#the teachers were just as sick of this as we were lol

[itsalmostavengers]

wip word game

Rules: You will be given a word by the person who tagged you. For each letter of the word, share a sentence/excerpt from your wips that starts with that letter.

Tagged by the wonderful @meidui , who gave me STONY and made me realise I have more wips than I actually thought lol. Under the cut because I got carried away teehee.

S: So no, he doesn’t decide to cancel the meeting, but it’s a near thing, and it makes Tony wish he was a mechanic in some bumfuck town in the middle of nowhere and Steve was a preschool teacher, or maybe a vet, and they were both normal and then maybe Tony could’ve cancelled his meeting. These are the things that float through his brain often, when he looks at Steve.

“Wanna shower while I make us breakfast? Then we can watch House in bed for a bit.” Steve suggests, and God, Tony doesn’t want to say it, he won’t, but he just thinks love love love love love. It pours out of him like mist, covering the room, and for a second it chokes him.

(from a wip where I was desperately practising writing in present tense. I have since given up on this endeavour I am a past-tense girlie thru and thru)

T:

Those fucking numbers were all he could think about. Over and over and over, they circled through his head. 83% success rate. 83 fucking percent, and Steve didn't have to be a goddamn math whiz to hear the unspoken inverse: that Tony had run an experiment on himself with a 17% chance of fatality. And he'd done it on a random Tuesday night without even letting Steve know. It seared through him like wildfire; the terror, the rage. He looked at Tony across the room, who was watching him with that goddamn guilty defiance on his face. Steve could have walked in here tomorrow morning and found Tony's dead body on the floor and Tony didn't even seem to care about the way that idea tore Steve's soul to pieces. "1 in 6," Steve muttered. "Jesus, Steve, stop doing this, it's fine, it all worked out-" Tony kept talking, kept minimizing, kept on discussing the odds of his life as if it was a silly game. The fire in his lungs grew and burned and roared; it easily drowned out the dull trickle of excuses that flowed from Tony's mouth. "1 in 6," Steve said again, and then glanced down at where his pistol was holstered at his thigh. He couldn't move past it. 1 in 6. One in six. "Huh. Maybe you're right. Not bad odds, when you think about it."

(One where Steve decides to match Tony's suicidal freak after Tony uploads extremis into himself. Russian Roulette Style.)

O:

Of course Natasha could drive. She could drive excellently, as could Clint, as could Sam as could Steve as could absolutely everyone on the damn team - it was something of a requirement when you joined the most elite task force in the world. Tony didn't doubt their abilities for a second. But they were running out of time. And yes, fine, they could drive. But they couldn't drive like Tony.

That was the decider, really. He could admit that maybe he should've thrown that decider out to the group before shouting "DIBS" and diving into the driver's seat, but hey, he'd note the error in his mission report. If they even survived long enough to fill one out, that was.

He flexed his hands against the smooth leather of the wheel, eyes falling shut as he twisted the key into the ignition. Underneath him, the car came to life. Its engine hummed and breathed, metal and upholstery and glass all beginning to thrum gently with the pulse of diesel.

It was this that no-one understood like Tony did. Machines were animals as much as horses or dogs were - they needed a firm hand, someone who could speak their language. Everyone on the team could drive a car, sure. But no one could ever hope to understand one like Tony could.

(An entirely self-serving fic about Tony being a fucking sick racecar driver and utilising this skill during a high-stakes avengers mission, entirely inspired by the IM2 scene)

N:

Now make no mistake: Tony had done his fair share of fantasizing about this very scenario. If he recalled correctly (which he definitely did, those recollections were vivid), they'd made up a very large portion of all spank-bank fantasies from the ages of approximately 12 to 24.

That being said, never in a million years could he ever have truly envisioned a reality in which he ended up at a dingy speakeasy circa 1937, making out with Steve Rogers in all his five-foot-nothing glory.

His life was weird sometimes. He really wasn't complaining.

(This is actually a blurb of a wip I came up with months ago after a long train journey where I basically envisioned this entire fic in my head)

Y:

“You could’a given me a dollar or you could’a given me a goddamn billion, Tony, none of it would have made a fucking difference because I didn’t have YOU!” 

Steve heard it– heard the way his voice broke at the end, and he detested how weak it made him sound. With a heavy shoulder, he shoved the door open, stepping inside and then turning around in the corridor to face Tony. The door slammed behind them both with a grating clang.

Nothing. Silence. Tony was watching Steve, and Steve was looking at a spot above Tony’s head, stubborn and angry. He couldn’t unclench his jaw. It had been a long few days, and suddenly, he got the horrible sensation of hotness behind his eyes. God, surely he wasn’t going to cry? That wasn’t possible. He hadn’t cried in years. 

This must be what it felt like to be haunted. Those people you saw on daytime TV, looking behind their shoulders at every opportunity, shaking and blabbering and acting totally nuts– that was Steve. He was being haunted, and now everything that he’d packed away was coming loose. 

“You’d given up on me,” Steve said to the spot above Tony’s head, “and you’d given up on us, and you’d given up on the life that we were planning together. Then you sent me 20 million fucking dollars– an amount of money so ridiculous I wouldn’t even begin to know what to do with– and I had to just accept that that was all I was ever going to have left of you? Currency on a bit of blue paper. You knew I always hated how some people could have so much while others had so little. You knew that, and then you– you tried to make me one of them? It… It was like you were laughing at me.”

(Excerpt from the 170k Enemies to Friends to Lovers to Enemies to Lovers AU where Steve is a bartender and Tony is still Tony Stark™)

I'm gonna tag @persephonesfill , @soliloquent-stark , @cowboyhorsegirl, @sunnysideprincess, @carsonian to join in if you feel so obliged (or not, ask games can be stressful, do whatever floats those boats of yours)

your word would be IRON

[virgil-upinthestars]

the fire alarm went off a lot when I was in high school, for a multitude of reasons (someone pulled it, someone decided to smoke weed in the bathroom, someone tried to microwave a burrito) that were never actually a fire. but, because of protocol, we'd have to stay outside in the cold pnw rain for anywhere from twenty minutes to an hour as the fire department trudged over to figure out what the fuck happened this time. this resulted in a school full of teenagers who reacted to a fire alarm like it was an announcement for a suprise assembly. instead of dropping everything and heading for the exits, we'd jump at the loud noise because ew loud noise, groan because fuck not again, and proceed to pack our shit because there was no way we'd be standing out in the cold for forty minutes without our coats and phones.

cue me now, three thousand miles across the country, studying in the library of a well-respected university when the fire alarm goes off. my roommate and I nearly both jump out of our seats, grabbing each other's hand out of sheer reflex, and after a blurred prayer, I realize what's going on. all around us, people are getting up and talking over the alarm as they worry about what's going on, making their way to the nearest exit. my roommate gets out of her chair, looking worried. me?

I look up. I take a long sniff, like I'm impersonating the wolverine. and then I finish my goddamn email.

some of my roommate's friends come over to us, hurriedly explaining that it's just a drill, we don't need to worry. my roommate visibly relaxes. I respond "oh, thank fuck" and close my computer, packing my stuff up. these girls from east asia look at me with shocked and slightly unnerved expressions as I put on my blazer. they've all left their stuff behind. my roommate's also leaving her coat and bag. I shrug, and sling my backpack over my shoulder. If I don't smell smoke, I'm finishing my goddamn email.