#sswrite

[sarah-sandwich-writes]

Call for Beta Readers!! Please boost this post!

💕 Queer contemporary romance 💕

I have a novel (where the romance happens) and a prequel novella (where they're kids and the romance doesn't quite happen) and I'm seeking beta readers for both. I'm planning to publish the novel first, but wrote them with the intent that they could be read in either order so it's up to the beta which order they'd like to read them in, or if they only want to beta one.

Red, like my bleeding heart in your hand - 25k - Nash has enough to worry about with an abusive father at home and a little sister to keep out of harm's way, but when a boy his age, Teddy, moves in next door he finds it impossible to stay away even though he really, really should.

Warning for child abuse - mostly referenced

Blue, like don't forget about me - 60k - Twenty years later, Nash reconnects with Teddy at a funeral of all places. With grief, hurt feelings, and broken promises on both sides--they've got no business trying this thing again... and yet...

Warnings for: references to past child abuse, one (1) sexy scene, several references and innuendoes to sex that happens between scenes, and funerals (there are like,,,,an improbable number of funerals for this fluffy little romance idk man)

INTERESTING STUFF:

Ambulatory cane user, undiagnosed autistic MC

Jewish, POC, asthmatic, dietary nightmare love interest

Small town Appalachian setting

Aro/Ace side character

MC works at a nursing home and is besties with all the old folks

I'm thinking two months turnaround if you're reading both, but am super flexible on timing. Mostly I'm looking for reactions to what you're reading: what hits right, what doesn't, what's missing. I'm especially interested in perspectives from anyone who can relate to one or more of the traits listed above!

If you're interested, let me know how you'd like to connect and share files (email, discord, etc.) and thanks for reading this far!

[sarah-sandwich]

Happy FFWF! What're you working on right now? Could you share a snippet??

Happy FFWF! We missed you Marko ♥️♥️♥️

OKAY so I'm working on my Not Spider-Man 4 fic that I've talked about here. The short of it is this is canon compliant through No Way Home (Tony dead, May dead, the blip blipped), Harley-centric gen fic (no romantic parkner this time), and Harley has been using the Iron Man armor he made to steal a la robin hood style in order to keep what's left of Rose Hill post-blip from dying out. Oh and he's trans 😏 for flavor.

Here's the latest! Tagging @myarmsaretoolong since you're interested :)

Below, Peter drops to a knee and rests his forehead on his forearm, back heaving as he catches his breath. Harley lands a few steps away and turns to ensure the area is clear and stays clear of any threats while he does.

"You alright?"

Peter sucks in a deep breath and lifts his head. He wipes blood and sweat from his forehead with his palm. "Been worse. You didn't find Evrett and Abbie? I sent them toward—"

"The railroad tracks," Harley says. "Yeah, I found them. Think you're up for a short flight?"

Peter looks at him then, surprise on his face. "Oh."

"Oh what? You'd rather run?"

"No, I just…" He takes in Harley like he's something new. Or unexpected. "I didn't think you'd come back once you had them."

It stings even though it shouldn't. He's given Peter no reason to think anything different. He had to have his arm twisted into every moment of heroism before, so why would this one be any different?

"The plan hasn't changed," he says eventually. "Two idiots in, four idiots out. I was short an idiot."

"Right." Peter pushes to his feet with a wince. "Care to fly this idiot out of here? I'm sick of this place."

"Miss your concrete jungle?"

"Like you wouldn't believe."

"Sure. Hang on tight. I'm told it's a miserable experience."

Peter steps atop his feet without being told and wraps his arms around Harley's middle. "I remember."

[sweet-s0rr0w]

Fic: Dangerous

Written for @drarrymicrofic's song prompt, Dangerous.

WC: 1121, rating: T.

***

He’s in Apulia when they catch up with him, renting a dusty trullo from an ancient Italian woman a half mile down the track. The timing couldn’t be worse, with the neighbours’ sideways looks finally giving way to tentative nods; even the occasional chuckle at the posh accent cutting through his rough, colloquial Italian. His delicate skin is no longer blistered scarlet, beginning to darken at last under the dry sun, and his hair curls around his nape, long enough these days to tie out of his eyes when he has to bend forward to feed the chickens. And then there’s this place, surrounded by olive trees – nowhere near the furthest he’s run, although it feels as though it might be – his little hut on the edge of the world.

He hasn’t used magic in ten months now. He should be untraceable.

And yet.

He wakes, and he’s sweating, and nightmarish shapes are dancing across the stones; old foes brought back to life. He’s never lit that fire, not even in the depths of winter when the cold seemed to seep straight through the walls and into his tired bones, and he’d crawled into bed straight after sundown every night just to escape the chill.

The man stooped before the flames is cast in shadow, although Draco doesn’t miss the glint of a bronze badge in his pocket. A Hit Wizard, then: alone, by the looks of things. Unfamiliar words run through Draco’s mind as he inches his hand under the edge of his mattress, feeling for the wand he keeps taped to the frame. His fingertips have barely brushed the wood when it rips itself out of his reach and flies through the air, Sellotape and all, straight into an outstretched palm. Draco almost laughs with relief. He’d know that cast anywhere.

“Christ, Draco, it’s freezing in here. I don’t know how you cope.” Harry’s eyes are twinkling in the firelight as he turns towards him. Draco tries to hide his joy; the way his heart has taken up residence in his throat, the way his body starts to shift, automatically, to accommodate Harry in his bed.

“Oh, it’s not that bad,” says Draco carelessly, his first language suddenly a stranger to his own ears. “Besides, I can usually find some nubile young shepherd boy to share body heat with.”

“Really?”

“No, you absolute pillock. Are you getting in or not?” He lifts the pile of blankets so Harry can slide in, fit their bodies together perfectly. Icy hands slip under the back of Draco’s jumper even before their lips meet.

Afterwards, they throw the covers off and lay pressed tightly together. Harry’s thumb absently rubs over Draco’s where their hands lay on his chest. It’s what Harry does – what they’ve always done – this silly game; play-acting intimacy, as though they didn’t belong to two entirely different worlds. It’s always like this: awful and wonderful both together, and sometimes it’s too much for Draco to bear, but he gets so little human contact these days he can’t bring himself to stop.

It takes a while, but eventually he gathers the courage to ask. “So, how long have I got this time?”

Harry squeezes his hand. “Oh, no. You’re fine. Trail’s completely cold; they’ve all but given up.”

“But you managed, somehow.”

A quiet huff of laughter. Harry brings their joined hands to his mouth, kissing the tips of Draco’s fingers one by one. “To be fair, it took me three months. And the Ministry don’t quite share my level of… motivation. It was a trace – barely even that – of your magic at the Portkey station in Naples. That was all I could find.”

“Ah.” It made sense. He’d had a Glamour on for travel; hadn’t known whether removing it as the Portkey activated would work. It had been his only option at the time.

A foot hooks carefully around his ankle. “Hey, don’t worry, I erased it. The guy there too; he didn’t seem to recognise your picture, but I Obliviated him anyway: safe side, y’know? And I’ve thrown up a few wards outside; nothing too crazy, but you should be able to cast Warming Charms to your heart’s content.”

Touched beyond words, Draco rolls away. His eyes are stinging now – probably the smoke from the fire – and he takes a few steadying breaths. Harry seems to understand, snaking an arm around Draco’s chest, burying his face in the tense muscles of his back.

“So what d’you get up to around here, anyway?”

Stubble scratches at Draco’s skin as he speaks, making Draco squirm away, suddenly ticklish. “Bit of this, bit of that. Farming, mostly. Back in the autumn I helped out with the olive harvest. The beach is about ten minutes away – I cycle, can you imagine? – and one of my neighbours brings me English novels when they come in to the local library. It’s not much, but –”

“No, sounds perfect.”

“Well, it’s a damn sight better than that fishing hut in Greenland, anyway.” He turns back, traces the curve of Harry’s smile with a gentle finger.

“God, Draco, I can’t believe it’s been fifteen years. D’you ever get tired of all the running?”

“I don’t know,” counters Draco, eyebrow raised. “You’ve had fifteen years of chasing me – what about you?”

Harry’s face turns serious, and his muscles tense, and Draco realises his mistake even before his mouth opens. “Oh, believe me, I’m tired, Draco. I’m really tired. In fact….” He pauses, taking a deep breath. Draco squeezes his eyes shut, pressing a single finger against those treacherous lips.

“Don’t.”

“Draco.” Harry’s voice is steady and sure. “There’s no-one else. I’ve tried, believe me, but it’s true. And I think maybe it’s time to stop trying.”

“We’ve been here before, Harry. A life on the run – we both know you couldn’t do it.”

“Running? Perhaps not. But farming? The beach? I could do that, Draco.”

Something ignites in Draco then, something rash and dangerous, sat just behind his breastbone. Unaware, Harry grins. “Maybe we’d need a bigger house, but –”

Draco rolls over, pressing his lips to that infuriating mouth, hating him just a little: the way he thinks nothing of barging straight into Draco’s careful, uncomplicated life, kindling hope in his chest where it doesn’t deserve to be. He does it every time.

In the morning, Harry tucks the blankets around him carefully, pushing Draco’s curls aside to drop a gentle kiss on his forehead before he leaves. “I’ll be back soon. I promise.” Helpless, he watches him duck on his way out, the flimsy wooden door swinging shut behind him.

Maybe he would, maybe he wouldn’t.

The flame flickers, licking away at Draco’s insides.

***

You can find it on AO3 here!

[fearless2ndmate]

Point me in the direction M8! Where can I found the Cap?

"She's uhhh---"

[sarah-sandwich-writes]

Chapter Three is Up!

Lemme know if you remember this one. It's been *checks wrist* a minute...

another time, a different place (I have loved you before)

Present

“Look around you, Harley,” Principal Morita’s ever sensible tone carries through the closed door of his office, “this isn’t the rural country school you grew up in.”

“You didn’t hear—,”

“I don’t need to hear it. That’s my point. They’re all talk. All of them. This is the mathlete school of stunted social development. The last time we had a physical altercation was three years ago when Betty tripped and took down the woodwinds during marching band practice.”

There’s a fraught pause where Peter stares at the ceiling like he can’t hear the conversation on the other side of the door, clear as day, and isn’t taking offense to Principal Morita’s case against the student body of Midtown School of Science and—

Okay, maybe he has a point. A small one.

Morita sighs. “You’re a smart kid, Harley. This is, as far as I can tell from your transcripts, an unprecedented shot at getting somewhere. Don’t waste it by taking out your pain on a kid who calls his academic rival ‘penis’.”

Despite his best efforts at disguising his super powered eavesdropping, Peter’s face scrunches into a sour pucker.

Morita lowers his voice and says gently, “Taking you in was a stretch. The Stark name still carries weight, but not enough weight to overlook violence against other students. You won’t get another chance. Don’t blow it.”

There’s another long pause, so long, Peter thinks Harley is trying to stonewall Principal Morita, but then, finally, he hears, “You know he calls him penis?”

Morita sighs. “We reprimand him for it, but Peter might surprise you. He’s a tough kid, been through a lot. Nothing Eugene says really seems to stick to him.”

There’s a beat and then Harley says quickly, like he’s trying to say his piece before getting shut down again, “He called him an orphan and a drain on society.”

“Oh.” Principal Morita’s tone turns sad. “And that hit too close to home?”

Continue reading on AO3

[sarah-sandwich]

🍇 share a snippet with food(or the palpable lack of food) !

Thanks for sending this!! I went with palpable lack of food for Blue like don't forget about me

Reality slips sideways while Jo is describing the look on Mrs. Reece’s face after she found her at dawn sipping a slurpee on the front stoop of the group home. Nash is smiling at her, too pale, too skinny, but he’s smiling and so long as she keeps up the silly stories he’ll keep smiling, on God.

Then there’s a blue flash, a tingling all over that makes her brain feel buzzy, and when she blinks everything is different. Most noticeably, Nash is gone. It’s dark, the air is no longer comfortable but sticky and hot, the cake that had been listing to the side the longer it sat out has been replaced by a thick layer of dust. She touches the place it was a moment ago and retracts her hand, fingers gritty.

She sits perfectly still, goosebumps stark on her skin while the animal part of her brain screams that something is very, very wrong.

“Nash?” she whispers.

Is she asleep? Was it all a dream? Is she going to wake up to Mrs. Reece frowning about the finicky thermostat and complaining about the landlord’s son and his lack of initiative as she rouses them all into motion to prepare for church?

She digs her fingernails into her arm but everything stays the same. Carefully, she stands and moves for the light switch. The lights don’t come on.

It’s like she slipped into a parallel universe, but even if that were the case she would expect Nash to be here.

“Nash?” She tip toes through the kitchen where a horrible smell is wafting from the fridge and pauses at the foot of the stairs. It’s black as pitch up there. Fear curdles in her throat. “Nash?”

She puts her foot on the bottom step. “Nash!”

He’s not up there. Stupid. Of course he’s not up there. He wouldn’t ignore her like that. Especially not when everything is so…

She tries not to look around as she sneaks to the front door. She doesn’t know what she’s hiding from but everything is all dark corners and wet dusty air and she doesn’t know how she got here or where her brother is. It doesn’t hurt to be careful.

The front door is locked, something they never do, and when she opens it the sticky swelter of the Tennessee summer night crawls over her. Crickets, bull frogs, and buzzing insects replace the horrid silence of indoors while trees lush with leaves sway in an unfelt breeze.

She’s breathing heavily now, tears pricking her eyes. It was spring before. The trees had only just sprouted their leaves, but now when she looks she finds them already shedding. What’s going on? Where’s Nash?

[sweet-s0rr0w]

Microfic: Technique

Written for @drarrymicrofic's prompt 'technique'.

***

“I see what you mean.”

“Right?”

“Absolutely. Yes. And does he always wear those –”

“Yep.”

“Even when it’s –”

“Oh, definitely then.”

“Uh-huh. And he comes over regularly, or?”

“Oh, no! No, no. Not that often, not at all. We get a lot of gnomes, you see. Quite the infestation, really. I only call him when they get totally out of contr – oh Merlin, look, there he goes with another one!”

“Oh yes, there he goes alright. Mmmm. I must say, Draco, I was sceptical at first, but you’re absolutely right. I’ve never seen anyone toss a gnome with quite that much –”

“Oh, shit, Pans, I think he’s spotted us! Hide, quickly!”

“What? Draco?! Get back here this second!”

…

“Parkinson? Is that you?”

“Oh yes, hello Potter. Fancy seeing you here.”

“Huh. I assumed you were looking for me. Didn’t Draco mention I was de-gnoming the rockery today?”

“What? Draco? Oh, no, he didn’t say anything.”

“Hmm. Strange. Also, Parkinson, why is he hiding behind that bush?”

“What bush?”

“Right over there. The blond hair? The shoes sticking out?”

“Oh yes! Now I see him! He must be, uh, looking for Shrivelfigs.”

“Of course he is. Would you be able to pass on a message for me, do you think?”

“I suppose so.”

“Great. If you could let him know that the gnomes actually much prefer Mrs Farley’s garden, and would really rather he didn’t keep Stunning them and dumping them here, that would be fantastic.”

“I – uh –”

“And please tell him that if there’s anything he wants to ask me – anything at all, mind – he has my Floo co-ordinates.”

“Right. I’ll do that.”

“Cheers, Parkinson. I’ll see you next week, Draco!”

***

You can find my microfics and other stuff on AO3 here.

[sswritingsworld-blog]

#sswritings

[sealstampwrite]

by ssw

I am easy to love

So expansive and light

You love the pretty handwritten letters I send to you

And the way I look at the everything

Pointing out the sky

Make you hold out your hand so I can put a flower on your palm

Read you poems and book excerpts

The type that make you feel alive

You love how smart I am

You’ll see light

In my eyes

Glowing all around me

You want to kiss me

You love every part of me

My legs and my hands and my hair

The way I’ve mended

My patience

Taking criticism well

Staying quiet when I feel nervous and you’ll find it so endearing

I’ll do the work myself

Carrying enough worry to seem sensible

But not debilitated

Always moving forward

I wake up early and go to sleep on time

Share my favorite recipes with you

They’re so sweet

Strawberry and powdered sugar

Warm hugs and table manners

You want me to meet your friends

I know how to take turns

Hold things with grace

Share jokes but not enough to where I always hide behind them

I walk like I mean it

Don’t break eye contact and make my smile gravitational

An axis

I make you feel like you’re spinning

Floating

Always new

I am so so easy

to be loved

[rocketskies]

I’m glad. I’m glad I’m doing better.

[sweet-s0rr0w]

@the-starryknight, I was so so honoured that you thought to tag me in this, that although I find it incredibly hard to believe anyone will be interested in what I’ve got to say (and I should be working on my BB fic) I thought I’d reply anyway ❤️❤️. I hope it doesn’t have to be about what I’ve written this week, because I thought the best one for behind-the-scenes was Westbury, the quick and dirty (in more ways than one, but sadly not the way we all probably want) 1k first-kiss-in-rural-Wiltshire thing I dashed off last month. It may not be the most meaningful (or beautiful!) thing I'll ever write - although who knows at this point? - but it will forever hold a little place in my heart as the first thing I posted to AO3.

I’ve read quite a number of fics which include depictions of Wiltshire (the canon location of Malfoy Manor). It’s a county I know intimately, because it’s where Mr s-s is from, and we spent a lot of our late teens/early adulthoods speeding around it on his motorbike with his mates, generally acting irresponsibly. Its usual representation in fics seems to be as a gentle picturesque pastoral idyll, and I’m certain there are parts just like that, but I woke up one day feeling like writing something as a counterpoint. The rural Wiltshire I remember has a rugged, untamed sort of beauty, with lots of dark, vicious foliage, old pale limestone buildings and these strange, incongruous-seeming hills which rise up steeply from nothing here and there.

The other thing I remember (probably from being one myself back then) is that every summer, as in most of the UK, there were a lot of bored teenagers just hanging about the place drinking and shagging! A friend used to go to these car meets behind one of the chalk horse hills and we went once and I just remember thinking at the time how bizarre the juxtaposition was between this beautiful centuries old hill figure and all the dumb shit that was going on right next to it. I just wondered what the hell Draco would make of it all if he came across them randomly on a walk from the Manor. So that’s that, really.

More Wiltshire:

- More chalk horses

- Avebury stone circle (nicer than Stonehenge IMO, and there's a lovely pub, although Mr s-s is still salty because we got caught speeding there once)

- Swindon is the largest town, it’s a concrete jungle and famous for its ‘magic roundabout’ (yes, really).

So yes, I have no idea where this ramble went and why it now resembles a tourism ad, but if you feel like reading about chavvy Wiltshire teenagers in the noughties being gross, you can ❤️ and thank you again Starry for thinking of me!

Tagging @vukovich, @avenueofesc and anyone else who wants to ❤️

Hello and Happy Tuesday!

This week, I’ll invite you to share something you’ve created, and give us a behind the scenes look. It may be art, or fic, a microfic,  a podfic, bookbinding, a rec list, all media is welcome!.  Please share your self-rec & something we may not know about it, and tag a few friends to play along!

As always, you’re invited to share whenever you see this, tag or no.  And you can respond at any time, including after Tuesday.  I can’t wait to see what you share!

Tagging @onbeinganangel, @peachpety, @peachbabypie, @sweet-s0rr0w, @dracothecupcake, @wheezykat, @slytherco, @veelawings, @faevorite-main-blog, @phenomenalasterisk, @zaharya, @shealwaysreads, @julcheninred and @iero0 to start us off!

[sarah-sandwich-writes]

Have an excerpt from the fic I'm working on! It's Harley-centric and takes place some time after No Way Home. More importantly, it's fucking good.

That cinches it: Harley hates New York. It's fucking cold and rainy for no reason. There's no crops to grow. No hills to keep in healthy bloom to waylay erosion. No goddamn reason for it. And he's not dressed for it, no umbrella, just him and his heavy fucking suitcase trudging down street after street unsure of what to look for, but sure as shit he can't be seen flying around in his suit.

He hasn't forgotten the way Spider-Man watched him fly off and he's no fool.

Once he's wasted half an hour wandering and his arm is near ready to fall off from dragging his suit along behind him, he stops in at a homeless shelter. Half to get out of the rain, half because maybe Abbie and Jaimey needed somewhere to crash after driving all this way, and a tiny negligible, too small to measure bit because he might find a lead.

It's not until he's standing beside the plaque commemorating the deceased founder, talking to one of the staff, that Harley recalls F.E.A.S.T. is the non-profit he stole that donation from. He loses his train of thought, suddenly too cognizant of the suit sitting behind him leaking a puddle on grubby tile. He tries not to look around, to see the people he robbed.

Then he remembers what Chrissy said about the donation being from Stark Foundation and he breathes a little easier. Pepper would have insured it. Even if she didn't, she would send it again. Bigger and better, even. He didn't rob anyone in this building; he robbed a deceased hero's widow and child. Totally different.

The woman with the clipboard says, "They've been advertising it all day."

"Sorry, what?"

As soon as he says it, his brain back-fills what he missed while he was panicking. He asked about the search for the Iron Man impostor and she said it might be over soon, they're doing a live interview in about half an hour that's going to explain everything. The. Interview. The one Abbie and Jaimey came here for.

She's repeating herself when he asks, "Who has been?" He's had that stupid radio station playing since he left Rose Hill but it's been all top 40 pop and pandering to the office hour commuters.

The woman has an irritated slant to her mouth now. "The Daily Bugle. They put out the request for information."

"Where? Where's the interview?"

"Well…" She blinks, nonplussed. "Wherever you listen to podcasts, I guess."

He decides to google The Daily Bugle's office address and retreats with a hasty thanks.

[sarah-sandwich-writes]

Hey so speaking of wip fics that I may or may not keep forgetting about, I picked this one back up a bit this morning and I'm tweaking the title to Yo Mama Freaked Out for time travel reasons, although not mother related ones 🙂 Find previous snippets here, here, and here.

The next time he wakes it’s to bright morning sunlight, the clink of a spoon, and SpongeBob’s distinctive laugh echoed by a childish gurgle. Harley peels open his eyes and finds Peter sitting on the couch at his feet moving a cereal-heaped spoon to his mouth while his eyes stay glued to the TV.

"Morning," Harley grumbles.

Peter ignores him.

One of those days then. Fine.

Harley wrestles out from under the blanket—the end of which, Peter is sitting on—then swings his feet to the floor and stretches. He stares blearily as SpongeBob and Patrick break into song around the campfire. While SpongeBob effortlessly speeds up the song and Patrick fails to keep up, Harley considers that some 800 miles away in a dirty little farmhouse in Tennessee there could, right at this moment, be a little blond boy belting the same song to a little brown-haired girl who smiles gummily at her brother.

Christ alive, he can't dwell on this shit.

With a rough paw (that he immediately regrets as he encounters his poor abused nose) Harley scrubs the sleep out of his eyes and stands. "Didja leave any cereal for me?"

Peter ignores him, but that's fine. Harley has dealt with far worse from his adult self.

"Are you gonna be pissed at me if I eat your Captain Crunch?"

Peter doesn't look away from the TV, but he does finally respond. "That's a bad word." And then, because he seemingly can't let the error go without correcting it, he says, "And it's Berry Colossal Crunch, not Captain Crunch. They're different."

"My mistake," Harley says, and goes to find a bowl. Peter didn't say he couldn't have the Berry Colossal Crunch and the only other option Harley sees on the counter is a box of multi-grain Cheerios. Pass.

"Mistakes," Peter corrects. "You made two mistakes so it's not mistake. It's mistakes."

Harley pours his cereal without replying and reflects upon what could possibly have caused Peter to be picked on so much as a child.

[sarah-sandwich-writes]

You're dying in slow motion & it's killing me but I can't look away because one of us has to be strong & I'm sorry it has to be you I'm sorry it doesn't matter if I'm strong with you or that I can't be strong for you or that I'd die for you—I'd die for you—even though you'd hate me for it & it doesn't matter because I can't & I can't look away because to look away would be abandonment, it'd be betrayal, & I think you'd forgive me anything but we've no time left for forgiveness because you're angry at the world & I'm desperate for a miracle that's not coming, desperate to look away, but I can't because you're dying in slow motion & I'm dying with you. Do you hear me! I'm dying with you!!!

The betrayal comes when you're gone and I wake up

[sarah-sandwich-writes]

WIP Acrostic Tag Game

I was tagged by @sheps-shepherd and of course took a week to do it and then went completely overboard and completed it for two of my wips. Sorry not sorry!

The first is OG fantasy and it's what I was working on this morning. Of Woolen Hollow:

W - When we arrive back at our little campsite, Ham's tail thumps the earth but he doesn't look away from the herd as they wander nearby, searching the pine-needle strewn dirt for grass and weeds to mow down into nothing.

A - A creak outside his door is his only warning before the doorknob turns.

N - No apologies necessary because they have a cause greater than personal pleasure and it takes precedence over everything else.

D - "Did you think you were different just because you go around in that silly costume?”

E - "Everyone thought I was losing my touch, but I got you in the end you little puke."

R - Run, run, run. Pros: If he screws this up, he’ll finally find out where the city’s missing population is. Cons: If he screws this up, he’ll be one of them.

And this is from Iron Impostor/Hometown Hero, my Harley-centric fic where parkner doesn't happen. I realized after finishing this for oWH that it was only fair to repay parkner with... the closest I've got right now which is Harley lol Also the rough draft for this is DONE I just need to edit it up and start posting but I've been hella burnt out so it just hasn't happened. Soon? Hopefully?

W - “We’re scavengers livin’ on crumbs! You think you’re all hot shit because you get to steal and think it makes you heroes. Well I just think you’re shit!” And with that he hawks a wad of spit onto Harley’s boot.

A - Abbie swallows thickly. "He was holding them off so we could get away."

N - "No, I just…" [Peter] takes in Harley like he's something new. Or unexpected. "I didn't think you'd come back once you had them."

It stings even though it shouldn't. He's given Peter no reason to think anything different. He had to have his arm twisted into every moment of heroism before, so why would this one be any different? "The plan hasn't changed," Harley says eventually. "Two idiots in, four idiots out. I was short an idiot."

D - "Don't stop fighting, but please, let me go."

He holds his wrists out to the nearest agent. "My name is Harley Keener. I think you're lookin' for me."

E - "Enough," [Mama] says. There's no heat in it this time. No bite. She sounds sad. She sits up but doesn't look him in the eye as she takes his hand in both of hers. "Please, baby, you're not hearing me."

R - Rag over his finger, [Harley] traces the ring around the extinguished light in the center of the chest plate. Then he flicks his rag clean. "[Tony] didn't say much—I think he knew how jealous I was—but he mentioned you a few times when he remembered to call. High schooler, like me. Projects you were working on. How fucking fast you picked things up. How frustrating it was that you didn't see your potential as clearly as he did." Harley's upper lip peels into a bitter smile. "I hated you for being there while I was stuck here."

Tagging: @shipskicksandgiggles @writer-or-whatever @wildswrites and anyone else who wants to play! Your word is HEIST. Good luck!