WHAT IF THE WORLD DIES WITH THE SUNRISE? BABY, IT’S ALRIGHT, WE’LL BE UP ALL NIGHT! WHAT IF WE’RE

If I can hold you again, I won’t let you go.

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Steve's Young Daughter He Left Behind, is Scared by Sam and Bucky's Arguing

(Inspired by^)

Their arguing grew louder, more aggressive. Neither meant to escalate it, but Bucky was stressed and upset, and Sam was frustrated with it all. Their situation got increasingly more complicated the more time went on, and that showed no signs of stopping now Zemo was involved.

Sarah-Grace watched them with big eyes, huddled in a thick coat that had been draped over her by said Sokovian fugitive. The material kept her lovely and warm, almost to the point of lulling the girl to sleep. But she hated noise, especially shouting. Usually, her uncle Bucky spoke softly, avoiding making too much noise for her benefit. Same with Sam.

Hearing it now, Sarah curled into the warmth of the coat, trying to block it all out. She knew they didn't mean to scare her, but it was just too much.

Accidentially, she caught Zemo's eyes, then shyed away from them. He scared her a little, despite being nothing but kind to her so far.

"Guys!" He hissed, stepping towards them.

"What?!" Sam and Bucky snapped simultaneously, glaring daggers at him.

"You're scaring Sarah," Zemo said icily.

Their faces immediately softened, and they exchanged regretful glances. Bucky frowned, quickly moving over to kneel in front of her.

"We're sorry, Gracie," he said, voice returned to its soft hum, "I got too wound up. Are you okay?"

She raised her head, whimpering a little. Bucky's heart clenched, deadly afraid to see her scared of him. The idea had plagued him since the moment he realised what Steve did - once the anger dried up enough for other emotions to come through.

With her curly blonde hair and shining blue eyes, lightly flecked with green, she resembled Steve so much it sometimes hurt. Bucky believed she deserved better than him as a parent, but couldn't bring himself to give her up. If he was honest, this female reincarnation of his best friend gave Bucky the will to wake up every day.

She smiled meekly, reaching out to wrap her fingers around his metal hand. "It's okay. Promise you won't argue anymore?"

Sam nodded, crouching down beside them. "Promise. Sorry, sweetie."

She stood from the coat to hug them, her short arms only able to wrap around their necks. They leaned in to hold her, both making mental notes to keep their disagreements more civil from then on.

Over their shoulders, Sarah saw Zemo watching, and smiled at him. He returned it, misty eyed, still turning over the turkish delight in his hand.

Righty-ho! The name’s Criss, I’m 18 years old and I like croissants, hence the name. I was apart of the fandom way back when, not so much anymore, but I’ve been dragged back into it unwillingly. I’ve wanted to draw this piece for a right long time, so here it is! Enjoy my debut

2nd of October: Light / An dàrna latha dhen Dàmhair: Solas

English Translation:

Thorin knew beauty, perfection, could recognise the mark of true craftsmanship with ease. Though still young in the years of Dwarves, he studied at the side of their greatest smiths, deep in the halls of Erebor before the dragon came, and learnt the true meaning of creation.

The forges of Men lacked skill and care; working on them brought him no satisfaction, only a pittance in his hand and scorn on the road. Reaching the Blue Mountains was a relief to his people and to Thorin but they did not relish to live on the charity of others.

Their prince would not forget the glory and honour they came from. They established halls of their own in the west and raised themselves out of ruin, enough that many among Thorin's folk lost all desire to seek for their lost homeland again.

For their sake, and the sake of his siblings, Thorin spoke little of it - choosing to look ahead rather than live looking back. It did not stop the dreams or the memories, nor quell his anger. Never again will we be beggars, turned from the door like animals.

Oft did Thorin go among their smiths, seeking the familiarity of a hammer in the hand and the heat of the fire on his face.

But eyes the light of the Arkenstone had seen could not easily forget its radiance, nor find equal in dull and dusty gems. In his dreams, it lay buried beneath the dragon's paws, forever in the dark within walls once strewn with firelight.

The Arkenstone. The heart of the mountain, they called it. He held its light closely, tightly, and allowed his hope to live on in its glow.

(Sorry this one is shorter, I'm working tonight and don't have a lot of time to translate it!)

Scottish Gaelic Translation:

Bha Thòrin eòlach air àlainneachd, snas. Dh’fhaodadh e ag aithneachadh comharra fhìor cheàirde gu furasta. Ged a bha e òg fhathast ann am beatha nan troichean, dh’ionnsaich e ri taobh na goibhnean as motha a bh’ aca, anns na h-uaimhean ìsle, aosmhoire Erebor mus tàinig an nathair-sgiathach, agus dh’ionnsaich e am fior ciall chruitheachd.

Bha na ceàrdaichean gun sgil is nàistinn. Cha tug e toileachadh dha a bhith ag obair orra idir. Cha d’fhuair e dad ach priobaid na làimh agus tàir bhuapa air an rathad. Nuair a ràinig iad na Beanntan Ghuirm, b’ e faochadh don t-sluaigh aige agus ris fhèin, ach cha robhar measail air a bhith a’ fuirich air carantas.

Cha dhìochuimhneach am prionnsa a’ ghlòir is onaraich a bh’ aca. Thog iad tallachan dhaibh fhèin anns an Iar agus thog iad fhèin a-mach à lom-sgrios. B’ e sin gu leòr dha tòrr dhen t-sluaigh Thòrin a bhith gan caill am miann a bhith a’ sireach an tìr-dhàimh aca a-rithist.

Air an son, agus air a phiuthar is a bhràthair, cha bhruidhinn Thòrin mu dheidhinn gu tric. Choimhead e air adhart seach a bhith beò a’ coimhead air ais. Cha do stad sin na h-aislingean, na chuimhneachain, no chuir mùch air a fhuath. Cha bhith sinn nar dìolachan-dèirce a-riamh a-rithist, feumach air taic mar gun robh beathaichean a bh’ annainn.

Chaidh Thòrin gu tric a-measg na goibhnean aca, a’ sireach cinnt dhen t-òrd na làimh is teas an teine air an t-aodann. Ach cha b’ urrainn sùilean a chunnaic solas an Arkenstone dhìochuimhneachadh an deàrrsaidh no lorg an aon rud ann an leugan luaireanta, ràsanaiche. Anns na aislingean bha i adhlaicte fon smàg an nathair-sgiathach, anns an dorchadas, ann an tallachan a bha air lìonadh aon uair le solas an teine, gu sìorraidh brath.

An Arkenstone. Cridhe na Beinn, chuir iad oirre. Ghlèidh e an solas faisg, gu daingean, agus leig a dhòchas a bhith beò anns a deàrrsadh.

(Duilich gu bheil am fear seo nas beaga, tha mi air a bhith ag obair a-nochd agus cha robh àm gu leòr agam airson eadar-theangachadh a dhèanamh! Bidh mearachdan ann a sheo agus bheir mi sùil a-màireach air haha)

Once I "made" a custom emoji for my mum by crudely drawing a hijab on it and now whenever she wants me to buy a coffee for her I get a text like this

History repeats itself