyotes but you never really /see/ the coyotes but then wow that one cow was reaaaaaally fucked up this morning. The next night when you hear another one screaming you just turn the tv up a little more. Maybe fire a gun in the air but you don’t go after it. If it is coyotes then it’s probably a pack and you seriously don’t want to fuck with that and if it’s the other thing you seriously REALLY don’t want to fuck with that.
So in the south, especially near the mountains, you just go straight from your car to inside your house, draw your curtains and watch tv.
If you see lights in the fields just fucking leave it alone.
Eyes forward. Don’t be fucking stupid. Mind your own business. Call your neighbors and tell them to bring the cats in. There’s coyotes out. Some of them know. Most of them don’t.
Other than that everything’s a ghost and they died in the civil war. Literally all of everything else is just the civil war. We used to smell old perfume and pipe tobacco in the weeks leading up to the battle anniversaries.
Shit’s wild and I sound fucking crazy but I swear to god it’s true.
Every time this post comes around, it’s my favorite to open up the notes and read the stories. Probably shouldn’t have since I’m sleeping alone tonight, but you know, it’s fine. 😂
Austrian girl here who has lived in Ireland for 5+ years. This shit is LEGIT. I’ve seen it with my own two Catholic eyes.
Sure, visit during the day. That’s alright as long as you’re respectful. But you couldn’t PAY ME ENOUGH to go there at night. These are also the last places where you wanna start littering.
I grew up in southwest Pennsylvania which is a weird mixture of American cultures and environments. I was in the heavily forested mountains (northern Appalachia) but had lots and lots of corn fields and cow pastures. Like the Smoky Mountains and fields of Kansas combined. And being so cut off from a lot of the world, we had our fair share of ghost stories.
We had ‘witches’ in the mountains (more like ghost-women who will snatch you up by making you wander in a daze around the forest like the Blair Witch before killing you or letting you back out into society but you’re… different). Or devils in springs or abandoned wells (don’t look too long into one or something will follow you).
But we also had the cornfield demons. I’ve witnessed this many times. You’ll be in the passenger seat looking out the window and see red glowing eyes in the cornfield. No light shining in that direction. Just two red dots a few inches apart faintly glowing in a pitch black cornfield. They’re not the glow of deer eyes in the headlights. More like the embers of a dying fire. Sometimes, as you drive away, you’ll look out the back window or side mirror and you can see the eyes have moved to the edge of the corn field, still watching you. If you bring it up with the driver, they’ll call you paranoid, but grip the wheel a bit tighter and driver a little faster.
I was walking to a friend’s house one night. It was about 20 minutes down a dirt road with forest on one side and a cornfield on the other. I’ve walked past it many times and wasn’t really concerned. My main worry was coming across a skunk or porcupine. I didn’t have a flashlight because the moonlight was bright enough and I knew the walk really well. Then I saw the eyes. I immediately averted mine (because for some reason that’s how to not annoy it) but they kept wandering back. They were still there, watching. I heard rustling and saw the eyes come closer and I took off running. I got to my friends without a scratch, but I was terrified. I mentioned it to my friend and that’s when I found out it was A Thing. Her parents agreed and shared their stories. I brought it up more and almost everyone knew what I was talking about. It was a phenomenon a lot of folks around town experienced but never mentioned. To this day, I don’t linger around poorly light cornfields at night.
Faeries and Wee Folk and Liminal Spaces, oh myyyy…
I just…yes. This. All of this. And then some.
You don’t have to understand it. You don’t have to believe in it.
But if you know what’s good for you, DON’T FUCK WITH IT.
As someone who grew up on a farm in the Southern U.S. with over a hundred acres of woods around, I can’t tell you how true this post is. Sure, as kids, we didn’t mind exploring those woods in the daytime, but there were certain areas you Did Not Go, and good Lord, you definitely didn’t do it at night. There were things in those woods, man. I can still remember the year our cats kept going missing - and I’m talking almost a dozen cats in about eight months. To this day, my family and I say it was coyotes, but there was always a… hesitation, before the neighbors agreed. I can still remember one neighbor looking down at me and my sister, and very seriously telling us never to wander off by ourselves, because “coyotes don’t mind making little kids disappear, either.”
once upon a time young young teenage me used to write fan fiction like my life depended on it, new fics every week and I had no idea there was someone out there printing out my fics and putting them in a box to read when they needed something to cheer them up
anyways fast forward to 20 year old me on my third date with Emily and she mentions offhand that she’s got this box of fic she printed out and saved
it’s a few months later after that and she shows me one of the fics in the box and holy shit that’s my garbage fic from so long ago
anyways my point is life is a fucking trip my dude
i still remember when we found this out. i don’t think either of us stopped yelling for hours
look it’s been eight years and I’m still like LMAO I MARRIED A FAN
This is the cutest thing I’ve ever read in my whole life
Fanfiction isn’t written for you, it’s shared with you.
BLESS THIS POST
[words to read and write by]
Everyone needs to remember this - writers as well. It’s okay to just write whatever you actually like and not write what people want you to.
Ah yessssssssssssssssssssssss you READ MY MIND tbh like. because asks show up in my notifications and usually i can read the first few words of them, i saw up until ‘cause you’ and went to check which one that was and immediately! my mind! went! NICKNAMES AND ANGST!!!!! sooooo, ask and ye shall receive ehehehehe (i fudged with the timeline a little, but nothing too drastic) (this got longer than i meant it. OH WELL) (mostly canon compliant with the exception of extremis, ignores age of ultron and beyond)
20. the one where you don’t know your soulmate until you hear them say your name
Steve and Bucky find each other young. It’s not completely unheard of, but it is a rare thing. They don’t care about that, though. Why would they? They’ve already found each other, they’re lucky. They grow up together, share their grief and joys.
Then the war happens. Bucky gets his papers, and Steve keeps trying to follow. (Much to Bucky’s horror.) Bucky ships out, and Steve meets Dr. Erskine. It’s months before they see each other again, months of Steve bitter and angry and worried about Bucky, and months of Bucky thanking God every day that Steve isn’t there, that he’s at home and safe.
Captain America, on USO tours, visits the troops in Europe, and the rest, as they say, is history.
Everyone knows that Captain America rescued his soulmate Bucky Barnes from Hydra, and that the Howling Commandos were formed. Everyone knows that the Howling Commandos took out dozens of Hydra bases. Everyone knows that Bucky Barnes fell from a train to his death in the alps, and that shortly thereafter Captain America saved the United States by crashing a bomb-filled plane somewhere in frozen waters.
This is what Tony grows up knowing. He grows up knowing that Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes were devoted to each other, that they had a bond that couldn’t be broken. He grows up hearing stories of them from his father, and Aunt Peggy. Tony knows more about them than what history’s taught. He knows they grew up together, that Steve became Captain America because he wanted to do his part, but also because he wanted to follow Bucky and keep him as safe as he could.