some twitter doodles from today that i might clean up and color later! also, AUs where saito is alive but sickly make my heart ache (in the best way) HAHA weeps… ( ´•̥̥̥ω•̥̥̥` ) i just want them both to be happy…!
“Mr. Stark! Wait up!” Peter yelled after Tony, who was walking quickly towards the conference room at the Avengers base. Tony briefly looked at him, irritation and confusion showing through his eyes.
“What do you want, Spiderling?” Tony snapped, not slowing down his pace.
“Mr. Stark, where’s my sister?” He asked, rushing in front of Tony, holding out his hands to make him stop.
Tony’s eyes met Peters. “Kid, I’m so sorry. (Y/n) was arrested-”
“What?!” Peter exclaimed, his eyes opening wide.
“She helped a fugitive in the eyes of the law-”
“Mr. Stark,” Peter interrupted, “You don’t understand! I promised (Y/n) that I would keep her safe, how am I supposed to do that if she’s in prison! Wha-What am I supposed to tell May…”
The walls seemed to be closing in as you watched the second hand on the clock tick slower and slower. The cell that General Ross put you in was extremely comfortable, especially with the cold air making you shiver. You sat against the hard metallic wall, staring at the bars blocking the window so you couldn’t escape. You had been in this so called prison for what felt like a lifetime when in reality you had probably only been in there for a few days to a week. The longer you stared at the bars, the more and more it felt like they were taunting you with the reflection of the tinted blue lights that were keeping the place dimly lit. You started to wonder where Peter was, and if he was okay. What if he was hurt? What if he hated you?
“Hey!” A man’s voice shouted, interrupting your thoughts. Your eyes drifted under the metal bars and your gaze met with a man that was in a cell across from yours.
“You okay?” The man asked, propping his hands up against the glass.
You chuckled, “I don’t know.”
The man tilted his head, “Regret what you did?”
You fumbled with your fingers, trying to find the right words to explain how you were feeling. “I don’t regret what I did, I regret hurting Peter.”
“The spider thing?”
“Yeah,” you laughed, “the spider thing. He’s my twin. And you are?”
“Sam Wilson,” The man, Sam, said while giving a comforting smile.
“I’m (Y/n) Parker. I would say nice to meet you but it-it would be nicer to meet you under better circumstances,” you joked, twirling your finger around. “Sam” laughed and nodded his head in agreement.
“You alright though, (Y/n)?”
“I-I miss my brother. Don’t get me wrong, he was a huge pain in my ass sometimes. Like, a MEGA pain- sorry, off topic,” Sam laughed again, “But I just… I hope he doesn’t hate me because of what I did.”
“Well, you are a huge pain in my ass too,” a new voice interjected. Your ears twitched at the familiar sound, and your eyes lit up once you saw the one person who somehow manages to make everything into a Star Wars reference: Peter freakin’ Parker.
“What are you-What are you doing here? Oh my god, I am so triggered right now,” you stumbled over your words, in shock that your idiotic twin somehow managed to make his way into this dump.
Peter laughed, “Tony let me come visit you, but we’ve only got five minutes to catch up.”
“Well, let me start. My time in here consists of eating, staring at the wall, and the most exciting part was when I briefly had a conversation with that guy,” you pointed towards Sam’s cell, “Sam, over there. He’s chill. Now, tell me how Mr. Spiderling has been.”
Peter cringed at the nickname, “Nothing much has happened. After the fight, I was mostly trying to heal. My eye hurts pretty bad,” he complained.
“Awe, poor Peter,” you mocked. “But, more importantly, have you talked to May?”
Peter’s smile faded and his head sunk low. He lightly tapped the glass with his foot and muttered, “Well, define talked to.”
“Talked to, as in calling her and letting her know we are alright. Even though I’m stuck in here-”
“No, I haven’t. I texted her and told her we were okay, and that it might be a while because you convinced Mr. Stark to let us go sight seeing.”
“Yeah, sounds like something I’d do,” you nodded your head in agreement and shrugged.
Peter revealed a small smile, “I missed you, (Y/n).”
“I missed you too, you mcfreakin’ idiot.”
“I never thought I’d hear you say that again,” Peter scoffed, shaking his head.
“God, you are so dramatic.”
“Man, you two are total opposites,” Sam shouted, once again giving that comforting smile.
“Yeah,” you said, your eyes meeting Peter’s. “We get that a lot.”
*a few weeks later*
“May!” Peter yelled, closing the door to the apartment in your lovely city, Queens. “I’m home!”
May jumped off the couch and gave Peter a hug. “Oh, Peter! I’ve missed you!”
“Yeah, May. I missed you too-”
“You were gone way longer than I was told,” May accused, “No calls? No texts? No emails?”
“I know, May. I know-”
“And where is your sister?!”
Peter swallowed hard, a huge lump forming in his throat. How was he supposed to tell his beloved aunt that her niece was in jail?
He took a deep breath and prepared to tell Aunt May everything. Everything.
“You might want to take a seat,” Peter started as he sat down on the couch. May stood still, watching him move his way over until she finally sat down next to him.
“Peter, what’s happening? You’re scaring me,” she said, her voice trembling. It wasn’t too hard to tell that Peter was going to say something important. He had a tell, a nervous tic. Peter would always look around the room as if he was seeing it for the first time while raising his hand and gently rubbing his neck. His eyes were a bit glassy, tears slightly forming.
“May… this is-I don’t really know how to word this,” Peter laughed nervously, resting his elbows on his knees, rapidly bouncing his leg while he stared at the floor. He brought his hands up to his face, rubbing his eyes before taking one more deep breath.
“A few months ago, something happened to me. And a few years ago, something happened to (Y/n)-”
“Y'all talking about me?” You interrupted, your head peeking out of the front door.
May looked at you with a huge grin, then back at Peter. “Well, speak of the devil,” She said, pushing herself off of the couch and briskly walking over to you.
“Sorry I’m so late to the party, but I had some stuff to take care of,” you said, stepping back into the apartment you called “home” and setting down your bags. You had missed the smell of Aunt May’s famous date loaf and the fresh laundry that had just come out of the dryer, that smelled a bit like mint and cucumber. May’s arms wrapped you, pulling you into a very tight embrace. You snuggled your head in between May’s neck, content that you were back with your family. Peter rushed to join in, and May stepped aside so that the two of you could have a moment alone.
“I’m gonna go grab some of that fresh date loaf. Don’t. Go. Anywhere,” she said slowly, making sure she got her point across. You and Peter nodded your heads, watching her walk out of the room. Peter hugged you tight, not believing that you were standing in front of him.
“How are you here?!” Peter whispered in your ear, making sure Aunt May wouldn’t hear him.
You pulled away and placed your hands on his shoulders, giving them a small shake. “It was hard… but I managed to escape,” you said in a serious tone.
“What?! How?” Peter raised his voice a little bit, looking at the kitchen to see May still slicing up a few pieces of bread.
“I’m awesome, that’s how.”
Peter was stunned. “Wha-what if Mr. Stark finds out? What if they take you back? I don’t know what I would do if you were taken away forev-”
“Brosuff, chill!” you laughed, “I may be awesome, but I’m not THAT awesome. Tony made a deal with me and let me go,” you added. “All I gotta do is become an ‘intern’ at Stark tower… or the Avengers tower, whatever it’s called now. But, you don’t have to worry. I’m not leaving anytime soon,” you smiled.
Peter smiled back, giving you one more hug. May returned with the snack, setting it down on the table near the two of you before wrapping her arms around the two of you.
“I’m glad you both are home,” she mumbled, gently rubbing the top of your heads.
The group hug lasted for about five minutes, and since you were in the middle, you started to feel a bit claustrophobic.
To combat the onslaught of dark angst I brought in the first couple fics, I decided to make today the day of shameless fluff. I need some of that, given that Scully’s probably gonna die in season 11 because Chris Carter doesn’t know how to say enough is enough and quit while he’s ahead, instead dragging the show into his grave with him even if his actors and writers are done.
Angry rant aside, this is my happy post-season 11 headcanon. Consider it the same universe as Mulder’s Ring.
They fell out of her pocket while she moved William’s desk into the Unremarkable House. Purchased on an autumn whim with fake cobwebs and two pumpkins, they weren’t expected to be used. She thought planting pumpkins seeds would be like buying a gym membership or building Daggoo a doghouse—something she and Mulder spent endless hours planning and never got around to.
William’s face lit up when he picked up the seed packets. “You bought pumpkins seeds?” He looked at her with Mulder’s lopsided grin over the desk they’d just set down. She couldn’t deny that grin.
“I thought maybe we’d plant them, start a garden.”
“Mom, we can’t commit to growing a pumpkin.” He chuckled and tucked the seeds into his own pocket.
“Shouldn’t have said that William.” Mulder appeared in the doorway, sporting the most obnoxious sweatshirt she’d ever seen him wear—jet black, with a little orange alien head carved into a jack-o-lantern. Good lord. “You know telling your mother she can’t pull something off is the only motivation she needs to do it.”
“I intended to cook them…” Scully mused, “but if you don’t think we can grow a pumpkin, I might have to plant a couple.”
“I’ll help.” Mulder wrapped his arms around her waist and rested his chin on her head. “By the way—like my shirt?”
She rolled her eyes, leaning into him anyway. He smells like cookies and wine and fresh grass. She wanted to tilt her head back and kiss his chin. But first—“I didn’t think you were the hideous holiday sweatshirt type.”
William snorted, and Scully beckoned for him, enveloping him into the hug. Mulder pouted above her head, mumbling, “We have our son now, Scully. I have to break out the ugly dad-sweatshirts.”
“You don’t,” said William.
“It’s a happier way to celebrate my birthday than trying to stop armageddon and getting shot at.”
“Touche,” Scully whispered. Sandwiched between her husband and son, breathing in the smell of home and Virginia fall, she can’t complain. She would cook the pumpkins seeds tonight, and Mulder would throw out his bag of sunflower seeds in favor of a new treat.
And I brought the angst back with that question. Sorry not sorry. Continuing in this vein how did Howard die in this one? Winter Soldier or something else?
He was shot and crashed the car. Maria panicked in grief and terror and fled. I’m going to say that yeah, the Winter Soldier was the culprit. (To explain Howard’s comment about Maria at the end, I head canon that she’s Italian. The Italian Army was rounding up werewolves to use basically as canon fodder and she decided she’d rather die trying to escape. She didn’t actually expect to make it to allied forces, and when she did she was skittish and anxious, afraid they’d kill her for being the enemy. She only ended up trusting Howard because he left food out for her when he noticed her hanging around the edges of camp. European werewolves fleeing the war wasn’t actually uncommon but she didn’t know that.)
“…I know him,” the Asset whispered, quietly enough that his handlers didn’t notice, staring through his sight at the man driving. He felt a sad pang, but he was more afraid of the chair than he was interested in examining it.
He took the shot.
“I knew you,” Bucky says, shaking hands clasped together tightly, bones creaking in his metal hand’s grip. “And I took the shot anyway.”
“Do not ever tell Tony,” Howard hisses at him.
Bucky looks at him in disbelief, eyes wide, rimmed with red. “That’s all you have to say?”
“What else is there to say?” Howard asks dully. “I’m here now. Not entirely sure how it happened. But I don’t remember that. I’ve seen the videos of you when you first came back.” He looks out the window. “It’s how Maria looked as she was fleeing across enemy lines.”
.Her forehead wrinkled. From all his fidgeting, she reckoned he wanted to say something else entirely. When he didn’t, her stomach turned to led. The world’s end was nigh,and Bellamy could act brave all he wanted for her benefit, but she didn’t want it.
None of it changed the fact they had 10 minutes on the clock.
Something goes wrong with their plan. 4x13 Speculation (that won’t happen but hey i brought all the angst to ya. )
Clarke sat on the bed, staring down at her shoes in the half-lit office inside Becca’s lab. Bellamy saw her through the glass walls from afar , understanding full well what prompted such reaction. He approached the room and opened its door, strolling towards her until she looked up. When she did, her eyes were wide and glossy and her chin quivered.
For an instant, he just stopped in front of her, letting his hands drop to his sides as he waited.
“We won’t be able to make it,” She croaked, grimacing at the admission.
He sighed, then lifted up his eyebrows. “We don’t know that.”
She tightened her lips. “There are many things wrong with our plan, things we don’t know if will go wrong. But this one we do.”
He took one step closer, a sharp crease appearing between his eyebrows, “Raven says we have a 30% chance of openning the hatch remotely”
Clarke shook her head and looked away . She propped her elbows on her knees, then stood up. The young woman walked toward the glass walls, peeping down at the lab as she gulped. “And if we’re the other 70%? And the rocket is stuck down here because we couldn’t get it open?” she muttered
Description: Early morning’s revelations brings Namjoon to realize how deep he really has sunk.
Warning: Descriptions of scars, mentions of blood and gore, swearing, you know the drill by now.
[This had a point but I got off the non-existent point long before this ended. This was bordering fluff but I still believe my angst brought it back. Sorry for it being so late. Anyway. I’m sick. Please shoot me. I’m not a criminal I swear. This is probably my favourite part]
As you laid on your bed, half the covers thrown off yourself, you watched with sleepy eyes as his chest fell up and down. His bare chest rose and fell with slow movements, a sure sign he was still asleep.
His eyes were closed, blocking brown ones you’d become much too familiar with. His hair was a mess, strewn about over his forehead, partly your doing, partly the pillow’s. His mouth lay half open, his lips parted. Lips that had once been on yours and just about everywhere else.
His lean arms were splayed across the bed, the same arms that had held you while you slept. His hands were calloused,scars and rough patches adorned them like battle scars. But wherever you looked you always managed to come back to one place in particular.
Scars from switch-blades and butcher knives alike were scattered across his sternum and ribs, harsh white lines on pale skin. Some were long, others were short, but they were all painful.
Like a sickening tattoo they curved their way along his chest like vines, a horrible reminder of how much time was put into making them. For all the world, they looked like tiny pieces of metal embedded underneath his skin, catching the light and glimmering, mockingly almost. One lay just at the base of his neck, another by his ribcage and too many more to count strewn about aimless across the rest of his front.
They a mismatched puzzle, like an array of stars, connect the dots, hidden messages galore. Tracing them with your eyes, you made new patterns each time.
You didn’t know much.
All you really knew was how much he despised them.
Your questions about the array of atrocities that were scattered across his sternum were met with short and unrevealing answers. He would never get angry, he understood the curiosity. He just never entertained it.
“You don’t wanna hear about that baby”
“Too graphic for you”
“I don’t wanna scare you off princess”
Excuses you were used to. Excuses you didn’t hear any-more, because you didn’t ask. You didn’t mind, really, you didn’t. It was his story, his past, and you didn’t have a right to pry. The same way he respectfully didn’t pry too much into yours.
Your relationship status was too blurry to fathom at this point. Between the late nights you would spend tangled between the sheets or the early morning kisses that would turn into desperate make out sessions you were just in your own little world. You’d go out to dinner sometimes and he would surprise you with coffee some mornings. Your hand was always seen in his and forehead kisses were what you awoke to most mornings. Giddy and childlike banter as you tried to finish college papers, when all he wanted to do was dance with you. Teasing and glares and sarcastic remmarks and late nights and sickening grins and probing kisses and a fairytale like lie you were both all too keen on pretending to live, was just too complicated to begin to explain.
So with blurred morals and a hunger for something exciting, you were content with lying in bed, with one of the most beautiful things you had ever seen.
Your hand found it’s way to his chest, tracing a gash with a butterly touch. Scared of re-opening the long since healed wound, you were still cautious. Soon getting lost in the array of ugly scars that made up his a horrific looking pattern on his chest, you hadn’t noticed Namjoon’s breathing quicken, signalling he was walking up.
He was still breathtaking. Scars and all.
“You know I’ve awoken to pretty strange things happening but this has to be one of the strangest”
His voice was gruff, thicker and deeper from not being used for the time he spent sleeping. It bordered teasing but it still made you shiver, like each syllable the deep thing said was sending a tremor through your body. Perfect lips sounded out words and you found yourself, looking away, back to his chest, to avoid his face.
He didn’t stop you. He just silently let you trace his war scars and he watched, no emotion in cold eyes. He was warm, your fingers were cold, the contrast was nice. Warm hands eventually caught yours as you moved to touch the one near his neck.
“I’m up here sweetheart”
That’s what he had said the first time. The first time he lay on your bed, shirt strewn about, somewhere in the bedroom. Dress pants wrinkled from where you had sat on his thighs.
He remembered you much too well.
You had sat, knees touching, half clothed, as Namjoon had just dicarded his shirt. Half drunk and bordering senseless all you could think to do was reach out, reach out and touch the beautiful scars that adorned his beautiful chest.
Eyes wide you had stared at them, not frightened or disheartened, no look of disgust, just a strange childlike wonder. Many girls Namjoon had slept with were usually confident. Assuming they would be made breakfast the next morning if they gave head the night before. They were sorely mistaken the next morning when Namjoon would ask them to leave, no number, no name, just a harsh ‘last night was fun I guess’ and a quick goodbye.
He had grown used to your shy movements and tiny sounds. He had looked forward to the way you would cup his neck, like cupping a delicate flower, you were so careful, like he was made of glass and was ready to shatter. His rough hands and scarred chest had never felt such a light touch as your butterfly kisses probing their way along his sternum.
His night of rough stress relieving sex had been scrapped when your drunken smile had stared down at scars with such a weird appreciation and wonder. Most girls didn’t care, they were there for the casual hook up, much like him. Some asked, none got answers.
But you, oh god, you were mesmerized by the deep ridges of knife scars on Namjoon’s chest.
And you, to his utter confusion, still were. “Sweetheart, stop.” he tried again. You eventually gave in, looking at him with an expression he had never thought he would be met with. Your eyes were turned towards, almost saddened by his statement, shaking your head, hair fell into your eyes. He waited for your reaction, expecting one. You lay on your stomach, hands a makeshift pillow for your face, half lidded eyes disappointed.
Your eyes found his and he found himself confused with your reply. “They’re beautiful” you whispered, staring down at the deep knife gashes with one of the saddest smiles he’d ever seen.
He was dumbstruck. His eyes widened at your bold statement, looking at you with a face of both confusion and awe. He wasn’t expecting that. And your next action, left him even more wordless. Leaning forward slowly, you pressed your lips to the scar just below his neck, holding them in place for a few seconds before briskly turning your back to him and returning to your side of the bed.
Namjoon had laid, staring at the place you had been few seconds before, unmoving, trying to wrap his head around the situation. No one ever asked really asked, not daring to tease Namjoon’s short temper. No one ever really got answers either. Only a few knew why the gangster had such a scarred chest.
But he had never encountered such a strange word for them.
When he looked down at them, all he saw was the bitter reminder of laying on an alley floor, blearing pain, too much blood and the constant slip between reality and a nightmare. The glint of a knife and the glimmer of a smirk. The horrible sound of wheels stopping on tarmac and the smell of burning rubber. Gasoline bottles and cigarettes were a deadly mix, and when someone takes a knife to you there wasn’t much you could do but grin and bear it. But as he traced the deep ridge where your lips had been, he had pushed those thoughts away.
They were beautiful then, he concluded, anything that had the honour of being touched by you was.
Early mornings blur into one and nobody may have a chance to differentiate, the sweetness of the softest kisses that beckon us all with open arms to lie in the warm embrace of another just a little longer and the ugliest of truths we must all succumb to eventually.
For now we lie, in both senses of the word, in the promise of another’s warmth, without the threat of much, but the cold air outside the covers and the taste of bitter coffee, rendering our goodbyes, not forever, but maybe very much that.
[Probably the end. Anyone who really wants more may request it. I’d be more than happy to start another Namjoon series. Or another member. I will cator to the people’s thirst as always]
Request: Requested by @thegirlonhamilton: I use Google docs and it is amazing and blissful. Also, uhm??? Were you intending on a part 3 to “Talking”? If not, I can muddle through the angst. But oh shit. You brought the angst. You brought it and I hurt. Well done, sugar.
Requested by anonymous:Do a part 3 of talking please
Requested by @pearltheartist: OH MY GOD TALKING PART 2 WAS SO GOOD OFJWNAMIFWKJF I REALLY DONT WANNA SOUND RUDE BUT PART 3 POSSIBLY ?
Summary: Clint makes it his mission to win you over. He succeeds, but you don’t believe in marriage. Can the two of you stay together without the promise of wedding bells in the future? What about when the two of you are forced to go undercover as a married couple?
Word Count: 1937
Warnings: Clint signs, nesting behavior, puns, AoU spoilers, character death (but not really), zombies, angst, safehouse, Sam Koenig.
A/N: I brought this chapter into AoU, so spoilers for that.
Clint had been doing all the wedding planning, and that was perfectly fine with you. It was, his wedding, after all, you were just a participant. The funny thing was, was that it seemed like the one with all the nerves was Clint and you were as cool as a cucumber. You’d told him that you would be prepared for a bridezilla, and you were waiting for it.
What you hadn’t been prepared for, was him to make a nest and hide away. Natasha had told you that he had missed a training session with her, and that wasn’t like him. You’d had FRIDAY locate him, and he was in the training room. In the rafters.
“What you doing up there?” You asked, and he shifted ever so slightly. “Are you giving me the silent treatment?” You called up to him, and he turned around. “Fine, I’m coming up there.” You yelled, looking around trying to figure out how to get up into the rafters. You had tried to use the corner to get some leverage, and you just barely managed to grab the rafter. Clint had grabbed your forearm and had helped you up.