#mcu reflection asks

[vartouhix]

open to: any verse: Sailor Moon, Pacific Rim, MCU, DCU, Detroit: Become Human, Greek Mythology, Persona 5, Valorant, Life is Strange, Jujutsu Kaisen... honestly any world with clubs and aggressive people works lol. note: Your muse could be the person who was bothering her inside the club, or someone who witnessed it and came out to check on her. Or they could be getting a breath of fresh air at the same time. Or meeting up with her, etc.

2:31a.m.

When the light of her phone screen shut off, all that remained was the light of the bright, colorful signs on the main street. The rays of light reached into the darkness of the alleyway for her, but were ultimately swallowed up in shadow. She wasn’t bothered. She would rather remain hidden for the moment. Her heart was still racing from the encounter she’d just endured behind the wall she now leaned up against, lolling her head back to let it rest on the brick. People could be so aggressive in their sexual conquests, at times. It was simultaneously scary, frustrating, and pathetic how easily rejection coaxed them into rage. She rolled her hand on her wrist, still surprised at how strong they had been when they had gripped her wrist. No normal person should be able to hurt her so easily.

The cold winter air helped clear her head, ebbing away at the adrenaline until she was no longer shaking from the incident, but rather from the cold. She shoved her phone into her coat pocket to instead take a handful of fabric into each hand, pulling the garment closer around her small frame. She turned to lean on her side, putting her back to the wind to keep it from biting at her nose and cheeks any more.

[librababe99]

In the Quiet Hours

A/N: First off, thank y’all so much for showing so much love to the work I’ve posted so far! It’s great to see all the interactions and makes me happy people are sticking around to see more🥹

In honor of hitting 30 followers I decided to write a quick one shot with Scott Summers. Please let me know if there are other X-men OR MCU characters you would like me to write for!  - Libra ✧ : *✧･ﾟ:*

Word Count: 566 CW: Suggestive themes, friends to lovers 

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The dim glow of the X-Mansion hallway lights barely illuminated your path as you made your way to the kitchen for a late-night snack. You weren’t expecting to run into anyone—especially not Scott.

He was leaning against the counter, shirtless, his body bathed in the soft light filtering through the windows. You paused in the doorway, your breath catching at the sight of him. Scott was always disciplined, composed, but here, in the quiet of the night, he seemed… different. His usual intensity softened, a rare vulnerability on display.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, his voice low, almost a whisper. His ruby quartz glasses reflected the faint light, concealing his eyes, but you could feel his gaze on you, heavy and assessing.

“Yeah,” you replied, stepping into the kitchen, suddenly hyper-aware of the space between you. “You?”

He gave a small shrug, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “Something like that.”

You couldn’t tear your eyes away from him, from the way his muscles tensed and relaxed as he shifted his stance, from the way his skin glowed under the faint light. There was an unspoken tension between you, something that had been simmering for weeks, maybe longer. It was there in the way his fingers brushed yours as he handed you a glass of water, in the way your breath hitched at the accidental touch.

“Scott…” You hesitated, your voice barely audible. The air between you felt charged, every second stretching into something more.

He didn’t say anything, just took a step closer, his proximity making your pulse quicken. His hand reached out, gently cupping your cheek, his thumb brushing against your skin in a way that made your heart race. You could feel the heat radiating from his body, the intoxicating scent of him filling your senses.

The tension between you was palpable, electric. His thumb traced the curve of your jaw, sending shivers down your spine. You could sense the restraint in him, the careful control he always maintained, but there was something more now—something raw, something hungry.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” he admitted, his voice hushed, as if afraid to break the spell. “More than I should.”

Your breath hitched, your heart pounding in your chest. “Me too.”

The admission hung in the air, charged with a need that neither of you could ignore any longer. Scott leaned in, his lips hovering just above yours, giving you every chance to pull away. But you didn’t.

When his lips finally met yours, it was slow, deliberate, like he was savoring every moment. His hands slid to your waist, pulling you closer, deepening the kiss with a fervor that made your knees weak. You melted into him, the world fading away until there was nothing but the feel of his mouth on yours, the way his hands gripped you like he never wanted to let go.

When you finally broke apart, you were both breathless, foreheads resting against each other. Scott’s fingers lingered on your waist, his touch firm, possessive.

“This… this can’t be just once,” he whispered, his voice rough, filled with need.

You smiled, your fingers tracing the contours of his chest. “I wouldn’t want it to be.”

The promise lingered between you, a quiet acknowledgment of what had been building for so long. You knew this was just the beginning, that whatever this was between you, it was far from over.

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[aurumacadicus]

This is more AA than MCU but I can't imagine AA Tony doing this lmao.

--

"Mr. Stark," Peter said, looking up from his phone.

"I'm not doing another TikTok," Tony answered immediately, not looking up from his tablet.

Peter scoffed, as if he wasn't going to suggest just that. "I was just going to ask if you ever wondered what Captain America sees when he looks at you."

Tony lifted his head, preemptively exhausted. "His name is Steve."

"It feels illegal to call him that," Peter said defensively. "Do you know how many times I've had to watch his school specials? 'So. You got detention.'"

Tony turned to look over the couch at him. "Would it make you feel better if I told you that it took him six takes because the first five, he followed it up with 'you fucked up' instead of 'you messed up?'"

"Yes," Peter answered. He began tapping frantically at his phone. Probably trying not to look suspicious as he asked JARVIS for access to the blooper reels. "You didn't answer my question."

Tony sighed, closing his eyes, then turned to look at him again. "I know what Steve sees when he looks at me. I'm out of the bathroom and ready for work by the time he gets back from his runs."

Peter blinked back at him, probably going for innocent and failing, because Tony knew him. "No, I mean how you look from his height. You're five-seven--"

"Five foot eight," Tony cut in. "And Steve's six feet tall. It's not like he's a giant and I'm an oompa loompa."

"Steve's six-foot-three," Peter told him gently.

"Steve is not two thirds of a foot taller than me," Tony sputtered, offended. He was a perfectly respectable five-eight and Steve was a frustrating six-foot brick. He was not three inches taller than that. Tony would not allow it.

"He is," Peter assured him, with that same gentle tone. "JARVIS?"

Tony whipped his head around to glare at one of JARVIS's cameras. There was a long pause, as if he was considering his answer. Finally, though, he replied, "From current measurements, Mr. Parker seems correct in his assertions."

"Not if I take him out at the knees," Tony hissed.

Peter stared at him for a very long time, looking unsure of whether he wanted to continue the conversation. Finally, though, he rallied. "I think we should see what Steve sees."

"My beautiful face," Tony answered sternly, looking back down at his tablet. He poked at some measurements for the engine he was designing for a moment, then turned to scowl at him. "And how do you suggest we do that?"

Peter finally hopped off his stool and walked over to the nearest wall, crawling up so he could fix his phone to it at the proper height with some webbing. He tapped at the camera for a moment, then hopped back down onto the ground and waved up at it. "Ta-da! This should be about the height of Steve's eyes."

Reluctantly, Tony set his tablet aside and got up off the couch. He already didn't like what he was seeing in the camera from a distance.

"Why is there a camera on the wall?" Natasha asked, stepping out of the elevator. She began moving toward the kitchen, circling the camera's main view.

"We're checking to see what we look like to Steve," Peter offered.

Tony grimaced as he looked up into the camera. "Oh my god. Natasha, come here."

"No," Natasha answered. "I'm hungry."

"I look like I should be," Tony began, covering his mouth in horror as he moved from side to side. "Oh my god." He turned back to the camera and lifted his hands up like he would to wrap them around the back of Steve's neck. "I look like I should be saying 'up,'" he finished tearfully.

Natasha appeared beside him a second later, looking horrified in the camera's reflection. "This is what he sees when he looks at me?"

"You're even smaller than I am, what the fu--" Tony covered his mouth again, dropping his gaze down to his feet so he couldn't see the video anymore. He tipped his head up to look through his lashes, unable to help wondering what that looked like to Steve, and let out a howl of dismay. No wonder Steve always teased him about pouting when he was in a sulk or mad.

Natasha took a step closer and looked like she instantly regretted it. She pulled a knife. It didn't look threatening, even to her, and she knew she'd follow through on a stab. "Oh," she said, and then her hands flew to her head, turning away from the camera. "Oh my god Tony."

"This is the worst thing that's ever happened to me," Tony whispered, reaching up to grab the phone down.

"Thor's taller," Natasha choked out.

Tony froze, hand halfway toward the phone, then let out a scream and crumpled to the ground as if he'd been shot.

Peter grabbed his phone while Tony and Natasha were recovering and bolted for the elevator. He didn't want them blaming him for this revelation. He passed Steve, Thor, and Clint as he was rushing out of the lobby and managed a short but sincere, "I'm sorry for what's about to happen to you."

"What?" Steve called after him, aghast, but Peter didn't turn.

[atopfourthwall]

To Linkara: Love your videos, especially when you review good comics. Also loved the Fortnite stream you did with other ComicTubers, it's nice to see you being a part of a bigger community again after that fiasco with the other site that shall not be named.

Been meaning to ask you something for a long time, but I couldn't think of what specifically. Problem is I'm a curious person by nature and I also like to ramble. However, while rewatching your Contest of Champions video (great arc, BTW, even if it took longer than expected), a decent question finally hit me. As someone who's a fan of Doctor Who, What If tales, the original Secret Wars and Crisis on Infinite Earths, do you think Hollywood has overused the multiverse idea? I almost got into an argument with someone on YouTube about the subject where I proclaimed the idea still has merit, it's just the folks running Tinsel Town were failed to be creative with it. Heck, to me the idea is like zombies: sure, it can feel repetitive, but that's only if you don't do anything new or original with it. Movies like Spider-Verse have proven as much. Then again, that's just me. Your thoughts?

I still love multiverse stuff and things like No Way Home or Deadpool & Wolverine have shown how the multiverse can be used to give fanservice, while Spiderverse, Loki, and Multiverse of Madness have shown the story potential of meeting alternate universe versions that reflect character development for our main character... but the problem especially with the MCU is that it feels like they don't have much in the way of a PLAN for it. Sure, Kang was being set up as the next big bad and they're shifting to Doom, but even before then it feels like there wasn't much of a story beyond "There are a lot of Kangs." Sure, with Thanos we didn't know his deal beyond the Infinity Stones being powerful until we actually reached him, but you could get the idea how dangerous it was even without that. Still, I think multiverse stuff is still fun and cool as long as it's used in creative ways... and hopefully people will feel the same with the next storyline once it launches. =)

[crappy-writings]

The Run and Go

Natasha RomanoffxEx-Widow!Reader // Enemies to Lovers(Ish), Angst, Series (?)

*Images are not mine, credit to its sources and creators

Prompt: You, an ex-Red Room graduate turned mercenary, take up an assignment to retrieve some sensitive information from the Triskelion. You run into Natasha as you escape, much to your anger. You can’t seem to escape her after this first encounter as different circumstances force you to work together.

Summary: The Triskelion’s infiltration was going so well. That was until a certain redhead makes an appearance, leading to a long-awaited confrontation.

Trigger Warning: Poorly researched hacking concepts and lingo, bad spy/escape sequence, guns, google-translated Russian, swearing, canon-typical violence, implied/mentioned physical and emotional child abuse, the Red Room, bad fight scene, minor injury, let me know if I need to add more.

Word Count: 3,858

A/N: Did I watch Iron Man 2, Captain America and the Winter Soldier and Black Widow, analyzing Nat’s and other Widows’ fight styles? Yes, yes I did. Was I successful in writing an interesting fight scene in line with what I saw? Probably not, no, but here we are. 

Let me know if anything needs to be fixed!

Part 2 ->

Main Masterlist | MCU Masterlist | Recced Fics

Breaking into the Triskelion had been almost effortless. It was easy to slip into its walls without raising suspicion, to become invisible once inside. No one expects a mouse to simply walk into the cat’s den. Then again, you were not a mouse, and the cat thought itself untouchable. 

There was no air of importance to your stride, no urgency in your steps. Your clothes showed little rank, most agents barely sparing you a first glance as you walked through the hallways alongside them, not realizing you were most definitely not one of them. Pride was always the downfall of man, you thought. 

The hallways and floors all seemed the same to you. The absence of windows was glaring in the lower levels, being only lit up by white, fluorescent lights, basking the stone walls in a similar hue. The floors were a familiar, polished, gray color, reflecting the light upwards. Despite the unoriginality of the corridors, you’re able to find the control room rather quickly, having already memorized the interior layout of the building before even dreaming of stepping inside. It was somewhat dark inside the control room, mainly lit up by the several rows of screen monitors and a few of the same fluorescent lights that decorated the hallways.

There was a singular agent in there when you stepped inside. He barely looks up from his screen, unbothered by your sudden intrusion. You pick a desk and sit down, beginning your search for the files your employer had asked for. 

There was a vulnerability in one of the system's firewalls, one you quickly exploited. It took you longer than you wanted to admit, but you were able to completely break through it, making it easier to find the necessary files. A cough interrupted your concentration, causing you to turn to look at the agent sharing the space with you. His eyes never strayed from his own monitor, raising a cup to his lips as he continued to type away on his keyboard. After confirming you were still in the clear, you returned to your work.

It took you a few extra minutes to find the ones you were looking for but were able to download all of them onto the pendrive given to you by your employer. Once you had everything, you deleted all the information you took from S.H.I.E.L.D.’s servers. You even deployed a nasty virus that will keep them occupied for a few days for good measure. 

There is a small part of you that feels satisfaction at having been able to take something from the organization as easily as you had. You stand nonchalantly from the seat you had claimed as yours, approaching the communal pot of coffee hidden away in one of the room’s corners. The singular agent hidden behind his monitor just barely acknowledges you, his eyes leaving his monitor for a few seconds before returning to his work. You serve yourself some coffee in a paper cup, taking a few sips before slipping out of the room.

The problem had never been getting in. No, it was about getting out.

The walk to the elevator was relatively short, the hallway empty as you made your way towards it. It was almost eerie, the way things were going, given that it was typically around this part where you would walk into some form of trouble. You knew that downloading that information was going to tip off some server moderators, adding an extra layer of difficulty to your escape. Even so, the invisibility you have managed to maintain is still your greatest weapon.

Two agents stepped out of the elevator once it had reached your floor. One of them acknowledged you with a singular nod while the other barely spared you a glance. 

You step into the now empty space, the computer screen showcasing your face, along with a fake alias and a serial ID number. The creation and uploading of the fake S.H.I.E.L.D. agent profile had taken you weeks to accomplish, but its completion was the key to slipping in and out of the building mostly undetected. Having some of the organization’s face-changing technology would have made the infiltration a lot easier, but that technology is too safely guarded for you to have been able to get your hands on it. 

The doors had not shut closed yet, waiting for you to state your destination. “Lobby,” a voice that is not your own rings out from your vocal cords. The voice moderator that you had nicked from one of your past jobs had come quite in handy, especially for this mission. The piece of technology was hidden away under the collar of your stolen uniform, its detection nearly impossible. 

“Confirmed,” the automated voice of the computer rang out into the enclosed space, and finally began its descent. Breathing was becoming an easier task as you were one step closer out the Triskelion’s door. 

The elevator stopped a few times as it continued to go down, letting agents in and out on different floors. Most of their trips were short, some engaging in small talk before exiting the confined space. 

“Controls,” an older man dressed in a blue suit commanded, followed by the computer’s robotic voice, “Confirmed.” He had a kind face, dark brown eyes aged with crow’s feet and his hair white and thinning.

“Working hard or hardly working?” the man asked, his tone light and jovial, as the elevator continued its descent. You sent him a friendly smile, adding a small chuckle for good measure. 

“Not sure yet,” you replied, not dropping the smile, “Every day is unpredictable in S.H.I.E.L.D.”

The man replied with a chuckle of his own, “That, it is.” The elevator opened into another level, allowing the man to step out. He sends you a friendly smile as he departs, leaving you alone in the confined space once more.

You reach the lobby shortly after. The space was wide, a glass canopy overhead, allowing the warm glow of sunlight to stream in. The walls were decorated with a mixture of off-white stone, dark tile and stained wood, the floor a dark gray that complemented the space nicely. S.H.I.E.L.D.’s emblem was showcased proudly in the very center of the room, reminding everyone who walked inside of where they stood.

The lobby was full of people, some dressed in nice, neutral-colored suits, while others were dressed in tactical gear. Security hung around the entrances and exits, eyes sharp as they overlooked the crowd. 

There was purpose in your stride now. The longer you took to get out, the larger the possibility of getting caught. It was only a matter of minutes before someone noticed the missing information that burned in your uniform pocket, if they did not know already. 

You made your way across the lobby unperceived. The sense of satisfaction from a successful mission had begun to bloom in your chest as you easily blended into the large group of agents that zipped in and out of the building. That was until you felt the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end, the sensation of a pair of eyes staring you down from somewhere behind you making you come to a stop.

Your eyes scanned the room methodically, until you spotted a set of familiar green eyes and fiery red hair, ones you thought you would never see again. There was a flicker of recognition in her features, but it lasted for less than a second, slipping on her perfectly crafted mask of indifference, her expression unreadable as neither of you break eye contact. A wave of burning hot emotion overcomes you, before you stamp it out. Emotion is a weakness. Emotion is for children. Emotion gets you killed. 

Neither one of you had looked away from each other, as if a silent conversation was being held between the both of you. You subtly raise your head, your eyes narrowed and daring. It was a silent challenge, and invitation to your long-awaited encounter. It was a dangerous game to play while in the confines of hundreds, if not thousands, of highly trained agents, especially when one of those agents was Natasha Romanoff, but it was one you would play, nonetheless. 

You’re the first one to break eye contact with her, quickly becoming invisible within the crowd of agents. A cat has spotted you and was about to give chase. 

It would almost be thrilling to be running from the Black Widow turned Avenger, were it not for the blazing resentment snaking its way through your chest. It had been years since you last saw her, her defection to the very organization you just stole from had left you filled with a sense of bitterness and betrayal. 

The rest of your journey towards the garage went uninterrupted, but you know she was somewhere nearby, following your moves closely as you weaved through the lower levels. Spotting the redhead had suddenly made you itch for a fight, adrenaline fueling your body. 

Your bike comes into view as you reach the final garage level. The vehicle was hidden away in a secluded part of the parking space, far away from the other cars. The keys jingled in your hand as you pulled them out of your uniform pocket. You would have closed the distance between you and your escape, except that you felt her ghost-like presence lurking from behind you, finally making herself known. 

With a singular deep breath, you stick your hand out to the side, showcasing your keys to her before tossing them forwards, the sound of metal clattering against the smooth asphalt a few feet from your motorcycle.

“I didn’t expect to ever see you again, Romanoff,” your modified voice echoed in the vastness of the garage. Your hand instinctively reaches for your concealed gun, pulling it out in one swift movement as you turn to face her.

“I would say the same to you,” she stood a few feet away from you, her stance paralleling yours, guns raised and aimed at each other’s heads. Her eyes had a hard edge to them as she stared you down, “Why are you here?”

“Just seeing the sights of Washington, D.C. There’re so many museums here, you know?” there is vexation in your tone despite your sarcastic words, “Plus, how could I skip out on admiring the Triskelion’s architecture? Bet the engineers had fun building it.”

The both of you had stepped closer to each other without realizing it, her firearm about a foot away from your own. She ignores your quip, instead choosing to make a go for your gun. You mirror her movements, both of you trading guns before aiming them at one another once more. 

Neither of you said anything as you continued to stare each other down, the tension thick enough to be cut by the edge of a knife. Her eyes were studying yours, searching for something and you’re not quite sure what it is. There was a subtle change in her stance shortly after as she dared you to make the first move. So, you did. You went for her gun again, this time flinging it across the empty garage, the piece of metal skidding across the asphalt. She does the same, the Red Room’s training being activated on pure instinct. 

The beginning of your fight was not a fight at all, though. You were both following a basic combat sequence of simple parries and blows taught to you in the confines of the Red Room. The drill was the one that was taught to the youngest of girls, set to provide them with the basics. It was more of a dance for the both of you, perfectly choreographed and in sync with the others' familiar response. It was child’s play.

For a brief moment, you felt like you were back in the Red Room, the both of you locked in the familiar dance as your handlers watched you engage in a sparring match. The parries and blows you sent each other’s way were predictable, neither of you having the heart to truly fight and hurt the other. Your punishments for your defiance would vary, the ones you remember most being obligated to practice the same ballet move until your feet bled. The other usual punishment was to be made to fight an older Widow, one that would not hesitate to hurt you, to teach you a lesson for holding back. Eventually, your sparring sessions no longer started with the predictable routine of parries and blows, replaced by hard tackles to the ground, bruising kicks and skin-breaking hits.

Old habits die hard, it seems.

Your mind snaps out of it as she grabs hold of your arm mid-swing before securing a hold over your shoulder, allowing her to throw you onto the ground. The wind is knocked out of your lungs, and it takes you a few seconds too long for you to recover. 

“What did you do?” She asks as she manages to hold you in place, her legs straddling your waist while her arms have you pinned down against the ground.

“That’s not your concern, dorogoy,” you smirk up at her as you smash your forehead against her mouth. The distraction allows you enough time to securely grab her by her forearms, your freed legs find her stomach, flipping her over you. She lands roughly a few inches over your own head, the force of the flip enough to leave her stunned for a few moments, allowing you to quickly get to your feet.

“I have to go,” the voice moderator that had been hidden under your collar was knocked loose, your voice sounding strange as you taunt her, “It was nice seeing you.”  You were scooping your bike’s keys from the ground before she pushed you into the vehicle, knocking you both onto the ground.

In hindsight, it was dumb of you to believe she would stay down. 

The back of your head hits against the floor, stars filling your vision for a few moments, your bike tangled under your feet. You feel her grab the fabric of your stolen trainee uniform, dragging you away from your bike and towards one of the garage's walls. 

You struggle against her, managing to break free from her hold. Once back on your feet, you send a few firm punches her way, and she is unable to dodge a few of them. 

You were sloppy in your attack though, as she gets a firm grasp on your arm once more. Her other hand gets a hold of your shoulder and pushes you back up against the building, slamming you against the wall once, twice, three times. A string of coughs escapes you, air not reaching your lungs. You feel the fight begin to leave your body and hate that she was able to incapacitate you. In a last-ditch effort, you press your hands against her face, forcefully pushing against her with all your might. This somewhat works, placing a bit more space between you, enough for you to raise your leg, and knee her in the stomach. This sends her back a few inches and you send another swift kick to the affected area. Your legs react before your mind does, trying to close the distance between you and your knocked over bike, the keys within your view on the ground.

You were still a few feet away when you felt a sharp and burning sting emanate from your lower back, your body locking up against your will and effectively sending you tumbling to the ground. She threw a fucking Widow Bite at you.

“Cheater!” you yell at her, your body completely unable to move. She catches up to you, one arm cradling her stomach, before grabbing you by the scruff of the stolen uniform and dragging you up against the nearest wall. Your body felt numb, every single one of your nerve endings having been lit on fire mere seconds ago.

“I’m not gonna ask you again, what the fuck are you doing here?” her tone is hard and almost dangerous, her eyes scanning over every single one of your features in search of any telltale signs of a lie. It was only now that you realized that she was bleeding from her slightly swollen lip, a trail of crimson running down her chin. There’s a small, sick sense of pride that settles within you as you watch the blood flow from the split lip you gave her. 

“Fuck you, Romanoff, I don’t owe you shit,” the familiar sparks of anger were building up inside your chest. 

“Answer the question,” her tone is even and low. It was not until now that you realized she had picked up one of the discarded firearms, the barrel of the gun being pointed directly at your head. Something within you was emboldened by this, leaning forwards as the tip of the gun presses lightly against your forehead.

“You’re not gonna shoot me,” your eyes staring directly into hers in defiance.

“How are you so sure about that?” she asked through narrowed eyes, digging the barrel further into your skin, her finger hugging the trigger but not squeezing it. 

“Because you would have shot me the second you saw me if you truly wanted me dead,” you reply, and the words taste bitter in your mouth. There is a visceral hatred in the gaze you level at her, the teasing air that had coated your initial confrontation having completely dissolved. 

“Why are you so angry at me?”

The question had been so simple. It made you want to explode. 

“Did-did you seriously just ask me that? I have to tell you?” you almost choke on the acidity that coursed through your tongue as you spoke those words. A bitter laugh makes its way past your lips, your head shaking slightly as a sense of indignation floods your chest. 

“Tell me Natalia, did you think that everything would be magically solved the day you defected?” The burning sensation of unfiltered anger and overwhelming resentment are spilling out of you, and you do your best to push them away forcefully. Your mask cannot break. Your mask will not break.

Emotion is a weakness. Emotion is for children. Emotion gets you killed.

The words repeated over and over again in your head, a never-ending chant driven into you by your handlers. Emotion had always been the one thing that you struggled with in the program as a child, constantly making you hesitate and clouding your judgment. Your handlers recognized this weakness in you, and they worked you tirelessly, trying to stomp it out of you. Your struggle against emotion is what got you recycled four times before you finally graduated.

Natasha’s face gave away no indication of what she was thinking. Her features were schooled perfectly into a mask of indifference, and that made you all the more angry.

“I had to get out,” she defends herself; the gun being slightly lowered. 

“I don’t care,” you want to yell, you want to scream, but you don’t, “You leaving made The Red Room all the more difficult to survive.”

Something about what you just said made a crack in Natasha’s mask. It was nearly imperceivable, but you saw the twitch her brows made at your statement. 

“The Red Room doesn’t exist anymore. Dreykov is dead,” she states factually. Her tone was so confident, so sure, you almost believed her. But she was wrong. He may have gone into hiding, never showing his face, but his whispers still rang inside the halls of the Red Room, his fingers choking the life out of every Widow still stuck there. His presence was a stain that would never leave.

You can’t suppress the bitter laugh that escapes you, “Is that what S.H.I.E.L.D. told you?”

The numbing feeling that had spread throughout your body was beginning to wear off. There’s a small twitch in your leg, one that Natasha notices and she knows she is running out of time. 

“I was there, we rigged bombs up a five-story building,” Natasha recounts, her eyes taking a similar hard edge from earlier. 

“The Red Room still exists, Natasha,” you talk low and slowly, your tone was no longer defensive or angry. She needs to know she is wrong. “Dreykov isn’t dead.”

“It’s impossible, I killed him,” she restated adamantly. Her mask was slowly cracking, but you do not feel victorious about it. 

“He’s alive, Romanoff. I’m not fucking with you,” your tone was exasperated, “Why would I lie?”

“Why are you here?”

“Chert poberi,” the curse slips past your lips, your annoyance at the redhead radiating off of you, “I took a job, I’m a mercenary now, that’s all you need to know.” You finally push yourself off the ground, your legs stumbling slightly as the pins and needles continue to prickle under your skin. She allows you to stand, backing away from you with her gun still trained on your head. 

“Listen, I don’t care if you believe me or not. Dreykov is not dead, and the Red Room is still alive and well. You don’t need me to tell you what happens in there,” you shook your head gently as the familiar, bitter taste of your words coat your tongue. 

You made no effort to move away from her yet, despite desperately wanting to leave. Her gun was still trained on you, and you were beginning to doubt whether or not she would actually shoot you. A single wrong move could mean the difference between life and death, or worse, getting turned in. 

But she was no longer focused on you. Her mask had slipped off, and for the first time since you were children, you could read every emotion in her eyes. There was conflict there, torn between the lie she had convinced herself of and the reality of your words. There was wariness in her gaze, but there was something else too, something bigger.

It was guilt. 

She believes you.

You begin to move away from the wall she had you pinned against, your bike about ten feet away from you. It’s clear she has no intentions of stopping you, instead lowering her gun slowly, her eyes never leaving yours.

She… she was letting you go.

The gaze you send her is cautious and untrusting, but you continue to move away from her, nonetheless. She eventually breaks the eye contact you had maintained, her eyes dropping down to the ground, her breaths slow, heavy and unsteady. There is enough space between the both of you for you to run. You caution one last look at her, but she has not moved a muscle. 

“See you around, Romanoff,” Your tone is not victorious nor teasing, it’s dejected and almost sad.

With that, you run towards your bike, scooping your keys from the ground swiftly before driving away, leaving Natasha behind with her thoughts.

Part 2 ->

[darsynia]

The Smoke That Roams (post-apocalypse AU Bucky/Reader)

MCU MASTERLIST | lmk if you want to be tagged for Bucky fics!

Summary: You and Bucky find each other after the world almost ends

Length/Warnings: 3,080 | sex, allusions to violence

Notes: I tagged this on AO3 as 'romance and survival soaked in metaphor,' lol. It's post-apocalyptic angst. Stop typing, Darsy.

Excerpt:

You weren’t afraid of him, you realized. You were afraid for him. He was a supersoldier, but he wasn’t immortal. Bucky often went off by himself without saying anything to you--but what if someday he didn’t come back? 

A pillow landed on the queen sized bed beside yours, followed by a blanket, followed by Bucky, who threw himself onto his back beside you with as much care as he’d tossed everything else. He was so warm you could feel the heat radiating through the space that separated you, even though none of it carried through to his tone.

“You’re safe. Go to sleep.”

It was… exactly what you needed.

The Smoke That Roams

You used to compare him to a solid, cold hunk of metal. Non-reflective but uncorroded, with a metaphorical melting point so high it’s practically unreachable. A weapon when thrown but otherwise safe, foundational, inexpressive.

That was before he touched you.

Bucky Barnes is not safe. He is expressive, though. Just not with words.

now

The world isn’t destroyed. There are still plants, there are still animals, and there are still safe places to spend time. The planet may actually be better off now than in the last few hundred years, because the humans who were in the process of ruining things just barely failed.

There are no regulations, no government-enforced exclusion zones, only good- and bad-intentioned people living day to day. You figure humanity has around twenty years of 'every man for himself' to realize how difficult it is to grow crops and sustain life. Until then, everyone’s subsisting on canned food and shelf-stable meats while hating every second of it.

Boredom is an unexpectedly dystopian pandemic, post-apocalypse. Books still exist, so there’s that. Unfortunately, even if there were experienced people to keep the electrical grid going, it’s completely unsustainable without an accompanying society. When you’re really depressed, you picture various survivors all around the world hunkering down to read Jurassic Park or Gone Girl next to pine-scented candles or last year’s Pantone table tapers. Once, you imagined a group of miserable assholes warming their hands next to a bonfire of Live, Laugh, Love wall hangings outside of a Cracker Barrel. It helped. You doubt any Karens survived the apocalypse to object.

then

You survived out of luck, if you could call living in the aftermath of a failed nuclear response ‘luck.’ 

Given the honest-to-fuck alien invasion, those nuclear strikes should have taken out the whole area. Instead, a strange golden dome repelled the worst of the damage, but you knew better than to assume it would stick around. After gathering some important provisions (including a gun and all your ammo), you spent some time bundling up your lawnmower’s spare gas can. You'd read The Stand. There's no way you're strong enough to pilfer gasoline from an underground tank.

That was when you found a leather-clad warrior man standing beside your motorcycle. He didn't seem surprised to see you. “You know how to ride this?”

“You after parts or gas?” you asked, hand on the butt of your gun. You were high on survivor’s guilt and low on bravado. He noticed both.

“A bodyguard,” Bucky told you sardonically.

He eventually told you the real reason, but at the time you’d pulled courage out of the sulfuric smell of danger in the air and suggested you watch each other’s backs.

now

“Still awake?”

You roll over to see Bucky’s familiar shape standing at the window, outlined in moonlight.

“Yeah. It’s too quiet.” Yesterday the two of you had retreated further into the mountains, judging your previous temporary home too close to the river after seeing two small groups using it for through travel.

“Never thought I’d like the quiet this much,” he muses.

Getting up, you move to stand beside him, still dressed in multiple layers to ward off the colder elevation. “That’s because it matters why it’s quiet.”

He doesn’t look over, but his smile is gorgeous in the dim light. “That’s a war reference.”

“You’re damn right.”

The two of you stand in silence, watching the shadows of the nearby trees play in the wind until he speaks again, gruff and oddly defensive.

“I was right about the shelter.”

“There’s a radio? Was it the right kind?”

“Yeah. Months worth of food, too.”

You’re embarrassed at how excited you are at the thought of MREs. “That’s great,” you say, reaching out to touch his arm. It’s sopping wet. Turning to look at him more fully, you see that his hair is wet too. He’s been dripping the whole time he's stood there; there’s a halo of wet, dark spots on the floor around him that feel almost symbolic.

“Most of the food was untouched. Ghosts don’t eat much.”

“How many?” You have to dredge to find enough moisture to rub your vocal cords together.

“Just one. Buried him in the woods pretty far out, washed up in the river.”

Bucky leaves so much unsaid, but you’re good at decoding him by now. This new cabin is miles from the river. As a good ‘bodyguard,’ though, you have one more clarifying question. It’ll matter, if you want to stay here for longer than a week or two.

“Was there evidence of-- did someone else--”

“Self-inflicted.”

“Yeah, aren’t we all,” you sigh, pushing away the guilt of relief.

then

You learned him slowly.

Bucky didn’t need a bodyguard as much as a body, or more accurately a second person to help carry the items he was gathering. It made sense; even a loner like him wouldn’t separate from the other Avengers without a reason. Their version of ‘strength in numbers’ was too complicated to understand and he didn’t really explain, but it had something to do with scattered communication, whatever that meant.

The parts he needed were in military bases, abandoned (and guarded, which was fucking terrifying) high rises, and one notable item was in a corn field. Eventually he gave you his motorcycle and upgraded to one with a sidecar.

You didn’t ask why it was wet when he showed up with it, but you had an idea of why he might have needed to clean it off.

By then you were used to sharing a room with him, dressing and undressing when he was out of the room or faced away. He didn't seem to mind, but you couldn’t really tell, and he didn’t say. 

You were more like coworkers than anything else, to the point that he barely spoke once one of you started readying for bed, like an unwritten boundary. Not that night. He’d broken into a hotel with two beds, one for each of you. That night, instead of his usual steady rhythm of breaths that eventually lengthened into sleep, there was just pensive silence.

Silence was the worst part of your new life. Silence allowed doubts and fears to creep into the gaps between breaths, clawing out space for larger worries. Bucky was quiet, but he was rarely silent.

“It’s not cold,” he finally said, almost accusatory.

You didn’t know how to respond. You weren’t cold, you were in shock. Death was everywhere and nowhere; either you fought for your life or saw the evidence of those who’d lost that battle. Each choice came with terrible necessity. Had that sidecar been a necessity? 

The flashlight clicked on. “You’re shivering.”

“I’m not cold.”

You weren’t afraid of him, you realized. You were afraid for him. He was a supersoldier, but he wasn’t immortal. Bucky often went off by himself without saying anything to you--but what if someday he didn’t come back? 

A pillow landed on the queen sized bed beside yours, followed by a blanket, followed by Bucky, who threw himself onto his back beside you with as much care as he’d tossed everything else. He was so warm you could feel the heat radiating through the space that separated you, even though none of it carried through to his tone.

“You’re safe. Go to sleep.”

It was… exactly what you needed.

now

“I need to build it as high up as I can,” Bucky says.

“Not ‘we?’” you ask, nowhere near as breezy as you hoped.

“I need you to be here, safe.” He reaches out and grabs your hand with his smooth, river-damp metal one, squeezing just too much. It’s as calculated as it is unintentional, like your relationship. “This time, ‘safe’ is not with me.”

He can run for days, heal his own wounds, kill in so many ways it would take a week to list them all, and you still don’t want him to go alone.

You don’t say that, though.

Instead, you tuck yourself against Bucky’s chest, wrapping your arms around his drenched torso. There are no dryers, no radiators to hang your wet clothes on, no fireplace to dry them by. It’s a message.

He holds you close in the moonlight, his river water soaking into you, your unspoken love seeping into him.

then 

Bucky learned you fiercely.

After begrudgingly joining you the first time, he slept beside you from then on, handling it the same way he handled everything: with little explanation and an air of inflexibility. Suddenly you were two people who slept (slept, mind you) together, the metal plates of your lives shifting perfectly to fit that new reality. 

You didn’t fully understand what it all meant until the night Bucky went for a walk instead of getting into bed. He’d killed a man right in front of you that day--brief, brutal, and bleak--and you'd waited for him to come back, alone with your own brutal and bleak thoughts. Had survival destroyed your morality? Why had he been beautiful as he’d ended the attacker’s life? Couldn’t things go back to the way they were? You didn’t ask for this!

Then it hit you.

Neither did he.

You got to travel with him in 2019 because someone did things to him in the 40s that he’d never asked for.

Bucky came back, but that didn't help you purge those horrible thoughts, not until he sighed in obvious annoyance and threw an arm over your hip, dragging you back against his chest like it was an obligation.

Only then could you sleep.

And so could he.

now

The moon is too high to shine through your borrowed window anymore, so Bucky leads you back to the bed in the dark. He guides your clothes over your head and down your hips as unerringly as a marksman who knows the specs of his weapons. When he kisses you, it’s sloppy and imprecise, like he doesn't have time to come up with a plan other than 'must touch, now.'

He drops you onto your back on the bed and straightens up, stripping off his shirt. You figure that out by the sound the sodden fabric makes on the hardwood floor, a wet thunk followed by the metal pinging noise his belt buckle makes.

A strange realization hits you: for the first time since everything went to hell, you don’t want water stains on the floor. This could be your place, yours and his. The thought warms the places where you’d pressed up against Bucky’s wet clothes, but soon his kisses do that for you, furnace-hot yet gentle as the curl of smoke from your frequent campfires.

You burn for him, and you have since before he touched you with intent and looked at you with desire. 

then

Post-apocalyptic isolation was finally getting to you.

The warehouse was cold, impersonal, and dangerous enough that no one lived there, despite being a single building surrounded by miles of possibly-fertile fields. Back when it was operating, that had protected the county population, and now that it was not, its position could best be called strategic. No one could sneak up on you if you were diligent, but the monotony of guard duty was wearing on you. So was the wind coming off of the unrelenting central plains.

You'd never seen Bucky that frustrated before. He came to bed each night tense and sullen, even angry, and instinctively, you’d done your best to give him space. It was only in the last few nights that ‘space’ had included sleeping separately, despite the chill of early autumn that seeped into your bones from the concrete floor.

Day five of that singular brand of loneliness happened to be day thirteen at that location. You weren’t sure how much more you could take.

“Let me help you.” Your tone was wounded, but you didn’t raise your voice.

“You are helping.”

“There’s no point in me watching for nonexistent scavengers when whatever you’re doing isn’t working down here! Especially since--” Your words turned to ash in midair. You’d been about to say ‘especially since you won’t sleep with me anymore,’ which made your relationship sound vastly different than what it actually was.

Bucky smiled for the first time in days. “Go on.”

“No way. Mad Max himself couldn’t drag it from me.”

“I think I saw that one,” he said, swiping a precious candy bar from the special stash and sitting on a stack of pallets. “Sand and cars?”

You choke out a laugh. “If any of the filmmakers are still alive, can you even imagine--”

“They probably murder anyone that brings it up.” Bucky wrapped up the rest of the candy bar and held it up like he was about to toss it to you. “Tell me.”

Your chest felt like you’d swallowed lighter fluid. He looked happier than he had in days, and you had no idea if telling him the truth would toss a match or douse it.

Well, you lived with enough fear as it is.

“Fine,” you said with fake annoyance. “I was going to say that it’s hard to sleep without you breathing on my neck and hogging the blanket.” The plan was to be flippant, to avoid seeing his response, but an arsonist can never look away from their own blaze.

Bucky was still sitting the way he had been before, but you could see the tension ebbing from his shoulders. His metal hand relaxed its grip on the pallet with the same slow relief as the growing smug look on his face.

“Yeah?” he asked, impudent and inflammatory.

“Yeah. Give me the candy bar.”

“Oh, I will,” Bucky grinned. He stood up with the kind of confident menace that had sold many an action movie ticket.

“Oh my god, turn that off!” you yelped, poised to run. “What’s gotten into you?”

“Sand,” he said. You bit your lip as he continued, “I can use it to shore up-- Never mind.”

Bucky’s gaze was intent as he started walking in your direction. It was the same kind of focus he used to defend your lives, with only difference being the impudent light in his eyes. You backed away (never turn your back on a predator) as swiftly as you could, heart pounding in your delighted chest.

Seconds later you realize he’d herded you against a dividing wall and he was still advancing. It was absurd, sexy as hell, and the aforementioned lighter fluid had completely replaced your blood volume. One touch and you’d be aflame. 

Bucky didn’t touch you.

He stopped mere breaths away, leaning his metal forearm on the wall. Bucky brought the half-wrapped candy bar up where you could see it and then ripped away the wrapping with his teeth, his eyes glittering with challenge. Holding your gaze, he brought it to your mouth.

You were breathing so heavily your breasts grazed his chest, sparking brushfires each time. Still, this was a contest of sorts, and you had precious few chances to go toe to toe with this man. You waited until the heat of your mouth smeared the chocolate on your lower lip, and only then did you move--shoving his hand to the side and arching up to kiss him.

His groan ignited something in both of you. He pulled you close with a rough hand at your thigh, curving your leg around him and taking charge of the kiss. It was exhilarating, full of the heat of something long-desired. You grabbed at the fabric of his shirt, dug your fingernails into his hair, your other hand skating over the bare metal of his arm.

Suddenly he pushed back on the wall behind you with enough force to shake the cinderblocks, eyes wild, hands at the hem of his tank top. You nodded, scraping your elbows in your haste to strip off your clothes. It took just seconds before you were on each other again, Bucky half carrying you to the corner of the warehouse where you’d piled up your bedding. He was already pumping his fingers in and out, sucking a brutal kiss on your neck even as he knelt on the pile of ragged quilts.

“You are so fucking strong-- yes, like that,” you gasped out with your eyes screwed so tightly you saw a spray of sparks. The white-hot pleasure practically rang in your ears, and then he was there, splitting you apart and putting you back together, with the taste of him healing the gaps.

“You smell just like every morning I wanted to do this,” Bucky growled into your skin. The pinpoint pain of his fingertips digging into your hip was so real, so him that you were speechless. All you could do was drag your lips across every inch you could reach, arching your back to drive the two of you toward the wreckage of your former selves.

When release came it was a second nuclear event, him panting into the join of your neck and shoulder, your hands buried in his hair.

now

There is a luxury to darkness and patience, one you never would have guessed at in the Time Before.

Bucky doesn’t have to see the ecstasy on your face to know his expert caresses are sending you skyward. You don’t have to watch him throw his head back to know he’s about to come apart inside you.

He’s seen the silhouette of your body backlit by the sunset as you ride him.

You’ve watched the lethargy of pleasure-bought peace lift months of his guilt.

Things will never go back to the way they used to be, but just as you’ve learned to navigate the chaos of the current world, you’ve also learned the comfort of being truly known.

Tomorrow, Bucky will head up the mountain to build one piece of a larger device various Avengers have been constructing across the world. Stark had called it a cosmic smoke signal, a last-ditch effort to call for rescue. After all this time, you’re not sure your heart is in it anymore. It’s engaged elsewhere; you haven’t just learned to adapt, you’ve learned to thrive with Bucky at your side.

Still, the others are counting on the two of you, and it’s all about balance. Whether the next mission is a fiery trip to the stars or the steady puff of a hand-built cookstove, you’re ready for what comes next.

Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.

[communistkenobi]

Obviously art does not rest on methods, media, or the amount of effort a person exerted in making it, but I think AI art is yet another way that capitalism is changing the form and function of art (separating artworks from their original meaning on a different and even larger scale) and given that it is made by exploiting workers (the original artists and the people they pay pennies to sort through it to remove disturbing images) it makes people feel yet more powerless in the face of corporations so there is a big negative reaction to it. This negative reaction may not be articulated in the way you want but I think it's very understandable that people have reactionary feelings about large scale corporate exploitation.

just for the record before I respond, I am replying to this ask in good faith just as you are asking in good faith, I’m not angry at you and many of these questions I’m asking are rhetorical, for the purposes of reflection. So please no slapfighting in the notes, thank you!

First: I’m not disputing exploitation. in fact privileging AI as uniquely exploitative handwaves away the massive amount of exploitation that artists already endure and have endured for a very long time, as well as the horrific amounts of labour exploitation involved in mass producing the ‘tools of the trade’ so to speak.

But this is, again, a non-sequitur to my argument, which is that art produced under exploitative, destructive, “lazy” or politically repugnant conditions is still art. MCU films are art regardless of the fact that they are 3-hour long informercials for the American empire and require massive labour exploitation from CGI animators, actors, film set workers, and everything else: advertisements are art: AI art is art. Horrifying, trite, unoriginal, bad, socially destructive, maybe all of those things are true and we can talk about the merits of those claims (I certainly have strong opinions about them), but what is politically gained from saying bad, unoriginal, horrifying, or trite art isn’t art? Whose definitions are we using here, and if those definitions should be universalised, what does it mean for artists who are only unoriginal, only bad, only whatever else?

I return to my original example: are children not qualified to be artists if they only make “bad” art? I used to trace movie stills from Harry Potter photo books as a child because I loved the characters - am I a fraud for doing so? Am I given grace for my incompetence and “theft” on the basis of me “still learning how to do real art”? When does this grace period end? If we argue that only struggle can produce art, what level of struggle? Struggle for whom? Drawing isn’t difficult for me because I was taught how to hold a pencil, read, write, and draw by a western industrial publicly-funded primary school by a teacher paid with public tax dollars, supplemented with help every night from my mother and father, two married cishet middle class people in a mostly stable (if miserable and verbally abusive) marriage - all of which is resting atop stolen indigenous land. Under what historical conditions can arguments for artistic struggle be made? When we argue for struggle(/hard work/whatever) as the basis of art we are pre-supposing a universal subject whose struggle is globally standardized and calculable - which in all of these discussions on here is (implicitly, though sometimes explicitly) a white able-bodied settler living in a western state who benefits from universal primary education that teaches them the foundational skills of how to make art. You can probably add university educated to that too, given how many of these arguments seem to be swarmed by undergraduate students.

Arguing that there needs to be some threshold for method, labour, intent, or message for art to ‘actually be art’ is politically reactionary and is what I am responding to. It requires transcendental claims about the Artist as a unique labourer set apart from and superior to all others, one whose skills are universalised and whose intent is always observable and present in their work. So if people want to talk about exploitation they should talk about exploitation, not the definition of art. It’s not my fault people can’t stay on topic!

[buckets-and-trees]

Perfectionists

Title: Perfectionists Fandom: MCU Characters/Pairings: Bucky x Female!Reader Word Count: 2.2k

Summary: SHIELD Games is behind one of the best MMORPGs on the market. SHIELD stays on top because of the super employees they have across the board from the tech innovation department, to the story writers, to their game engineers - including one Bucky Barnes. It's his perfection that has pushed him into this position at an elite place in the industry, period. But one game tester always seems to find the most frustrating things to send back to him.

Content/Concept Warnings: Gamer AU; strong language; explicit smut: oral - male receiving, mild dacryphilia, vaginal fingering, genital sex, voyerism, masturbation

Notes: TRIPLE THREAT SUBMISSION for @buckybarnesevents WEEK THREE of Hot Bucky Summer: "Where do you want me?", my fifth square of @buckybarnesbingo B5: "Playing Games," and my third square for Connect4 Alternate June-iverse: C1 "Gamer." Gamer divider graphic by @sgt-seabass!

Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

Bucky looked up as he heard Steve’s telltale footsteps – not the normal ones – the trepidatious ones.

“No,” he said, tone stone cold.

Steve stopped a few steps away and sighed, putting his hands on his hips.

“How long is the list?”

“Buck.”

Bucky shook his head and pushed away from his desk. “You know what? No. I don’t even want to see it.”

He stormed out of the engineering and design lab, and Steve dropped his head back to look at the ceiling.

Sam chuckled. “I told you, man, you should wait until he’s out of the room to bring in new lists of purgatory for perfection.”

“He never takes a break. None of you take breaks,” Steve said.

“'Attitude reflects leadership, Captain.'"

"Don't quote Remember the Titans at me."

“Barnes just needs to fuck her.”

Steve’s head snapped over to Nat. “You know what, Romanoff?”

“She’s right,” Joaquin added without looking up from his screen, but a smirk on his face none the less. “His blood has been boiling for her for months, it’s about time he stops ignoring that.”

“Shit, Barnes!” you yelped, clutching your heart with one hand and an energy drink in the other. “Anyone ever tell you not to lurk in the dark?”

“I’m not lurking,” he groused.

“What else do you call lying in wait to confront someone? Especially in the dark? Alone? Leaning up against the wall, no less.”

You knew you were far from the only person in the building, but this late at night, you were the only tester still around and usually had this wing of the offices to yourself. This was a side gig for you, you only did it because you loved the game and loved getting to preview things before it was even sent to the beta test group of users, but that meant you usually only crossed paths with the handful of other official tester employees for SHIELD Games like ships passing in the night who basically clocked normal business hours.

“I don’t see you turning on any lights,” he said as you returned to your preferred spot on the couch.

“I prefer to play by glow of television,” you responded with a dramatic tone.

If Bucky rolled his eyes, you didn’t see it. “It’s how I’d be playing at home, keeps me focused so I can help you do your job.”

Which is why he was here confronting you, as you had so aptly noted. “I’m damn good at what I do.”

“And the only reason you hate my lists is because you’re already a god damn perfectionist so you can’t stand when I point out the flaws you missed or suggestions to make your work even better. But that’s why Maria hired me. Your community manager knew the user feedback I was giving when you launched the game was excellent.”

Bucky scoffed and shook his head, crossing his arms.

“Your game is only perfect after they put it in front of my face, Barnes.”

“Shut up.”

It was your turn to scoff. “Make me,” you said and took a swig of your energy drink.

Bucky pushed off the wall and in three swift, silent steps was in front of you. With your head tilted back as you drank, you only saw him when he leaned forward, looming over you. You spluttered a little, and he smirked.

“You won’t be able to talk with this in front of your face,” he said, opened the front of his jeans, and pushed the denim and his boxers down his thighs in one go.

You would have roasted him for saying something so cliché in any other circumstance. But your brain was short-circuiting, and you were trying to rapidly re-establish the connections.

His right hand took the can out of your grasp and set it on the side table next to the couch, and his left hand cradled your chin, his thumb pressing on your bottom lip.

You looked up at him. Your heart was racing, and your pussy was thrumming. You were not certain this was real. He’d been the quiet one, a bit surly, but you had been surprised enough he’d come to confront you about the feedback in the first place and never would have put a penny on the odds of something like this happening with the gorgeous game designer you’d harbored a bit of a crush on but decided after the first week wouldn’t come to anything.

This was an unexpected side quest.

You nodded.

He pushed the tip to the edge of your lips, your tongue slipped out to circle the head. In one swift motion he gripped the back of your head and thrust his cock into your mouth, hitting the back of your throat, and your hands flew up to hold onto his hips.

He used your mouth with abandon, and the hold of your hands on his hips was firm, encouraging. When you choked on his thick member, he slowed for a moment, then you squeezed his hip, and he speed up to his brutal pace again. This happened twice more, you having taken him deeper in your throat each time. Tears streamed down your face now, and he groaned when he looked down at you.

“You look so god damn beautiful,” he couldn’t help saying.

You whimpered, and he swept a thumb over your cheek, wiping away the tears, then brought them to his mouth.

He could feel the build of his climax at the root of him, and pulled out of your mouth abruptly, knowing he was too close to finishing and not ready for this to come to an end yet.

You fell forward, but he was instantly kneeling in front of you, ready to catch your lips with his. The kiss was hungry, and your mouth full of the taste of him made him groan again. Your hands tangled in his hair, slotting in despite being pulled back in a low bun. His hands had returned to hold your head as commandingly as they had when he was fucking your throat – one in your hair, one along your jaw.

When you were absolutely breathless, you finally pulled away.

Foreheads planted against each other, breaths still mingling, you licked your lips.

“Why don’t I show you what these hands can do?” he asked, one hand falling to your hip, rubbing his thumb down the crease of your thigh toward your core.

“Don’t tease.”

“Oh, no,” he agreed. Then with both hands, he pulled your hips to the edge of the cushion, hooked his fingers into the top of your pants, and peeled them down along with your panties. You pushed up to raise your hips so he could remove them completely, but your efforts were hardly needed as he used one hand to push you up, and the small show of unexpected strength made your insides squirm. He was built – you had seen it – but you hadn’t experienced the reality of it.

Bucky didn’t leave you a second to think about it any further as his fingers slid up and down your wet slit, he spread your outer folds and stroked your soft inner folds, and you moaned. Your eyes slipped shut, but you felt him watching your face. He was watching for how you reacted to each of his ministrations. He pinched your clit, and you yelped.

Your eyes flew open, and you saw his were filled with a mischievous glint. “Just testing all the possibilities,” he said.

You hit his shoulder. “I said no teasing!”

“You always want the experience to have more unexpected elements for the user to play with.”

“Bucky!” You did not want to hear one of your recent lines of feedback recited back to taunt you.

Except you did.

He was playing this game so well.

He slipped two fingers from that large, warm hand of his inside your cunt and began to pump. Your eyes melted closed again, and seemingly satisfied with his study, you felt Bucky claim your lips for more kisses while he pulled you closer and closer to an orgasm. It built steadily, his thumb at your clit, fingers in your channel, but when he curled those fingers and found the spongy spot against your pubic bone, it hit you instantly, and you cried out his name. He pulled your head into the crook of his neck while his other hand slowed in your cunt but helped prolong riding out the waves of your pleasure.

“Satisfactory experience?” he asked once your breathing started to return to normal.

You laughed against his shoulder, then pulled back to look at him. You pressed a kiss to his jaw, and he smiled.

“You know, I wasn’t afraid to poke the bear because you’re brilliant, I knew you could take it. You want to be the best, and I help give you that.” You reached down and took his still hard, leaking cock in your soft hands, and Bucky’s breath hitched. “Now, do you want to let me take you? I’m aching for you to fill me up.”

He groaned. “You can’t say shit like that.”

You nipped at his bottom lip and smirked. “Yes, I can. This company values my direct and honest feedback.”

He huffed a laugh.

“Where do you want me?”

Bucky quickly shoved his jeans all the way down his legs and settled down next to you on the couch, legs spreading wide. “In my lap.”

“Sounds just about right,” you said, straddling him.

His eager hands pulled your slick cunt flush against his groin, and you both moaned. You planted your hands on his broad shoulders, and rocked your hips just a little bit. Even that short back and forth of friction, his cock stroking your engorged clit, had your head falling back. Bucky pressed his lips to the column of your throat, not wasting an opportunity so inviting in the moment. You sighed and held his head to your neck where he continued to explore and mark you with slow, hot kisses, finding the places that made you shiver.

While you were lost in those sensations, Bucky reached down and lined his cock up with your slit, but that brought you back to the thrumming need to be filled by him, and you sunk down while he thrust up into you. He was thick, and he filled you more than you were used to, but not to a point of pain -far, far from it.

“Feel so good inside me,” you keened.

“No feedback?”

“Just fuck me until I can’t breathe, Buck.”

“With pleasure,” he growled.

After passing through two intense first levels of play, climbing to the final peak did not take long. One of his hands remained anchored at your hip to control the punishing but desired pace of thrusts, but his other steadily slid underneath your shirt and up your spine in a delicate way in contrast to everything else happening in the moment, including your lips returning to his in another kiss designed to devour.

Bucky felt you hit that crest of the climax, your muscles seizing in a moment of bliss, your pussy clenching hard around his cock. As you came down, he maneuvered you both to lay your back on the couch while he did just as you asked and continued to thrust into you hard, you boneless but in a blissful haze, unconcerned with trivial things like breathing, while he pursued his own pleasure. Then all at once he groaned and began to spill his hot seed inside of you, pausing for a second with the first ropes of cum, but then continued with deep, slow thrusts until he was completely spent.

It was a snug shuffling, but the two of you managed to get so you were both laying on your sides on the couch, your back up against the cushioned backboard, Bucky’s back to the glow of the giant television screen so all his muscled angles were sillhouted for you to admire in the afterglow. His legs were bunched up – possibly uncomfortably – and you tangled yours with his. You pushed some hair that had escaped from its knot at the back of his head off of his face, and he grabbed your hand and pressed a kiss to your palm.

“I think we’ll need to continue testing this,” you whispered against his lips.

You felt them curve into a smile before he said, “Thorough testing, absolutely. Need to explore all potential scenarios.”

“I’m glad you’ll be more amenable now to my feedback.”

“Oh, I never said that.”

You poked him in the ribs.

“Come on, you love the complex storylines. You don’t want me easily conquered.” And before you could protest, and claimed your lips again, this time in a long, slow kiss, no intention of leaving any time soon.

Too caught up with each other, neither of you heard the approaching footsteps, the gasp on discovering you, the moans they bit back when they gave over to touching themselves there in the dark, watching you, or their nearly silent retreat.

READ THEIR FOLLOW UP IN TEST PLAY

Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

[milehighmegs]

On the Subject of Fandoms: A Love Letter

So, I'm old. Well, oldER. I haven't entered the twilight of my years by any stretch, but once I entered that midlife wistful state of nostalgia, I knew that I had very likely reached the point at which it would be more past than future. And ya know, that's ok. I made peace with my mortality long ago. I don't fear death, I fear not living before I die.

So what's that got to do with fandoms? you may be asking. Fair enough. Here's what it's got to do with fandoms:

Before it was even a term, before I could do multiplication or write my name in cursive (I told you I'm old), I was part of a fandom and didn't even know it. My parents watched 'Star Trek: The Next Generation' when it was still on primetime; we even recorded the final episode on VHS and had it for years. (I told you, I'M OLD.) It was so incredibly formative for me that it's become part of my identity, part of my moral & ethical code, part of my personality. Is that ridiculous? Dramatic? Maybe even a bit of hubris? Perhaps. But it's true, nonetheless.

I've since joined other fandoms, of movie franchises (namely the MCU), TV shows (like Good Omens), and musicians (I'm a die-hard metalhead) over the course of my life, each of them creating/inhabiting a different part of what makes me ME. Though I've always remained the same basic person at my core (a decent one at least if not a good one, I hope), being a part of these fandoms has shaped the foundations of how I live my life, and how I've LIVED my life.

Being on the proverbial back nine of my earthly existence, looking back at what's come before, at how far I've come and all the things I've fucked up or gotten right, questioned, accepted, regretted, cherished... so much of that is filled with moments like, 'what would Captain Picard do? How would the Avengers handle this? Which Slipknot song would be most comforting right now?' With the explosion of semi-social media sites (like tumblr here, and its gateway drug, Pinterest), I've been able to dive even deeper into the fandom. The fic, the art, the theories & analyses... it turns my appreciation for all these things I love to 11. But it wouldn't be possible without the most critical element: the fans.

Because people have such a love for, and identify so strongly with the stories & characters of their respective fandoms, they go deep into hidden meanings, major themes, & what they imagine these stories would be like if they were able to direct the action. More than anything, what I love about fanfic/fanart is that while yes, we're creating what we want for the characters, it's more a reflection of what we want for ourselves, both in the same situation as the characters and in life in general. For example, I see SO MUCH art/fic of Crowley & Aziraphale being open & free in showing their love for each other. I see so many stories of them making up and living happily ever after. The art ranges from sweet & adorable to... ah... adult-themed, but the vast majority of the latter is passionate, tender, & clearly loving; rarely is it straight-up raunchy. Smutty? Totally. Raunchy? Not so much. And why? Because we know these two are IN LURVE, not just in lust. And we want what they (clearly) have, even if they can't admit it to one another. We, the fans, can live vicariously through these characters and these worlds, and there we can find what we're looking for.

I've had a rollercoaster of a life, emotionally speaking, especially in matters of romantic love, and much of that hasn't been pleasant. I've done so much soul-searching, shadow work, self-care and all that whathaveyou, but none of it- NONE of it- has come anywhere near to being as insightful as the fan-based art & analyses of the relationship between Crowley & Zira. I have spent the vast majority of the last week thinking about it, writing about it, going over & over how it applies to my life & experiences, and I gotta say... none of it would be possible without the remarkable Good Omens fandom. So seriously, thank you. THANK YOU. You've helped to make me a better person. You've helped to make me look back on my life, smile, and turn around... to look forward to what comes next.

Keep up the incredible work, creators. You never know whose life you could be saving.

[c-is-for-circinate]

MCU Rewatch #2: IRON MAN 2 (2010)

General impressions: Kind of a hot mess but fun though?

This movie did not suck and I did not hate watching it. Still, kind of a mess in places for reasons that weren't entirely its fault.

I think maybe the single biggest thing that fucked this film over is the difficulty of making a movie about the evils of the military-industrial complex while taking money from the US military. It worked in the first Iron Man, because Tony started that movie as such a complete unwitting villain of an international arms dealer that moving away from that at all was clear heroic improvement. Here, we've already achieved that -- so how do we continue on the path without undercutting ourself?

The main question this movie asks is whether I'd prefer this hyper-capable superweapon suit be in the possession of the US Military at large, or one libertarian billionaire with the self-preservation and thrill-seeking tendencies of a Kennedy. Unfortunately, the answer to that question is a vehement NO PLEASE, and that's not really an option. So we're left with questions that get brought up (who can we trust with this technology, and why?), and no good answers, because the movie got them big US Armed Forces millions and therefore can't just say 'nobody'.

The Hero: Well, Tony Stark remains the single best thing about this film, so there's that at least.

There's a great line of continuity here with the first movie. We've already seen that Tony is over-the-top, prone to too far and too fast and too much. In the original movie, we get to see that channeled towards trying to improve the world -- but now that the goal isn't as clear as "stop these specific guys from destroying this one specific town" or "don't die", there's really nowhere to point it. Add on the fact that he's dying, and Tony is a powderkeg of disastrous impulses and flashy self-destruction. It makes sense. It's hard to watch sometimes, but it's also fun to watch, in a cool movie explosions sort of way, and it manages to resolve messily enough to feel earned but also hopeful. RDJ does a great job with Tony's over-the-top disaster self, but also his quieter moments, especially watching back video of his dad. It's good acting for a film with this many explosions.

The Villain: Painfully forgettable, unfortunately.

Look, it's not like 'son of a guy who worked with Howard Stark, working to ensure his father's legacy' doesn't have potential here. There's room for Tony to see himself in both Ivan Vanko and Justin Hammer. It's just never actually realized. We don't get to delve into comparing the complexities of fathers' legacies, and neither of these two people really have anything to do with the true conflict of this movie, IE Tony vs himself.

Tony himself is sort of the other villain of this movie, with his self-sabotage and his desperation. The emotional conflict here has nothing to do with the actual bad guys and everything to do with him. Unfortunately, in a superhero movie, while IM2 gets points for having that level of internal conflict it really is important for the external conflict to reflect those themes back, which it Does Not.

The Ensemble: Unfortunately underused, except for Rhodey.

Sadly, Pepper got shafted here. Most of her attempts to help went weird (WHY are you charging onto the racetrack like that, what is even happening), and there was a little more shrieking and running than I'd hope/expect from the lady who found and then accompanied the SHIELD guys so skillfully in IM1. For someone who's been promoted to Fortune 500 CEO, you'd think she'd be more...active? competent? Sigh. Still, Pepper's always fun.

Natasha felt weird after a decade of knowing her through other things. Scarlett Johanssen was about 25 when this was filmed and she looks like a baby. I don't know how to square that with Natalia Romanova, Red Room veteran and SHIELD convert who changed sides long enough ago that she's respected and trusted in the organization by now.

Rhodey though...it's interesting. I think it's very clear that Rhodey loves Tony, and is doing his best to be the best friend he can to him. I just don't think that Rhodey, fundamentally, is a very good friend for him. He's a colonel who works in weapons development. He is always, always, no matter what, going to have those priorities and exigencies pulling on him. He values what the US Military stands for. And that's a complicated and in many ways deeply unfortunate perspective for Tony to be dealing with, in these circumstances.

The Plot: Oh no, Iron Man 2. Oh no.

Look I'm not saying it doesn't, for the most part, work. There's just a lot of Applied Phlebotinum in this one. Tony synthesized a new element in his basement based on a secret his dad built into a model city in the 1950s? Like, just sit with that one for two seconds and then tell me hey what the fuck. (I do not think these filmmakers know how the periodic table works.)

Like, the actual events stacked up more or less ok, but because the villains were boring and detached from the actual emotional core of the movie, they just kind of...hung there. It didn't hold together well, unfortunately, although I am sure there's worse to come.

The Franchise: Well, this didn't kill the MCU, so there's that.

I need to write that post about the promises made by IM1, but the two biggest things that this movie attempts to follow up on are the consequences of a world with open superhero identities, and the problems with the military-industrial complex. I already talked about how the failed attempt to deal with that second theme is the root of a lot of this movie's issues, but I think the open superhero identities thing is one of the movie's big strengths.

We get to see a lot of fallout from Tony coming out as Iron Man! There's no superhero secret identity hunt; there are Congressional committees, and there's federal agents setting spies and putting him on house arrest, and there are real-world copycats. Rather than these things all being Tony's Problem Alone, these impacts feel very tied into the entire world. There's no weird isolation of Superhero Problems. Venko is Tony's problem because he's trying to kill Tony specifically, and using tech only Tony can understand to do it. I think this was well done! (I'm glad something was.)

VERDICT: A Flawed-But-Fun 5/10

I don't think this counts as an objectively good movie, but I think it was a fine popcorn flick. (And I know it gets worse. Of course it does.) 50% seems just about right.

[vartouhix]

open to: any verse: MCU, DCU, Valorant, Persona 5, Detroit: Become Human note: Save for the Valorant verse, she is an alien stranded on Earth. Your muse can be the person she pushed, or a bystander, or the truck driver.

Vartouhi let out a screech as she pushed herself, eyes radiating with a strong white light. Her telekinetic influence propelled her forward at an astounding speed, and she collided with the figure–hard. Her arms pushed and her powers shoved for good measure, sending the person flying to safety. She, on the other hand, crashed into the front of the hulking mass of metal, the roar of the truck’s horn just barely drowning out the smash of metal and thud of her body hitting it. Her powers involuntarily lifted her to fling over the back of the truck, rather than falling underneath to be run over and crushed. She landed on the street with a resounding smack and a sickening crack.

[delicatebarness]

bring him home | chapter six

Summary: Is this healing?

Warning: MCU Spoilers. Captain America: The Winter Soldier. Mentions of Grief and Loss. Violence. Mental Health Themes. Emotional Distress.

Word Count: 975

Spotify Playlist | Support: Ko-Fi

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A/N: A RACCOON ABOUT A MAN. Also, this is a day early, forgive me but I want to work on Winter's Widow. - Please feel free to leave feedback or let me know where and how you want the story to continue, this is just as much yours as mine. - B

Bring Him Home: @vampirethingz | @whiminiferous | @armystay89 | @bucky-just-needs-love | @esposadomd | @motylekrozi | @erica2024 | @wintrsoldrluvr | @mega-kittyglitter-1 | @mostlymarvelgirl | @ordelixx |

Everything: @hallecarey1 | @pattiemac1 | @uhmellamoanna | @scraftsku35 | @ozwriterchick | @sapphirebarnes | @rach2602 | @thetorturedbuckydepartment

The familiar scent of Bucky lingered, bringing a bittersweet comfort as the first light of dawn filtered through the window. Sitting you, you gathered your thoughts as you took a moment, the events from his journal replaying in your mind. 

Making your way through the village, you were greeted warmly with the smiles of the Wakandan people. Their resilience was a testament to their strength that had helped them rebuild after Thanos’ attack. 

Near the training ground, Okoye’s presence was as formidable as ever. “Did you find what you were looking for?” she asked, a quiet understanding carried in her voice. 

You nodded, “More than I expected.” The word hung heavy in the air, the weight of Bucky’s recognition and struggle settling in your heart. 

“Good,” Okoye said, placing a hand on your shoulder. “Healing comes in many forms. Sometimes, it’s about confronting the past.” 

The rest of your time was spent immersing yourself in the vibrancy of Wakanda and visiting familiar places and people. Every encounter, and every memory shared, helped you piece together the fractured parts of your heart. The marketplace bustled with life, the sounds of laughter and conversation blended with the scent of fresh spices and blooming flowers. Children played, and their joyful shouts echoed through the streets, a balm-like feeling to your soul.

Later one day, you found yourself at the edge of the city, overlooking the vast landscape of Wakanda. The sun began to set, casting a golden glow over the rolling hills. Sitting on a rock, you took in the beauty and quiet of the moment, the peace of the land slowly seeping into your bones. 

It was a place of quiet reflection, where Bucky had once sought solace. With his journal in hand, you read his words once more, letting them wash over you. 

~

Reaching the riverbank, you were just in time to see a figure dragging another to the shore. You recognized his metal arm gleaming in the faint light, he lay Steve gently on the ground as you squinted, focusing your gaze on them.

“Soldat!” you called out, your voice filling with hope and desperation. 

His head snapped up, piercing blue eyes locking onto yours. For a moment, his expression was etched with confusion before a flash of recognition. Yet, the walls around his mind quickly came up again. He stood, taking a step back as you approached.

“Steve…” you whispered, dropping to your knees beside him. His breathing was steady, and the rise and fall of his chest spread relief through you, but he was still unconscious. Your hands trembled slightly as checked for any serious injuries. 

Soldat watched, his eyes filling with torment. Taking another step back, you knew he was about to flee. 

“Wait!” you called out, standing up. “Soldat… Buck– please. It’s me. Remember? I can help you.” 

He hesitated, his expression flickered between the ruthless Winter Soldier, the man who trained and raised you, and the man you longed to know. He glanced down at Steve, then back at you. The internal struggle was evident. 

“You know me,” you softly continued, taking a cautious step forward. “You made me into who I am. You don’t have to run, not from me.” 

Soldat shook his head, the pain in his eyes almost unbearable to witness. Taking yet another step back, he glanced once more at Steve’s prone form. Tears welled up in your eyes, heartache washing over you. 

“Please, James,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “I don’t want to lose you again.” 

His eyes softened for a brief moment, and you saw him recognize once more. The conflict in his mind tore him apart as he took a step forward before hesitating. The pain in his expression as he finally shook his head, cut you to the core. 

“I’m sorry, Spiderling,” he murmured, his voice hoarse. “I can’t… I can’t stay.” 

Before you could say anything, he turned and vanished into the shadows. Once again, leaving you. You knelt back down beside Steve, your hands gently brushing the wet hair from his forehead as his eyes fluttered open, giving you a weak smile. 

“Hey, Captain,” you whispered, your voice choking with emotion. “You did it, it’s over.” 

His eyes filled with relief as he glanced around. “Bucky…?”

“He saved you,” you softly assured, your heart aching. “He pulled you out.” 

Steve nodded, his eyes reflecting the determination you felt. “Find him,” he asked, his voice firm despite his exhaustion. 

With a deep breath, you nodded. 

~

“Okoye,” you called out, catching her attention. She had been in the midst of training the Dora Milage, her command sharp and unwavering. Upon seeing you, she dismissed the trainees for a break. 

She nodded, walking toward you. “What is it?” she asked, her gaze piercing. 

“I think it’s time for me to leave,” you said, your voice steady. “I have a meeting with a raccoon about a man.”

Okoye raised an eyebrow, amusement glazed in her eyes. “Rocket?” she asked, and you nodded. “Very well,” she nodded in understanding. “But remember, Wakanda will always be a home to you. And to James.” 

“Thank you, Okoye,” you said, a lump forming in your throat. “For everything.” 

Placing a hand on your shoulder, her eyes softened. “You have done much for us, and you have found family here. But, sometimes, moving forward is the best way to honor the past. Be safe, and may Bast watch over you.” 

With a lingering final glance around the landscape, Wakanda had given you so much, that you boarded the Quinjet once more. The familiar hum of its engines carries a sense of purpose. 

As you soared through the skies, the horizon stretched out before you. Bucky’s journals lay beside you, a reminder of the journeys you had embarked on and the fight to bring him home that still lay ahead.

---

Series Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

[burst-of-iridescent]

Hi! I love all your posts regarding atla and deep diving into Zuko and Katara's relationship-those analysis's are *chief's kiss* perfect

Anywho, I hope you don't mind me asking, but I'm guessing you heard about Bryke wanting to expand the atla universe, and will be creating a new movies, one of which, with the Gaang as adults, but as far as I know won't have any of the returning head writers like Aaron Ehasz..

so my question is: do you think there is any hope for these movies? Because to me I feel like it might just be a fully animated comic (we all know how those turned out) & just be 2 hrs of Katara and Aang saying "Sweetie" back an forth. Yes I'm still saltly

frankly? no.

and that's not even me saying it as a salty zutara shipper who doesn't want to see kat.aang as an established relationship. i doubt how good these movies are going to be because bry.ke have little-to-no understanding of their characters, especially katara and zuko, and at least since atla, haven't shown the self-awareness to hire a writer's team that can compensate for their shortcomings. i've said it before and i'll say it again: they have great, creative ideas and an excellent eye for stunning visuals and an immersive world. but when it comes to the nuances of characterization and story-building, they cannot do it on their own. lok proved that beyond a shadow of a doubt.

but more than bry.ke, these movies are also emblematic of a larger problem that i see in multiple franchises: the subordination of creative, meaningful storytelling in service to shameless nostalgia cash-grabbing. ask yourself, do we really need a story about the adult gaang? most of the main plot threads that they could've expanded on from atla have already been (mostly badly) answered in the comics: what happened to ursa, azula's potential redemption, decolonisation, industrialisation vs tradition, the founding of a new air nomad legacy, zuko's struggles as fire lord. any new story would either have to retcon previously established "canon" or put a new spin on old themes. the latter of which i severely doubt bry.ke's capability to pull off, particularly if any level of nuance is required.

atla is slowly but surely heading in the direction of star wars/harry potter/the mcu in producing new material just for the sake of making money instead of truly adding something impactful to the canon. the fact that absolutely no new atla material since the show itself has ever managed to live up to the original is proof that the franchise has no idea what it's doing.

and before someone comes at me to say that it's impossible to ever live up to the original - just take a look at the hunger games revival happening right now. the ballad of songbirds and snakes has been received so well because it isn't just a shameless cash-grab. it's a valuable contribution to the series that expands on the universe and themes of the original trilogy, giving more depth and nuance to the original books instead of detracting from them. because collins adds to the canon only when she has something meaningful to say, and for a franchise that she could have milked to absolute filth, that restraint reflects not only her integrity as a creator, but the value she places on the stories that she tells - which in turn makes her readers value and respect them as well.

and that's a lesson that i think every single storyteller should take to heart. if you want to be respected as a writer, you have to respect your characters and your stories first. because if you, the creator, don't... why should anyone else?

[melodygatesauthor]

Chapter 11: Torn to Pieces

prof!Steven Grant-Jake Lockley-Marc Spector X f!Reader

Edited by: @welcometostayingawake

Mood Boards - Book Cover - Masterlist

Chapter Summary:

Jake feels guilty, but wants to see you again too badly to care. You continue to see "Steven" when he texts you and tells you to meet up with him. Marc is still trying to get Steven to come back.

Tags/Summary (these are for the ENTIRE fic):

college AU, no powers/not in MCU/no Khonshu (as a deity), talk of mental illness, Marc has DID, forbidden relationship, age gap, reader is 21y/o, Boys are 38y/o, reader attends college in America but isn't necessarily American, smut, sex, masturbation, p in v, creampies galore, reader is on birth control, dubious consent due to identity issues, ANGST, romance, fluff and smut, oral sex, falling in love, reader is not race coded, minor mentions of alcohol addiction and depression.

Word Count: 3.2k

SPECIAL WARNING - DUBIOUS CONSENT. READER DISCRETION ADVISED.

----

Marc woke up on Saturday morning feeling like he’d hardly slept at all. He knew it was possible that Jake or Steven had fronted while he was out, but everything was still right where he’d left it the day before. Steven’s phone was on the end table, Marc’s clothes were still in a pile on the floor, and when he checked the closet, like he did everyday checking for any sign of Steven, there wasn’t a single shirt out of place. As far as he could tell, he’d just had a bad night’s sleep. He went to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. Nothing but his own reflection was looking back. Marc realized then that he missed Steven.

Marc may have taken a back seat after they moved back to the states, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t still been a fly on the wall, keeping an eye on Steven. The years of guilt he’d racked up meant he wanted to personally ensure that Steven could have that happy life he and Jake had promised all along. Now that Steven was gone, Marc was reminded that all he seemed to be able to do was ruin Steven’s life. He only hoped that Steven would come back and understand why he had to do this.

It had been a while since Steven hit the gym, so since he began fronting a couple weeks ago, Marc started going again. It helped him burn off some steam, especially with the guilt weighing so heavily on his shoulders. On his way back from his session today, he noticed you walking down the street. You seemed to be heading toward the coffee shop where you and Steven had first met. For a split second, Marc had thought of stopping the car to explain everything to you.

It would’ve been foolish, which is why he didn’t actually do it, but the guilty part of him wanted to tell you everything. He wanted to tell you why it was dangerous, beyond the loss of his career and your degree, for you and Steven to be together. He wanted to tell you why Steven shouldn’t have had you at their apartment. Mostly, he wanted to come clean about the mental issues, and the truth about who Steven was, and why Steven was. Marc felt like you deserved all that, and more, but it was too late now to tell you. You moving on from the breakup, he hoped, and telling you about their traumas would only drag you back in thanks to your empathetic nature. It was for the best if you hated Steven; at least then there would be little risk of you ever coming back.

Thanks to Jake though, you weren’t able to easily move on…not really anyway. You felt better though, thinking that Steven still wanted to be with you, and that he was willing to keep seeing you. You just wondered when. You’d hoped to hear from him that morning, to wake up with a text telling you that he wanted to see you that night, but you didn’t. In fact, you wouldn’t hear from him again until Sunday night. Your phone buzzed, lighting up with a text from him. Your heart skipped a beat.

Steven: Come outside at 11pm.

The text was short and sweet. You didn’t need to ask what he would be driving, you had a feeling you’d see him in that black car again, and you did. Layla was sleeping when you snuck out, wearing the skirt you’d worn on the day he broke up with you, a pair of lacy panties he’d mentioned liking once, and a form-fitting shirt.

Jake was waiting, sitting in the car on the other side of the street with the engine running. When he saw you coming, his breath caught in his lungs. You were so beautiful, it was no wonder Steven nearly ruined everything he and Marc had worked to give him just to be with you. You were perfect. Jake wasn’t someone who fell victim to anxiousness very often, but you had a way of making his palms sweat, and his breath feel shallow.

You slipped into the car and he pulled away from the curb. He seemed so different to you, and you wondered if this was what Steven was really like, calm and collected, smooth and mysterious, and the teaching thing was just a front for…whatever this was. It felt off, but you weren’t going to draw attention to it, you were still riding the high of having him back after the trauma of losing him. The fear that he might leave you again kept you quiet, despite your suspicions. You brought your hand to rest over his on the center console. You thought he would squeeze your fingers and hold your hand but he didn’t.

Jake felt your hand touch his and he thought he might swerve into oncoming traffic by mistake. He felt like his lungs might collapse and his heart might stop. Intimacy wasn’t something he was accustomed to. He wanted to take your hand in return, he wanted to, but somehow doing even that small of a gesture would increase the guilt for him, so he didn’t move. The disappointment was clear on your face, he could see it out of the corner of his eye.

When he parked, at the same place he’d been with you before when he picked you up, he got out of the car, leaving his jacket and hat in the front seat when he made his way to the back. He was standing by the door and clearly waiting for you to get in first. You felt nervous for some reason, but you pushed through and moved out of the passenger’s seat to the back. Maybe the cause of your nerves was that he wasn’t saying a word to you. Even as he joined you in the backseat, and pulled you onto his lap, chest pressed against your back, he didn’t say a single thing. The deafening silence continued, even when he put a hand on your spine and pushed you forward in between the front seats over the center console.

“I…I missed you.” You murmured from the front.

“Mm,” he hummed in agreement, pulling your skirt up to reveal your gorgeous rear.

“You don’t talk much these days, miss the sound of your–oh my…”

Jake had taken off one of his gloves and was rubbing his palm over your right asscheek. You’d worn such a pretty little thong. He reveled in the way the delicate fabric looked, barely covering the bits he craved. He brought his finger down and touched between the space where your pussy lips peeked out from behind the panties. You whined in front of him, squirming at the sensation. He smirked, throwing any reservations he still had about what the two of you were doing out the window. The sound of your arousal made him weak, forgetting any guilt he may still have. He needed you.

You heard his belt buckle clanking while he worked on his pants. You leaned back a little letting your cunt brush against his knuckles while he was getting his button undone. You turned your head to look at him. He had his head down, curls in front of his eyes so you couldn’t see him, but you watched him stop trying to get his pants down and instead he focused on you. You rolled back again, and once more his balled fist offered you some friction against your needy clit.

Jake shuddered, you were so wet for him already and he’d hardly touched you at all. It was delicious, the way you wanted him so badly. He only wished it was really him that you wanted. Would it be so bad if he came clean right then? Told you that he wasn’t the man you thought he was? Would you run? He decided quickly that couldn’t bring himself to tell you…not yet.

The panties became a problem when he finally pulled his pants to his thighs and was ready to take you. He tried to tug them aside, but they were so snug against you that he couldn’t fit his cock past them. With both hands, he pulled on the fabric, tearing it off you in two pieces and tossing it in the front seat by your hand.

“Did you just…those were expensive–oh my fuck–”

You felt the hard press of his fat tip against your tight entrance. He dragged his cock between your folds. It sounded so wet and felt so warm, you wanted him so bad. You rocked your hips backward, feeling his head push through your hole followed by a sweet and deep groan leaving Steven’s lips. He grabbed your hips on either side and pulled you over him completely, forcing you both to let out choked moans into the car.

You gripped the edges of the seats on either side of you for stability while he thrusted into you roughly. You thought your hips might bruise from the force that he was grinding you into the center console. The sensation of his hands exploring the globes of your ass was nice, like he was relishing the way your body felt under his palms. You felt the little slaps and grabs he did with his fingers while continuing you. He’d never been so fixated on that part of your body before.

When Jake looked down he lifted up his shirt so he could see his cock disappear into you with every glide forward into your tight hole. The way your cunt grabbed onto him and swallowed him whole made his body tremble. He’d been with a few women in his time, but none that made him feel the way you did. When he grabbed the headrests on either side of himself, he leaned back a little and watched in amazement as you worked yourself over him.

“Mm, así bebita,” Jake said, but quickly realized his mistake while caught up in the moment.

Of course, you caught onto it, turning your pretty face around to look at him, eyes bright and eager.

“What did you say?”

He put a hand over your back and shoved you into the center console again, fucking you harder so you couldn’t think too much about his minor slip. It seemed to work, because you just started moaning and whining so loud he could hardly hear himself think clearly. He grabbed your hip and drove himself in as deep as he could, feeling your walls clench in response. He wanted more, he needed to make you whimper and cry harder.

Jake spit on your tight ring of muscle and heard you gasp softly from the front. He used his thumb to press against the rim, circling around it to help you relax. When you finally let him in, he hooked his thumb in there and started pistoning your rear in tandem with the way his hips worked into your cunt. There you were, filling his car with the sharp choking whines that he craved so much.

Cool, calm, and collected Jake drooled on his pristine white shirt at the feeling of your tight little pussy opening up for him with every slide forward. He could feel your soft and slick, velvety walls stretching out around him with every pass. The tip of his cock was grazing against your cervix, he was so close, and judging by the way he felt you tighten around his length and his thumb…you were too.

“Oh, Steven. I’m…oh shit!”

Your walls clamped down over him, as did your tight asshole. Despite saying the wrong name, the way you felt drew out Jake’s orgasm quickly. He looked down, choking on his groans while watching your pussy milking every bit of cum from his twitching cock. He pursed his lips, letting out a sharp exhale as he continued filling you up as full as he could. 

Your hopes for an intimate conclusion to the evening was denied when Steven promptly pulled out of you the second he was finished spilling into you. He waited outside for you to get yourself together and back in the front seat. You couldn’t put your panties back on, they were completely ruined, so you decided you’d leave them on the floor for now. He could deal with the mess he’d made. When you got out of the car, after using the napkins in Jake’s glove box to clean yourself up, you noticed him crushing something under his shiny shoes. He looked at you, face riddled with something that looked like guilt.

“Are…are you smoking? Steven…” You took a step toward him.

“Get in the car.” He said, pulling together a British accent, hoping you’d believe it.

Whether you were buying the facade or not, you furrowed your brow, turned on your heel, and got in the car. He could tell you were irritable by the way you kept your head turned out the window the entire way back to your dorm. You didn’t even kiss him goodbye that night, you just got out, slammed the door, and went into the building. Jake knew that he was going to have to work with Marc sooner than later to get Steven back. He couldn’t keep this up for long, and he couldn’t let you walk out of their lives.

“He was smoking,” you whispered to yourself, while walking down the hall to your dorm, as if to remind yourself of what you saw.

There was no doubt in your mind. You could smell it when he joined you in the car earlier, the distinct scent of a burnt out cigarette. It was the kind of smell that permeated everything around it. You weren’t going to lose your mind over it, sometimes people smoked, and the fact that he was smoking wasn’t necessarily the problem. You were more concerned with the fact that you’d never smelled it before that night. This was a new habit, that much was clear, and you were wondering what made him start it up in the first place.

----

Marc awoke with a start on Wednesday. He had a weird dream…a dream that involved you. He thought about it while showering and brushing his teeth. It kept flashing through his mind. You bent over the center console of a nice car he’d never seen before while he thrust into you. There was another dream he recalled where you were on his lap in the back seat of the same car, back pressed against his chest while you panted and moaned as you were riding his cock.

He felt himself getting aroused just thinking about it more. The way you sounded while he fucked upward into you, sharp gasps escaping your lips while you got used to his size all over again. He remembered you wearing a nice pair of red panties, plain as day, and then you thanked him for them, as if he’d gifted them to you. He shook the thoughts from his head.

“Great…now I’m thinking about her,” Marc grumbled while exiting the bathroom.

“She’s hard not to think about hermano,” Jake said from the headspace.

Jake knew what was happening. He wasn’t dreaming about you, he was remembering you. Jake had seen you just last night, bringing you a replacement for the panties he’d ruined. He wasn’t even going to fuck you that time, but you insisted, telling him to ‘take me, please, I’m so fucking wet’. And take you he did. He fucked you in the backseat once more, playing with your swollen clit while he buried his cock into you over and over until you were collapsing back onto him in his lap.

“Yeah, well…” Marc picked up Steven’s phone from the bedside table. There was a new text. “The head of the history department texted Steven.”

“How do you know the head of the history department?” Jake asked.

“Had to make sure none of Khonshu’s men were workin’ there when we got Steven the job, remember? I ran checks on everyone.”

“Ah, si.”

“He says that if Steven doesn’t come back soon they’re gonna have to discuss his future at the school. Guess being a new and absent professor doesn’t look good.” Marc dropped the phone back on the table with a loud thud. “For fuck’s sake. Steven!”

Marc stormed over to the three-way mirror vanity. Jake was there on Marc’s left, but he only saw his own reflection in the other two panels. 

“Steven, buddy, I know this sucks. I really do…alright. I’ve had my fair share of breakups, but we have to get things back to normal.” He kept looking at his reflection as though he were challenging it to move on its own.

“He will come out when he’s ready, we can’t–”

“Yes we can,” Marc’s voice cracked as he looked away from the mirror.

Jake recognized that tone. Guilt. Marc was feeling an immeasurable sense of guilt that was weighing on him heavily. Steven had suffered for years, forced to be a passenger in the body while Marc and Jake were doing unspeakable things. He’d finally found happiness, a good job, a girlfriend, all the things any guy could want…and now that was ruined too. Marc just wanted Steven to be happy, but not at the cost Steven would have to pay if things went awry.

“Steven…” Marc looked back at his reflection, “Steven I’m sorry, okay? I’m really, truly sorry. Not just for this, but for all of it. I can’t fix this situation. I can’t let you be with her, but I promise that we can work on finding you a new girlfriend. Right, Jake?”

Jake tried not to think about you, and all the things that he loved about you too. The way you smiled, the way you kissed, and mostly the way you looked at him like he mattered. It was such a simple thing, but most of the time no one looked at him like that. He was the ‘scary’ one of the three, often forced to front when neither of them were conscious or when things got physically dangerous, and they hadn’t been in physical danger for quite some time. Jake was nothing…except when he was with you.

“Right,” he answered begrudgingly, knowing that Marc was right in his suggestion to help Steven get over you by finding him someone new to fall for.

“See? You can find someone else. Plus you have all those students who look up to you that I’m sure would like to have you back.”

Marc was trying so hard to keep his cool. He started pacing around, eyes darting to every reflective surface they had in hopes that he would catch a glimpse of his alter. He flopped on the couch and slumped over, burying his face in his hands and groaning.

“We have to try a new approach. Jake…do you remember how to make Steven’s favorite meal?” Marc looked up at the television screen to meet Jake’s eye.

“Si.”

“Good. I don’t know if it will work, but at this point…I’m willing to try anything.”

----

Previous Chapter - Next Chapter

Moon Knight Masterlist

[lokiondisneyplus]

Loki season two seemed like a conclusion to an engaging character arc of one of the Marvel Cinematic Universe’s (MCU) original villains. It capped a redemption arc where the titular character finally achieved what he’s been looking for all this time, but with a twist. At PaleyFest 2024, attendees watched a screening of the season finale followed by a panel featuring the cast and creatives. Stars Tom Hiddleston, Owen Wilson, Sophia Di Martino, and executive producer and writer Eric Martin and executive producers and directors Justin Benson and Aaron Moorhead looked back at the Disney+ series.

Many anecdotes where shared including the previously reported stories of Di Martino’s special Sylvie costume that allowed easy access for feeding and pumping while filming season one. The actress used the same costume the next season because she had recently given birth again. Di Martino also retold the origins of her character working at McDonald’s in season two. When producers asked where she saw Sylvie next, she responded about fancying a burger.

Hiddleston then talked about which characters he studied while developing Loki. It’s no surprise that he drew inspiration from some well known villains including Alan Rickman’s Hans Gruber from Die Hard, Jack Nicholson’s Joker from Batman, and James Mason’s Phillip Vanddamm from North by Northwest. Much like Loki, all there were focused on control and revenge. 

In the season finale, Loki realizes what he must do in order to save his friends. Hiddleston also shared how he got into the right mindset to film his awe inspiring scene where he finds his Glorious Purpose. He went back and watched the God of Mischief’s journey throughout the MCU.

“The experience of watching it reminded me that these are not just scenes I played, but they are all chapters of my own life. It reminded me of the friendships I made and the experiences I had in different parts of the world. I was filled with such gratitude for the whole of it, for the journey.” Hiddleston continued, “I realized that in this moment, Loki is redefining his Glorious Purpose and he’s discovered it because he’s found friends that he loves and wants to care for. Loki is doing it for his friends and the people he loves. And I thought to myself, well, Tom. Do it for your friends and the people you love.”

We’ve already heard of costume designer, Christine Wada, and her magic with Sylvie’s outfit. Hiddleston discussed Wada’s approach to the final God Loki look we see in the finale. 

“It would be distinctly different from everything that had come before. All the other costumes in the MCU are elaborate and armored and detailed with embellishment almost as an expression of who he wants to project in the world. This is more humble and almost monastic. Yes, in a way he’s a king finally ascending the throne. Perhaps he’s more like a monk at the end of time. Something monastic and humble about it.”

During Loki’s moment of self sacrifice to repair the Loom, we see him grasping the various thread-like timelines and weaving them together. It’s as if he is turning these “burdens” and wrapping himself with them. Moorhead shared some insight into the scene itself.

“Loki is learning the importance of the connection between people so it’s a visual metaphor of course for the things that are most important to him, which is connection to the people at the TVA, his friends and all that. Something he didn’t have coming into season one… He’s becoming the Loom by the end of it and so we should have him physically start to become the Loom when he gets into this very humble looking God Loki.”

[lucianalight]

Loki God of Stories - A Comparison between MCU and Comics

I’ve never thought I (=Luci @lucianalight ) would say this but MCU did the God of Stories arc right. Having the whole picture after the finale you can see what they were trying to do and how the series was inspired from AoA arc. The series explores a number of themes.

(I’m along for the ride because I can’t just pass up the opportunity to faceplant into Luci’s metas -Hollow @theitcharchives ) 

Control vs Freedom

Chaos vs Order

Finding Purpose and Believing in One's Self

Science-Fiction, and Magic being a Powerful Lie: Approaches to Storytelling

Being Worthy of One’s Own Power

Breaking the Cycle and Rewriting Reality

Conclusion

Congratulations! You've reached the end of this lengthy meta. While I (=Luci) was thinking about writing it, I stumbled upon a post that had a totally different viewpoint than mine. I asked for Hollow's opinion regarding the topic, and after reading their answer I realized it is actually the perfect conclusion this meta can have. 

"God of stories as a librarian would be", as the s2 writer said, does make sense. If Loki gives life to the timelines, then he gives life to everything in them, and allows people to write their own stories, branching instead of having to follow one single "sacred" timeline. Calling him a god of fate and destiny would be counterintuitive, especially for a norse hailing deity, because norse gods’ fates are already written, unable to branch from their path to and during ragnarok. MCU god of stories does make sense, and if we really don't want that title for him in the mcu, he could be the god of choice, but that sounds reductive. God of time also sounds reductive. The writer's definition mentioning myth Loki starts wrong, but it rings true overall and in the end.

MCU loki and comics loki are just two different kinds of gods of stories. Their approach is different but their soul (as I've kept saying for years -Hollow), needs to be and remains the same across universes to keep respecting the original myth loki. Loki is a trickster figure. Tricksters bring chaos, unbalance that leads to change. Pantheons without tricksters are stagnant and never grow, and since pantheons are reflections of the humanity that comes up with them, that's impossible. MCU Loki (by some miracle after the 2017-2021 ordeal) is a trickster. He changes the equation, quite literally erases it, replaces it with chaos that keeps growing. He allows the unbalance to exist and bring change instead of the rigid timeline that constrained. Tricksters allow for stories to happen–myth Loki is the catalyst of almost everything that happens in the norse myths. Comics Loki was and is the catalyst of almost everything that happens in the comics, directly or indirectly through decades of consequences. MCU Loki is now the literal central catalyst of everything that happens in the mcu, in a more direct (consequences of 2011 and 2012) and indirect (consequences of 2023) way. He deserves that title, because he is a chaos bringing trickster, just in a different way.”

(Am I mad when I look for new comics apparitions I have to sift through endless and inaccurate MCU articles? Yes. Am I mad at the 616/19999 confusion? Absolutely. -Hollow)

Finally it is also worth mentioning that while both universes tried to follow a similar arc, AoA generally did a far better job than the Loki series. Themes like friendship, identity, self-love and validating Loki's pain and grievances either lacked nuance or were non-existent in the show. Therefore AoA remains the superior story.

Co-written by Luci and Hollow