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You would have expected to find the “orphanage” in the farthest reaches of the Arctic Circle. These sorts of people were so far out of the norm that surely—surely—they needed ice, snow, and distance to hide themselves from unwanted surveillance. The girls weren’t supposed to be found, not before they were ready. Yet there your search had led you: not to some frozen, decrepit fortress in the middle of Siberia, but to a gated, perfectly normal building on the outskirts of a perfectly normal Russian town. Its old brick face stood motionless under a clear night strewn with stars. Just looking at the place made your stomach churn.

“You’re sure this is the right place?” you asked without bothering to turn toward your companion. Just down a short slope, just after a short jog, lay the orphanage. It seemed too easy after all this time. Clint scoffed.

“What, you were expecting a prison?” His footsteps crunched their way through the thin layer of ice on the ground as he made his way over to you. “They don’t want to escape for long. The ones that try get purged from the program.”

The bile climbed further up your throat. “She’s not dead.”

“Never said she was. You prefer the alternative?”

You didn’t have to answer. When at last you tore your gaze away from the place you’d been searching for for three years, Clint was already looking at you. His eyes were so soft that it hurt to look at them. You had to look away again. “Natasha came back,” you said, voice as brittle as the snow beneath your feet.

“Not right away,” he said. “And she’ll always have all of that in her head.”

He was right. You knew he was right. If your sister would have been happy in her godforsaken new home, you wouldn't have spent so long looking for her. It wasn’t easy, living with you, you knew that, but it was better than this—better than torture and programming and sterilization. The cold, clear world seemed to spin around you, as it always did when you remembered what kind of people those who had taken the last living member of your family were.

A warm weight on your shoulder startled you out of your thoughts. Lifting your head, you saw Clint not exactly smiling at you, but trying to appear comforting all the same. “At least after tonight you’ll know for sure, right?” he said, each word punctuated with a puff of fog.

You remained silent another moment longer. Your fingers wanted to tremble, your breath to escape your chest in a sob. Neither was going to happen. If you had not cried this whole long while searching for your sister, you were not going to cry now on the eve of finally finding her. No way could you risk emotions getting in the way. You were marching into that nest of spiders and pulling Emilie out. Maybe you weren’t an Avengers; maybe you weren’t even a SHIELD agent, but you were the person who had convinced a man who was both to help you in your quest. Besides, if you hadn’t been capable enough in your own right to begin with, Red Room wouldn’t have ever taken an interest in your family.

“She’s not dead,” you repeated. “This time tomorrow, she’ll be at home with me, asleep. In a real bed. Without handcuffs.”

“She’ll be asleep in a bed without handcuffs at HQ, you mean,” said Clint, causing you to look sharply up at him despite your better judgement. Only then did you realize what your previous distraction had not allowed you to: He had his bow out and primed, an arrow already docked and flashing dimly against the string. You didn’t have to ask; he answered anyway. “You’re not going in there alone,” he said.

“Yes, I am.”

“No, you’re not.” Before you could so much as try to argue further, he was stepping past you toward the embankment that led down to the orphanage. He pulled the bow taut, stared for half a second, then—“whip!”—the arrow went whistling through the dark until it struck the gate in front of the building. A red light began to flash at the arrow’s tip. Its owner returned his attention to you, even as he reached for another arrow. “You’re gonna go in there. You’re gonna find your sister. Then you’re gonna bring her home. Home’s the tower now. Home’s with me.”

“Clint,” you began hotly, glad you’d come at night so that he couldn’t see the heat of frustration and embarrassment in your cheeks. All he did was raise his eyebrows and wait for you to go on. You did, quietly. “I can handle the on my own.”

Clint frowned, and then nodded. “Probably,” he agreed, “but I like you and Emilie’s chances a lot more if you’ve got backup.”

“I don’t need—”

“I know you don’t. Maybe Emilie does. Or maybe this isn’t the right facility and they’ve got her holed up somewhere else. You really want to be left out here in the cold by yourself if that’s the case?”

There was nothing to be said in response to that. Your single-minded focus on this lead had not allowed you to consider the possibility that it might not be the right lead. And though you’d learned to rely heavily on Clint and his friends in the past year, you had sort of thought that after tonight things would go back to normal. Just you and your sister, eking out a living in Paris while you pulled the odd job to keep her in school. It wasn’t ideal, but it was what you were used to. Avenging was not.

Something of your distaste must have shown on your face, because Clint let out a quiet laugh. “There’s the look I know and love,” he said. “But you can’t heal her on your own. Trust me. I’ve been through this before. Natasha couldn't have saved herself without help, and if you really want Emilie back, you can’t do that without help either.”

You looked at him, the man that slipped into your life as easily as your tactical gear slipped over your head. A friend was not what you had asked for. A comforter was not what you had asked for. Here he was, though, Clint Barton, acting as though he belonged at your side. With an annoyed sniff, you looked away from him once again. He had done all you had wanted at the start of your companionship. Emilie was now only a few yards away. How could you ever ask him for more? You couldn’t with a clean conscience, that was for sure.

“Besides,” he went on, “girls coming out of the program seem to really like ballet. Something tells me she’ll have more opportunities for that staying with us in New York. And I’ll miss you.”

Your head sprang up. He looked serious, which meant he was. No need to ask if he’d go that far for you; you knew Clint too well by then to doubt him. Surely you would have more money to help your sister if you took him up on his offer. That, and a whole host of other things you weren't used to having.

He caught you peering up at him and gestured with his head toward the factory of horrors. The light on the arrow was flashing so frequently as to be nearly continuous. “You gonna get that? My security override’s got a limited time span, you know.”

You knew. You just didn’t care. With or without it, you were getting inside. Another moment of serious silence passed before you grabbed Clint and kissed him—just once and fast—right on the lips.

“We’ll talk about living situations later,” you grumbled as you pushed past him. The last thing you heard before you dove down to get started was his chuckle and a soft, “sure we will.”

He was probably right about that, too—not that you were going to admit it. Not just then, anyway. First surviving. First Emilie. First home, wherever that was now. Then you could contemplate Clint’s warm arms and his soft lips, and do so for the first time with pleasure. Until then, you actually did feel better, stronger, knowing that he was there behind you. You’d all get through this, hard as that was to imagine. When you did, Clint would be there, as he always had been.

Clint BartonxReader: Factory
Part 38 of 120 of One Small Step, my Avengers one shot book.

Really? I've only done 38? Oh my gosh. I am never going to finish.

All prompts come from the 120 Bits of Random challenge by SugarLandBabyGirl on Lunaescence Archives.

Well, hi! Truth is, I don't know what I'm doing. So have a Clint one shot. We'll see what happens from here. I'm rusty, whoops. I hope this is a one shot where the information I leave out doesn't make it nonsensical. I was going to write the actual mission, but I just don't have it in me to write anything long right now. u_u

Changed the lineup around again, so I got Clint for this prompt instead of Star-Lord, which helped a lot. It's a Black Widow "factory." Get it? You won't be seeing Phil in this collection anymore, but I added a few other new characters as well. Will I ever get around to writing for them? WHO KNOWS.

Also, please note that unless otherwise contradicted by the one shot itself, Clint isn't married with children in the stories about him. Because otherwise it would be gross.

Clint Barton and Avengers belong to Marvel/Disney.
  • Reading: Chicago Manual of Style
  • Playing: Pokemon Black 2

Hello, lovely people! As I am sure you all have noticed, I am not good at making covers. Or artwork. Or any sort of visual piece to go along with a story. Usually I am content to just find a picture from the source material and put it on, but lately I’ve been thinking it might be fun to mix it up. So I’m holding a contest to see about getting some covers made by actual talented people! (That’s you.)

“But Straw!” you might be saying. “What might I win by participating?”

That is an excellent question, sir or ma’am, and to be honest I am not 100% sure how to go about doing this. Last time I held a contest, I only got three entries. I want to wait to announce how the prizes will be distributed until I see how much participation (if any) it will get. If I only get a few, I will give prizes out to the top three covers. If I get a lot of entries, I will give prizes to the selected winner of each category. However, no matter what the prizes will be:

  1. Your cover will be used for the story at any website I post them that uses covers (Quotev and Deviantart) with credit and a link to your account on whatever website you want credited on.
  2. You will get a one shot of at least 1000 words of whatever you want, so long as it’s a fandom I’m familiar with. That means you can ask for OCxCanon, OCxOC, CanonxCanon, self-insert, AU, literally whatever. The sky is the limit. You can even tell me what you want the story to be about!
There are only a few rules you are required to follow:
  1. I will only give out prizes for covers for the following stories:
      Adventures in a Realm Without Divorce Court Brightest Just a Myth Logical Fallacy Natasha Romanoff’s Matchmaking Service Oh My Dear Tastes a Little like Freedom, a Little like Fear
  2. One entry per person per story. You can submit one for each if you want, but no submitting three for one story.
  3. NO STOLEN ARTWORK. I don’t care if you draw the cover or photoshop it or anything like that. You can do whatever you want with the actual picture itself, but it must be yours. If I find out that you took the art from somewhere else on the internet without permission, then every entry you have will be disqualified. Obviously you can use stock images all you want, or official pictures from the original work itself—but don’t go snagging someone else’s drawing and slapping a title on at the top.
  4. All entries due by 7/1/2016.
That’s it! All you have to do is put something together, then post a link on this journal entry before 7/1/2016. I’ll try to announce the winners by 7/8/2016.

Thank you for your consideration!


Once upon a time, in a tiny realm known as Midgard, there lived a girl. This girl, of course, was you, and you lived as many young women at the time did during that Age of Miracles. None of these miracles ever happened to you. There were no fish oil transformations on your horizon, nor were there any divine calls to adventure. Just like all New Yorkers, you grew use to your daily commute being interrupted by superheroes, to calling insurance companies to argue over their decision to not pay for alien invasion damage to your apartment, and even to carrying an umbrella around with you even on the driest of days in case certain Asgardians decided to visit. Life went on. You had stopped looking for a real miracle years ago.

As well you should have, because there was nothing miraculous about your wedding day. Outside, a seemingly endless of mass dark gray clouds let loose bucket after bucket of rain. Thunder rolled across the sky; lightning flashed—and that, really, was all you could see through the windowpane you had stationed yourself in front of to sulk. If you hadn't known any better, you’d have blamed the city’s resident Thunder God for the disastrous timing of this storm front. As it was, all you could blame was your string of bad luck.

Speaking of bad luck, the door to your parlor snapped open and in stepped the dripping figure of your best friend. Aliyah paused only long enough to shove some wet strands of hair back underneath her pink hijab before plopping soggily onto an overstuffed loveseat. “Well, the gazebo is flooded,” she announced. “The food is soaked through, and the caterer won’t bring more to replace it. Your flower arrangements are in pieces, and the band already ran off. I don’t think there’s anything left of your wedding ceremony.”

You did not bother to leave the window, though you did turn just far enough to throw your her a sour look. “Do you have any good news to impart?” you asked. Aliyah grinned.

“Your maid of honor hasn’t walked out yet. At least there will be one person here to witness this fiasco.”

“Gonna need a groom for anything to be witnessed.”

Most close friends would offer sympathy when their friend’s fiancé of a year and a half decided to just not show up for the actual wedding. Most acquaintances would feel bad enough when the carefully planned event got rained out. Not your Aliyah. She simply let out a sharp breath, and leaned her head back against the couch cushion.

“Can’t say I didn’t warn you,” she said. You glared at her, which of course she didn’t see, having shut her eyes to listen to the water tumble from the roof to the street outside.

“Thank you. So much.”

“What?” she asked, forcing her eyes open again. “I told you Jared wasn’t good enough for you. Besides, you get to keep all the gifts even if he doesn’t stop by. I saw, like, nine blenders in that pile. You’re better off this way, if you ask me.”

“You’re just saying that because you want a free blender,” you said. Aliyah grinned.

“I wouldn’t say no. But, really, you should count your lucky stars. Free stuff, and free of your jackass boyfriend. What better start to a weekend?”

“I’d rather be married to my jackass boyfriend.”

Aliyah’s disdain for Jared was nothing new or surprising. He’d fallen from grace in her eyes when he’d got jealous over your fondness for an injured pigeon you’d rescued only a few months after you started dating Jared. Even releasing the bird hadn’t entirely put an end to his complaints about how you spent your free time. On the other hand, you knew one thing that neither Aliyah nor Jared did: Jared’s jealousy wasn’t entirely misplaced. But that was years ago. This was now. And that bird had always been bad news.

“Are you going to cry about it?” Aliyah asked, peering over at your perch by the parlor’s bay window. “Because if not, I’d hate to have dragged Habib all the way to America for nothing.”

At the mention of her long-distance boyfriend, you motioned for Aliyah to go on. You preferred to do your moping alone, and Aliyah knew it. She gave you a quick hug before she left without another word. Probably you did owe your maid of honor at a least a blender for all the trouble she’d been through on your behalf.

Sighing, you lifted one hand, dug your fingers into your hair, and tore out what was holding it in its elaborate design. Who cared what you looked like now? Even if stupid Jared had shown up, the storm would have ruined your appearance before you made it down the aisle. Now Aliyah had free rein to spend the rest of her afternoon cuddling with Habib and you had no one else to bother looking pretty for.

Outside your empty room, you could hear the indistinct muttering of your remaining guests. Family, mostly, who had already given up trying to convince you to let them in. What the rest of them were waiting for before they left, you couldn’t guess. Perhaps for you to come out and make an official announcement: The wedding has been called off. Party’s over. You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here. And thanks for all the blenders.

The shame of your situation suddenly threatened to crash down upon you. It would have, if you had remained sitting where you were. Instead, you stood, white dress rustling as you stalked across the room. A quiet shriek of rage was stifled only by your gloved hand pressed to your colored lips. Of all the pathetic, idiotic, insane things you had done in your life! Now you didn’t even have the courage to face your friends and family with the truth.

“Tap. Tap. Tap.”

Hail began to hit the glass behind you, soft and hesitant. Since you had no plans to leave the building any time soon, you ignored this weather development.

Jared hadn’t even called to say he’d changed his mind. You should have known when he hadn’t come home after his stag party the night before. He was probably laughing it up over your stupidity with some blonde bikini babe by the beach that you were supposed to go to for your honeymoon. The thought caused you to kick out angrily at the coffee table, and you heard a quiet rip issue from your skirt in response when it caught on a corner. You swore.

”Tap. Tap. Tap.”

Really, the sound wasn’t regular enough to be hail. It wasn’t very hesitant anymore either. Still, you ignored the noise as you yanked off your veil, your gloves, and your garter. You were mentally preparing to rip them all to shreds with your fingernails when you heard it again:
“Tap. Tap. Tap.”

That time, you did not suppress your shriek. With it, you marched over to the window and shoved it open. The wind whistled through the empty space, sending anything in the room not tied down into the air, and splattering your face with water. If ever there was a time to reasonably expect an Asgardian thunder god to step inside, it was then. No one was there, though, save for a single bedraggled pigeon.

“Oh, hello,” you said when it hopped onto the sill, and automatically you held out your cupped hands toward it. The poor thing shivered once, then stepped onto your warm palms. Only when it looked up into your face did you see that it had bright green, very un-pigeon-ish eyes.

Before you could stuff the bird back outside, it lifted itself into the air to half-flutter, half-fly over to the loveseat Aliyah had been sitting on. A flash of light that had nothing to do with the lightning outside filled the room. When you had blinked and cleared your vision enough that you could see again, the pigeon was gone, and in its place reclined a tall, dark-haired, beautiful man, dressed to the nines in Asgardian fashion.

“Hello, darling,” said Loki Laufeyson. “Don’t you look ravishing?”

You were too shocked to contradict him. No mention of your torn dress, mussed hair, or smeared makeup escaped your lips. Instead, you said the only thing you could in that sort of situation: “What are you doing here?”

“Why, I’m here to offer you my congratulations, of course,” he answered, examining one perfectly manicured nail. “Or should it be my condolences?”

“Really?” Your tone dripped with enough sarcasm that it could be heard over the protesting window as you forced it shut. “You disappear for two years, never write, never visit, and then you just happen to pop by to celebrate my wedding to another man?”

“What kind of secret lover would I be if I did not?”

“We are not secret lovers.”

“Well, no, we haven’t been for quite some time. I see no reason why that should stop us from picking up right where we left off, however.”

“We were never secret lovers.”

Really?” he said, mocking the tone of your earlier question. “That’s not what it seemed like to me. Of course, I had the brain of a pigeon most of the time, but at night when your beau had to work and leave you so very alone—”

“You can’t just show up out of the blue and expect me to want you again,” you interrupted. “And on my wedding day to boot.”

To his credit, Loki looked genuine confused by your behavior—like he’d expected you to jump straight into his arms, marriage or no. Obviously, they did things differently in Asgard. You were not Asgardian. “Fine,” he said. “If that’s the way you want it. I was only trying to thank you for helping me, you know.”

“All I did was take in a pigeon that got injured when Thor threw a bunch of peanuts at a flock. It didn’t really deserve that sort of thanking.”

“Ah, but you enjoyed it anyway.” That wasn’t the point. He knew it wasn’t the point just as well as you did, because once he made it, he got fluidly up to his feet to and walked over to stand in front of you. “If you are that disinclined to see me, I suppose I had better get going. If you ever grow tired of being lonely again—oh, that’s right. You don’t know how to contact me.”

You opened your mouth to remind Loki that you didn’t want to contact him, but then something about Loki’s words rang strange. “Alone?” you echoed.

“Yes, alone. Or do you expect your prince charming to come riding up on a horse of white any second now? Better late than never?”

Without thinking, without warning, you slapped him straight across the face.

“Ow!” he snapped, pressing one of his hands to the mark on his face. “What was that for?”

“What did you do?” you demanded, lifting your hand for another blow. “What did you do to Jared?”

“Me? Do something to Jared? What should I have to do with that ponderous ass?”

“Did you kill him, Loki?” you asked, voice quavering. Loki could do it. Easily. He was a god, and Jared just…well, just a ponderous ass. Loki let out a single bark of laughter.

“Oh, please. I just got out of Asgardian prison. As if I’d risk going back over the murder of a petty moral such as he.”

That brought you up short. Frowning, you deigned to look at him again. “Prison?”

“Yes, prison. Did you think my absence was due to taking a pleasure cruise?”

“I thought you’d escaped prison when I found you the first time.”

“But you sent me back to Asgard when I started causing trouble," he reminded you. "Odin does not forget his son’s crimes easily, nor is he inclined to forgive them. Luckily my brother is far easier to manipulate."

He had not, you noticed, made any real move to leave. Loki still stood in front of you, looking down as the pink handprint faded from his cheek.

“So…you didn’t kill my fiancé?” you asked uncertainly. He shook his head.

“If he isn’t here, it is because he is a dunce, not because I tricked him in any way.”

“Oh.” All the problems of your appearance seemed at once apparent and embarrassing. To think that this man would see you in such a state, and only because he’d wanted to see you after his release from jail. “Why did you really come, then? Since you knew he wasn’t here. To gloat?”

“The thought did occur to me,” Loki confessed. “I am not often in the position of being the more desirable choice. But,” here his voice turned oddly sincere, “I actually came to ask you to come with me.”

Your mouth fell open. Some of Loki’s usual acerbic amusement returned as he watched you flounder; you could see the faint outlines of his familiar smirk at the corners of his mouth. Finally, you managed a short, “go with you where?”

He shrugged, and started to twist the curtain in between his long, pale fingers. “I don’t know, really.”

“You want me to go somewhere with you without anywhere in mind?”

“I thought we’d figure it out as we went along,” he said. “Travel the galaxies. I cannot return to Asgard and Midgard, of course, is out of the question so long as I do not rule it.”

“You want me to follow you into outerspace?” Only his silence could tip you off that Loki was actually nervous. He clearly had no idea how you would respond to his suggestion—which was by falling into a nearby chair to gape at him. “You want me to leave my family?”

“They live far away and hardly talk to you.”

“And my job?”

“That you’ve never liked. We’re both aware.”

And my best friend?”

“She spends most of her time visiting mosques in India with her boyfriend,” Loki said with a dismissive flick of his hand. “Besides, there’s no rule to say we can’t come back to visit her every so often. I have no objection. She seems a sensible enough woman.”

“And you want me to leave them all,” you went on as though you couldn’t hear him, “for you, a man I haven’t seen in years because he was in prison.”

Once more, Loki said nothing. His green eyes peered into yours with unreadable depths, just as they had the unfortunate day you had returned home after to work to find your injured pigeon friend gone and a strange man eating all of the meat out of your fridge in its place. You could remember, too, the feel of that man’s skin against yours, the heat of his lips on your neck, the sound of his low voice in your ear—and Jared complaining, always complaining, about how much time you spent with that damn bird.

You buried your face in your hands. “I can’t do it, Loki. I can’t.”

You waited to hear him leave again, to hear the glass move and the rush of the storm and the flutter of wings. None came. All that did was one soft word: “Please.”


When you looked up, Loki was right above you. His hands gripped the chair arms at your sides with enough force to make them whiter than ever—but his eyes were not on yours anymore. “Please,” he said, “I don’t want to lose you, too.”

Another move without thinking or warning: you gently touched his other cheek. Loki’s eyes closed for a half second before he moved one hand to hold your wrist there. “I have already lost my father, my mother, my home. My own brother has thrust me unceremoniously from both realms I sought to rule. And then to hear that I would lose you, too, to an oaf like that Jared.”

No one could say that Loki losing all of this wasn’t entirely his fault. He had decided to lead an alien invasion into Earth, to try murdering several members of his mentioned family, and to seduce young Earth women under the guise of hurt animals. But part of Loki’s charm was that he never failed to make one doubt that he could be better, maybe, if you only let him try.

“I’m sorry,” you said sincerely. A sincere apology didn’t mean your mind was changed, however, and this, also, Loki knew.

“Do you want me to beg?” he asked. “I am no longer a stranger to begging.”

With that, Loki slid to the wooden floor before you. Stranger or no, it was positive it wasn't a position relished being in, what with how stiff his hands were around yours when he made to hold them. He swallowed, took a deep breath, and began:

“I know I am asking a lot. But I, too, have lost a family, a job, and my closest friends. I would not ask you to come with me if I did not intend on paying you pack ten times in kind. If you will allow me to take you with me, I know I can make you happier than you would be here. Together we will find some place to call our own, and you shall be my queen. So please,” he said, “please let me keep one last thing that I love. Don’t make me leave you behind, too.”

It wasn’t the prettiest speech you had ever heard come out of his mouth, but it was probably the most honest. You gave him a tiny smile as you squeezed his hands in return. “A queen, huh?”

Loki smirked. “Or a comfortable, quiet living. Depending on what we find, and how thorough Thor is in seeking me out. At least, we could be comfortable and quiet for a little while.”

“Can’t imagine that’s going to last long with you around,” you observed.

“With you around to look after me, though…”

That got you to laugh. “Oh, yes, I’m sure I’d do a wonderful job making sure you didn’t get into any trouble. I did such a good job before.”

Some of the color returned to Loki’s features. He was starting to hope. Against your better judgement, so were you. A couple of things, however, remained to bother you: “What if you came here and Jared and I were married?” you asked.

“Then I would have had to resort to kidnapping.”

“And how did you even know I was getting married today to begin with?”

He smiled his Cheshire smile, and that was when you knew you were truly lost. “You really ought to stop talking to the birds on your fire escape. You never know which one would be willing to pass information off in exchange for a couple of peanuts.”

“Oh, and you stalk me. What part of this deal doesn’t sound good?”

“None of it, I should hope.” Standing, Loki kept one hand firmly around one of yours. “We should go, you realize. Unless you want to say your goodbyes?”

You thought of your parents blustering about how you dared to invite both of them to your wedding. You thought of the forlorn apartment you shared with a man that had never really loved you enough. You thought of Aliyah and her instance that Jared would never be good enough for you. You thought of the awkward explanation that would be expected as soon you set foot outside that door—and you grinned. “Not a chance.”

“Then I believe,” he said, and abruptly pulled you into his arms in an obvious parody of carrying a bride before pushing the window open with his boot, “we have a few errands to go on before we get on our way.”

“Like what?”

“Unless you plan to live the rest of our lives with nothing but multiple blenders,” he began, but was not able to finish over your sudden laughter and the return of the torrent outside. You latched your hands behind his neck as he dove back into the rain. There were stars somewhere above those clouds, and you would be visiting them soon enough—them, and endless other realms. Maybe eloping with a man that could turn into a pigeon wasn’t the best miracle there ever was on Midgard, but it pulled off the most important trick of them all: against all odds, you lived happily ever after.

Loki LaufeysonxReader: A Bird in the Hand
Written for the March 2016 fic trade for Lunaescence Archives.

Recipient: Symphonic Fantasia
Prompt: "Please, I don't want to lose you, too."
Word count: 1000-2000+ 
Pairing: Loki LaufeysonxReader

I feel like I have written everything I could write about Loki for this prompt. Everything. That is why this took me so long to write: I was trying to think of something creative. Originally it was going to be a full-length fairy tale, but given that the last chapter fic trade response I did still isn't finished yet, this got cut down for time. Which means you get to miss my (not) hilarious reference to the comic panel that gave me the inspiration for this. It's probably more uniform tone-wise without it, but boy howdy that comic makes me chuckle. 

Anyway, here's to hoping this is decent. Hope you enjoy!

Keyblade Knighthood sounded pretty magical to young girls on distant worlds, visited suddenly by men in white to tell these children that they were destined for greater things. Your head was sill spinning with dreams and ideas by the time your parents had you packed up and shipped off to the Land of Departure. As it turned out, magic was a part of Keyblade Knighthood, but so were sweat and tears and a whole lot of lectures about the nature of light and dark.

At the age of sixteen, all of those things seemed commonplace. Your visions of traversing galaxies and saving the day no longer plagued you—at least, nearly not as often or as badly as your many nights of cramming for surprise tests on spells. As it turned out, being a knight was about as tedious as any other occupation might have been back on your home world, with the one exception of a certain someone you wouldn’t have met if you had stayed on your home world.

“Oi, [Name]! What’re you doing?” called a masculine voice from behind you. You turned quickly away from the courtyard fountain to glare at the owner of the voice. How had Terra even found you here? Ignoring the fact that the Land of Departure was the size of a flea, you meant.

“I’m taking a break,” you answered as he approached. The look on his face did not bode well for said break, you could tell that already. It had not been all that long ago that you’d finally managed to escape Terra and now here he was all over again. Sure enough, his smile only grew when he got to the space in front of you to grab your hand.

“You can’t take a break yet,” he said. “We’re not finished.”

A groan escaped you before you could stop it. Since the cat of your lack of enthusiasm was out of the bag (if it had ever been in the bag to begin with), you tugged your hand free of Terra’s to sink onto the fountain’s rim. You pressed your face into your palms, then said in a muffled voice, “I’m done, Terra.”

As usual, he was prompt with his rebuttal: “Come on. Don’t be like that.”

With a snort, you forced your head up to look at him. The battle was lost the second your eyes met his, but it would be better for everyone involved if Terra didn’t find that out. His ego was huge enough as it was. “Don’t be like what?” you sighed. This was one of your many mistakes. Maybe if you hadn't asked, you would have been permitted to spend the rest of the day alone. Terra grinned before plopping down next to you, careful to shove you over as he did so. Needless to say, this did not improve your mood. Neither did his answer:

“Like you always are.” He must have been able to feel your annoyance because he bumped his shoulder against yours as he went on, “Aqua, Ven, and Master Eraqus won’t be home for another few hours. Don’t you want to have something to show for our time when they get back?”

“Honestly? I’d rather sleep while Master isn’t around to wake me up with reminders about how the Darkness is lazy. Don’t you ever get tired?” After all, he’d woken you up at the crack of dawn not for breakfast, not to watch the sunrise, but to declare that you would be spending all day together…training. Not exactly the most romantic day alone with Terra you could imagine.

“How can I?” he asked. “Our Mark of Mastery exam is coming up! Just two more weeks. I don’t understand how you can sleep at all.”

Unfortunately, the due date was accurate. Finally, you were close enough to visiting home that you could practically taste it—if you could pass your test, that was. “I’m trying not to think about it,” you said tersely. This only caused Terra to turn the force of his encouragement up another dozen notches. He was on his feet again quicker than you could blink, and smiling like the sun once more.

“Nothing for you to be worried about,” he said. “Not if you help with me sparring this afternoon, anyway. What if I fail because I didn’t get enough practice? Do you really want that on your conscious?”

Another dramatic groan was your reply, but you also stuck both your arms out in front of you. “Fine, but only until the others come home for dinner. I’m not staying up until midnight stabbing at you with a stick again.”


Terra grabbed your hands with no further prompting, and soon you were flying after him, laughing as you raced back toward the training field and away from the cobblestone fountain where you had gone to avoid him in the first place. After a morning of mock fighting, you were already scraped up, singed, and in dire need of a cure spell. If there was one person in the multiverse that you would willing go another round with in this condition, it was Terra. No one else could get you to enjoy all the dodging and ducking and lunging. Only him.

“Don’t go easy on me,” he reminded you as you both took up your positions for what felt like the hundredth time that day alone.

“I never do,” you said, picking up your lovingly-crafted wooden keyblade, then swinging at him without warning. The sparring session started up just where the last one ended.

Aqua, Terra, and Ventus were your three closest friends. They had to be; there were no other children in the Land of Departure, and you had left those of your childhood on your home world years ago. Between you and Terra, though, things were different. You didn’t quite understand how. All you did know was that you didn’t hold hands, sit close, or fall asleep on the floor together after a long night of studying with Aqua or Ven—and you were pretty sure Terra didn’t either. Whatever you had with him, it wasn’t easily defined, perhaps because you had a sinking suspicion Master Eraqus wouldn’t be happy if you tried.

But that was what you were working toward, wasn’t it? Just a few more days, and you could leave, see your parents again, travel the world with Terra at your side, and never hear another lecture on emotions from your master. If that was your reward, then a handful of hours more of Terra and you beating each other black and blue didn’t seem so bad.


You froze as Terra dropped to the grassy ground, clutching at his own wrist.

“Terra!” Your practice blade was tossed aside with little ceremony as you crouched next to your partner. He shot you a thin smile, which only served to make you frown before gently helping him to his feet. “You okay?”

“Fine.” He laughed at look on your face. “Really, [Name]. I think you sprained my wrist.”

When he lifted his arm, you saw that Terra’s wrist was indeed swollen and red. Maybe the right reaction would have been to fuss over his injury. Instead, you let go with a scowl. “Me? You sprained your wrist, you big baby. I didn’t ask to have another go.”

“Baby,” Terra repeated indignantly. You stuck your nose in the air and turned your back on him.

“I thought you’d been seriously hurt,” you said. “How do you expect to earn your Mark of Mastery if you fall over crying because you hurt your wrist?”

The thing was, you knew Terra was teasing you. Much to Master Eraqus’ chagrin, you had never grown into the ideal, serene keyblade-wielder that Aqua had. No one knew that better than Terra. He loved to get a rise out of you, especially when your instructor wasn’t around to correct either of your behaviors. You really had been worried about hurting him, though, so when he sighed and put his uninjured hand on your shoulder, you still weren’t in any hurry to forgive him.

“Okay, okay. It did hurt, but look. All I need is you to cure me, and I’ll be good as new.”

This you pretended to consider and reject in due course. “No.”


“No,” you said again, twisting around to face him. He looked just as shocked as you had expected him to, which was something of a thrill. As tempting as it was to crack a smile, however, you decided to continue teasing him for just a little while longer.

“But how can I train with a sprained wrist?” he protested.

“Heal it yourself.”

“I can’t even hold my keyblade!”

“Good. Maybe I can get a break from fighting you for a few days.”


Finally, a smile broke out wide across your face. Now Terra simply looked bewildered as he watched you double over with laughter. “I’m kidding, Ter!” This confession appeared to do little to impress him. Still grinning, you held out one hand. “Give me your arm.”

“I don’t think I want to anymore.”


“Fine.” Sure, he frowned when he gently plopped his arm back into your grip, but you could tell he was just playing, too. But his playing had never brought him quite so close to you before—at least, not his face. Summoning your keyblade forgotten, you stared up at him, into those familiar blue eyes. Terra cocked his head slightly to the side, obviously confused by your lack of action. You opened your mouth to say something, but you were thinking too hard to actually speak.

Without actively making the decision, you made the decision. It must have been pure instinct driving you to jump forward to get your lips against his, since you certainly didn’t have anyone else around to teach you the finer points of kissing. You figured it couldn’t be too difficult a skill to master—no more difficult than Aero, surely—when you felt Terra’s soft lips meet yours. Unfortunately, you misjudged how much power to put behind your leap. The next thing you felt was a sharp pain on your mouth.


It was not just Terra that collapsed to the ground this time. Tears streaming down your cheeks, you clutched at your bleeding lips…and heard, from somewhere behind you, the distinct sound of Terra’s laughter. You whirled around to see him laughing. Laughing! At your first kiss! He only laughed harder at your expression of horror.

“I think—I think you sprained my lips!” he managed to choke out between guffaws.

Sure enough, your life was so un-magical that even your first kiss had to turn out to be a dud. Hadn’t Master Eraqus seen to that the first day he met you? And your master didn’t stop his attempts at life ruining there. Upon arriving home and finding you and Terra in such a condition, he set Aqua and Ven to healing up Terra while you accompanied your teacher to an empty classroom for a long talk on “the birds and the bees.” If Terra thought he’d be getting another try at kissing you after he managed to dodge that bullet, well…he had another think coming.

TerraxReader: Sprain
Part 44 of 160 of The Space Between Stars, my reader-insert one shot request booklet. 

I tried to make the reader different than the one in the other TerraxReader one shot I wrote way back when. I haven't played the game in like four years, though, so my memory is a little hazy...

I'm going to level with you folks: I'm not sure how much longer I can keep this up. Writing several thousand words a week for a paltry one review per chapter (if that) for anything I attempt to update just isn't worth it. I've tried really hard not to be one of those authors that complains about reviews my entire 12 years of writing fan fic, but it is starting to get really disheartening. I know I have a lot to work on, but I also know I'm a good writer. It might just be time for me to give up the ghost and try writing another novel and seeing if I can't go somewhere with my skill. I thought I could at least try to finish my current projects first. I'm not so sure at this rate. I think it's really starting to show in the lackluster one shots here lately that I just cannot bring myself to expend extra time rewriting anymore.

And it wouldn't be to punish people; it might just be that what I write isn't in vogue like it used to be. I've never been a big name writer even on Lunaescence, but I still used to at least do steady business. It's also something I've been thinking about for quite some time now, several months at least. Just, you know, if I disappear, then at least some people know where I went (if indeed anyone reads this author's note or one shot at all). 

Terra was requested by Heather Wilmoth on Quotev.

Next up is Kyouya Otori. Maybe.

Any Hobbit worth their salt could recite upon command any number of stories about far-off lands and daring adventures. Children might shudder in their beds thinking of shadowy forests filled with creeping spiders; even adults could blanch over news of wolves spotted near Buckland. But that was all such tales were in the end: distant news and exciting fiction, meant to entertain and never touch the listeners. Nothing could ever really involve the Shire. The people of Hobbiton were free to continue their vicarious quests—until one day such a quest did involve the Shire.

“I already told you, Otho, I don’t have a mountain of gold hidden away to give to you. I’m certain that if I did, there would be nothing left after I was forced to buy back my home and all my possessions.”

You looked up from your work behind the counter to see one Bilbo Baggins sitting at a table across the room. He had a mug of ale clutched in one hand, and a look of polite distaste upon his face. Getting a good look at his drinking companions, you couldn’t say you blamed him. Otho and Lobelia Sackville-Baggins were not your favorite customers when they were minding their own business. Throw in harassing other patrons, and you couldn’t help but shoot them an ugly look of your behind their backs.

Normally, you would have tried to throw them out. Now that you were in serious competition with your younger brother over the inheritance of the inn, however, you decided it would be better not to make a scene. ‘A patron is a patron, so long as they’ve got gold to spend,’ as your father had reminded you since you’d started working at The Green Dragon in your tweens. Apparently your brother had no trouble remembering this, though you suspected his good memory was because he didn’t spend much of his time on the clock doing any work, and not because he lacked any hint of your admirable temper.

“[Name], quit lollygagging. Table 8 wanted supper fifteen minutes ago,” your father called over the usual evening hubbub preventing you from eavesdropping further on Bilbo and his guests. You flashed your haggard father a grin, picked up a waiting tray of food, and dove back into the throng.

The Green Dragon had been owned by your family since it had been built several generations ago. Sometimes you got the feeling your father would have gladly given up five square meals a day to be rid of the responsibility of running the place. Not so you. Working at the inn made you come alive more than any other place in the whole of the Shire. You had been hanging around it since were old enough to follow your father to work as a youth, and working there since you were bold enough to convince your father to give you a job. By necessity, you knew every nook and cranny, every regular’s name, and every story ever told by the fireplace.

Except, that was, for Bilbo’s. Even knowing that the mere sight of Otho and Lobelia would anger you, you sneaked another peek over at their table as you set the food down on a table surrounded by ravenous tweens. Sure enough, the trio was still there. Bilbo’s polite façade appeared to be fading quickly as he listened to whatever Lobelia was ranting about this time.

“[Name],” whined one of the tween boys, “you’re in the way.”

You hastily removed your hand before any of them could mistake it for part of their meal. Your constantly hungry youth wasn’t so far behind you that you had forgotten what it felt like.

“Make sure to pay before you leave this time,” you scolded. “Don’t want me to have to talk to your parents again, do you?”

None of them replied. With a deep breath and a roll of your eyes, you turned away. Before you lay a buzzing dining hall. Hobbits laughed and ate and drank in seemingly every inch of the building. It warmed your heart to see so many happy people enjoying your family’s business. All except for Bilbo, of course, who had dismissed faking politeness entirely and was now staring grumpily into the space about his relatives’ heads as they prattled on about whatever it was they had a bone to pick about that night.

Before you could even attempt to interrupt the conversation, your father caught your eye and motioned impatiently at the growing assortment of food and drink waiting to be delivered. Sighing, you picked your way back to the bar, progress hindered by the many customers that stopped you to say hello. The conversation at Bilbo’s table had grown quite lively by the time you arrived at the bar to pick up another order.

Truth be told, Bilbo’s fascinating disappearance and reappearance were not the only things about him that kept you looking at him. Neither were his rumored riches; you planned to take over the Dragon and raise your own small fortune, after all. Bilbo had, in fact, always interested you. He had had his own schedule before he’d left the Shire, coming in once a week to drink and listen to the same old stories you did day after day. Always polite, that Bilbo, if admittedly not forcibly friendly like most of the others. You had never had to throw him out for poor behavior, at any rate.

That night was the first night he’d been back to the inn after all his time away. You’d been dying to talk to him since the minute you saw him walk through the door. Between your job and the Sackville-Bagginses, you hadn’t had a chance.

Then an idea occurred to you—a wonderful, terrible, perfect idea. Before any of your fellow workers could guess that you were up to something, you filled your tray with the waiting glasses of ale. Your plan might not have had the best timing, considering the dinner rush and how flustered your father had already become, but he would have to do without you. You were only one hobbit, and if your father truly believed passing the Green Dragon onto your brother (who was, as usual, suspiciously absent that evening), then what good was your working your fingers to the bone to please people?

You turned and marched purposely toward the table at which Bilbo, Lobelia, and Otho sat. As you drew nearer, you could understand why Bilbo looked as pained as he did.

“As far as I’m concerned, you forfeited your right to Bag End when you left without saying a word and without electing an heir. The hole is ours,” Otho was saying.

“Is it,” said Bilbo. Lobelia gave him a very nasty, almost un-hobbotish look.

“You clearly aren’t right in the head anymore. Dragons? Dwarves? Why don’t you just admit you got into some messy business with that Gandalf fellow and step aside for Otho to be head of the family?”

“Difficult to do when I’m not at all mad, my dear Lobelia. For why should you think I had gold to spare if I never had my grand adventure?”

“You’re a fool,” she said, “a fool and perhaps even a criminal. We could go over your head, Bilbo. Mark my words.”

“Consider them marked. Now if you’ll excuse me…”

“We aren’t done here,” Otho growled, getting up to follow Bilbo away from the table.

’Oh, yes you are,’ you thought. Just as Otho reached over to pull Bilbo back into his seat, you arrived along with half the dining hall’s drinks. Otho standing up actually provided you with the perfect opportunity. All you had to do was angle your feet just right, and—

Lobelia’s scream was what told you that you had succeeded. Your staged trip and fall had managed to tip all the ale over to spill over the Sackville-Baggginses heads. There they sat, dripping in abject shock, as Bilbo stood staring on in astonishment.

“Oh no!” you squealed dramatically. “Did I do that? I’m ever so sorry. I’m such a klutz!”

With a lurch toward Lobelia, you made to press a towel to her sopping hair. She, however, flinched away, before turning the full brunt of her wrath on you.

“You-You-You,” she said. Apparently, your act had rendered her unable to form complete sentences. This unforeseen bonus didn’t last long; before you could so much as attempt to offer a fake apology, Otho got in your face.

“I’ll have your job for this, girl,” he said, and any desire to apologize, falsely or otherwise, vanished. You hooked a thumb over your shoulder toward where you’d last seen your father running around like a chicken with his head cut off.

“Boss is that way,” you said.

The two left without more than several stolid glares in your direction. You watched only long enough to see your father shoot you a knowing, aggrieved look when the Sackville-Bagginses approached him. Shrugging, you turned away. Well, it was difficult to feel sorry for him. If he really wanted a supper rush without incident, he really ought to have forced your brother to show up for his shifts every once and awhile, especially if you were expected to give up your inheritance without a fight.

All the same, you knew better than to leave a mess behind. You began to pick up the (thankfully unbroken) glasses littering the table and were almost finished by the time Bilbo spoke:

“Thank you.”

You had assumed Bilbo had taken the opportunity to escape your inn entirely, actually. His voice surprised you, and even more so that he was standing exactly where you’d left him. “You don’t need to thank me for being clumsy,” you answered, then smiled mischievously at his blank expression. “It looked like you could use a rescue. Those two shouldn’t bother you again tonight.”

Thank you,” he said with more feeling. You smiled again.

“It’s your first time back since your adventure. Wouldn’t want you spooked off forever.”

Much to your confusion, Bilbo hesitated before he replied. His eyes slid toward the door and back to you, and then he took a wide step backward. “Right,” he said. “All the same, I think I had better get going.”

As you looked on, Bilbo began to shuffle toward the front door. You realized with a jolt exactly what he thought: Bilbo believed you, too, were after his gold. He didn’t exactly look less nervous when you followed after him either.

“That’s a shame,” you said, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear with your hand not carrying a heavy tray of empty cups. “I really was hoping to hear your story.”

That got him to pause as well. “You…were?”

“Sure. Dwarves and dragons and spiders and elves. Sounds better than half of the stories the rest of them have been telling all week. I'm getting a little tired of the time the creek froze over and let the wolves in, personally. ”

“Mine is a rather exciting tale,” Bilbo confessed, then seemed to decide you weren’t so frightening that he couldn’t size you up. “And you are?” he asked.

“[Name],” you said. “My dad owns the place.”

At that, a look of slight disappointment crossed his face. You didn’t understand it, not until he went on, “Then I suppose you wouldn’t be able to join me at my hole for a cup of coffee and a chat? I'm getting a bit tired of the atmosphere here, but I could do with some company still.”

The words no, not tonight were right on your lips. You couldn’t just abandon the inn, or your father for that matter. But on second thought, why couldn’t you? Really, your brother ought to have been there by now to take over and there were other servers, too, picking their slow ways from table to table. Besides, when was the last time you’d been given a time off, or even a break, for that matter?

“You know what?” you said. “I’d love to.”

“Delightful!” cried Bilbo, and he held out his arm. It took you less than half a second to place your tray on one of the other server’s trays as she passed by. She gave you a wild-eyed, panicked looked, but you did not explain. You’d hear all about your lack of responsibility in the morning once your father discovered you had slipped away. For the time being, you were just like any other hobbit: who cared about work, the inheritance, or the inn when there was such a fine story to hear and such a fine hobbit to tell it? Even as you thought about the lecture you were in for, you couldn't find yourself regretting your decision. Years later while you helped Bilbo pack? You wouldn't regret it then either.

Bilbo BagginsxReader: Save
Part 43 of 160 of The Space Between Stars, my reader-insert one shot request booklet.

All prompts come from the 160 Collective Drabbles challenge by Elsaa on Lunaescence.

First off, I would just like to say that I have nothing personal against Martin Freeman. I'm sure he's a lovely person. It's not his fault I shall soon be inundated with MCU "Johnlock."

This is another one of those one shots that looked super cute in my head, but didn't turn out so cute on paper. Too much backstory! D; But I no longer have blood running through my veins, and instead have 100% pure anxiety, so this one shot is what you get. Otherwise I would never publish anything because I feel like everything I write is completely garbage these days.

Bilbo was requested by lacrimosa on Quotev.

Next up is Terra.
  • Reading: Chicago Manual of Style
  • Playing: Pokemon Black 2

Hello, lovely people! As I am sure you all have noticed, I am not good at making covers. Or artwork. Or any sort of visual piece to go along with a story. Usually I am content to just find a picture from the source material and put it on, but lately I’ve been thinking it might be fun to mix it up. So I’m holding a contest to see about getting some covers made by actual talented people! (That’s you.)

“But Straw!” you might be saying. “What might I win by participating?”

That is an excellent question, sir or ma’am, and to be honest I am not 100% sure how to go about doing this. Last time I held a contest, I only got three entries. I want to wait to announce how the prizes will be distributed until I see how much participation (if any) it will get. If I only get a few, I will give prizes out to the top three covers. If I get a lot of entries, I will give prizes to the selected winner of each category. However, no matter what the prizes will be:

  1. Your cover will be used for the story at any website I post them that uses covers (Quotev and Deviantart) with credit and a link to your account on whatever website you want credited on.
  2. You will get a one shot of at least 1000 words of whatever you want, so long as it’s a fandom I’m familiar with. That means you can ask for OCxCanon, OCxOC, CanonxCanon, self-insert, AU, literally whatever. The sky is the limit. You can even tell me what you want the story to be about!
There are only a few rules you are required to follow:
  1. I will only give out prizes for covers for the following stories:
      Adventures in a Realm Without Divorce Court Brightest Just a Myth Logical Fallacy Natasha Romanoff’s Matchmaking Service Oh My Dear Tastes a Little like Freedom, a Little like Fear
  2. One entry per person per story. You can submit one for each if you want, but no submitting three for one story.
  3. NO STOLEN ARTWORK. I don’t care if you draw the cover or photoshop it or anything like that. You can do whatever you want with the actual picture itself, but it must be yours. If I find out that you took the art from somewhere else on the internet without permission, then every entry you have will be disqualified. Obviously you can use stock images all you want, or official pictures from the original work itself—but don’t go snagging someone else’s drawing and slapping a title on at the top.
  4. All entries due by 7/1/2016.
That’s it! All you have to do is put something together, then post a link on this journal entry before 7/1/2016. I’ll try to announce the winners by 7/8/2016.

Thank you for your consideration!



TehStraw's Profile Picture
Artist | Student | Literature
United States

Asexual, aromantic interested in romance, but not in having a romance herself. As a result, spends a lot of time writing romantic fan fic. Does this work out? Probably not. But she's been trying for twelve years now, so nobody is going to stop her now.

Also a card-carrying nerd who spends time not writing watching old episodes of Star Trek and reading massive quantities of information on old pop culture she isn't even involved in. Or playing FPS and JRPGs badly. Or watching movie reviews on the internet. Ships Steve and Bucky like there's no tomorrow. Collects Pop bobble heads of Avengers characters. Did not mean to write this in the third person, but now isn't sure how to stop.

Recently got promoted and has her own office now and is hoping she can get back into writing since she's on hold so much. Starting online class to get certified to edit towards the end of January 2016, though, so isn't entirely sure this will keep up. Hopefully will allow her to have less typos but she isn't going to get her hopes up.

Loves baths, Zoo Tycoon, sleeping, her fish (Ken, Chikusa, Loki, and Groot), her cat (Seymour), and telling her life story to anyone or anything that will stay still long enough to listen.

Went to college for creative writing. Went to more college for plain English. Wants to be a real writer when she grows up. Frankly thinks all of her original ideas suck, so she keeps writing fan fic.

Also posts fan fictions to Quotev (as Straw/Strawchan), Ghosts of the Vanguard (as Straw), and Lunaescence Archives (as Straw). Fics posted on any other site or under any other name have been stolen.

Current Projects:

(Don't) Hold Your Breath
Fandom: The Last of Us
Pairings: Joel/Reader; Maria/Tommy
Main Song: We Fall Apart by We As Human
Challenge: #32 in His Rulebook

Adventures in a Realm Without Divorce Court
Fandom: Thor; Avengers
Pairings: Thor/Jane; Thor/Reader; Clint/Darcy
Main Song: Waking Up in Vegas by Katy Perry
Challenge: A Twist on "I Do"

Fandom: Iron Man 2
Pairings: Justin Hammer/Reader; Tony Stark/Reader; Happy/Pepper
Main Song: Head on Collision by Hawk Nelson
Challenge: N/A

Just a Myth
Fandom: Avengers; Captain America: The Winter Soldier; Avengers: Age of Ultron
Pairings: Natasha Romanoff/Reader; implied Clint Barton/Bobbi Morse
Main Song: I Am Not a Robot by Marina and the Diamonds
Challenge: A Perfect Love...

Logical Fallacy
Fandom: James Bond; Skyfall
Pairings: Q/Reader; Bond/Moneypenny
Main Song: A Thousand Years by Christina Perri
Challenge: 102 Things a Guy Should Know About Girls

Natasha Romanoff's Matchmaking Service
Fandom: Captain America: The Winter Soldier
Pairings: Steve Rogers/Reader; past Brock Rumlow/Reader
Main Song: N/A
Fic Trade Prompt: Late-night Bonfire

One Small Step
Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Pairings: Various/Reader
Main Song: N/A
Challenge: 120 Bits of Random

The Space Between Stars
Fandom: Request
Pairings: Request
Main Song: N/A
Challenge: 160 Collective Drabbles

Tastes a Little like Freedom, a Little like Fear
Fandom: Captain America: The Winter Soldier
Pairings: Winter Soldier/Reader
Main Song: Honey and the Bee by Owl City
Challenge: 100 Drabble Adventure

Where Gods Do Fear to Tread
Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Pairing: Currently Bruce/Reader
Main Song: N/A
Challenge: 9 Months

Coming Eventually
(If I can ever actually finish any of the above stories.)

Fandom: Captain America: The Winter Soldier
Pairings: OC/Reader; Brock Rumlow/Reader
Main Song: TBA
Challenge: 20 Every Day Questions

To That Distant Future
Fandom: (Pre-)Captain America: The First Avenger
Pairings: Steve Rogers/Reader; Bucky Barnes/Reader
Main Song: TBA
Challenge: Childhood Memories

A Stab in the Dark
Fandom: Guardians of the Galaxy
Pairing: Nebula/Reader
Main Song: TBA
Challenge: NA/TBA

All That Glitters
Fandom: Agent Carter
Pairing: Polyamorous Peggy/Reader/Angie
Main Song: TBA
Challenge: Yuri For Every Occasion

Fandom: Avengers
Pairing: Steve Rogers/Reader
Main Song: TBA
Challenge: Dont'd Tooch My Mommy!

To Win an Agent in 14 Days
Fandom: Avengers
Pairing: Clint/Reader; Tony/Natasha
Main Song: TBA
Challenge: To Win a Girl in ____ Days!

A Thing for the Villains
Fandom: MCU
Pairing: Various Villains/Reader
Main Song: NA
Challenge: Is It Love, Really?

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Add a Comment:
wonderlandisonfire Featured By Owner 4 days ago  New Deviant Hobbyist Writer
Hello! I just want to say that I love your reader inserts and writing style! Can't wait to see more :)
Rise-Of-Majora Featured By Owner Jan 27, 2016  Student Digital Artist
Can I Ask A Request? Can You Do A Peter Quill (From Guardians Of The Galaxy)  And Male Son Reader?
Im Even Giving To The Information Of Who Is Him If You Dont know Him

If You Cant, Sorry If I Bother You
TehStraw Featured By Owner Jan 28, 2016  Student Writer
It's not a bother! I can certainly try it. I'll add it to my request booklet. The prompt will be "imagination." Thank you for requesting!
chelsea77xx89manga Featured By Owner Jan 25, 2016  Hobbyist Writer
Will there be any NatashaxReader fics soon?
TehStraw Featured By Owner Jan 26, 2016  Student Writer
I don't know about soon, because that depends on your definition of soon. But I do intend to update Just a Myth eventually. Actually, I have most of the next chapter written, but it's really bad, so intend to get around to rewriting it eventually. And there will be one shots when I get back to my Avengers collection, too.
chelsea77xx89manga Featured By Owner Jan 26, 2016  Hobbyist Writer
Okay that sounds great!
Alienette Featured By Owner Edited Aug 13, 2015
Thank You By Kmygraphic-d8skr9p by anne1956
FrozenCrystalRose Featured By Owner Jun 6, 2015  Hobbyist Writer
Welcome to ReadersInc! We hope you enjoy the group!
LokiAvengerFangirl Featured By Owner May 26, 2015
Happy Birthday! :D
TehStraw Featured By Owner May 27, 2015  Student Writer
Why thank you!
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