sabinetzin | FREEDOM FREEDOM FREEDOM OY!

Team!fic: movie night at Stark Tower; Tony Stark's home improvement projects, failed or successful or both; mario kart party; poker night

Pepper/Rhodey/Tony: god I don't know all of them in a heap, go wild.

Sif & Natasha being bros

Jane/Thor, Jane Foster teaches Thor Odinson the ways of Midgard

Asgardians: Culinary!AU, Volstagg's cooking show on the food network

Tony wants to move towards them, he wants so badly to touch, but he's frozen in place, kneeling across from them, his hands on his thighs. No one told him to stay, no one ordered him to do a damn thing, but still he doesn't move. He just can't, right now, not when he's watching them, the way they fit together. Pepper is on top, her thighs bracketing Rhodey's; their skin makes a stark- ha- contrast, but it's illusory, unimportant. They're really just the same, the two of them, and the way they move underscores it, perfect sync, back and forth, rolling and slow, wordless, determined, intense.

Tony's got those last two down on a good day. He's willing to give himself that much credit.

"You just want to sit there and watch all night?" Rhodey finally asks, looking around Pepper's shoulder. His voice is a little strangled, like it's incredibly hard to talk, but he doesn't let his face say it, not until Pepper moves just so and he shuts his eyes, biting his lip.

"It's a good view," Tony tells him, still not moving.

"Tony," Pepper says, and her voice has tipped over into that special whine that it only has when she's really turned on. "Come on."

Tony laughs, his voice gone a little low and growly. He finally breaks the spell, crawling over and settling in behind her. He runs his hands over her body, sliding them up to cup her breasts, thumbing her nipples. "Come on where?"

Rhodey laughs, breathless. "You set yourself up for that one, Pep."

Pepper gasps as Tony lowers his mouth to her skin, nibbling at her throat. "I don't know what I'm going to do with you two."

"Worry about we're going to do with you," Tony says into her ear, pulling her back against him. He lets his hand trail down to where she and Rhodey are joined, rubbing slow circles there as he moves in and out of her.

"Worried's not the word," Pepper sighs.

Tony puts a hand on her chin, turning it so he can kiss her mouth. "That's our girl."

Re: A WILD FIC APPEARED

coffeesuperhero - 2012-11-06 02:39 (UTC) - Expand

Re: A WILD FIC APPEARED

theleaveswant - 2012-11-06 04:39 (UTC) - Expand

Re: A WILD FIC APPEARED

shionthekid.livejournal.com - 2012-11-06 23:08 (UTC) - Expand

Some MCU:

1. Pepper/Rhodey. BECAUSE PEPPER/RHODEY.
2. Sam/Steve. Something summery maybe? Perhaps they are on a beach.
3. Clint/Coulson. Prank wars gone horribly right.

For the XMFC fans:

1. Alex/Darwin. A modern AU where they meet on XBox Live.
2. Charles/Erik. Attempting- ATTEMPTING to have a romantic dinner.
3. Charles/Erik/Raven. Something with witty repartee. Or double penetration. We'll take both or either.

To round us out, how about some Arthur/Eames/Ariadne? We'll take anything.

For my first contribution, I come bearing a gift of Renner.

You're welcome.

THIS IS A FINE GIFT YOU HAVE BROUGHT BEFORE US. WE ARE PLEASED.

Prompts for a Canadian?

Your OTP goes on vacation (in Canada?), hijinks ensue!

(no subject)

theleaveswant - 2012-11-07 04:59 (UTC) - Expand

(no subject)

sabinetzin - 2012-11-07 05:27 (UTC) - Expand

(no subject)

sabinetzin - 2012-11-06 03:52 (UTC) - Expand

Fic: Beaver Fever

theleaveswant - 2012-11-07 19:40 (UTC) - Expand

Re: Fic: Beaver Fever

everbright - 2012-11-08 04:12 (UTC) - Expand

Re: Fic: Beaver Fever

sabinetzin - 2012-11-08 04:16 (UTC) - Expand

So I'm not writing this month, but had to get a scene from this ridic detective AU out of my head last night and thought I might share that. In the story, Steve is an FBI agent working with local police to investigate a criminal organization. Coulson is the detective he's working with, and Clint is Coulson's CI.
---

Coulson stopped dead in the doorway, and the steady line of his shoulders shuddered suddenly as if he had been punched in the gut. The hesitation lasted only a half a heartbeat before he went immediately to Barton’s side. Steve came cautiously after him and paused, feeling a wrench of his own at the sight.

The figure in the hospital bed was unrecognizable as the fierce, sharp-grinned man Steve had met. Every inch of Barton that wasn’t wrapped in white was blackened with bruises, and enough of his face was visible around the plastic breathing mask to show that his handsome features had been badly battered.

Whoever had done this had been exceptionally thorough and had taken exceptional delight in the task.

Coulson didn’t take the requisite visitor’s chair but sat gingerly on the bed next to Barton’s still form. He laid a gentle hand on one patch of bare, bruised skin on Barton’s arm and, for a long moment, just stayed there looking, hardly breathing, as if he needed to confront his racing heart with evidence that Barton, despite the damage, was safe and whole.

Steve shut the door quietly and closed the window shades, giving them a measure of privacy, and stood watching Coulson with his hand on Barton’s skin as a few small pieces clicked into place.

“Is there something you’d like to say, Agent Rogers?” Coulson asked without turning his head, his eyes fixed on Barton.

For a moment, Steve considered dissembling, but Coulson was too smart and the moment was too personal for feigned ignorance. “He’s not just your CI.”

Coulson sighed, running his thumb in absent circles on Barton’s arm. At last, he said, “I’ve known a lot of good men. A lot of criminals and killers and victims of circumstance. I’ve known other informants, other survivors, other good people trapped in bad lives.” His gaze stayed down, on Barton’s face, and he didn’t look at Steve. “I’ve known a lot of people who were everything he is, but I have never known anyone like him.” He smiled, thin and tired but still somehow warm. “I can’t explain it. He caught me by surprise, I suppose. He always does.”

Steve frowned. Coulson wasn’t a wide-eyed rookie lost in romance, and he certainly wasn’t the type to be taken in by a sweet smile and a good ass. Whatever this thing was, it was real, and it ran deep. “What are you gonna do?”

Coulson did look at him, then, his face hard. “I’m going to do everything in my power to ensure that the creature responsible for this spends the rest of his life in a cage,” he replied. “Beyond that, I think my future depends greatly on what you intend to do.”

“If I report you....”

“If you report me, I’ll lose my shield. Best case scenario, I’ll spend the next several years in uniform and work my way back up. Worst case, I’ll be indicted by internal affairs and thrown off the force. I’m aware of the consequences.” Coulson held Steve’s eyes evenly. “I won’t ask you to lie for me. You have to do your job, and I respect that. All I ask is that you let me see this case through. Let me see Loki in handcuffs before I have to face that.”

Steve looked from Coulson to Barton, beaten and still breathing, and thought about a woman with red lips and a razor wit and wondered what he would have risked for her, if he’d had to. “It doesn’t have to....” He sighed and shook his head to clear away the memories. “I don’t want to ruin your career. You’re a good man and a good cop, and we don’t have enough of either. I know it’s rough, but if you just.... I don’t know, if you break it off, then-”

“No.” Coulson’s voice was hard, final, edged with something unbreakable. “No. I knew what I was doing when I got involved with him, and I stand by the decision I’ve made every day for the last four years.”

Steve blinked. “You’d give up everything you’ve worked for just to be with him?”

“Agent Rogers,” Coulson said plainly, “I’d give up everything. Full stop.”

akdsjf;lksadj;fj

GO ON WITHOUT ME

(no subject)

bendingwind - 2012-11-06 04:51 (UTC) - Expand

(no subject)

coffeesuperhero - 2012-11-06 05:28 (UTC) - Expand

Steve/anyone or Steve gen, the war was in color.

(I'M SORRY I JUST HAVE WAY TOO MANY FEELS TO HANDLE UGH UUUUUUUUGH)

Uh, idk if this will ever get finished, given the amount of time it has been languishing in my g-docs, but here is a distraction from The Thing of Which We Do Not Speak.
----

Phil's eye starts twitching when they step off the elevator, and by the time Clint has their door unlocked, he can already feel the tension headache creeping up the back of his neck.

"Oh no," he murmurs.

There's only one reason this happens, and that reason is a person, a person who is currently parked on his perfect, immaculately maintained antique French sofa, eating Cheetos and drinking beer and watching Duck Dynasty.

"Wilson!" Clint says, in that way that long-lost frat brothers probably greet each other. The only way Phil can think to accurately describe it is to borrow a word from Ms. Lewis, who would undoubtedly call it "brotastic."

She wouldn't be wrong.

Wade lifts his beer bottle (Phil's beer bottle, really, because the Aventinus is Phil's and Wade knows it, which is of course the only reason that Wade is drinking it, though judging by the collection of empty bottles sitting coasterless on the mahogany surface of the coffee table, the beer is no more) in Clint's direction and waves one orangey, Cheetoed hand at Phil. "Hey buddy," he says, polishing off the rest of the beer. "Took you guys long enough to get home. I got bored waiting. Hope you don't mind, I erased everything on your Tivo because it was shit. Supernanny? River Monsters? Law and Order, I mean, really? I recorded three seasons of the Golden Girls and some Designing Women; that is some quality programming."

Phil's pretty sure that Tony can fix whatever Wade has done to the Tivo, so he's trying to remain calm. On the other hand, that means explaining Wade to Tony, or worse, introducing Wade to Tony.

Once upon a time, Phil Coulson would probably have done this job for free, because Phil, like his hero Steve Rogers, thinks that it's a job that needs doing. Today, however, confronted with the prospect of Stark and Wilson Take Manhattan, he thinks they really don't pay him enough.

And now Wade is actually wiping his hands on the couch before he stands up to pound Clint on the back, and Phil is shaking slightly and the twitch in his left eye is back in full force. There isn't a person in the world who gets under his skin the way Wade Wilson does, and he has to play nice, because he's Clint's friend.

"Wilson," Phil says tightly. "That is an antique sofa."

Wade looks down at the white fabric, now smeared with orange streaks. "Lighten up, dude, it'll wash." He frowns at Clint. "I thought you were gonna loosen this guy up, Barton, do I need to leave the two of you alone?" He flops back down onto the couch and grabs the remote. "Actually, don't worry about it, I can just turn the volume up."

"Barton, a word?" Phil says.

"You don't have to dance around it, Coulson, you can just say the words, 'anal sex,'" Wade says, at which point Phil grabs Clint by the wrist and hauls him out of the room.

"I know, I know," Clint says, as soon as Phil shuts the door. "I know what you're going to say, Phil, and I get it, I do."

"I don't really know that you do, Clinton," Phil says, and Clint sits down on the bed, an amused expression on his face.

"Clinton, huh? Is that where we are?"

"Yes," Phil says.

"Phil--"

Phil holds up his hand. "I have read his file; I know what's in it. He had my sympathies, right up until the moment that I met him."

"C'mon, Phil," Clint says, reaching his hand up, but Phil stays where he is. He will not be placated by Clint's face at this particular moment.

"No, I will not, Barton, I will not come on. I am not going on a journey with you if it involves Wade Wilson."

Clint makes a face. "Look, it'll just be for a few days, he can sleep on the couch--"

"Sure, why not, he's already left Cheeto stains on it--"

"Listen, Philip," Clint says, the faintest trace of a smile on his lips, "aren't you the one who's always saying that the equipment is replaceable, but the people aren't? It's just a sofa."

"It's an antique," Phil grumbles. He presses the toe of his dress shoe into the carpet. "And who would want to replace Wilson?"

I CAIN'T WITH WADE

BUT IT'S OKAY BECAUSE PHIL CAIN'T EITHER

Re: Fic: Wade Wilson, Worst Houseguest, part I (Clint/Coulson)

shadowen - 2012-11-06 15:47 (UTC) - Expand

Re: Fic: Wade Wilson, Worst Houseguest, part I (Clint/Coulson)

bendingwind - 2012-11-06 23:35 (UTC) - Expand

I'M LOOKING THE OTHER WAY BY CRYING OVER KELLY SUE DECONNICK'S FLICKR BECAUSE DEAR GOD THE PERFECTION

Oh my god. I want to live in the DeConnick-Fraction house. FIRST FAMILY OF COMICS FTW.

COULSOOOOOOON

Edited 2012-11-06 16:20 (UTC)

I WILL GET THE AVENGERS AND YOU WILL BE AVENGED

Steve’s not the mischievous sort, but he’s spent enough time around people who are to recognize the look.

When Bucky had it, he was usually planning something where girls were involved. When Tony has it, something is likely to blow up very soon. On the rare occasion that Natasha has it, it’s a fair guess she had something to do with one of the day’s more dramatic news headlines.

When Clint has it, like he does now, swaggering toward Steve across the gym floor, all bets are off.

“Got a proposition for you, Cap,” he says, and his smile is all sweetness and charm. It’s the one he wears when he wants something and is prepared to con someone to get it.

“This is going to be one of those things, isn’t it?” Steve asks, giving him a dubious frown.

“One of what things?”

“One of those things that I think is a bad idea until you spend half an hour convincing me it’s not. Then I agree, and it turns out to be a bad idea after all.”

Clint pauses, considering. “Well, you’re probably right about the first part, but, at the very least, I guarantee this isn’t something you’ll regret. The opposite of regret, even. You’ll thank me.”

His plans might not live up to his aim, but Clint never pitches an idea unless he’s sure and he never asks for anything unless it’s important. Steve turns to face him and folds his arms over his chest. “I’m listening.”

“Okay, so, your first instinct is gonna be to say no, but don’t say no. Just hear me out and think about it before you answer. If you need to take some time, that’s okay, too. It’s just that, whatever you say, I have to go back and tell Coulson, and if you say no right off the bat? I can’t deal with that kind of disappointment from him. I really can’t.”

Clint’s not exactly a smooth negotiator, not when he wants something, but Steve can only take so much of his guileless chatter and big blue eyes. “Clint....”

“And, for the record, this wasn’t my idea, but I’m totally on board. Okay, it might have been a little bit my idea. Look, what I’m saying is it’s a mutual decision, so you don’t have to feel weird about it or....”

“Clint,” Steve cuts him off. “What do you want?”

Clint takes a deep breath, and the con-man smile is gone. Now he looks like he’s sighting his target, adjusting aim and approach, zeroing in on a spot in the center of Steve’s heart, steadying, and firing. “I want you to make love to my husband.”

The words are there, suspended in the air between them. It takes Steve a moment to make sense of them and a moment longer to realize that Clint is deadly serious.

“You want me to....” Steve shakes his head. “You want me to sleep with Agent Coulson?”

Clint shrugs. “I want you to give him a night of mind-blowing sex. Sleeping is optional.”

Steve blinks, opens his mouth, closes it again. This conversation is nowhere near as strange or awkward as he thinks it should be, but he still isn’t sure what he’s supposed to say.

Clint rolls his eyes and goes on. “Look, this is something we decided together, so you don’t have to feel weird. And you don’t have to worry about me getting jealous or whatever, because I won’t.” He gives Steve a smirk. “Also, I can personally vouch for his stamina, creativity, and, uh, endowments. I promise you won’t be disappointed.”

No, Steve is fairly sure that disappointed is the last thing he would be. “Two questions.”

“Shoot.”

“Why?”

Clint looks at him like he might be a little slow and in need of a simple explanation using small words. “Because he’s had a crush on you since before he knew what his dick was for. Because he still has a crush on you. Because he wants to. Because it’ll make him happy, and that’s what I want.” His eyes sharpen, fixing on Steve. “Because I trust you. You, Rogers, of all people. I trust you with him.”

There’s not a lot of Steve can say to that, so he just nods. He won’t pretend to understand the love and logic that have brought Clint here, but he understands trust. “What about you?” he asks.

“What about me?” Clint snorts. “He’s not gonna leave me to go chasing you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“No, of course not. I just....” This is one of those moments where Steve considers the direction his life has taken and wonders whether he did something exactly right or terribly wrong. “If I.... If we do this, will you be there?”

Clint’s a terrible liar and a worse poker player, and Steve can’t miss the twinge of doubt that crosses his face even as he says casually, “I don’t have to be.”

“Do you want to be?”

“Yes,” he says slowly, “but if that’s a dealbreaker....”

“It’s not,” Steve assures him, and Clint relaxes. “I need to think about it, though.”

Clint smiles, genuine and pleased. “Take your time. You know where we live.” He strolls out, and Steve doesn’t feel too bad about watching the muscles of his back move as he walks away.

Steve does think about it, but not for very long.

A part of him still thinks that this is the sort of thing that happens in secret, that they should check into a discrete hotel under assumed names, so the invitation to dinner is a little unexpected. Clint cooks something called paella that Steve’s never heard of. It smells amazing and tastes even better.

“He likes it,” Clint says, tilting his head at Coulson, “but he makes me make it wrong.”

“You make it perfectly,” Coulson replies mildly.

“It’s supposed to have cilantro.”

“Only if want it to taste like soap.”

“Or if you have functioning taste buds.”

“There is nothing wrong with my sense of taste.”

“Tell that to the spice cabinet.”

“Not all dishes require chili powder and cumin by the fistful.”

Steve thinks about cutting in, but the bickering is somehow soothing. They’re like this on missions, too. And in briefings. And during downtime. And all the time, really. It’s the sniping that comes with over-familiarity between equals, and it’s softened by the comfortable closeness of real affection.

“No taste, Coulson. None.”

“Well, there is my taste in men.”

“You married me. That is the opposite of taste.”

“You made me dinner and convinced Captain Rogers to spend the evening with us,” Coulson says. “I’m content with my choice.”

Clint gives him a quick kiss for that and starts to clear away the dishes, grinning broadly. Coulson’s eyes linger on his face, and the quiet adoration in them makes Steve’s heart ache.

“To tell you the truth, I didn’t take much convincing,” Steve says.

Coulson smiles. “That’s good to hear. I was afraid he was going to wheedle you until you gave in just to shut him up.”

“That’s what I do to you,” Clint puts in. “Everyone else, I just say please.”

Coulson touches Clint’s wrist gently as he reaches for another plate. “Leave it.”

Steve’s seen pornography, the glossy photo cards the other soldiers kept in their gear and the various sorts of films scattered around the internet, but flat images are nothing to the soft, sudden intake of breath and the darkening in Clint’s eyes. Coulson catches Steve’s glance, and his smile deepens.

Clint gives Steve a grin, licking his lips. “What do you say we get this party started, Cap?”

OM NOM NOM NOM NOM ALLOW ME TO DEVOUR THIS.

Re: yet another piece of something I will probably never finish

jezibelle - 2012-11-06 20:49 (UTC) - Expand

Re: yet another piece of something I will probably never finish

shadowen - 2012-11-06 20:53 (UTC) - Expand

Re: yet another piece of something I will probably never finish

jezibelle - 2012-11-06 20:57 (UTC) - Expand

Re: yet another piece of something I will probably never finish

shadowen - 2012-11-06 20:58 (UTC) - Expand

Re: yet another piece of something I will probably never finish

sabinetzin - 2012-11-06 22:11 (UTC) - Expand

Re: yet another piece of something I will probably never finish

bendingwind - 2012-11-07 01:08 (UTC) - Expand

When you are down, depressed, confused, lonely, when you are blue and sad, do this one thing: think of Skeletor doing his laundry, and all shall be well again.

Excellent advice.

YATTA!

I see your YATTA and raise you Tunak Tunak Tun!

Re: Old meme. Still hilarious.

shadowen - 2012-11-06 17:39 (UTC) - Expand

I have been keeping a prompt file for years and years, flist, and I'll never possibly be able to use all of them. So feel free to peruse, though a mention is appreciated if you use one. A lot of these are song lyrics and uncredited, so if you don't recognize something, feel free to ask.

This is from the MY HEADCANON LET ME SHOW YOU IT story I will never finish. Ah well.

--

Sif was going to marry Thor because Sif was always going to marry Thor. The terms had never been formalized, the dowry not yet decided; it was a thing that simply was always going to be.

Sif had been a child when she found out, when Thor told her so.

"I will never marry," she said, looking at him upside down as she swung by her knees from a low-hanging branch. Her mother had given up the pretense of putting her in skirts and dresses; if the choice was between an indecent child and one clad as a boy, the latter won.

"Of course you will," Thor told her, confident as usual; Loki looked up at the two of them from his seat at the bottom of the tree. When Sif caught his eye, his face was sad, and she had no idea why. "You'll marry me."

Sif made a face. "I'd never marry you."

"Too bad," Thor said. He'd have said something else, but just then Hogun ran up and hit him on the arm before running off again; he grinned at her before taking off to join in the game.

Sif swung down from the branch, landing on her feet. She walked over and sat down next to Loki. "What are you reading?" she asked.

"One of father's books," he said, marking his page with a leaf and closing it, carefully setting it aside. "It is on the history of our lineage."

"Sounds like a lot of work," she told him.

He shrugged, looking a little ashamed. "I like it."

"I know what you like," she said, and before he could react she poked him in the side. He jumped, startled, so she did it again and again, until he was laughing and squirming..

"Stop it," he said breathlessly, in between pants of laughter.

"No," she told him, doing it more just to be contrary; she shrieked when Loki started fighting back, tickling her.

"Two can play at that," he said, as they fought, grinning at each other; a particularly vicious attack and Loki overbalanced, falling into the grass and taking Sif with him.

For a moment, she lay half on top of him; as she looked down at him, she knew she felt something she'd never felt before, something new, something terrifying that she wanted more of.

Then he took her by surprise, reaching up and poking her in the sides again, using her distraction as an opportunity to flip them over so he had the upper hand. She yelped, trying to get her hands on him and get her own back, but it was fruitless. "I give," she said. "I give, I give, stop."

Loki laughed, getting one last good tickle in before rolling away, lying down next to her, her arm about his shoulders. They were very close; she rested her head against his, and he smelled of fresh grass and warm soil.

He pushed himself up on his elbow, and his face looked very serious. He reached across her, picking up her hand; drawing it to him, he lay a kiss upon it, looking into her eyes. Her heart fluttered; it was the very first, the first time anyone had kissed her, the first time anyone had ever looked at her like that.

Before he even dropped her hand, he turned his head. "Fandral's coming," he said urgently; she didn't know how she knew even then that it needed to be a secret, just that it did, that it always needed to be. She got up, dusting herself off as Loki sat up, reaching for his book again. Just before she took off to meet Fandral, she looked back at Loki; he looked bashful, and it only got worse when she grinned at him.

--

Much later..

--

"You always said you would never marry my brother," he said, clearly trying to hide his joy and not succeeding. "I can't say I'm particularly sad that your prediction has come to pass."

"I will marry no one," she said softly.

His brow furrowed. "But there's nothing stopping you from marrying anyone you want." He swallowed. "There's nothing stopping you from marrying me."

Her heart broke inside her chest. They'd never spoken of it before, never said it out loud, only ever danced around it; something about it was treasonous, dangerous, too much to hope for. "I cannot," she told him. "I will live and die a warrior. I will not be a wife."

His face was stricken. "It wouldn't- I wouldn't-" It wasn't often that Loki's silver tongue failed him, and it was painful and worrying to watch. "I would never make you give up what is important to you just because we were wed."

"Everyone else would," she told him. "Loki, everything is going to be hard enough as it is. Asgard has never had a female warrior, not one who did more than defend her husband's home. If I can prove that one exists, then there will be a hundred after me, daughters of Asgard to defend and strengthen it. I am curious to start with, but if I were to go to war and abandon my husband's house, leave him to run it alone, leave him alone with-" She shook her head, sad but resolute. "You can have me be happy or you can have me to yourself."

He looked at her, his mouth set in an unhappy line. "That is no kind of choice," he said.

"My life is not full of choices at the moment," she said, sighing.

"I deserve to have you," he said fiercely.

She gave him a cold look. "If that is how you think, then you do not."

He sighed, deflating. "Forgive me," he said. "I misspoke."

"You never misspeak, Loki," she said, pursing her lips.

"Then it's my thinking that is in error," he told her. "You don't have to marry me," he said, very close to begging. "No one needs to know. We have come this far without anyone knowing."

"Someone could find out," she said, shaking her head. "Not marrying and becoming a warrior, people will disapprove of me. If they found out I had a lover, then they would disapprove of all female warriors to come. I might be the first and last."

"So that's it, then," Loki said, he hands balling into fists. "I get thrown aside for the cause of the greater good."

"It isn't like that," she protested.

"It is exactly like that," he said angrily.

"I don't want you as an enemy, Loki," she said, pleadingly, trying to keep this from going to pieces.

He took a step forward. "No, you don't."

Her face hardened; her heart raced and questions flew into her head, but she stared him down. "Please leave."

He gave her a look of hurt and anger, a poisonous look, but he turned and walked out without another word. When he was gone, she sighed, dropping herself heavily into a chair. This morning she'd had nothing; at the end of the day she had nothing again.

And then she got up, and she picked up her spear and shield, and she went to her new life, her warrior's life, the one she was born to, the one she was left with.

MY HEART

Re: Some Loki/Sif fic for your enjoyment

coffeesuperhero - 2012-11-06 18:47 (UTC) - Expand

Steve never has trouble finding a decent chess partner. With the very notable exception of Thor, all the other Avengers play, and he can usually drag someone away long enough to give him a game.

Bruce does it mostly out of courtesy. He doesn’t like to play, and he’s not very good, a fact he willingly acknowledges with a smile and a shrug. Tony will only play speed games, which is reasonable since two minutes is generally the limit of Tony’s attention span. Natasha runs aggressive strategies, but she has a limited arsenal. Steve learns to beat them, and she starts agreeing to games only when she has a new tactic to try. With Coulson, Steve never knows what kind of game he’s going to get, and they wind up evenly matched.

The only opponent he can never beat is Clint, and the shock this inspires from the rest of the team makes Steve a little offended on Clint’s behalf.

“You know what’s better than being smart?” Clint tells him, grinning. “Being smarter than everyone thinks you are.”

The first time they play, Clint goes on the defensive, and Steve chases him all around the board until his pieces are too spread out to maintain a line. He doesn’t see the trap until his queen is caught in it, and half his players are long gone. Checkmate comes three moves later.

The second time, Clint hardly moves at all, just draws out Steve’s pieces and picks them off one at a time. Steve gives him a run for his money, but he never gets an opening. He’s absolutely certain that check is going to come from the king’s rook, right until a knight comes sweeping in from the opposite side.

The third time, Steve decimates Clint’s board, and Clint, with three pawns, a bishop, and no queen, still manages to trap Steve’s king in a corner.

“Don’t feel bad, Cap. I’ve spent a lotta time in blinds with nothing else to do.”

Which is how they wind up playing over the comms on a mission. They’re waiting, watching what may or may not be an A.I.M. storehouse, and Tony is baiting Coulson out of boredom. In the rare moments of quiet, Steve and Clint trade moves. Tony teases them, at first, calling them nerds, which Natasha quickly points out is the single most hypocritical thing he has ever said.

After the opening gambits, though, he starts offering commentary, mostly egging Steve on. When Clint backtracks a bishop, Tony scoffs. “C’mon, Barton. If you keep playing like that, this game’s gonna take weeks.”

And that’s when Steve gets it. Clint’s playing a long game. He’s not thinking about his next move or his next ten moves. He’s thinking about his next game. Hell, if his track record is any indicator, Steve would bet Clint’s already thinking four games down the line.

The realization hits Steve so suddenly that he laughs out loud, and Tony says, “What’s so funny? You’re getting your ass handed to you!”

Faintly, he hears Clint chuckle. It’s a familiar sound, the one he makes when he’s got a target in his scope and they’ve just done something stupid, and Steve has a sneaking suspicion that Clint knows he’s just caught on.

It’s checkmate in six, and Tony spends the next several minutes deriding Steve for just giving up and explaining in detail exactly what he did wrong.

CLINT. God I love him and his face and his big sexy brain.

Re: HERE HAVE SOMETHING FLUFFY

shadowen - 2012-11-06 22:19 (UTC) - Expand

Re: HERE HAVE SOMETHING FLUFFY

bendingwind - 2012-11-06 23:39 (UTC) - Expand

(Has been in working forever, hopefully if someone likes it it'll make me finish...)

Banner is so stupid, and so smart, and if he would just pick one or the other to be, he would cause a lot less trouble for both of them.

He never listens -- not to Hulk, not to anybody -- and even Hulk knows Banner doesn’t know everything. Hulk says team and safe and his friends (their friends, Hulk’s friends, Hulk’s first and only friends) say home and stay, and stupid, stubborn Banner ignores them all. He hides away, hides them both away and plots to leave home and team and safe behind. He’s still afraid, afraid of himself, afraid of Hulk, no matter how many times Hulk has tried to tell him the difference.

Tony knows. Tony knew all along, Hulk never even told him, the day they met him he just knew. Tony is smart too, and maybe sometimes stupid, but he’s stupid in ways Hulk can protect him from, so that’s okay. When Banner is stupid, there’s nothing Hulk can do about it.

And now there might never be. Hulk knew what he was doing, had screamed and roared at the test tubes and numbers and needles, but Banner was still smart enough to hold him back. Smart enough to cage him but too stupid to realize he didn’t have to. Smart enough to destroy him and stupid enough to destroy himself to do it. Hulk watched it all come together, saw it coming, slowly gave in to it, and when Banner was confused by his silence, he laughed. Of course he was confused. A caged beast wouldn’t see its end approaching and realize it could do nothing to fight it. And that was all Banner thought of him, all he knew, all his smart could teach him. He underestimated Hulk, threatened his existence and expected him to do nothing but thrash about mindlessly at it -- just like the pale, thin little god-thing had, and right now he would throw Banner into Tony’s pretty marble floor too, if he could find a way.

But he couldn’t, nobody could destroy Banner but Banner himself, and now he’d finally found the way to do it. Hulk had known for a long time, perhaps since he surged into existence, that this was how it would end, no matter how long it took. That he could protect him from everything but himself. He could feel Banner searching for him, probing and questioning, and didn’t dignify it with a response. Hulk withdrew his strength, even that raw strand of it that Banner could call on without him, curling himself away in a corner. If Banner wanted to do this, he could do it on his own. Hulk watched in silence as the doors were locked, the lab immaculately tidied, made to look as if he were never there. Words he didn’t really mean but thought would sound right were written neatly on leftover graph paper, folded in thirds with Tony’s name on the outside. Saying he was so sorry, it was better this way... Hulk growled. He wasn’t sorry. If he was sorry, he wouldn’t do it.

He lined it all up, the needles and the drugs and the little clock, made the measurements and the mixes and arranged everything just so, because he was still Banner, even in death.

Huuuuuuuuulk, why do you make me love you so?

Re: MCU (WIP) - The Beast Without

shadowen - 2012-11-06 22:08 (UTC) - Expand

I want Natasha to get laid.

Very, very laid. Like awesome, mind-blowing, "as my lady wishes" sex. Don't care who with (though I've got this Thing for Nat/Thor lately), don't care if it's romance or FWB or a drunken one-night fling, I just want her to get her mind blown.

I like Tasha. I want Tasha to be happy. Make it happen.

Natasha wants to say something about how it's unexpected, something about how he's generally so mild-mannered, but it's not, he's not. The mask of blandness he wears is even more profound than the ones she puts on, covering him always. Coulson's a creature of violence; he's a dark thing, just like she is, maybe even more so since he comes by it naturally.

It's not angry when he fucks her, not particularly rough. She'd take it, if that's how it was, take it and like it, but they don't need that pretension, don't need to act like their need is so desperate that it overpowers them, making them do something they don't want, something they're ashamed of.

She's not ashamed for a moment as her thighs fall open for him, giving up everything at once. Sometimes he eats her out, but it's only ever a tease, just a way to rev her up even more, drive her out of her mind. He almost never makes her come unless he's inside of her, buried deep, selfish at his core.

Tonight he's got her on her hands and knees. She thinks that's supposed to be degrading, supposed to be an indication of how much they're embarrassed to be fucking each other, too embarrassed to look each other in the eye; Natasha's pretty sure she's doing it because he can push in that much deeper, give her everything, grab her hips and just fuck and fuck and fuck until they're both so satisfied.

She lets her head hang as he thrusts into her, long hard strokes that hit just right; she's noisy and she doesn't care, not at all. Quiet is for the field, for the times they're on missions and she or Phil or Clint or all of them have to get off. When they have the luxury of a little time actually alone- not that Natasha thinks she's had an unwatched moment in her entire life- Natasha swears and shouts and mewls and gives absolutely no fuck about it.

Phil's making noise now too, grunts that escape even when he bites his lip, and Natasha pushes back against him, wanting to hear more, wanting to hear exactly what she's doing to him. It's just right, so good; it's getting to be too good, her orgasm building up too quickly when the last thing she wants is to stop. Of course, that's when Phil gets the bright idea to slide his hand around and play with her clit. "Phil," she whines, "no, not yet."

Phil bites at her earlobe, kissing it in apology after he lets it go. "Yes, now."

She maybe starts to say something else, but he gets swept away when she starts to come, clenching around his cock, her hand fisted in the sheets. It's hard to remember why she wanted to stave this off, why she ever wanted anything else in the world but this moment.

She presses her face into the pillows, her whole body relaxing, and she waits for him to take his turn; it's not like he's a selfish lover or anything, not any more selfish than really good sex requires, but one good turn deserves another, and she's happy to let him do whatever he needs to her to get off, hold her down and fuck her hard and quick, pull out and come on her, whatever.

Except that he doesn't; he just keeps right on moving, slowly at first but picking up speed until they're where they left off. She realizes then that he's not done at all, that they're not anywhere close to stopping. "Sneaky," she says, arching her back.

"When I'm sneaky, you won't know," he tells her, and she laughs, spreading her knees a little wider.

So here's the story where Clint is egging Phil on to try his luck with lifting Mjolnir.

--

"I think you're the only person here who hasn't yanked it."

Sometimes, Phil's fairly sure that Barton thinks he doesn't understand or is shocked and embarrassed by innuendo; Barton's the one who wasn't an Army Ranger. "I'd prefer to pull on it in private, just in case it comes out in my hand," he says, just to see his reaction. Barton looks gratifyingly shocked for a moment, but then he grins.

"Come on, Coulson," he cajoles. "I'm starting to think you're chicken."

Phil snorts. "I decided a long time ago that it was a bad idea to care what you think about me."

Barton reaches into his pocket for something, then slaps it down on the table. "My money says you won't do it."

He looks skeptically at the table. "George Washington doesn't speak very loudly."

Barton frowns. "Hold on, that wasn't-" he digs around in his pocket again, putting down a fifty this time. "Maybe you can hear Grant a little better."

Phil stands up. "Keep your money. Buy a wallet." Barton is making bawking noises behind him as he goes, but Phil doesn't look back, shaking his head.

Phil does think about it, though. He doesn't know what's going on with the thing, but he's curious; if he wasn't curious, he wouldn't be with SHIELD at all. And really, if they're going to take this thing seriously, if it's apparently such a big deal to lift on it, everyone should probably try, for sake of thoroughness.

After spending another unproductive half-hour talking at his mysterious blond friend, he makes up his mind to do it. He tells the techs he's going to go take another look, keeping his face serious and resolved, trying not to give away the fact that he's about to do something really stupid.

As he leaves, he realizes someone's shadowing him, and he's pretty sure who; he's pretty sure he knows that Phil knows, but Phil lets it go- this isn't the first time.

He walks down into the heart of the crater; he grabs one of the geiger counters off the rack, just so he won't feel like such a jackass when he can't lift it. He makes a show of examining the thing- don't mind me, just doing my job, checking out the artifact for the fiftieth time today, proving there's a reason I'm in charge around here. The geiger counter is going completely wild, the readings making even less sense than usual. He squats down next to it, examining the place where it meets the rock, but he doesn't see anything different than the other times he's looked at it.

Finally he stands up, and before he can talk himself out of it, he wraps his hand around the handle.

He drops the geiger counter.

Everything expands for a moment; he can hear a man speaking inside his head, someone he's never heard before, talking about this thing- Mjolnir, why is that so familiar- talking about him. And there's this stuff, this armor growing across his skin, cool and smooth, and Phil has no fucking clue what's going on. He's used to dealing with very strange things, up to and including things that would have made a pretty decent X-Files episode, but they're very rarely happening to him.

Something drives him to raise the hammer; there's a crack of lightning, a peal of thunder, and it all comes down on Phil's head but somehow he doesn't die.

Everything is very, very quiet for a moment, even though he knows people have crowded in to watch; it's like they're all holding their breath, waiting to see what's about to happen.

"You owe me fifty, Barton," Phil says, without turning around, because what in the hell else is he supposed to say right now?

"You never took the bet, sir," he replies, awed.

"Damn," Phil says.

:DDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD

Re: My turn for fic that will never be finished

bendingwind - 2012-11-06 23:32 (UTC) - Expand

FUCK YOU SHARK.

YOU ARE DRUNK SHARK.

(... I am maybe going to print this out and put it on my roommate's bedroom door?)

(it's RELEVANT okay)

Re: FUCK YEAH MACRO TIME (1 of MANY)

sabinetzin - 2012-11-06 23:48 (UTC) - Expand

Re: FUCK YEAH MACRO TIME (1 of MANY)

bendingwind - 2012-11-06 23:49 (UTC) - Expand

Re: FUCK YEAH MACRO TIME (1 of MANY)

shadowen - 2012-11-07 01:16 (UTC) - Expand

Re: FUCK YEAH MACRO TIME (1 of MANY)

bendingwind - 2012-11-07 01:17 (UTC) - Expand

Re: FUCK YEAH MACRO TIME (1 of MANY)

theleaveswant - 2012-11-07 05:04 (UTC) - Expand

I don't have anything too shiny but here have the first part of a C/C highschool AU I started a few months ago and might finish someday maybe?

***

It’s quiet and uncomfortably warm as Clint cheerfully perches on the rail outside Lara Lee Werther High School. He’s skipping his last class, but his GPA is pretty awesome, he’s got an acceptance letter perched jauntily atop his pile of scholarship awards, and it’s the last day of school. He’ll probably survive the experience, and he’s about to do something more important than a single high school class, anyway.

Student start trickling through the doors about five minutes before the bell rings. A couple of people stop to talk to Clint, but no one stays for long; they’re all eager to get out of here and get home to change for one of three dozen graduation parties taking place tonight. James, Clint’s on-and-off thing for most of the last three years, stays longer than most. Clint shakes him off as the last of the rush vanishes out into the parking lot, climbing into their Audis and Ferraris and assorted Really Expensive Cars to speed home. It takes another fifteen minutes before Phillip Call-Me-Phil Coulson exits the building, but Clint was honestly prepared to wait a lot longer. Phil usually stays after for closer to forty-five minutes.

“Hey, Phil,” Clint says, hopping off the railing with his brightest smile. Phil smiles cautiously back at him.

“Are you waiting for your ride?” Phil hazards.

Clint is a really good liar, especially when he has time to come up with a plan, and he’s been working on this one for the better part of two years.

“Actually, my ride ditched me. Think you could give me a lift?” He widens his smile, just a little bit, and puts all the hope he can manage into his eyes. It’s a valid question; this is the sort of school that exists purely so that the rich can justify the American school system by saying they send their kids to the same public schools, never mind that they have the money to buy the best of everything for their “public” schools. Clint is here by dint of parents who work as live-in servants and lucky zoning policies.

“You’re at the Harvey-Richards’, aren’t you?” Phil says easily, “That isn’t far out of my way. I wouldn’t mind giving you a ride home.”

Clint smiles at him and follows him jauntily to his car. Phil looks relaxed, at ease; clearly he has no idea what Clint is deviously planning to spring on him during the twenty-minute ride home. He unlocks his car, a modest older model Porsche, and Clint climbs into the passenger seat. He lets the quiet settle for a while, and then he instigates The Plan.

“So, you’re going to Yale?” he asks, casually. Phil grins at the road and nods.

“What about you?” Phil asks, as he executes a slightly daring left turn. Clint concentrates on not gripping anything too obviously.

“Got into Princeton,” Clint says, with a proud grin. “And I got the scholarships to pay for it.”

“Impressive,” Phil says, and he raises an eyebrow, and Clint wants to hate him for it. He’s really, really sick of rich kids assuming he’s stupid just because his parents can’t afford to buy him a brand new jaguar every six months.

The thing is, Clint’s been in love with Phil since he was fifteen years old, and it’s hard to hate him for believing something that almost everyone else does.

“I’m pretty smart,” Clint says with a lazy grin. “Gonna study math, maybe become the mathematics equivalent of a superstar, maybe go into engineering or something. Haven’t decided yet.”

“That sounds nice,” Phil says, making another turn. They chat about things that are really not all that important until finally they’re only seven blocks from where Clint lives, and it’s time to make his move.

“Soooo,” he says, and he slides his palm across the seat, over the dash and into a gentle grip on Phil’s thigh. Phil stiffens, and frowns. “I was thinking, before we go off in our different directions, maybe—”

“No,” Phil says, without room for argument. “Get your hands off me, Barton.”

Clint does his level best not to pout or show that he’s hurt. He wiggles his hand further up on Phil’s thigh and squeezes gently.

“You’d enjoy it?” he offers, and he hates how much it sounds like a question. He’s good at this, he’s practically made a career of survival in a school where he should have been a social outcast by doing exactly this. He should be able to get Phil, of all people, to go along with this. He can bring the feelings in later, when Phil loves what Clint does to him so much that he won’t totally freak out about it. And if Clint gets really lucky, luckier than he’s been in his entire life, maybe in time Phil will come to have feelings too.

Phil swerves across two lanes of traffic, narrowly missing a guy on a hot pink moped, and pulls into a spot along the sidewalk.

“Stop.”

Clint stops, because, okay, that’s a definite no and he’s not really into molesting people. He hopes he doesn’t look as vulnerable as he feels, as Phil engages the parking break and turns the engine off.

“I’m just giving you a ride home, Clint,” Phil says, and his voice is even but something around his eyes tips Clint off that he’s absolutely furious. “I know you’re used to trading certain favors for a certain lifestyle, but I’m not selling.”