#pulled at random from the drafts folder

[silverfoxstole]

Paul visiting his old school in 2018.

[octoberautumnbox]

Off*IZ: Like It Like I Love It

Soloist Jo Yuri & Male Reader

Categories/warnings: smut, doggy, semi-public, semi-mirror, semi-exhibitionist, office sex, clothed sex, sweat if it counts?, standing doggy, anal, anal creampie, little bit of thigh stuff I think

Word count: 4.2k

Part of Off*IZ Hours

a/n: i worked on so many other drafts on and off this month i really wasnt sure if I'd be able to pull something off this month but we back to our regular programming LMAO :DDDD

“Thank you, everyone. I know we took longer than we should have,” the project head places his glasses on his forehead before rubbing his eyes, “but we pulled through today. Good work.” All around the conference table, you and your coworkers stretch in various ways and groans emanate from random people in the room. As people start to get up and leave, you overhear muttering about plans after work and what each other’s weekends will be like. 

You do your own stretches and check your watch: 7:54 p.m., nearly three hours later than you should have left. A sigh escapes you, finding yourself already tired from dealing with the lowlife drunks on the bus you’ll be riding with in about half an hour. You grasp around in the dark for a bright side to all of this, but nothing’s coming up so far, except...

“Hey, heading out?” Miss Jo taps you on your shoulder a bit roughly: not enough to hurt, but enough to shove you a little. She stands behind you, her fingers delicately wrapped around the edge of her folder, and a smile painting her cute face. Over the course of your tenure in the company, as well as the fact that the Operational Support Department is only two people strong, you and your boss have gotten to know each other very well.

“Maybe you wanna have a drink with me? God knows we both need it,” she giggles. The petite woman abruptly shuts her eyes solemnly and sucks air in through her teeth, then releases it in a drawn-out yawn. She blinks out the sleep in her eyes before attempting to look at you again. 

“Are you sure? You seem a bit tired.” You spin her around to face away from you and place your hands on her shoulders. You push your thumbs firmly and massage the spot in the middle of her back, and tell her, “Breathe, Miss Jo.”

Her head lolls back, showing you a dimly glowing smile and fluffy cheeks underneath a pair of half-lidded eyes. She breathes out slowly through her mouth, her lips parted ever so slightly, and good thing everyone’s already left the conference room at this point, else they’d start asking questions. 

“Maybe I am tired…” she breathes out slowly, only loud enough for you and no one else to hear. As you listen, your hands travel down her slim arms and onto her waist, and as she tilts her head to the side, you plant a kiss right on her neck. “Maybe… maybe I do want to go home,” her moan comes carefully, as if fighting back a mountain of urges. “Maybe I want to, I don’t know, take a shower?” Your hands slide up her sides, cupping her petite boobs through her top. She giggles again, she brings her hands to yours. 

“And no more ‘Miss Jo,’ please. We're done for the day, remember?” She pulls your hands off her, winking, before hurriedly dragging you out of the conference room. Her steps are joyful and frantic towards the parking lot with you still in tow. She never looks back, one clear goal in mind: get you home, take her shower, get fucked out. A perfect Friday night, like God intended. 

She’s so focused that she fails to notice until it’s too late that you yank her into a secluded printing room, lock the door, and forget to turn on the light. She stumbles into your chest, and the dim reflections of nightlife from outside the window are the only things that let you see the fire in her eyes. 

Yuri wraps her arms around your neck, trapping you in a torrid kiss as your tongues dance around each other, swapping spit and breathy moans. Her lips are soft on yours, with hints of strawberry from her lip balm that only make you want her more. 

Hook her leg under your arm, grip her ass through her jeans, grind her crotch against yours. All she can do at this point is hold on to you for dear life as your kiss continues, never giving her the privilege of catching her breath. In spite of all this, her nerve to fight back surfaces: her tongue enters your mouth and licks everywhere she can reach, and she shamelessly lets her spit leak from her luscious lips and onto her chin. 

At this point the heat gets to both of you, not only from each other but also from the general lack of air-conditioning in the room this late into the night. Sweat collects into bigger and bigger drops on her neck, and your determination to steal every single one overtakes you. You kiss and lick over every spot of exposed and vulnerable skin you can find, and it messes with her head somehow even more than forcing kisses on her ever did.

A bright idea enters your head though, and not so gently, you shove and pin her to a nearby wall. A deep thud rings across the room, followed by a slight creak and groan from the wood holding up the wall inside it. The impact forces air out her lungs, but ultimately she regains her breath and stares at you, shellshocked, before releasing her grip on you. 

“Don’t forget, asshole,” she grunts, playing trying to get free, “I'm still your fucking boss.” Yuri almost slams her face into yours, sorely missing the feeling of your lips on hers. Her tongue travels all over inside your mouth, and what can you do but show her the same sort of fervor?

“I'm also still fucking my boss,” you choke out, still struggling against the onslaught of Yuri's tongue. All the while, her needy moans fill the room with every single hump on her crotch. She tries speeding it up, but with how you're holding her ass, you're fully in control. 

And she fucking loves it. 

With one hand keeping you in place, her other hand works on stripping herself of her jeans. Your position gradually gets more awkward, but the moment her pants leave her ass and you feel up her cheeks, now only covered with a pair of thin lace panties, your hunger for your boss's delicious body only grows.

Her pants drop to around her ankles and suddenly they're gone from her world. Yuri's next target is your slacks, and she makes even quicker work of them. It takes just the blink of an eye before they're gone too, and she’s alternating between palming your stiffening cock and massaging your balls through your underwear.

“I didn't know I was this tired,” she remarked, her breath unstable against your mouth. Her head rests against the wall, her arms on your shoulders, and you finally let her catch her breath. “Oh, by the way,” she wheezes between deep inhales, “we’re setting up the laptops for the new hires tomorrow– I need you to come in at 8.” 

“Come in here? Like ‘office’ here? Tomorrow’s Saturday,” you say, mixing into your voice a tone of sternness. You caress her cheek, and she nuzzles into your palm. She knows exactly what’s coming up next, but she waits for you to let her. It has to be you, you both know it, so as your hand meets her shoulder and pushes her down, she falls slowly, gracefully, to her knees.

Eye level with your bulge, she runs her tongue along her lips seductively while looking up at you. Her fingers slip under the waistband of your underwear and she pulls down slowly, teasing you when she knows she shouldn’t. Your cock springs up and nearly misses her chin, but she makes a show of catching it with her face. She smiles up at you, your cock resting on her beautiful features, all the while she peppers light kisses along the underside of your shaft. 

“Yeah, 8 a.m. tomorrow. We’re setting up VPNs and loading all the shit onto them.” Her kisses soon turn into licks, as if she’s made it her mission in life to trace every single one of your cock’s veins using her tongue. Her eyes flutter closed as she relishes in the taste and scent of your manhood, hellbent on worshiping it like the slut she knows she is. 

“Fine, but I’m spending the night at yours. Make me come into work on a weekend, feed me breakfast.”

“Fine, but you’re driving tomorrow. Can’t do it if my legs don’t work.”

She retreats back for a bit, lining up your cock with her mouth as she eyes it with a lustful greed. She comes in close again, and her tongue swirls around the tip of your cock as she slowly takes more and more in. Her lips seal around your shaft, sucking it like it’s the feast of her lifetime. 

Take advantage of her position, guide her head to rest against the wall. She almost doesn’t notice, but the moment she does, her eyes meet yours to send a single, unmistakeable, desperate message: “Please.”

You plunge your cock deep into her mouth, using the wall behind her to force her to take as much of your length as she can. She chokes and gags, but ultimately her tongue never leaves the underside of your dick and chooses instead to use the copious amounts of spit to make her blowjob all the more pleasurable for you. Yuri’s cheeks hollow out as she tries sucking your soul out, and only then are you made aware of the lewd slurping sounds she’s making. Her adoration of your cock makes itself known like it always does, and you wonder for a split second how lucky you came to be to have such a nice boss. 

She pushes herself off of you with a loud pop, and you find her hair unkempt and sticking to her forehead in strands, licking her lips like she’s just had the best meal of her life. She flashes a smile at you before getting up, and what comes next feels like the most natural thing for the two of you. She gets up and pulls you by the necktie toward the window, you’ve always known she was this type of girl, and she places both palms on the glass. 

“You know what to do.” Her voice is deep and serious, and you're compelled to obey. Your fingers slip under the waistband of her panties, and you pull down to reveal her plump ass. The wet feeling running down Yuri's legs makes her moan quietly, and as the fabric leaves her body you see her thighs glisten with slick and perspiration, reflecting the clueless city's lights.

Your hands travel up her thighs, and you feel her goosebumps under your touch. Now standing behind her, you take in the situation: your boss is bent over, presenting her bare ass and dripping pussy to you, while her hands are splayed onto the cool, transparent glass of the printing room window. Place your hands on her hips, grip securely and show her how bad you want her. Pull her slowly towards you, and as you do, find her looking back at you with unbridled lust in her gaze.

The tip of your cock meets her sinful entrance, and her gaze remains steady and burning on you. “Come on already,” she taunts seductively. She bites her lip in anticipation and you decide not to make her wait any longer. 

You rub your hard cock on her pussy lips, coating your shaft with her juices, before finally plunging yourself into her. Her lips part for you, and as you push deeper into her wet cavern she lets out a low, guttural moan. Her reflection in the glass shows you her eyes are shut tight and tighter still as she feels you slowly filling up her pussy, and her fingers flex against the glass as she tries to find something, anything, to hold onto. 

“Fuck– God, the first one is always the best, huh?” A casual laugh follows her statement, and she looks back at you again. A tiny smile decorates the corners of her mouth, and the odd lighting around you gives her an aura of mysterious, forbidden beauty. 

“Will you behave for me, Yuri?” You rub and grope her ass as you say it, threatening a spank. It doesn't help though, you know your boss loves being put in her place. The thought you implant into her head causes her pussy to quiver, and in turn causes your cock to twitch against her walls. 

“Oh my go– Yes, daddy,” she surrenders, “I'll be your good baby girl.” She lets her head hang forward, having completely given up control to you, all primed and ready to receive your blessing. Her breaths are deep, slow, ragged, choosing instead to focus solely on the onslaught of pleasure you're about to inflict on her tight, delicious, fertile body.

Thrust into her again, as deep as her cunt lets you, and your tip kisses the entrance of her womb. She lurches slightly forward with a grunt, and you almost swear her pussy is made just for you. The way her walls clench around your cock as it twitches again and again inside her makes you think you’re the key to her lock, a match made in hell.

“Daddy, do I feel good? Do you like my pussy?” Yuri’s moans and pleas for your approval only spur you on. She melts under your touch, your hand returning to her ass and threatening her pleasure again. It’s about time you give her what she wants, and she has been a good girl so far, so why the fuck not?

You raise your palm and she watches, her eyes trailing higher and higher. All at once, you bring your hand down with the force and speed Yuri knows is perfect, what she knows she deserves. Your skin meets hers and a slap rings clear across the room, followed by an immoral moan escaping from her throat. 

“Fuck, daddy! It hurts so good–” she gasps, all the while you maintain a slow pace. Your thrusts in her are rhythmic and steady, but in no way soft or merciful. With every pump of pleasure you deliver into her body from behind, she lurches forward again and again, absolutely no time at all to recover with the cumulative brain fog clouding her thoughts, all the while her tight little pussy clenches and squeezes your cock like it’s the last time she’ll ever have you. 

Keep fucking her deep and rough, keep forcing your will onto her body. She submits wholeheartedly to you, pushing her ass back on you each time you shove your cock into her, trying to steal more mind-numbing goodness from you. As if having lost control of her voice, her moans are continuous if not for her need to breathe every once in a while. On one hand, you know her body well, and it’s telling you that she’s growing impatient – she signed up for a railing after all. On the other hand, so what? It’s your fucktoy to use however you want to.

Yank her hair back, pull her right up against your chest. One hand on her toned tummy, the other wrapped around her slender, sweaty neck. Her own hands stay respectfully splayed on the glass, and she’s damn near defenseless like this: she wouldn’t dare defy you in any way. Whisper right into her ear, teasingly and tauntingly, “Until what time do we stay tomorrow?”

She chokes back a sob, only half-successful, only half-focused. “N-not later than one th-thirty,” she struggles, on the verge of tears, “only eighte-teen unitssss…” She sucks as much air as she can through her teeth, your slow and methodical onslaught on her sex unrelenting. “We… we…” Her brain fog must be so thick right now, having finally lost the ability to form complete thoughts. It’s now you know there’s nothing left of her except the desire for more of her ecstasy, just the way you like her. 

All at once, thrust fast and thrust hard. It’s something she couldn’t have possibly predicted, and her surprise numbs her entire body save for her pussy that convulses violently around your cock. Her velvet walls squeeze and massage your entire length, and her love juices coat your shaft before the rest make its way down her creamy, jiggling thighs. She screams loud as her face is smushed against the glass, her arms pinned against the window pane for as much support as she can get. Each following thrust into her pushes her up and up against the glass even more, until there’s no more space between her and the window, nor between you and her. 

Completely victim to you, her eyes wander up and up until they point to the ceiling. Her mouth hangs open as her breath fogs up the glass, still punctuated with rhythmic grunts each time your tip kisses the entrance of her womb. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” she repeats with every thrust, rubbing her face slightly more against the window. If only she could still fathom how easily someone could look up and see her taking your dick, but that's not important now. Her eyes are rolled to the back of her head, her breathing is unsteady, and the flex of her fingers tells you again that she's close. 

Deny her climax just a little more, you're sure she'll understand. Just as you push back into her, eliciting her next crass word, you forcefully pull out of her heat. She tightens impossibly hard again in an effort to keep you inside her, but the sheer amount of her slick fails her. A few seconds pass and she's able to look down, and the sight of your thick and hard cock between her thighs and right up against her pussy does something to her head. It's exactly when her tongue peeks from her mouth and runs all over her lips that you know she's desperate, reduced to nothing more than a simple-minded slut who wants you and you alone. 

“I'm gonna take your ass, baby girl, and you're gonna fucking like it.” Your words are gentle yet daunting against her eardrums, and her pussy lips quiver against your cock again as she jerks her hips forward exactly once and releases the perfect amount of her juices onto your dick. “Yes, daddy…” she replies, holding back her orgasm for a few more moments, knowing that you like it best when she cums while you’re inside her. 

Yuri waits in anticipation as you poke her asshole with your cock. Her eyes draw shut, head leaning solemnly on the glass, as if praying that she survives the rough anal fucking she's about to receive. 

Since when did you get so mean? Making a lady wait like this. And yet, the way she squirms in depraved pleasure under the constant threat of your cock is just so delicious, you really can't help but use her, play with her like this. 

Having had your fill of teasing her, you give her exactly what she wants. You enter her puckered hole slowly, and yet she takes you in like the good girl she always aims to be. The walls of her ass are just as pleasurable as her pussy, and her tightness in her back entrance is just as perfect as her cunt. The slick coating your cock is her only saving grace against having her asshole torn apart, but with the way she clenches around you so well and how she groans in ecstasy, you think maybe she wouldn’t mind either way. 

Your boss half-screams as you invade her repeatedly from behind, starting slow and steady while tears start to form in the corners of her eyes. Her sweaty cheek still on the window, you watch as a line of spit runs from her lip down the pane, just as a drunkard wobbling across the sidewalk in the street down below finally catches you two in the act. It seems he's still figuring out what he's seeing, so you have just a few more moments left in the printing room before the dots connect in his head.

“G–guh,” Yuri grunts as she taps against the glass. It seems she spotted him too, and is trying to warn you of the same. “It doesn't matter, baby, I'll take care of it.” Your reassurance works a bit too well, and her eyes shut again as she breathes out and relaxes. 

Stay true to your promise, make sure she gets a hell of a taste of the night she’s only about to have. Quickly, carelessly, ruthlessly, piston deep into her asshole. Her walls try their hardest to accommodate you, but ultimately lose the fight and are forced apart anyway. 

“Aaahhhh– AAAAHHHHHHHH!!!” Yuri’s heavenly voice is corrupted to sing a perverted symphony. She’s reduced again, from your boss to your personal slut to now just some instrument for your unholy pleasure. Each thrust into her ass sends her riding up the window again, smearing her spit and perspiration all over the glass and her slick all over her creamy thighs. You shoot a cursory look back to the drunk on the street, noticing his eyes widening as his fried brain starts its search for words. You’re running out of time. 

Pound her mercilessly, remind her of her place in your own shared little world. All it takes is just a few more thrusts into her hole until she finally lets it all loose. Your moans mix with hers in the secluded space, and her willingness to serve you brings you ever closer to the edge. 

Just as the drunkard figures out how to point up and mumble his most basic words, you explode right into your boss, filling her plump ass up with your thick and hot seed. A shameless scream rips across her throat, “FUCKKKKK!!!” and her ass tightens around your cock like she owes her life to you, hell-bent on repaying her debt in kind tenfold. Streams of her own cum squirt out of her in jets, splattering on the wall and all over her crotch and thighs. She bucks her hips again and again, having lost any semblance of control over her body and mind, each spurt of your baby batter pushing itself into her body simultaneously pushing another of the already very scarce thoughts out of her head. What’s worse is it keeps coming, the realization dawning on you just as her ass overflows and your cum starts running down her legs, that your desire and output were heightened severely by how pent-up the both of you were. 

You pull Yuri down and duck to the floor right as the drunk finally musters enough of his wits together to point and scream. You hear him from the ground, and as far as you can tell he’s there on the street pointing up at an empty window and gathering weird looks from the other passers-by. All the while, you’ve just finished pumping your boss full of cum while she’s still squirming and jerking weakly as her own climax dies down. 

The room once filled with moans and grunts is now silent save for your combined heavy breathing. The heat once again makes itself known to the both of you, best evidenced by her sweat pooling on the ground where her head lay. Pulling out of her, more of your cum flows out of her ass, deepening Yuri’s breathing as she tries wiping more sweat off her brow.

“You good?” Your question is far too innocent for what the two of you just did. All she can do in response is to nod slightly, and maybe offer a drained but satisfied smile. Confirming her condition, you lean over and kiss her on the cheek before lying back down next to her, giving yourself a moment as well to catch your own breath. 

Yuri turns and places her head on your chest, rising and falling with your breathing. She feels your heartbeat and synchronizes her breathing with it, grateful for some semblance of structure back into her life, but at the same time her dependence on you grows yet again, just like she loves it. 

“We can maybe do breakfast muffins tomorrow on the way, no time to cook and all.” You wrap your arm around her and secure her in a cozy embrace. The floor is much cooler than the air in the higher altitudes of the enclosed space you two occupy, and the situation threatens to steal you off to slumber. 

Yuri manages a nod and a mumble and a kiss on your neck. She pushes herself off the floor, yawns, and stretches. “Do you wanna just come in Sunday instead? Stay the weekend with me?” she asks earnestly, crawling to your discarded clothes to retrieve. She hands you yours, and as she does you plant a wet kiss on her lips. 

“As if being here on Sunday is better than Saturday.” 

“Literally nobody's here on Sunday. We can turn up the aircons.” Your boss nuzzles into your neck again, evidently still addicted to your essence. Her afterglow and the low lights only enhance her beauty to near-godlike levels, and it works perfectly to her advantage.

“Fine. But your ass is mine all weekend.”

She giggles, “Fine, as if it isn't already.”

~~~

a/n: for everyone who reads this far look forward to more off*iz from our other very lovely writers!

[ussgallifrey]

(She Moves With) Shameless Wonder | 32

✦ Summary: Your badge clearly said SHIELD consultant, so you weren’t entirely sure where Fury was getting this whole make you an Avenger idea from. But you had a feeling it might have something to do with the recent discovery of an artifact at the bottom of the Arctic Sea.

✦ Pairing: Steve Rogers x Female Reader

✦ Warnings: Canon divergence, dialogue taken directly from Captain America: Civil War and the Marvel Civil War comic, language, minor violence.

✦ Word Count: 10.8k

✦ Playlist: Here

✦ Cinematic Soundtrack: Here

✦ Author's Note: Heyyyy. Well, the fact is, I kind of checked out for a few months after everything that happened in November. I couldn't find it in myself to open up my drafts to read, let alone work on anything. But, after focusing on my family and my home life for a much-needed while, it felt like I was finally at a point where I could come back to this story.

I love this story. I want to finish this story. I have missed this story. And, quite frankly, it felt amazing to be able to push through this draft that's been sitting in a folder since September, 2024 and actually finish it. Welcome back to everyone who gets a random update at 2:15 AM. Sorry it took a while to get an update, but I have hope that I can get this story back on track now. Wish me luck and enjoy the chapter <3

[Master List]

Your curled fist hesitates over the cool surface of the smooth door for just a stretch too long as the internal conflict brewing since Steve left collides like a wave against the shore of your inner mind.

While you were silent in the moment, watching on as the team began to pull at the loose thread that wove you all together, in this instance, you would be pushing forward. This was far overdue.

You give three sharp raps to the door.

And, as the many times before this moment, you receive no reply.

Jamming your body against the frame, your lips nearly caressing the door itself, you announce:

“You’re going to open this door on your own accord, or I’m going to appear in that room in a minute. Either way, I’m coming in.”

Pulling back, you await his decision. You wanted him to have the choice to begin with; allow him that tiny crumb of control in the chaos.

Slowly, the locks click open and the door creaks inward.

Pushing against the threshold, you enter the darkened space - nearly tripping over an empty pizza box - as your eyes attempt to adjust to the low-lit space.

“How in the All-Father’s name did you manage to get a pizza down here?” you question, nabbing the grease-stained box from the floor before tossing it into an adjacent corner.

Several empty cans of energy drinks and crinkling plastic wrappers are stepped on as you force your way further in.

Pietro gives a heartless chuckle, “Never even saw me leave, did you?”

Squinting against the darkness, you can just barely make out his silhouette on the bed, stark white hair an eerie beacon.

“You have been getting faster according to Steve.”

“Huh. And… where is Mr. America?”

Pushing aside a game controller, you lean over to flick on the bedside light - illuminating the sheer destruction of his room.

This was not just the pathetic decorating attempts of a teenage boy.

No… this was…. this was…

Cronus, you didn’t even have words for it.

The bed and table were about the last of the fully intact items in the space. The TV was smashed, the floor holding the remnants of long-abandoned meals, and a deep rivet has been cut through the carpet from constant pacing.

“You know…” you scoot closer to the boy, his back still to you as he faces the opposite wall, “Wanda’s been worried about you. We all have.”

He shakes his head, “I don’t need her pity.”

“It’s not pity, Pietro. It’s… mutual grief. And secluding yourself in here isn’t - hasn’t - been the answer.”

A rogue sniffle is your only indicator before the teenager drops his head, a hand rubbing across his face as his shoulders begin to shake - from anger or sadness, you’re still unsure.

“It’s my fault, you know. I didn’t listen… I just… I opened my mouth and couldn’t stop,” he lets out a breathless huff of sour laughter as he, at last, turns to face you - the full scope of his anguish painted across his face like a sordid tale. Eyes rounded by deep agonizing purple shades, lips cracked and pale. A gaze too haunted for his so few years of existence.

“Felt like I was a big shot, doing the superhero thing. And I just… couldn’t shut my mouth. I didn’t even see the vest. I could have killed all of us right then and there,” he shakes his head again, tears springing to his eyes as broken laughter stumbles from his chapped lips. “Hell, I did really. You know, they still haven’t released the official death toll. But I heard estimates of close to eighty.”

“Hey,” you shush, reaching across the comforter to squeeze his hand tightly in your grasp. “That is not your sole responsibility to bear, okay? And if you had let us in before now, you would have heard Steve and Natasha and your sister tell you the same thing.”

He launches off the bed, digging his hand into the errant curls on his head as he huffs, “But I still did it! I know it, in here - ” the boy slams a fist against his chest; his heart.

“You’re not infallible, Pietro. You’re human; you make mistakes.”

“That have a death toll?” he snips.

Your lips form a tight crease as you adjust your posture, smoothing out the wrinkles on his bed.

“Sometimes, in this line of work, yes.”

“Jesus,” he mutters, working himself into a pace.

You let him have his moment as that same sort of frantic madness overtakes his young body. A wild and distraught look in his eyes mixed with the squeezing of his balled-up fists at his sides.

“You know,” you start, reaching a hand out to pull him back down on the bed. He plops down beside you, a little too easily moved. “You’re not the only person to make a costly mistake.”

“Rich,” he quips, stuffing his hands into the pocket of his hoodie, “coming from a literal goddess.”

“What, you think the weight of my immortality makes me infallible?”

With a shrug, he looks away - discontent to meet your gaze.

Turning your body to face Pietro, you shift your weight to the left as you cross your leg over your right knee; bracing yourself.

“Well, if you must know, when I was quite young - okay, I know you’re going to laugh, so might as well get it out now - when I was about three hundred and thirty-four…”

The mutant chortles beside you, unable to help himself as he turns his head, “Wow. So young.”

With a blossoming smile, you gently push your shoulder into his, “Hush. When I was younger… I was sort of at war with my brother. We were always trying to impress our father, trying to one-up each other with heroic human battles and great feats of godliness and… just about anything you can imagine two war-based deities could think of.”

The distant memory of Ares pulls up like a scab from an old, never-fully-healed over scar.

It wasn’t often you spared a thought toward the banished god, but today, you made a small exception. After that chaotic moment in the kitchen with the rest of the team, a part of you wanted to feel the entirety of that sensation right now, in this moment. Let it sting. Let it burn. Let it make you hurt because of your own failings.

“I made… awful choices back then, Pietro. I was quick to anger, faster to judgment. You would not want to meet that younger version of myself.”

Before the words even come to the surface, you begin to wring your hands together. An soured acidic breath scorches your throat.

You needed him to understand that he was not solely to blame for poor decisions. That he should not have to carry the burden alone. Not with everything going on outside of the Compound. No, you needed him to trust you - to not run away again.

“Tell me… have you ever heard of the myth of Medusa?”

With a slight tilt to his head, he puckers his lips up in thought.

“Uh… woman who turns people to stone, crazy snake hair, right?”

A slight smirk curls at the corner of your lips as he gestures vaguely around his own head.

“Yes, that’s the one,” you nod, bracing your hands on your knees - knuckles clenched tight enough to the point of genuine discomfort. “So… my brother wasn’t the only family member I came to blows with. My Uncle - Poseidon, God of the Sea… we have a very difficult history. We were in a contest to see who would be the patron deity of this Greek city, and… I won. They named the city in my name: Athens. Bested by his own niece, a lesser god in his mind.”

With a shake of your head, you move to stand, walking a slight pace away from the teen as you grip your crossed arms.

“There was a temple in my name. Priestesses worked there, worshiping me day and night. Promising me their devotion above anything else. They were to never stray from their duties, never… be with a man.”

You can’t even meet the boy’s eye now, but you know he is fully focused on your tale.

“Well, one day… my uncle came to my temple and forced himself upon one of the priestesses, Medusa. She prayed to me for help, as I was her patron goddess.”

You barely notice the sensation of your nails sinking into your forearms before you blink away the entrenched emotion from many centuries ago.

“And what did I do? Young, naive, constantly angry, and too foolish to take just a moment to listen to any voice of reason? I cursed her for lying with a man,” your words become choked in your throat as you meet Pietro’s shocked eyes. “I turned her into a hideous monster who no man would ever lay his eyes upon.”

“And some might say it was a gift that I gave her in the end. Being able to protect herself from the terrible beasts that would dare to touch her in the way Poseidon once had. But it’s not the truth. I wanted her to suffer for breaking one of my temple’s laws. And for years,” your voice shatters at last as you wearily shake your head. “The image of the hideous gorgon was what was emblazoned upon my shield. She, in all of her terror, was my symbol.”

In the beat of silence that passes, Pietro sits up straighter on the bed. His eyes are chillingly cold as he looks up at you – reminding you of one simple truth: you deserved every part of what you are currently feeling. The guilt and shame; all of it.

“Why are you telling me this?”

Your expression breaks as you stare down at the boy you had welcomed into your home, into your arms. The boy who reminded you of another - one with sunkissed laughter and trilling lute strings and radiant smiles.

“I’m telling you this so that you understand, even those of us who seem incapable of making rash and terrible decisions are in fact, and likely have, made such choices. That those choices do not define us. They make us better, stronger.”

Moving to rejoin him on the bed, you let out a long sigh – letting the centuries ease out with it like billowing sand in a desert breeze.

“It took me some time to realize where my decision had come from. The gods, they praised it - they cheered me on. Zeus himself was so pleased by my creative punishment, that he named me as his heir apparent over my brother. But the people… the people who had named their city after me… their worship waned and their ire grew. Only when I walked among them as a stranger did I learn their true feelings; their disdain for the immortals. It made me grow up, essentially.”

“And Medusa?”

A wisp of breath catches on your lips as your eyes cloud over with the hazy memory you had wished to keep locked away until the universe burned away into twinkling stardust and then complete nothingness.

“By then… it was too late. The demigod Perseus beheaded her, no less with my help. Pietro, please - ” your fingers wrap around his hand as you force his gaze. “ - this great mistake will not be your last, but you are going to learn from it. And the first step is speaking to Wanda and assuring her that she hasn’t suffered alone in this matter because that’s what she thinks has happened.”

He leans back, a perplexed look on his face, “No, she has to know, yeah? I wouldn’t keep my door locked and just - ”

“No one came in or out for a week, Pietro. And right now, she’s so terrified that because of Wall Street, the two of you are going to be taken away. And we are trying to assure her that you are both safe here, but it would be much easier if you were - ”

With a jerky nod, he squeezes your hand in return before standing up - smoothing out the wrinkles in his clothes.

“I’ll talk to her.”

“Thank you,” you offer him a smile as you stand up, cupping his cheek in the palm of your hand.

He leans into the touch, his eyes briefly fluttering shut.

“And, if you need to talk or vent, or Cronus, break something, please just… come to me. Or anyone else here. You’re not alone anymore, I promise you that.”

Looking a little taken aback by the statement, the teenager stuffs his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants and offers you an awkward smile and nod before he exits the room.

Taking a look around at the disarray, you let out a long and shuddering breath as the weight of over three millennia comes crashing down upon you once again.

Looping the strand of auburn hair between your fingers, your blazoned eyes lift up to catch Natasha’s pointed gaze.

“So,” the assassin breathes out, glancing back down at her captured hand. “How far out of the comfort zone are you dragging me?”

You can feel the rumble of laughter from Wanda as you weave another braid down her back. The teenager smiles up at Natasha as she lays the first swipe of electric blue nail polish down upon the woman’s left index finger.

“Unfathomably far.”

“Wow, unfathomably.”

While you weren’t entirely sure how the three of you had wound up in this rather intimate position on the floor of the communal living space - the TV finally turned off; the news no longer on a constant loop - you weren’t entirely complaining about the arrangement.

Clint snorts from his relaxed position on the armchair - one foot kicked up onto the coffee table in front of him as he takes another swig of his beer.

“What, you want in on this?” Natasha questions her partner with an exaggerated batting of her eyelashes.

“ ‘m good,” he smirks.

With a secretive smile of your own, you begin separating three more strands of hair - now on the left side of Wanda's head.

To the best of your knowledge, the siblings had made peace yesterday and were now tentatively co-existing around one another once again. Glancing toward the kitchenette, you spot Pietro. His dark eyes take in the domestic scene spread out in front of him with a distant look upon his face.

You knew it would take more than a few encouraging words and pep talks to get him to peek out of his shell once again. Maybe if Steve was around, it would take a shorter amount of time. But the fact was, no one had heard from the supersoldier since he had stormed out of the Compound three days ago.

“You know - ” tilting your head back, a smile loosening on your features, you watch as Tony plops down on the edge of the sofa, directly behind you - his hand holding an imaginary brush as he mimics combing your hair, “I just love these sleepovers with you guys.”

“Hey,” Natasha sighs, flashing him a warning look. “Invites only, you know the drill.”

“Unless you want me to do your hair?” you question, glancing back at the billionaire.

Tony immediately lifts his hands up, “Please, I spent an hour on this.”

While the tussled locks of his dark hair appeared to be anything other than styled, the engineer hefts up from the couch and wanders toward the kitchen - avoiding the teenage boy’s eyes. Your own gaze follows his path across the room.

It felt like walking on eggshells anymore with the billionaire around.

Tying off the last braid, you gently pat Wanda’s back, “Think that does it.”

The young witch offers you a thin smile in return as she focuses back on painting the Widow’s nails a varying array of deep blues and emerald greens.

Stretching up from the floor, Tony’s eyes land on you - a silent beckoning there in his gaze.

When you move to the kitchen island, taking up residence on one of the metal stools, Pietro conveniently finds a reason to head toward the gym. You didn’t particularly blame him - things were awkward enough as is around here lately.

“So,” Tony breathes out when he notes the boy is out of sight, his voice low and steady. “Any word from red, white, and spangled blue?”

Your fingers clench down on your thighs as you shake your head, chancing a look up at the man standing beside the dark stone counter.

He huffs a lifeless laugh, shaking his head.

“Wonderful.”

As Tony crosses his arms, you watch as a sour expression clouds his features.

“You know, we could have handled it. We could have had a place in those meetings; those negotiations. Been there, done that before, you know?”

Giving a nod, your eyes follow the billionaire as he drops down onto the stool beside you - your backs to the rest of the room.

“It just pisses me off.”

“I know.”

Running a hand through his hair, he cranes his neck to look at you.

“I’m just sitting here thinking about what could be, you know what I mean? Like… we could have had a committee for oversight, no problem, no argument here. We could have put some people from our side on the board - like Rhodey… or hell, even Rogers. People who would have our interests at heart. If we had all just… sat on our hands and shut the hell up and… yeah, not make an ass of ourselves on TV with a grieving woman.”

The shape of your nails becomes a sudden point of interest as you avoid the haunted look in the dark eyes of Tony Stark.

For all of your own fallacies, you knew the man beside you was all too aware of his own weak points. Always trying to improve, to better himself and the lives of the people around him. Everything he did was out of a sense to protect the world; to protect the team.

“I mean…” Tony bites at his thumb for a second, gaze distant, “Opening up channels for negotiations is a cakewalk. A few sweet words here, some faux apologies there, a transfer of cash or the promise of a luxury car and, bam, you’re in.”

Shaking his head, he drums his fingers on the counter, mind clearly running faster than his own mouth can keep up with.

“Fuck, I just wish Rogers would have stayed around long enough to hear me ramble.”

“You know Steve,” you sigh, turning fully on the stool to face Tony. “Once he gets a thought in his head… well, you remember Insight.”

“Yeah, anything to do with you or Barnes, and the guy’s out of here.”

As your brow pinches, you question, “What does that mean?”

“Oh.”

Tony’s cheeks puff up like a fish for a moment before he looks away, swinging his feet back down onto the ground, “Well, you know. Favorite people and all. Do you know how many times he ran off when he got a not-so-secretive call about a Soldier sighting, or, better yet, when he got a little text from someone otherworldly and godly saying they were back in town? Yeah, wrapped around your finger, sweetheart. Or… thought he was.”

Absently kicking at imaginary dirt on the ground, the billionaire stuffs his hands into the pockets of his slacks.

“You’ve tried, right? Texting him, I mean. Cause, trust me, he ain’t answering if it’s coming from my number.”

Glancing back down at the counter - you could almost count the number of tiny white and gold flakes in the pattern to avoid the conversation if you wanted to.

“Yeah, I sent a message or two.”

Letting out a low whistle, Tony rocks back on his heels.

“Ouch. Well, best case scenario he’s sulking it out with Wilson somewhere off the beaten path.”

You almost want to ask what the worst case scenario would be, but your mind has already conjured up a few choice images for your own anxiety to ruminate on. At least you hadn’t seen him on the nightly news. Yet.

Perhaps that was your biggest fear.

Steve putting all of his eggs in one basket and storming Congress to give the Senators a piece of his own ideals.

The SRA had passed through the Senate, now it was up for a vote in the House. And then it would only be a matter of time before the President was set to sign it into law. You weren’t even sure if Tony’s reach could stop that from happening now.

Meanwhile, the UN had continued its fifth day of meetings. There was no word on the Sokovia Accords yet. But you, and everyone else in the Compound, knew that the backing from the Eastern European ambassadors would be enough to get things moving toward an actual ruling.

“Stark.”

Both you and Tony look up as Hill enters the space.

Her commanding tone is such a scathing shift from the woman you helped in the hospital two years ago, that she’s almost impossible to recognize. A glance over your shoulder shows Natasha shifting to subtly crouch in front of Wanda as Clint stands up, arms crossed as he looms directly behind the teen.

“Was wondering where you’d wandered off to.”

“Big compound,” he quirks, tone flat.

She gives him a look that clearly says that she’s all too aware of the fact that he’s been likely avoiding her.

“So, any word on Rogers?” she questions, her gaze shifting from the billionaire to land firmly on you.

Maybe this version of the agent had always been there and you had just been too blinded to notice. Perhaps you could see the faint traces of her calculating demeanor when she admonished you at the Tower after fumbling the handling of the Abomination. Maybe you just had to be this cold and shut off to work in such a landscape.

“Sorry, co-director. No such luck,” Tony grins.

Crossing her arms, she stares down at the man beside you.

“And those calculations and algorithms you said you were running day and night? Even they can’t find him or Wilson?”

“Hey, convenience of modern-day technology, am I right?” Tony smacks his hand down on Hill’s shoulder, pushing past her.

“Well,” she turns on her heel, following the billionaire out of the room, “Maybe I should send down one of my techs to go over your computations.”

As their conversation and footsteps fade further down the hallway, it’s Clint who lets out a low whistle.

“Christ, who shoved a stick up her ass?”

“Hush,” Natasha reprimands, voice clipped and bitter.

Fidgeting with your hands, you finally swivel around and drop back to the floor. Sparring a glance down the hall before you decide to make your way toward the stairs.

But it’s the rather sudden and sharp - ow - that makes you freeze.

Looking back at the trio, your gaze immediately falls to Natasha’s pinched brow.

“Hey!” she barks, shoving at Wanda, “Get out!”

You’re on the teen in a flash, gripping her by the shoulders as you pull her back - her eyes fading from a misted red to their normal dark hue.

“What was that?” you question, directly in her face. “We’ve talked about this. No going into other people’s heads!”

Wanda spits, head lulling back as she peers up at you, “She knows where he is.”

Clint has a hand on Natasha’s shoulder, but she brushes him off as she shakily stands up.

“Is that true?”

Your voice is barely more than a whisper.

“Seriously?” she quips, avoiding your eye.

As your hands drop from Wanda’s arms, you swivel on your toe - turning to face the assassin as you stand up to your full height.

“Natalia.”

It takes a beat, barely more than a breath, before her piercing green eyes land on your face - heated and desperate.

“I don’t know where Steve is, Seven.”

“Liar,” Wanda chortles, shaking her head as she haphazardly moves from the floor to sit on the couch behind her.

“I don’t,” Natasha emphasizes for you. “I just… know where he might want to go.”

“How the hell do you know that?” Clint questions.

“Fuck, you’re just as bad as Hill,” she shakes her head. “He might have… texted me yesterday asking for an assist.”

“And you…” the archer prompts, arms crossed and eyes furious.

“And, I didn’t give him anything. I’m not halfway across the world, in case you didn’t notice - ” she pushes sharply at Barton’s chest - green and blue still-wet nail polish squishing together on the fingers of her right hand.

“He’s not even in the country,” you fumble to grasp with a shake of your own head. “He just… left.”

“Look,” she sighs, seeming to take pity on you – though why, you don’t know. “This whole situation has got him worried about… his past. Very important things from his past.”

You immediately catch her meaning.

“And, he’s sort of hyperfocused on that right now. Hell if I know why, he didn’t bother to say.”

“But he went to you,” you surmise.

Perhaps that was the thing that stung most of all.

For all of the closeness the team purported the two of you had, in the moment where he needed help, it hadn’t been you he had contacted. It had been Natasha. And yes, they had worked together at SHIELD and during the first initial year hunting down Bucky. But you two were…

Well, you weren’t entirely sure what you two were most of the time. There was no word for it in either English or Greek or Old Latin that perfectly encapsulated the relationship you shared with the supersoldier.

Profound. Important. Lasting. Trusting.

Incomprehensible to those around you.

You both had grown since your first meeting five years ago. Your lives had twisted together like the branches of a grapevine. Intertwining so deeply; so tightly, there was no separating one from the other.

At least, you thought you understood the scope of your relationship. Perhaps your silence in the matter several days ago had been too much for even Steve to bear. He was a man of swift action in the face of injustice - or what he believed to be an injustice. While you were more… calculated in your actions.

“Yes,” Natasha states, releasing a breath from her pale lips.

With a nod, you merely say, “Of course,” before you give a regarding look to the other two.

You can hear the calling of your name as you head down the stairs to your quarters. But no one bothers to follow after you. You almost prefer it. Almost.

“Come on, tell me you got something,” Tony grits, the faceplate shooting up on his suit as his feet make contact with the sidewalk.

Natasha flashes him an irritated glance as she furiously swipes, “Give me a break, alright? This is old-school construction; the walls are actually insulated.”

“Give me that,” he snaps, grabbing the device from her hands – nearly dropping it as the suit’s fingers are far more bulky than his own.

As you had been leaning against the dory for a moment, watching the two needlessly bicker with Pallas resting on your shoulder, you swipe the device from Tony.

“Hey! I was using that!”

Offering him only a side-eye, you quickly triangulate the device to sync up with Clint’s hearing aids. Handing the small electronic over to Nat, you answer, “Seventeenth floor, one window, four guards, and Sarkissian.”

Tony, squinting upward against the afternoon sun; likely calculating where exactly the room would be, nods a quick, “Good work, Double O.”

The operatives you had captured in the Las Vegas fight hadn’t exactly been very forthcoming with their information. No one wanted to be the rat on an expansive operation, of course. But, apparently, one of them had managed to become a little more talkative after another round with one of the SHIELD interrogators.

Ophelia Sarkissian was a name that had been looming in the background ever since Strucker’s prison break.

Stark had spent the day running every possible program to try and find her. And to, admittedly, get Hill off his back for an afternoon. Which had led your four-man team to this pseudo-business in the Bronx. Cronus only knows how long their operation had been running here without arousing any suspicious inquiries. A single upscale beauty boutique in a thirty-two-floor building; really?

From the moment you had landed on the street, there had been resistance. Clint was hit with something – venom, possibly - and dragged away while you had been fighting off the electrically charged attacks from the escapee who had evaded you all back in the desert. You had savored a moment of triumph when the Aegis collided with his jaw and sent him reeling backward into temporary unconsciousness.

Noting the growing crowd on the opposite sidewalk and adjoining streets, phones out and at the ready, Tony drops the faceplate back into place.

“I’m open to options here.”

But Natasha silences him with a shush, “I think I’m picking up something.”

There’s a bit of static over the broadcast, all coming in from Clint’s aids, but you’re able to make out the monologue perfectly.

“You’re destroying this country, Mr. Barton. You don’t mean to, of course. You think you’re helping with your coddling little welfare state. Your constant demand for equality. Whatever happened to exceptionalism? Whatever happened to rewarding hard work? Instead, we punish success. Case in point -”

Through Sarkissian’s accented and twisted swirl of words, you can hear the frustrated and almost bored groans from Clint. They must have something covering his mouth, but you can still hear the muffled sarcastic comebacks he tries to convey.

“Today’s businesses face unfair regulation at the hands of an overreaching government. Where the hell in the Constitution did anyone promise the masses clean air, anyway? Sounds like a free market demand for filtration systems and gas masks.”

“They just love to hear themselves talk, don’t they?” You ponder, tiredly glancing over at Natasha.

“Unlike anyone else we know, anyway,” she surmises, looking pointedly up at Iron Man.

The optical lenses blink in golden LED light as Tony tilts his head, “Not sounding like a plan yet, Romanoff.”

She just grins like a lazy cat in a stretch of sunlight, “I thought it was obvious.”

It takes a second, but then Tony is soaring upward – dust and debris billowing up in his wake.

“Men,” she sighs with a roll of her eyes before looping her arm through yours.

Sarkissian’s voice echoes through the speaker still, “The most important lesson in what drives the whole process is fear . Once you figure out what a person is afraid of, you’ve found a way to sell them something.”

In a flash, the sidewalk below your feet disappears and a darkened industrial room appears.

“I personally can’t wait ‘til we’re back to selling wars -”

Iron Man crashes through the window.

As the monologuer turns around, Natasha dips away from you, throwing widow bites in quick succession – taking out two guards. Before she can even bear her teeth or whip out a blade, you pull Sarkissian in with your spear, trapping her by the neck; drawing her in close.

The threat of Tony’s blasters is enough to keep the last remaining stooge from making any sudden moves, giving Nat the chance to untie Clint from the single chair sitting in the room. So typical, it was almost sad.

“OW! ” He grunts when she rips the duct tape from his mouth, “ Fucking , Jesus. Not even a goddamn warning.”

But she’s not paying attention to his complaints as she pats his checks. Even from a distance, you can see his eyelids drooping and his mouth curving downward.

“Check her, Seven!”

With one hand holding the spear steady, you dig through the woman’s pockets – ignoring her annoyed little heys and buy me dinner first – before finally wrapping your fingers around a small vial.

The contents are a soft blue, cloudy, and very untrustworthy based on appearance alone. You chuck it Tony’s way, giving him the chance to analyze it.

By the time Clint’s up and on his feet again – arm draped over Nat’s shoulders for support, the news vans have already appeared on the street below. Hill also sent a few prisoner transports along, having a team dragging the various guards out one by one.

Leading Sarkissian out with a single hand grasping her wrists together behind her back, you avert your gaze from the flashes of cameras and the calls of eager reporters.

The SHIELD agent who you meet up with clasps a pair of heavy cuffs over the woman’s hands, making them fully encased. You watch as she’s pushed into the back of one of the vans, mouth sealed shut of her own accord.

“That’s right. Single-handly, we have shut down a serious threat to this beautiful community.”

The doors slam in your face as you spin around – catching Tony excitedly gesticulating in front of a team of news cameras.

Slipping back to stand beside Natasha and Clint, you watch in a mixture of slight awe and horror as Tony spins the tale of the great battle that had occured just moments before. How a dangerous criminal mastermind was now set to live out the rest of her days behind bars. He waves to the crowd, blowing out a kiss to a random bystander across the street before ultimately returning to the team.

“Hear that?” he grins, “That’s the sound of people starting to believe in superheroes again.”

Turning to wave at the people once more – now being met with shouts and calls for more questions - you slide close to the billionaire, voice meant for his ears alone.

“Will you still be superheroes after all of this, Tony? Won’t you just be SHIELD agents when you’re all on the federal payroll?”

“Well,” he cranes his head to the side.

After a beat, he grabs your arm by the elbow and forces your hand into a little wave. A group of people standing in front of the pizza place scream out in joy.

“We’re a good distraction if anything,” he gleams.

Glancing back at the others, your worried expression is met with equally concerned gazes.

Hill is surprisingly smiley when you return to the Compound. Nat and Clint brush her off – wanting nothing more than to get the archer properly checked out in medical, just in case that antivenom didn’t work its way through his system properly – but Tony meanders about, talking up a storm with her.

You slip past, watching the strange occurrence take place with an uneasy swish in your stomach.

The twins are nowhere to be seen when you first enter the main living space – nor is Vision. The swirl of your godly wardrobe disappears in a halo of warm golden light as the now-familiar comfort of human attire appears once again on your body.

Wringing your hands together, actually unsure of what to do with the post-fight energy still curiously wriggling itself through your body, a sensible chuckle meets your ears.

Tony, down to his jeans and Metallica shirt, wanders in, shaking his head.

“Is that what I think it is?”

You follow his amused gaze down to the soft baby blue cuff of your sleeve. It takes a second before you begin to frantically pull the hoodie off your shoulders, eyes wide in horror; too stunned to even manage a single word from your panicked lips.

“Hey, hey - ” he steps forward, easing a hand down before you can entirely divest yourself of the garment. Steve’s garment. Cronus, how the hell did it even appear on your anyway? “- it’s cool. Fitting, really.”

Your chest relaxes as a sigh pushes its way past your lips. Slowly, you pull the sleeves back up, pulling the soft fleece closer to your body. From the hem of the hood, you can just pick up the familiar musk of Steve’s aftershave.

“Anyway,” Tony spares one final look at the piece of clothing, “I had FRIDAY working through those records we nabbed?”

He expectantly waits for understanding to hit you. When you nod in remembrance, he continues, “Turns out, this little group had a ton of off-shore bank accounts. And a bunch of messages to a Mister E.”

A shock of laughter bubbles out from Tony as he slaps a hand over his own mouth in awe.

“Oh, that’s brilliant. Mister E .. Mystery. Get it? God, wish I thought of that myself before.”

Changing gears before you can even pinch your brows – ready to admonish him for regaling his pre-Iron Man war-profiteering era – he intercepts:

“Anyway, I’ve got FRIDAY on the trail and she’ll figure out who their figurehead is in no time. In other news... job well done. Yay, Avengers.”

A smile creeps to your lips as Tony gently bats his hand against your arm, “Go, relax or whatever the hell it is you do in your off time. The knowledge that a large criminal organization is currently off the streets should be a reward in itself today.”

Not even bothering to see what choice you make, Tony saunters off down the hall toward the meeting rooms, whistling a jaunty tune to himself. It could be a Disney song or a bad rendition of “Back in Black”, you’re not really sure.

On your way to your quarters, you spy the twins in the small kitchenette. Wanda’s sitting up on the counter and Pietro’s spinning around on the floor laughing; truly laughing. Not wanting to interrupt their moment of possible happiness, you scoot past them to your own room.

Flipping the light switch, your quarters come to life.

Still as plain and immaculately clean as you had left it.

Kicking your shoes off near the door, you shuffle your way across the pale pink carpet before your knees hit the edge of the bedframe and you turn around. Dropping down on the bed, your hair halos out behind you. The mattress sags pleasantly under your weight as you breathe out a long sigh.

After a moment of pure silence, staring up at the tiny specks that make up faux constellations on the ceiling, your thumb begins to rub at the cuff of the hoodie’s sleeve.

Eventually, you draw in the open front to your nose – inhaling that warm smell once again. How exactly Steve’s clothing had disappeared from his room only to appear on your body was still a complete mystery to you. This had never happened before in the history of, well, your entire existence, frankly.

The aftershave is a woody scent, embedded into the owner’s clothing. Taking short sniffs, you can just make out the patchouli and cedar. Somewhere in there is the barest hint of clove. It reminds you of the soft mossy floor of your sister’s forest. The woods always held an earthy smell to them, especially on Olympus. Artemis’ realm seemed enhance the simple scent of the outdoors to be even more pleasing to the senses. But this fragrance, curled into the fabric of Steve’s hoodie, is something of its own making.

The only downside of it, actually, is the fact that it makes the ache of Steve’s absence even stronger.

Where you would usually turn to the supersoldier in the aftermath of a battle, there was no one. When you would plan out a fight, it was always with Steve. Even just now, passing the twins, you were reminded of the person missing at your side. The person who had helped you, for months, aid in the recovery of the two mutants.

It felt like a betrayal. You knew it wasn’t, and even more-so, you knew you shouldn’t be thinking alongside that line of troubling thoughts. But it ultimately did, deep down in your chest. That bitter little vein throbbing next to your heart seemed to scream out – traitor. Which was nothing close to the truth of the matter at all.

Steve had left to quell an argument before it reached a disastrous level – Tony had a way of bringing that out in people; particularly Steve. He was just cooling off. That was all. Looking for James Barnes was just a distraction point in the matter, surely.

Curling onto your side, you pull the fabric even closer to you, silently wishing that whatever wrongs that had transpired between him and the team could be undone so that Steve would return to the Compound at last. So he could return to... you.

Wrapped in the warmth of fleece, and with the featherlight pillow beneath your head, the aftermath of the fight finally pulls at your body – dragging you down into a light, dreamless sleep.

But it is broken all too easily, an hour later, by the sharp trilling of a buzzing cell phone on the nightstand beside you.

Through bleary eyes, you see an unknown number flash across the screen. You already know, however; deep down, that pulsing artery in your heart, you already know who it is. Flicking the phone open, you ask in an immediate rush of breathlessness:

“Are you okay?”

The distant flutter of a chuckle greets your ears as you sag back down.

“I’m okay,” Steve replies.

He’s okay. He’s okay. Steve’s okay.

But with that immediate sense of relief, you find yourself having to steady a breath. Trying to hold back the sudden swath of anger that wants to break free – you jerk. Where does he get off ignoring you, all of you, for days on end, just to call you out of nowhere and act like everything’s just fine?

Biting it back, your fingers dig into palm – feel that, that’s real. Those thoughts? That anger. That’s just a distraction.

“Where are you?”

“Out of my depth,” he snorts.

“Cronus, Rogers,” you sigh, raking your hand over your head.

“’Thena... I need your help. A favor, honestly.” His voice cracks on the final sound of your name.

From that alone, you know he doesn’t really want to be asking for this. Which must mean he desperately needs whatever help he can get.

“Anything,” you respond in kind.

There’s a beat of silence that passes between the two of you. In the distance, you can make out the honk of a car horn, the rustle of a breeze, the whispers from who you assume to be Sam.

“I need to find Bucky ... before Ross does. I, I know the Accords aren’t signed into law yet, but the SRA... it’s going to be voted on any day now, and I don’t want anything to happen to him while we just sit here. He’s been through too much on my account already.”

The words sink in slowly at first before the full scope of the threat resting above James Barnes hits you like a flash of lightning.

“I can send Pallas,” you suggest. “Actually, you should have just used the card and called me to you.”

Steve huffs a broken laugh, “Thought about that, honestly. Just, didn’t seem safe.”

“Okay,” you murmur, thinking over your options.

This was likely what he had contacted Natasha about. And if she couldn’t help... well, there was always Tony. But then again, that was probably one of the last people Steve would willing to go to for help right now. Especially with this.

“I... I might have something. But it’s back on Olympus.”

“Okay,” he eases.

A smile curls on your lips, “It will only take me a minute of your time.”

You can picture the way his features relax when he hears your answer, a grateful, “Thank you,” is pressed across the line. Followed shortly by a soft admission:

“I miss you, you know.”

For a moment, you try to picture him. Eyes soft but lidded, lips pressed to the receiver so Sam won’t hear, that easy smile he reserves only for you and you alone.

Your fingers loop around one of the strings on his hoodie, tugging aimlessly at it for a moment before you respond, “It’s only been three days, Steve.”

There’s a pause, a breath of space between two places, but still connected by that always present invisible force that connects you to him and him to you.

“I think that’s been three days too many, honestly,” comes the husky reply.

You linger there on the line, just listening to the sound of his gentle breaths. If you closed your eyes, which you won’t, and if you imagined for just a moment – which you didn’t dare – you could almost see him laying just in front of you on the bed, staring down at you with an expression that would make his sea blue eyes nearly black in the low light of your room.

“Just... give me a minute,” you murmur, placing the phone down on your pillow.

Steve gives a hum of acknowledgment. And then you’re gone. In a sparkling burst of golden light.

The building is just a street away from the main hub of the city. Where, if you were looking for peace and quiet, you would be in the wrong part of town. The traffic isn’t nearly as bad here though, but the noise does travel well past the boundaries of the Soviet apartment block.

“I thought we were going for a stealthy approach with this one. Instead, you’re going in like a walking billboard for the Avengers.”

Taking the stairs, Steve peers down the first corridor before answering Sam, “We don’t know what state of mind he might be in. Better safe than sorry.”

The strap of the shield digs into his fingers as he pulls it tight to his side.

This was really going to be their last chance to find Bucky and get him out of here. If anyone was going to take the fall for this, it would be Steve in his full Captain America regalia. Not Sam. Sam, who he had sent to the roof to keep an eye on the skies and neighboring buildings. Sam, with no uniform, who had strict instructions to make a break for it the minute things got nasty. If things got nasty. Which, God, he hoped they wouldn’t.

It’s three more floors of worn concrete stairs before the crackle of Sam’s voice breaks over the comms once again.

“What exactly was it that your girl did?”

In the hotel, Steve had remained largely vague about your role in this mission. Sharon had provided the city for them, but not the address. Even that was out of her jurisdiction.

“She had a...” a man steps out of his apartment, takes one look at Steve, and slowly backs his way back inside. Two locks slide closed.

He’s not insulted, in all actuality. Considering if the roles were reversed and he, all ninety some pounds of pre-serum Rogers, had seen a costumed renegade outside of his door. Yeah, he’d likely lock up and snooker down.

“A scyring pool, I think. It was something that allowed her to see whatever it was she was seeking? It’s not really my realm.”

Taking a look up at the final set of stairs, Steve grasps the shaky metal railing and begins the ascent. He had been tracking the door numbers this entire time. 607 had to be up here.

“What, and she just... had this magical thing th e whole time we were looking for cold, dark, and gloomy?”

That wasn’t something Steve particularly wanted to think about, in all honesty. In fact, he had resigned the notion to the back of his mind for the time being.

603, 604, 605, 606...

The last door is entirely unordinary. Just like the others.

Placing his head against the wood, he can’t immediately detect any movement from inside. Still, he knocks. Bracing himself for the moment his friend opens the door and sees him. God, what the hell will he even think? Will he even listen, or is this going to be like the helicarrier all over again?

A minute passes, and Steve still doesn’t hear any sounds of a gun cocking or glass breaking.

Ramming his shoulder into the door, it gives way almost instantly. Distantly, he wonders if it was even locked to begin with.

While the overhead lights are on above a single table and the small kitchen counter, the windows themselves are covered up – barely allowing a trickle of sunlight through the pasted newsprint. Steve treks in slowly, watching the floor for any traps as he takes in the abhorrent state of the single room.

The walls, once covered in green paint, are flicked down to the concrete, with splashes of dangling wallpaper only near the kitchen. There’s a lingering smell as well, possibly coming from the raggedy couch or... the lone mattress on the floor.

Jesus, Buck.

“He’s not here,” he speaks into the comm, turning in a slow circle – sweeping the room for any sign that his friend might still be somewhere in the shell of HYDRA’s weapon.

There’s a stack of newspapers on the dining table. When he flips over the most recent stack, there’s a picture of the explosion on Wall Street. The headline says something in a language Steve can’t read, but he knows what the article likely says.

Atentat la New York. Eficiența Răzbunătorilor în discuție.

Unable to look at the burning remains of the charter school for a moment more, he flips the page back down.

Moving toward the kitchenette, under a stack of protein bars, Steve spots it. A simple black notebook with a few red tabs sticking out of it. His curiosity peaked, he can’t help but pull it out.

The first page is blank, but on the second, he’s met with a picture of himself. A pamphlet from the Smithsonian exhibit, actually. On the adjoining page, a scribble of thoughts bursts out from the paper.

Captain America.

Captain Rogers Steve. Steve Rogers.

New York. New York City, apartment. One room. No windows. There’s a bed with a hole in the mattress and a chestdrawerbox

Whatever train of thought that had hit the writer, was quickly jotted out in a furious scratch of ink.

Hesitantly, Steve flips through the pages. Spotting bubbles of thought with facial sketches of himself. In uniform, and without. A smaller, skinnier version of a boy – a smile, but no upper facial features to be found; like the full image never came to mind.

And then there’s a change. From drawings of Steve and blurry New York skylines, comes a flurry of images of a sleek woman – curled hair and a smokey fixture over her face. If Steve had to acquaint it with anyone he knew, he would say the woman of Bucky’s fixation looked a lot like Natasha, but in a more classic noir style than anything else.

Two more pages follow the drawings, filled with news clippings and headlines.

One more page and Steve’s finger pauses on the page.

There. In perfect recreation is you.

A full face of details, unafforded to the other sketches. But amongst the premade lines of the notebook, your likeness comes to life. Steve gazes into your pencil-made eyes, the hint of a smile about to burst on your lips. Your hair is hidden behind a plain veil fluttering in an invisible wind. Below your neck, Steve’s eyes follow the detailing of a Red Cross nurse’s uniform fizzle out into the page.

Why is it, he wonders, that the sketches of himself and the mystery woman remain faceless, while this rendering of you is a near replica of the real person?

Something heavy sits on the page behind the drawing. Following temptation, he flips it over. Another series of article clippings, of you and the team. In your flowing white Olympian armor, eyes blazoned in the moment of battle.

Another, there with Steve, helping him out from a pile of rubble. His hand aches with the distant ghost of your touch.

“Put it down.”

Steve spins around, smacking the notebook closed. Silently chastising himself for not hearing the man’s approach.

Bucky, eyes wide and sweeping, adds a trembling, “Please.”

Steve, holding one hand up, places the book back down on the counter. Trying to show in any way he can manage that he is no threat to James Barnes.

And then he just stares, unable to help himself as he takes in his friend’s shambled appearance.

“Do you know me?”

Bucky blinks, glancing between Steve and the notebook resting on the counter behind him.

“You’re Steve. I read about you in a museum.”

In his heart, he believes that isn’t the truth. The few words he spotted in that book are indicator enough, but he eases forward a step.

“I don’t want you to be nervous. But I know you have every reason to be.”

Bucky takes a step away, right hand curling into a fist. Left hand... tucked away into his pocket.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“We’re here to help you, Buck,” Steve soft pleads, pulling the helmet from his head. Let him see. Let him connect the pieces to the man standing in front of him.

“We?” he questions, glancing toward the window beside him with the stained ivory curtain swaying.

He really should think before he opens his mouth sometimes.

“A friend,” Steve amends.

Keeping his distance, Bucky begins to circle away from him, heading toward the dining table.

“You should’ve left me alone,” he murmurs.

Easing his hands onto his belt, Steve lays it out, “They know where you are. They’ve been tracking you for weeks.”

There’s a skittish look that crosses his friend’s features. A wild animal pacing a cage of their own making, expecting the hounds to break through in the next breath.

“We want to help. Buck...” he crosses the distance between them, grasping hold of Bucky’s right forearm. “Let us help you get out of here.”

Before he can form a response, Sam’s voice crackles in his ear, “There’s someone up here. I’ m compromised.”

Blocking the quick series of fists that come swinging at your face, you try to land a solid punch to the lower torso, but your target disappears.

“Hey!” you chastise, spinning around – managing to grab Pietro’s hand before he can fully connect it with your shoulder. “I thought the sparring rule was no using your speed?”

“That ,” he grins, pulling back, “was Captain Roger’s rule. You, my friend, never established such terms before we began.”

Smart bastard.

Offering him an exasperated huff, you hold up your hands, “Well, let’s say that we’ve now established it as such.”

In Steve’s absence, and with Pietro seemingly coming out of his shell in the past few days, you had offered to take over temporary training with the teen. Your time had largely been spent working with Wanda as you had been deemed the sturdiest candidate when it came to tolerating her untrained magic.

Pietro, without his speed as a factor point, had spent more time with Steve and Sam than anyone else. And, you had to hand it to the pair, they had taught him well.

“Alright, let’s get back in your ready position,” you begin, changing his focus back to the sparring session.

But before you can begin, both of your attentions are drawn to the exasperated scream that trails down the hallway outside of the gym doors, followed by Wanda’s screech of:

“Unbelievable! Bastardi!”

A blur of flowing black fabric and dark red hair goes blazing past.

Sparing Pietro a single look, you give him the nod that allows him to jump over the ropes and race out of the gym.

Resting on the swaying rope, sweat dripping down the curve of your back, you just shake your head. You weren’t sure if you even wanted to know what terrible news had unfolded in your temporary absence away from the TV.

The gym door swishes open as an awkward Tony Stark works his way over to you. His posture is too rigid, hands stuffed into his pockets, and a nervous sort of look sits in his eyes.

“What happened?” you ask, voice exhausted – not by the training session, but by the weight of the extenuating circumstances that had been plaguing the team for weeks at this point.

He glances around, rocking on the balls of his feet, “Did half of Paramore happen to storm past?”

Pulling away from the ropes, you drop down on the mat and slide your way to the floor, standing before the billionaire and offering him an incredulous, “Who?”

“The Wunderkinds.”

“Yeah, Wanda just... she went by a second ago. Why, what happened?”

You’re already anticipating the worst when Tony pulls out his phone. Likely news headlines conjure themselves up in your head. But, instead, you’re met with a photo.

Iron Man. In mid-flight. Faceplate up, but sunglasses resting on the lower curve of his nose. And... was that a smoothie?

As the phone is dropped into your hands, you scroll down ever-so-slightly.

@tonystark: Hey SnapTap, am I doing this right? #avengersinthewild #youknowwhoiam

“It’s brilliant, right?” he beams, snatching the phone back.

But you just blink, still trying to assess where the hell Tony’s mind went.

“That’s a word for it, sure. Why exactly are you jumping on this track after the whole no social media spiel you made Steve give Wanda the other day?”

Tony scoffs, looking almost offended by the question.

“You know, with everything that’s happened. With two pieces of legislation at our goddamn doorstep, I’m trying to do whatever the hell I can still do to try and change this clusterfuck of a narrative.”

Right. The grandstanding during yesterday’s operation. One hand on the wheel. Let the bills pass, but keep hold of the public’s opinion.

“I mean,” Tony shrugs, thumbing through his phone for a moment. “If the media wants the people to fear us; to plant unnecessary panic, then I figure we just show the world that we’re just like them. Relatable and all that. Kickass, but still approachable. Someone you’d want to pay a few thousand to hang out with for a day.”

Cronus, no wonder Wanda was furious – having to remove everything under the guise of security and privacy, only to have Tony turn around and do this overnight.

“Here,” the phone is directed back your way, a notes app opened up to a show a series of jotted-down names. “I already saved some handles for you guys.”

Your eyes scan over the list of proposed names:

@realathena

@hawkinthenest

@capattack

@assgardian

Disgust riddles its way through your body and you can only manage a shake of the head as you push the phone back Tony’s way.

“Come on, Seven,” Tony pleads in a tired tone, rubbing a hand at his face. “Look, you get the chance to come and go, right? This world ain’t working out for you, you can probably go off and find a new one. But this? This is our one and only world. And personally, I don’t want to see everyone have to give up their ability to fight or to hang up their suit. I’m telling you, every little bit helps.”

In his bleary eyes, you find only honest truth. And, knowing Tony, you are aware that he’s gone down every possible avenue – every scenario – to keep the team together, to keep their powers in their own hands.

And, give hell or high water, despite Ross and the entire weight of the American government, you knew Tony would do whatever was in his power to keep things as well off as he could manage.

“I... I’ll think about it, okay?” you offer, mentally hopscotching your way out of it entirely.

“Hey, that’s all I ask,” he beams. “We can do a little photo op. My treat. I’m thinking, you with your armor, or you and your little owl guy. People love a celebrity with a pet.”

Cronus, help her.

Nodding your head, you begin to back your way toward the practice ring, “Definitely something to think about, yes.”

Tony, grinning like the sly fox he thinks he is, just tuts in a knowing tone. As if to say, he would break you down, slowly, with much annoyance and pestering.

But then that smile begins to drift south; a true frown now resting on his face.

“What,” you question. “Have you already lost followers?”

He quirks a brow, “I’m one of the fastest-growing accounts, thank you very much. FRI? Can you get this on the big screen?”

You follow the question to the ceiling where the omnipresent AI lived (in your mind, anyway), before landing on the large TV pressed up above the row of five treadmills.

The same two reporters who have been covering the House vote and the updates from the U.N. are familiar to you now. And, where you expect to see some grand announcement of a bill passage or another righteous official ready to spout off for the microphone -

Your heart drops. A deep ache fills your stomach as you press your palms to your throbbing chest.

The reporter’s words are but a ringing in your ears as you watch Steve, in full uniform, pushed to his knees by a man in a military uniform bearing the American flag. Behind him, Sam’s being pushed and pulled by three other men – his flight pack nearly ripped from his body in such a way that you fear his shoulder has been dislocated in their carelessness. And then the camera – taken by an amateur reporter, clearly – lands on -

“Oh my, God,” you utter.

James is lying flat out on the ground, with a soldier pushing their full weight down upon his back as another handcuffs his hands behind him. He’s grunting, blood trickling down from a cut on his temple as he shudders and fights to breathe.

“Tony,” you urge – too many questions and demands to make them come out in a proper sentence. But he knows.

Dragging a hand down his face, he just shakes his head, “So much fucking ground to make up.”

“Anthony,” you bark, eyes blazing as you watch the live feed of the three men being loaded up into the back of an armored vehicle by armed and ready soldiers.

“I...” he just sighs, long and heavy, as if he had taken over for Atlas temporarily. “Uhm, shit. I’ll try and see which lawyers I can wrangle back. Who the fuck knows what can legally be done right now. I don’t even... Jesus, Seven. I don’t even know what to tell you.”

His eyes are soft and sincere as he manages out a choked, “Sorry,” before he pushes past the gym doors and takes to the stairs.

Left there, alone in the aftermath, your focus drifts back on the screen where the Secretary of State – fucking Ross - begins a press briefing.

“Today, a specialized team of American service members successfully captured a rouge party of dangerous super-powered individuals. At this time, Steve Rogers is no longer a threat to this nation or the country at large. And tonight, may the world sleep easier to know that known Russian terrorist, James Barnes, also known by his moni k er: t he Winter Soldier, has been taken to a high-security location until further notice. As long as we allow these individuals to roam freely, they will be a threat to you and your family. Today, justice prevailed.”

That night, unable to pull yourself away from the TV in the living room, you watch alongside Tony – who’s glued to his phone, trying to type out a series of favors to his last few lawyers – and Vision, as the Sokovia Accords emergency legislation is passed through the United Nations. Natasha, eyes unblinking, gazes at the screen as the anchors - after the U.N. coverage ends, announce that the SRA is up for a vote later tonight.

Somewhere, over the span of the ocean, your teammates – your friends – are being flown back to the States like wanted criminals. Strapped down, collared, heavily guarded.

Beside you, the remainder of your team, silently watches their lives begin to unfurl. And you, Goddess of Wisdom, have no solutions for them. No options. Nothing.

You’re helpless to save any of them.

Previous Chapter || Next Chapter

[big-ooof]

Burn Bright, Burn Fast

college!jake x f!reader

note: after writing about Jungwon and high school, i felt like continuing into the reader's college years.

You meet Jake during your second year of college, at a house party you didn’t want to go to.

It’s loud, it smells like beer and youth, and your roommate ditches you for her situationship within five minutes. You’re halfway out the door when someone crashes into you, quite literally, knocking your drink down your sweatshirt.

“Shit, I’m so sorry. Can I—oh no, wait, don’t cry.” Jake pleads when his eyes find yours.

“I’m not crying. I’m just emotionally attached to this hoodie.”

He laughs, loud and unfiltered. Then pulls off his own sweatshirt, a well-worn black hoodie with a faded print, and hands it to you. You don't even realize until later that you forgot to give it back.

The next day, you see him again on campus. “It’s fate. Or laundry day," he playfully says.

You find out he’s an exchange student from Australia, a year abroad for his business program, with no real intention of actually studying.

You’re the opposite. Double major. Student council. Constant over-achiever. But somehow, he finds the cracks in your structure and sneaks in.

The thing about Jake is that everything feels bigger with him.

He dances in public. Pulls you out of study groups to lie on rooftops. Asks personal questions like it’s normal to want to know someone’s heartbreak playlist within the first week.

He tells you he used to be afraid of disappointing people until he realized he already was. You tell him you don’t know what you’re working so hard toward, only that if you stop moving, it might all fall apart.

He kisses you for the first time on a Wednesday, in the rain, outside the economics building. It’s reckless and unexpected and stupidly cinematic.

You think: This might ruin me. But you kiss him back anyway.

Jay is your friend from freshman year. Classmate. Debate partner. The person you text when you're falling apart— except you stop texting him as much after Jake.

Still, he sees you. Always has. He sees how you miss lectures. How you start turning in papers late. How your laughs get louder but your eyes get tired. One night, you run into him at the café near campus.

You’re supposed to meet Jake, but he’s an hour late already.

"You look like you’re waiting for someone who doesn’t deserve to be waited for.” Jay says, taking the seat across from you.

“He’s just late.”

“You used to hate that. Being late.”

Quietly, you say, “I hate who I was more.”

Jay’s jaw tightens, like he wants to say something else. But he doesn’t. He just slides his coffee toward you and says, “If he breaks you, I’ll help you put the pieces back. Just don’t wait until there’s nothing left.”

Jake tells you he’s going back to Australia at the end of the semester. You knew that. Of course you knew that. But somehow it still hits like a car crash.

“So that’s it? No long distance? No… trying?” you manage to say.

Jake bites his lip before admitting, “I love you. I just don’t want to promise something I’ll fail at.”

“So instead you’ll leave me with nothing?”

He kisses you that night like he’s trying to memorize you. His hands shake. You cry in the shower so he doesn’t hear. The next morning, he’s gone before you wake up.

A single note on your desk reads:

“You were the best part of this entire year. I hope you become everything you want to be, even if it means leaving me behind.”

There’s also an email in your inbox the next day. You never open it. You move it to a random folder, where it stays unread.

Bonus:

You’re in a hotel in Seoul, scrolling through old playlists. One is titled "her laugh on a rooftop." You click on it. The first song still makes your chest ache.

You open your email and stare at the draft you never read. You hover over the delete button, then click “Mark as unread” again.

Sometimes, you think of what Jay said: “Don’t wait until there’s nothing left.”

And you wonder… maybe Jake left you with more than nothing. Maybe he left you with the knowledge that love doesn't have to last forever to matter.

[blissful-thinker]

WIP Folder Game

RULES: make a new post and share with us the titles of your documents in your wip folder(s) and some detail if you wish, no matter how old, random, or disconcerting. Sort as you see fit (or don't). Ask the person who tagged you a question about the title(s) that most intrigue you from their list, and tag as many people as you'd like to join the game!! Have fun :)

—

Behold, way too many drafts! Thanks for the tag @pomegranate-belle

—

Bathroom Divorce AU: potential collab with @inkforhumanhands, basically it’s the s2 bathroom divorce except what if Foggy punched Matt in the heat of their argument and it sobers them both up really quickly. Leads to them having an actual talk about what’s happened among other things…

S2 Bitter AU: haha what if Matt had the braincell for the second half of s2 so when he tells Elektra he’s not gonna help her, he meant it so he doesn’t fall for any of her attempts to pull him into whatever mess she found herself looking into because the aftermath from college hurt him that much

Heatwave: Matt and foggy during a heatwave, they flirt while suffering through said heatwave. they’re really doing their best

S2 Fix-It: what if Elektra lived to the end of the battle against nobu and she and Matt were going to run away as promised, except Matt finds that he can’t just abandoned his life once the adrenaline dies down, so he stays to try and mend all his broken relationships and himself after everything that happened.

E65 Angst: a one-shot from Foggy’s POV after the events of Gwen’s trial and sentencing. What happens when one Kingpin of crime crawls through his window?

College MattFoggy Angst: Foggy plans confess his feelings to Matt the night they manage to sneak into that fancy party, except he’s a little too late when Matt reveals he met Elektra. Eventual happy ending

Tux Fluff: Matt is in a fancy tux for a Nelson family gathering and Foggy is here for it

Lost and Found: Matt, Foggy and Karen during the chaos of the snap and trying to find each other while begging the worst didn’t happen to the others

Childhood Mattfoggy AU: various fics planned about Matt and Foggy meeting as kids and how their friendship evolves over the years

College-era angst one shot: Foggy invites Matt to come visit his family for the first time. Matt’s unsure about it and foggy eases his worries

—

Tagging @amazing-spiderling and uhhh whoever else wants to do this!

[salllzy]

Changes chapter 12 sneak peek #1

Blood and bodies littered the floor, Alastor was cleaning his monocle while Sarah pulled flesh and guts from her shoes, there was a look of disgust as she removed a tooth from her high heels. Lucifer wanted to laugh, to let his wonder show. Lucifer knew that they could be terrible and monstrous, he knew that. But it was one thing to know it and another thing to witness it. But that wasn't what got his heart racing and breathing quickening, it was the knowledge that they were doing this for him, for Charlie, for the small family that they had made. No one had ever done anything like this for him, he was the one who did the protecting, that silenced those who badmouthed his family. He had never been on the receiving end of it and it was a strange feeling. One that sent his heart racing and had his breath quickening. No one had ever done this for him and it made him want more, to see what else they were capable of. But he now knew why Stolas had been keeping them away from all the balls and parties that high society liked to throw, there would be no noble families left if they got invited to them all. It was thrilling as it was dangerous but it also told Lucifer that they didn't need any help in the political circles. That he had worried over nothing, however, before the ball he hadn't known what they were capable of. Now he did. He also made a note to make sure that he didn't let them attend any parties or balls without him present, it would be for the best. He would be able to help mitigate any damage and make sure that they didn't get too carried away. “Papa, put that down, you don’t know where it has been.” Lucifer looked over and found that Alastor had set aside a pile of flesh and while he knew that Alastor was a cannibal, he had never seen Alastor consume demon flesh before. It made him wonder how did Alastor chose his victims? Was there a process or did he simply pick someone at random? How did Alastor know what was safe to consume vs what wasn't? Lucifer had many questions and while he would never find the thought of eating demon flesh appealing, he would admit that he was curious about the process of it. He knew that there would be a process, it wasn't something that Alastor would do without thinking about it, Alastor put thought into things. A lot of it. Lucifer had also done some digging, mainly into Alastor’s past relationship and he had found one. The Media Demon, Vox. Lucifer didn't like what he had found and he knew that he would need to do something about Vox and soon, Vox had recently been making inquiries into Alastor’s whereabouts and Lucifer couldn't allow him to do that. He had a couple of options when dealing with the Media Demon, but he knew that he would need help doing so. He didn't know the Media Demons routine, where he worked, who he slept with, how many lovers he had. All he had was a rough draft and a folder as thick as a novel on his relationship with Alastor and it had been toxic. From what he had read the Media Demon had constantly tried to force Alastor into changing his medium, calling him outdated, tacky, among other things. Lucifer thought that it was ludicrous given that Hell’s technology ran on radio waves. 

[anotheruserwithnoname]

Nothing vanishes from the Internet. Since Day One of running this blog 9 years ago (and before that various websites and forums where I have participated under my real name, and also with my fan fic), I have always followed the policy of not posting anything I wouldn't want my boss to see. Or for that matter an actress I post about or a writer/director.

Does that mean I occasionally pull my punches? Yes. My drafts folder has about 100 posts that never got sent out because I thought better of them, whether commenting on Doctor Who or the state of the world. I find I sleep better at night having not sent out every random thought I've had. That's not saying I won't post critical comment, don't get me wrong. As the saying goes, "Only God is above criticism -- but there are a thousand philosophers willing to arm-wrestle you on that."

Reblog and put in the tags how often you “clean” your tumblr account, deleting old posts.

[fandomfablesunleashed]

hey!!

Some questions from the fanfic author ask you reposted, feel free to reply to whichever :)

2, 4, 12, 19, 22, 25 and 38

Hey! Thanks so much for the message <3 Honestly, I totally forgot I even reposted that. But I’m always more than happy to ramble, so…

2. Do you prefer oneshots or longfics? Oneshots, for sure. They’re way less time-consuming and easier to manage overall. With a one-shot, I can focus on a single moment, emotion, or idea without stressing about plot consistency, pacing, or character arcs stretched over multiple chapters. Writing a 4k one-shot is way easier and faster for me than trying to complete a 2k chapter.

4. Do you save your “cut scenes” from your fics? (Want to share one?) It depends. I usually work in a single draft, so when I make edits, I often end up losing stuff. But if it’s a longer piece, or there’s a sentence I really like and think I might reuse later, I’ll toss it into a folder—no joke, the folder is literally called “Random Crap Collection.”

Recent cutouts: He took another swig from his bottle, feeling the warmth spread through him. But it didn’t numb the ache inside, didn’t drown the fear that had been clawing at him for so long. The more he drank, the more confused he became. Why were you so easy to love? Why were you the one thing that made him feel like he wasn’t just a broken man, but someone who could be whole?

And a small piece of dialogue I have to use somewhere: “You have no idea how much I long to lie beside you and let our emotions take over. To let them carry us wherever they want.”

12. Have you ever made a moodboard for a fic? (Do you want to share it?) I don’t really make moodboards, but for every longer project, I do put together a super simple book cover and a Spotify playlist. Although I am tempted to do a moodboard now…

19. Do you work on multiple fics at once, or only one at a time? I’d burn out fast if I focused on just one. There’s always a lot going on—tons of documents and even more random notes on my phone. When inspiration hits, I write, even if it’s just a few sentences for something I thought of months ago and don’t plan to dive into anytime soon. Sometimes it’s just a single sentence, a piece of dialogue, or an idea for a new fic that randomly pops into my head.

There’s usually one fic that gets most of my attention (right now it’s Tangled Lives), but I’m always bouncing between several others depending on the mood.

22. What is one of your favorite tropes to write? Friends to lovers! Nothing hits quite like the slow burn and the moment of realization. I will never be normal about it.

25. Is there a scene you are dreading writing? (Want to share what it is?) Action scenes. I really want to focus more on canon-related stuff—for One Piece and Love and Deepspace—and for that, I need to figure out how to write good fight scenes. I’ve tried, and it was rough. I’m not even being self-deprecating. It just genuinely wasn’t good…

38. Fic idea you're most excited to get to? I’m always excited about my fics. Writing brings me joy (and pain and gritted teeth, hair-pulling, etc., but let’s ignore that).

Definitely the canon-related ones. They're the hardest to write, which is why I started with modern AUs for my longfics.

If I had to pick one right now, I guess it would be a story about Ace from One Piece and the Marine’s daughter. I’ve been working on it slowly for a while, and it’s still missing a big chunk in the middle. I struggle with it a lot, and part of me dreads diving fully in because I haven’t decided whether to stick with the canon ending. I’m leaning toward yes now… and I just know people (myself included, honestly) are going to hate it yet, it would be so good.

[dystini]

17, 23, 29

17. What’s something you’ve learned about while doing research for a fic?

That drivers' careers are way more intertwined than I thought. The number of times I've grumbled "What do you mean they raced against each other in carts (F3, some regional series, etc) back in the day? I thought they'd never met before Indycar."

And that carting records for the 30+ yo drivers are sketchy as fuck. "Yes, I do need to know where that race took place and how they both finished. It's very important to the plot." *glares at Josef and Conor's history*

23. How do you choose where to end a chapter (if you have multi-chapter works)?

2000 words. Seriously, that's my chapter goal. Stopping at 1990 words is acceptable. Up to 3000 is okay. Usually it's in the 2100 - 2200 range.

I write in scenes anyway. Usually with different povs. So it's just a matter of ending the scene and having enough scenes to fill the word count. I write sparse so if I'm 100 words short, I can usually go back and add description or embellishment to reach it. Sex scenes usually cause me to go way over word count if it's not the only scene in the chapter.

29. Share a bit from a fic you’ll never post OR from a scene that was cut from an already posted fic. (If you don’t have either, just share a random fic idea you have that you don’t plan on getting to.)

Okay, so I write a single draft and don't particularly edit so any changes I do make are done right in that draft - no deleted scenes or old drafts to pull from. I also don't keep stories that I'll never post ( not that I've ever finished one and decided not to post it).

So fic idea it is. Except, as I look through my WIP/idea folder, I have every intention of getting to these ideas...someday. I cull it every few months, deleting things I've changed my mind about writing.

I have one file, titled "Hinch's young harem" that is blank, no notes at all. I vaguely remember something about him collecting up some rookies every year somehow but no more than that. Probably won't write this one since I've got no idea what to write.

[autumnslance]

Writing To Yourself

(Mileage may vary, I'm not your mom nor your teacher--unless you're working for a specific state healthcare service, anyway.)

That's how you garden. Tend the plot. Plant a million seeds, reap a thousand blooms. The rest? Compost for the next crop. -@biot08 / @driftward

During a Discord convo, I thought about why so many fandom writers catch “writer’s block”, and some of it goes back to self-care and taking in new media, getting inspiration and knowledge, covered in this post. But much of it?

People think everything they create has to be publishable for others’ consumption. That is Not True. Too often we don't want to write things just for the sake of writing them, falling into the trap of thinking it needs to be perfectly polished and shared, but No It Really Doesn't.

Folks talk about “writing for oneself” but in terms of posting finished pieces of the kinds they want to see. If everything feels like it “has to be” publishable, it can start to put too much pressure on oneself. And then there’s your block, especially if the type to worry about how others Perceive you and your art.

Try simply writing anything and deciding later if it's something you want to share. I have pieces I wrote cuz my brain suddenly said it wanted to, but that writing isn't posted anywhere. Usually it’s random lines; out of context sentences, scenes, or bits of dialogue. Sometimes just incoherent character rambling. Ideas for situations and what ifs. Misspelled, typos, not grammatical, redundant wording, passive voice, bad POV, too many adverbs, not enough active verbs, not enough description, too much description, etc. All in notebooks or doc files. I’ve shared the (now out-dated) deep nests of my WIPs folders and the multiple, unfinished, unpolished pieces within them. Most will never be completed nor seen by the public. 

For instance, I've a random smut fic of a Highlander Warrior of Light and the popular antagonist of Shadowbringers. I'm not usually a villain liker, but one day it hit my brain, so I wrote it. I have notes and outlines for the rest of their story and how it plays out, though I'll probably never write more. I scratched the writing itch, stretched some skills, considered things from a different angle, and now it sits in drafts (I did post a couple decent-ish smut lines to my private Twitter once).

Mostly, it's practice. Even if it's junk and janky.

“But I have (professionally) published X or Y…”

Still gotta exercise the writing muscles! Still gotta scrawl off something utterly unusable now and again for the heck of it!

All those random lines, descriptions, scenes, rambles? Maybe I'll use them someday. I wrote them down to feel the pen in my hand or keys clacking under my fingers, to see the words pop onto the page or screen, to play with word choice, sentence structures, and “how would they say that?” For my own satisfaction, no one else’s.

When I get bored or stuck, or need a screenshot or writing prompt response, I might poke at those lines, pages, rambles, and see if they hit now or spin off to something else. They often don’t. But sometimes they help inform other things I do post to the public later. Even if that’s just a Question of the Day prompt response on Twitter.

(That also counts as writing and creating btw; you’re still coming up with something to share about your characters and I think that’s very creative of you.)

If the mood strikes, write. Even if it's just a vague idea--especially if it's any bits of dialogue or description, if it's something you think that you actually do want to write when off work or out of bed or whatever.

Even if you never post it anywhere public. Even if it never gets out of crummy first draft, unfinished pages form. It might feel like pulling teeth and look rough, especially if it’s been awhile.

But still write it. No one else has to know or see. Not until you want them to.

Maybe parts of it will inform something you do finish later. Maybe two years from now another prompt will hit just right and you’ll dig out that draft and finish it for posting. Maybe you’ll cannibalize aspects of it for an entirely different piece. Maybe you’ll even use it in a few more years to see how far you’ve come as a writer.

In many cases? That's how you actually keep writer's block away. Keeping ideas around to steal from yourself, letting yourself write nonsense, unpublishable bits and pieces, maybe even whole pages, just for the heck of it, if writing is something one enjoys and wants to stick with as a hobby (or professionally). If you don’t enjoy writing for fun? Don’t force it; do little character prompts and blurbs as they feel right, and find the ways to share creativity that work for you.

And seriously, don’t forget to take in new media, experiences, and information. This is How You Lose the Time War got me writing on an original story I shelved last autumn. The stories aren't at all alike! But seeing new words in new ways helped shake something loose in my brain. So try to make some time for that, too.

Write to yourself, not for others’ consumption. Public posting is great for validation and encouragement, for when we feel the urge to share due to pride or just wanting to gush about our faves. But also let yourself remember why you liked creating worlds, making up stuff about your characters, and writing at all to begin with, without the pressure of public posting. Give yourself some grace, and let it all be messy, unhinged, misspelled, ungrammatical, incomplete, and make no narrative sense.

Write to yourself, for yourself. Then let the rest follow.

[the-sparkling-diamond-satine]

B. Summers They/Them

Send me an ask with a title that intrigues you from my list of wip's and I'll tell you something about it or post a snippet from it.

So, this fic!! This one was WAY in the back of my drafts. I know I've only posted two trans Buffy fics so far, but I have a gazillion more in draft and/or idea form haha, but I often play with the concept of gender + self-discovery/realization fics OR Buffy already has come out as trans and everyone who needs to know already knows fics.

I also have a bunch of Buffy and Giles gender conversation fics (I love that you picked a Buffy and Giles fic completely at random btw!!!) but those fics tend to be post-Chosen Buffy coming out to everyone including Giles, or early seasons when Buffy is most desperate for that dad approval. So in these fics, they already have some sort of established relationship, and Buffy is worried coming out will potentially endanger relationships.

This fic idea was formulated out of an idea to subvert my usual. It's a rewrite of Buffy and Giles' very first conversation(s). Buffy arrives in Sunnydale already knowing EXACTLY who they are and not only are they angry that there is another watcher waiting here for them and all of the reasons they're angry in canon, but they're already pre-angry about all of the gender bullshit Merrick heaped onto them. They have no desire to so much as interact with someone who insists that the slayers are always girls. Buffy is Not A Girl.

Here's the thing about this fic. I think I mentioned to you once that I was playing around with the idea of trans Buffy fics but I was too afraid to post any of my ideas for a while. This fic is dated as last being worked on in August 2022... Unlike some of my other ideas, I didn't leave an outline for myself so I have NO IDEA where I was going with this fic. Was it just the one conversation? A rewrite of the entire first two episodes? Did I want to go further than that and explore future character interactions in this universe (probably with time skips because I don't think this would change all that much)??? Again, NO CLUE.

If this interests you at all, lemme know and maybe someday I'll pull it back out and see if I can salvage it into something worth posting! Otherwise it may die a slow ignored death in my drafts folder because...no idea where I was going with this fic haha

(Also, the entire reason it's called B. Summers is because sometimes I like to keep trans Buffy's name the same and other times I like to play around with the concept that they might change it, and what would they change it to? Despite the huge wealth of names out there, I am weirdly attached to the "B" ones, even though there aren't that many I like. So Buffy is B. in my drafts until I decide whether they'll be Bly or Blaire or Blake or just stay B. I have a name I do like, but I'm not sharing it here since it's the name I've chosen for another WIP haha)

[soleminisanction]

Geminids?

That's the folder where I keep all my scraps, outlines and ideas for the sequel stories I'd like to write for Blood of the Covenant, an AU that I love and desperately want to get back to. Most of the snippets in there right now are random scraps from various points around the altered timeline and probably won't make it into a final draft in their current form, but there's a few that I really like.

Case in point:

“At least I don’t look like Dr. Midnight!” "Tough talk from the girl dressed like a mall walker." Spoiler squawks indignantly. Tim claps a hand over his mouth, but isn't fast enough to cover his snort of amusement. "Cassie!"  "What? She can dish it out but can't take it?" "My mom's got a tracksuit in that exact pattern. And who told you the utility garter belt was a good idea? It looks like a fanny pack you don't know how to wear properly."

and

"Boys. I think you're both ignoring the obvious solution here."  Cassie got up and took Kon by the shoulders, guiding him to shuffle to one side until he was pressed against the couch's left-side arm rest. Then she coaxed Tim to stand up and then sit again so that he leaned into the right-hand arm rest, leaving the cushion in the center for Cassie to sit in herself. She guided their arms to stretch along the back cushions and take each other's hands. Then she took the other, outer hands, one in each of her own, pulled them around her waist, and held them there with a content sigh.  When he realized what she meant, Kon squeezed his hand back. "You're serious?"  "Completely."

Like I said, I doubt these scenes will show up in exactly this same format, but it is kinda where I want the story to go -- Tim and Cassie acting as partners, a confrontation with Steph that leads them to go looking for Cass Cain, and eventually a happy menage a trois with Kon when he's back from the dead because those three are soulmates (with Bart as their queerplatonic fourth) and I will die on that hill.

[imtooscaredforthis]

Fixation

Chapter Six- Face off

Mentions of: Stalking, Death, Paranoia, Threats, Harassment, etc.

Finishing off your final draft, you shoved the papers into a folder, laying back on your couch. It was late, just before midnight, and you finally got caught up on all your work. All you wanted to do was relax, watch some tv and get some sleep.

So you turned on the television, and the first thing to come up was the news, an all too familiar face appearing on the screen. “Thirty-nine-year-old Debra Minty was found murdered in her home Thursday night, discovered by her very own husband with multiple stab wounds, and a slit in her throat. Police are scrambling to get on the case. Could this be another Ghostface murder? Detectives are saying it’s a possibility.”

Feeling the shock run through you, you shut off the tv. You couldn’t say she didn’t have it coming, but you still felt horrible for what she and her family had to go through. The pain of loss, you had experienced it before, multiple times. But how, and why her?

Maybe he was just doing you a favor. The more sick part of your mind thought, and almost immediately, you pushed it away, scolding yourself for even letting that get into your head.

Then, your phone rang, but you decided not to answer it. You knew that Charlotte was probably sleeping right now, and no one else would be willing to call you at this time, unless it was trouble, so you decided not to answer.

But it just rang again, and again, until you gave in and went to answer it. “What?”

“You know, it’s quite rude to ignore someone’s call.” A low, alluring voice said from the other line. You felt your body tense all over, eyes darting around. Was someone watching you?

“Who is this?” You asked, hiding your anxiety with a tone of accusation.

“Let’s just say, a fan. I have to admit, those shorts are really doing something for you. Cute tank top, too.” You felt your throat dry up at that comment, spinning around and scanning the area. You were no longer alone, but were you alone in the first place? Had he been watching you this whole night, or even times before that?

“Listen here, you sick fuck, I’ll give you five seconds to hang up before I call the cops.” You threatened him, but it didn’t seem to have any effect on the stranger.

“And what’ll you say? ‘Oh, help me, help me, some random guy is calling and complimenting me.’ Even if they do believe you, it’s not like they’d do anything.” He mocked your tone, not even phased by your words.

You rubbed the side of your head, letting out a shaky breath, and feeling your legs begin to tremble. “W-what do you want from me?”

“I just want to play, and maybe come in and carve up that pretty skin of yours.” With that, your suspicions were immediately confirmed, and you knew exactly who it was.

The man who had been stalking you, tormenting you with phone calls, was none other than Ghostface.

“Y-you’re-”

“That’s right, and you are (y/n), my little fanatic.” He spoke as if you were some sort of pet, and it made you feel sick.

How did he know you? Had he stalked you? Followed you? Learned all he could about you just like the others? The thought made your stomach churn even more.

You hung up, running up the stairs to your room, and going into your closet. Inside, you undid the lock to your safe and pulled out a shotgun that had your initials carved on them. You grabbed some ammo, stuffing the shells into the gun and cocking it. You were raised on a ranch, so of course you’d have a gun with you.

When you ran back downstairs, a different phone was ringing this time. Instead of your landline, it was the phone you usually brought around, one that wasn’t always on a hook. You brought the brick-like device to your ear, your shotgun in your free hand.

“Check your kitchen counter.” You looked over on your left, seeing a photo of you rummaging through your closet mere minutes ago. But how could he be that fast?

“The next time you hang up on me, I won’t let you off so easy. Now, why don’t you try and come find me? Before I come in myself. Your front door looks like a nice start.”

Tucking your phone under your ear, you ran out to the door, kicking it open, shotgun in both hands. There was no one there. You let out a huff of frustration. He was playing with you, trying to get in your head. You knew how he did this sort of thing, so why couldn’t you predict him?

It didn’t matter. You just had to show him that you weren’t the type of person to be messed with. So, you aimed your shotgun at the sky, firing it off. “You hear that, motherfucker? Try me and I’ll blow your whole arm off.”

“Oooh, so she has some spunk to her. I like that. It makes this little game of cat and mouse much more fun.” There wasn’t an ounce of fear in his voice. Did he not believe that you could shoot him? That you could kill him?

“Come and get me, you bastard.” You hissed.

“Oh don’t worry, I will.” He retorted, his tone growing sadistic. He ended the call, and you knew this was happening.

So you waited for him, preparing yourself. As the minutes passed slowly, you began to wonder if he was just toying with you. You let down your guard slightly, leaning your back against the door frame, keeping one knee up, and resting the gun on your thigh, sighing softly.

Suddenly, the flash of a camera shined in your eyes, making you jump, and the gun to fire at the tree in your front lawn. Once your eyes adjusted, you saw that Ghostface was nowhere to be seen.

“Behind you.” You heard his voice call, and you spun around, shooting the gun right at him. But it wasn’t him, it was his reflection, and you had just shot a hole into your mirror.

The glass shattered, and you emptied the shotgun, replacing the ammo with two new ones you had in your pocket. You looked all around, scanning the place. It seemed that he was gone.

Your phone rang, and you went over to pick it up, already knowing who it was. “Well, what are you waiting for?”

“So eager for me to come in, huh? How sweet. It’s a tempting offer, but, unfortunately, it seems we’re done for now since your little show got some cops to come over. To be continued, Doll.” You felt some bile creep in your throat at the nickname, and heard him hang up.

Your encounter with Ghostface was over, and it seemed that you had some other problems to deal with. Peering through the window, you saw two officers pulling up to your home. One was Jackson, and the other was someone you didn’t recognize.

They stepped out of their car, walking up to the house, the man you were unfamiliar with now studying the baseball-sized hole in your tree. That was going to be fun to explain, as well as your mirror. You quickly went to answer it, as soon as they knocked.

“We got a call about a domestic disturbance, some people down the road were saying they heard gunshots.” The officer told you.

“I was right about to call. Ghostface was here, he was right in my house, and he was the one who had been following me around and stalking me and calling my phone. He tried getting in and attacking me, but I managed to keep him away.” You explained.

The police both traced glances, then deciding to do a brief search around your home. “There’s no signs of forced entry. Why didn’t you call us before?”

“Because I just thought it was a prank or something. But I’ve been stalked, and harassed, I even told Deputy Jackson I was being followed the other night.” You answered.

The cop looked over at Jackson. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Well, I didn’t see anyone.” Jackson muttered, scratching the back of his head. That made you mad. So he just completely overlooked what you told him and didn’t even think of telling anybody else?

“Ma’am, we heard that you had a little outburst at Mullin’s, during an altercation with the recently deceased Debra Minty. Would you happen to know anything about her death?” The officer proceeded to ask, further pissing you off.

“Oh my god. You’re kidding, right? So you don’t believe me at all, and you just went right on to questioning me?” You began to raise your voice, mentally reminding yourself that these were cops, and if you slapped them, you would go to prison.

“Well, there’s no physical evidence-”

“I’ll show you some evidence. He took a photo of me! And it’s right- where did it go?” You looked around searching for the photo frantically. It was like it had disappeared into thin air, but you knew Ghostface probably just took it with him when he left. He really was meticulous with his work.

“It seems that you’ve undergone immense stress. So why don’t you just relax, and get some rest? We’ll send a detective over to question you about Debra’s death, just as a formality. Have a nice night.” It was obvious that this cop thought you were having a mental breakdown of some sort, and wanted to get the hell out of there.

You watched as he left, leaving you and Deputy Jackson alone. It seemed he could tell that you weren’t pleased with him, especially the way your eyes were practically burning through him. “C’mon, don’t look at me like that. It was out of my control, there was no evidence.”

He put a hand on your shoulder, thumb caressing it softly and sending disgusting vibes through you. “I promise I’ll do my best to protect you. And remember if you need anything, anything at all, just give me a call. I need to go now, but I’ll see you around.”

You faked a smile, attempting to please the officer. “Alright.”

So much for serving and protecting.

You watched as the cops left, and went up to bed. After some restless tossing and turning, you eventually slept, cradling your shotgun.

[swinging-stars-from-satellites]

msr + world war ii

the way I could technically spin this to fit with the actual canon in-universe AU (6×03 Triangle) but like... I'm actually gonna do a twist on the 50s AU I started trying to write while I was brainfried from a cold this past week lol. this is so random and probably won't make any sense without reading my tags on this post lol

Binary Star

~2k words | WWII AU Pilot | pre-MSR | AO3

Dana Scully nearly lost her younger brother from violent illness when she was eight years old. What she did lose was the proper use of her left leg, but what she gained was an intense need for understanding of the human body. It's only intensified as she grows older, fights her way into medical school right as boys her brother's age are fighting their way through enemy lines in Europe.

Young men in the prime of their lives with the lives they planned to lead stolen from them see a young, pretty woman with a crippled leg using a cane coming to treat their injuries and they have one of two reactions: they either look sidelong at her with scorn, or they start crying. All the doctors are healthy, said one boy, her younger brother's age, and no one can understand each other. That's the moment Dana knows she chose the right profession.

Fox Mulder lost his little sister when he was twelve, and gained an intense need to understand why, and what happened. His father was a government contractor before the War, and got back in with the secret services as soon as the States decided to step in. Fox dodged the draft because of the familial privilege that couldn't save his kid sister, and because the FBI wanted him on the home front. Maybe his father couldn't bear to sacrifice another child to whatever happens behind the scenes in those smoke-filled government offices where they claim war plans are made, when really it's so much more than that.

Dana has seen things that she can't explain. Men with their flesh eaten away, that she can only treat with dangerous doses of painkillers; some who came home with fifty years added to their age after only being gone for a few months; a nurse who exhibited symptoms of radiation exposure despite never leaving the country and another who died painfully of a tumor that Dana has only ever seen in illustrations, eating through her sinus cavity into her brain. That last is the one that piques Dana's medical curiosity; the woman had insisted with a surprising gravity and calmness that she'd been abducted and experimented on. The vividness of her descriptions, of white light and fear she could never fully remember, was such that Dana has to doubt it was all contrived, or a symptom of the cancer. She's heard talk of conspiracies, the government conducting secret experiments in New Mexico or other unlikely places; her sister believes it all, but Dana questions. She wants to know.

Mulder isn't expecting the knock on the door of the basement office; he isn't even supposed to be down here. There are more important things to worry about and work on than the mysterious x-files, what with a war going on all around them. But there's a folder down here with his sister's name on it, because if any case can be considered unexplained, it's Samantha's abduction. His father had ordered an FBI investigation, but Mulder thinks it was all for show. He knows a little too much about what goes on down in Roswell, New Mexico; just enough that he keeps a lookout over his shoulder. No one knows he came down here again, so he pretends he doesn't know he's always putting himself in danger and he quips that there's no one down here, just the FBI's most unwanted.

Dana was told she might find the man she's looking for down here, in an unused office full of files. She wonders if her answers are down here, or if Fox Mulder is holding them in his hands. He pulls off a pair of reading glasses and looks at her with mild surprise. "Agent Mulder," she says, resting both hands primly on the buffed, comfortable handle of her cane, "I was told you might be able to help me."

He listens, absolutely intent, to the little doctor who limps into his office and rattles off a description that lines up with half the abductee stories he's heard. He has permission to take a case in Oregon, teenagers disappearing and coming back wrong or broken. It sounds a little too much like the boys who are sent home from the front lines, and a little too unearthly; they're sending him to make sure whatever facet of their conspiracy it is doesn't get out. So, on impulse, he invites Dana Scully to come along with him. He doesn't have a partner right now, he says — Diana was sent to a Naval base overseas — and he could use her medical expertise. Maybe they can help each other.

"Do you believe in the existence of extraterrestrials?" He asks when he hands her the file, and Dana scoffs. Her patients have told her some terrible, inexplicable tales, but no matter what she doesn't see behind the scenes of this war, she's never given credence to the notion.

"Logically," she replies, "I would have to say no. Given the distances needed to travel from the far distances of space, the energy requirements would exceed any kind of craft's capabilities."

Mulder's eyes brighten and he smirks. "That, Dr. Scully, is conventional wisdom. What do we do when, in the case of these kids or your patient who died, convention and science don't offer us the answers we need?"

"The answers are there, you just have to know where to look." This is the tenet she has built her life on. Her search for knowledge began when she was eight years old, the first time she questioned God and the world she lives in, and has led her here. And when she's on a train the next day, sitting across from Mulder's sleeping form, she wonders if this is the right place to look.

Mulder squints one eye open, watching the little doctor, or maybe little spy, as she watches things he can't see pass by outside the window. She's got bright, curious eyes; he'd seen it in how intensely she argued with him about the existence of life beside their own, in the way she fixed him in her gaze like she was trying to figure him out. He's still doing the same; he's just as curious about her as she seems to be about the world around them.

He rolls onto his side, reaches across the space between them and carefully taps her left knee — the one she favors, pretty heavily by the worn look of the top of her cane. "A doctor with a gimp leg?" He asks, maybe a little bit teasingly just to see the reaction he'll elicit from her, when she looks at him.

Dana is used to the questions about her disability, but she's also used to the disapproval or doubt in her soundness as a physician that tends to come with it. Mulder, sprawled across the seat in front of her, seems purely curious. She blinks down at him, finding it strange because when they're standing, he's so much taller, and folds her hands on top of her knee.

"Polio," she explains. "When I was a girl. One of my brothers nearly died, I came up crippled. That's the reason I went into medicine, actually."

Mulder nods, like he understands. Later, in a dark hotel room, he'll tell her how the loss of his sister sent him running to solve mysteries that others wouldn't care about; they might just be more similar than either of them thinks. Their innate curiosity, longing for knowledge, to understand, draws them together. They both want to understand each other, as well.

Dana isn't an investigator, but Mulder is a mystery she wants to solve. He touches her gently, hesitantly, when she impulsively flies into his arms, he flinches at the flames when the hotel lights on fire and then turns angry. His entire face lights up in a tremendous, all-consuming grin when she starts laughing in disbelief in the cemetery and he catches her when her cane slips and she loses her footing on the wet terrain. He calls her by her last name, not her title or "Miss" like she's used to hearing; it reminds her of how people have always referred to her father.

For a moment, it's like there's no war; she forgets about Bill Jr. deployed with the Navy, forgets about Charlie deserting from boot camp and never calling. She forgets, for a second, that she is not and will never be normal or whole, and that she's caught up in a mystery that might put her in danger.

Scully argues with him, almost constantly. She's the skeptical daughter of a Navy captain who's spent her life fighting for a place in a profession that would have her be only a nurse, secondary to everyone else. She questions everything, won't believe a word of his theories. But she listens. She doesn't disregard him, doesn't tell him he'd be better off codebreaking or spying on the Axis; she wants to learn, wants scientific answers for unscientific questions, and when she's caught in a corner, barely staying upright because it's muddy out and she's staring down into an empty grave, she laughs. She doesn't rail against her own lack of knowledge, doesn't argue the way she's been since the moment they met. She looks up at him, something intense shining in her eyes, and she laughs. Mulder cannot comprehend her.

She loses her cane trying to keep up with him in the woods, trying to either hide from or find the source of the blinding lights hovering over the forest. He's not sure which it is; if she thinks they're in danger, or if she wants to know more. Billy Miles, comatose only hours before, is in the light, with Theresa Nemman in his arms. The wind picks up, the light blinds him, and he's not sure where Scully is or if she's seeing this; he hopes she is.

She shouts his name over the sound of the wind whipping through the branches, and he finds her limping through the undergrowth, shining her light toward the ground. He drops to his knees and digs around in the brush for a minute, counting the seconds. He wonders if his watch will have lost time again. Scully balances herself against his shoulder, staring up at him with wide eyes.

"It was incredible," he breathes, and she nods.

Her mind is playing air raid sirens, instincts shouting at her to get out of there, that the light came from a foreign plane or weaponry; nothing she's ever heard of can hover that way, though, and she knows Mulder is thinking of flying saucers. She can see it in his eyes, feels it mirrored in herself when she sees the sheriff's boy and the medical examiner's daughter, alive and whole. It's absolute wonder.

She came here looking for answers, but found something she cannot explain. No answer, just more questions. She's found a mystery, or maybe two. Maybe a friend. Maybe more.

He knows, as well as he knows the back of his own hand, that there are, in fact, more important things to worry about. Abductions by extraterrestrials, experiments done by the government or secret services, should be secondary to winning the war, but what if the two go hand in hand? What if the same is true of him and Scully; she's small and curious and determined enough to be a soldier herself, fits into the mysteries he's after like she was born to be there.

Neither of them expected to find each other in the midst of the tension wrought by the war. Maybe neither of them knew where to look.

[natasha-romanoff-deserved-better]

Clintasha Advent 2021

Day Ten: Missions

CW for mentions of past childhood abuse

~~~

Clint slams the file folders down onto the table. “No. Absolutely not.” He says, crossing his arms over his chest.

Natasha signs from her spot on their couch, not looking at him. “Clint… It’s just another mission. It’s not that big of a deal.”

It was the wrong thing to say, because Clint’s face turns even more sour. “It’s a fucking Honeypot mission. And in Russia.” He spits the last word, hatred seeping from his voice. “You’re not doing it. There’s no way.” Clint paces. “I don’t even know what the hell is wrong with Fury. Why would he ever think this was okay in the slightest?”

Actually, Clint does know why. It’s a line that bristles him every time Fury repeats the damn phrase. “Agent Romanoff is comfortable with everything.”

It was a complete lack of human empathy. Using Natasha’s fear of turning down missions to have her do SHIELD’s dirty work, falling back on her old training to never refuse orders.

“Fury said there’s no one else who could—”

“Fuck that.” Clint interrupts. “There’s plenty of agents here who are willing to do Honeypots who weren’t brainwashed and abused into them from childhood. And if not, he can fucking find another way to get the intel.”

Natasha deflates at the mention of her past. She knows he’s right. She has no doubt she would be able to complete the mission, but it was the mental aftermath of it that would be a problem. Clint watches as the fight drains out of her, and softens his tone.

“It’s not okay for him to use you like that, Nat. He’ll understand you saying no.” He comes to sit next to her on the couch, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her into his side. She resists at first, before giving in and accepting his comfort.

“Thank you.” She whispers into his shoulder. He hums in response, and clicks on a random movie to distract them with. He waits until Nat’s breath evens out, indicating she had finally fallen asleep, and slips his phone out of his pocket.

With one hand, he finds Maria Hill’s contact and opens a new message draft. We need to talk, He types out and hits send. He had promised Natasha that SHIELD would be nothing like her old Red Room handlers, and he intended to keep that promise, no matter what it took.

[dailyadventureprompts]

Drafting an Adventure:5 Lessons on Inspiration and Creativity

Friend of the blog @kwantumphysix was asking about where I get my inspiration from and how they could improve their own creativity, so rather than overload them with all my stray ideas on the subject, I decided to make it into a post. 

If you took a look at my notebooks from even a couple years ago, you’d find pages and pages of absolute tripe. I was squeezing my brain has hard as I could in an attempt to come up with something brilliant, and all I was getting in return was cheap imitations of whatever media I happened to be consuming at the time. I hadn’t yet learned the lessons I’ve had to learn to write on this blog every day, and you can see that in my earliest work: My posts are scattered, rambling, and super infrequent because I was approaching my creative ability all wrong, treating it like a revivor and not a muscle to be trained.  

Just like any other form of art, creativity itself is a skill you can build with practice.  I started at the wrong end of this, expecting whole novels, campaigns, adventures, characters etcetera to be pulled  form my head fully formed by nothing but the engine of my brilliance. Instead you start small: a default fantasy adventure town, a writing prompt, a single image that calls to you ( like I do with my blog). You do your best to add detail and character, to it, and when you feel that creative fire leave you... you drop it and move on to the next prompt. Doing this repeatedly as a creative writing excersize is going to train your brain to write well the same way a workout trains your reflexes. You’re going to be sloppy as hell at first, but we’re not testing you on your first products, we’re working towards making you better at making them, which means our goal is way off in the future. 

Build your back catalog. You’re going to get this advice from a lot of sources: “ Good artists steal” but the actual technique of purloining inspiration is not always that well detailed.  What you’re trying to do is build a reference library of tropes, themes, character quirks, plot developments, setting flourishes, anything you think might be memorable. These snippets of thought become the equivalent of story-legos, able to be arranged into whatever shape you need, reused infinitely in different configurations. Listen to history podcasts, watch bad fantasy tv series, go on a webcomic binge. The more diverse and granular your collection of story lego, the more quickly you’ll be able to find just the right piece to enrich your current project. 

To Make good stuff, you must first understand why stuff is good. We all encounter bad media in our time, but not all of us develop the critical eye necessary to understand WHY it’s bad. I can’t tell you how much youtube video essay critiques have helped my writing, as they opened my eyes to the idea that most flaws with media are purely systematic, and that every bad movie/videogame/book COULD live up to our expectations if only the creators behind them understood. Use this knowledge to self edit, get inspiration from your fix-it-fics and headcanons. If it’d improve the base property, it’s probably good enough to be its own story. 

Get Organized. If you’re going to be creative, you need external storage devices and filing systems. You can’t hold all these ideas in your head at once, because sometimes something random you thought about YEARS ago is going to be the missing ingredient and not finding it is going to drive you up a wall. I always have a journal within arms’ reach of me, I have google docs and pinterest boards and nearly 6000 drafts in my drafts folder. I give my good ideas cool names so I can remember them with just a note ( which is how I got so good at naming all the prompts on my blog). 

Synchronicity. Doing all of this work is going to build up a massive pile of half formed ideas. Far more than you’ll ever actually use. Then, at some point in the future, perhaps years later, just when you’re struggling to add more detail to your current project, it’ll hit you: that thing you thought of years ago, it will almost perfectly fit with the thing you’re working on now. Sure you’ll have to smooth over the edges but it was almost like you were building that all along. Nothing is wasted so long as you can use it to improve something later down the line. This is how most of my campaign ideas come to me: multiple ideas from across previous weeks/months suddenly slotting together like a megazord and taking on a configuration I never originally intended.  

I hope that helps friends, it took me AGES to figure out these lessons, as most of what’s out there for beginning writers is basic as bones. If you have any more questions about these techniques, or want to have me troubleshoot your own writing, please write in!