#AND THEN THEY TRIED TO PRETEND LIKE IT WAS FINE? and after the widower arc

[sunforgrace]

he sat there on the ground and cried. for cas. cas told him he loved him was taken away and he buried his head in his hands and wept

[jakes3resin]

Honestly so intrigued by the idea of a role swap between Bucky and Gale when it comes to who took the London weekend pass and who got shot down first.

Gale convinces Harding to give both of them a weekend pass thinking that's the only way to convince Bucky to take a break, paint the town red in London until Bucky starts to feel better, but Bucky says no like Gale did. Gale still goes because he needs a break from missions, from base life, and, as much as he hates to admit it, from Bucky himself right now.

Bucky goes up like Gale did, and Bucky doesn't come back like Gale did.

Gale has a calmer time in London than Bucky, but he still sees the headlines about the 8th and the lost 30 bombers. The panic that runs through him would probably mirror the panic Bucky felt. The urgent need to know what happened, thoughts spinning as he tells himself that Bucky wasn't one of the men the papers say got shot down.

Gale's widow arc after escaping was characterized by desperation, a quiet bone deep desperation tinged by Gale's guilt at leaving Bucky behind. The pain that Bucky gave up his chance at freedom for him cut deep into him. There was some rage during the escape, but once he got to England, you could tell Gale's strings had been cut. His rage melted into grief and desperation. He held white knuckled to the hope, the delusion even, that Bucky was fine, he's always fine, he just had to stay for the men.

His grief after learning Bucky went down in a role swap would be closer to rage, I think. Rage at the Germans sure, but rage at Bucky mostly. Gale tried to get him to London, damn near begged him to come with him because he knew something was going to happen if he didn't get Bucky out of that cockpit.

Of course, the anger is just so he can hide how much Bucky's 'death' is killing him. He's good at hiding his emotions by slipping on a mask and burying them deep within himself, but everyone can see he isn't doing well. The grief and rage are just too much. Gale's slipping, and without Bucky, no one knows how to help him. This isn't the Major Cleven they know. This is the Buck without his namesake that none of them ever expected to see.

Gale would do as Bucky did. Leave London and demand that he be placed on the next possible mission. The pair are a bit too similar sometimes, and he'd want back in the saddle before he processed his emotions. He's back on base when everyone knows Harding didn't call him in from London. He's standing silently at the bar, not ordering a thing simply there because he's still so used to his routine with Bucky that nowhere else feels right. At least here he's with the men. At least here he can pretend Bucky's asking the bartender to fill up his flask. At least here he can be haunted.

No one knows how to handle Buck like this. They've never seen Buck like this with his emotions so volatile as his mask slips. Benny tries to talk to him, but Gale shrugs him off. Jack and Red both try to talk to him, but Gale simply asks when the briefing is. No one can get through to him.

Gale leaves behind Bucky's lucky deuce. He'd carried it for Bucky's sake, and now there's no Bucky to worry.

Oh but what if that's where the role swap ends? Buck still ends up at Stalag Luft III before Bucky, and it's the final nail in Bucky's coffin for Buck. Bucky isn't here. Gale's lost any hope he'd gained seeing Brady and Crank waiting at the fence. Even when Brady swears Bucky bailed before him, he grieves.

Everyone's sure that they're going to lose Gale now. You need strength and at least some measure of hope or fight to survive the camp, and Gale has none of that. He really did think that they'd be the last two left in the air when all of this was over. That dream doesn't matter when he's the only one left. He lost everything when Bucky went down.

Two days later, Bucky walks through the fence, and the heart that stopped beating in Gale's chest back in London finally starts up. Hope returns, and with it, his will to see both of them through this.

[pbandcas]

Hush little baby don’t you cry, Daddy’s gonna sing you a lullaby. Sweet little baby, don’t be blue, Please, my baby. I miss him too.

Angsty little ficlet under the cut <3 Read on AO3

There was a faint crying coming from the end of the hall that only increased as Dean got closer. He could hear Sam gently speaking but he couldn’t understand the words. Even as he pushed the door open and blinked, face devoid of all emotions, he didn’t understand. 

Sam turned to him, brows knit together in sympathy and desperation. He was speaking again as he bounced the screaming infant in his arms. Dean didn’t understand the words. It was all just a pounding in his head and white noise in his ears. 

But Jack— Jack he could hear. 

“Give him here.” He didn’t recognize his own voice. And he would have cared more had he not felt so damn empty inside. His brother seemed to hesitate before slowly approaching to pass him the crying Jack. The second Dean’s hands wrapped around his tiny body and he brought his lips to downy hair, silence echoed through the room. 

Sam might have said something. He might have made a questioning noise in the back of his throat. Dean didn’t hear it. He buried his nose in Jack’s soft hair. He breathed in that warm milky smell. He felt tears sting his eyes and he turned away. “Saw a nursery down the hall. Gonna see if C—“ he choked on the name and couldn’t say it “—if Kelly got everything needed for him.”

He could feel Sam’s gaze follow him from the room. He knew the look in his eyes but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Jack whimpered against his throat and he tightened his grip. “I know, baby, I know.” It was barely a murmur but it seemed to do its job settling the infant. 

He found a papoose smoothed out on a new changing table. The soft mint fabric was perfectly pressed and Dean could only stare at it. There was a lump caught in his throat and a burning in his lungs as he wrapped Jack snugly against his chest. His hands were shaking and he knew there were tears on his cheeks, but Jack was silent. And his watery eyes were finally closed. 

Sam found him what felt like hours later in the tiny dining room. “How did-- how did his body get here?” Dean flinched at the words, one hand pressing against Jack’s back, the other gripping the sheet covering Cas’ cold features. He didn’t answer. He continued his silent procession, Castiel deserved his full attention. Now more than ever as he gave his final rites. 

Below his chin Jack let out a small, almost pitiful whimper. 

It was only once the funeral pyre had all but burnt out that Dean finally relinquished his hold on the baby. Shaking hands unwrapped the fabric and passed the confused infant over to Sam. He didn’t look at either before turning away. Jack let out a soft cry behind him but he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t look back. He couldn’t, he couldn’t, he couldn’t. He fell to his knees beside the pile of ashes instead. He stared at all that remained of the one who held his heart. 

Hands stained black, he tried desperately to ignore Jack’s growing wails. It was his fault Cas was-- It was his fault. If only he had stayed with them, with him. He would have been safe. He would have been fine. Had he just stayed in the bunker... he would be here. He would be here, not this crying baby who stole his place. 

He didn’t take Jack back that night.

He couldn’t even look at him. 

Jack wouldn’t stop. Two weeks later Sam was frantically banging on Dean’s bedroom door, Jack’s screaming, red face pressed against his shoulder. He knew his brother was begging him to open up. Begging him to just try and calm him… but Dean couldn’t. He wouldn’t. That baby took Cas’ life. He wasn’t about to give him his place in the family too. He rolled over on his side and pressed the tiny capsule of ashes to his lips as he screwed his eyes shut. 

Tears burned his cheeks as they fell, but he couldn’t be bothered to wipe them away. He’d put the bottle away. Tucked away from prying eyes. Away from anyone who could take it away. Take him away.

Eventually Sam must have left because the screaming faded away. The crying never stopped. 

Another week passed and he finally left his room. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair to any of them. To Cas… to himself. It wasn’t fair to Jack. There was an ache in his heart that he couldn’t stop. A yearning in his soul that would never end. Pain filled wails met his ears as he walked toward the library on auto pilot. It was instinctual, the tugging toward the only living link to Castiel he had left. 

Sam was hunched over the table, hands buried in his hair as Jack screamed from the small bassinet beside him. He jerked his head around the second Dean picked Jack up. Silence. Tiny bright eyes stared up at Dean’s impassive face. And there were tears in his own eyes and he refused to look down at the baby but he just-- “He’s all that’s left of-- of him.” And he left the room. Jack cradled in his arms and Sam’s concerned voice calling after him. 

He only cried at night now. In the dark of Dean’s room he’d whimper before soft sobs would wake the hunter. He’d gently cry even as Dean picked him up and held him close. He’d taper off just slightly as choked out lullabies were pressed into his skin. He’d reach out and press a tiny hand to Dean’s neck. And Dean… Dean would let him. He let him cry into his skin, half hearted attempts to sooth him because he knew. 

“Hush little baby… don’t you cry--”

This wasn’t a hurt that soft words could fix. It wasn’t something he could easily comfort. He couldn’t just kiss and make it better. He couldn’t just wrap him in a blanket and pretend it was all okay again.

“Daddy’s gonna sing you a lullaby--” 

He could only hold Jack close and kiss the top of his head and bury his nose in the blonde hair. He could only close his eyes and pray the tears held back just long enough to get Jack back to sleep. He could only hope his infant found some semblance of comfort in his touch. He could only do so much when this crying stemmed from the same hurt buried in him. 

“Hush sweet baby, don’t be blue--” 

But he could only hold on for so long and as his voice cracked on the words, tears spilled down his cheeks. Because this was the thing Cas fought so hard to protect. This was the being Cas gave his life for. This was Castiel’s baby. This was Castiel’s baby and he missed him. Jack just wanted his father and he didn’t understand and he was hurting for it. He just-- didn’t understand that Dean did too. This was his baby. No matter the circumstances, and the heartbreak and pain it brought, this was their baby. 

“Please, my baby, I miss him too.”

Thank you @evermorecastiel and @lobotomycastiel for the push to finally finish this with the widower arc posting yesterday after sitting on it for the past 2 weeks. Ya'll the real mvps.

[blkgojo]

Two Superheroes, One Bed | Carol Danvers x Reader

In which, you and Carol hate each other, but have to share a bed. 

Request: Anonymous

Despite popular misconception being a former terrorist does not make people like you. If anything, it makes them hate you. Despise you. Question you incessently with things such as, "Why did you do this? What is wrong with you? How could you have justified those acts?" And to be honest, your answer was less than satisfying. There was no tragic backstory. No great villain speech. Just you and your hatred for the government.

Living in the Avenger facility did little to change that.

See, the thing about Carol Danvers was that she wasn't an "Earth" hero. Logically speaking, there should've been no reason you disliked eachother as much as you did. You didn't work for the Kree. You had no squabble with saving refugees from colonial rule. On paper, you two were two peas in a pod. Both looking after people who didn't have others to help them, but you hated her the moment you laid eyes on her. Carol Danvers with the huge ass ego. Carol Danvers who somehow was fighting an intergalactic empire, but saw no problem with the way the US military conducted business. She hated you because honestly, who likes a murderer. Redemption arc be damned. You know how it goes.

"I just feel like I've done nothing to deserve this."

"You've killed hundreds of people."

"In total, the Avengers have killed like 2000 so, I don't really see how that's relevant."

Natasha sighs. Steve steps forward and when you cut your eyes at him, he raises his hands in plea.

"Half the universe's population is gone. The US government just needs a win."

You nod slowly. "And sending me across the fucking galaxy with-" You gesture vaguely to the blonde who until that point had decided to be quiet. "- is somehow a win."

"I hate to say this, but I agree," Carol interjects. "I work better alone. Y/N will just hold me back."

"We just need someone to go back to the planet where the infinity stores were destroyed. Make sure there are no remnants."

"It'd be quicker if I did it by myself."

"Y/N is the only one with the ability to replicate organic life," Steve retorts. "If there's a possibility she can locate some particle of infinity stone and replicate that, we need to take that chance."

"It'd be good publicity for her image and it'd bring us one step closer to bringing them back," Natasha continues.

"The world needs you to put aside your differences for the mission."

That was another thing you regretted about joining the Avengers. Steve had no shortage of motivating speeches under his belt. The good thing about villains was that they weren't much for conversation - there was no need to give motivating speeches when the odds were in your favor.

But, people were gone. Wanda, the only one you remotely liked, was gone. Snapped. Looking at Carol now, it looks like she must've lost someone, too. Her unpleasant face looks somehow more restrained than it usually did.

You sigh and fold your arms. "Fine."

All Carol does is nod.

--

It would take two earth days to reach his planet. Two. There'd been complications with the engine and so, it would take not the twenty four hours you expected, you know the time span that was customary for light travel, but it would take two days. Between that and the ship having to lower the heat to maintain proper oxygen levels, it wasn't fun.

"I could fly us there," Carol offers.

"Are you forgetting I can't breathe in space?"

Carol shrugs. "You replicate organic life right? Just replicate yourself a new pair of lungs."

"Fuck you."

She smirks, takes the only other available chair next to you. At first, she seems content to annoy you by tapping her fingers against the dashboard. Then, she grows bored. Worse, she tries to talk to you.

"Isn't all of this stuff automated?"

"Yes."

"So," she begins, stretching out the word. "You don't actually need to be here monitoring it. You can get on the cot." She shrugs. "Take a nap."

"I'd rather keep watch."

You think that'll be it and she'll be done, but she continues. You never would've pegged her as the type to not like silence. But, maybe that's not even it. Maybe, she just wanted to squeeze information out of you. God knows you weren't exactly open with the other Avengers when Fury made you join.

"You ever been to outer space?"

You shake your head. "When you're flagged as a global liability they tend to prefer you on the ground."

"A global liability? Is that what terrorists call themselves?"

"At least, we don't give ourselves cutesy nicknames like Black Widow or Captain Marvel."

She scoffs. "No. You guys just blow up innocent civilians."

"Yeah, I guess accidentally killing them is way better." You smile thinly. "For the greater good and all, you know?"

She stares at you long enough that you don't think she'll actually speak. Finally, she looks away and out to the empty abyss in front of you. "I don't pretend to know what the Avengers did while I was off-world. I see them now and they're good people."

You don't respond and she continues. "You must agree. Otherwise, you wouldn't be here."

"Fury said it was either this or experimentation."

"Fury didn't say that."

You laugh bitterly. "He didn't, but he didn't need to. The governments experiment on all mutants - that's how we got Steve and Wanda - they just don't talk about it anymore." You spare her a glance. There's nothing in her expression that would tell you what she's thinking. "So, I chose the Avengers. And here we are."

"You could've escaped."

"Where?" You lean forward in your seat and prop your elbow on the dash. "Please tell me. Where can someone who's wanted internationally hide?"

She squints her eyes. "I'd help, but unfortunately, my knowledge of ideal vacation spots is pretty limited."

Carol's lips seem to be trapped in a permanent smirk - the corner always tilted up in vaguely hidden amusement. Even now. Her snark never stops. You feel your own anger dissipate as quick as it came. There was no point being angry with her. She loved it. Fed off it like a parasite or leech.

"It's almost like you're trying to piss me off."

She places her elbow on the console, leaning forward to shrink the gap between you two.

"Would it make you more angry if I was?"

One time, you and the raccoon had a bet. Whose eyes were more blue: Captain America or Captain Marvel? Like this, you'd have to say Carol. Her eyes had their own halo wrapped around the rim, highlighting the blue and making it fluorescent.

You rub your lips together and lean back in your seat, turning away from her to once again, look at the controls.

The ship breaks down when you reach his planet. You and Carol spend the first ten minutes after landing, arguing back and forth, blaming eachother. The next fifteen, Carol leaves you. Fucks off like a glow stick and searches the planet. When she returns, you haven't moved. Haven't left. You opted instead to lie down in the flowers. It was a beautiful planet. Perfect for retirement. The air was pure, almost light enough to get high in.

"I found his cabin."

"Great." You jump up. The blood rushing to your head and spotting your vision briefly, almost enough to cause you to wobble. "Let's go."

She steps in front of you, quick. You stop just short of bumping into her. Your faces are inches apart. That same infuriating smirk on her lips. Your eyes dart down, down to her chest - she was quite muscular, you could see that even through her clothes-  down enough that she has to clear her throat.

"It's too far by foot." When your eyes meet, she's trying to not look smug.

You arch a brow. "Well, we can't fly."

"I'll have to carry you."

You groan.

"Believe me. I'd be more than willing to do anything else."

"Fine. Do it."

You step back and gesture at her to turn around. She rolls her eyes and in a breathe you didn't know you were holding, throws your arm around her shoulders, wraps her arms around your waist, and jumps. You scream. Through the rush of wind, you think you hear her laughing or perhaps, that's a lie and it's you. Laughing hysterically. No. You are screaming. Hitting her chest. And she's laughing. Fuck Natasha. Fuck Steve. When this is over, you're quitting.

When your feet touch the ground, you bend down and kiss it. Pray to it.

"Anyone ever tell you you're dramatic?" She asks.

"Anyone ever teach you about consent?"  

"You told me to do it."

"I don't care!"

The two of you spend hours looking for remnants of the stones before you finally give it up and return to the ship. You were careful not to drift too close to his cabin. The Avengers never recovered the body. The rot of Thanos was thick, enough to gag over if you got too close. This planet wasn't used to death, not the harsh meat of Thanos. It had been months and he was still there, newly rotting as if it had been a week or two.

"I'll look again tomorrow before we leave." Carol pops a chip in her mouth, her feet kicked on the co-pilot chair while you lounged on the cot. "For now, you should get your rest."

"Don't you need to sleep, too?"

"I have been." She gestures to the chair.

You stare. Frown. The chairs were nowhere near comfortable.

"We can switch. I'll just take the blanket," you offer reluctantly. The nights here were cold anyways. Much colder than space. You involuntarily shiver.

"I prefer to sleep sitting up."

"Is that a military thing?"

To your surprise, she laughs. "Why?"

You shrug the blanket higher - the thin layer providing little comfort. "Cap likes to do that too."

As the sky gets darker, the cold filters in the cracks of the ship and between the layers of your comforter. You snuggle tighter within yourself, curl your knees up to your chest, burrow your hands underneath your pits. When that doesn't work, you shift again. It was always something. The blanket doesn't cover your feet here. You're uncomfortable there.

"You still up?"

You peek up to glance at Carol. She's leaned back in the chair, her head propped back against the headrest. When you shift, she pops one eye open.

"It's cold," you respond. "Are you cold?"

She shakes her head. "Temperature stops being a concern when you get superpowers like mine."

"Oh, yeah. Forgot you're a glow stick."

She snorts. "You talk a lot of shit for someone whose close to being an icicle."

"Bravado under pressure. It's my best quality."

You think she's gonna retort with another snort, but she stays silent. You make a move to stand, but she stops you.

"It's colder over here. See." She breathes out and you can see the cloud of her breathe. You frown.

"I can't sleep like this."

You think she's gonna do something like procure a blanket or throw you her jacket. You even think she might use her powers to heat the ship. It would make sense. Now, that you thought about it - she could've flew your ship to Thanos's exact location. You open your mouth to say as much, maybe, even yell at her as well, but she surprises you by standing.

Her head tilts to the side. Her mouth opening and closing again as if she's mulling over her next words carefully. If it were brighter, you might say this is the closest to nervous you've ever seen her get.

"I could lay down next to you." You blink. "My body generates a certain amount of heat due to -"

"Your powers. Yeah, I get it."

Slowly, you scoot over in the small cot. There wouldn't be enough room. You'd be touching regardless, but if you didn't turn over, it'd be okay. You could pretend instead of Carol, it was some space heater next to you.

"Come," you order.

You feel her weight in the cot, the warmth of her sinking in and spreading across the fabric. It hasn't even been a minute and already the cold has been dissipated. You could sleep if you wanted to. But, you don't. No matter how much you had wanted to pretend she was just some space heater, she was Carol. She felt stiff like a board and she was unbearably loud in her stiffness, her unwillingness to move.

"You can relax you know," you mumble.

"I sleep on my side."

You wonder now if she's smirking.

"No one's stopping you from doing that."

She moves and you know without looking that she's facing you. Her breathe tickles the hair on the back of your neck. You wouldn't be able to sleep like this. She's thinking so loud that whatever thoughts she's having are sure to interrupt your dreams. You turn over towards her - your faces are a hair apart. She's not smirking. Her lips are parted and her eyebrows raised, her expression torn between surprise and delight.

"You're making it difficult to sleep," you say simply.

"Am I?" She retorts. There it is. She's grinning. "That sounds like a personal problem."

You don't take the bait. "You know why you're making it difficult?"

She shifts her head slightly to imply 'no'.

"You're too far away. I'm still cold," you say.

She arches one brow. "This is too far away for you?"

You nod.

She shifts closer. Close enough that there's no room for you to glance at her lips. There's only her eyes staring into yours.

"This good enough?" She whispers.

"No."

"You're proving difficult to please, Y/N." And you can tell she's trying to be smooth, but right now, you just want her to shut up.

You barely have time to open your mouth to say as much before she's kissing you. Pressing her soft lips to yours, her hand finding its way to your hip and resting there. She tugs you closer to her until your bodies are flush against one another. The soft pecks growing longer. Light sparks from her fingertips, burning the trim of your jacket. She fists it as she presses you into her. Her touch still gentle if demanding.

You pull away slowly to breathe. To catch air. You forget why when your lips stop touching.

"Been wanting to do that for awhile," she says with a smile.

"I didn't know I wanted to do it honestly," you respond because it's true. All you knew was that Carol was infuriating. Still is. Only now you want to kiss her, too.

"Really?" Carol asks. "You didn't know you wanted me?"

"You find that hard to believe?"

"I do," she grins. "You know the raccoon and Groot have a running bet on which one of us would crack first. Groot bet on me."

"Groot lost, then." You mean to kiss her, but she pulls back.

"You're the one who invited me into bed with you."

"Because you offered your services."

"Because you complained about being cold."

You groan, snuggle into her chest so you don't feel the need to respond to her. Thankfully, she stops. Her spare hand strokes your back and slowly, you drift into sleep.

[ravenforce]

Stark Legacy 1

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x Carol Danvers x Wanda Maximoff x Maria Hill x Reader

Word Count: 3877

A/N: It has arrived. The Imagine I teased you all about a month ago. Thus the unholy pentagon arrives. I tried writing a summary but I think I suck at writing them, and I didn’t wanna spoil the plot by talking too much. I hope you like this. Comment your reactions, bloody or otherwise. Also, I proofread this twice but if there are still some mistakes that escaped me, forgive me. xx

Parts: 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6

***

Interrupted

“Funny how tragedy brings people together,” Maria thought as she stands on the balcony watching not the city below her but the sight of her girlfriends Natasha and Carol goofing around the kitchen while Wanda helplessly continues to try to make dinner. Who would have thought that after being dusted she’d end up being asked out by the most powerful Avengers? Okay, it was Natasha who asked her out with Carol’s permission to do so.

“Are you high Natasha?” Maria asked after Natasha gathered all the courage she could get to ask S.H.I.E.L.D’s Deputy Director out for dinner. 

Carol was watching the interaction, saw how fast Nat tries to build her walls up. So, she flew to her ex-assassin girlfriend before she can bolt in humiliation.

“No, no, she’s not high. As you know, the Black Widow doesn’t joke either. She’s serious,” Carol paused. “We, we’re serious about this. We want you to be our girlfriend but if that’s too fast for you, we can just hang out. We’d still love to have you around.”

Maria cocked her perfectly sculpted eyebrow while Carol vomits her words. She thought it was adorable that the two strongest people she knows was nervous about asking her, a mere mortal, out. 

“Why me? Why now?” Maria asked the burning questions in her head. She may be Fury’s best soldier but she’s not just about to do something because people told her so. 

“Well,” Carol started before nudging Nat with her elbow. Natasha looked up at Maria. 

“Well, life is short, Hill,” Natasha said. Carol rolled her eyes. 

“That’s very romantic, Agent Romanoff,” Maria deadpanned. Carol chuckled. 

“What Natasha meant was life is short, and she’s had a fat crush on you since she met you forever ago but,” Carol paused to think her words over. 

“But the world kept needing heroes,” Natasha finished her girlfriend’s sentence. “And I kept waiting for the right time.” 

There was never a right time went unsaid but duly understood. She’ll be damned if she says she never thought about kissing the redhead senseless before, especially every time Natasha goes on her way to save the boys, even if meant endangering herself. Maria looked at the two women before her, as they wait with bated breath. 

“Fine,” Maria said after what seems like an eternity. Carol started grinning instantly, Nat tried to bite the inside of her cheeks to hide her excitement but the blush on her neck and cheeks said otherwise. “Let me know when and where.”

Six months after, Wanda came back into the compound. Wanda joining them was gradual, as they’re all respectful of her grieving process. It took months before Wanda herself opened up about joining their little family. 

“Aren’t you guys going to ask me to be your girlfriend?” she asked, direct to the point. No dilly-dallying, while they’re all cuddled up in the couch watching the end credits of Netflix’s Altered Carbon. Carol was lying on her side big-spooning the deadly Natasha Romanoff. While Maria was sitting in the middle with Wanda’s foot cradled on top of her thighs. 

Carol and Nat nearly fell on the floor in their haste to look at the young witch. Wanda watched as they gather their thoughts, Maria laughed at how surprised the two were.

“We are planning on it,” Maria says as she massages Wanda’s soft feet. “We just didn’t know if you’re actually open to it.”

Wanda wanted to sass but Maria’s hand on her feet is doing magic to her, rendering her soft and non-combatant. She still rolled her eyes playfully though. “Now that we’re on the topic. Ask me now,” Wanda says cheekily. 

Natasha sat on the floor beside Carol. “Be our girlfriend,” she says confidently. “Officially.”

Wanda smiled before she beckoned the redhead forward so they can seal the deal with a kiss.  

***

“Deputy Director Hill! Maria! Bubba!!” Wanda yelled to get Maria’s attention.

“Sorry, I was elsewhere,” Maria apologized for spacing out. “What do you need?”

“I need you to remove these children out of the kitchen,” Wanda teased Nat and Carol.

Maria took one huge sip of her red wine before walking inside their shared apartment and towards her favourite witch.

“You know you can put these two in their place with a flick of your wrist,” Maria teased.

“It’s more fun to watch when you’re the one punishing them,” Wanda answered smiling, igniting a laugh from Nat and Carol as well.

“That sounds dirty,” Carol whispered before throwing a mushroom at Nat’s head again. Wanda sighed as she gets the pans out from the bottom cupboard. Nat glared at her blonde girlfriend before reaching for the broccoli to retaliate but Maria caught her hand on the counter.

“Enough,” Maria said sternly. Nat pouted while Carol stuck her tongue at the redhead.

Maria turned towards the blonde. “You too,” she said, effectively cutting the shenanigans.

Wanda walked past Maria and gave her a kiss on the cheeks before setting the pan on the stove. “See, the children only follow you,” she said before tossing the ingredients of her beef with broccoli on the pan.

“Uhm, we’re actually older than you two,” Carol blurted out.

“Speak for yourself, fossil,” Natasha teased. Yes, Natasha Romanoff, the deadly Black Widow actually knows how to tell a joke. Don’t get it wrong though, Natasha’s only soft and relaxes when she’s home. Out there, she’s still as deadly as she used to be.

Wanda laughed melodiously, causing Maria to smile a little wilder. They all lost people after the war - Tony, Clint, Steve to name a few but nothing compares to Wanda having to kill Vision to save the goddamn world. Maria’s really happy that a year after, Wanda’s coping, and smiling again. Their little family may be unconventional and incomprehensible to others but their relationship saved the four of them from spiralling into the abyss of pain and loss.

***

“Hill,” Nat called out for her, cutting through her obvious daydreaming. She blinked twice at the redhead.

“I’m sorry, what?” she asked still slightly dazed.

“Are you okay? It’s the second time in the hour that you’ve spaced out,” Nat asked clearly worried.

Maria only smiled as an answer before her phone started ringing again. She pulled out the device from her back pocket. It’s Fury. She accepted the call.

“Nick,” she answered simply. She pursed her lips together while listening to intently on the other line. After receiving the directive, she unconsciously glanced at her girlfriends as they make the dining table.

“Okay. I got it. I’ll be there in 30,” she said before hanging up the phone.

Nat, Carol, and Wanda stood straight looking at her. Maria smiled, knowing her girlfriends are ready to move out on her command.

“Sorry, you’ll have to sit this one out,” Maria said causing the three to frown instantly. They don’t like the idea of Maria going without one of them since they started going out.

“Take at least one of us,” Nat suggested. Maria walked towards the redhead and forced her to uncross her arms, so she could settle in and give Nat a hug. Nat instantly melted but the frown didn’t leave her face as well as her worry.

“I can’t. Nick didn’t say it’s ‘take one of your hot girlfriends to work day’,” Maria murmured cheekily against Nat’s chest. Nat rolled her eyes playfully but Maria could hear the rumble on her chest as she starts laughing. Carol and Wanda watched the two fondly.

“Be serious,” Nat sassed, pretending to be annoyed.

“I am! Besides, Wanda worked so hard to get this dinner ready. Especially harder since you and Carol can’t stop being a goof,” Maria teased. Carol stuck her tongue out at Natasha, causing the redhead to roll her eyes.

“Fine but you’re wearing your tracker,” Nat said seriously. Carol bounded to them like an excited child with Maria’s necklace tracker on her hand. It’s one of the two pairs, they asked Pepper to have made at Stark Industries. It’s in the design of Tony’s arc reactor.

“Thank you,” Maria said after Carol secured it around her neck and gave her a soft kiss on the shoulder.

“Just activate the emergency beacon,” Wanda said softly as she sidled up with the group.

“And we will come for you,” Nat finished the sentence for Wanda. “Come hell or high water, we will come for you.”

Maria’s heart soared. She was doing fine on her own before, she didn’t know it could get better.

“Saps,” she teased softly before adding. “I’ll be okay. I’ll have Bruce, Bucky, and Happy with me.”

Natasha laughed. “Yeah, like that’s gonna compare to us,” she said confidently, and all Maria could do was laugh before begrudgingly walking away from her home. She knew if she stays for another minute to banter, she wouldn’t be able to go at all.

***

Classified

“Nick, it’s been 5 days since we’ve heard from Maria,” Carol said after slamming her hands on the Director’s table.

Nat nearly bristled as she leans on a wall across the room, watching Nick unfazed by Carol’s attempt to intimidate him. Wanda’s pacing back and forth beside Carol.

Nick looked up at Natasha. “Do I need to remind you that Hill is my deputy? If you can’t trust my decision to send her without the three of you. At least trust that she can protect herself well,” Nick said calmly.

Carol opened her mouth to respond but she heard Nat pull away from the wall. “Sorry to bother you then, Director,” Nat said simply, a deep frown adorning her beautiful face.

Carol and Wanda wanted to protest but the look on Nat’s face told them otherwise. The two followed Nat silently all the way back to the compound. When they reached their shared bedroom, Nat went directly to boot her personal laptop.

“What are you doing?” Wanda asked, sitting in front of the assassin. Carol plopping down next to the redhead on the bed.

“Nick’s not gonna give her location. So, I’m just going to find her,” Nat answered just in time as the tracking program opened. Wanda and Carol nodded.

“Okay, we’ll prepare our bags,” Wanda said before hopping out of the bed. Nat glanced at Carol who was staring at her.

“What?”

Carol beamed. “Nothing, I just love you so much,” she said before leaning in and pecking Nat’s soft plump lips.

Nat smiled when Carol was safely out of sight. Who would have thought that being home and being loved by these amazing women is what her future held for her? A silver lining from everything and everyone they lost in the war, Nat would like to think so.

“I got a location,” she yelled before sending the coordinates to her phone.

When she walked out of the bedroom, Carol and Wanda are all geared-up and packed. Carol opted not to wear her Captain Marvel uniform as to not attract too much attention. She just wore one of Natasha’s old Black Widow uniform.

“What?” Now it’s Carol’s turn to ask.

“Nothing,” Nat answered while Wanda and Carol file out of their room.

“If we’re not in a mission to find Maria, you won’t ever leave the bedroom,” Nat murmured under her breath as she follows her girlfriends out of the door.

“I heard that,” Carol sing-song after throwing her backpack at the trunk of Nat’s Rubicon.

“I’d help you tie her in the bed some other time,” Wanda whispered after Natasha got on behind the wheel.

“I heard that too,” Carol laughed as she enters the passenger seat.

Nat just rolled her eyes at her girlfriend before pulling out of the compound.

***

Nat drove like a madwoman towards the location. Thankfully, it was a driving distance and she didn’t have to borrow the quinjet that would surely let the Director know what they’re up to. Nat was thankful to have brought her Rubicon, they’re able to drive through rough terrain and all the way to the entrance of the facility. The entrance was inconspicuous, almost hidden by the shrubs growing around the area. Wanda stood in the mouth of the cave, a look of concentration on her face while Carol gets their bags from the car. 

“She’s here,” she whispered when Nat sidled up to her. “She’s unharmed.”

Nat sighed in relief. “What is this place?” she asked quietly as she fixes the weapons on her waist. 

“It seems to be Stark facilities,” Carol answered. Before the others can question where she got the information, Carol cocked her head to the side, motioning them to the House of Stark insignia, and Stark Industries logo carved on the wall of the cave. 

Nat and Wanda held their questions. There isn’t supposed to be any more of Tony’s secret labs in operation, Pepper made sure all of them are identified and catalogued on their database. This place isn’t on the list, Nat checked. They know all the answers to their questions, lie on the other end of the cavern. So their trek begins. 

The cave was dark and eerily quiet. No hostiles along the way, which doesn’t put any of them at ease. Either there’s really no threat or all threats are waiting for them on the other side. It took almost thirty minutes of walking in the dark, with just three small flashlights before they reached the end of the line, a heavy metal door. Knowing Tony, the door is supposed to be automated by F.R.I.D.A.Y but no AI greeted them. 

Carol’s hands started to glow. “Should I blast it open?” she asked with a small smile on her face.

Before anyone can say something though, the door slid open revealing Happy. 

“What the duck!” he exclaimed in his surprise.

Wanda gaped but got over her surprise first. She quickly jumped into Happy’s arms. “Happy!” 

“What are you three doing here?”

Nat noted the shift in Happy’s tone. He was confused at first but then he’s nervous. He’s hiding something but then again, Nat was pretty sure Maria told them this mission is classified but they’re already there. There’s no turning back now. 

“You’ve been gone for five days. We’re worried,” Nat answered simply. 

“Where’s Maria?” Carol asked while walking around what seems to be a disinfection area. Happy nearly shoved Wanda on his haste to stand in front of Captain Marvel when she reached the main door to the facility. His smile wavered, while Carol just cocked her eyebrow at him. 

“You can’t go there,” Happy said, voice shaking. “Bad egg smell, seriously. It’s deadly.”

Nat narrowed her eyes at the poor man before side-stepping him and entering the other room. Carol and Wanda quickly following their redhead girlfriend inside. Happy couldn’t do much more than just heave a sigh before following everyone.

***

When they entered the room, no one paid them any attention thinking that it’s just Happy coming back inside. Nat, Wanda, and Carol noticed Bruce first, standing behind multiple computer screens and clearly absorbed on his work. Then they noticed Maria standing over what seems to be a medical table, tablet on her hand with some Stark Industries personnel and Stark Industries machinery working on something. They couldn’t really see from their vantage point, so they walked a little further inside to see better. 

“What the?” Wanda whispered loud enough to get everyone’s attention.

Carol bumped into a metal counter, causing everything on it to shake. Nat couldn’t do much more than stare. Maria turned around, mirroring the surprise on her girlfriends’ faces. 

“Happy?” Maria asked, still not quite processing that her girlfriends’ are all there. 

Happy scratched the back of his neck. “I bumped into them on the way to out,” he explained a little sheepish.

Maria pinched the bridge of her nose to prevent an incoming headache. She sighed before turning back to the lab people and ordering them to keep going. She walked towards Wanda and Carol first before giving both of them a quick kiss on their cheeks. Then she stood in front of Natasha. “I’m sorry I made you worry, I just have my hands full here,” she explained. 

Nat couldn’t stop staring at the body on the table. “What is that?” she asked bewildered. 

“It’s a robot, isn’t it?” Carol asked as she walks closer to the table. “I saw Rocket repairing Nebula once. This one’s way too human though.”

Wanda walked closer to the table too. “Isn’t that?” Wanda started to asked but before she could continue, the machines started powering down. Happy looked at the lights to check if they’re having trouble with the power again.

“Miss Hill, repairs are complete,” a lab tech said. “She’s booting up now.”

Everyone held their breath in anticipation. A minute after, the robot’s eyes opened. She blinked a few times before putting her hand up to shield her eyes from the harsh light. Maria walked towards the table to remove the light on its face. 

“Hey,” Maria greeted tentatively.

She’s not exactly sure what’s supposed to happen next. After five days, she still hasn’t reconciled the fact that Tony left a robot with an active program unaccounted for in the facility.

“Hi,” it said before sitting up. Nat gasped when she got a good look at the robot’s face.

“Is that?” she whispered under her breath. Carol looked confused, everyone seems to know the identity of the robot, she doesn’t. She reckons it must be someone dusted at the first snap or someone who died before she got back. 

“Are you really in there?” Maria asked, confusing Nat, Carol, and Wanda. 

The robot looked down at her hands and made a show to close and open them like a child learning to use their extremities for the first time. The robot looked up at Maria. 

“I am,” you answered. “How long have I been out?”

“Dead or lying here dormant?” Happy asked from behind Maria.

The robot recognized the voice immediately. She leaned to the side to see the man himself. Everyone watched as the robot’s features lighten up with a smile.

“Haps!” the robot exclaimed before jumping with robot precision into Happy’s arms. 

Nat shivered at how eerily human this robot is. She turned slightly to look at Wanda, who looked exactly as she expected her to be facing another Stark robot creation once again. Carol seems to have caught Wanda’s reaction as well by the way she moved closer to the witch to offer her silent support. 

Happy wrapped his arms around the robot. He nearly sobbed at point of contact, no one calls him Haps, except. Tony outdid himself with how well he made the robot to imitate a human body. The skin is made of top of the line synthetic material that it’s almost human-like. 

“So, how long?” 

Happy let the robot go reluctantly. “Five years give or take when we buried your body,” he said solemnly. The robots’ eyes glazed for a second before he looked at Happy again. 

“So, what did I miss?” she asked with fake enthusiasm Nat can smell from a mile away.

“Tony’s gone,” Bruce who was silently watching the event unfold in front of him said softly.

“I know,” it said, frowning. “He left a message on my hard drive.”

A silence fell into the room. Leaving Nat, Carol, and Wanda with so many questions, and zero answers. 

“Hi, excuse me,” Carol said shyly to get everyone’s attention. The robot turned to her and smiled softly. “I’m sorry but can someone explain what’s happening here?”

“Hi, I’m sorry. We haven’t met, I’m Y/N. Y/N Stark, Tony Stark’s younger sister,” the robot introduced herself. 

You can hear a pin drop in the floor with the silence that follows. It was deafening.

“That’s not possible,” Natasha blurted out. You turned towards the redhead with a smile. It’s been ages since you’ve seen the woman, or anyone of them, after all.

“Oh, Natalie,” you said with a smirk. 

Nat shivered, remembering the first time she met you years ago while she was still Tony’s undercover secretary. She remembered how you bantered and flirted with each other relentlessly. She had to summon all her Black Widow training not to blush at the intensity of your gaze. 

“But it is,” you continued. “Wanda can prove it.”

Tag List: @subject7creed​

[annes-andromeda]

Fanon Marvel cause they got I S S U E S

This isn’t really a fanfic thing, more or less what I envision the MCU would be in MY head. Granted not everyone’s gonna agree with these points, but that’s fine. Well all got our own opinions☺️

Q: Who survives the Snap in Fanon?

A: Steve, Thor, Bruce, Natasha, Clint, Nebula, Gamora, Rhodey, Rocket, Scott, Okoye, Shuri, Pepper, Wong, Valkyrie, Loki, and Tony

Q: Will anyone be recast?

A: Yes. Monica Rambeau is Captain Marvel instead of Carol Danvers. Make of that as you will.

Q: Are there gonna be any major changes?

A: Not for the most part, as I haven’t watched all the Marvel movies. However, these would be the most prominent ones:

* T*ny Stark is an anti-villain. His story has been changed to mostly fit the Superior Iron Man storyline. The IM trilogy would stay the same since I haven’t seen them, as well as the first two Avengers movies. However, he gets his immediate change in Civil War, where we find out that he worked for HYDRA the whole time, and wanted the Avengers to sign the Accords so the organization didn’t get found out. I feel it would’ve been interesting if we had seen Tony turn from a man who pretended to help others survive, into a man who only ever did things to help himself survive. If you don’t like this change: well then suck it cause it’s my fanon🙃

* Steve and Thor are in a relationship. This is mostly a personal preference, but I genuinely think they’d be a good couple. Their feelings would begin to come out in AOU, after the party scene. The two have a drink, slow dance, and confess there feelings. Simple, but cute (I think). Steve would think of Thor in Civil War, while Thor would have a scene in Ragnarok, in which he calls Steve and gets his opinion on everything that has happened to him (Odins death, Hela, losing Mjolnir etc). In Infinity War, they reunite and share a big kiss Pirates of the Caribbean style. As for Endgame: Steve doesn’t go to the past (I.e fucking up the timeline and Peggy’s happy life) and Thor stays on New Asgard to rule as King, with his consort by his side.

* CA:CW- People like Rhodey and Natasha don’t just immediately agree to the Accords. Instead, they go undercover and try to find out what the government is actually doing; Peter is on Team Iron Man until he finds out that Tony is HYDRA. It sucks that M*rvel really out here just making Peter iron boy instead of... ya know... Spider-Man; Civil War has a scene where Steve reminisces on his mother (his real moral compass fight me) and we focus more on him and less on Tinkie’s man pain; Instead of Tony being upset that Bucky killed both of his parents, he’d only get upset about his mother, as he actually wanted his father dead. Got this idea from a post where basically a bunch of people were talking about how Tony was probably HYDRA the whole time, which is where I got the idea. Feel free to add anything else.

* IW: Loki and Gamora don’t die. I feel like they killed off Loki a little too early since he was just getting the arc he so desperately needed. While I don’t really know what to do with him yet, I do know that he’ll be in a relationship with Valkyrie. I mean, did you see their fight scene? The sexual tension. As for Gamora, well we all practically hated it when she died and hated it even more when they brought her 2014 counterpart back from the past. Someone on Quora said that an alternative for Thanos to sacrifice on Vormir could be Ebony Maw, as out of all of Thanos’s children, he worshipped him the most. Maybe Thanos would hesitate as this was his most loyal child, but he does it cause gotta wipe out half the universe or whatever. It wouldn’t be as tragic tho, but (1) that’s the price we gotta pay for Gamora to stay alive, and (2) are we reeeaaally supposed to pity Thanos? Thanos? The guy who only ever fell in love with Death???. Anyways back to Gamora: I actually wanna do something for her. If you’ve ever seen RWBY, one of the main characters essentially loses her arm when she tried to save her friend. I know it sounds cruel for Gamora to loose a limb, but hey, sometimes you just like seeing your fav characters suffer🤷‍♀️. I was thinking it could go two ways:

- (1): Gamora loses her arm like the character in RWBY i.e, saving one of her friends like Mantis, Quill, or Nebula.

- Or (2): Thanos uses the Reality Stone to make the Guardians + Peter and Strange think that they have the upper hand. Strange uses his magic to hold Thanos down while the others try taking off the Infinity gauntlet. Once the gauntlet is nearly loose, Quill would try to strike him, as Nebula realizes that the whole thing is an illusion. But before she could warn the others it’s too late, and Gamora looses an arm to her boyfriend, leaving him and everyone in complete shock. I like this option more, as it would show not only just how cruel Thanos is, but that he never really loved Gamora. He just favored her above all his other kids. And hey, I’m a sap for angst.

* Feel free to add anything else.

* EG: So in the first bullet, I already said which characters survive the snap and that Captain Marvel isn’t Carol, but Monica. Aside from that, I haven’t really thought much of what to do with Endgame. Surprisingly, it’s difficult to write a better story for this one. What I would most like to happen, however, is more character moments. Thor’s PTSD and traumas being taken more seriously, and instead of him gaining weight he loses it (cause according to Tinkie’s dumb rant that’s what gets an audience to take your turmoil seriously. Pls don’t hate me for this decision). Bruce doesn’t turn into Professor Hulk, and his traumas are actually talked about. Also he gets closure on his relationship with Natasha (I know it’s not that great but I personally like it). Clint dies instead of Nat and we remember that Nat was the leader of the Avengers for like five years. Steve properly mourns his friends and actually acts like Steve Rogers and not a fucking imposter. We actually see what happened in Wakanda after the Snap, with Okoye and Shuri at the head of it all. Also Pepper would be stand in for Tony, cause ya know, she has a life outside of him and is actually smart. And her and Scott help with the Time machine or what other plan I or anyone can come up with. Again, feel free to add anything else.

Q: Will there be any new characters added?

A: For now just one: A robot named Iris (aka Iron Blade), created by Tony for HYDRA. I’ve made a summary of her here:

* Iris is an android created by the billionaire Tony Stark, who possesses a synthetic body made of Tungsten Carbide which is powered by the arc reactor in her chest. For years Stark worked into making Iris highly advanced, while also keeping her secret from the rest of the world until she was ready to be used by the organization HYDRA. She was trained by HYDRA in combat and artificial intelligence, transforming Iris into a dangerous, ruthless killing machine. However, she still managed to keep some essence of personality thanks to Tony, who refused to have her be simply mindless. This resulted in Iris inheriting some of Tony’s more negative traits, while even accepting his lavish lifestyle. Although she may act like him, Iris has her own traits which vary from being charismatic, eloquent, and sophisticated to privileged, arrogant and cruel. Due to HYDRA’s influence, Iris is mostly misguided and blindly follows orders.

* Iris was eventually revealed when Tony tried forcing the Avengers to sign the Sokovia Accords as a means to keep HYDRA underground. She was introduced as a new recruit of the US government, in which she had a hand in writing the Accords. When the Avengers found that Iris was created by not just HYDRA but by Tony, this caused a huge riff in the team. The people on Team Iron Man immediately turn on him once finding out that he created Iris, which in turn resulted in them finding out that not only had he been providing the organization with weapons, but was a member himself. Out of all the team members, Iris has the largest fallout with Bucky Barnes (the former Winter Soldier) and Natasha Romanoff (Black Widow), as she mostly worked as their antithesis, showing what probably would’ve occurred had they never recovered from their manipulation at the hands of corrupt organizations.

* After the fight between Iron Man and Captain America, Iris went into hiding alongside Tony, who was no longer a member of the Avengers. For the next two years, Iris stayed by her creators side as he intended to carry out his boss’s plan. The titan Thanos had ordered Stark to help him eradicate half the universe. Tony agreed to the plan, as he believed that Earth had been ungrateful for his attempts at ‘saving’ the world. He would help Thanos, so long as he ensured his safety and payed him. Iris, programmed to follow orders, agreed to the plan without question.

* Once Thanos arrived on Earth, Iris would go to Wakanda to stop the Avengers from destroying the Mind Stone, all the while Stark attempted to kill the Guardians of the Galaxy, Doctor Strange, and Spiderman (also the only one who knew of Tony’s true alignments). Iris, failing to retrieve the Stone, joins Tony on Titan while Thanos fights the Avengers. Despite the Avengers attempts, Thanos gets the stones and does the Snap, in which Tony and Iris survive and go into hiding once more.

That’s pretty much it. I made this cause I’ve been thinking about this for a while, and I wanted to share my opinions. Feel free to add anything or give constructive criticism.

[azureflight]

WoW Characters as Player Characters from D&D

Alleria’s player is a minmaxer power player who keeps breaking the lore in pursuit of the ultimate build while dragging the party along.

Alleria’s Player: Oh, I wanna join this army of light group, they have this feat that I want... Oooo, look at the “void touched” prestige template! And it gives me some really powerful spells too!

DM constantly, and wrongfully, hopes that he can use her weird arcs to kill off or exile her character permanently and force her to play something less broken. But the rest of the party keeps sticking with her and defending her shit, because they are all dirty powergamers at heart. When that whole army of light thing came out, two of them straight up abandoned their old characters and made new ones just to get the max juice: Khadgar’s player now plays Lothraxion, Danath’s player now plays Fareeya.

 DM: You see before you, an Alleria that has completely embraced the void and wields its power with ease. As crusaders and devotees of the Light, there is nothing as disturbing as seeing an old friend falling so low.

Turalyon’s Player: I trust her man, she is my wife.

DM: What do you mean you trust her? You are the god damned High Exarch ffs.

TP: Yeah, but, like, I love her, you know. I feel like she is still with us.

DM: You don’t know that! Don’t metagame! But your character knows how vile and deceptive the void is, this is literally the antithesis of your faith!

TP: Yeah, but, like, I love her. That’s what my characters would do, he loves her man. He is loyal like that. And she saved me.

DM: It could all be a trick... Guys, please take this seriously.

Lothraxion’s Player: She saved me too, I trust her too!

Fareeya’s Player: If these two trust her, then so do I.

DM: You aren’t even here!

TP: It’s my wife man, come on! You’re the one who got pissed we split the party in the first place!

DM:...

TP:...

DM: (sighs) Roll a wisdom check.

Wacraft 3 was an epic campaign with two concurrent parties playing at two continents that the DM would then unite for the final showdown. But the whole Arthas/Jaina/Kael’thas stuff was basically a reflection of out game drama and it got so bad, the players of Arthas and Kael eventually left/semi-kicked out and the DM took over their characters and turned them evil. He brought Jaina’s player to the Kalimdor party and they got along mighty fine. Campaign went pretty amazingly after that and they loved it so much, it turned into a continuous game and they even managed to reach epic levels. 

However, as years passed, everyone got busier and busier. Eventually, the scheduling conflicts forced them to practically retire the characters. Now the DM uses them as NPCs for his other campaigns, but every once in a while, some of them manage to contact the DM and arrange a one-shot or short campaign like; Darkshore, Escape from the Underhold, or Rise of Azshara!

Illidan is a chronic metagamer with protagonist complex, who is constantly pissed that his friends don’t play along:

Illidan’s Player: I should be able to return to the rebel side, these guys know I was doing it all to infiltrate the enemy.

Malfurion’s and Tyrande’s Players: Nope! We know no such thing! You never told us jack shit!

Illidan’s P: WTF are you talking about? I told you both!

Tyrande’s Player: You spoke out game! We weren’t even close to you when you made that decision.

IP: But you still know!

Malfurion’s Player: “We” the players know, the characters don’t!

IP: Come on man!!!

TyP: Nuh-uh!

MP: Nope! NOPE! In fact, I fully believe my brother has betrayed us; He has always been a selfish, power-hungry prick, he totally sold us out! 

Illidan’s Player: Well screw you too guys. Fine! You know what, I’ll save everyone myself and you two will be very sorry about it!

Onyxia/Wrathion, Anduin and Taelia/Bolvar’s players are this group of friends who come up with really weird and funny character concepts and campaign ideas. And the DM rolls with them all, because they are a fun and laidback group that finds joy in every aspect of the game, including the tragic and embarrassing ones.

The first ever they came up to him, they asked for a political intrigue campaign and their characters were: An Adult Black Dragon pretending to be human, a 10 year old kid with noble background and 0 levels in anything and a widower paladin with a minus 3 wisdom modifier.

It went on quite spectacularly in all sorts of absurd ways and remains the only campaign where the final epic fight was practically a pvp: The DM allowed them to recruit players from his other games, but the dice gods willed that the kill went to the only NPC of the session, the newly returned “father” of the kid-Anduin.

Since they are a chill bunch that is all in for the new and weird stuff, DM tries his new homebrew ideas with them: When he wanted to make a new Elven race, they played a short rebellion campaign for it. They made Thalyssra, Valtrois and Oculeth and played them as book club wine snobs trying and miserably failing at a rebellion. DM liked it so much, he made their personality into racial characteristics and continues to use them as NPCs.

Scheduling conflicts, as well as the chaotic nature of their play style, means that they are not really able to sit down and have a long campaign, however, they do plan on making a sort of legacy campaign: After Onyxia’s and Anduin’s players got a one-shot set in Pandaria (in which the Onyxia guy this time played Wrathion), Bolvar’s player made Taelia and together with a now grown up and “actually has decent cleric levels” Anduin, they plan on having another political intrigue story, “Stormwind Politics 2: Electric Boogaloo.” If only they could just clear their schedule for a few weeks!

[tarithenurse]

Orphan - 9

Starring:  Steve Rogers x Fem!Reader and MCU characters! Contents: Spoilers for Endgame!! A good cop of something hot, pining, worrying. A/N: PREVIOUS CHAPTERS can be found on the masterlist. Thanks for likes and reblogs and comments <3

9. Sisters, mothers, aunts

…   Morgan   …

All that wonderful snow just can’t go to waste, but after several wobbly snowmen and one perfect one (thanks to mom) the little girl has thrown herself into a pristine patch out of boredom, carefully considering her options as she sweeps the ground with arms and legs.

“What do these do?” Nebula’s voice pierces the fastmoving thoughts of the little girl.

The grey clouds tilt away, bringing the garden back into view and the blue woman wrapped in a mix of a borrowed bright yellow scarf and a green beanie. She’s crouched in front of a smaller snow figure (an attempt at a dog), bright black eyes taking in the lumpy shape.

“They don’t…do ‘nything,” Morgan admits. Are they supposed to do something?

Clearly dissatisfied, Nebula presses on. “Well, what is their purpose?”

“Why make ‘em?” Perhaps Nebs never got to build snowmen as a kid, the little girl realizes with horror. “For fu-un. What can you make with snow?”

“Shelter. Like a…hut.”

Morgan’s eye light up with the idea, already adding elaborate details to the construction in forms of turrets and battlements (even if she doesn’t know that is what the bumps on top of the walls are called). And who can deny a pair of big, dark eyes suddenly begging to partner on a project? Not the alien who swore years ago to protect the little one if anything were to happen to Tony, and so Nebula begins to stack the snow in a tremendous pile.

They’re digging out the inside of the mound (or rather, Nebula is excavating while Morgan forms and places blocks in a circle around the domed top) when a car pulls up, causing both constructors to pause and look. Short legs with heavy boots are already moving to run towards Uncle Rhodey when auntie’s voice sharply orders the girl to stay back. It sounds strangely cold and calm and Morgan can’t help to do what she’s told. A knot has formed in her tummy. Breath is quick. Is something wrong? She can’t figure out what it is because the only new is the woman who stepped out from the other side of the car, and one look at her face makes the confused girl feel happy. And sad. Weird.

 …   Reader   …

They talk like you aren’t there, bickering like a couple married for too long, and even if Rhodes is technically trying to defend you it’s as if he’s more worried about Cyborg Smurf and her feelings, his hands carefully reach out towards the woman, stopping short to protect her boundaries.

“She’s a spy!” No more than a hiss that won’t carry further than your straining ears.

“She was…lonely and afraid,” Rhodes insists, “jus’ looking for a family. Y’know what that’s like.”

Oh? If it wasn’t for the very clear memory of a sword then you would be staring at her now. Instead, you add it to the mental list of things that might be handy to know. It’s a long list.

“Want me to trust her? Think aga–“

“No.” The rapid answer stings. “I won’t tell ya what to think, just…accept Pepper’s giving her a chance, ‘ight?”

They continue back and forth, but your attention gets caught by the fluffy remains of a snowball landing on your boot with a soft thunk. It doesn’t take a genius to guess who threw it, but the nerves are gnawing at your insides as you turn to steal a glance at the kid. My half-sister. Sure, you might still not have a dad, but you have gotten an oddly stitched-together family to deal with somehow.

There are obvious differences between Tony Stark’s two daughters. The similarities, however? Just as many, and all hailing from the man you never got to know. Nearly identical set of eyes meet, filled with curiosity and a familiarity you know you can explain with logic if only you wanted to. Instead, you send a one-sided smile and lift your hand in a finger wiggling wave which the girl, Morgan, copies.

Movements slow, almost leisurely so, as you bend and scoop up a big handful of the cold precipitation to shape loosely in your hands. A wink and a questioning quirk of the brow is enough to send the kid into a silent fit of giggles before the projectile is launched in a soft arc to give her plenty of time to seek cover behind a snow hut in development.

You would have gotten a new handful of snow if it wasn’t for the exasperated sigh and the presence behind you. “Nebu. No!”

This is gonna be a loooong afternoon.

…

It’s awkward. Not only is the entire reason for you visiting painful, but Pepper tries a bit too hard (bless her soul), Nebula doesn’t try at all, Morgan is wonderfully oblivious to the adults’ tension, and poor Rhodes is trying to navigate it all. You manage to last a few hours, partially due to talking maintenance of the veteran’s leg braces when Pepper was occupied with the kid for a while, but mainly it’s been a sort of sweetened interrogation about your plans with Uni (waiting for an answer on the re-application), the home and job hunt (completely dependant on the study), and anything else they feel like. Like they’re going through a checklist.

Just as you’re about to ask Rhodes if he can bring you back to the Bartons’, his phone rings and not even the door separating the living room from the hallway is enough to hide how he snaps into military mode.

“Sorry, gotta go,” he offers as explanation when he pops back in, “duty calls.”

And with that he, and your ride, is gone. Moments later you hear the roar of the car, leaving you feeling trapped.

“You…we’ve got a spare guestroom…?”

The hesitation is evident: Pepper might have been the one inviting you but without intention of having you sleep over. No, this visit was no more than a test run to see if you were enough of a Stark or too much for her to want you in the family. She never said that, but you know it. It’s a typical method that you’ve seen one too many times in the foster care system, but this time you don’t blame her.

“I…thanks, but no…I might have another option.” Standing you dig out your phone and navigate past couch, chairs, and toys towards the relative privacy of the hallway.

Clint had given you a bunch of numbers any journalist or fan would kill to have, and right now your scrolling through them until you spot one who happens to live relatively close by and has a couch tested by others as a bed.

Hot and cold dances through your body, dousing the already jittery nerves with fuel. Each time you hear the call tone your heart drops and it doesn’t make sense that it would feel like this – that butterflies in your belly are trying to hold up cold lead.

“[Y/N]?” Of course, anyone would follow the warm baritone if it called out to them. “Uhm…hi!” It’s like the softest wool to your mind, shielding you in a cocoon against doubts or abandonment.

Everything will be fine. Then you remember you have to reply. “Yeah, hello! Ehh…” Smooth, real smooth, ugh! “I’m…I was…” Fuck it. “You once said I could crash at your place and uhmm…I’m kinda stuck away from Clint and Laura’s an–“

“You’re at To-Pepper’s?”

How…? “Yeah. Rhodes just bailed and…it’d feel strange to sleep over, y’know?”

“I get it. On my way.”

“Thanks.”

Both of you hesitate for a moment, making you worry about what you’re supposed to say when Captain freaking America is coming to your rescue, but before you can put any coherent sentence together, he has hung up. The hallway is silent now. The light reflecting off the snow outside, cold despite the yellow hue, and the sliver of light under the closed living room door is all the illumination available. In there, in front of the fireplace, is a tiny family which you theoretically are a part of….just not technically – and standing here in the gloom underlines exactly that.

How can it ever be different? Nothing can replace the life you’ve had. Your own mother. No, perhaps it’s better to just step away and pretend nothing ties you together, let Morgan be the only child left behind by Tony Stark just like she was the only one who got to grow up with him.

Lost in thoughts, you don’t register Morgan skipping out into the hallway until she’s wrapped her little arms up as high as she can around your thighs.

“G’night,” she grins crookedly for a second before sobering up, “please come back soon and make mummy smile more.”

With those words she’s running off up the staircase with not a care in the world while you’re left behind with an uncanny sensation of being watched – hairs stand on end due to the goosebumps running down your spine. Make mommy smile more, your semi-sister’s voice echoes inside your head. Make mommy smile more. Make mommy smile. Smile more. Smile more? As a new widow, it would make sense if Pepper doesn’t smile much, the loss being too strong, too present in every little thing. Still, throughout the afternoon she’s smiled and laughed with enough heartfelt joy that the sorrow became invisible if only for a moment. Did I make her smile?

Your brows scrunch in confusion and it’s impossible not to look at the silent women who seem to be waiting for you to do or say something. Anything.

“Did…? Have…?” Unsure what to ask the question dies on your lips.

Nebula shuffles, clearly uncomfortable. “The little one likes you, spy.” Danger still gleams in the black nothingness of her eyes but her posture screams doubt. “Perhaps I’ve been mistaken.”

It’s nothing but a tiny twitch of the lips when Pepper bites back a smile. “Would you mind checking that she’s brushing her teeth, Nebu?”

“Certainly, strong teeth are excellent for close combat.”

Once alone, your own awkwardness doubles. How long would it take Cap to get here? Pulling at your arm as if you can make yourself smaller, you’re sure you must appear sort of pathetic.

“It’s…thank you for y’know…havin’ me over,” you try lamely.

Even without high heels, Pepper is still a tall woman and she becomes almost elven in the scarce light. “She’s right, actually,” she admits, “I…it was nice having you here. To get to talk with you…even if it might have felt more like an interrogation…”

“Weeell…I mean…a bit, but that’s pro’lly logical.” C’mon, man! “Kinda hard for it not to fundamentally be freaking strange…all things considered.”

“I haven’t told Morgan anything…” It sounds apologetic, almost. “It’s up to you what role you want in the family.” Up to…? “But the way I see it…you’re Tony’s daughter. You’re family.” You can feel how your lips part at the confession, and you stand there gaping at the woman. “Just…give us time to find a balance.”

Maybe your father knew exactly what he was doing when he married this woman instead of your mom. Regardless: the past is impossible to change while the present is simultaneously tempting and scary due to the multitude of options available. I get to choose? It had been hard enough to put together a few outfits when you went shopping for the first time with Laura and Lila.

You don’t dare to look Pepper in the eyes. “Maybe get to know each other first? Before deciding?”

It’s a gentle hand that shapes around your shoulder, passing on a sense of security. “I like that,” the widow agrees, “you’re always welcome.” She hesitates, and you glance to see her biting her lip as if in doubt. “While you wait…why won’t you come and hear about Tony? Just let me tug Morgan in.”

 …   Morgan   …

Any smart girl knows how important it is for adults to brush their teeth too, and it had been a simple task to convince Aunt Nebula to join in by the sink where they’d competed in looking the grossest with the toothpaste drool, laughing so much Morgan’s cheeks began to hurt.

That giddiness is gone again as the kid crawls into bed. Nebula is standing by the window, staring at the few stars poking out between the clouds and Morgan knows deep inside her little chest that the alien misses flying between the stars.

“They want you back too, Nebu.”

Speaking softly, the words are barely even a whisper that most people would overhear. Not the blue woman. Hiding a sigh, she comes over to sit on the edge of the bed, a hand automatically fidgeting with a knife strapped to the thigh.

“They can wait,” Nebula’s voice cracks a bit, “and instead, when you are older and stronger, we’ll go visit them together.”

“Really?” The child’s smile is contagious, even as it turns into a wistful frown. “Gotta lot to learn first, then.”

 …   Reader   …

There simply isn’t room for anymore stories about your father, the great Tony Stark, but what you have heard is starting to paint a picture of a man much more complex that the news stories and interviews has ever managed to reveal. You shouldn’t be surprised. Neither at the (many) wild years – the last of which you are a result of – nor the dedication he showed when working on a project regardless of the magnitude, and still your mind is spinning from the effort of analyzing every tidbit of new knowledge.

Tired and unable to take more, you are already pulling on your coat and boots to get some fresh air when a car pulls into the long driveway, reminding you of the arrangement and a whole new set of worries.

Steve Rogers.

The name brings a cascade of butterflies with it, untameable despite your best efforts and forcing you to say goodnight and goodbye before it becomes obvious.

[runningonmarvel]

and she didn’t see him

Post IW. Wanda’s perspective. 4k. Scarlet Witch x Vision.

“You could never.”

When Wanda pulls apart, each leathery piece and burnt red hair follicle splitting into a tangled web of ash, she feels it.

She feels what it’s like to be broken down to her most elemental parts, to be spun like silk into her basest form. She feels every single bit of dust peel off her skin and catch the wind. She feels herself getting torn apart. And she tries to scream, but she can’t. Her cry, like the curve of her neck and her pale green eyes, rips apart and dissolves.

She remembers two things as her body betrays itself:

1. We’ve lost.

2. I’m not the only one.

And then her eyelids and her nerves and hemispheres and ventricles all splay apart and she can’t think anymore.

I’m not the only one.

I’m not the only one.

I’m not—

It’s black for so long. Or maybe white, and endless. Her body is gone; her mind is gone too. She is phasing and slipping and becoming herself and becoming nothing. And she shouldn’t be alone but she is.

She used to pretend she knew what death was, with Pietro. They would tell each other: death is the Sokovian prison camps. Death is a metal bullet lodged in your spine, and Tony Stark is the angel that leads you there. Death, he would whisper to her, when Strucker’s eyes were elsewhere, is HYDRA’s blue serum in the bloodstream of an evil man. Death is reliving the same moment, over and over again, until it consumes every last atom in your body.

The same moment.

The same— what moment?

She sees so many faces: first Clint, in Sokovia, with his uniform tight against his skin and his bow strung high. He tells her, like he tells her in every dream, to step out the door. To become an Avenger. And she tries to, but her body is gone, and Clint stares, apologetic, until he himself begins to unravel. Next is Tony Stark, and his eyes are soft with pain. Sorry, he whispers. I’m so sorry, Wanda, I didn’t know. I didn’t know. And she sees herself in Sokovia again, knees collapsing together, weight buckling and energy exploding.

Natasha blinks in on the right side of her gaze, sorrowful. Her hair is red again, and her lips are pursed together as she reaches out one hand to try and take Wanda’s in her own. But she reaches for only air and warmth, no solidity. (Not alone), she mouths. Or maybe her face doesn’t move at all. Maybe she just watches, like she always does. But Wanda hears her.

And then Steve stands in front of her, with his hands gripping his shield. And he tells her, once, twice, twenty times, that this isn’t her fault. His face keeps shifting, from the deep beard across his chin to the clean-shaven Steve she first met. From a pale skinny 1940s boy to a strong, broken man.

The moment—

She sees her parents, then. She sees them getting torn to pieces as she was, shrapnel digging under their skin and escaping by exploding out. Her mother’s blue eyes snap back as her spine jerks apart. And her father’s glasses fall down off his nose and break into ash. A thin blue line traces the inside of their skin, up and down wrists and the inside of their thighs and twirling around their ribs. On that line, they break. They split. It’s like watching fine China crack beneath strong fingertips. They are porcelain. They are broken.

She’s waiting, because she knows who’s next. 

He whispers, across the void, across the world. And her nonexistence tightens around her, like a magnet, because she would know that voice in any galaxy, in any state of death or undying, in any world and any time. 

Some things you never can forget.

“Sister,” he says. And she wants so badly in that moment to be real. To be pushed back together, just so she can touch his arm and make sure he’s there. Her essence is shaking, and she doesn’t have a voice. Pietro, she wants to say. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I couldn’t save you. And he says back, “It’s not your fault. I wasn’t fast enough.”

I should’ve saved you I should’ve saved you I should’ve—

And now she’s seventeen again and grief is the only emotion that touches her torn edges. She is ripped and bloody like a limb separated from a body. She bleeds, and she bleeds, and she bleeds. Exposed, like Bruce Banner, like a cut nerve.

He’s not fast anymore, just drifting. And his eyes are glazed, slightly.

He doesn’t know, she realizes. And now she starts to scream, knocking on the inside of herself, demanding that her thoughts become tangible. But he just floats in front of her. Her words try to spill out: they’re all gone and I couldn’t save him and I killed him but it wasn’t enough and it’s my fault my fault my fault.

But he doesn’t answer. He doesn’t move at all, and Wanda sees it now. His neck snaps back and his blue eyes go blank and his skin starts to rust and then red blossoms at his collarbone, on his chest and stomach and around his ribs. Rusted red, so much of it that the tiny spots grow into and over each other until he’s all red, until his uniform is gone, until he’s a child huddled underneath a table in Sokovia, until he’s so covered in the color that there’s nothing left of him at all.

And all of that moment three years ago falls onto her shoulders. All of her empty and used up grief wells within her. She misses him. She misses him until the hole in her heart becomes physical: an aching cave, just like Tony Stark’s arc reactor, just like the Tin Man, just like Ultron’s tangle of wires and metal. 

God, she misses his smile and his confidence and the way he used to pick food out of his teeth after meals. She misses arguing with him; she misses saying his name without pain laced inside of it. She misses his body moving like a bullet and his childlike amazement and his protectiveness and his carefree steps. She misses whispering at night and she misses missing her parents with someone else other than just the torrent of mourning inside of her.

And then more faces come, in unidentifiable masses. But she knows who they are. She sees herself in a sweeping green coat, with red power between her fingertips. She sees Lagos. And then she sees those faces detonate, one by one, in front of her. It’s not enough to say she’s sorry. It’s not enough to know, deep within her enhanced bone marrow and blood, that she is guilty. Because the people die anyway: the Wakandans and the Nigerians and all of them. This is the scene she relives every night, in every way. Every single thing she could’ve done differently; every life she could’ve saved.

Wanda never sees Proxima Midnight, or Ultron. 

And she doesn’t see him.

So many souls. But not his.

And she still doesn’t know what moment she is stuck inside; so far, she has seen all of them, each and every shaping person and voice.

Except—

And then the darkness is collapsing around her, shoving her back together, for just a second.

And she’s in Wakanda again. But this time, she’s alone; or, rather, she is apart. She spins around twice, but her bones are thick and heavy like lead. She’s the opposite of what she was moments ago. Instead of nothing, she is everything crushing together all at once. She is all the matter in the universe. She sees everything.

But she doesn’t see him.

Wanda spends eternities like this, shifting but never staying. She sees Tony Stark hundreds of times. She sees Steve Rogers and Captain America and Steve Rogers again. She feels Natasha’s scalp under her hands in the Sokovian base and then she feels herself become the Black Widow, young and afraid and deadly. She watches every single vision in the Avengers’ minds: Tony’s massacre, Steve’s bloody dance, Thor’s screaming nightmare.

And again and again and again, she sees her own worst fear, because it is the only one that has become true. 

The third time she is jerked into Tony’s mind, it occurs to her that his is true now, too.

She’s not living but she’s not dead, because she’s living every moment. And every inch of her wants to wake up, so badly, she wants to vomit and cry and let her power explode out of her. But she felt herself dissolve. She felt her power leave her, just as her body did. She is everything, and she is nothing. Without her powers, without her brother, she feels nothing.

A boy steps into her peripherals, then, and smiles gently down at her. He’s dressed in red, and he looks younger than her. She’s never seen him— no, she has. It almost feels like her irises are shaping and reshaping, in and out of focus. But he looks real: so, so real. Like she could reach out her nonexistent hand and lay it on his arm. And then he speaks.

“If you’re nothing without it, you shouldn’t have it.”

“What?” she says. And it comes out. A word. She gasps— was that air? And then her senses begin to feel it: the raveling back together. The reverse. The beginning, instead of the end. Her bones snap and knead to each other. Her eyes roll around in their sockets. Her senses tune together like an instrument. Her skin is back, soft and muscled and pale. 

The boy steps away, grinning. And she tries to reach for him, but she feels like a supernova. Like she has placed one hand against her chest and pulsed all of her red energy inside of her body. “What?” she says again, her mouth full of cotton.

And when she falls, her body hits solid ground.

“Up, warrior.” It’s a familiar voice, foreign but warm at the same time. Wanda’s eyelids flicker but she can’t draw herself away from the vision. It’s safety, in a way: a world without consequences. A world where, even if it’s only for a tiny moment, she can see Pietro again.

“Wanda,” says another voice, quietly. She knows that voice too, from her time on the run with Cap.

Wanda opens her eyes.

And around her, she sees only orange.

It’s just like the dream-state, in endless color, but this time in a persistent, eye-aching orange. At the top of her sight, the color is pale and faded, but across the horizon it’s a deep scarlet orange.

She wonders, vaguely, how her powers would look against this landscape: bright red clashing with its neighboring hue. 

Above her stand two figures, both dressed in white: T’Challa and Bucky.

“Awake?” Bucky asks. T’Challa just watches.

She’s on her back, and she shifts so she’s sitting up. Like the two of them, she is wearing pure white. Her outfit is reminiscent of the fitted red coat Pietro first gave her, but the lining is stitched to shirt beneath it. The white hem flares out over 

pale white pants; it’s like someone touched her old clothing and drew out all of the color until only blankness remained.

“Guys!” calls a sudden voice. “Scarlet Witch is awake!” 

Scarlet Witch. The media calls her that, when they’re not blaming her for all of her terrible mistakes. When they’re doing that, she’s the “Sokovian immigrant Wanda Maximoff.” The voice now sounds familiar, but she can’t place it.

“Hey, Peter, knock it off!” So many voices. Her legs seem to be in one place now, instead of bouncing around in a million pieces. So she stumbles to her feet and nearly falls before T’Challa gives her an arm of support.

And then she sees everyone.

Everyone.

Circled around her are T’Challa, Bucky, Sam, an assortment of strange looking people all dressed in white costumes like hers, and—

—the boy from her dream.

He’s skinny and baby-faced, wearing a pale white skin-tight suit. And he doesn’t have a mask on, but Wanda remembers him now. From Germany. He’s Stark’s child, the spiderling. And his curious eyes are blinking directly at her.

“What the fuck?” she says. It’s the first thing that makes sense to say.

“Hey, language, Maximoff,” Sam says, moving to cover the boy’s ears. “I know Cap isn’t here, but this kid’s only fifteen.”

“Sixteen,” he corrects. “And about to be seventeen.”

“Yeah, I wouldn’t count on that,” someone else says. He’s a brunette with a thin mustache and sideburns. 

“Okay, Mr. Lord—“

“Not my name—“

“People!” T’Challa’s voice rises above their squabble as he gazes around the circle. “We’re all awake.”

“How do you know no one else is coming?” This question comes from another person Wanda doesn’t know— though ‘person’ may be stretching it. She’s tall, with a flared white uniform not unlike Wanda’s own. But her eyes are huge and round in her face, and tapering above her head are two thin limbs she could only describe as antennae. 

“Well, we’re not going to wait for half the universe,” Bucky supplies. “And who are you guys, again?”

“Mantis,” the woman says immediately.

“I am Groot,” comes another voice, this one from— a tree? No, wait. She’s seen him before, in Wakanda. 

“Drax,” says the man next to Mantis. His skin is blue with strange red cracks inked across it.

“Peter Quill,” the mustached man says. 

“Wait, your name’s Peter too?” This comes from the boy, who is staring over at the man in astonishment. “My name’s Peter!”

“You would all do well to stop talking.”

Wanda jerks her head to the right, where a tall figure stands. His pale white cloak hangs behind him, lifeless. Drax jumps to the side, staring at the man in wonder. 

“Okay, so now we have a wizard,” Sam intones. The man doesn’t flinch.

“My name is Doctor Stephen Strange,” he says. “And our task is not complete.

“You,” he says, and spins to Wanda. “You are mystic?” he asks, tilting his head to the side.

“Do you speak of my powers? They are gone.”

“So are mine!” the younger Peter cries. “Not that I have my webslingers, either, but I think my strength is gone too, and—“ “Kid,” Stephen says, spinning around. “Pretend Tony is here, and pretend he told you the adults are talking.”

Peter’s face goes red. Meanwhile, the older Peter surveys the situation with a frown on his face.

“Alright, Strange. I don’t know if she’s mystic, or whatever jargon you’re spewing, but can you tell us exactly what the hell is going on?”

“We’re in the soul stone,” he says, as if that’s an explanation.

“Those dreams!” Mantis says suddenly. Her hands hang awkwardly in front of her. “They were from the stone?”

“Think of it as an “unravelling” of sorts.” Wanda watches Stephen intently. “As Thanos destroyed our physical bodies, the soul stone unwound our souls until we were within it.”

“Wait, hold on. Where’s the rest of half the universe?” Bucky asks. He’s made it here with his Wakandan arm still attached, but even the vibranium is shaded white: proof, Wanda thinks, of the power inside this realm. That it could break down the strongest metal in the universe.

Stephen shakes his head, then points off in the distance to the right. “Miles and miles away, that way.”

“And why are we here, exactly?” the older Peter asks. “Why not with them?”

“Your friend,” Stephen says quietly. 

“What?”

“She has brought us together, here. There are trillions of people over there. We would never have found each other without her.”

“Gamora?” Peter whispers. 

“She who was sacrificed for it holds special power within the stone,” Stephen says.

“So we’re inside of a tiny rock that can fit on Vision’s forehead?” Sam asks, incredulous. But as soon as he says it, Wanda stumbles backward. 

She hadn’t seen him.

“Where is he?” she cries. Her accent is encroaching on her words, but she keeps speaking, panicked. “Vision is not here.” 

There is silence, and then she knows.

She knows like she knew how her life would fall apart when she saw her parents break under that bomb. She knows the same way she knew the world was changing after the first successful injection, when streams of red energy began to crackle around her hands. She knows like Clint knew her, inside and out, in Sokovia, that she would step out that door. She knows like her powers and her soul knew her twin was gone.

“No,” she says, quietly. “The bastard killed him.”

And she is stepping backwards, on the orange ground surrounded by endless orange light and there’s nothing, nowhere that can hide her from this insurmountable truth. Sam and Bucky, T’Challa and Peter, they all watch her with sad eyes, but she can’t see them at all anymore. 

She hadn’t seen hIm. In all her dreams, in all her visions, she had never seen him.

Clint had loved her as she was a daughter. Pietro had loved as she was a sister. And Vision?

I just feel you.

Vision had seen her. Her youth and her powers and her strength and her weakness all at once. Vision had taken her hand in his own, though it was pulsing with energy. Vision held her and spoke to her and protected her and she protected him. They were equals. Not one and the same, as Pietro and Wanda had been. Level and balanced, reciprocated and free. She had chosen Vision. And Vision had chosen her.

In another world, Wanda stumbles into Stephen Strange’s arms and sobs. In another world, she survived the snap and can mourn his body, concrete and real. She still has her power blinking inside of her. She has the ability to feel rage at the world, at Thanos. 

But this is neither of those worlds.

Her hands are in fists against the white cloak, squeezing tighter and tighter, as if the pressure could draw out her power. But the roaring in her veins remains quiet, and locked down.

She had killed him. She had destroyed him with her gift. Her curse. And in the end? In the end it was for nothing. All of her suffering, all of his pain: it earned them nothing but death. In that last moment, the minuscule second before the gem split to pieces and Vision collapsed, Wanda had felt, after all of this, relief. Because she had saved the universe. Because Vision guided her hand to the stone that was his essence and helped her do it. Because Pietro would have been so proud.

And after that, all she felt was bone-crushing, infinite guilt. 

To love someone that can die is to open oneself to pain. And there is no greater pain than this: to be the cause of your own sorrow, to be the catalyst to your love’s suffering. To be judge, jury, and executioner. In Sokovia, the streets were brutal. You didn’t leave the house after 7 if you wanted to come back alive. It was easy to hold a life in your hands; it was easy to be the life being so carelessly handled. After her parents, after Pietro, she should be used to this.

To the air, she whispers, “Everything I love dies.” It has no answer, and she knows this is confirmation.

After the crime, after the killing, Wanda had collapsed to the ground. It seems as all she does is collapse: emotionally, physically, mentally. Even her powers had fallen apart around her. But in Wakanda, she had fallen to her knees. To her forearms. And Thanos still came.

There is a long string of accusations playing through her mind.

Guilty guilty guilty guilt guilty.

In the end, she couldn’t stop him. But she should have. Like with her parents, like with her brother. She wasn’t fast enough. She wasn’t strong enough. If she had given in to Vision only hours earlier, it would have been enough. If she had held off Thanos a moment longer, for Thor to arrive first. If she had been stronger. But she wasn’t.

She never saw him, and there is only a small piece of her that is willing to acknowledge what this means, what it must mean. Not that he’s dead, or dissolved. But that he wasn’t human enough to earn a place among the dead. Among her loved ones. It’s horrific, and raw. But she can’t stop herself from thinking it. So she rolls up the thought like a cigarette stub and throws it away into the void of the soul stone. 

A hand touches her arm, then. Wanda tenses, but the hand is soft against her skin. She turns her head to see Mantis kneeling beside her, with her eyes closed.

“Mantis,” Peter says, “your powers won’t work here.” Still Mantis holds her arm, silent.

“I feel— I feel sadness. Torment. Guilt.” Mantis opens her eyes, and when she does, they are filled with sympathy.

“How?” the spiderling asks. “How are her powers working?”

Mantis’s hand presses deeper into her arm, and Wanda can sense the woman’s swirling power. It’s rich, and warm. Pulsing, almost like Wanda’s own energy signature. Like it’s reaching inside of her, for that dead piece of her that used to be there. Like Mantis could pull the angry red from inside of her. Wanda reaches, and reaches, and gasps from the effort. Her veins, her heart, her compromised and enhanced bloodstream: they all reach back. And she’s so close to contact, so close to the spark, so close to exploding with power. She can see it now— the red would burst, and all of her emotions with it. All of the pain that Mantis feels would splatter against the landscape. She’s so close—

“Stop, sorcerer!”

A rough hand knocks Mantis’ touch from her shoulder. Wanda screams, and the tendrils of power retreat, and she is alone again. Completely and utterly alone.

“Wanda,” says a soft voice. She lifts her head to see Stephen staring down at her. And for once, he doesn’t look assured or certain or confident. He looks— scared.

“I was so close,” she whispers.

“To destroying us all,” he finishes. “Your energy, it’s broken an infinity stone before. And it could do it again. Especially using Mantis, as sort of a shock, like a jump. Your power would split the soul stone from the inside out, killing us all.”

“I was so close,” she sobs. “I just want to see him again.” And Stephen is silent.

Except this is why it hurts: because even if she had done it, even if she had connected, if she had blown herself apart just like her parents, she wouldn’t have seen him. She would have wandered the afterlife endlessly, empty and alone, knowing she killed half the universe. Twice. Pietro would abandon her. Her parents would too, in disappointment. And Vision wouldn’t be there.

Because in her dream she hadn’t seen him. Because his soul never found the soul stone, and it would never find death. Just limbo. 

And she had killed him. 

It’s an endless mantra, proclaiming her guilt. 

She’s so tired of being strong. She should have known it was only a matter of time before her weakness crawled its way to her skin.  

Wanda knows, now, what moment she will be forced to relive. Again and again, until the end of time.

Like Pietro said: it really is death. Because he dies. And she dies. Every time, in every world, she kills him. And she kills him. And she kills him.

And she hadn’t seen him. And she never does.

[johannesviii]

Anachrophobia

Some highlights of the last EDA I’ve read (Anachrophobia).

I took these screens while reading, along with my reactions. As usual, this is full of spoilers. And screaming.

I’m glad this book is over.

Some of you might already know that if you want to really f█cking scare me, you have to go as abstract as possible. This is why I’m such a big fan of Cube, and even Cube², its terrible sequel with terrible, terrible CGI, which gets even more abstract and surreal than the first one. What happened? How did the characters end up there? How does it work? Are they even on Earth? We don’t really know. We do know, however, that if they don’t get out of the Cube as soon as possible, they’re all going to die.

Similarly: what really happened in Anachrophobia? Were Eight, Fitz and Anji really on another planet? Was it even real? Who are the clock people possessing everyone? We don’t really know. I do know, however, that at some point, I was so scared to read the last 50 pages of this thing that it took me two weeks to pick it up again.

Does it really deserve such a high note? I don’t know. I might come back later and change it. I’m not sure. I’m too busy being scared shitless. 9,5/10

WE’RE OFF TO A GOOD START, I SEE.

Well, this is an EDA, dude.

Oh, they are fighting a literal “Time War”! This has potential.

This shouldn’t be so cool.

Meanwhile, poor Fitz isn’t very good at playing chess and I’m laughing.

Excuse me I love that room

That’s the weirdest time travel explanation I’ve ever seen and there’s quite a lot of them in this series.

Try to keep up, Anji.

Hoping it's better than a certain other Narnia-like episode seriously am I the only one who hates The Doctor, the Widow and the Wardrobe

Try to keep up too, Fitz.

Eight no

That kind of reminds me of Longest Day.

Eight oh my god

OKAY WHAT’S GOING ON IN THIS F█CKING WORLD

DOCTOR THIS IS A BAD IDEA

EVERY TIME YOU TRIED TO PRETEND YOU WERE AN EXPERT SOMEONE WAS WAITING FOR, IT ENDED BADLY. ESPECIALLY IN DARK PROGENY.

“And the man yelping in pain is Fitz”

Holy shit

This is an excellent idea!

Okay so this world is, like, capitalism on steroids

IT’S BEEN GOING ON FOR 400 YEARS EXCUSE ME

ANJI SDSDFGHJKIH YOU COULD HAVE WARNED HIM

Well at least Anji is keeping up

How much do you wanna bet that the opposite side is doing the same shit?

Okay now I’m starting to panic too

This is peak Eight right there

SAVE THEM

Why is this so f█cking stressful

THIS IS SCARY, STOP

Roll credits!

So Anachrophobia isn’t a phobia per se, more like a neurological trauma?

MhhhhhMMMMMMH NOPE

“I have some rather unsettling ideas”

You mean more unsettling than what is currently happening?

WHO. AM. IIIIIIIIIIIIII

Okay this is even worse

Eight please try to focus

Why is this book so scary

BAD IDEA

None of this is okay and this book needs to stop, which really concerns me because there’s more than 170 pages left.

Are.... are you hoping to spy on him too

So even after losing a heart, he doesn't need to sleep more. Interesting.

Holy f█cking shit

On the other hand, this is cute.

Ok ok honestly, fuck abstract horror, give me some gory bullshit over this any day, I’m going to have nightmares about this, I swear.

Also friendly reminder that this world is terrifying.

“Or out” oh no

Bad idea Doctor

BAD IDEA FITZ

Oh wow, that happened way sooner than I expected.

Fitz being an anxious little shit as usual, but really, who can blame him in that situation?

THIS IS ONLY PAGE 77, HOW CAN IT GET ANY WORSE

FFFffffffFFFFffFffffFFfF

GET THEM OUT OF HERE

Go Anji!

Can't they breathe for two seconds

Hey, some typical Eight echolalia, it’s been a while!

You idiots I love you

Hello Mr Mistletoe. You have a very silly name.

sdfghgfdsdfghj Eight no

The only weird thing about him so far is his name.

Oh no, what a pity, uh?

This is getting rather complicated.

NOPE nope no nu-uh no

N O P E

More echolalia!

I laughed

I’m so sorry for Anji though

ALL ABOARD THE NOPE TRAIN TO NOPEVILLE

NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNOPE

Eight speaks fluent sarcasm but can't recognise it when other people use it and that’s extremely relatable

“Clocky” asdfgfdsdfg

Okay

Can I breathe now

Apparently not

Please don’t come any closer to that thing, this is very bad for my nerves

Okay.... now this is weird.

GOOD

Well this is abstractly horrible, thank you very much for that.

Poor Fitz isn’t going to get a nice rest in this adventure either

Well, you gotta stay positive, right.

Also you gotta learn to enjoy the small victories, right.

“I’ve been wrong before”

You don’t say

WELL, YOU SPOKE TOO SOON

Nice.

This is also nice.

On the other hand, this sounds extremely ominous. Is the war not really a war, but something else entirely?

Is... is it because that’s good for business?

That’s it, isn’t it?

How... how do you beat something that can rewind time? I’m sure there’s a way, but at the moment I’m too busy being scared to think of any clever solution.

I... I need a pause.

Usually, “base under siege” stories do nothing for me, but that one has a terrifying abstract menace, and that changes everything.

I’m back from my pause!

And we’re straight back into the scary!

I swear, this liveblog’s notes are 60% “nope” and I’m struggling to find new ways to express how hard I’m nope-ing

What ARE those things?

More importantly: do I even want to know?

Too soon.

Okay, now this is interesting. Because Fitz’s most traumatizing “life milestone” happened to the original Fitz, not our current Fitz. Would he be able to change the events from Interference? I’m not sure.

If he couldn’t change them or anything that happened before the “birth” of his current self, what else would he change? I’m curious.

I F█CKING KNEW IT. THEY MAKE THE WAR LAST FOREVER FOR PROFIT.

Have I mentioned recently that I love Anji

Because I love Anji

Also excuse me but why and how is Mistletoe still alive?

Why are you coughing?

Is it the heart loss? Is it something new? Am I being paranoid?

Awwww

Oh my god so that’s what he would change.

I have no words.

That is an interesting possibility, honestly.

How... how desesperate must Eight be if he’s seriously starting to consider gasing the whole station?

Ooooooh. Okay. That’s how you get rid of something that rewinds time!

This is very clever!

This is also horrible!

Thanks!

“Can I just shoot him now?” “No.”

Wait.

WAIT.

WAIT WAIT WAIT.

ARE YOU SABBATH

THAT WOULD MAKE SO MUCH SENSE

At this point I’m so scared I kinda want to cry

This book is like a collection of all the scariest things possible for me

I’d say “I can’t wait for this character to die” but if he’s Sabbath that’s gonna be a bit more difficult.

“I think things are going to get nasty”

IMPLYING THEY AREN'T ALREADY?

He’s way too happy about this very disturbing situation.

F█CcCkK

Please make it stop

Okay!

All right! Okay! Good!

But there’s 60 pages left!

That’s somehow more terrifying than everything so far!

I’m fine, I’m fine I’m fine

Have I ever told you that I really like the “Hurt & Comfort” trope

You cute idiots.

FffFffygtfghgfcyuCk

I need a break from this book.

Two entire weeks later, I’m picking this book up again.

And a weird roadtrip has started. And this is pretty funny.

No, we’re not. Ask again in three hours, Fitz.

Oh. I was way off.

As if they didn't have enough problems already.

In case you’re wondering, yes, I’m screening all the scenes where Eight goes into echolalia mode because it’s relatable.

This NOPE juice is delicious.

Poor guy, though.

No they’re not, are they?

Make it stop, I kinda feel sick

“More than anything, she wanted not to feel terrified”

F█CKIN’ SAME

They... they’re all already clock people, right?

I’m scared and I’m crying a little bit

I didn’t think the author would go that far

Clearly I was wrong

THAT’S

THAT’S AN EXTREMELY SPECIFIC FEATURE OF A LOT OF MY NIGHTMARES

A PLACE WHICH LOOKS LIKE IT SHOULD BE OUTSIDE, BUT WHICH IS ENTIRELY INDOORS BECAUSE IT’S IN A GIGANTIC CHAMBER OF SORTS

THIS IS EXTREMELY SPECIFIC

WHO ARE YOU AND WHO GAVE YOU FREE ACCESS TO ROUGHLY 17 YEARS OF MY PERSONAL NIGHTMARES

Ah, yes, great, please add more nightmares to the nightmares

That was predictable, actually.

This is Time Works all over again.

Please tell me the plutocratic empire doesn't even exist anymore.

I knew it.

Also that basically makes these things Capitalismisators 2000.

Oh. So they just wanted to get clear instructions.

AHSDFGHJKJHGFDERTYUHGB

Okay. Okay. He can control it. Good.

This book really needs to stop giving me fresh ideas for nightmares.

He won’t change anything anyway.

Wait. Will he?

Good.

Honestly, I'm pretty sure he'd unmake the entire Earth arc if he could.

“He’s having some sort of nightmare”

AREN’T WE ALL

How can they solve this in 13 pages??

WAIT

WAIT I HAVE AN IDEA

WHAT IF HE UNMAKES A THING WHICH HAS NO IMPACT ON ANYTHING THAT HAPPENED SO FAR, BUT HAS AN IMPACT ON THEIR FUTURE

What............. what is he doing

HOLY SHIT WHAT THE F█CK

BUT

But that’s a paradox, surely?

It worked??

Wait, is that why he suddenly felt really ill right after the mustard gas plan succeeded? Because that’s the point where he went back to kill himself?

So it didn’t change anything, did it?

I KNEW IT. I KNEW IT.

Wait, who are his associates?

THAT'S HOW IT F█CKING ENDS

ARE YOU KIDDING ME

If you wanted me to read the next book straight away, good job, though.

[sabraeal]

Okay I really want one more, Obi teaching Shirayuki archery but also saying cheesy lines "you got my heart with that shot!" while cheering her on XDD

Sensitive Negotiations, Chapter 3 (Shirayuki’s POV #2)

Feet braced apart. A little? A lot? Somewhere in between should be safe.

String pulled back. To the cheek? To the ear? All the way? To where her hand starts shaking, that’s as much as she can do.

Breath in. Breath out. Breath in? Release?

Her fingers slip. Release.

The arrow wobbles wide, arcing with little grace to dint the ground not ten feet from the firing line. There’s not even enough force behind it to stick; instead it bounces off the dirt, skittering across the yard into a snowbank.

“Good shot, Lady Shirayuki!” Lady Madoka calls out, a hand brought up to cover her smile. The other ladies hide their titters too, although poorly.

She ducks her head, face flushing with shame. Of all the houses they’ve stopped at, Lord Ryouta’s has been her least favorite by far.

“My lord cousin!” Lady Hatsue calls up to the gallery. Shirayuki hazards a glance, and ah, yes, of course – Ryouta is standing with his male cousins, robed in the black of deep morning, watching the impromptu exhibition. “Did not our guest put on a good showing?”

He smiles, not unkindly, and lifts a hand to show he’s heard her. Ryouta himself is pleasant enough, though quiet; he’s a few scant years older than Izana, recently married – and just as recently widowed. Unlike some of the other lords they have met, he at least seems interested when she speak to him, if distracted. If she’s lucky, maybe she won’t have to lean on Obi’s post-dinner diplomacy here.

Her cheeks warm, thinking about it. His hands on her thighs, breath in her ear –

It would be best if that – that did not happen again. She’s sure of it.

“Come now, Lady Shirayuki,” Madoka cajoles, much to her ladies’ amusement. “Why not give our lord another show?”

They’ve been at this all morning, each of her shots only getting worse as their giggles and smirks get to her. The ladies have their own gear – finely tooled leather guards for chest and arms, proper gloves for shooting, bows hand-made and strung just for them. Ryouta’s lands are not so far from Sama, and his family prides themselves on being able to shoot from standing or horseback before they hit majority.

Shirayuki’s held a bow once before this, and at that, never loosed an arrow. She looks like a fool, and having Ryouta watch, having the lord she’s meant to impress see her act like she’s some clumsy adolescent, all limb –

Heat pricks at her eyes. How is he to take her seriously, after this?

“Ah, Miss!” From the gallery, Obi pushes his way forward, shoulders rubbing with Ryouta’s. It reminds her, almost too sharply, of Lyrias; of how he stood shoulder to shoulder with Makiri. “You’ve forgotten what I’ve taught you!”

She stares at him. He’s never taught her a single thing about the bow – now, now, Miss, he would say with a tight smile, I don’t think Master would approve – and they both know it.

“Here.” He hands the lord the drink in his hand – cider, she hopes, and not the hard kind – and hops over the rail, sauntering over to her with a swagger that makes her blood pressure spike. “Let me remind you.”

She has hardly a moment to object before he’s manhandling her, fitting just along her back and wrenching her shoulders square with his.

“You’re doing this all wrong,” he mutters, One foot guiding her legs apart, one just beneath each shoulder. “It’s like you’ve never watched me at all.”

“Well,” she snips a little sourly. “It’s not like I make a habit of it.”

He snorts, and well – she deserves that. He’s caught her and Yuzuri watching the yard often enough.

His hands settle on her hips, but he doesn’t yank at them like he has with everything else. Instead he hesitates, his breath growing shallow as she leans back into him, their thighs touching –

It’s vivid now, the feeling of his hands on her thighs. She remembers how he squeezed, kneading along tense muscles, heat flooding between her legs –

“Keep this square too,” he breathes. His fingers wrap around where hers rest on the bow, sorting her grip. “And you hold it like this. Now lift it up, straight line along your body. Don’t be afraid of the string.”

Easy for him to say, when he wears leather gauntlets as part of his everyday fashion. Her coat might absorb some of the impact, but she’s seen enough recruits to know what damage a bow can do even without an arrow.

“Now for your arrow.”

There’s no way to do this that isn’t awkward, that doesn’t send her bottom straight into his crotch – or, more accurately, the tops of his thighs, with the inches between them. She feels the muscles tense against her and its – distracting. Her breath pants out of her, mouth dry.

“No need to worry, Miss,” he murmurs into her hair, fingers looping around hers to nock the arrow, to hold her hand correctly over it. “You’ll hit this one, I swear.”

She doesn’t trust her voice, her face too flushed and her throat too tight, and so she just nods. It doesn’t help; his face is so close to hers, his nose runs down the length of the bone behind her ear and –

“Don’t let go.” His chest presses against her back, and she can feel how short his own breaths are. “Just hold on.”

He pulls back, her hand coming with his, and he grunts. “This isn’t weighted properly for you,” he says, not in that low, soothing murmur.

“It’s borrowed.” She tries not to think about how tense his body is behind hers. “They said it was the only one sized for a woman. Children use it to train.”

Obi lets out a laugh with none of his usual humor. “Oh, I’d love to see a kid pull this bow. Or any one of those ladies.”

She feels his grin against the back of her head, and she has no time to stop him before she says, too loud, “Now, Miss, just pretend it’s my heart. You’ll have no trouble hitting as easy a target as that.”

“Obi!” she hisses, but it’s too late, he’s made them release, and –

And it hits the target, just off center.

“Ah!” he cries, staggering back with a grin. “A hit! A palpable hit!”

“Don’t –” She slaps a hand to her face, groaning. “You’re making a scene –”

“Ah, my lady!” a man from the gallery calls out. “Pretend the next is Ryouta’s heart! He could use an occupation!”

“Ah.” She feels her cheeks flush. “I don’t –”

“If that’s where Lady Shirayuki would like to aim,” Ryouta replies evenly. A small smile twitches at the corner of his serious mouth.

She looks down the field, trying to catch from the ladies’ expressions what she should do, but –

But none of them are smiling, not anymore.

Shirayuki dresses for dinner at Svarbjorn as if she is going into battle.

Ryouta seats her beside him every night, much to the displeasure of his cousins. She’d thought at first it was in deference to her position as Izana’s emissary, but the night before last he’d leaned in, had asked her with a smile if her mother was a huldra for her to have hair so red and skin so fair.

It’s clear why so many cousins have come from the woodwork to comfort Lord Ryouta in his trying time; Countess Sverborn may yet be waiting for the spring thaw to go to her last resting place, but her lord husband considers her dead and buried.

And she has shown up just in time to be a distraction and a common enemy both.

Shirayuki travels with four chests of clothes; the wardrobe Izana has deemed necessary for a woman of her position. She rarely strays from the first – full of casual gowns that require minimal restrictive undergarments and allow a full range of movement. They are dull, muted colors, as the Northern lords prefer, and are trimmed simply, with fur or lace or restrained embroidery.

The second is her where she picks her dinner dresses, more formal pieces that are somewhat humble nonetheless. Finer fabrics, decoration definitely not meant for pacing snow-covered gardens or climbing dusty shelves, but still befitting a girl of the merchant class.

The third she’s opened only since arriving in Svarbjorn, when the first night a cousin mentioned her shabby dinnerware. She’d thought, at the time, that it had been a friendly warning, a hint that Lord Ryouta kept a more modern court than the other lords.

When she throws open the lid of of the fourth chest, it is with blood on her mind. She knows better now.

And if there is anything a poor, defenseless merchant girl knows how to do, it’s how to get red out of her ledger.

She knows she’s chosen right when Obi practically trips over his tongue, only managing a tight, “Miss,” before escorting her down to dinner.

“You are sublime, tonight,” Lord Ryouta tells her, pulling out the chair to his right. Obi, on her left, snorts.

She’s not worried about either of them. She stares right down the table, to where Lady Madoka and her ilk look as if their venison stew disagrees with them, and says, “Oh, thank you, Lord Ryouta. I just found this at the bottom of my trunks and thought it needed an airing.”

The sound of tinkling crystal disrupts Ryouta’s next thought.

“Hatsue!” he gasps, staring at the shatter glass. “Are you all right?”

“She’s fine,” Madoka simpers with a smile that does not reach her eyes. “…Just a shock, is all.”

“I could look at her, if she’s injured,” Shirayuki offers, all innocence.

“No.” Madoka glowers. “You’ve done quite enough today, Lady Shirayuki.”

“Careful, Miss,” Obi warns with a low chuckle, “I think you’re about to find yourself at the end of a very pointed joke.”

“Oh good,” she says evenly. “You know how I love to laugh.”

He grins, turning his head away. “You’re trouble, Miss.”

Obi is not wrong. The course has hardly finished when one of the footmen appear beside her with a glass of red wine.

“Compliments of Lady Hatsue,” he tells her. She glances worriedly at Obi.

“It could hardly be poisoned,” he says with a shrug. “Not that I think you should drink it.”

Shirayuki grimaces. “I won’t.”

“It’ll be an insult if you don’t,” he remind her. “Still not saying you should, though.”

Her mouth pulls flat. “I’m sure Hatsue will survive it.”

Her curiosity gets the better of her not minutes later.

A darting glance, and suddenly the stem is in her hand, she’s taken a sip –

And she feels that slight rush, the fuzzy feeling of alcohol starting to seep into her blood.

“Oh,” she murmurs, setting the glass down carefully. “That’s not…that’s not wine.”

She doesn’t even see the glass leave the table before he’s setting it down.

“No,” Obi says tightly, “and I can tell you it’s not served in a glass that large.”

She’s mid-conversation with Ryouta, trying to impress on him the safety of the hybrid, when she forgets what’s in her glass. Blindly, she reaches for it, bringing to to her lips –

It’s wine, well-watered. She blinks.

From the corner of her eye, she sees Obi lift his glass in salute.

“From Lady Madoka,” a footman tells her, when she’s finished her glass.

Obi takes one glance and downs the rest of his.

Shirayuki receives compliments of the same sort from Lady Saeko, Lady Asami, Lady Tokiyo, and Lady Misato before she catches the way Obi lists in his seat, the imprecise way he holds his knife. Or, more accurately, the way he is not holding his knife to cut beef flesh.

She says his name, and it takes nearly ten seconds for him to turn his head to her, eyes glassy.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispers to Ryouta discreetly, and she urges Obi to his feet. “This rarely –”

He holds up a hand with a smile. “It’s all right, Lady Shirayuki,” he laughs, keeping his words pitched soft. “It happens to the best of us.”

She bites her lips and does not say, not Obi.

There is a part of her that expects him to right himself as they turn to corner, to turn to her with a smile and say, please, Miss, have a little more faith, but –

But as soon as they are safely down the corridors, away from the rowdiness of the dinner party, he slumps into her, nearly bowling her over.

“When did you gain so much weight?” she grouses, heaving him up the stairs, one arm wrapped around his waist.

“It’s muscle,” he slurs, pressing a scandalized hand to his chest. “I’m very svelte for a man my size – my height! My height.”

“I’m –” her foot catches as she mounts the landing, sending them twisting to the wall, her back banging painfully against ornate wainscotting – “sure.”

She forgets how much taller he is until moments like this, when he’s so close she can’t ignore the way her eyes only come up to his neck, and his mouth hovers wetly above her brow.

“Hmm,” he grunts, intrigued. His body leans into hers with purpose, their torsos aligned chest to hip.

“Obi –”

“You know, Miss,” he murmurs, breath curling far too close to her ear, the sweet odor of the wine washing over her. “If you wanted a scandalous tryst in the alcoves –”

“Don’t tease, Obi,” she huffs, putting her palms to his chest in heaving. She only succeeds in getting his hands under him, one planted just above each of her shoulders.

“Tease?” he rumbles, one corded thigh slotting between her own. She can’t help the flush that stains her cheeks, nor the way his eyes follow its spread as it works down to her decolletage. “You want me to hold you down with my thighs.”

She’s never – not quite like that – not how he means – “Obi!”

“Hmm?” His nose rubs against the top of her head, breathing her in. “I think this might be what you like. Someone being rough.”

“N-no! That’s not –” her chest heaves, and she does not dislike the way his eyes are riveted to it, how he looks like her body gives him ideas – “Obi!”

“Mm, you’re right.” He pulls back, gaze wandering up to her face. One hand lifts, tucking a loose slip of hair behind her ear. “Not rough. Maybe a little ruffled. Like they know you’re not glass.”

It’s the heat that coils between her legs that makes her bold, that makes her lift her gaze and say, “Maybe. If it’s the right person.”

Neither of them move, but oh, how she burns.

“Anyway!” she yelps, ducking out from under his arm. “Your room’s not far.”

It’s a small victory, getting him inside without either of them getting concussed. Whoever decided to put statuary in a dark hall will get a very stern note from her in the morning.

“Ah,” he sighs. “The bed.”

He pitches forward, flat as a plank, and it’s only by grabbing his sash that she keeps him upright.

“Obi,” she says, “you can’t go to sleep in your formal clothes.”

“Sure I can.” He stumbles. “Just watch.”

“You shouldn’t!” She watches him sway in front of her, and she sighs. “Here, I’ll – I’ll help you.”

It’s quick work to remove the cape and sash, but he is – distracting when she starts on the buttons of his tunic, humming appreciatively as her fingers part the first set of buttons.

“Behave,” she tells him, full of censure. Of at least, she tries, but it comes out breathier than she would like, and he merely grins, putting his hands on her waist to steady himself.

“I always behave, Miss.”

That, of course, is when she feels the cold air on her back, and realizes he’s unbuttoned nearly half the tiny seed pearls that have kept her dress clenched to her body. The low shoulders droop as she jerks away, decolletage gaping indecently as she tries to hold it together.

“Obi!”

“I was just helping, Miss,” he says, too-innocent, not enough gold in his gaze.

“Helping take off my dress?”

“Is that not what we’re doing?” She doesn’t know how he can get his voice to sound like – like that, all rich and deep and – and – “Helping each other?”

The noise she makes is…not negative. In its entirety.

“You help me.”She squeaks, his finger tracing down her spine. “I help you.”

He’s far too close when he says, “We help each other. In mutually beneficial ways.”

Her hands shake on his clasps. “You say that now,” she warns, “but you’re far too drunk to help me out of this corset.”

“Oh, Miss, I have very dexterous fingers.” She feels a tug on one of the laces. “And if I didn’t…I could just cut it off.”

Her corset is definitely a shade too tight. She can hardly get a breath in.

“Mm, see,” he purrs. “You like that too. I have a few guesses about other –”

“There!” she shouts, a little too loud for the room, backing away. “Done. Now you just can…take off your pants.”

His teeth glint white in the dark. “Mm, but what if I don’t have anything on underneath?”

“T-then keep them on!” The kitchen staff could cook breakfast on her breast, at at this rate. “Just – I’ll help you into bed.”

He makes a disappointed cluck, but climbs under the covers with a dexterity she envies. If only she had the same level of grace sober as he did thoroughly sauced, her dresses might stay neater.

On his back, he stares down at his undershirt, plucking at it with a pouty jut to his lip. “But Miss, I hate sleeping with my shirt on.”

She’s glad he can’t see how red she is in this light. “Then take it off!”

He doesn’t need anymore encouragement than that, whipping it to the floor. She lets out a long, long breath, averting her eyes. He’s gotten paler on their progress, but he’s still – still –

Nice to look at. Yes. That.

“Miss,” he says, so serious. “You should stay with me.”

“Obi –”

He bats the long fringe of his lashes. “What if I’m…sick?”

“You don’t get sick.” Obi honestly has far more luck that he deserves with his habits.

“But what if I do?” he whines, incorrigible. “Shouldn’t you be right here to take care of me.”

She sighs, straightening. “I’m going to be now.”

He makes an interested noise, sitting up a little on the pillows.

“In my own room!”

His disappointed groan follows her as she slips through their adjoining door, into the safety of her own room.

She’s grateful, ultimately, for Obi’s clever hands; she could have never gotten the dress off all by herself, and at this hour she’s loath to disturb a maid.

Still, but the time she’s in her nightgown, tucked snugly in the giant bed Ryouta has given her, Shirayuki’s fuming. She doesn’t – he doesn’t –

She doesn’t like being manhandled. That’s not – that’s not right at all.

Shirayuki rolls up to her side, trying to forget the way he felt against her, the way she shivered when he murmured in her ear, the way he’d looked at her as he’d asked her to come to bed –

Guilt starts to seep in.

He doesn’t get sick, she knows this, but – but she’s never seen him drink so much, and so quickly. It was for her, to save her reputation, to make sure she showed no weakness in front of the vultures Ryouta called cousins, and –

And she kicks back the covers. It’s not as if – they’ve shared before. There’s nothing different about this, no matter…no matter what was said between them.

Heat prickles in her core, and oh, how she wishes she could make herself believe it.

Obi is normally silent when he sleeps, just the even lull of his breath and occasional soft noises to let her know when he’s succumbed to the warmth between them on cold nights in Lyrias.

Tonight, he sleeps the sleep of the drunk. The walls practically rattle with his snores. It’s a miracle she didn’t hear him in her own room.

With a sigh, she crawls into the bed, one knee causing the mattress to dip, and then –

The snores stop. In the thin moonlight cutting through his windows, she makes out a sliver of gold, a flash of teeth.

“You came,” he sighs, in a voice she’s never heard him use. She’s never seen this look on him either, save – save –

When he lifted her, after Sereg. The hooded eyes, the soft mouth. Her heart flutters, feeling it on her again.

“Go to sleep,” she tells him, sliding beneath the covers.That’s all it takes. his eyes close, and –

And he starts up that awful racket.

“Ughhh,” she groans, rolling over. It takes pushing with both her hands and feet to get him on his belly, where at least the sound is muffled.

She huffs, turning her back on him. “Men.”

[thelightofthingshopedfor]

2016 Fanfiction Round-Up

Copied this fanfic round-up from @veliseraptor​ because I’m always a sucker for this kind of thing and I pretty much always do some kind of fic retrospective. Also I’m only doing this on AO3, not counting FFN.

Total Year-Long Wordcount: The unfortunate thing about my inability to finish stuff in a reasonable time frame means that there’s probably a big difference between how much I wrote last year and how much I actually posted. On the other hand, something like half of “the kindness of strangers” was written prior to this year and I’m still counting everything I posted, so whatever. Adding it all up, I posted 67,504 words on AO3 (minus “adventures of tiny Loki and Thor”), but my dubiously accurate 2016 document contains 97,000 words, so...my actual wordcount for the year is probably around 85,000.

This year I wrote and posted: 16 fics, of which 3 have more than one chapter, and 53 new “adventures of tiny Loki and Thor” posts 

Overall Thoughts

Looking back, did you write more fic than you thought you would this year, less, or about what you’d predicted? I didn’t set a word-count goal of any kind, so...I don’t know? I’d say I did okay, although now that I’m looking at it, I feel like I should have finished/posted even more short fics than I did, which is...not a super helpful way to look at things.

What pairing/genre/fandom did you write that you would never have predicted in January? Maybe the “I got pissed about Hydra Cap” one, considering I sure didn’t see that asinine “twist” coming. I also didn’t really expect I’d write so many Avengers Academy fics, although maybe I should have. Of course, those are still both Marvel. Probably the only really out-there fic was flailing in the deep, for @markiplier‘s Slime Rancher and Subnautica videos. 

What’s your own favorite story of the year? Not the most popular, but the one that makes you happiest? Overall, I think I’d have to say under bright stars burning--I struggled a lot with that one too, partly because it was so different from anything I’d written before (taking place over a long period of time, with two characters gradually developing a relationship, and a somewhat more meandering plot than normal because of that; plus most of it was set in the past, requiring a lot more research than usual), and I spent a lot of the writing process sure I was producing absolute garbage, but I ended up being really satisfied with it. I think it has a good arc, with vignettes that work well individually, and based on the comments, I think I did a good job writing Steve’s voice, using gradually maturing word/style choices for different life stages, and showing how he and Loki fit well together. I don’t know, I just like it a lot. 

Did you take any writing risks this year? What did you learn from them? Taking the plunge and committing to one of my long-term WIPs (the kindness of strangers) for Marvel Big Bang, I suppose. I learned, uh, that trying to wrestle a story I wrote in disconnected chunks over 2+ years is agonizing but more or less possible? 

From my past year of writing, what was….

My most popular story of this year: Not counting the adventures of tiny Loki and Thor, my fic with the most kudos was the state of my head (228), followed by “under bright stars burning” (178), Metal Gear Widow (137), and “the kindness of strangers” (131). By comments, it’s pretty much the same but in a different order: “the kindness of strangers” (58 comment threads), “under bright stars burning” (32), and “the state of my head” (16). If you go by percentage of kudos to hits, it’s “the state of my head” (13%), “the kindness of strangers” (12%), I’m your national anthem (12%), and “under bright stars burning” (10%). Also I’m sure that’s way more than anyone wanted to know. 

Most fun story to write: Maybe “the state of my head”; I got inspired by a prompt, it all came together quickly, and I knocked it out in a weekend. Writing from Tony’s POV was fun, too. “flailing in the deep” was another one where I got to be funny.

Story with the single sexiest moment: Literally the only semi-explicit sex scene (by which I mean, I didn’t fade to black but I also didn’t describe specific body parts) I’ve ever written was for let your colors bleed and blend with mine (Crimson Peak, Thomas/Edith) and that was right at the end of 2015 so it doesn’t quite count. Otherwise there’s a kissing scene in “under bright stars burning” but it’s...not very sexy...

Most “Holy crap, that’s wrong, even for you” story:  uhhhhh. well, “the kindness of strangers” probably has the most/nastiest Loki whump I’ve posted on AO3 thus far, to the point that I think a few readers were surprised, so I suppose there’s that??

Story that shifted my own perceptions of the characters: I hadn’t really written Steve before “under bright stars burning” and that ended up being a reasonably long fic all from his POV, at different points throughout his life, so writing that one definitely gave me a better sense of him as a character. 

Hardest story to write: Gonna have to go with “the kindness of strangers,” which should be obvious to anyone who noticed me screaming about Marvel Big Bang for the last several months. 

Biggest Disappointment: I’m not great with deadlines, as everyone probably knows, so pretty much every time I sign up for anything with a deadline, I end up causing myself a lot of stress and just barely squeaking in under the wire, often with less of a story than I originally planned, or actually a little bit after the deadline in one way or another. I’ve often been especially bad about this with Yuletide, posting an unfinished placeholder on the deadline and then getting it actually done before reveals; way back in 2011, I never did get it done and they had to send it out for a pinch hit the night before reveals, and I still feel bad about that (and keep intending to go back to the fic I was trying to write). This year I got caught doing it again and although I did end up posting a complete story, I’m definitely not happy with it because it’s like...one third of the story I meant to write. I still intend to finish it, but the fact that I didn’t is frustrating. 

Biggest Surprise: Nothing comes to mind.

Most Unintentionally Telling Story: I’ve written exactly two Marvel-related fics that aren’t about Loki, and they’re both about Steve, one where he’s progressive and mad at the whole world, and another where Avengers Academy Steve realizes he’s on the aro/ace spectrum. That probably says something.

Favorite Opening Line(s):

At this point, Tony is running almost entirely on adrenaline and good old-fashioned Stark bravado (patent pending), so he’s pretty much prepared for things to go completely to shit at any second. The particular variety of shit remains to be seen, but honestly, shit is shit and he’s mostly just banking on JARVIS deploying the new suit before Loki switches from talking to shooting. (the state of my head)

“What the fuck is this?” (I’m your national anthem)

Dorian was worried about the Inquisitor. This was hardly unusual, to be fair; in fact it was so far from being a new state of affairs that when Dorian wondered briefly what it would be like to live without at least a vague background worry for Elden, he came up blank. (another year)

For as long as Gamora has known him, Thanos has been a collector, entirely unmatched. He has been so for much longer than that, in fact; Gamora herself and all her siblings are proof. (the kindness of strangers)

Favorite Line(s) from Anywhere:

“I wouldn’t say nervous,” he hedges. Nervously. (the weight of it all)

“I’ve never stood for any of that shit, and I’m sure as hell not going to let anybody pretend Captain America stands for it either. That’s not—I won’t give more power to that kind of hatefulness. If people want to be bigots, fine, that’s on them, but they do not get to use this symbol to spread and validate their hate.” (I’m your national anthem)

There’s about five seconds of resounding silence, during which Loki shivers and barely seems to be breathing and Tony keeps rubbing his shoulder because apparently this is his life now, and then Barton says, “What the fuck, Stark?” (the state of my head)

Loki growls under his breath and makes a sharp gesture that sends another robot flying. “End program,” he snaps, and glowers at Natasha again. “Did you have a point, or did you simply wish to drag me back to the infatuated horde slavering for my brother’s return?” Natasha tilts her head. Whatever else you could say about Loki (and there’s a lot), he sure has a fancier vocabulary than most people she knows. (getting the gang together)

He is a being of countless interwoven myths and stories, the precise intersection of which seems to shift every time he tries to examine it, and eventually he stops trying, because he is no longer sure that it is relevant to what he is doing here. One thing, in all this, is constant: always, he is Loki, and he knows more than almost anyone that identity is malleable, that facts and truth are not always perfectly interchangeable. (we could be heroes)

“I see,” Loki says. He does, actually; he has studied and used enough magic to know that some laws of reality simply are, immutable no matter the power of the one seeking to change them. This knowledge does nothing to make him feel any less weary, and for a moment he thinks the weight of all this really will crush him, that he lacks the strength to do anything but sink into the dust of this barren realm and sleep there forever. (in death’s other kingdom)

haha so it turns out I liked a bunch of lines in this year’s long fics so I’m just gonna...list those separately at the bottom...

Top 5 Scenes from Anywhere You Would Choose to Have Illustrated: 

"under bright stars burning,” Steve and Loki hanging out on Coney Island, especially the bit where they’re sitting on the boardwalk railing watching the beach with the Wonder Wheel behind them

ditto, the kissing scene :3

anything?? those are the only two scenes that really come to mind in a “oh man I wish someone would draw this, it would be super cute” way, but 1) “the kindness of strangers” already has a bunch of awesome art from @neurovicky, which is amazing, and 2) I am thrilled with literally any fanart of my fics

Fic-writing goals for 2017:

continue writing at least a little bit every day

continue to post at least one new short fic to AO3 each month (last year I said “even if it’s a new ‘adventures of tiny Loki and Thor’ or ‘Custom figures’ chapter” but I managed even without that, I think, barely, so I should be able to do it again

continue to try focusing on fucking finishing some of the many, many, many fics languishing on my WIP list, especially the shorter ones that I really should have written and posted months or even years ago

more specific fic goals:

finish “the kindness of strangers” part III

finish the rest of my Yuletide fic haha whoops

New Year’s Resolution fic because my actual Yuletide fic was late, more whoops

that damn Stoki Week fic I started back in June

“Avengers Academy: Friendship Is Magic”

finish the rest of always gold to me

shit, I should get back to winter in our bones

and work on a followup to “under bright stars burning”

I don’t knowwww there are so many others

Favorite lines from “under bright stars burning” because sure why not, please note these are all very spoilery if you want to read the fic and haven’t:

“You would [like Thor],” Loki says, like it’s a law of the universe. “Thor is…bright, and boisterous, and everyone loves him, even when they are displeased with him. He is impossible to ignore. And I am…not him.”

He darts a glance toward Steve and then away, studying the shoreline, and Steve is suddenly struck by how beautiful Loki is. He’s noticed before, but not quite like this, with the breeze ruffling Loki’s hair and the sun highlighting those fine, sharp features Steve is always itching to draw. He doesn’t just want to draw Loki now, though; mostly he’s wondering what it would be like to kiss him.

Steve sighs, shoulders slumping, and gives up on the attempt at a smile. “It’s my mom. She…working in the TB ward finally caught up to her.” He swallows hard around the lump in his throat, which seems to be growing sharp points with every word. “The funeral was today.”

Loki gives him a look that somehow combines concern with profound skepticism.

Steve nods, his gut twisting uneasily as more threads of the nightmare come into focus, connect, begin to compose a larger picture. The golden prince in the red cape, blinding and bright, with a shadow no one ever notices. Cheers and thunderous applause (but not for the shadow, never for the shadow). His hand turning blue and ridged in the monster’s grip, and horror freezing the breath in his lungs more effectively than the glacial cold. A glowing blue box radiates cold and his hands turn blue as he touches it monster monster monster and revulsion is so thick in his throat he thinks he’ll choke on it. Rage and terror, rage and terror, no more than another stolen relic, claimed to love me, tell me tell me tell me, never wanted never loved never real and fear again. A corona of golden light. A spear and a throne and plans plans plans he will do it he will show them he is right, is worthy (is nothing but the monster parents tell their children about at night)—

Desert. Blood on the sand. A bridge. Battle, galaxies hanging suspended overhead. An explosion that sends him flying, his grip on the spear the only thing holding him above the abyss, but he has no reason to hold on and so he lets go and falls falls falls—

Bucky falls and Steve can’t catch him. Schmidt takes off with the Tesseract and Steve can’t stop him. Instead he sits at the Valkyrie’s controls and makes a date with Peggy that they both know he won’t make and tries not to think that even as Captain America, all he can do is fail the people he cares about, over and over again. Tries, fruitlessly, not to spend his last moments wishing he had more time with any of them, and then he sends the Valkyrie into the water.

And then Loki moves, quick as thought, already inside Steve’s guard, and Steve has no time or space to block him (and barely the space of a breath for a rush of horrified betrayal) before the tip of his scepter is pressed to Steve’s heart. Everything else disappears in a blaze of consuming blue light.

He is drowning in pain and anger, and then (no, Loki) despair overwhelms everything else, and he opens his hand, and he falls.

Under other circumstances, Loki thinks he might be impressed with his captors’ efficiency. They are expending no apparent effort and still grinding him down, and he does not want to think what it means, that this all must be in preparation for something—or that perhaps it is not, and he truly does not know which thought is worse.

He knows Thanos is too powerful. To think otherwise comes near to blasphemy.

It is fitting, he supposes, that the monster should destroy everything that was once good in its life, even this. Steve does not deserve this, does not deserve to suffer for unknowingly befriending a monster and finding himself inevitably drawn into the monster’s fate, but he will, and Loki can almost feel his spine bending under the weight of his own despair.

Favorite lines from “the kindness of strangers” because ditto, and ditto on spoilers:

This is truth: Thanos is patient like Death is patient, with the calm surety that the universe will bow to his will in the end no matter how long it takes.

Gamora was never nice except when it suited her, even before; was already hard, and fierce in her defense of anything she considered hers, and so once Thanos had broken and remade her, she had something left of herself, harder even than the shell he made her create.

She is a daughter of Thanos, by necessity and unyielding determination (and by something she refuses to call desperation, even in her own mind), but she is also the last surviving member of the Zehoberei race. This second identity is not one she considers often; at best it is not useful to the life she leads now, and at worst it is dangerous, but it still exists, always, alongside anything else Thanos might make of her—a kind of sacred responsibility, almost, even if she has little time or patience for religion or superstition. And the last survivor of the Zehoberei, in the name of all the unknown dead that she alone carries, burns with quiet rage at the idea of Thanos gaining the power to wipe out another race.

“I would take you for a Valkyrie,” he says, quiet and hoarse, “but if that were so you would not come to me, for I cannot succeed even at dying and I know Valhalla is barred to me.”

Yes, she is afraid of Thanos, afraid down to her marrow, and any thinking being should be as well, and perhaps everything else she tells herself—everything else she holds close as evidence that she does not belong to him—is merely an excuse for her own cowardice.

But the truth that matters the most in this case is simple: her reasons have not changed, and they far outweigh her pity for Loki (and her desire to prove to herself that she is not a coward). Whether they are still good reasons or merely excuses to salve what remains of her conscience is immaterial.

This is another truth: Gamora does not like to think in terms of what she can and cannot do. It is too much like helplessness, to look too long at the choices she is denied, and she learned a long time ago that helplessness is a short step away from death or worse. Instead she assesses situations and finds choices to make, and then she chooses, and she does not regret or look back—even when the choices are impossible or effectively meaningless. There is always, always a choice of some kind to be made, and to choose is to regain some measure of control over the situation, no matter how small. If she chooses, she cannot be forced one way or the other, and therefore she is not helpless.

“Soon,” Thanos tells her, his expression satisfied, and something unpleasant curls in Gamora’s stomach, the same mingling of fear and relief she feels whenever Thanos is pleased.

The titan smiles down at him, something both paternal and predatory in his gaze.

Slowly the blankness in his expression is replaced by something just as sharp and feral as the first time Gamora laid eyes on him, only now it is more wary, more focused, both more and less desperate. ... Every now and then, Thanos tells Loki that he is pleased with his progress, and Loki smiles to hear it, and his smile is like a brittle blade.

And for a long moment that freezes the blood in her veins like shards of ice, all she can think is I have failed. She has not done enough, and Terra is going to fall like her world did so long ago, all because she was so determined to wait for the right moment.

“It’s really not that complicated,” Romanoff says, and then: “I’ve got red in my ledger. I want to wipe it out.” There is…a cadence to it, something he knows, not the words but the sense of…something practiced, repeated, held close…

“Because look, he busted up a town because of a fight with his brother, singlehandedly destroyed a SHIELD installation, took out a guy’s eyeball, and threatened a freaking Holocaust survivor. Even if he doesn’t want to be this Thanos’s tool, he’s still a tool in general.”

“Gentlemen,” Fury snaps, “if you’re going to have a pissing contest, do it on your own time. I’m not asking you to like each other or the God of Crazy, I’m asking if you’ll put on your big boy pants for five seconds, do what’s necessary, and work together.”

[dumbfrickinlit]

#sircius - #mainquest character

The sun has long since set when the frail figure hunched over the cluttered desk finishes paging through his 9th book for the evening. It’s another tome on rare herbal medicines, and it was no more helpful than the last one he’d barreled through roughly 30 minutes ago. 

The elderly man - a tiefling named Sircius - fidgets in his chair and moves to seize the next book atop the tall stack sat on the floor next to him: an encyclopedia on rare and extraordinary curses. He spares no time as his hands move quick to peel open the pages and his eyes begin to fly across the text, intently observant of every key word or phrase which may be of interest to him. 

While his eyes scrutinize the book’s contents, his concentration wanders elsewhere; and as if to punctuate the thought at the forefront of his mind, a ragged breath cuts the potent silence, and Sircius instantly turns his head to look at the younger man laying on the bed just a few feet from him. 

His son’s face, as dormant as ever, greets him in return. And although his son, Malerus’ stirring has changed his appearance none, Sircius cannot help but worry if the brief disturbance - uncommon for his son -  is a sign of something worse.  

Something, he's beginning to worry, he may not be able to stop. 

Profile.

Sircius Emberos. Male. 69 years old. School of Divination Wizard. Sage background. Tiefling. True-Neutral alignment. Character strengths: incredibly loyal and protective of those he truly cares about, lets knowledge and reason dictate his actions, cautious, intelligent. Character flaws: cold, distant, stubborn, holds a general disdain for those less intelligent than him, holds no regard for laws or morality when it comes to his interests and the safety of his loved ones.

Sircius Ebmeros and my experience playing him.

There’s perhaps more to Sircius Ebmeros and what he means to me than what lies on the surface.

He was my first-ever character - both for D&D and as a genuine “OC” for me to put actual time and effort into - and with him I really wanted to break the mold, as I knew he would make the first impression for what I could do as both a character conceptualizer and a roleplayer.

My honest perception is that most people gravitate towards starting with and/or playing characters who are very close to themselves in their own personality (which is not a bad thing at all; it offers a transition into roleplaying for those uninitiated to it, and for those with no priority or interest in roleplaying, it’s simply more fun for them); this is very much something I did not want to do. So instead of making my first character an unexciting, passive, amicable, and all-around-cooperative young human female - a definite and obvious reflection of myself - I decided to make Sircius: a temperamental, demanding, isolate, unsociable old tiefling -- who, on the upside, is incredibly smart and cares deeply about family. I decided when making him (and as I do for all characters I create) that every character has a problem, and Sircius’ would be his incredibly ill son. And as the campaign was already lacking a genuine problem to unite our characters, this gave our first chapter a goal: to find Sircius’ son Malerus a cure to his inscrutable disease. Along the way, Sircius Fireball’d a fellow party member, was shot in the kneecap by another, and was threatened more times that I can count about how he needed to behave and play nice with everyone else. So it probably goes without saying that playing Sircius can be exhausting. I constantly have to shut everyone out, turn away help, and pretend to be fine on my own when as a player and a character I know very well that I’m not. It’s difficult sometimes to remain true to Sircius’ character and instigate disagreements within the party, but I have always tried to do so with taste, and never so frequently as to call into question Sircius’ place in the group. Sometimes this means on the rare occasion sacrificing the integrity of the character (i.e. making a call that I’m not wholly convinced Sircius would do), but I find it absolutely necessarily for the continuation of the story. At the end of the day we are all here to play and adventure with each-other, and I would much rather try to reason Sircius into doing something he wouldn’t normally do than leave the party fractured or disbanded because I wanted to stay ~true to the character~. I mean, what kind of story would that be? Not a good one.

So I’m left playing a totally hard-headed, widowed husband, whose only family remaining is his deathly-ill son and a grandson hundreds of miles away from him. And as ridiculously painful as that might sound to play... I actually enjoy it. -- Most of the time, I really do. Some of my most cherished memories I have of D&D are the few deep conversations I’ve had as him with other characters. When someone has finally managed to crack Sircius’ shell it’s incredibly cathartic to let his more compassionate, vulnerable side show. And I’m immensely thankful for those moments because they make him feel like a genuinely likable character despite his obvious flaws - and not just some anal-retentive asshole that everyone has to put up with. Over time, Sircius became more and more palatable as a character as the events of the story unfolded. Eventually Sircius and the party obtained the “miracle cure” that they had sought out. They then returned to the tiefling’s home to revive the ill Malerus. Things did not work out as planned, however, as although the cure resuscitated his son, it also left him both in an essentially vegetative state and made him completely unreceptive to magic, basically making his new condition unquestionably and emphatically incurable.

Now, let me clear up before continuing any further that the result of the miracle cure was never intended by any of us or the DM to be what it was. The cure was always meant to succeed, but as a bit of fun on the DM’s part (I believe), two side-effects were added via rolling on Orrex’s Net Libram of Random Magical Effects. What was rolled was possibly the most depressing and horrifying result I can think of. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t cry when this all happened. Quickly realizing how grim of an outcome this was, the DM set to rectify this.

The unfortunate effects of the cure were kept canon (a reroll was never done, which in retrospect I would have appreciated), but instead of leaving Malerus (and by proxy, Sircius) to his exceptionally dark fate, a cleric - the father of one of the other party members, Eleniel, in fact - gave up his life in order to restore Malerus’. While I can appreciate this as it added drama to the story and changed Sircius’ character and his relationship with Eleniel, the unfortunate rolls on the Net Libram still leave a bad taste in my mouth to this day. It’s something I try to forget about - and often I leave it out of conversation concerning Sircius and the campaign because of how exceptionally dark it is. It’s a little to “real,” and for reasons that I’ll get to later, was very hard for me to accept when it originally happened.

But all of that aside, those events helped shape Sircius into who he is currently. With the full revival of his son, Sircius’ temperament cooled substantially and allowed him to possess and practice gratitude towards his fellow companions. It also gave myself narrative reason to keep Sircius in the story, which worked especially well in Chapter 2 when the party reunited to help Eleniel (whom Sircius now obviously owed after the sacrifice of her father). Because of this his character has developed and established itself well in my mind.

So, it’s probably crazy for me to say now that all of this - Sircius’ story and everything that he has theoretically ever been through - might change in the future. Crazy, maybe, but not unwelcome. 

Mainquest is being heavily considered (and by “heavily considered” I mean basically approved but pending until we get around to it) for a “reboot” down the line. Various reasons have been cited; the most pertinent being the inconsistency of the party and DM (this is a campaign that’s seen 3 different players come and go and also had a DM switch starting in Chapter 2). The DM also seeks to refine and revitalize the story. For us, it’s the campaign that’s seen the most mess, so there’s an innate desire to redo it “right.”

Will this change Sircius as a character? Possibly. Will this change the events that shape him? Likely. But I’m ok with that. Actually, I’m looking forward to it. I enjoy the idea of getting a chance to play as Sircius again and to re-experience and refine his transition from unsociable recluse to.... well, someone tolerable, haha. I would even be up for a more somber take on Malerus’ arc.

You see, what I have neglected to acknowledge leading up to this point - and I suppose if you’ve bothered to read this far you have earned the right to know - is the inspiration for Sircius’ plight; something completely unintended by me until I realized it far too late.

And this is where it gets almost unnecessarily heavy, so feel free to back out here.

During the time I created and played Sircius, I was dealing with problems in my own life -- problems of a kind which I had never faced before. 

I was struggling to cope with a friend’s (the very best friend I had at the time and perhaps will ever have) diminishing medical condition. ALS. We didn’t know at the time; a diagnosis was never made clear until months and months after things started unfolding. To us, she was just slowly losing her ability to do everything for no apparent reason. And it was exceptionally painful for me -- losing her, like that. Being there, but not. I couldn’t fathom the thought of people dying who were important to me -- especially someone who was so important to me as she was. 

So it’s too disgustingly easy now for me to see the overlap between my life and Sircius’. The only thing that really separates us is how the story ends. Malerus got to live, and my friend eventually passed away. -- I guess Sircius was always meant to be the fantasy I could never have in reality.

Since then I’ve learned to cope, to appreciate my best friends’ life for what it was, and to try and let go. -- Very different from Sircius’ experience. But I’m starting to think that an alternative ending to Malerus’ story - with him passing away - wouldn’t be as bad as I originally thought. Would it be a hero’s story? No. Of course not. But Sircius could then serve as a conduit for something more important, I think. 

Maybe. Maybe not. It could be an absolutely terrible idea. -- Also a hell of a lot of pressure on me and my DM to make it work. But I’d at least like to make note of it here: I am not so opposed to anti-stories as I once was.

And so that is my long-winded experience playing Sircius Ebmeros: the grouch of a tiefling who turned out to be something a little bit more. Perhaps he will change in the future in story and/or character, but for now, this is how he remains.