#sound systems in mcu au

[dorianglowstick]

sound systems in mcu au Blaster!

I suddenly remember why I use rulers to draw inanimate objects 🥲

He is up for more tweaks in the future, but this is what he looks like for now!

the messed up audial is the courtesy of HYDRA screwing around with his audial receptors; they took the part that helps him amplify or turn down noise reception, so now he can’t control that in one audial.

it causes lots of headaches, difficulty to run straight, vulnerability to sound based attacks, static sound randomly, dangling wires that are not healthy, etc. looooots of problems lmao sorry blaster

I hc that Blaster has excellent hearing, so this is worse for him than if the regular bot had their audial control taken out. What are those big finials for or not to hear?? 😂

[its-in-the-woods]

Reach For Me - Meeting

Masterlist

-Part 1 , Part 2

Universe: AU- post Captain America The Winter Soldier, except we skip Civil War, Bucky comes to live in the tower to help the Avengers as much as he can. He has not gone to Wakanada.

Pairing: James Buchanan Barnes/Bucky x You/x reader (afab) no use of y/n

Word count: 3.1k

Synopsis: You are starting a new job, courtesy of one Tony Stark. Tasked with becoming the head of medical and research for the Avengers and their companions. What you don't expect is to get under the skin of one ex assassin turned good guy, James Barnes.

Author notes: Hi 👋 I've never written MCU... so umm here we go...Nothing I write is short, this will be multi-chapter. Slow slow slow burn, they may not even like each other that much to start. Any characters from the MCU may appear. I will not note them cause there are too many, k. I will also not tag spoilers... be warned. This will be graphic, sad, and tragic... but there will be sparks I promise.

MINORS and AI dickbags GET OUT.

Rating/Warning: Missing limbs, prosthetic, wounds, ptsd, long silences, brooding, Bucky (you know why), mentions of past torture, physical and mental.

All mistakes, grammar, and plot holes are my own.

You sit in your Corolla looking up at the massive building a block away. There was parking under the building for you, had your name on it and everything. Least that’s what Stark told you, Tony Goddamn Stark. He’d rolled into your lab one day and tossed your whole world upside down. You’d had no idea he had been funding the university's research into neurolink prosthetics, or that he was the one that had backed your grant to get you through medical school. Now he wants you to be the head of medical at his infamous Stark Tower, keep an eye on the health of the Avengers.

Well it was more complicated than that. He wanted you specifically because you were a jack of all trades, you’d served in the military as a medic, done several years in New York's largest ER, before you’d decided to go back to your roots in neuro-science specifically to do with prosthetics bio-connections. That’s what he needed. Also someone who wasn’t scared to stare super-soldiers down and not flinch.

The last part you’d assumed to be a joke, but now sitting here you weren’t as sure. Drumming your fingers over the steering wheel you debated whether you should go in or not. How had you even ended up here? A doctor to the Avengers? It sounded comical just thinking about it.

How was it possible that you were more nervous than when you were jumping out of the back of a plane? Maybe you’d get to do that here too.

“Fuck it,” You murmur, shifting the car into drive you head to your new job.

***

It was a whirl of paperwork, most of it you didn’t understand, really should have brought it to a lawyer. The non-disclosure agreements were lengthy and in depth, but Pepper had summed them up as ‘What happens in the tower stays in the tower’. It felt vaguely threatening, but the paperwork was almost soothing at this point. The tower is massive, it has full medical facilities, dozens of labs, lawyers on payroll, and then there was the Avenger’s end of things. You have been given a special pass to work up there. You have a small team of medical professionals you would be working with. Along with the team of assistance and crew of speciality staff that kept everyone from fighting with each other.

The first day is just that, paperwork, here is your clinic, this is the labs, please file things here and here. This is how the emergency system works, if you see an alien no you didn’t.

You rubbed at your face as you sat in the small ‘clinic room’.White walls, that mix with metal paneling, behind you was a large glass window that looks out over the city. Beside you is your home monitor, the back would be facing the patient. Beside you were four others that you could use to pull up any images or information you needed to show the patient. You’d already decide that you need at least one or two plants here, yes it was a clinical setting but it wasn’t a jail cell either.

To your right was a door that leads into a small medical bay. It has a patient bed, and enough supplies for a full operation if needed. It was overkill really. You were dealing with gods, super soldiers, a green hulk, and the occasional super spy. Besides, there is already an operating theatre on this level that could be staffed within minutes; but it wasn’t your money to burn.

Closing out your computer you grab the tablet that had all your new patients information. Most of it was standard, blood test, x-rays, ct-scan, injury lists and more. All neatly packaged inside a metal and glass case, with an encrypt password and fingerprint scan. You want to go over all the notes in detail, make sure there was nothing that was a miss.

Keys, and bag in hand you close up the clinic door and head towards the elevator. The place was quiet for such a large building, you would occasionally see agents, assistance, and others but for the most part it was empty. You were sure when the world was being threatened by alien invaders it was a hot spot, but right now it just felt cold.

The doors to the elevator open up and you come face to face with Captain America himself and The Winter Soldier. Your heart pounds for a moment, but you quickly push that down, the mask of professionalism slipping on as you walk in. They stood in running gear, Captain in all blue, and Soldier in all black.

“Hi, I am Steven Rogers,” Captain America, Steve, said with a grin holding out his hand. “Hi,” You reply, giving him your title and shaking his hand firmly, before turning to The Winter Soldier. Steve gestures with his thumb. “That’s James Barnes, we are just heading out for a run,” Steve smiles, Bucky nodding at you but keeping his hands firmly folded across his chest.

“Nice to meet you,” You nod at James, who stays silent, just staring back at you. Shuffling over you stand by the far side of the door, you remember the headlines about what happened to him. HYDRA, you’d heard enough about them to wonder how James was still standing upright.

You mentally note to go over his file in detail this evening. The elevator shifts into a mostly comfortable silence, you don’t force conservation, and both men seem more than okay with that. You can’t help that your heart is hammering. Would be difficult for anyone to stand in a small box with two Super Soldiers at their back. Least that’s what you tell yourself. A chime at the main floor and the two men go to get off.

“Nice to meet you,” Steve says, with his signature smile. “We’ll see you around.”

“Have a good evening,” You reply, resisting the urge to slam the close door button. James looks over his shoulder once, his eyes connecting with yours before turning back to Steve. You tell yourself that it was just a silent acknowledgement, but it doesn’t feel like that. It feels like he is making sure you know that you’re being watched.

***

The room was small white, with the smell of metal and disinfectant hanging everywhere. One wall has four monitors, a small 3D model of him spun on one, another had his health stats, some just blank. He was interested in the one that showed what was left of his left arm and the one of his socket that attached the metal arm. He squints trying to read the little text boxes that hover over each point as they spin. Some highlight damages, others things that could be upgraded. The Doc had done her homework.

Looking at the images made him feel itchy, his hand going up to rub along where the metal seamed to his flesh. He mentally braces for pain to shoot through his neck, surprised when nothing happens, he'd gotten so used to them stopping him from touching it. The amount of times he'd tried to peel it off, ripe it out of his flesh, had led them to add tech that made it even more painful to try and remove.

He wasn’t pleased to be there, why did he need some doctor to tell him what he already knew? The arm had been acting up yes, but he was sure Stark with all his money and tech could fix it.

Yet here he was sitting in a chair with no exit strategy, beside jumping out the window. Fingers tapping along the arm rest of the chair, hoping that things could be over soon.

A quiet knock on the door has him sitting up straight. He adjusts his shirt, hoping the wrinkles didn't show where he'd been rubbing.

“Hi, James,” You say, slowly opening the door and walking in. Giving him a small smile as you walk over to the chair in front of the monitors. “Do you like James? Or would you prefer a different name?”

“Uh- James, James is fine,” He mumbles, just loud enough to be heard. Unsure how to feel now that you are standing in front of him.

He'd seen you a few times since the first meeting in the elevator. You mostly kept to yourself, saying ‘hi’ to anyone that crossed your path, making polite conversation, and generally fitting in. He'd also spotted you hanging with Tony going over tech, and helping him modify different gear. You always smile at him and say hello, even if he barely replies. Never treating him any differently than anyone else. It was refreshing.

Steve had said you had a good air about you. Natasha hadn't scoffed, even called you pleasant. So after nearly a month of you requesting him to come by he had caved and come down.

“Alright, so Mr. Stark has asked me to take a look at the arm you've had installed.” You chatter away, you wear casual clothes, a button-up purple shirt, and black slacks. No white coat or name tag. “He noted that it was uncomfortable, and wasn’t operating as smoothly. Do you want to tell me about that?”

Swallowing, he held his breath as you looked at him. There was no intention behind your eyes, you weren't mining for intel or assessing if he was going to explode, just a simple question. Yet he could barely find words to say.

“It's not bad, just needs some maintenance.” Bucky said flatly, his jaw clicking as he kept himself stiff. He wasn't going to go into detail to some stranger, despite how calm and cordial you were.

Or tell you that the pain kept him up at night, how it aches like it was frozen, or the nightmares. Shifting, he pushes those thoughts down, bringing him back to the present.

You nod, typing a few things into the computer. Not pressing him to answer or bombarding him with more questions.

“James, I know this is all still really new. You're still settling in and learning about us, and well probably whether you can trust us.” You take a breath, his eyes watching you look at the screen. A small wrinkle appears between your brows as you focus. It shouldn’t make his skin tingle when you look like that. “Plus I am new here, so it’s all new.”

You hesitate, lip worrying between your teeth, Bucky was definitely not filing all the little quirks you had, cause there was no reason for that. “I don't work for anyone, but you. Technically Stark pays me, but he doesn't meddle with what I do, there is no overreach. If you're not comfortable with the prosthetic I want to know.”

Bucky sits there, his eyes moving to yours, his body still as rigid as ever. “It's fine.”

It wasn't fine, but he had dealt with it long enough and didn't need anyone's help.

“Okay,” You reply, he can see you holding back a sigh. Disappointment flickering under the uncertainty. Why the hell did you care so much?

“Could I take a look at your arm? Please, tell me no if you're uncomfortable.”

Bucky shifts a little, his face scrunching at the words, he wasn’t used to someone giving him space. No one had pressed him to do anything he didn't want in the tower, but there were expectations of him. With you though, that didn't seem to be the case.

He shifts to the side, moving his right hand over to his left arm, the metal reacting to his touch. Gripping the metal he shifts and twists it so that it pops off the joint. Taking the arm he lays it out gently on the glass table with a clunk.

You roll over on your chair, not looking at the prosthetic, instead coming to look at the compression sleeve.

“Are you okay if I manipulate your arm?”He nods, but winces when you touch over the residual limb. The skin is sensitive, sore, and has deep bruises, he forces himself to stay still and not move away.

You carefully look over the shoulder joint. The sleeve on it was worn, and he knew you could feel the swelling happening underneath it. “I am going to remove the sleeve, take a closer look at the skin.”

You talk to him, despite his limited replies. He watches as you carefully pull the cuff down. The joint is swollen, covered with crude scarring, there are several pressure sores that ache.

You grab gloves and carefully feeling the joint and bone, fingers feeling the rigid metal that has been used to reinforce the bone.

Bucky shifts a little as your hand pushes against one of the sores. He can feel the line of his shoulders tightening up, as you continue to palpate it.

“I would like to do a scan of the joint,” You say, as you lift and move the arm. Carefully watching how it rotates and moves. As if you hadn’t just dropped a bomb on him.

“The socket shouldn't leave these pressure sores. Especially with the advanced healing you have, I have a feeling the bone and metal are causing the discomfort."

“I can’t do scans,” He swallows, his right hand shaking without his consent. The sound of the magnets flying around his head start to echo around him. Stomach twisting and tightening as he tries to suppress the urge to run.

You blink, sliding back just a little, giving him some space. “Okay.”

He watches the way you shift, how you carefully take off your gloves and toss them into the bin. “You are not going to want to talk about it, which is fine. I am going to talk through some steps we could take so we could get scans.”

His right hand clenches into a fist, sweat breaking out on the back of his neck. Using everything in his power to stay seated. You’re speaking but the worlds are not sinking in. He shakes his head, he wants to say something but all the words have been trapped somewhere in his throat. The panic is rising up the back of his neck like fire, he feels encased, stuck, breath and heart rate elevating.

“James,” You say quietly, moving so that you were directly in front of him. “We don’t need to do anything right now. Or even in a week.”

He looks right at you, trying to see past any mask you might be hiding behind. “I can get you a new sleeve, we don’t need scans for that.”

Trying to relax, he nods his head, hoping that you will keep to your word. His eyes move away staring at the floor, the pattern of the swirling speckled vinyl. His mind is a mess of images and sounds, the thumping of the magnets, the pulse of the electrical surge. The feeling of it buzzing through his head, the pain surging passed his skin and up his neck, how his molars ground against the mouth guard.

You move away rolling over to the prosthetic, looking down into where his arm latches. Examining internal workings, you go to pick it up and struggle. For some reason it snaps him out of his daze.

“I wasn’t expecting it to be that heavy,” You squint at it, rolling it over the glass surface with a clunk. Bucky picks it up and holds it out for you to look closer at.

You look surprised for a moment but then take the moment to place your hand inside where his nub goes in.

“Oh, yeah there are latches in here.” You move over to where he is sitting, you don’t touch him just exam, lining up where his pressure sores are and the latches.

“That should actually be a relatively easy fix. Would you mind coming to the lab-” You roll back to the computer, humming as you look at it. “Let’s do next Tuesday, Lab C, it’s on level seventy-eight.”

“Sure,” Buck says, his voice a gruff whisper. He takes his arm and clicks it back into place, rotating it and twisting it.

***

The door clicks and you slump into the chair, rubbing your hand over your face. That had gone as well as could be expected, the man was a ball of trauma wrapped in stone, and dipped in concrete.

Steve had warned you that Bucky was leery of new people, and took a long time to warm up. At least he hadn’t gone running the moment you asked a question.

Taking a breath you go back to your notes, you put in to have an assistant with you next Tuesday to adjust Bucky’s arm. It should be relatively easy, something that should have been caught weeks ago. Though, judging by the lack of notes from any previous Doctors, on James Barnes, they hadn’t spent much time with him.

You plug away sipping on coffee, you need to reread the notes that had been gathered about James. Well, if they could even be called notes.

You had seen the few videos that had been found. Had taken a good chunk of first week to sit and force yourself to watch them. To see what had been done to him. Stark had warned you, everyone had, but you wanted to know. To understand why James was the way he was, this was something you took pride in. Knowing who your patients were, what they had been through, and how it affected their day to day life mattered.

The videos ended up being the worst thing you’d ever seen, they had purposefully kept him partially aware of what was happening. They had used the pain to help brainwash him, making his body be in a constant state of fight, while not being able to fight at all. As they peeled open his body, shoving metal and wires into him over and over.

Then without any recovery time they’d freeze him, putting him under for an undetermined length of time.

Didn’t even cover the neuro trauma that had happened, the machine that used a combination of electric pulse and sound waves to affect memory. No wonder he didn’t want anything to do with CT scans, you shouldn’t have even brought it up. Groaning, you try not to beat yourself up over the misstep.

The machine they used wasn’t even completely understood, Hydra had of course destroyed it before anyone could get their hands on it. Maybe if you had it you could have worked at undoing the damage. Instead you were left with half ass notes, and grainy videos.

Pushing away from the computer, you decide it was time to go home. It had been a long day already, and you wanted to be in your own space. The drive back should be uneventful, meaning you could get to the lengthy amount of notes to spill over in your mind. Hopefully it would give you enough info to help James.

Part 2

~☆~☆~

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@hiddlebatchedloki

[deathbyathousandspiders]

HELL–BOUND. ₄

mcu!peter parker | zombie apocalypse au. CHAPTER FOUR.

IN WHICH you and peter run into obstacles on your way to find natasha. could the two of you find her before death finds its way to you first?

read chapter one | two | three | five.

✨masterlist✨.

3.6k.

Despite the second nightmare that greeted you with sleep, it was the most restful night you’d had with Peter beside you. From the sweat dotting his temples and the alert look in his eyes in the morning, you could tell that he was prone to horrific dreams, too. 

Still, the two of you woke up at dawn as agreed. Gathering food, supplies, and equipping yourselves with weapons and proper attire, you were leaving the safe haven before you knew it. 

You’d walked for about an hour down the long road you and Peter reunited on, the only turn made was into an abandoned neighborhood a few miles north. Peter had stopped you on a random street corner, telling you to trust, he had a plan. 

But that was an hour ago. 

Sitting on the curb, you watched as Peter paced back and forth between streets. Four paces right, and he was standing off Maplewood Lane; five paces left, and he was on Woodlawn Drive. The sight would’ve made you dizzy, but the growing look of panic in his eyes kept you stirring in thought. 

A sigh left your lips, checking the wrist–watch Peter lent you. “Are you sure we shouldn’t keep moving?” You asked, wanting to give him some form of solitude. “Nat told me if I got lost, I should just meet her in Massachusetts.”

Peter checked his own watch, slowing his steps down to a halt. His eyes met yours, growing paranoia swirling his pupils, but you knew it wasn’t aimed at you. “She’d told me before she left that if she wasn’t here in three minutes, we’d have to go on without her.”

And suddenly, the eye contact you two held felt like the last shred of hope you had. You were only promised each other, the person in front of the other. You shared his shock and sobering realization, the panic sweeping through his veins. 

There was something grim floating in the air. The neighborhood was nothing but a ghost town, a mere path of passing for its survivors; a meet up for the last remaining Avengers. 

Letting your thoughts carry you off, the sound of Peter’s scheduled alarm on his watch startled you, ripping you back into reality. The two of you met each other’s eyes again, breaking eye contact only to scan the area and then accounting for the loss. 

You rose to your feet, hope still lingering somewhere in your system. “Maybe she’s already there.” You posed the idea. 

Peter’s jaw had drawn a sharp line as he clenched it, to bite back swears or hold back tears, you couldn’t figure out. “Maybe.” But something possessed him as he took a few paces northward, pausing until you began to follow him. “We can make it by sunset if we don’t stop.” He was taking responsibility, taking charge.

So you were off, both silently sending prayers that Natasha was waiting for you at the airport. You’d promised not to speak of it, or the jet, or of where you planned to go; you assumed Peter had made the same vow. Any spoken indication of where you planned to go, what you planned to do, just who and what you were—the entire plan could go south. 

Peter led you through greenery and backroads, having this path memorized long before he’d found you. Your hands brushed against lazy fingers and phantom grasps every so often, just a silent check in. Both of you were on high alert to your surroundings, not daring a hand hold over the risk of an ambush. 

Part of you was lucky to have been in the HYDRA base for so long; not that you were lucky to undergo the torment and torture and abuse, but because the world had a hefty scar and a lingering stench of what kind of mutant humans had roamed the earth for those few weeks. 

There were two kinds of walkers: those who were infected, and those who were impaired. 

Pietro had been impaired by HYDRA, injected by their spider–serum manually. The scientists had hoped he would have abilities that mirrored Peter’s, perhaps a mind they could brainwash if they were lucky. Instead, they got a boy trapped in his body, suddenly detached from his mind, now with an undeniable sudden thirst for blood. 

They’d impaired Bucky, too. A shiver went down your spine at the thought that Natasha might’ve tried to search for him. What might’ve happened to her, you didn’t want to ponder on. 

Infected people began deteriorating the second they were bitten by others. It was a wide–spreading, saliva–traced illness, only reminding people of its remnants by the gore along the ground and some sad excuse of a cobweb. 

Some of the spider effects had been traceable through the infected. Patches of flesh turned to webs, and they could climb walls if they were smart enough, but they were dying. The contents of whatever HYDRA made was too much for the human mind to handle, too much and too lethal for a mortal body to carry. Most of them were rotting filth now. It just left the Earth unnervingly quiet, vacant. 

With both you and Peter immune in some way, there was no doubt that the two of you were some of the last few left. In the world. 

You kept your paces in time with Peter’s, silent as you both kept to your thoughts. An invisible shadow cast at the thought of moving forward without Natasha. You didn’t even want to bring up the fact that you didn’t know how to fly a jet, let alone what coordinates to plug in to get to Wakanda. 

In the still of your walking, focusing on the sound of the crunching grass and leaves you stepped over, Peter jolted to a stop. His arm shot out from his side to shield you, but from what? Nothing could be seen ahead as the two of you approached a clearing. His head peered around, shoulders square from focus. 

“Is it your sense?” You asked, keeping your voice as low you could muster. His head shook back and forth. 

Peter took a quiet breath, almost too scared to move. “HYDRA dampened them when I was captive.” The words struck your heart, your gut, in a way that you couldn’t describe. “But something’s off..”

More alert than ever, you checked your six o’clock, then your three, and your nine. Nothing. Nothing but the sound of your heartbeat accelerating in your ears, and your breathing becoming thinner than a piece of parchment. Just as Peter dared to take a step forward, to dismiss his warning, an earth shattering roar could be heard from behind you. That same roar that the two of you heard upon reuniting. 

The same roar that kept you up each night in that damned HYDRA base. 

And it was much closer than anticipated. 

Both of you went fridged, stiff in place before Peter muttered the word. “Run.” It was all you needed before you went sprinting off for the clearing, not risking the slightest peak back. 

It was like the earth shook with the thunderous footsteps trailing you, and the trees rustled in his wake. You knew it had been too quiet, too safe. Some form of creature that HYDRA had curated surely would’ve found you. 

And as you turned to catch a glimpse at what snuff you two out, there he was.

Bucky Barnes ran the length of the clearing, gaining distance on you at an inhumane speed. His eyes were black with void, anger. Lack of control. He ran towards you, either of you, and you panicked to think through a plan. 

Then you realized. 

“Peter!” You panted, shouted to him, “I’m going to let him bite me!!” It wasn’t an ask for approval, you made your decision. 

All the color drained from Peter’s face as he glanced at you. “What?!” Sheer dread and bafflement shone in his voice. He couldn’t believe what you’d suggested. 

You wanted to sound more sure of it, more confident, but quite frankly, you weren’t. “I am the antidote!! If he bites me…” You spoke between breaths, “He could turn back–”

“You don’t know that!” Peter argued. His tone was firm through his running. He didn’t want you to do this. “We can’t risk it, Y/N!! It’s too dangerous!” The gears turned in his head, behind his eyes, trying to find ways for you to rationally think through this. 

There was a fence just beyond the clearing. A minute or two more of a sprint and you’d make it. If you made it. Bucky was incredibly fast. And you had the inclination to try and stall him. 

You contemplated. “I have to try!!” And you had to act fast. 

“There’s too much at stake!!” There was desperation, a plea burning in his eyes. And his words almost held you back, almost kept you running. 

But you halted to a stop yelling back, “I’m sorry!!” It felt selfish to abandon Bucky, to leave him like this. 

And Peter skidded to a stop, too. 

It all happened so fast, too fast, too swifty. Bucky mauled you to the ground, the twigs and dirt and stones beneath you didn’t make you feel better about your decision. 

And just as a low groan of pain fought through your lips, you saw just how far gone he was. How grave your decision was. 

He foamed at the mouth, eying which part of you to rip apart first. His snarl rumbled in his throat, his chest, vibrating against where he pinned you to the rotted soil. Every part of him felt foreign. You weren’t even sure if this was Bucky Barnes anymore. Or if there was any of him left. 

But he hesitated. He paused at the fear in your eyes, at the stillness in your breath. With just enough time for Peter to throw a gadget at him, knocking him off you and trapping him in some form of net. 

Your chest rapidly moved with your breathing as you watched Bucky struggle, unable to move your eyes as Peter raced to you, helped you up to your feet. You couldn’t even muster a word out before he tugged you to run. “C’mon! We need to go. Now!!”

With one hand in yours, Peter led you to the fence, not sprinting til you had the footing to match his pace. His other had gripped a remote, which sent shock waves through the net to stun Bucky for a while. There was no promise, no way to tell for how long, though. 

Effortlessly, you and Peter both climbed the ten–foot chain fence at the edge of the clearing, hopping over the top and landing in another forest. With heavy breaths, the two of you kept in a jog as you trekked through the wood, not giving yourselves the chance to look back. 

Even if you were the antidote, you realized now, letting any and all who were infected bite you, probably wasn’t the best solution. 

“Thank you..” You broke through the quiet, nodding to Peter. “You saved my life.” The realization was a lot heavier than you’d processed, but every ounce of it was true. 

Peter merely smiled at you. It wasn’t his typical–Peter grin, no. He seemed a bit shaken up at your spontaneity, but he didn’t want you to think he wouldn’t have supported you. “Don’t thank me.” He spoke plainly, even through his consistent jog. “I’ve always got your back.”

There was a small clearing ahead, and the two of you aimed for the little patch of grass amid the thick forest. Peter took the chance to catch his breath, put the stun–remote back in his bag, and grabbed some water. 

You, also, caught your breath, scanned the clearing, grabbed some water. It was near noon, checking your watch, and based on Peter’s GPS, you were making good time. 

It was a breath of fresh air to take a small break, especially with your calves screaming after sprinting for so long. Being held in captivity, you weren’t training like you were used to. Your physique and muscle memory still stood strong, but your joints were killing you. 

A low whine of ache and fatigue left your lips as you reached into your bag and grabbed a granola bar. Peter was quick to notice the exhaustion. The pain you tried to stifle back. 

He took a minute to find the right words to say, sifting through the list of questions he’d thought up the past twenty–four hours. 

“When we get you to Wakanda.. Do they–” He swallowed back the nerves that tried to choke back the sentence. “Do you really have to die?”

You nearly choked on your granola bar at the question, not expecting it. Part of you didn’t expect him to look at you so solemnly, either. But he was your boyfriend. You shrugged your shoulders, taking your turn to try and find the right thing to say. “Peter, I’m, uh– I’m not sure. I don’t know—”

“Cause seeing that happen, back there.” He hugged his elbows, worry knitting his brows together as he looked at you. “With Bucky.. I just– It’s selfish, but you’re all I have left.”

The world was muted around you. The blood didn’t leave your body, but there was a cold that ran a lap through your system. There was something sobering in the air around you as you looked at each other. You truly were all he had left. 

And he was all you had left, too. 

You thought about it, the logic behind killing you. “I made the assumption.. That I’d have to die.” And you spoke with honesty, sincerity. “I assumed..” The sudden hollowness in your throat became an obstacle to keep the sentence going. “Because on the off chance that I didn’t have to die, at least I came to terms with it..”

Peter searched your eyes, finding the truth in your explanation. He moved his hands to wipe the tears that slipped, not wavering his stare from you or shifting the understanding look in his eyes. He was there to listen, just like he’d said. 

“If I’m the only possible antidote, and I have to die, I have to be okay with it.” You took a shaky breath, “And I am.” That, though, was false. 

Sure, you would die. You were far from okay with it, especially now that you’d rekindled with Peter. 

So, you found the courage to ask: “When.. When the impaired subjects bit you…” The way he tensed at the words told you that he thought you were oblivious to it. The screams he’d let out day and night in captivity told you otherwise. “Did they ever.. turn back?”

Peter found the strength to shake his head. “No.” His word was short, mainly because he had difficulty looking back on those memories. “I was just.. the same.”

And even as the false hope depleted with the question, you took a deep breath. “Wakanda is the most advanced city in the world, and the only standing untouched piece of civilization.” It was wild to believe just how much was lost in a month. “If anyone can figure out how to keep me alive and still create an antidote, it’ll be someone there.”

Hence why you and Peter didn’t waver any longer in your journey. You were going to make it to Wakanda, even if it was the last thing you’d ever do. 

It was a straight shot forward, a hike through overgrown forests and random clearings. Once you’d gotten to Massachusetts, there were only a few turns to make, and then you’d arrive at the airport. 

But Peter couldn’t seem to find the markers that Natasha had laid out. 

Hours passed, it was almost time to stop to make dinner, possibly to set up camp. Camp was the last possible resort, but Peter couldn’t find what Nat had described, and you were losing daylight. 

You’d found the clearing she described to him. An odd, dipping sphere of grass in the thick of the wood. A tree she’d subtly painted was supposed to lead them to the edge of the forest closest to the airport, once said by her that it would be closed to that. But it couldn’t be seen. 

Peter read over the piece of parchment she’d left twice more, a frustrated exhale forcing through his lips. He hadn’t eaten all day, he was hungry, tired. He was about to give up. 

“Are you two lost?”

Both you and Peter’s heads whipped towards the unfamiliar voice in unison, rattled and unnerved. Approaching the clearing were two people, probably in their mid–thirties, one male–presenting and the other female–presenting. They hadn’t been detected by either of you, or seen at all in your searching, up until they walked into the clearing. 

You’d taken the time to look over their attire, why they were so comfortable out in the open; they’d worn black short–sleeved shirts, matching cargo pants, and weaponry all along their torsos. They had identical cross–body knife holsters, and different arrays of syringes and daggers and knives lining their hips. No guns, you noted, but something else did catch your attention. A singular knife with a bone–carved handle. And you’d seen enough human bones sticking out of rotted flesh along the New York ruins to know what one looked like. 

A chill slid down your back like a serpant, sending spider–like tingles of dread down the length of your body. 

Yet you smiled, straightening your posture. “Oh, we’re just fine!” A southern accent laced your lips with each word, masking your identity. “We’re just passing through, heading back to our military troupe.” You took Peter’s left side, lacing your fingers and latching an arm with his. You looked up at him with mock infatuation, “Isn’t that right, darlin’?” You hoped Peter would take notice of the way your fingers trembled in his, in the glisten in your eyes that told you to run. 

Peter, thank God, caught the hint. You wondered whether he saw the same things you did, especially with his senses gone. “Absolutely, sweetheart.” You hid how impressed you were by his sweet–as–honey accent, but gave him a little smile like he’d read your mind instead. “We’d best be on our way.” And just as the two of you went to take your leave, the woman spoke up again. 

“Do either of you know how to get to Manhattan from here?” 

And you felt the way Peter’s step fell out of yours. The way he fell back, wanting to help. Your eyes widened in his stare, shaking your head slowly in silent communication. Your fingers squeezed with his, trying to give him warning signs, but he squeezed yours back–gave you a smile that told you to trust. 

You didn’t. 

Peter nodded, pointing with his free hand. “It’s about a two day trip south from here, ma’am.” He spoke with sincerity. And you knew he was trying to be helpful, you knew his intent wasn’t to prove distrust to you, but every second you spent there felt like an inch closer to death. 

The woman looked helpless, her partner keeping distance as the woman paced closer. She pulled out a map from her pocket, oblivious to the way you flinched at the action. “Would you mind showing me?” There was an innocence to her voice that you didn’t trust. 

Peter didn’t seem to hear it. 

Your heart dropped to your stomach when Peter dropped your hand, but fear kept your feet planted where you stood, immediately taking in every inch of your surroundings. Which trees had the lowest branches, which partings were the biggest, how the hell you would haul Peter far enough away if something were to happen. 

And it did. 

The second that Peter was within reach, the woman injected one of the syringes into Peter’s collarbone. It only took him a second to get woozy, fall to his knees, and collapse unconscious on the dirt below him. Your hands were already on your guns, prepared to fire, but the man was already five feet from your side. 

Blow after blow, he attempted to strike you with his knives. Knives in each hand, and you dodged and blocked each strike with the gun in your hand. One, two, left, right, hit, guard. You were trained for this. Your attention was primarily on blocking each slash at your figure, but you also had to ration out little glances to your blind spots to keep tabs on the lady. 

You’d already felt winded. Winded from panic, winded and achy from the amount of walking you’d had to do all day. You couldn’t even give yourself a second to think about whether Peter was unconscious or dead on the ground. Just when you’d danced your way far enough around the clearing to glance at him, a blade sliced at your upper thigh. Quick reflexes made the strike barely feel like a tickle, especially with the adrenaline high, but it still ripped through your pants. It still drew some blood. 

“Damn it!” The man cursed, forcing words through his own tired breaths. “I forgot to sharpen that one!” He muttered in frustration, most likely to the woman. 

The woman whose hands now warmed the sides of your torso from behind, who drove a syringe into your own collar bone. “Don’t worry, sweetheart.” She spoke with a chilling calm, letting you fall unconscious in her feeble arms. “We’ll sharpen it when we get back home.” And that was the last you heard, could comprehend besides Peter’s limp body, before the world went still and dark. 

[writingsofadeadman]

first of all, what is the omniverse?

we all know the basic idea, right?

“infinite possibilities! everything you can possibly imagine is real!”

and while the sheer notion of that is fcking terrifying

how does it work??

based on all the breadcrumbs and bits and pieces that exe file has been feeding my hard drive, i actually have a solid idea of how the omniverse is organized

or at least a part of it, since the excerpts i get often say “observable monocosm”

this is gonna destroy my mental health…

there are two types of multiverse that i think most people are familiar with

the many-worlds interpretation & what i call the “snowflake interpretation”

the many-worlds interpretation is the more well-known one. we’ve all seen or heard of it. schrodinger’s cat. aus. mcu. everything everywhere all at once. you get it.

while the snowflake interpretation is more like every universe is wholly, completely different from each other from the start - entirely different histories, physics, etc.

well in the omniverse, these two interpretations coexist, just not on the same levels. lemme break it down

if you’re actually into multiverses and cosmology and stuff, youve prolly heard of max tegmark. he basically suggested that the multiverse is separated by levels

and the omniverse kinda builds off of that, just switched up a little like poorly copied homework.

the first level is a universe

it’s indisputable. even if the omniverse doesn’t exist, i dont think ppl can deny that the universe does (unless theyre weird).

movin right along…

the 2nd level is a multiverse. this is where the many-worlds interpretation comes in. if u somehow don’t know it, it implies that all the possible outcomes of a quantum measurement, or basically an event, are equally real but do not interact with each other. means all hypothetical scenarios, no matter how big or small the changes are - what if you didn’t date that girl, or what if the meteor that killed the dinosaurs never came - have their own worlds. they branch off of one universe, and until a certain point in time they are one in the same. think of it like a tree

the 3rd level is called a megaverse. according to excerpts from vivat vita, the existence of them is still debated. they basically encompass all multiverses that, get this, are created from similar kinds of matter. this is where it gets complicated. scientists arent assured that megaverses exist since they havent discovered an observable “divide” between them. ill explain this later

anything beyond a megaverse is considered untestable, unobservable, and completely unheard of. most scientists just stop there - all megaverses make up the omniverse in finality. like tegmark said, the omniverse is the ultimate multiverse, the collection of all realities that are mathematically possible.

there are some hypotheses that the levels beyond megaverses entail existences that have completely different structures and systems. like while one verse (word for level of existence) looks like this another looks like this.

there are also hypotheses that verses have their own timelines, and that alternate versions of them exist based on their interactions with each other. like there’s an alternate version of a multiverse because someone fired a wormhole between two universes at a different time.

i really dont know what im talking about

i mean i do(ish), but i know i sound absolutely insane. i might sound all intellectual, but im rlly just a huge yapper.

ik this all sounds complicated, and it is, but im really just making observations here. take everything i say with a grain of salt.

im tired of this shyt. im going to bed. expect a follow-up post probablyyyyyyyyy tomorrow.

see yall there. peace be wit yall - 6/13/25

[littlethingwithfeathers]

How to Use A03 if you're used to Algorithm Fed Content: A kind primer.

There's a post making the rounds where someone, I'm going to assume earnestly, asks the question, "How do people figure out what's good to read on AO3?" And predictably, while there have been some people trying to answer that question assuming that it's being asked in good faith, there have been some people ridiculing this person. Basically, spewing out the fandom equivalent of "git gud noob." Like I said... I'm assuming this person was asking out of actual ignorance and curiosity, mostly because I see a lot of people also lamenting the fact that algorithm-fed apps and fandom spaces are creating a generation of fans who don't know how to actively search for and curate the content they consume. So when they get on a place like AO3 or even Tumblr to an extent, they don't know how to find the things they want and how to curate their experience. And so I guess that's why I pulled up short when this person's question has been getting so much snark. Here's a teachable moment. Even if they are being a troll in this case (which I doubt) here's the chance to give the facts on how AO3 works so they can use this amazing archive themselves. And not just them but anyone who happens upon the post. So... I'm not an AO3 whiz by any means. I don't spend a lot of time digging around in the tags and tools and bells and whistles of the search engine. If someone else wants to reblog with some tips there, go for it. It's the best thing about AO3 in my opinion... other than the lack of censorship. But here's my tips on how to find something you'll like. This is pretty much what I do.

-Go to your fandom of choice's tag. Filter for the rating you want (Teen, Explicit, etc), and then just start scrolling. Take a peek at things that sound interesting from the tags or summaries. You might have to scroll for a bit, and you might hit some stuff that's not for you, but you'll find something eventually. Especially if it's a bigger fandom like SPN, MCU, Hannibal, or Critical Role. -If you discover/know that there's something that bothers you (unfinished work, ABO dynamics, whatever) you can filter for those tags! This is how you curate your experience. It's an active process and there are no shadow-bans or anything in place to keep sensitive content corralled into a certain area. There's a rating system, and there's tags, but nothing to actually make those mean anything unless the user blocks them. While it takes more thought than mindless scrolling, you get to play a role in actively searching out new things for yourself that an algorithm might gloss over. -Likewise, if there's something you really like or are in the mood for, search for that tag in particular. Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Coffee Shop AU... whatever your jam is. -Be careful using metrics like views, comments, and kudos as benchmarks. They fluctuate wildly by pairing, and from fandom to fandom, and are heavily influenced by date of publishing. And just because the majority of people like something, doesn't mean it's for you. If something sounds interesting... read a few paragraphs and see what's up! -Check out the Collections page under the "Browse" tabs. Often these are curated lists either from individual fans or from fanfic writing events like Big Bangs, Zines, and gift exchanges. Fanfic events like these often attract pretty experienced writers so not only is the quality likely to be very good, it's also likely to have some pretty prolific authors -When you find an author you like, and have read your fill of their offerings, see what they have bookmarked or what collections their works are in. You might find some similarly interesting stuff. It's also worth seeing if they have a blog or other social media listed on their about page. They might post some links there or be part of communities elsewhere on the internet that can open up new search avenues for you. -Don't be afraid to read old stuff. Fandoms change and evolve. There's a golden age of MCU fanfic in the 2010s that's just unlike anything else. And the Hannibal fandom has been and always will be a trip, but man it's been a wild ride through some interesting places and obsessions. -And lastly... for the love of god, comment on old stuff. It's not creepy or weird. In fact, if you like someone's writing who hasn't written in a bit, leave them a nice comment. There's this magical thing that happens when you do. Sometimes... THEY START WRITING AGAIN! (saying this from experience here.) Remember... the A in AO3 stands for Archive. It's not a social media platform. It's a library. There is -supposed- to be old stuff there. And you are absolutely allowed to read it and enjoy it and tell the author that. In fact... please do. As I said, feel free to add on if you want to give tips of your own. But be kind. I see a lot of talk about how algorithms are changing the face of fandom and how people interact with fan made content. Let's reach out and educate instead of ridicule.

[bethanystan]

Echoes in the Sacred Timeline - Part 7

Title: The Tempest Fandoms: MCU, TVA (Loki), Captain America, Avengers Pairings: Reader x Bucky Barnes (slow burn), Platonic!Mobius x Reader, Reader & Shuri friendship Characters: You (Reader), Bucky Barnes, Mobius M. Mobius, Shuri, Sam Wilson, Kate Bishop, Joaquin Torres, Shang-Chi Tags: TVA AU, Canon Divergence, Found Family, Angst with a Happy Ending, Identity Crisis, Reader has a complicated past, Past trauma, Reader is a former TVA agent, Mentions of memory erasure, Slow Burn Romance, Post-Endgame, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Reader Needs a Hug Rating: Teen Word Count: ~2.6k Summary: Life at the TVA was always filled with the unexpected—but that was what you were created for. Or so you were told. Years pass. Missions blur. But the past never stays buried, especially when it belongs to someone who was never meant to be forgotten. You thought you were a loyal TVA agent. Then Mobius gave you a name: Y/N Sarah Rogers.

Echoes in the Sacred Timeline Masterlist

----

The day started like any other. Training, planning, and quiet moments in the sun-dappled garden of the Avengers compound.

You'd been working with Kate on advanced archery techniques, her purple-fletched arrows finding their marks with increasing precision. Joaquin was running flight patterns overhead, his wings catching the morning light as he practiced aerial manoeuvres that would make his mentor proud. The sound of his laughter echoed across the grounds as he executed a particularly complex barrel roll.

"Show off," Kate called up to him, grinning as she nocked another arrow.

"Jealous you can't fly?" he called back, hovering just out of reach.

"I don't need to fly," she replied, losing an arrow that came close enough to his boot to make him yelp and gain altitude quickly. "I've got excellent aim."

"Children," you said fondly, watching their playful banter with a smile. "Try not to actually shoot each other."

"No promises," Kate said, but she was laughing.

The morning had been perfect—the kind of peaceful interlude that made you forget, for just a moment, about cosmic threats and temporal anomalies and the weight of responsibility that came with being part of something bigger than yourself.

But peace is a fragile thing.

A shimmer, subtle but undeniable, fractured the air above the training room—a ripple not caused by tech, but something far older and far more dangerous. The light seemed to bend around it, creating a distortion that made your eyes water and your enhanced senses scream warnings.

Sam was the first to notice, his shield clattering to the floor as the portal widened with a sound like reality tearing. "What the hell—"

The birds went silent first. Then the compound's defensive systems began to wail, their sensors picking up energy signatures that shouldn't exist in this dimension.

From the crack in reality stepped a figure cloaked in shadows and fury—a variant unlike any you'd ever faced during your time at the TVA. She was tall, imposing, with silver hair that seemed to move with its own wind and eyes that burned with the fire of a fractured timeline. Her clothing was a patchwork of different eras, different realities, as if she'd been collecting pieces of broken worlds.

In her hands, she held the remnants of a world erased—fragments of crystalline energy that pulsed with the dying light of collapsed timelines.

"Oh, shit," Kate breathed, her arrow still nocked but her hands trembling slightly.

Joaquin dropped from the sky, landing beside you with his wings spread wide in a defensive posture. "That's not normal portal activity," he said, his voice tight with tension.

"No kidding," you muttered, your TVA training kicking in as you analysed the temporal distortions surrounding the figure.

Mobius's voice crackled through comms, tinged with a fear you'd rarely heard from him. "That's no ordinary variant. She's from the Rift War timeline—a nexus of chaos and collapse. The TVA classified her as a Class-Five reality threat."

"What does that mean?" Sam asked, retrieving his shield and moving into formation.

"It means she can rewrite local reality," you said grimly. "She's not just from a broken timeline—she's the break itself."

Bucky appeared at your side, having sprinted from the compound the moment the alarms started. His jaw was tight with tension, and his metal hand instinctively moved toward you—not quite touching, but close enough to provide comfort.

You caught his eye, and for a moment, all the unspoken fears between you ignited beneath the surface. The careful distance you'd been maintaining, the walls you'd both built to protect yourselves—none of that mattered now.

The enemy's voice cut through the tension like a blade—a cold, commanding tone laced with bitterness and the weight of infinite loss.

"You all meddle with time like children playing with fire," she said, her voice carrying across the training ground with unnatural clarity. "But I am the consequence. I am what happens when your precious Sacred Timeline crumbles."

She stepped forward, and the ground beneath her seemed to warp, reality bending around her feet like water. Grass withered and died, then sprouted anew in impossible colours. The air itself seemed to fracture, showing glimpses of other times, other places.

"I am Tempest," she continued, raising the crystalline fragments in her hands. "The last survivor of Timeline-7739. And you will pay for what your organization stole from me."

"The TVA is gone," you called out, stepping forward despite Bucky's hand on your arm. "We stopped them. The timelines are free."

Tempest's laugh was hollow, bitter. "Free? You call this freedom? Chaos unleashed across the multiverse? Timelines crashing into each other like waves against rocks?" She gestured with the crystals, and the air around her shimmered with displaced realities. "I've seen what your 'freedom' has wrought. Entire worlds consumed by paradox. Billions dead because you couldn't leave well enough alone."

"We didn't know—" you started, but she cut you off.

"You didn't care," she snarled. "You were too busy playing hero to think about the consequences."

You swallowed hard, feeling the familiar pulse of your enhanced blood and training surge through your veins. The guilt was there—you'd been part of the TVA, had helped maintain the system that had led to this moment—but so was the determination to protect the people you'd come to love.

"Everyone, positions," you commanded, your voice carrying the authority of someone who'd led missions across timelines.

Sam gave you a nod, shield raised and ready. "Kate, Joaquin, aerial support. Keep your distance but be ready to move."

"Copy that," Joaquin said, his wings already spreading for take-off.

Kate had three arrows nocked and ready, her face set in grim determination. "What about you guys?"

"We handle the main threat," you said, your eyes never leaving Tempest.

Bucky stood close, protective yet distant—a wall you knew you'd have to break down again, soon. But for now, you could feel his presence like an anchor, steady and reassuring.

"Together?" he asked quietly, and you knew he wasn't just talking about the fight.

"Together," you confirmed.

The battle was fierce.

Time fractured around you as Tempest bent reality, pulling fragments of timelines into the fight. Phantom soldiers from long-dead wars materialized and attacked, their weapons deadly despite being shadows of what they'd once been. The training ground became a battlefield that spanned centuries, with medieval knights charging alongside World War II infantry and futuristic soldiers with energy weapons.

You moved with precision, calling on every lesson from your past lives, every memory you'd reclaimed. Your enhanced reflexes served you well as you dodged attacks from multiple timelines, your combat training from the TVA allowing you to anticipate moves that hadn't been invented yet.

Kate's arrows found their marks with deadly accuracy, each shot dispersing a phantom soldier or disrupting one of Tempest's reality warps. "These things keep coming!" she shouted, diving behind cover as a Victorian-era cannon materialized and fired.

"Just keep shooting!" Joaquin called back, his wings allowing him to stay mobile as he provided air support. He dove and weaved between attacks, his own projectiles finding their targets with military precision.

Bucky fought by your side, his usual guardedness melting into fierce protectiveness. The Winter Soldier's training meshed perfectly with your own, creating a partnership that felt as natural as breathing. When phantom soldiers surrounded you, he was there to cover your back. When Tempest's reality warps threatened to separate you, he reached out to keep you grounded.

"Left!" he shouted, and you spun to find a Roman legionnaire bearing down on you with a gladius. Your enhanced speed allowed you to sidestep the attack and counter with a move that would have made your TVA instructors proud.

Sam's shield carved through the chaos, its vibranium surface deflecting attacks from multiple eras at once. "We need to get to her!" he called out, indicating Tempest, who stood at the centre of the temporal storm like the eye of a hurricane.

"The crystals!" you shouted back, recognizing the energy signatures. "She's using them to anchor the timelines! If we can disrupt her connection—"

"On it!" Kate called, switching to specialized arrows that Stark had designed for energy disruption. She fired three in quick succession, each one finding its mark on the crystalline fragments.

The effect was immediate. Tempest screamed in rage as her control over the phantom timelines wavered. The soldiers flickered, becoming less solid, their attacks less deadly.

But she wasn't finished.

"If I cannot have my timeline," she snarled, "then I will take yours!"

She raised the remaining crystals, and the air around her began to collapse inward. Reality twisted, and suddenly you could see glimpses of other versions of yourself—TVA agents, variants, people who'd made different choices and lived different lives. The effect was disorienting, nauseating.

"She's trying to collapse our local timeline!" you realized with horror. "She's going to create a paradox cascade!"

When she lunged for you, targeting you specifically as the former TVA agent responsible for maintaining the Sacred Timeline, Bucky intercepted without hesitation. He took the full force of her attack—a blast of temporal energy that sent him flying across the training ground.

The pain was raw and immediate, both his and yours. You felt the psychic feedback through whatever connection existed between you, tasted blood that wasn't your own.

"Bucky!" You moved without thinking, crossing the battlefield in seconds to reach him where he lay crumpled against the compound's wall.

"I'm okay," he gasped, but there was blood trickling from his ear and his left arm hung at an odd angle.

"You're not okay," you said, helping him sit up. "That was a temporal displacement blast. Your enhanced healing might not—"

"I'll live," he said firmly, his eyes focusing on yours. "But she's still coming."

And she was. Tempest had recovered from the arrow strikes and was advancing on your position, her remaining crystals glowing with malevolent energy.

But this time, you weren't alone.

You reached for him, grounding both yourself and him in the chaos. Your enhanced abilities, combined with whatever connection you shared, seemed to create a buffer against Tempest's reality warping. The phantom soldiers couldn't maintain their form near you, and the timeline distortions seemed to bend around you rather than through you.

"How are you doing that?" Joaquin asked, landing nearby with his wings spread protectively.

"I don't know," you admitted. "But it's working."

Together, you pushed back the darkness threatening to consume your world. Sam's shield became a focal point, its vibranium surface reflecting and amplifying the stabilizing effect you and Bucky were creating. Kate's arrows found their marks with supernatural precision, each shot guided by the temporal clarity that surrounded your small group.

"The crystals," Bucky said, his voice strained but determined. "We need to destroy them all at once."

"That could cause a backlash," you warned. "The energy release—"

"Could save every timeline she's threatening to collapse," he finished. "It's worth the risk."

You looked at him, seeing the determination in his eyes, the absolute certainty that this was the right choice. "Together?"

"Together."

The final assault was coordinated chaos. Sam's shield carved a path through the phantom soldiers while Kate and Joaquin provided cover fire. You and Bucky moved as one, your combined abilities creating a pocket of stability in the temporal storm.

When you reached Tempest, she was beyond reason, consumed by grief and rage and the need for revenge against a system that had already fallen.

"You don't understand," she said, her voice breaking. "I've seen what comes next. The chaos, the collapse, the endless war between timelines. The TVA was wrong, but at least there was order!"

"Then help us build something better," you said, your hand outstretched. "Help us find a way to protect the timelines without controlling them."

For a moment, she wavered. The crystals in her hands dimmed, and the phantom soldiers began to fade.

But then she shook her head, tears streaming down her face. "It's too late. I've seen too much. Lost too much."

She raised the crystals one final time, preparing to detonate them and take your entire local timeline with her.

That's when Bucky made his choice.

He lunged forward, his metal arm wrapping around the crystals even as their energy began to tear him apart. "Kate! Now!"

Kate's arrow found its mark, piercing the crystalline structure at its weakest point. The explosion of temporal energy was contained, channelled through Bucky's vibranium arm and dispersed harmlessly into the atmosphere.

Tempest collapsed, her power broken, her connection to the fractured timelines severed. She looked up at you with eyes that held more sadness than anger.

"I just wanted them back," she whispered. "My family. My world. I just wanted them back."

"I know," you said softly, kneeling beside her. "I know what it's like to lose everything."

She closed her eyes, and for a moment, she looked almost peaceful. "The timelines... they're still in danger. Other variants like me, other survivors. The chaos you've unleashed... it's not over."

"Then we'll face it," you said firmly. "All of us. Together."

She nodded weakly, then faded away like smoke, her energy finally exhausted.

After the fight, in the quiet that followed, you found yourself on the balcony, breathless but unbroken. The training ground was a mess of temporal debris and scattered equipment, but everyone was alive. Everyone was safe.

Bucky joined you, his arm in a sling but his eyes clear. The hesitance that had marked your interactions for weeks was gone, replaced by something warmer, more certain.

"We're not just fighting her," he said quietly, looking out over the compound grounds. "We're fighting for every version of us—every timeline where we get to choose our own path."

You nodded, fingers brushing his uninjured hand. "And we'll do it together."

Kate appeared in the doorway, her bow slung over her shoulder and a satisfied smile on her face. "That was either the coolest thing I've ever been part of, or the most terrifying. I can't decide."

"Why not both?" Joaquin asked, walking up behind her. His wings were folded but still gleaming in the afternoon sun. "I mean, we just fought soldiers from like twelve different time periods. That's definitely going in the mission report."

"Good luck explaining that to the higher-ups," Sam said, joining the group. His shield was strapped to his back, and despite the exhaustion in his eyes, he looked proud. "You all did good work today."

"We make a good team," you said, looking around at the faces of the people who'd become your family.

"The best," Bucky agreed, his fingers intertwining with yours.

The storm was coming—Tempest had made that clear. Other variants, other survivors of the TVA's collapse, would eventually find their way to you. The chaos unleashed by the fall of the Sacred Timeline would continue to ripple through the multiverse.

But this time, you'd face it side by side.

"So," Kate said, settling into one of the balcony chairs, "what's our next move?"

"First, we heal," you said, looking at Bucky's injured arm. "Then we prepare. If there are other variants out there like Tempest, we need to be ready."

"And if they're not all hostile?" Joaquin asked.

"Then we help them," you said simply. "We help them find a way to heal, to move forward. We give them what the TVA never could—choice."

"I like that plan," Sam said, settling into his own chair. "Though I vote we take a few days to recover first. I'm getting too old for reality-bending fights."

"You're not old," Kate protested. "You're... experienced."

"Thanks, kid. That makes me feel so much better."

As the sun set over the compound, painting the sky in brilliant oranges and purples, you realized that despite everything—the attack, the revelation about other variants, the knowledge that more battles were coming—you felt at peace.

You were home. You were with people you loved, people who would fight beside you no matter what the multiverse threw at you.

And that was enough.

For now, it was more than enough.

[aenariasbookshelf]

Fic: The Letter (MCU/911 crossover)

Okay, technically this was posted on AO3 ages back, but I'm finally getting around to posting it here (it was a long holiday season and I'm only now getting around to the seasonal crud someone brought into the house).

Prequel to The Intern, which while you don't have to read, would be helpful in figuring out what's going on here.

Summary:

Actually, it all starts out with what’s the best summer he’s ever had in his short life.

But then The Letter arrives. Now, Evan Buckley’s got a choice to make.

A/n:

I can’t be bothered to look up pedestrian water rights to the river in that town, so let’s just go with it and pretend there are. Also, timelines. What are they? Why are they? Why can’t they just be easy? *sobs and reaches for the headache pills*

Also, when I said we were going AU and diverging from canon? Yeah, it starts here.

The end of summer, 2004

“Is it there?” Evan asks from his position by the office door, looking up and down the narrow hallway to make sure no one’s coming upstairs from the restaurant below.

“I can’t find it!” Darcy hisses back, rifling through one of the stacks of paper on her mother’s desk. All of them know that Aunt Sylvia’s methods of organization are…creative at best, but this letter had turned her pale when she’d opened it, followed by her immediately storming off to find her phone. So naturally, the cousins are determined to find out just what’s in that letter that was such a big deal. And as Darcy knows how to navigate that creative organizing system, she’s looking while Evan keeps watch by the door.

Actually, it all starts out with what’s the best summer Evan’s ever had in his short life. Not long after Maddie leaves for Boston, Evan’s sent off halfway across the state to spend his summer with Aunt Sylvia Lewis and her daughter Darcy. This is no bad thing, as she’s definitely the cool aunt in the family, and always exceedingly kind to Evan whenever they were together, treating him the same as she would her own kid.

So he’s shipped off to New Hope to join Aunt Sylvia and Darcy in their little cottage, and being away from his parents is like a weight’s been lifted off his chest and he can finally breathe. Which isn’t something that any kid should have to worry about, but then again Phillip and Margaret are…well, distant is a kind word for them. Aunt Sylvia though, she always sets aside time for the kids, even if it’s just setting them up at a table in the restaurant’s kitchen for dinner while she bustles around keeping everything afloat. And Darcy’s only a year older than he is; it’s nice to have someone his age around for once rather than being stuck in a house with his old parents. Someone to go out with and do all the things that kids do together and not have to worry that his mom’s going to yell about something and then leave him to his own devices for another two days.

And then, towards the end of the summer, The Letter arrives.

A letter that had affected Aunt Sylvia so much that it was impossible for her to hide her feelings from the kids. So, naturally, Evan and Darcy are determined to find out what the letter’s about.

Before Darcy can find even the envelope the letter came in, the sound of footsteps begins to echo up from the stairwell. “We gotta go!” Evan calls out.

“Yep.” Darcy drops everything in her hands back on the desk and hustles to the doorway, shoving Evan ahead of her and straight into the lounge across the way. They crash onto the couch, Darcy grabbing the nearest book she can find and Evan picking up the TV remote, flipping it on and hoping that there’s something believable on screen.

(It’s a Phillies game. He can work with that.)

About three seconds later Aunt Sylvia storms into view, and they look up, peering through the doorway to see her blast into her office, the letter in one hand and her other hand holding her cell phone to her ear. “Finally!” she blurts out, loud enough that it just may shatter the eardrums of whoever’s on the other end of the phone. “Margaret, what the hell did you do?”

Darcy and Evan trade a look, because when the sisters are on the phone with each other and sounding like that, it’s never good.

Aunt Sylvia slams the office door shut, cutting off any further eavesdropping. Still, Evan’s got a sinking feeling in his stomach that whatever’s in the letter has to do with him and whatever it is, it’s not something that he’s going to like.

*

“Sweetheart, come sit down with me a minute,” Aunt Sylvia says to Evan late the next morning, once breakfast is done and Darcy’s taken off to do whatever young teenage girls do with their time. His stomach churns again, because he knows this is the other shoe dropping. She leads him into the living room, a bright and cozy space with pale yellow walls, bay windows, overstuffed couches, and any number of trinkets and tchotchkes that make it infinitely more comfortable than the stuffy and formal rooms in the house back in Hershey. Evan all but throws himself into the corner of one of those couches, curling his knees up to his chest and grabbing at them like a lifeline.

“What’s going on?” he asks.

Aunt Sylvia sighs heavily, sitting herself down next to him. “Your mother informed me,” she begins, and he can hear the acidic tones creeping in around the edges of her voice, “that she has made arrangements for you to start at a boarding school in Rhode Island for this upcoming school year, just after Labor Day.”

“What?”

She just nods in response, jaw tight and teeth exposed in a grimace. It strikes Evan then just how similar and different his mom and Aunt Sylvia are in that moment. They’re both short in stature, with that light ash blonde hair, same eyes even, but the similarities end there. Whereas his mom’s constantly restrained and put together, always looking like she came out of a catalogue and never letting herself show anything intensely,  Aunt Sylvia wears her heart on her sleeve and you can tell every single feeling on her face…like now, when it’s clear that she’s none too happy with what her sister’s planned.

“Yeah,” she says, shoving a frizzy curl of hair behind her ear. “Your dad’s going to be working in Europe for the next six months or so, and your mother’s decided to go with him.”

“And no one’ll be back home to take me to school,” Evan finishes. “Shit.”

“That is an appropriate reaction.” She takes a deep breath, placing a hand on his knee. “However, I also have another idea, if you’re willing to hear it.”

Evan shrugs, unable to meet her eyes as he’s still stuck on the idea of boarding school because boy, does it make it clear that his parents really don’t want him around. “Sure, why not?”

“We turn that guest room of yours into a permanent bedroom and you stay here for the school year instead.”

His head jerks up at that, meeting Aunt Sylvia’s earnest gaze. “Really?”

“Mmhmm. We’d love for you to stay as long as you’d like.” She pats his knee again, and it’s strangely soothing to him. “Take your time to think about it. We’ve got until the end of the week to let them know if we want to withdraw. If you think you’d want to go to boarding school, that’s cool, it’s your choice. But you have a home here also and you are welcome to stay. So think about it, and let me know tomorrow.” She stands up, but then bends down to press an affectionate kiss to the top of Evan’s head. “Whatever you want, we’ll make it work.”

When she leaves the room, Evan slumps back into the couch cushions, because what the hell just happened?

He still hasn’t wrapped his brain around it fully when Darcy wanders back in, taking in his still stunned and puzzled look. “You okay?”

“Uh…”

“You wanna talk about it?”

“I…yeah,” he nods.

“Okay. Go get your stuff and let’s go throw rocks in the river.”

*

It’s only a few short blocks down to the bank of the Delaware River, but New Hope isn’t exactly big so everything’s a relatively quick walk away. It’s a stifling hot summer day in a tourist town, though, so they weave through wandering packs of people the closer they get to the riverbank. Darcy knows where all of the free access points to the river are, so it doesn’t take them long to find a hidden away spot under the thickly leafed trees where they can sit down and watch the water go by.

Evan picks up a handful of rocky debris and chucks it in the general direction of the river with more strength than is probably necessary. “Gee, tell me how you really feel,” Darcy says. 

“I hate my parents,” he says, punctuating each word with another thrown rock, the final one splashing into the river with a small plinking noise. “And I’m pretty sure they hate me too.”

“Join the club, I’m pretty sure I’m still on your mom’s shit list ever since that time I dared you to jump from the roof to the pool in your backyard.”

“Oh, this is worse.” More rocks get thrown. “They’re sending me to boarding school next month. In Rhode Island.”

“Well, shit.”

“That’s what I said, too.” Evan sighs, and kicks a foot at the gravel this time. “Dad’s going to work overseas for a few months, and instead of Mom staying home with me, or even taking me with them, they decided I’d be better off in boarding school. Which really makes you feel wanted.”

It’s too nice a day out to feel like this. The sun’s high in the sky, burning into his skin and making it feel all warm and bright, but there’s just enough of a breeze that it rustles the leaves and his hair and cools off the budding sweat just a little bit. And all he can think about is…”I don’t get it. What did I do to make them like this?”

Darcy bites her lip, picking up a pebble of her own and tossing it at the river. “Probably nothing,” she eventually says. “Like, my dad’s a dick for ditching my mom for a younger model, but he’s still got a room for me at his place in Philly.” She sighs, deeply enough that Evan can practically feel it sitting next to her. “I think they’re just stupid. ‘Cause you know, you’re pretty cool, even if you are a bratty younger brother most of the time.”

“I’m only a year younger than you.”

“And I’m still older, so there,” she says, sticking her tongue out at him.

“Doesn’t make you any smarter though.” Evan picks up yet another rock and hurls it again, watching it bounce off of a dead branch and veer off in the direction of the bridge.

“Throw harder next time, maybe you’ll hit Jersey then.”  Darcy picks up a handful of fallen leaves and begins tearing them into small pieces for lack of anything else to do with her hands. “So I guess that’s what was in the letter?”

Evan nods. “It was a welcome letter from the school. Mom gave them this address instead of our home one. And Aunt Sylvia didn’t know about the school until she got the letter.”

“Ugh, bitch,” Darcy mutters, low enough that Evan has to struggle to understand it over the noise of the river. He doesn’t exactly disagree, however.

He shrugs. “Then your mom said that if I wanted I could stay here for the school year instead.”

Darcy’s head swivels slowly to stare at him, eyes wide behind her glasses. “You could have started with that! I think we’re better than boarding school any day.”

“They’re gonna be so mad if I don’t go to that school though.”

Darcy grabs onto his shoulder, shaking gently until Evan turns to meet her eyes. “Who cares what they think?”

“If they’re gonna get mad at me, I do!”

She shakes her head. “No, they made this decision without asking you. Without even telling you with enough time to actually prepare yourself for it. So you should not give a damn what they think. But what I wanna know is what do you really want to do instead?”

Evan sighs again, slumping over against Darcy’s side. It’s too warm out for cuddles, but the arm that she slings around his shoulders is the comfort he needs right then. “I want to go home. I want Maddie to come back. But I know…”

“That won’t happen,” she finishes. “A lot of times though, I think that home is more about people than the place, you know? So if you think you can find that home away at school, why not? But that’s something you got to figure out.”

“Yeah. Lucky me.” 

A few more moments go by as they sit quietly under the trees, the sounds of the river and the wind and the tourists flowing around them. “All right,” Darcy eventually says, with a gentle shove to Evan’s back. “Enough with the mushy shit. You know, you should really consider a dip in the river before we head back, you’ve got that whole teenage boy stank thing happening right now.”

“Yeah? Well you smell like cheap ass body spray,” he fires back at her with a grin and an elbow jabbing into her ribs.

“You take that back!”

Evan just laughs, scrambling to his feet and making a ‘bring it on’ sort of motion.

He still doesn’t have any answers, not really, but what he does have is an idea of what he wants. Not what he should do, or what his parents want him to do. But what he wants to do. 

It’s kind of a cool feeling.

*

That night, Evan knocks on the side of the doorway to Aunt Sylvia’s office at the restaurant, pulling her gaze away from the stack of paperwork in front of her. “What’s up?” she asks, pulling her glasses off.

He takes a deep breath. “What do we have to do so I can stay and go to school here?”

Aunt Sylvia all but scrambles out of her desk chair, coming over to him and wrapping her arms tightly around him. “You just leave that all to me,” she says, kissing the top of his head. “I’ll take care of it.”

And you know what? That’s exactly what she does.

*

Evan doesn’t return to his parents and Hershey that year. Or the next year. Or the years after that. Maybe it doesn’t change everything about the future, but sometimes a kinder, gentler place to land can make all the difference.

[mischiefmaker615]

First Character You Wrote a Fanfiction About: Loki! Always has been Lol I started off as a Roleplayer and yes, I've played other MCU characters, Loki (the pride focus of my attractions) was the character i truly studied and watched to grip onto the ways of how to write him. Writing also helped bring my fantasies to life where i most likely never do them irl (for damn good reason if ya know my writing) and it's my way of getting it out of my system Lol

Last Character/Current Fixation: LOKI

Fic You Are Proudest Of: "Ghost" Loki Love Story! It's my baby and truly the first fic i've taken truly seriously- although i wrote some before that. IDK, the more i read the more i wanted to get the concept down on digital paper and the support of you guys truly helped me take that step!

Most Popular Fic: "Use Me" (Loki Love Story) What started as a one shot... led up to something i just couldn't stop Lol it's still currently going and i can't tell ya how many people urge me to not stop XD

Fic you wrote that you DISLIKE the Most: "Mongrel" it was a request and one of my first fics. I still cringe at it to this day cause i only did it cause i didn't have many requesters and wanted to please LOL even though i accurately tried getting Loki to do what.. Loki does in this situation, i can't imagine it still!

Strangest Fic/People wonder where it came from/Why: not sure, i get a lot of fics that remain silent with little to no interaction so i'm assuming people didnt take to those. Everything i write, has a purpose so i don't commonly have a "WTF fic" but it's better to have silence than hate Lol

Strangest Thing You've Ever Learned For a Fic:  Remember where hands are. The backstory you sent for a character and don't forget it cause it's accidently changed mid fic and fans have caught it LOL Sometimes it's okay to not go through with a plot twist if ya know it's gonna be to big of a bite. Also to learn that everyone has different styles, one you may not use and some you may cringe at- but that's the beauty of writing! who cares!! People out there might cringe at yours shit! you do you and don't stop people from writing.

Favorite AU Type to Write: MCU Lol that's all i do and that's all i like. As cool as it sounds to venture out (maybe i will some day) i prefer sticking to what i've studied, learned, memorized and fell in love with. it's hard to leave friends Lol (characters).

Favorite Trope/Type of thing to Write: Y'all know me as a *cough* dark writer sometimes so i love anything that feeds my little twisted demon that steals my pen sometimes. For a normal route, i do love enemies to lovers, A LOT because it opens up so many personalities, situation and possibilities.

Thank you for the tag darling @societyfolklore this was so much fun!! I love these damn right my favorite is Hellcat of yours too LOL love your trope interests ;) :D i tag~ @latent-thoughts @lokisgoodgirl @sarahscribbles @cleo-fox @simplyholl @mochie85

First, Best, Worst Fanfic Tag Game

This is coming from a different game I was tagged in about what fictional men make you feral. While going through them I realized I have a lot of fics that I've never talked about and I can't be the only one. Everyone has first fics, best, proudest, saddest, etc.

Let the chaos commence:

First Character You Wrote a Fanfiction About: Gaara from Naruto. Boy needed a hug. Murderous psycho but first thoughts were: That boy needs a hug and that's all he really wants.

Last Character/Current Fixation: Bucky Barnes. I don't think I need to explain this one.

Fic You Are Proudest Of (shamelessly self-promote yourself): Howling Witch. Not my most popular at all but I'm proud of it because I actually like how it's coming together stylistically. I actually feel like I'm doing something right with how it's developing. Not all the time, but some things. It's 3rd POV, named FMC, but I'm happy about it.

Most Popular Fic: Care. Period care fic with Bucky because I was in pain that day and wanted some care myself. Self-indulgent but it made me feel better and I hope it made others feel better, too.

Fic you wrote that you DISLIKE the Most: I know it's a hard one, and if there isn't one don't answer it. Personally I'm happy with what I have out right now. In the past, that hasn't always been true and I've had fics that I just didn't like when I went back to them. I had one where it was a Kili x OC fic and I just didn't like how the OC was going so I scrapped it.

Strangest Fic/People wonder where it came from/Why: I wrote several fics that were a LOTR/Hobbit crossover with Skyrim where the dragons were shapeshifting people and I made up an entire culture for them.

Strangest Thing You've Ever Learned For a Fic: Because of the last answer I became semi-fluent in Skyrim Draconic. Not Shouts. I mean conversational.

Favorite AU Type to Write: Vampires (even if they're bad in my current fic, I still have a thing for them) and Wolves.

Favorite Trope/Type of thing to Write: When the characters know they like each other and want each other but they aren't intimate or able to be together immediately for whatever reason. They may be flirty and kissy with each other, they may even have sex, but it takes them a while to get to actual intimacy. Don't know what to call it...Slowburn Express? I love the first flush of romance and writing that but I like writing what happens beyond that and the journey from that first butterfly sucker punch to being a truly, deep, and intimate relationship between two people.

That's it for now. Feel free to add some extra questions if you want.

Tagged list: @societyfolklore @mrs-elsie-barnes @sjsmith56

[har-rison-s]

mask & seek: 4

batman x fem!reader

based on: Hello! May I request Battinson x SpiderWoman!Reader fic where she's from the MCU but then she ends up in Battinson's universe and meets him? Maybe he doesn't trust her at first but once she saves him from something, he relents then begins to trust her and maybe then a relationship ensues?? Thank you so much and have a great day!! ❤

a/n: fuck, i just realised i've put the wrong synopsis of this story for the last 2 chapters i'm so sorry guys, my mistake LMAO. sorry to break y'all's reality like that, i really am. so hi. because this is the first chapter that really deals with the multiverse stuff head-on, i have to clarify that in this DC universe new york doesn’t exist. i haven’t read a lot of the batman comics, so i’m not really sure if it exists there. but since gotham (at least in my opinion) is based off new york city, i’m writing it so in this au that new york isn’t a place in America. hope you get what i mean :D happy reading. i’m seeing the batman again tomorrow!!!!! beyond excited

main masterlist

bruce wayne masterlist

part three

part five

warnings: descriptions of injuries, of fixing one; brief mention of using a knife, mentions of needles and catheters (i hate them so much); slight insecurity talk; oh and the best one - silent pining :)

word count: 4.8k

a/n: (who got you frowning like that baby girl) took me 15 minutes to find a suitable gif, god help. full credit to owner / maker!!! 

y/n grunts and wobbles from one foot over to the other, holding her side. it hasn’t been a particularly successful night, to say the least. one of their opponents had a nasty knife, and, unluckily, she wasn’t as agile to avoid its sting. “my place is so far away…” she whines, thinking of any other place to go where she could tend to her wounds and rest. just a little. only an hour or two of sleep sound heavenly right now. plasters and gauze around her waist sound nice, too. and she’d love some water. or hot cocoa.

bruce’s ears prick up at the desperation in her words, and he turns his head sharply to her. “we can go to mine,” he tells her in his vigilante-husk that she knows fades away as soon as there’s only the two of them in a room without their masks on. she gives bruce a confused look and quizzical eyebrows. he notes her unstable stance and tries to identify her injuries.

“you sure?” she asks.

he’s never taken her to his place before. he’s never even offered to take her there, either, in the last four months of them working together. she doesn’t know where it is, what kind of property it is—but does that really matter? they’ve always gone to her place because it’s in the center of gotham, and she’s just always had the upper hand in that. plus, she has a first-aid kit and wound-tending skills, which—she’s quite sure—batman doesn’t have.

bruce nods and then struts the few steps over to her. he reaches an arm around her shoulders, his other arm circling the front of her torso, holding onto her hand above the problematic spot in her side, “i’m sure,” he tells her and begins to lead her down the dirty old alley, into the depths of the narrows, it seems to y/n, helping her with every step, “i’ll take you on my bike.”

she finds the last remnants of humor in her system and makes a chuckle, “that’s what a girl’s gotta do for you to take her on a motorbike ride—get nearly beaten to death?” she asks him teasingly. bruce has learned over time to take her humor as it is—as humor—even in gloomy situations. and so his lips tug upwards in a half-smile at her joke. but he can’t distract his mind from her being as injured as he was on the night she saved his life. okay, no, she’s worse tonight than that.

“here we are,” he says once they’ve rounded the corner far from the site of their recent fight, and a beautifully subtle motorcycle comes into y/n’s view. bruce rests her against a near-by wall while he goes to unlock the vehicle, and y/n can only make out a “wow” at the sight of the thing. all black and, though it has signs of frequent use, all the surfaces look like silk. this motorbike sure is worth getting beat up for.

bruce unlocks the bike and comes over to y/n again, with two helmets in his hands. he helps her put hers on—y/n’s vision has started to blur and sway a little, and her limbs grow weaker and weaker by the second—then he secures his own helmet on and helps her walk over to the bike, his hand on the small of her back, the other still holding her hand. once at the bike, he places both hands on her ribcage, right below her chest, and, trying to do it both gently and with strength, lifts her up onto the seat of the motorbike.

y/n cries out like a hurt child—first time bruce has seen and heard her like this in all this time—and her face twists up from the pain, her features and the tears in her eyes visible in the as-of-yet open screen of the helmet. it breaks bruce’s heart to hear that sound from her. “i’m sorry,” he tells her quietly, sincerity thick in his husky voice, “i know it hurts.”

she gives him a momentary glance through the slit in her helmet, and their eyes connect in a deeply private look for a few moments. trust, loyalty and submission are dark undertones in their eyes, and for those few moments, they just stare into each other’s orbs, searching them, exploring them, emerging themselves into them, not saying a single word. they’re sure that not even thoughts pass through their minds in that brief time.

their faces close, bruce’s hands on her body. care for her pulsating through them with every pump of blood his heart makes. y/n nearly reaches out and runs her hand across the side of his face. if only he wasn’t wearing the helmet, she could thread her fingers through that night-black hair and be even closer to him than she is now.

he knows her. he knows nothing about the her that she is on the surface. he doesn’t even know her name. but he knows her essence, he knows her depths. and he knows how important it is to her what she’s doing, and what they’re doing together. he hadn’t realized how much meaning it held to him, too, until now. and he, too, almost reaches out to touch her face. both of their shyness wins over their boldness to act.

but when he finally does, having gained the courage and boldness to, he touches her to close the screen protector on her helmet, so she wouldn’t get any dirt, mud or possible rain into her eyes or face while they drive. the air of disappointment hangs between them afterwards—a sour one. but y/n is losing consciousness and willpower too fast to dwell on it much. and he’s supposed to be caring for her so, even though his body screams at him to move his hand lower, to cup her neck from the side in the gentlest, most affectionate manner, he withdraws from her to get onto his motorbike.

y/n is feeling or seeing hardly anything at all right now, but when batman rests his gloved hands on her legs to move them on each of his sides, she almost moans. almost, and thank goodness for that. he finds her arms next and pulls them around his torso, pulling her body closer onto his. “hold tight onto me,” he tells her, “don’t you let go.”

and she tries her best to do that throughout the quick and bumpy ride around gotham. she has no idea where he’s taking her exactly, she couldn’t map it out in her current state if she tried. all she sees are lights and objects flashing past her at lightning speed, and she hears all kinds of different sounds around her, as well. the world blurs into one big tornado milkshake from her point of view, and she can hardly keep herself conscious. but she has to, otherwise her arms will let go of bruce and she’ll fall off. and merely the thought about those consequences sobers her up for the remainder of their ride.

the noises and lights fade away towards the very end of it, and y/n furrows her eyebrows as she feels the world around her go quiet, so quickly and suddenly. she sees only darkness now around her, the single light source in it being batman’s motorbike light at the very front. she moves her head slightly to the side and lifts it, too, to try and recognize her surroundings. as if that’s going to do her any good, what with her state and the unknown place she’s in.

then batman pulls his motorbike to a stop, inside a room or hall—y/n can’t really tell—that has some barely-working lights on the ceiling, as well as rows and rows of something moving, something alive. she can’t see what it is, but it looks like a huge quantity of some small creature.

bruce makes sure to move y/n off the bike before she can slide off it, and he hoists her up bridal-style in his arms, carrying her over to one of his desks afterwards. he lays her down gently on her back, lifts the helmet off her head, and does the same to himself, ridding himself of his cape and armor, too, immediately afterwards. y/n tries to move, tries to sit up on top of his messy desk, tries to get a hold of herself and the situation, but bruce captures her again before she can make any movement. “don’t move,” he tells her in a half-commanding and half-pleading whisper. he takes her mask off—he’s seen how she does it before, and he slips it off with complete ease—and looks into her eyes again. he sees her eyes for real now, and he sees her face, too—hurt. a bruise on her cheekbone, a cut in her cheek. how did he let this happen? her eyelids are fluttering in weak efforts to stay conscious, but she mostly fails. how can she look so heavenly even in a state like this? “just stay with me.” bruce finally tells her before scooping her up into his arms again. she won’t get the help she needs down in his lab cave.

perhaps alfred has some first-aid kits. no doubt he has those, he’s patched bruce up many times before. bruce gets into the elevator and presses the level number for the living quarters of wayne manor. he glances down at his partner, and his heart lurches in his chest. her face has gone pale. he looks down to where her side is hurt, her hand still lightly hanging onto that spot, and bruce gulps. her thick, dark blood is seeping through her suit. it’ll be ruined.

his trembling hand reaches over to the dark patch, and he cups the side in the gentlest way he can, so as not to cause her any more pain. and he feels the wet liquid against his skin, coating his pale pigment a dark color immediately. bruce grows scared of it, of how that feels. her blood on his hands. his first instinct is to let go of her, of what makes him scared. but he doesn’t. he can’t. he pulls her even closer into his hold, and now he looks at her face again. his blood-coated hand absent-mindedly reaches up to her cheek.

he just wants to feel her in his hand, feel that she’s still there, feel that the silk of her skin is still intact. y/n doesn’t feel much of anything at the moment, bruce’s touch on her in those multiple places is such a far-away feeling. one she wants to feel completely, but is miles away from, unable to reach. she’d much rather drift off to sleep now. she feels so tired. there won’t be any harm in simple slumber now, will there?

bruce doesn’t understand how this escalated so quickly. she was joking just some ten minutes ago, and now the very life is fading away from her. bruce doesn’t know if he’ll be able to… he doesn’t even want to say the words. in short, he’s not sure if he’s fully capable. he needs help.

and it arrives sooner than he expects. as the elevator pulls to a stop at the right floor, the door slides open and no other than alfred is standing right behind it. the older man is immediately confused about bruce using the elevator at all, he’s confused as to why the man who will always be a boy in his eyes has come up at all. bruce breathes a quiet gasp of pleasant surprise, and then he almost trips over his own tongue while trying to say something. “bruce, what are you—” but alfred’s question stops half-way when he notices the limp figure in his godson’s arms. and the blood on the figure’s side, the blood on bruce’s hand. and then he sees the desperate look in bruce’s eyes.

“help,” he manages to say, “help her.”

alfred sees the slowly-healing bruises on bruce’s own face and arms, but he nods. the woman in his arms is in need of much more urgent care than bruce himself. alfred doesn’t need any closer inspection to determine her state of health, and how important it is to act now. so without another word, he ushers bruce to the spare room he set up himself a month or two after bruce started his vigilante night shifts. a room with everything that a badly injured person could need. a bed, medical equipment, books, even a tv, and a bathroom connected to it. one of the guest bedrooms that alfred couldn’t bring himself to make into a storage room.

his breath trembling, arms shaking, eyes filling up with tears, bruce carries y/n to the large bed as quick as he can. he and alfred lean over her for the older man to determine what they should do first. cuts along her arms, those two bruises on her face, and the big, bad bleeding injury in her side. alfred looks to bruce. “what were you doing?” he asks his godson, and sees he’s staring at the woman before him with glassy, strong eyes so full of emotion as he’s ever seen.

bruce shrugs. “nothing extraordinary,” he says, “was like any other night. only…” he gulps, “only the thugs had more weapons we didn’t know about.” he shrugs. “i don’t know how it happened,” bruce’s breath hiccups in his throat, his voice now verging on crying, “can you just help her, please?” he finally looks at his godfather. bruce doesn’t care how he sounds. he just wants her to look alive again, to be alive.

“we both can,” alfred assures him, “we’ll need to take off her suit to get to that horrible wound. you do that,” he walks off towards the small trolley of medical equipment in the room, “we’re gonna clean it, and then we’ll have to stop the bleeding first and foremost.”

bruce looks at y/n again. he needs to take off her suit. will she be okay with that? would she be okay with that? he wants to ask her, but, judging by the pale, unconscious look on her face, that’s quite impossible now. bruce just doesn’t wish to expose her to him while she’s unconscious and doesn’t know he’s doing it. but he needs to get over that, over those anxieties. her life is at stake.

so he turns her over to her side just for a moment, while he finds the hidden zipper in her suit and unzips it. she makes a small noise, a near acknowledgement of bruce moving her around. much to his peace of mind, a bra comes into view, the black strap of it hugging around her back. as soon as the zipper is down enough, bruce turns her over to her back again and carefully, with all the caution he can muster up, he takes the suit off.

holes show in places where the suit—and her skin, too—has been cut into. dried blood sticks around the corners of them, but some blood is fresher than some other. bruce gulps at the sight of it, but keeps peeling the spandex off her. once he’s peeled off enough for the biggest injury to be out in the open, he leaves the rest of it be, the elastic fabric bunching around her hips now.

god in heaven, it looks really bad. she hasn’t just been cut, she’s been properly stabbed. somewhere near her large intestine, though bruce doesn’t know precisely where, and just hopes that it’s nowhere critical. alfred has come up beside the bed, where bruce sits with y/n, and prepares some disinfectant and cloths for them both to use. disinfectant. just the same one she always uses on her own and bruce’s wounds. he’d make a smile at that connection if the situation was any less grim than it is.

“here, just—” alfred hands the tools over to bruce, and he quickly takes them.

“i know how,” bruce tells him and immediately gets to work. alfred gives him a puzzled look, and bruce can feel it on his temple as he gets to cleaning her bad injury. there’s so much blood, it’s seeping down into the sheets. they’re gonna have to change them if she’s staying here.

alfred connects the dots. “so she’s the one after my job of patching you up nearly every night, is she?” he asks his godson. alfred begins to prepare a needle and catheter for the stranger’s vein, so he can hook her up on a pain-killer patch.

“think it’s the other way around now,” bruce tells him. alfred shakes his head with an almost-smile. no matter how long bruce holds a cloth to her wound to stop the blood, it keeps pouring like a waterfall.

“she’s losing a lot of blood, bruce,” he tells him, “you know a hospital would do a much better job than us.”

bruce gives him a sharp glare, “and you know why we don’t do hospitals,” he says in a grave voice, “she also heals faster than us.” he adds then, and keeps tending to her hole of ever-pouring blood now that he’s cleaned it. alfred raises his head after adjusting the catheter into her vein. she makes a small noise at that, too, obviously having felt the prick to some extent, no matter how subtle. bruce’s heart lurches in his chest at the small noise, his eyes immediately looking to her face.

“what do you mean, bruce?” alfred asks. bruce just looks at him momentarily.

“she’s enhanced,” he says, “doesn’t work exactly like you and me would in these cases.” alfred’s still confused, but he brushes it off, telling himself he’ll probably find out later or won’t need to. the important thing now is to make sure this woman survives the night.

“what about her blood? does that regenerate faster, too?” he asks, and then shakes his head again. “we’ll need to get more for her. you don’t know her blood type, do you?”

bruce doesn’t, but he can find out. he finally dares to look below her face, where those sacred letters lie, an abundance of information with them. that tells him everything.

y/n parker

birth date: 04/06/1994

city of origin: queens, new york city, NY

occupation: barista at saint jeremiah's coffee

former occupation: waitress at mudd's cave

OPEN MEDICAL FILES? the system suggests.

bruce hesitates a little, processing all this new information on her all at once already, but then nods at the system’s question. an out-poor of medical records, vaccines and tests done comes up in his vision. thank god he didn’t take out the lenses in the cave, or this would have taken a lot, lot longer.

allergies: lactose, strawberries, tulips

blood type: AB+

chronic diseases: none

blood type AB+. the same one as bruce’s. he looks to alfred, who meets the younger man with an awaiting look. “she has my blood type,” he tells him the discovery. and she wasn’t born far from his birthday, either. just a couple months earlier. how curious.

“interesting,” alfred says finally, “i’ll try not to drain you too much, bruce, so i’ll take just a drop now and we’ll see—”

“take as much as she needs,” bruce says with dark determination in his eyes, “i’m not injured.”

“can’t exactly let you die, sir,” alfred argues back and prepares another needle and an empty plastic patch to withdraw bruce’s blood. bruce doesn’t care what happens to him. alfred might take every drop of his blood if it meant y/n would be saved. saved. certainly an interesting word.

alfred knows what bruce thinks of himself in this case. he never cares what happens to him. what matters to him is what happens to the world. that his job has been done, that it has been done well. bruce doesn’t care if he dies, either, as long as his message and goal has been fulfilled. this time, the world is swapped for y/n. she’s all that he cares about, all that matters right now. y/n. what a name.

knowing this, alfred fills two of those empty patches with bruce’s blood. just to see if it might be enough. the prince of gotham has to admit he feels light-headed already, he guesses his worries and stresses, and over-all regular exhaustion from the fight before have been slowly draining him, too. but he helps alfred patch y/n up with cotton and gauze to secure her injury, protect it from the outside factors.

alfred handles the patching up itself—plasters, balls of cotton and gauze. bruce merely helps move the unconscious y/n around slightly, so that alfred has no trouble wrapping the gauze around her waist, so that they don’t make her injury worse. bruce’s hands splay on her partly-covered hips, the very tips of his fingers only digging into her skin very slightly to lift her hips up and down from time to time. bruce has to say he feels awkward and not right, handling her the way that he is, while she’s unconscious and ignorant of the way he touches her.

but that over-whelming care he feels for her, that has gained almost an animalistic trait, seeps through and makes that anxiety of his sink. he’ll just have to tell her about what he and alfred did while she was unconscious, and she’ll understand. there’s no way she won’t. he won’t tell her, of course, how right her silky flesh felt against his rough hands, how well she fit into his hands, and how his first instinct was to touch the rest of her skin, as well. he’ll keep that to himself, and will hope that urge will pass with time.

after her injury has been wrapped up and secured in isolation from any harm, the two men of wayne manor work to settle y/n into bed properly. while alfred changes the sheets, bruce lays her on a near-by couch, and rids her of the rest of her suit, throwing the ruined piece to the ground. thankfully, she’s not as badly injured anywhere else in her body, so she can rest now. bruce searches the cabinets next to the large bed for any clothes, and, luckily, there are a couple pieces laying about. he chooses sweatpants and one of the plain shirts for her.

while he pulls the pants on her with ease, bruce experiences trouble with the shirt. how can he put it on if she’s connected to the blood patches through her vein? he has a bit of trouble figuring it out, but at once he does. he pulls the shirt over her head, puts her mobile arm through the sleeve, and then carefully puts the attached-to-the-patches arm through the sleeve, as well, but leaves the small wire that’s pumping blood into her to snake upwards. it now runs across her upper arm and sneaks out through the top opening in her shirt, further running up to the adjusted patch, just closer to her now.

she doesn’t make a noise or move at any point in all this ruckus, and bruce is glad to see her at peace. she’s not as pale anymore already, and her breathing has regulated. she’s healing herself and is getting the amount of blood she needs. as she now lays in the bed, dark grey sheets tucked around her, pillows in the same dark grey tone tucked behind and below her, bruce just watches her. alfred is cleaning up their medical equipment, but he’s doing it quietly in another corner of the room. bruce hardly acknowledges his presence at all. he just watches her as he sits in bed beside her.

how her chest rises and falls with long, even breaths. how her eyes flutter here and there—she must be dreaming—and how her fingers twitch slightly at her sides. he hopes it’s something pleasant she’s dreaming of. y/n. his whole world seems to have changed now that he knows her name. y/n parker. it doesn’t change her in his eyes, and it’s strange that he knows her name. he’s not entirely sure he wanted to know her name, now that he does. it’s strange.

her origin being new york city explains… exactly nothing. bruce doesn’t think he’s heard of a place like that before. the system showed him a state, too, behind the city, but it didn’t ring a bell, either. what could she be doing here, in such a place as gotham, if she’s from there? it sounds like a famous place, one bruce should know. but he doesn’t. though, he reckons, he’ll spend some time searching for it during the day, once she’s all settled in under the covers.

even though he wants to be at her side at all times. he wants to be here when she wakes up, he wants to be here with her when even the smallest thing happens. but he also has her suit to work on. that ruined, full-of-blood suit. after this incident, he can’t let her roam around the city in spandex and rely on her agility or his protection to keep herself safe. he won’t hear any protest from her about it, either. he can’t let her be this vulnerable to these thugs, or to anyone for that matter.

bruce blames himself for what happened to her. he never cares what happens to him, either if he’s fighting alone or together with her. he didn’t even catch one of the thugs striking her with a knife, brutally stabbing her, until the very end of the fight. how could he have not seen it? how could he have not heard it happen? he should have been by her side, should have kept a closer eye on her. yes, they’re both kind of independent in their fighting styles, but still, they work as a team, they’re supposed to be looking out for each other. how could he have let this happen?

the dawn rises and ignites light across the sky, which can be perfectly seen through the window of this bedroom. bruce sees it only when that light hits y/n’s cheek in a soft manner. he turns to look around the room, then, and finds alfred sitting in a chair in one of the corners. bruce rises to his feet and draws the big curtains closed, so that y/n wouldn’t be bothered by light from the world and could sleep as long as she needs to. he feels a sour tone as the last ray of the sun caresses his own face, but he pulls the curtains completely closed.

“you should get some sleep, too, bruce,” alfred says quietly as he rises from the chair, “she’ll be alright without you. just needs time.” he walks over to the door. bruce turns to look at him.

“how much?” he asks in a hush. his and alfred’s eyes connect. the older man shrugs.

“a couple days, if she gets better.” he answers. “a week, just to be sure.” he tells bruce. “if she doesn’t get better, well… then we’ll really need to get her to a hospital.”

bruce averts his eyes from those of his godfather’s, but nods. neither of them are doctors, scientists or miracle-workers, even if they try to be. so they can’t always expect themselves to be able to do everything. some things are out of their hands.

“i’ll send breakfast up for you, you need your strength. then you can get some rest,” alfred informs bruce, his ringed hand tapping on the thick mahogany door, “as for her,” he looks to the sleeping woman in the bed, “we’ll get her a meal as soon as she wakes up, alright?” bruce nods in response, still not saying anything. “good night, master wayne. or should i say—good morning.” alfred says and leaves the room, closing the door behind him. bruce knows he’s exhausted, too. the paper work usually keeps alfred up at night, but when that’s not the case, then it’s bruce that keeps him up. this time, it’s both bruce and his accomplice.

alfred will enjoy to get acquainted with the woman when she’s in a much better state, because, dare he say, she’s been keeping bruce busy in a healthy way, and she’s been caring for him now that bruce forbid alfred to do so. bruce has also been in better moods lately, and alfred can only thank her for that. he just has yet to know this wonderful person.

with half of the sent-up breakfast in his stomach, the blood loss and exhaustion wearing his body down and the darkness of the room due to the drawn curtains, bruce can’t keep himself awake anymore. sitting by the bed in one of the bigger sofa chairs, on the side she lays in, and watching her, he feels himself nodding off every once in a while. eyes drifting closed and head dropping onto the mattress. so he finally gives himself that sweet release—bruce gets comfortable with half his body on the mattress and half still in the chair—and lets slumber take complete control of his body and consciousness.

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[drabbles-mc]

Won't Leave You Behind

Summary: When an op goes wrong and Steve gets left behind, the rest of his troop is left to call on the only team that is capable of getting him out in one piece. (military/no powers AU)

Warnings: 18+, angst (with a happy/hopeful ending), language, war/violence, hospitals, blood/injury

For the Alternate June-iverse Event Prompt: search & recsue

For @whumpril Day 26: short on time / explosion / "I won't leave you"

Word Count: 5.7k

A/N: Not me going into this fic telling myself that I wasn't going to get carried away and then getting extremely carried away. 😂 But I really did have so much fun creating this universe. It also gave me a change to include some of my other MCU faves so that was fun! I feel like I should preface this with the fact that I took every creative freedom known to man with the military aspects of this. It's fanfic we're just here to have a good time haha. Hope you enjoy! Also, shout-out to @buckybarnesevents for hosting this event! xo

MCU Taglist: @garbinge @artemiseamoon (If you want to be added to any of my taglists, please let me know!)

The medics area was controlled chaos. It’d gone from relatively quiet to anything but that when Sam’s team came back from their last mission out. Well, when what was left of Sam’s team had come back. No one had gotten any clear-cut answers yet as to what had happened, but the doctors who were running around tending to everyone’s wounds could take a pretty good guess.

Sam was lying on the table, trying his best to be a good patient as the doctor pulled a piece of shrapnel out of his side. A few centimeters in a different direction, and Sam knew that he wouldn’t have made it back to base. He would’ve been left behind just like—

“Everyone make it back?” Clint asked as he strode up to where Sam was laying, effectively cutting his train of thought short.

Sam’s grip on the bed beneath him tightened as he tried not to move and flinch from the pain of having his wounds tended to. Gritting his teeth, he shook his head as he forced out, “N-not everyone.”

Clint’s brows knit as he looked out over the medical bay. He tried to do a quick headcount, but with all of the moving bodies he knew it wasn’t going to happen. “Who?”

He shut his eyes tightly, partially from the pain, partially from just not wanting to say it. “Rogers.”

Clint’s lips immediately dropped to a frown as Sam’s answer hit him. Clearing his throat, he asked, “Was he alive when you left?”

“Wasn’t gonna be for long.”

He hated how callous it sounded, but he knew that he couldn’t compromise the safety of the rest of his men any more than he already had because there was a slight chance that Steve was going to rally and be able to make it back with them. They’d hardly been able to get themselves out of the hot-zone—there was no chance he was risking going back into it. Not even for Steve.

There were going to be a thousand and one questions that Sam was going to have to answer. Those questions were going to be coming from people that were higher up in the chain of command than either Sam or Clint were. That’s how it always went with ops—if it went wrong, upper command got to come in and give the third degree and ream everyone out, but if it went right, upper command got to reap all the credit for it. It was a flawed system but it was the only one that they all had. None of them were doing this for the credit, anyway.

Sam finally pried his eyes open and looked over at Clint. The pain was still there but there was something else in his expression too as he said, “I didn’t wanna leave him there, Barton, but…”

Clint shook his head. “I know.”

“If I was good enough, or any of my guys, to go back and try to get him out, we would’ve. But you see this,” he gestured with one arm at the rest of the medical bay, “It would’ve been a suicide mission.”

“Think someone else would be able to get him out?” Clint asked.

Sam looked at him, curiosity almost outweighing the pain he was in. Almost. It was like he could almost actually see the cartoon lightbulb appear above Clint’s head. “Maybe. Why?”

“Barnes and his team might be able to get him back.”

Sam’s confusion only intensified. The name sounded familiar, but he couldn’t pinpoint why. “Barnes?”

Clint nodded. “Sergeant Barnes and his team are almost exclusively search and rescue now. Best extraction team we’ve got. They’re dedicated almost solely to getting back soldiers that have been taken or left behind.”

“Success rate?”

“They’re still around, aren’t they?”

Sam couldn’t argue with that logic. He gave Clint a nod, and before he could even give him any kind of direction or next step, Clint was off and searching for the people who would, hopefully, be the solution to their problem.

The doctor who had been tending to him stepped away only a few moments after Clint had left. Sam tried to take advantage of the few seconds where no one was talking to him, prodding at him or stitching him up. He knew that it was the last few seconds of peace that he was going to get for a while now.

A few minutes later, Sam heard a few different sets of footsteps getting closer. Propping himself up on his elbows, he looked to see who it was. His eyes widened slightly at the small team of soldiers heading in his direction. He had to assume that the man leading the pack was the Sergeant that Clint had told him about. He certainly carried himself like someone of importance.

Sam looked him over as he approached, unable to miss the metal arm and hand that was at his side. There was a story there, he knew that for sure. And even though Sam didn’t know what the story was, there was something about it that had him thinking that this man was cut out to survive just about anything.

He strode right up next to the bed that Sam was laying on, the rest of the team except for the woman right next to him falling back. Whoever they were, Sam could tell that they ran like a well-oiled machine. They all did—it was the nature of the job, but sometimes they came across people who just had an extra level to them that not everyone else did. Sam had the feeling that even though Barnes had a small team, each member of it had that extra level.

“Sergeant Barnes?” Sam said it like a question as he held his hand out for him to shake.

He nodded, reaching with his right hand and giving Sam’s a firm shake. “Wilson?”

“Yea.”

Bucky clasped his hands in front of him as he spoke. “Heard a man got left behind.”

Sam felt himself get defensive at the phrasing. There was no malice in Bucky’s tone, or even in his expression, but the wounds were still fresh enough for it to feel like a dig. Sam tried not to act on his emotions as he answered. “Yea, Rogers. It,” he shook his head, “it was a fucking mess out there. It all went sideways so fast. It was either risk everyone, or—”

“I get it,” Bucky cut him off with a nod. “Triage.”

Sam nodded, feeling a little less tense. “Triage.”

Bucky nodded towards the exit of the medic area, “Barton said you thought there was a chance someone could get him out?”

Sam took a deep breath, slowly situating himself so that he was sitting fully upright. “I mean, maybe. It was messy getting out. Explosions, I thought the whole damn thing was going to come down.” He paused, looking at Bucky, then at the rest of his team. “I don’t want to send you guys into something you won’t come out of, but I also can’t sit here and tell you that I don’t want to get my last man back.”

Bucky nodded. “I’ll talk to your captain. Get the coordinates.” He shook Sam’s hand again. “We’ll bring him home.”

There was something about the way that Bucky moved and spoke that had Sam believing him when he wouldn’t have had the same faith in most other people. “Thank you.”

When Bucky walked away, Sam assumed that the rest of his team was going to be short to follow. And most of them were, except for the woman who was still standing by his bedside. She had yet to say anything to him, but Sam knew that she had been studying him the entire time.

Not knowing what else to do, he extended his hand out to her. “Wilson.”

She nodded as she shook his hand, the action brief as she introduced herself. “Romanoff.”

That was a name he recognized. He couldn’t hide it on his face, either. He never knew what circumstances would arise that would ever put the two of them in each other’s paths, but he certainly never thought it would be something like this. He’d heard enough about her, the damage she was capable of inflicting. She was one of the army’s most lethal assets, so Sam couldn’t help but to wonder how she ended up on a team that was dedicated to search and rescue. From the things he’d heard, she should’ve been scorching earth somewhere.

“Didn’t think you did extraction,” he finally said.

She shrugged. “Times change. Got too difficult to sleep—figured I would try to balance the scales a little bit.”

He nodded to where Bucky was standing talking to the commanding officers. “That why he pulled this team together?”

She shook her head. “No. Couple years back, Barnes was the one who got left behind. Cost him his arm, almost cost him his life.” She took a deep breath as she watched Bucky looking through the files he was being handed. “No one came for him—he got himself out. No one in their right mind thought that he was going to try and come back after what he’d been through, but he did. This team was his idea, and he was convincing enough that nobody was telling him no.”

“That how he got you to say yes?” he asked. “Or did you go to him?”

A tiny smirk curled her lips. “Depends who you ask.” She paused, looking back to Sam after looking at Bucky. “I went to him.” She gripped the edges of the tac-vest strapped across her chest. “We get a forty-eight hour window to go in and do what we get sent in to do before we’re declared missing or killed in action. Hasn’t come to that yet, though. We keep it simple—recovery only, no extra frills.”

Sam had a million more questions that he wanted to ask her, but he didn’t get the chance as Bucky called over, “Romanoff. Let’s go.”

Looking back over at Bucky, she nodded to let him know that she’d heard him before turning her attention back to Sam. “We’ll get him back.”

Sam nodded. “I believe you.”

Bucky was behind the wheel as they made their way towards the coordinates that they had been given. Natasha rode shotgun while the rest of their team rode in the back of the covered truck. They went over the run-down of the plan, the alternatives for if and when things inevitably hit the fan. The specifics changed with each mission, but the general layout was always the same. Their designated roles had worked well so far. If it’s not broke, no need to try and fix it.

“You’re quieter than usual,” Natasha spoke up as she watched Bucky staring intently at the land surrounding the road they were on.

He shook his head, not looking over at her as he said, “Just focused.”

She frowned, not believing him but not looking to cause an argument when they were approaching such a precarious point. She conceded with a simple, “Okay,” and decided that if she was going to press him about it, she’d do it later.

Sam and his team hadn’t been lying about the carnage. Sam’s team might’ve been the ones that had to retreat, but it looked like whoever they had run up against had lost their fair share of men in the mess of it all anyway. There were buildings on their last legs, and Bucky had the pervasive feeling that they were going to have to go into one of them to find who they were looking for. It wouldn’t be the worst setting they found themselves in, but the inherent lack of structural stability put a whole other layer of danger on top of whoever they might find themselves up against.

The deeper they went into the zone, the more Bucky couldn’t help but to think that Sam’s team was lucky that everyone else had made it out alive. The injuries it all caused were going to be quite the thing to contend with, but judging by the debris, it was a miracle that only one man got left behind. More than that, it was something else entirely that he might still be alive.

Once they reached the site, Bucky found himself following the footprints left behind until he came across the blood. The longer that he followed that trail, with each hallway and stairwell he came across, the more unlikely it became that when he found Steve that he was going to be alive. He didn’t give up hope, though—he knew better than that. Plus, no matter what the outcome was, Bucky knew that he wasn’t going back to the base empty-handed. Everyone deserved answers, closure, no matter how the situation ended up playing out.

Natasha and Bucky were paired up as usual, always the ones to go deepest into the mess, only calling for the next pair in the stagger if things got too volatile for just the two of them to handle alone. They moved quickly but cautiously, trying to make their footfalls as silent as possible as they traversed the rocks and rubble left behind by everything that had happened earlier.

They both froze when they heard the sound of footsteps, other voices not terribly close by, but still too close for comfort. They were a few hallways away. Bucky and Natasha stood and waited, hoping that they would pass, recede far enough to the point where they wouldn’t be a tangible threat to them anymore, just a looming one. After a few more moments, they both came to the conclusion at the same time that while whoever it was, wasn’t getting closer, they also weren’t retreating either.

“Go,” Natasha whispered with a nod. “I’ll backtrack and post up in case they get too close.”

“We don’t split up,” he argued quietly.

She shook her head. “I won’t be far. Besides, judging by the blood,” she nodded towards the red streaks on the ground, “we aren’t far from him.”

“If things go wrong—”

“You’ll hear it,” she finished the sentence for him, although it wasn’t what he was actually going to say. “Go. We’re all short on time, but Rogers especially.”

Bucky knew that she was right, that there was no time to argue. He was just going to have to trust that if things really did start going south, she would handle it or he would be able to get back to her in time to help her handle it. They’d always figured it out so far.

He followed the trail to the end of the hallway until he came to a closed door. He lowered his gun for a moment, holding it with just one hand as he used the other to reach for the doorknob. It wasn’t locked, but when he tried to push the door open, he was met with resistance. Something was behind it—Steve was attempting to block anyone from getting it. It would’ve been a smart move if Bucky had been someone who wasn’t there to rescue him.

The impulse to barge clean through the door was there. It would’ve been easy to do, but it also would’ve stripped away any anonymity that their team still had. So, instead, he slowly tried to force the door open. There was resistance, but he was able to get it part of the way open. He almost had it opened enough to get in when he heard someone moving on the other side, and then felt someone pushing back against him.

He froze for a moment, trying to think of what the next best move would be. He pushed against the door again, listening intently to try and catch any other sounds coming from the other side. When he gave another small push, he heard someone let out a grunt of pain. It was reassuring in a strange way, because it meant that it was most likely the injured man he was looking for, not someone else who was looking to harm everyone present.

“Rogers?” Bucky spoke quietly as he pressed his shoulder into the door again. He paused and waited for a response he assumed wasn’t going to come. “Wilson sent me.” Another small push. Another lack of response from the person on the other side of the door. “My name is Sergeant Barnes. I’m here to get you home.”

It was silent for a few more seconds, and it crossed Bucky’s mind that he might just have to push his way in and hope for the best. It wouldn’t be the first time that someone fought back against being rescued out of fear. He couldn’t blame them, these people who were left to their own devices and taught that when in doubt, assume everyone is a threat, were just doing what they had been trained to do. He was asking them to go against all those months of training, against the rewiring of their instincts. It wasn’t easy—he knew that firsthand.

“I’m gonna push the door open,” he said honestly, “so you should probably move.”

Much to Bucky’s surprise, he could hear shuffling behind the door. He wasn’t naïve enough to think that that meant he wasn’t going to be met with any kind of resistance when he entered, but it was a win for now. Taking a deep breath, he gave another push, enough to make the doorway wide enough for him to slip through with ease.

Once he was inside, he brought his other hand back to his gun. He didn’t raise it, didn’t want to put that energy out there, but he also needed to be ready for the worst-case scenario. Looking around, he didn’t immediately see the man he’d been sent to rescue. Bucky assumed that he was crouched behind something, ducking and waiting to be on the defensive. That’s what Bucky would’ve done if the roles were reversed.

“Rogers?” he said, voice still quiet. He took a couple slow, calculated steps deeper into the room. “We don’t have a lot of time. You know that better than anyone, right?” Another step. “So, let’s get you out of here.”

Bucky could hear Steve’s breathing now, labored and shallow. He stepped around an overturned cabinet and came face-to-face with the whole reason anyone came back at all. Steve was sitting on the ground, back against the wall, gun pointed directly at Bucky’s head.

Bucky held his hands up in surrender for a moment before slowly moving to holster his gun, telling Steve exactly what he was doing as he was doing it. Neither of them took their eyes off the other. Bucky had skimmed over Steve’s file. What he’d read didn’t sync up with the man shuddering in front of him, and that’s how he knew how dire the situation really was. While Steve’s eyes didn’t waver from Bucky’s face, Bucky couldn’t help but to notice the fact that there was blood coming from Steve’s side, and from his thigh. At first glance, he couldn’t tell if it was shrapnel or if they were bullet wounds—there was too much blood. That was for the medics to figure out anyway.

“We’re just here to help, Rogers.”

Steve’s hands were shaking around his gun, from nerves or blood loss was anyone’s guess. “Sam sent you?” he asked, finally speaking even though his voice came out strained.

Bucky nodded, relief showing in every facet of his body and facial expression. “He did.”

The trembling in Steve’s hands intensified for a moment and then he finally lowered his gun. His muscles went slack, and suddenly he looked even smaller than he had before, which was an impressive feat for a man who wasn’t small at all.

Neither of them said anything as Bucky crouched down to help get Steve back on his feet. Bucky draped Steve’s arm over his shoulders, slipping his own arm across Steve’s back to brace him. The metal of his hand was harsh against the bruised and scraped skin of Steve’s back, but they both knew that the little bit of extra strength and power was going to be what allowed Bucky to keep Steve upright, what would give them the ability to get out fast enough so that they didn’t lose their window.

Steve was gripping onto the fabric that covered Bucky’s shoulder, balling it in his fist like it was an anchor. Every limped step forward towards the door felt like a herculean effort. It crossed his mind that he had done all this work to get so far away from it all, trying to get out of harm’s way, and now he was going to have to double-back and go through it all over again. He didn’t know if he was going to have the strength for that. He didn’t know if he was going to make it, if the blood loss was finally going to get to him.

“You with me?” Bucky asked, almost like he could hear Steve’s thoughts.

“Sarge, I don’t know if—”

“Bucky,” he cut Steve’s thought short.

“What?”

Bucky grunted as he pulled the door open a little wider to allow them both to slip through without causing Steve to slam any of his injuries against the doorframe in the process. “Call me Bucky. Everyone on my team calls me Bucky, and you’re on my team now.”

Steve nodded, trying as best he could to help them both get through the door and down the hall in the most coordinated fashion that they could manage. “Bucky, I don’t know if I’m going to make it back.”

“You will,” he said with all the certainty in the world.

“But—”

“I’ve never lost a member of my team, Rogers. Everyone always makes it home.” The one way or another was implied, but Bucky never left anyone behind. That was the whole point of it, after all.

Steve tried to take a deep breath, tried not to think about how unsteady it was, the way that it stuttered in his throat on the way down. He knew better than to waste energy on arguing with the man who was carrying him, especially when he didn’t have any energy to spare, and also when it seemed like Bucky wasn’t the type of man to lose an argument.

They were just about to reach the end of the hallway when the muffled quiet of the building was broken by the sounds of gunfire. Both Bucky and Steve hesitated at the same time. They looked at each other, each trying to figure out what the best plan of action was going to be.

“Could use a hand out here, Bucky!” Natasha’s voice rose above all the rest of it.

“Fuck,” Bucky cursed under his breath. He looked at Steve, determination in his eyes and the set of his jaw as he said, “We’re gonna keep going.”

“You can’t risk that,” Steve argued, not that it mattered much because Bucky was still continuing to get them both down the hallway. “It’s not,” he sucked in a breath, “it’s not worth it. You need to get your team out of here.”

“You’re my team too.”

Steve admired the attempt Bucky was making to try and give him something extra to cling onto, but in Steve’s mind it wasn’t the time for that. “Your real team.”

Bucky shook his head as he reached with his free hand to unholster his gun. “We don’t leave anyone behind.”

The gunfire got louder the closer they got to it. Steve hadn’t ever felt so useless. He reached for his weapon as well, knowing full-well that if push came to shove it wasn’t going to do him much good. Still, he couldn’t go into a firefight empty-handed.

Natasha spared a split-second glance over her shoulder when she heard the footsteps behind her, just long enough to confirm that it was someone who was on her side. “Good,” she said, eyes already back facing front as she quickly reloaded her gun, “you found him.”

“Yea,” Bucky waited until he saw a flash of someone trying to dart from one room to the other, pulling the trigger and being rewarded with the sight of them collapsing to the floor. “He tried to tell me to leave him.”

She shook her head, still leading their little trio and firing as she went. “We don’t do that.”

They were almost to the stairwell, almost to a few precious moments of safety, when there was a gunshot that was followed by the sound of Steve letting out a grunt of pain. He slumped even heavier against Bucky, nearly causing them both to go down. Bucky managed to brace himself, knowing that he needed to figure out what just happened but he wasn’t going to be doing triage in the middle of a gunfight.

“Nat,” he said.

That was all she needed. “Got it,” she responded with a nod as she maneuvered so that she was standing behind them, covering their backs while Bucky got them to the door that put them in the stairwell. It felt like it took longer to cover the last few feet of the hall than everything else leading up to that moment combined.

The door clanged shut behind the three of them and it was only then that Bucky let out the breath he’d been holding. He slowly lowered Steve to the ground so he could try and get a better look at his injuries.

“Where?” Bucky asked as he looked Steve over.

Steve winced through the pain as he brought his hand to his thigh, the same one that was already injured. Sure enough, Bucky could see the fresh blood that was coming out of it. His mind was going at a mile a minute as he tried to figure out what to do, trying to come up with something that he could tie it off with.

“Here.” Natasha tossed him the rope she carried in the pack that was strapped to her. Every member of the team carried some version of an escape tool along with their weapons. It was just good logistics. “Cut a piece of that and tie his leg off.”

Bucky was grabbing his knife to do it before she even finished the direction. Steve watched him, shaking his head. All the effort they were putting in and he still had the feeling that he wasn’t going to make it anyway.

“You two should go,” he said, gritting his teeth as he felt Bucky starting to tie the rope off around his leg. “Get yourselves back while you can.”

“That’s not how it works,” Bucky said as he tightened the rope just a little more, causing Steve to squirm.

“Bucky—”

Bucky pried his eyes away from Steve’s bleeding leg to look into his eyes. The resoluteness in them was enough to silence him before Bucky even said anything. “If one of us makes it back,” he put his hand on Steve’s shoulder, “we both do. If one of us stays behind,” his grip tightened just slightly, “we both do. I told you—I don’t leave anyone behind. I won’t leave without you.”

Steve wanted to argue it. The words were on the tip of his tongue, but there was something about the tone of Bucky’s voice and the look in his eyes that kept him silent. Steve could tell that everything that Bucky was saying to him, he really meant it. It wasn’t just lip-service.

“We’re in this together until we both make it home. ‘Til the end of the line, alright?”

Steve swallowed hard, trying to muster up what little strength he still had. “Alright,” he let Bucky get him back to his feet, “’Til the end of the line.”

Getting down the stairs and out of the building wasn’t easy. The only saving grace was that by the time they hit the ground floor of the building they were in, the next two members of Bucky’s team were there and ready to tag in, help cover them with enough fire to make sure that they all got out alive. It freed Natasha up to help Bucky all but carry Steve out of the building and to their truck. Both of them could feel the way that Steve was supporting himself less and less as the seconds passed, but neither of them commented on it. There was nothing helpful to say about it, so they said nothing at all.

One of Bucky’s men was already behind the wheel, keys in the ignition and engine on in preparation for a quick take-off. That was always the way they operated. Bucky drove them all in, and someone else always drove them all out. A well-oiled machine.

The back tires of their truck kicked up all manner of dust and rocks as they sped off. They could hear the pinging of bullets off the enforced sides of their covered truck as they got away. It only lasted for a short time, the people who were shooting at weren’t that determined to get them. The entire team was considering themselves lucky for that.

Once the bullets stopped, it was silent except for the thrum of the truck’s engine and the tires gripping up the dirt on the road beneath them. No one said anything, which wasn’t unusual. There wasn’t always much to say after a mission. And in this case, like many of them, the mission wasn’t over. There was a lot hanging in the balance on the ride between where they were now and the base that they needed to get to.

They had Steve lying across the seats on one side of the truck, trying to keep him as level and steady as possible. Bucky was watching the wounds in his leg carefully. The rope did a decent enough job of slowing the blood for not being a real tourniquet.

Bucky could see the way that the color was continuing to drain from Steve’s face. He gently shook his shoulder, trying to keep him from slipping into total unconsciousness. “Rogers, come on, stay with me.”

He coughed, eyes still closed. “Steve.”

“What?”

“My name is Steve. My friends call me Steve.”

“Alright, Steve,” Bucky corrected himself, nodding even though Steve’s eyes weren’t open, “stay with me.”

All the begging and bargaining in the world wasn’t going to change how things were going to play out, so Bucky didn’t bother. Instead, he did what he could. He tried to keep Steve awake, tried to ask him questions that he could give one-word answers to in order to keep him talking. He was partially successful, Steve faded in and out a couple times but he kept coming back.

When the truck rolled to a stop back on base, it’d hardly been put in park before medics were ripping the back door of it open. They fired off questions as they carried him inside, questions that Bucky answered with the most precision he could offer.

Within seconds, they’d whisked Steve off to take care of him. Out of sight, certainly not out of mind. Bucky could’ve waited, paced just on the side of the medical bay where he was allowed. Instead, he wove his way back through until he found Sam again still lying on his bed but in much better condition than when Bucky had seen him hours beforehand.

Sam heard Bucky’s footsteps before he saw him, and for a moment he didn’t want to turn and face him, afraid of what the news was going to be. He knew that he couldn’t avoid it forever, though. So he slowly turned, unable to say anything, unable to breathe, counting on Bucky to say something first.

“We got him back,” Bucky said with a nod.

Sam’s body went lax with relief against the mattress. He got himself sitting upright, reaching out and clutching Bucky’s hand in his own, pulling him into a brief embrace. “Thank you.”

Bucky nodded as he took a step back. “It’s what we all do.”

Sam noticed the way that Bucky was looking around, looking towards the door. “You should stay,” he said, “should be here when he wakes up.”

Bucky hesitated for a moment. So often it was one thing and then right off onto the next. There was always more to do, more people to save. But he could spare a few hours, he supposed, before heading off again. If he had to leave, then he would, but for the moment he didn’t see any reason why he couldn’t try to linger and wait.

“Okay.”

Sam gave a nod. “Okay.”

It wasn’t nearly as long as Bucky thought it was going to be. Before he knew it, Steve was stirring in the bed beside the chair that Bucky found himself sitting in. He was nose-deep in a personnel file, Steve’s to be exact.

Steve blinked slowly a few times, eyes adjusting to the light, brain adjusting to consciousness. “Bucky?”

He lifted his eyes from the folder in his hands, letting it drop to his lap as he looked over at Steve. “Told you we’d make it back.”

Steve chuckled, nodding as he slowly shifted himself so that he was sitting somewhat upright. “You did say that, yea.” He cleared his throat, wincing slightly as he did. “Thank you, for saving me.”

Bucky never really knew how to handle the thank-you’s. It wasn’t what he did it for, but he knew that they always came. “Every man in, every man out.”

“Every time?” Steve asked.

He nodded. “Every time.”

Steve let his head rest back against the wall, letting his eyes shut for a moment. “Your team is lucky.”

Bucky let out a small chuckle. Lucky wasn’t exactly the word he’d use to describe his team, not with some of the asks that he put on them, not with the circumstances he dropped in their laps on a regular basis. “Don’t know if they’d say the same thing.”

“They would,” Steve replied, a certainty in his voice that Bucky hadn’t had the opportunity to head when he was knocking on death’s door.

“I told you, Steve, you’re part of that team now too.”

Steve nodded, still not opening his eyes, still not turning to look directly at Bucky. “Guess that means I’m also lucky.”

[usaigi]

London Bridge is Down

Lunar sys au character cards | Read all chapters on ao3

A/N: I usually post drabbles on tumblr a couple days after ao3 but I'm posting this one earlier because it's a meme. I just like the actual MCU have not been keeping track of the timeline. If I contradict myself, um no I didn’t :) I’m going to change the actual timeline and we’re going to pretend that it’s late March 2026 and the Queen is still alive.

Marc has been anticipating this would happen soon; scrolling through Twitter in the last few days some sources reported that the Queen was feeling unwell. Then, news broke out that she canceled a royal appearance. To be honest, Marc could care less about where the Queen lived or died, to him he was just another rich elite who uses her power to exploit others.

Steven, however, is another story. Until now, Steven hadn't indicated any negative or positive opinion toward the monarchy. Although Steven is not known for shying away from expressing his general disapproval and disgust of far-right policies, so by all accounts they’d all just assume that he wasn’t a fan. But to everyone’s surprise, Steven has been anxious all week, dropping consent comments about how he hopes the Queen’s alright and that she’ll pull through. In all likeliness, Steven is compassionate to the person who hates seeing anyone suffer, politics aside. Whatever the reason, Marc knows Steven will be devastated, and even if he doesn’t understand the loyalty, the least he can do is be respectful of Steven’s feelings. 

Now the problem: Layla hates the queen and everything she represents. Rightfully so, all things considered. Luckily for him, she’s currently out of the country and won’t be home until this evening. Marc can deal with that by texting Layla a quick message. “Happy The Witch is Dead Day!  I will party with you but can you please be sensitive around Steven, he likes her for some reason?”

Then there’s the other problem: everyone else in the system. 

“Emergency meeting without the worm? Nice,” Daniela says as she enters the conference room, pulling on her chair. 

Marc lets everyone else shuffle in before he starts. Patiently waiting as Jake and Birdy push her and Kid’s chair together so they can snuggle in case they get stressed. They really should just get a double chair or couch for them–complain to HR. Maybe get an inner world HR first. 

When everyone takes their seat, Marc takes the center of the room, across from everyone at the crescent table, before announcing, “the Queen died this morning.”

“Marc, I can’t believe you would bring this up so soon, you know I’m still mourning my queen. Descansa en paz, Selena,” Jake gasps, tilting his hat down to cover his eyes as if legitimately sad. 

“I always spoke with Layla about this but basically, even though I know that most of us hate the bourgeoisie, Steven really liked her for some reason and I think we should try to be respectful of his feelings.”

“Sounds fair but I think we should all be allowed one joke,” Jake says. 

“Yeah, seems fair. Go ahead.”

“Do you think Ammit will enjoy eating her heart o como que le falta sazón?” Daniela cuts straight into it with a devilish smirk. 

“Damn, Liz’s really about to colonize the afterlife now,” Jake says in a disappointed voice. 

“Do yo–do you guys think that the corgis are going to end up at the pound now that they don’t have an owner? If so, I think that we should make the sacrifice and take one of them and give them a nice home. And then the corgi and Gatarina can be best friends,” Kid rambles on hopefully. Not really a joke, seeing as he clenched his fist and wiggled in his chair slightly over the possibility that they’ll get him a puppy. 

“I heard the monarchy buries their pet with their owner,” Daniela teases. 

Kid's face drops instantly–as if Daniela told him that she just killed his puppy–which she sorta did–and anxious cries out, “what! No! Jake, plea–”

“Daniela, don’t be mean. Apologize,” Jake scolds her but she shrugs it off. 

“If the queen gets reincarnated as Trisha Paytas’s baby, does that mean the queen’s going to celebrate Hanukkah with us this year?” Birdy says, presumably referencing some celebrity or internet personality. 

“Who?” Daniela asks.

“The lady from the ‘I Love You, Moses' video,” they all collectively groan. 

“I’m going to need to find someone else to outlive,” Marc says as Birdy nods along in approval. 

“Hey Marc, hear me out. I know it’s crazy but what if we just didn’t make jokes about killing ourselves,” Jake suggests. 

“Don’t take away my coping mechanism.”

“Jokes aside, I wonder if the Queen’s death will be weaponized to recruit young people down the alt-right pipeline in the same vein as other national tragedies have. I will be frank, and please excuse my language children, but fuck the Queen. I have no sympathy for someone who is directly linked to the exploitation, colonization, oppression, and suffering of millions of people. 

“I guess that’s more of a comment than a joke. Um… the new season of the Crown will be… ‘fire,’” Mr. Knight concludes. 

----

“Hey, buddy, nice of you to join us,” Marc says softly when Steven finally opens in. 

“Hey, Marc? Why are you being weird?” Steven asks suspiciously. 

“No reason. So your job emailed you, I didn’t open it because it’s your thing but the subject said that the museum is closed today.”

“What? Seriously, why?” Steven asked, pressing his lips together in confusion. “Maybe they’re finally calling an exterminator over the ants in the break room.”

“Before you open the email, remember that I’m here for you,” Marc says sincerely. 

“Yeah alright…” he mumbles, unlocking his phone and opening up the email. Marc tenses up as he feels Steven's eyes trail across the words, “British Museum Closed In Observes of the Death of Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth II,” dreading what's to come.  

“Oh no!” Steven cries out, hiding his face in his hands. 

“It’s okay buddy! Don’t be sad, we ca–”

“I lost the bet! Damn it! I bet one of my co-workers a hundred pounds that the Queen would make it hundred years and I was so close! Why couldn’t she have waited another month to kick the bucket, we were so close!”

[dorianglowstick]

heads up seven up (aka an excuse to post bits of my writing wips)

I’m just going to tag my mutuals here bc you’re technically supposed to tag more people if you do the “heads up seven up” thing but I don’t rly know people around here

(sorry for bothering you guys 😅)

@gravitysketches @saltynsassy31

@bits-and-beasts @bluespider008 @gunpowdergril00

sound systems in mcu:

"Who are you?" He was met with a wall of oppressing silence and a blank visor. Metal creaked painfully beneath the coils as he feebly squirmed in their grip. Blaster couldn't suppress the shiver that rattled his frame; this mech was creepy. And he was literally stuck to him.

idk that weird tfp Shockwave x G1 Prowl thing? It’s still a draft…

For what happened next, Prowl blamed Megatron as out of everyone on the battlefield, the giant purple thing came towards him. Optimus's yell of "Prowl run!" came a bit too late as the ‘Shockwave' snatched him up and began running back towards the green portal. Prowl thrashed around in the huge mech's grip, but to no avail. It was horrible to see all of his friends' yelling faces as they ran at the closing portal, leaving him alone in the dim room with a giant mech that dwarfed him and could easily take on Megatron himself. Sometimes he wished tacnet wouldn't tell him these things.

Yes, believe it or not this next text is from the Jettwins in tfp au. Ik the twins aren’t mentioned but there’s context I'm not giving yet lmao ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Raf curled in on himself, scared and unsure of what to do. He had been out late trying to track a funny signal he had never seen before, and completely forgot that Decepticons were not the only dangerous thing out at night. He mentally beat himself up, how could he been so stupid? He should have called Bee before going! This was such a Miko move... The footsteps got louder and he tried to squeeze himself against the dumpster further. 'Hopefully they won't see me in the dark' No such luck. A beam of light flashed down the alley, and gruff voices followed it. 'don't look here don't look here don't look near the very obvious dumpster-'

[hmsharmony]

I was tagged in a first-lines-of-fic meme by my darling @moonatoms.

Rules: share the first lines of ten of your most recent fanfics and tag ten however many people you like. If you have written fewer than ten, don’t be shy and share anyway!

Tagging: @lissomelle (no this is not an attempt to get your juices flowing because you were brainstorming Shadow & Bone fic what are you taking about), @hondagirll, @seek--rest, @abc2411, and anyone else because it’s 1 am and my brain is no longer working.

1. someone out there who can bring me back to you (Spider-Man (MCU) Peter/MJ Adam Project AU)

“MJ, are you sure about this?”

MJ gestures to be quiet as she and Ned make their way through the silent facility. Ned’s already hacked into the system to shut off the security cameras and alarms, but the last thing they need is to alert any guards. She tightens her grip on her backpack.

2. scars are souvenirs we never lose (Spider-Man (MCU) Peter/MJ, Michelle-centric post-NWH fic)

Michelle is pretty sure she spent the first few hours of Saturday hanging out on Liberty Island with her best friend and a wizard.

Yes, she knows how that sounds. No, she doesn’t know why they were there. It gets particularly confusing when she remembers there was some kind of showdown between Spider-Man and a lizard and a sand storm, and maybe a guy on a hoverboard? Anyway, the point is, she and Ned spent their night hanging out at what she’s pretty sure is now a crime scene, and she has no idea how they ended up there.

3. Speak Aloud What Until Now I've Only Sung (Austin & Ally, Austin/Ally through the years)

They are 18 and prom is just around the corner. He wants to ask her to what is supposed to be the greatest night of their high school lives, but he takes just a bit too long working up the nerve, and when he finally approaches her and tries to nonchalantly suggest that they go together she already has a date.

With Dallas.

Of course.

Fate would decide to screw with him like that.

4. Make a Move (‘Cause I’m Ready) Austin & Ally, Austin/Ally post-Mix-Ups & Mistletoe

Early on the day after Christmas, Trish barges into Sonic Boom and demands, "So are you going to tell me about that almost kiss under the mistletoe or what?"

Ally is still exhausted from yesterday and is all but on autopilot, and before she can stop herself she replies, "Which one?"

5. Fragment of Light (Merlin; Arthur-Gwen 4x09 spec fic)

“They want your head, Guinevere.” Gwen remains silent, her gaze trained to the side. “What am I supposed to do now?” This catches her attention, and she finally looks at him. Disbelief flickers across her face.

6. There’s So Much More Than Me and You (Merlin; Arthur/Gwen 3x10 spec fic)

“Guinevere.”

Gwen glanced up from her place on the dungeon floor. “Arthur,” she breathed. She stared at him for a moment, just making out the outline of him through the bars of the prison door.

6. Burnt Chicken Never Won Fair Lady (Merlin; Arthur/Gwen slightly cracky modern au)

As a rule, Gwen avoided the habit of eavesdropping, preferring not to run the risk of hearing only bits and pieces of a conversation and either agonizing over what had actually been said or leaving the room with a completely false understanding of the discussion. Yet when Morgana started snickering uncontrollably, her magazine shaking up and down, Gwen couldn’t help but look up from her book and follow her friend’s gaze to the two young men standing on the other side of Morgana’s elegantly decorated living room.

7. A Handful of Sand (Merlin; Arthur/Gwen, arranged marriage s3 spec)

Camelot is falling apart.

As much as Gwen tried to quiet this thought, every day it seemed to grow stronger. The dragon attack months ago was only the first of many tragedies to befall the kingdom, and now the people were cursed with a king who, for all intents and purposes, had gone mad.

8. Multa Paucis (Merlin; Arthur/Gwen, Gwen-centric missing scenes from s2 finale)

“They’ve left, Gwen – both of them.”

“Oh.” It’s the only word that manages to escape her lips, the only word she trusts herself to utter without revealing that the world is turning on its head, that she is lost and unsure and …

Scared.

9. A Pirate’s Life (is not For Spoiled Princes) (Merlin; Arthur, Gwen, and Morgana in a pre-Merlin Camelot)

The morning before Gwen’s first day as a handmaiden her father had warned her that her lady’s word was law. “No matter what happens, obey the king’s ward,” her father had said before seeing her off. Gwen understood the logic behind this advice, but she wondered if her father would’ve instructed her otherwise had he been better acquainted with the Lady Morgana. Indeed, Gwen couldn’t imagine that he’d be particularly thrilled if he discovered how his daughter was currently aiding her lady in a pirate attack on the crown prince of Camelot.

10. We Are Just Breakable Girls and Boys (Merlin; Arthur/Gwen shortly after Morgana’s disappearance)

He finds her in Morgana’s chambers. Her back is to him – her face looking out the window – and her arms are wrapped around her body as if she’s protecting herself from the cold. He hasn’t said a word, but somehow she knows he’s there, for she soon says in a hoarse voice, “I didn’t believe him.”

[dakt37]

Soooooo do you want to talk about your OC AI? 👀 Because I’m definitely interested

Oh! Sure, thank you. 💕 I've alluded to it before; it's part of my den of AU plot bunnies where Avengers Assemble Tony is stuck with The Beyonder in a pocket dimension. Tony loses FRIDAY and builds a new AI from scratch named POLARIS. The original version, which Tony tends to call Polly or Pol, has a pitch-shifted voice and is referred to with she/her pronouns. Not because the AI cares, it's just how Tony set it up. He had to record his own voice for the audio library and didn't want to just be hearing himself all the time.

POLARIS 1.0 is pretty rudimentary. She's not as intuitive as FRIDAY or JARVIS, and tends to sound a little stilted like Siri or the Google Assistant. Tony often forgets that he can't ask her open-ended questions or give vague orders. Dealing with her can be an exercise in patience. She's really polite but a little vacant; a sweet airhead of an AI. She tends to call Tony by his name rather than "Sir" or "Boss," and isn't particularly sarcastic or sassy. She's sort of like a brand new Janet from The Good Place, and is very literal about the fact that she's a computer program.

Then depending on what variation of the AU I'm daydreaming about, there's POLARIS 2.0. This one is active after Tony has seemingly vanished from Beyonder's citadel. It uses Tony's regular voice and often struts around as a hologram based on his body scan. It meets the MCU Avengers when they too get pulled into the pocket dimension (listen, I'm a slut for crossovers), and swings between being very helpful to them and being extremely suspect. MCU Tony dubs him "Ollie."

I honestly have a ton of different endings in mind so it's entirely unclear if Ollie is 1. The original program impersonating Tony, 2. An evolved version of the program that merged with a scan of Tony's brain, or 3. Tony's soul lodged in a wildly advanced computer system. Also unclear if the real Tony is 1. Dead, or 2. Comatose. Also-also unclear if Ollie happened 1. Intentionally by Polly, 2. Intentionally by Tony, or 3. Entirely accidentally.

This is why I never finish the AUs I start 😂

Anyway the name POLARIS originally came from Steve. On some old mission, he and Tony got stranded in the wilderness at night with no GPS signal. Steve gestured to the starry sky and said, "You're never lost if you can find Polaris." I'm not totally settled on what the backronym is yet, but so far I've got "Pathfinder Orienting Lost Avengers Reclused In-between Space." The program was originally intended to help Tony break out of the pocket dimension, or at least get a signal back to his home reality.

So yeah, that's POLARIS ✨

[bulkyphrase]

Gen Fic Friday

I've decided to start doing weekly recommendations of some of my favorite MCU gen fics - starting with this criminally underrated Indiana Jones AU. It's got a rather silly premise, but while it is funny, the story doesn’t sacrifice character development for jokes.

Highly recommended if you like lighthearted action/adventure.

Natalie Jones and the Stone Knight by ironychan

(Teen, 125,462 words)

Summary: Natasha is undercover as an adventure-seeking archaeologist, Steve is a resurrected medieval knight, and they - along with an ex-military surgeon, a detective, a man who believes he's Nat's father, and a nut who thinks he's Robin Hood - are on a quest for the Holy Grail. The journey will bring them face to face with sorcerers, goblins, the Queen of England, and the Loch Ness Monster!

“Ridiculous,” Natasha agreed, and suddenly the word seemed very significant. “This is all ridiculous. This is a ridiculous problem. Maybe a ridiculous solution is exactly what we need.”

“What kind of ridiculous solution?” Sharon asked, sounding worried now.

“Well,” Nat said, “there’s a lot of old Soviet space hardware just sitting around in warehouses going rusty. It wouldn’t be safe for humans to use, but we wouldn’t be putting any humans into it. All it would have to do is hold the Grail and reach the Sun’s escape velocity, which is easy – Voyager did that back in the 70’s. Somebody could get it back from the moon, but not if we fling it right out of the solar system.”

There was a long silence as everybody digested that.

[justfandomwritings]

Magic and Misfortune (Loki)

Pairing: Loki x Reader

Word Count: 3.6k

Request:  “I haven’t found someone that writes as well as this for the MCU for a while😂 I’ve seen AUs where gods from different cultures are in one universe and I’ve got a little scenario in my head that sounded pretty cool. Loki x reader who’s a daughter of Zeus. If you could write something like this, that would be AWESOME! Thank you!!😊💕” - Anonymous

Notes: So... I love the idea behind this fic. Not just the request, I love the Greek myth I am reinterpreting and basing it on, and anyone familiar with this particular myth will see how well it fits with Loki. BUT I think my execution here might be a touch lacking, and I’m kinda disappointed in myself and im not sure why really, so if anyone has any opinions, ideas or constructive criticism let me know. I reserve the right to turn this into a series or make this a standalone if I decide not to write part two. It works as both.

*This fic has also not been edited and that’s part of why 

There were more than Nine Realms. A point Asgard, particularly its king, often refused to acknowledge.  

The space between the Nine and the realms beyond was enough to excuse Aesir ignorance for those not amongst the royal court. When one wasn’t dealing regularly with other realms, it was easy to imagine Asgard stood alone, or at least above the rest, and it was effortless to pretend that Odin ruled all of the known worlds. 

He was Odin, after all. He was the All-Father, the Ancient One, the Great King. The stories said he was all seeing and all knowing. The Aesir thought him a man worthy of the crown atop his head. They thought themselves without equal, above all. None held this belief more than Odin.

Tales of his great conquest of the Nine Realms had died on the lips of those few old enough to know them, and many saw him only as their benevolent lord. Few knew the stories of the wars Odin waged. Not the wars against the Jotunns, those were bedtime stories of the Aesir. The subjugation of Vanaheim; the decimation of Alfheim; the destruction of Niflheim: these were stories only for the ears of those most trusted to the King and those so persuasive and cunning that no secret was beyond their reach. 

It was Loki, therefore, who was the first to make contact with Gaia. 

They were the realms closest to the Nine. Compared with the size of the universe, Gaia was practically within arm’s reach of Midgard, so close that even humanity was aware of their existence. An accessible and fortuitous target for the supposedly all-powerful King of Asgard.

But Gaia was no Midgard, and Asgard was not so without equal as they claimed to be. Gaia was the doorstep on which Odin had paused.

Gaia was an alliance of three kings, each with their own kingdom: Olympus, ruled by Zeus; Tartarus, ruled by his brother Hades; and Arcadia, ruled by the final brother Poseidon. 

They were constantly at war with each other, but nothing united the three like an external threat over which they could display their dominance. When Odin had set foot at the base of Olympus, a truly majestic realm if there ever was one, Zeus had called on his brothers, currently warring over an insignificant, miniscule ice realm known as Hyperborea. They set aside their feud and arrived before nightfall, and Odin, upon meeting the three, had left by morning. 

As a child, upon first coming to the realization of his father’s war-riddled past, Loki had asked his father why he never told them stories of how he united the Nine Realms. Odin had told Loki that he thought violence nothing worthy of praise and that his millennia of peace with Jotunheim was far more worthy of tales than any battle. 

As a man, upon hearing the stories and seeing his father for who he truly was, Loki thought the story of being humbled at Gaia was likely the true reason Odin did not speak of conquering the Nine Realms. 

Loki knew the tale by heart, and he wanted to see the place of its birth. He wanted to see the place Odin could not claim, the place Odin accepted defeat, or at least retreat.

“Father,” Loki’s silver tongue went to work. “Perhaps, we might speak of Gaia.” He had been careful to catch the All-Father alone. It would prove easier to sway him this way, and he would not be shut down by the presence of those who were less aware than himself.

“What of it, son? They do not bother us, and we do not bother with them.” Odin dismissed offhand as he sat with his younger son in the library. 

“I would like to see the place, Father.” Loki confessed. “In part, I confess, for my own curiosity. I will never sit on the throne of the Nine Realms, and for that, I’d like to see what lies beyond the throne’s purview. Though, I suppose the greater part is in the usefulness of spying Asgard’s greatest threat.”

“Threat?” Odin eyed Loki over the top of the text he was reading. “How are they a threat?”

“There is no doubt, Father,” Loki rushed to sooth, “that you and Thor and the armies of Asgard could handle an onslaught from three oafs like the ones ruling Gaia, but even a battle against three so unskilled would still cause Asgard loses given their sheer size. Does it not worry you that one day, after you are gone, they will grow discontent to fight amongst themselves? Or worse, see us as weak without your omnipotent guidance?”

“It may be worthy of thought, but your brother has trained for such a thing. Defending the Realm Eternal is his birthright, and he will do it well.” 

“I suppose, but the lives lost…” Loki sighed and looked away contemplatively. “Though, I suppose you are correct in that. The only way to prevent such a battle entirely would be to claim the three as Asgard’s newest realms, and who’s to say such a thing is possible? We know nothing of them since your return from their shores.”

Loki watched his father from the corner of his eye. All of Asgard knew of his ‘silvertongue’, as they called it. Yet, somehow, they all allowed themselves to be goaded into his thinking. Perhaps, because he managed to convince them all that it was their thinking he was commenting on and not his own. How many times had he convinced Thor to do something so thoroughly that the God of Thunder actually thought he himself had come up with such an intelligent idea.

Odin conceded the point rather hesitantly, “We know nothing of their realms or their state. It is beyond the sight of the throne and of Heimdall.”

“Such a shame,” Loki mused. “After a millennia fighting themselves, they could be a hardened force beyond compare… or entirely obliterated and ripe for the taking… I suppose we will never know.”

If Loki could make Odin see Gaia as a place teetering between threat and opportunity, a place that could make or destroy his legacy, then surely Odin would take the bait. And if he could make that opportunity seem ripe for the taking, an opportunity to finally claim his title Lord of the Spear once more, Odin would be far too greedy to let the opportunity pass to Thor. 

Loki let the thoughts stew in his father’s head for several weeks before he dropped another line about Gaia, then weeks later made another about the conquest, and months past that another about Thor’s coming reign.

It took two years before, finally, his father had slowly, subconsciously, been worked into a desperate need to, at the bare minimum, know what Gaia was doing. And there was only one man, one spy, with a tongue that could charm any ear and magic that could open any door, whom Odin would trust with the task.

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The Bifrost was built to traverse the Nine Realms. It was possible to further its reach, but such a thing would require time and attention that Loki and Odin did not wish to draw on their endeavours. 

Loki, instead, was to walk the paths the All-Father once took to reach Gaia millennia ago. 

He took a ship, piloted and manned by him and him alone, and he went out past the Rainbow Bridge, past the Bifrost itself. On the orders of the King, Heimdall’s sure hands sent Loki to Gaia’s closest realm, Midgard. 

Midgard encompassed a solar system that encircled a star called the Sun. Only one of the planets was inhabited, a planet called Earth teaming with inferior beings who thought themselves alone in the universe. However, Loki didn’t need the help of the humans who bent the knee and called him God. Heimdall, instead, dropped his ship at the edge of the solar system, just past a planet the humans called Pluto.

From there, Loki navigated fields of asteroids and stretches of empty space, honing in on coordinates that were a thousand years out-of-date, so that he might have some starting point for his search.

It took him a matter of weeks before, looming on the horizon, Loki finally saw it. 

He docked his ship amongst others porting on an exterior wooden scaffold and approached the towering walls of Olympus. 

Magnificent marble gates, carved from a single piece of stone, loomed twentyfold over Loki’s head. Their height was such that he was sure they would conceal the entire Palace of Asgard from view if they wished. 

Chiseled into their face, by the hand of a true master, were images he could only assume were from their realm’s history. The scenes wound their way in a serpentine motion down the stone with an intricacy the likes of which Loki had never seen. The dwarves would pale if they saw such flawless craftsmanship achieved by any hand but their own. 

Much of the history presented to him was beyond his understanding, but Loki recognized the still that greeted him at eye level instantly. It was a famous tale on Midgard, one clearly founded in a kernel of truth. 

It depicted three brothers standing side by side in triumph. Each held their weapon of choice, spears with an increasing number of points progressing down the line to the final brother’s trident. The marble wasn’t inlaid with anything, yet through the natural skill of its carvers the colors of the stone seemed to convey the varying material of each blade. 

The men stood atop a form the size of a mountain but was clearly a body, decapitated, the head balanced under the right foot of the one holding the single-tipped spear. The dying face turned so it’s unseeing eyes looked down on any who approached the gate. 

Crowds, carved in a far smaller height, pushed in around the massive headless beast and cheered on their new leaders who were flanked, in the background of the depiction by a stoic group of beautiful companions. 

It was the Midgardian Kronos myth incarnate. Loki would know it anywhere. 

He wondered, mostly to himself, if the sons really had killed their father, if they had simply taken credit for his death, or if they had merely indulged in some lighthearted propaganda. None seemed implausible. 

“Who are you to approach the Gates of Zeus?” boomed a voice high atop the walls. 

Loki bowed to one knee and called out, “I am Loki Odinson, Prince of Asgard, and I would be humbled to make acquaintance with your city.”

There was a loud scraping, and rather than parting as most gates would, the stone slab lifted from the ground only just high enough for Loki to pass under it. 

“Welcome to Olympus.” 

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“Welcome to Olympus, Prince Loki.”

It was the fourth time he had been greeted in such a way.

The first had been the gatekeeper who allowed Loki entrance. He came down from the tower at the peak of the walls via the largest ladder Loki had ever seen, a set of rails and steps carved directly into the backside of the rock leading up to their guard tower. 

The second had been the kindly older man who came to escort the prince through the pristine cobblestone streets to the palace. 

The third had been the palace guard who asked the older man to wait with Loki a moment while he saw if any member of the royal court was expecting or wished to speak with him. Loki quickly informed the soldier that this voyage was one taken merely for pleasure, and that his arrival would be expected by none. The guard came back approximately ten minutes later bringing a beautiful young woman in tow. 

She was the fourth to greet Loki, the first to do so using his title. 

Her clothing was something more appropriate for a lowly servant girl than a member of court. The dress was a dull grey made of a scratchy, shapeless material that did nothing for her body or her coloring. If not for the way she carried herself, Loki would have believed hers the facade of a lowly maid. 

As it was, shoulders high, chin up, back straight, she carried herself with the pride and respect known only to true nobility. It crossed his mind that there may be nothing to her outfit, that it may just be the style of the place; but he recalled many properly dressed ladies as he made his way to her doorstep. She certainly wasn’t lying or putting on a show for him; he would sense that. She truly did dress this way. Her garb served some different purpose, and the idea he would deduce it later was intriguing to him.

“Thank you, my lady,” Loki bowed to her as he would any peer on Asgard, airing on the side of respectful caution. “It is an honor to be welcomed in your beautiful realm.” 

The woman smiled politely and offered Loki her arm. “I am afraid that if you came to see King Zeus you will be disappointed. It is a day of council, and our King and Queen are away with their advisors and will not return until tomorrow. The palace has been left in lesser hands.”

“That is quite fine by me. I did not come for any significant purpose.” Loki looped her arm through his and allowed her to guide him into the hall. 

The palace was, like the gate, made of marble. Much of the streets and buildings he had passed walking in were similarly carved from blocks of a variety of beautiful stones, but it seemed that marble had been reserved for the rich and royal. 

“What, may I ask, brings you here if it is nothing of importance?” The woman guided him smoothly through marble hall after marble hall, winding him deeper into the depths of her domain. 

“Nothing more or less than my own curiosity,” Loki confessed. “Your people and mine have been without contact for so many centuries that there are some who believe your existence to be nothing more than myth.”

“And are you one of those?”

“Well, I am here,” Loki pointed out.

The woman nodded thoughtfully. “This is true, but you could have notions of what we were that remain to be disproven.”

“If they’ve yet to be disproven then how could I say they were myth?” Loki countered. 

A genuine smile pulled at the woman’s lips, and Loki couldn’t help but return the gesture. It was rare that he was able to have intelligent conversations with anyone beyond his mother. He knew, for certain, that Asgard was teaming with wise and intelligent men and women ripe with knowledge, but Asgard never glorified such things. Those who did have a mind usually kept it hidden.

The woman changed the subject with ease as she pulled Loki to a stop. 

“The main receiving room is here,” The door was nothing more than a beautiful, thick purple fabric, pinned or floating by some means Loki could not discern, between two columns forming the entryway. 

“Thank you, my lady.” Loki stepped to the doorway, pausing to turn back. “Might I ask your name?”

“My name is (Y/n),” 

(Y/n). Loki thought on the name as he passed through the purple curtain. 

(Y/n) was certainly not a common name in Asgard. Nor, oddly, was it a name Loki had heard in his studies. Prior to arriving on Olympus, he had been sure to read the old Midgardian lore of its people. Like the myths of the Norse, he was sure there were inaccuracies. But the stories had to come from somewhere, and Loki knew better than most that there was always some truth to be discerned even from the tallest tale. Still, there was nothing of (Y/n).

“Prince Loki!”

Mere moments later, through the curtain Loki had just passed came the most vile woman upon whom Loki had ever laid his eyes. 

It wasn’t that she was ugly; though Loki had to confess she was not at all something he would consider attractive. More, it was her presence.

The moment she walked in the door Loki found everything off-putting. The room was less grand. The floors less polished. The air less clean. 

There was a toxicity to this woman that even Loki, prided for creating chaos and mischief wherever he went, found disconcerting. 

“My lady,” Loki didn’t bow, instead greeting the newcomer head on. Something seemed wrong about showing this woman a spot so vulnerable as his neck.

The woman waved a hand, garishly bedecked in golden jewels that only made her fingers look all the more spindly and haggered. “I am Princess Eris. It is my understanding you would have no cause to know that, so I will let the informality pass.” 

“Forgive me,” Loki conceded a nod of his head but nothing more, “Princess.”

“Think nothing of it!” With what Loki could only describe as a jump, the woman flung herself on the nearest of three settees that filled much of the space in the room. “You’ll forgive me, in turn, for sending the bastard to the door to greet you. I was not expecting any royal visits in the absence of my father. I needed the time to prepare myself but did not wish to keep you waiting.”

“The girl then, (Y/n). I had not heard her name before.”

“One of my father’s many bastards,” Eris gestured to the seat opposite her. “Please join me. I apologize. Of course, she did not inform you to make yourself comfortable. She fails at a great many things.”

“The occasional mistake cannot be helped,” Loki took the seat with a well-practiced grace and perched himself on the edge. “I must say, I have heard of you, Princess Eris, in the time I spent studying the stories on Midgard. I would have thought, with your family’s notoriety I would have heard of (Y/n).”

Eris rolled her eyes, “Midgard,” and scoffed. “Yes, well you wouldn’t have heard her name there. They got a great many things wrong in their tales, those humans. (Y/n) walked among them more than all of us. She often stooped to their level, and they were quite taken with her for it. Harmonia, that was what they called her, a far prettier name than she deserved. They thought it suited her, but alas they were wrong.”

And suddenly it all made sense to Loki.

Two sisters, dueling for all eternity, constantly trying to best each other in their own way. Eris, the selfish sister loved most by her family and their father, the entitled eldest who thrived on conflict and discord, who started the Trojan War. 

He knew why Eris disconcerted him so, and now as he saw the ignorance in her eye and heard the condescension in her voice he could see and hear nothing but his brother Thor.

“Princess, might it be too much of me to ask your leave? It has been a long and lonely journey from Asgard, and it might benefit my skill of conversation if I first rested.”

“Of course!” Eris pushed to her feet and motioned back to the curtain from whence they came. “(Y/n) will be waiting in the hall. She can take you to a room.”

“You’re most kind.” And without another word, he fled.

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“Perhaps it is not my place,” (Y/n) began quietly as she walked by Loki’s side. “You do not look weary from your journey at all.”

Loki chuckled. He had a feeling he could trust this sister, if not for his own reasons than at least in his understanding of her relationship with Eris. “Well, perhaps I am not weary from the journey, but simply weary of the company.”

(Y/n) smiled, a knowing smile. “I imagine you would not be the first to tire swiftly in Eris’s presence.”

“Your sister is certainly an acquired taste.”

“She would not like to hear you say such things.” (Y/n) hedged quickly.

Loki’s eyebrow hitched up slightly. “Would she not? Surely she must at least be somewhat aware of her effects.” 

“No, I’m sure she is. I was referring to the word sister.” (Y/n) jerked at the edge of her rough-worn dress. “Queen Hera was not my mother. Unlike most of the bastards born of my father, my mother was also nobility. I could not be so easily forgotten as the others, but I am by no means loved.”

 “And how do you feel for this? Your sister, for she is whether she denies it or not, made her views very clear.”

Something dark, dangerous, flashed behind (Y/n)’s eyes. It was gone so fast that if Loki were not Loki he would not have seen her rage. “It is not my place to say. I am fortunate the Great Goddess shows me such mercies as allowing my presence here.” The voice that came from her was smooth, automatic. 

The thought flashed through Loki’s mind one last time before he made an irreversible decision. ‘Her sister is just another Thor, another Thor not protected by Odin.’ 

Loki offered (Y/n) his arm as they rounded a corner and put a wall between themselves and Eris. “Now, now, (Y/n),” his tone, for the first time since his arrival, dropped its formality and reverence, taking on its usual teasing lilt. “You cannot lie to the God of Lies, nor do you need to.”

(Y/n) hesitantly accepted his arm but remained silent for him to continue.

“Tell me what ails you, and perhaps my knack for magic and misfortune can find a worthy hand to wield it.”

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Taglist:

Forever Taglist:

@maybe-a-fangurl / @libbymouse / @petra-arkanian-1497

Marvel Taglist:

@the-high-queen / @iamverity / @darktownairspeed / @radicalstars

Loki Taglist:

@adefectivedetective / @iamverity / @kybaeza

Other people have asked to be on the taglist that I’ve forgotten. If you are one of those, please do me the favor of dropping an ask in my box with which list you’re supposed to or would like to be on.