for a second I assumed the tag "grumpycakes" was the cat's name before I realized it was the asker's xD (though that does bring the question: does Peter keep the cat and what's Fluffy McRageball get named?)
This is acceptable!
Grumpycakes, your name has been co-opted to name a vicious hellbeast of a kitten. 8)
So I had a fit of boredom and discovered that "What Do You Say to a Naked Elf?" is a real book and I am pleased. So pleased.
Oh man, I forgot to put that in the fic tags!
Yes. Yes it is. It came out when I was still working at the bookstore, and I just sat there, staring at the cover in awe. Then I bought it immediately, I was so impressed with the fact that someone had gone with that title.
As Anna points out, t is far better than the title suggests. 8)
so who did finally get the fiesty cat out of the tree? ps that was perfect
I assume Phil was pulled out of a nice warm bed filled with a Clint, and was none to happy about it. Upon finding out WHY he was pulled out of a nice warm bed filled with a Clint, he simply stares at them with an expression of ‘what did I do in a past life to be cursed with you idiots?’ and then in front of a crowd of SHIELD agents, in a full suit, he goes up the tree.
And comes down with a scruffy ball of rage perched on his shoulder.
Prompts for Pie 18: Peter Parker Makes Poor Choices
Peter stared at the tree. “I don’t want to come up there. But I will if I have to.” He leaned in. “I am warning you. I will come up there.”
The tree did not respond. Peter wondered if he really wanted to go up there. Again.
The flicker of light, in the corner of his eye, caught his attention a split second before it coalesced into a burst of heat, and then the Human Torch was hovering in the air, just above Peter’s head. “Hey, Webhead. Whatcha doing in the park in the middle of the night?”
“Meditating,” Peter told him. “And I need serenity and solitude to do it right. So you should go now.”
Laughing, Johnny Storm landed, his flames dissipating in a heartbeat. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing. Go away.”
Johnny looked around. “No. Seriously. What are you doing here?”
“Shoo. Flame on, or whatever it is you do, go.” Peter made a shooing motion with his hands, flipping his fingers in Johnny’s direction. “Away with you. Off you go. So long, farewell, auf widersehen, good-night!” he sang.
“Is there a crime happening that I can’t see?” Johnny held up a hand, flames swirling around his wrist and up his fingers. “I figured there was crime. But no. It’s just you. Talking to a tree.”
“I’m communing with nature,” Peter said. “Need a private moment with the tree.”
“Buddy, if you’re looking for privacy, you shouldn’t wear that outfit. Kinda loud.”
Prompts for Pie 17: Running with Steve, Sam and Carol
“You know what I like best about running with Captain America?” Carol Danvers asked.
“No, what do you like best about running with Captain America?” Sam Wilson replied, grinning
“This isn’t going to end well for me, is it?” Steve Rogers said. They both ignored him, which took real effort, because they were running alongside him, Sam on his right and Carol on his left. They had a talent, however, for talking around him. One of these days, he was going to smack their heads together.
It was a pleasant thought. He had it often enough during these early morning runs.
“Having to wait at the corner of every street for the walk signal!” Carol said, glaring at Steve out of the corner of her eyes.
“We’re not running into traffic. It’s dangerous,” Steve pointed out.
“It’s pre-dawn,” Sam said. “What the hell traffic are you seeing here that we’re not, Cap?”
“It’s the law.”
“Jaywalking is the Massachusetts state sport,” Carol said.
“And we’re in New York.”
“Pissing off cabbies is the New York state sport,” Sam pointed out. “It’s got a great motto.”
“Yeah?” Carol asked, grinning. “What would that be?”
Hi there! I have a totally-not-creepy obsession with your words. So. Some of your WIP are only on tumblr? So... how am I supposed to keep up with them? I mean, I follow you, but I might miss something? -pathetic puppy eyes- would you mind just uploading them to archive?
Ah, I get this question a lot.
The issue is, I do a lot of ficlets and mini-fics and bits and pieces here and there and it feels… Weird to archive them. For most of them, I don’t really consider them worthy of BEING archived.
Today was my workplace’s Summer Outing, so I’ve been out and about all weekend. I’m a bit behind on everything, but I have not forgotten any of the remaining prompts. I’ll start posting them again tomorrow night. 8)
ESTP: super attractive physically but it’s all downhill from there. never quite know what they’re going to do next but you can probably bet it will be irresponsible. somehow still lovable.
ESTJ: loud, logical, and get shit done — they are the warrior class of the life rpg. power stats make them unbeatable and if you encounter one, maybe just curl up and forfeit, to save time.
ESFP: giggly little shits. fun fun fun till her daddy takes the t-bird away. great for lifting your mood, not that great at lifting your credit score.
ESFJ: too appropriate, totally lacking in awkwardness. they’ll never forget your birthday, which will make you feel like shit when you constantly forget theirs.
ENTP: excellent companions if you enjoy people who instantly see through all your shit. very clever and very intuitive, you can’t fool them. i suggest you invest in other friends — ones you *can* fool.
ENTJ: impatient with people who make mistakes, namely, everyone. they’ll respect you if you stand up to them but why do that when you can run away instead. cuddle them and see what happens. i’m curious.
ENFP: too puppy to live. best suited for the profession of musical nanny. not advised for use around an open flame.
ENFJ: way too charming and capable, maybe they should stop making everyone else look bad. prone to making other people care about stuff they didn’t want to care about. so annoying.
ISTP: such butts. best suited for an apocalypse scenario, if no such scenario exists, they will create danger because they get bored. don’t encourage them, but don’t discourage them, as reverse psychology works too well.
ISTJ: low drama and low maintenance, best value at this price tier. best suited to actual human existence. least weird, which makes them kinda weird.
ISFP: squishy little darlings you might want to keep in your pocket, but please don’t or they will become forlorn. they notice everything, and it’s unnerving.
ISFJ: quietly and proudly do things for others. if you have a ring you need to deliver to mordor, take an ISFJ along with you for best results.
INTP: cute intergalactic spiders you want to hug and mistrust. prone to making you laugh but then days later you will wonder whether you were the butt of the joke.
INTJ: major dicks and kinda proud of it. prone to being right. prone to liking trance music way too much. all the ones i’ve ever met have been unexpectedly kinky. so i guess, expectedly.
INFP: they fall out of the sky and are raised by unicorns. if you feed one it will follow you home. they dissipate in water.
INFJ: chameleons appropriating your emotions and going quietly mad. prone to meltdowns and needing lots of naps.
What are your thoughts on Remender writing the new Sam Wilson!Cap, given the way he's been handling both Captain America and Sam Wilson recently? I for one am feeling conflicted because I'm excited for the racial diversity aspect but Remender writing it is giving me a bad feeling. Just wondering where your thoughts fall on this. :)
I’m sorry, I got to the word “Remender” in your ask and then my brain stopped for my own sanity and protection.
I think the man is a bad writer, with a poor grasp of structure, storytelling, and more than that, he seems to lack a fundamental understanding of why people love the characters that he’s writing. I understand, and appreciate, that every writer is going to have a different take on a character.
But if a writer has a differing view of what makes the character important to the audience, they are on very shaky ground. You can change things, you can alter bits and pieces, but the core of the character is what holds the fanbase in place. If that shifts too much, if that moves too far from what the generally accepted feeling of who the character is…
Well, you had better be a DAMN good writer to sell it to an existing fanbase.
So to me, Remender has two flaws: That he does not understand the history and heart of the characters which he’s been allowed to write, and that he is not a good enough writer, by a long shot, to make me love his view of the characters.
Also he told his fanbase to drown in hobo piss in a public forum, so I should be glad to have him fired and never ever write anything ever again because wow. No. That should never, ever be rewarded with continued employment on tent pole characters.
Avengers Fic: Diplomatic Relations and Intelligence Failures, pt 6
Agent Speer’s eyes got very, very large when Maria stepped into the elevator. Maria decided to take that as a good sign. “Good evening, Agent,” she said, shifting the delicate strap of her clutch purse higher on her shoulder. She had her jacket thrown over her arm, and she considered putting it on now.
She regretted agreeing to meet here at SHIELD, but she didn’t know what would’ve been a better option. She wasn’t going to Avengers Tower, she’d prefer to involve her own people than the Avengers in her love life.
Not that she had a love life. She had a date. One date. Her first date in a very long time.
“Good evening, ma’am.” Speer hugged a leather folio against her chest, her short red curls bouncing as her head jerked in Maria’s direction, and then away. She was blushing, her cheeks so pink that her freckles nearly disappeared. “If I might, ma’am, that is an amazing dress.”
Maria bit back a smile. “Thank you, Agent.”
Agent Speer’s shoulder relaxed, and she risked a smile in Maria’s direction. “Whatever you’ve got planned tonight, ma’am, you’re going to knock ‘em dead.”
Hey! If you've already answered this (or don't want to), please feel free to tell me to shove it. I've recently gotten my friend into Avengers and naturally used your writing as a gateway, which got me to rereading everything. Two questions, one I think I've asked before. Are there still plans to continue the Sif/Maria fic? (even if it's not the top of the list, are there plans) and is Phil wasn't grown in a lab still going? (i have a particular love for Mrs C and need more of her and clint)
I’m still working on “Phil’s got a mother” it’s just that my schedule, what it is, is all off at this point. 8)
As for Sif/Maria, well, just because you asked. Have the next part now. 8)
((So, Gophersaurus requested, of all things, more of the Spiders and the repair crews from Through the Dark Tide of Memory. It caught me off guard how much I realized I enjoyed the thought of returning to these people, but this time without the strain of telling Steve and Tony’s story specifically. There were people and concepts who got left out and left behind due to space and time constraints. So this prompt was especially welcome. There will be more of this, but for the time being, let’s start here. 8) ))
Malibu Shatterdome was bigger than she’d ever expected.
Anya Corazon huddled into her threadbare coat, shivering under the layers of every piece of clothing that she owned. Her backpack was heavy on her shoulders, even as she crept forward. She’d expected gates and guard towers, she’d expected fences and physical barriers between her and safety. But there was next to nothing. Just a long, unguarded expanse of roads along the long, high cliffs.
All the efforts for protection, for holding back the darkness, was set towards the ocean far below, because that was where the darkness came from. The oceans, dark expanses now beneath the full moon, held untold evils now. There was nothing, no threat or evil, that the land could offer that would even come close to what the Kaiju could do.
But it left Anya with a problem that she hadn’t expected to have. She had no idea how to get in.
The massive walls of the Shatterdome rose, up into the night sky, massive, unbroken sheets of metal that towered over her like a medieval castle. There was a door there, a huge gate, closed tight now. She’d expected a guard or a doorbell or something. But there was nothing.
She took a few steps back, her head tilting back, squinting up at the lights that rimmed the metal walls, eight or nine stories above her head. Searchlights and the diffused glow of lesser lamps cast an almost palpable warmth, and she was so desperate that she considered going back to the door and knocking.
Prompts for Pie 15: Phil's Mom Has a Difficult Life
((A little bit of Phil’s family, before Phil comes clean, for catlinyemaker, who evidenced an affection for them. 8) ))
“Someone likes the Avengers!”
Shirley Coulson chuckled. “Well, to be honest, Julie, doesn’t everyone?”
Julie laughed, her hands moving quickly as she continued ringing Shirley up. “Well, yes, but still.” Packages of balloons printed with Iron Man’s helmet, sheets of stickers, party hats shaped like Thor’s helmet and a pin-the-arrow-on-the-bullseye game were added to Shirley’s bag, one after another. Julie held up a pair of inflatable Hulk fists, her eyebrows arching.
“I think that they’ll suit me,” Shirley said, with a straight face.
Grinning, Julie finished up, tucking the last of the party supplies into the bag. She handed over the bulging bag, and Shirley added it to her already full cart. “Someone really likes the Avengers,” Julie said. “REALLY likes the Avengers.”
Shirley gave her cart a look, smiling. “When there are twins, you are lucky if they both adore the same things,” she pointed out. “I’m much happier with two of everything than I am trying to work out equal space for pirates and dinosaurs.” She paused. “That was a bad year. The cakes were…” Her lips pursed. “Well, you haven’t lived until you’ve seen a poor baker try to decorate a cake with a pirate ship fighting a dinosaur. There were tears involved.”
“Nothing,” Steve said, trying not to smile. “Go back to sleep.”
Tony pried open an eye, peering at Steve over the pillow of his arm. “Doesn’t look like nothing,” he said, yawning into the crook of his elbow. “Looks like you’re drawing me while I’m asleep and defenseless.”
“You aren’t asleep, and you’re seldom defenseless,” Steve said, shifting so he could rest his sketchbook on his upthrust knee. “Hold still.”
“I was asleep when you started,” Tony pointed out. He tucked his head back down. “And you’re drawing naked pictures of me. This feels inappropriate for an American icon.”
“You weren’t sleeping, you were faking it and hoping that I wasn’t going to call you on it so you could sneak out of bed and go back to work,” Steve said. He reached for a harder stick of charcoal. “You’re just cranky because I caught you at it.”
“Also because you’re getting charcoal dust over my very expensive white sheets,” Tony said. He shifted, a little closer to the pile of pillows that filled the top half of their bed.
Phil’s pen scraped across the page. “No,” he said at last, and it took him far too long to dredge up that single word. Some discussions with Clint were like getting a concussion while drunk; he could almost feel the brain damage setting in but couldn’t work up any concern about it. He set his pen aside. “Is this something you knew about and participated in, or something that was done without your knowledge or consent?” he asked, because that was really the first priority.
He did not allow himself to think about what the next priorities were. Probably murder if this question wasn’t answered properly, but he doubted that was going to be necessary. Clint didn’t seem upset or angry. Just amused.
Clint threw himself onto Phil’s couch. “Aw, are you going to defend my honor?” he asked, grinning as he folded his hands over his flat stomach. “That’s a losing fight there, Phil.”
Phil arched an eyebrow in his direction. “I’m good at those.” He leaned back in his chair, studying Clint. “They’re kind of a specialty.”
“They are, aren’t there?” Clint grinned. “St. Phil, Patron Saint of Lost Causes.”
Prompts for Pie 12: Bucky Does Not Have Time For This Nonsense
Bucky tried not to resent it. He really did.
He didn’t have anything to complain about it, and he knew it. The first few days, weeks, months had been hellish, he hadn’t known when it was, where he was, even who he was. He’d lost time, hours and days at a stretch, and the only thing that made sense was Steve. Steve, who could latch onto to an idea, onto a person, with the grip of a terrier and never let go.
Bucky had fought that grip at first. Mostly because it felt so terrifyingly familiar, and he hadn’t known how to handle it. Really, he still didn’t, but he knew he needed it. He needed Steve.
They’d brought him back here, to what he now realized was Sam’s house. Sam’s house outside of Washington DC. They’d had a discussion one time, when they thought that Bucky was asleep, about bringing him back to Brooklyn. Steve had vetoed it, and Bucky was glad. He hadn’t been ready for that; he might never be ready for that. He hated Washington, but he was okay with this. This little house in a pleasant neighborhood, quiet and still for whole parts of the day and night.
Bucky slept a lot. He would’ve thought he’d been done with that, but doing just about anything took too much effort. Memories and thought and touch and movement, it all too effort and he was so tired.
So it had taken him a while to notice that Sam and Steve were doing everything possible not to be alone together. Steve was a step behind or a step in front of Bucky all the time, even sleeping in the chair next to Bucky’s bed. Bucky had been needy at first, and his resentment of that need hadn’t made it go away. He’d needed Steve, he still did.
It was just that Steve needed Sam. Bucky wasn’t sure that Sam realized it, but he wasn’t sure how the man could be oblivious to the way that Steve watched him. If it was obvious to Bucky, well, then, Sam had no excuse. He liked them both.
Prompts for Pie 11: Phil and Clint's Rainy Day Fluff
The mission was a complete disaster, the heat had been brutal, and when the rains came, they came without warning and without mercy. That was when Phil figured out that the safe house roof leaked.
Like a damn sieve.
He’d given up cursing this mission. He was too tired and too worn, too concerned for Clint’s well-being. Clint, who’d been stuck in the crumbling rafters of a massive old church for days on end, where the heat was oppressive and the air was stale. He’d gotten still and quiet over the last few days, barely responding to Phil in the field. He wasn’t much more talkative when the long days were over. Most nights, he just ate, made a cursory attempt to scrape the worst of the dust off of his skin, and crawled into bed.
Phil hated it when Clint stopped talking, but he really hated it when Clint disappeared.
Darcy gave him a wide eyed look. “No,” she said, and then slowly, deliberately, she took another bite of the scone. Harris stared at her, caught between laughing and throwing something at her head. He was getting used to the sensation.
It worried him.
“Have you ever considered growing a sense of shame?” he asked her. “And give me back my scone.”
She took another huge bite, huddled down over the pastry, her arms up and her shoulders hunched forward. “Sorry,” she mumbled, her mouth full. “Can’t hear you. Eating my scone.”
“You look like a psychotic chipmunk,” Harris told her.
“Nothin’ but scone right now, buddy.”
Harris propped his elbow on his desk and leaned his chin on his fist. He waited for her to finish chewing because if she choked to death he’d probably feel bad about that. Probably. “I got you your own scone. Without even being asked. I was just like, ‘hey, maybe I should grab Darcy a scone while I’m in the cafeteria, because they sell out pretty quick.’ I got you one. Why would you possibly take mine, Darcy?”
She shrugged. “How was I supposed to know that other one was mine?”
Harris turned his head towards the scone. There was a toothpick in it, and stuck to the toothpick, like a flag, was a Post-It note that said, “Darcy’s scone.” He looked back at Darcy.
Her lips pursed up tight. “That’s pretty easy to misconstrue. I mean, it might be another Darcy that you’re talking about.”
“There is only one of you, to my eternal relief,” Harris said.
So..... If prompts for pie doesn't mean that the prompters give you pie for a fic, then what exactly does that mean??
A friend of mine, tumblr user Jabberwockypie, was in a bit of a tight spot financially and needed to get some major repairs done on her car. I offered writing prompts for people who donated to her so she could get this done. I think I ended up with 25 of them before I shut down the requests, so you’ll see quite a few more before this is done. 8)
Natasha just stepped back, waving Darcy into her apartment. “Come in,” she said, an amused smile slipping over her face. “Would you like some tea?”
Darcy hovered inside the door, her arms wrapped around her stomach, her eyes blinking owlishly behind the lenses of her glasses. Her hair had been pulled back in a lopsided bun on the back of her head and she was wearing a pair of sleep shorts and a long sleeve shirt. “No, really,” she said. “This is going to sound really stupid.”
Natasha belted her robe a little tighter. “Darcy?”
“I have known Clint now for several years. I have, on some level, been intimately connected with Clint Barton for several years. Do you really think this is stupider than anything he would say to me at-” She glanced in the direction of the clock. “Three am?”
Darcy made a face. “Does Clint show up at your door often at three am?”
“Less now than he did before,” Natasha said. She missed it. A little bit. Most of the time, she was grateful that Phil was there to do it, but every once in a while… It was nice being needed.
I came in on the Prompts for Pie midway through, and it was not until I clicked on their tag and read all the associated posts that I figured out it was not, in fact, an offer to fill prompts for prompters able and willing to ensure you received pie. Hee.
(Minor warning for bar brawls and canon appropriate violence)
Some people didn’t have any sense.
Clint Barton knew that from personal experience, god knows he’d been accused of it often enough. He had no goddamn sense, he knew it. But there were times, there were situations, when even he knew someone had no sense.
There was a slim amount of pleasure to be had to not being the dumbest guy in the room. It happened so seldom, he had to savor it when it happened.
When the man in the designer suit and the glossy, well polished shoes walked through the door of the dive bar, Clint just stopped, bottle at his lips, beer hanging heavy on his tongue, to stare. It took him a couple of seconds to remember to swallow, the sight was just that unbelievable. It wasn’t as if he minded the view; Clint had always had a bit of a thing for guys who knew how to dress. He was pretty sure it had a lot to do with his own white trash upbringing, but he wasn’t about to question it much. He liked a guy who could wear a suit and make it look good, as kinks went, that was pretty tame.
Of course, he also had a thing for guys with an actual survival instinct, so he was pretty sure the scenario playing out in his mind right now wasn’t going to happen.
He was pretty sure this guy wasn’t going to live long enough for Clint to see if check his orientation.
((for Maplerosekisses, who wanted a coda to “His Fate Will Be Unlearned. 8) ))
Steve hated red carpets.
He really did. He always felt oversized and awkward and in the way as Tony effortlessly charmed the crowds and the reporters alike. Tony had a way of grinning and tossing off a few words that had people laughing and blushing in equal parts. Steve always loved to watch him do it.
He just wished he didn’t have to do it from within the glare of the same spotlight. But whenever he tried to stand aside, when he tried to step out of the way, the way that their handlers and assistants did, he was treated like he had two heads. People tried to talk to him, ask him questions, point cameras at his face, and Steve just froze up. Every time.
He’d asked Tony once why they kept trying, when it was clear that he was a complete failure at the whole thing. Tony had just looked at him, a look somewhere between amusement and pity, and let his eyes trail from the top of Steve’s head all the way down to his feet. He hadn’t said another word on the matter, and Steve didn’t bring it up again.
Prompts for Pie 6: Peggy Carter Finds Her Way Home
(For krameriagrayi, who requested a bit of Peggy Carter)
"You needn’t sound so disdainful. It’s quite a real place."
"Real is relative, Agent C." Howard Stark threw himself into a chair, sending it rolling sideways. He slouched low, head back, arms tossed out to the sides. His face looked pinched and pale, and Peggy gave him a sideways glance. Hungover, it would seem. She wasn’t surprised. "I’m not arguing real,” Howard continued. “I’m arguing if it’s a place I’d like to spend time. And that has a simple answer: It’s not."
"I suppose you’d prefer to see us put forward the effort required to maintain our current efforts from, where exactly?" She set her chin on her fist, fluttering her eyelashes. "The cabana beside your pool, perhaps?"
He grinned at her, his eyebrows twitching in an absolutely ridiculous expression. “There are worse ideas. New Jersey, for instance, New Jersey is a worse idea.”
"So you have said." She arched an eyebrow. "Repeatedly."
“I gotta repeat it,” Howard pointed out. “You aren’t listening.”
Every warning sign in the world was there, and I’ve been actively warning attendees and artists off of it for more than a year. Because there was no indication that the organizers had any goddamn idea what they were doing I honestly don’t know if there were bad intentions, or if they just made mistakes but here’s the thing:
Everyone seems to think that running a con results in a giant pile of money that the organizers sleep on at night. They look around and say, “X number of people at Y dollars, YOU ARE MONEY GRUBBING BASTARDS,” when in fact it’s a hell of a lot harder and more expensive to run a con than most people will ever believe. Here’s some hard facts:
1. A con looking to survive has two ‘oh dear god’ numbers. The first one is absolute MINIMUM amount of money they can make. The second is the absolute MAXIMUM amount of people they’re prepared to handle. If the organizers are off on more than 10% on either of those numbers, they are in trouble, and it’s not going to end well. Judging by the ‘estimated’ numbers they were looking for and the ‘reported’ numbers I’m hearing, they were way off. They are likely royally screwed on this alone. But…
2. The number no one ever looks at is the hotel block. Hotels cut you deals on the actual ‘convention space,’ dependent on how many hotel rooms you fill. This can be on a sliding scale, but some places do a “you must fill X number of room nights to make this worth our time.” So you get a contract that says in big print, “You will have to pay five thousand dollars for the function space! (provided you fill two hundred hotel rooms. If you don’t, it’ll be twenty thousand dollars!)” Guess which number an inexperienced con runner will pay attention to? The best case scenario. Every. Single. Time.
3. Cons get kicked out of hotels. All the time. Involving the attendees in a public way with an issue with the hotel was a NIGHTMARE of epic proportions and everyone involved is lucky the hotel didn’t call the cops on their asses and have them tossed out.
4. This has nothing to do with it being a ‘Tumblr con.’ This has to do with it being something run by inexperienced people. Anime cons have flamed out like this. MLP cons. Sci-fi cons. Comic cons. I could fill a file folder with cons that were the result of hubris, bad planning, stupid decision making, straight out up and up fraudulent planners. I know of multiple cons that have ended in the negative in the $10-50 THOUSAND dollar range. I could name three RIGHT NOW. It has nothing to do with the fandom. It has to do with the fans running a con who should not be running a con.
There was a Post-It note on the bathroom mirror, with two words on it: “Handle. It.”
Tony studied the note, turning it over in his mind, his hands braced on the edge of the sink. The origin of the note was clear, the writing was unmistakably Steve’s. He was known to be a bit understated in written communication, but this was straight up brusque.
Tony lifted the note with one finger, hoping that more information would be forthcoming on the back, but there was nothing there. With a mental shrug, he reached for his razor. He’d figure it out. Hopefully before Steve finished his morning run and wanted to know if it, whatever ‘it’ was, had been ‘handled.’
It didn’t take him very long to figure it out.
The remains of the bread maker were a sad heap of broken parts and fractured panels, scattered across the kitchen floor. There was crime scene tape stretched around the broken machine, protecting the scene. On top of the counter, the toaster was wrapped in another strip of crime scene tape. Thor was holding him by the cord, scowling down at the toaster.
“Sorry,” Carol Danvers said, and she had a sympathetic smile on her face that, ironically enough, just made Kate feel worse. “He left hours ago.”
“But-” Kate shifted her bow a little higher on her shoulder. “He said we’d, you know. Practice.”
Natasha leaned back against the kitchen island, her arms crossed easily over her chest, a tea cup held in one graceful hand. “He’s unreliable, Kate. You know that.” Her eyebrows arched. “Right?”
“Right,” Kate grumbled. She shifted her bow to her other shoulder, and then, feeling stupid, back again. Finally, dispensing with any pretense that she’d be heading down to the Avengers’ range today, she set it down next to the door. She wished she could just toss it aside, without visible concern. But it was still her bow.
And she still flinched, a tiny bit, when she let it slip from her fingers.
“Maybe he’ll be back,” she said, trying to sound cool about it. “It’s, like, there’s thirty minutes until when he promised to meet me here.” She was early. As much as she liked to pretend otherwise, it was still kind of exciting to be invited up to the big leagues.
Except, of course, when the A-Lister stood her up. In front of a bunch of his teammates. Might as well stamp ‘not particularly important’ on her forehead.
You are enjoying this greatly, aren’t you? XD Fiend.
The comments have been very kind and very sweet! But this was the comment I got a few days ago:
I am not addicted to your words I am not addicted to your words I am not addicted to your words I am not addicted to your words I am not addicted to your words I am not addicted to your words I am not addicted to your words I am not addicted to your words I am not addicted to your words I am not addicted to your words I am not addicted to your words I am not addicted to your words I am not addicted to your words I am not addicted to your words I am not addicted to your words
I replied with:
You may have reached the point at which you have actually read so much, so fast, that you have caused brain damage. I am concerned.
Are you okay?
This has not slowed the consumption of fic one bit.
Clint glanced over. “Because it’s dirty?” He sensed there was more to the question than he was getting, but he often felt that way. He dumped the last of the towels out.
Phil gave him a look. “It passed dirty about two years ago,” he said. He held up the t-shirt, his mouth a thin line. “Clint. This thing has holes.”
“Pretty sure that’s normal.”
“A shirt should have four holes. One for your head, one for your waist, and two for your arms,” Phil deadpanned. “Any more than that, and you’ve entered a real fashion faux pas territory.”
Clint considered the faded blue shirt with its peeling logo advertising a bar-b-que joint that was probably still in business. Probably. Who cared, it had a funky weird picture of a dancing pig with a chef’s hat on the front, and that made up for a lot. Okay, so it was a little battered. But so was he, and screw it, it was his damn t-shirt. “Still good,” he said, reaching for it. “I’ll just wear it around the apartment.”
“Great, that means I’m the only one who gets to see it.” Phil held it out of reach without much difficulty, one hand on Clint’s breastbone, keeping him easily at bay. “Clint, it’s a dust rag with sleeves.”