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Rule #43: When in doubt, go with the shirt that matches your eye color.

Let it never be said that your artistic prowess went entirely unappreciated. Every so often, your college degree did prove itself to be useful—though certainly not in any way that could really rationalize your tuition costs and spending so many years perfecting your skills, in Q’s opinion. If it only helped fruit packaging companies and hummus distributors, it would be a sorry field of expertise indeed. At least sometimes you could help Q along with it, too.

The weeks leading up to the fateful evening had seen Q more tense and irritable than usual. He was sure that you had noticed that, since you had taken up disappearing to do laundry or go grocery shopping whenever he got home. Yes, things with Eve had straightened out for the most part, but that was simply luck on Q’s part. There was no amount of phone calls you could make to get him out of this particular setup.

“I’m not sure if this is the right one either,” Q said as he looked himself up and down in the floor length mirror hung on the door to his side of the closet. He pulled at the bowtie slung around his neck. Even without that aspect of the outfit completed, the whole ensemble was still, “too professional, don’t you think?”

You looked up from the magazine you were pouring over in an attempt to avoid him while lounging on the bed. Q caught a glimpse of your eyes moving slowly up and down his body, and only just prevented himself rolling his eyes. Now was not the time to roll around in the sheets. Couldn’t you see that he was in a time of crisis?

“I think you look hot.”

Apparently not. Q did roll his eyes this time. “Unfortunately, I need to impress my middle-aged boss. Not my young, muliebral girlfriend.”

“His loss,” you said with a shrug, then returned to your magazine with a quiet scoff of, “muliebral."

Q returned his attention to his appearance in the mirror. His dressing properly for work the following morning was imperative. He needed to strike just the right amount of confidence and subordination. Too much of the former and he risked losing everything. Too much of the latter and he risked gaining much more than he wanted at present. No, Q had plans, and those plans did not involve being shunted to another department where he would be more “welcome.”

The next thing he heard was a faint grumble from the bed and the sound of a magazine being put down none too carefully. When he did not turn around again to give you the attention you so apparently desired, you were forced to speak:

“What are you so worried about? It’s just the annual review. Normally you’re excited over getting a raise.”

He deigned to give you a side-eye. “It hasn’t been a good year.”

“Really?” There was some undeniable proof that you hadn’t listened to half the things Q had been saying to you for the past 12 months. Though to be fair, Q really wasn’t supposed to tell you half the things he’d told you. It was probably for the best that you didn’t remember. He felt peevish, however, and not at all inclined to give you that point.

“Well, let’s see here. I connected a terrorist’s computer to the mainframe of our secret headquarters, let you walk through the front door on a regular basis, failed to update several weapons in time for use in missions, and once let such vital information go that said muliebral girlfriend had to stay in the basement until we found the bastard that took it.” Q ticked each of these off with a finger. “Anything else?”

Instead of listing any of Q’s admittedly impressive feats that he had accomplished, you simply stared at him. The magazine laying on the pillow next to you went unnoticed, rather like Q had when he had needed your advice about Miss Moneypenny. He waited, and waited, and waited, and then was rewarded—with movement. You shoved the crumpled magazine aside, then came to stand beside him by the mirror, in front of the mound of clothes that Q had already rejected that evening for one reason or another, or perhaps a fit of pique.

“Here,” you said after a long moment. Q reached out to take the offered blue shirt with a sigh.

“[Name], I already decided I can’t wear this one.” There wasn’t much left in his closet, to be honest, but Q was in the mood to be difficult.

“Just put it on,” you commanded.

With a shake of his head, Q peeled off his current shirt to shrug yours on. Once it was settled on his shoulders, you began to adjust the collar. Another few seconds to make sure that this all looked fine, and you reached out to pull a nice tie out of the pile, which you then put into place with a flourish. “There,” you announced. Q decided to humor you and stepped back to the mirror again. You followed to tug here and there where the fabric had bunched up. “It matches your eyes,” you explained absently. “If you wear the black jacket, it’ll jazz the whole number up just right. Won’t look like you’re emulating Mr. Bond, but you’ll look nice. Just like a real quartermaster.”

To his great surprise, Q could see it. How he hadn’t seen it before could only be attributed to the great amount of stress he was under. You and your over-sized sweaters and the uncut hair pulled back with clips to keep it out of your ink spoke not at all of your actual talents when it came to color pallets, obviously. It would work. Something in his expression must have given his surrender away, because you grinned at his reflection in the mirror and slapped the small of his back.

“You’re gonna do fine, Al.”

“Of course I’ll do fine. Thank you, [Name].” He undid his tie and began to remove the shirt so that he could get it ironed and ready for duty early the next day. As he left, though, one thing sank in. Q returned to the doorway and frowned at you. “Don’t call me Al.”

“Don’t call me muliebral,” you shot back.

Whatever the result of his annual review, at least Q could rest certain that he somehow passed your inspection on a daily basis. How he did that was beyond him, but if he could manage that, he would absolutely manage to pass inspection by MI6.

QxReader: Logical Fallacy [Ch. 43]
Part 43 of 102 of my Logical Fallacy collection.

More things nobody cares about! Except me. I actually really like this series. Sorry. I am working on everything else right now, but these are easy to wrap up. I have about six projects lined up now, so finishing anything will allow me to move on. The sooner I get to 102, the sooner you stop seeing these, after all.

Previous Chapter: 42. To the Rescue
Current Chapter: 43. Fashion 101
Next Chapter: TBA
Mature Content Filter is On
(Contains: ideologically sensitive material)

Just seeing you after all the misery she’d felt in the past two weeks lifted Natasha’s spirits. Underneath Steve’s watchful eye, she greeted you with just the amount of enthusiasm she felt Steve expected from her. Not an iota of it was faked; Natasha really was glad to see you. Once out of sight, however, she felt some of her enthusiasm drain away. Unfortunate, since yours only grew. You took her by the hand for once, leading her to the waiting car outside the base and even all the way to the restaurant once you arrived. It would have been nice, had Natasha not been so distracted.

“So,” the elongated sound broke slowly through her myriad thoughts until Natasha found herself blinking at the table. There was an empty plate in front of you, and a picked at plate in front of her. When had dinner arrived? When had you started eating better than she did?

Natasha decided she would have to play along. “So…what?”

Your eyes roved around her face, and Natasha wondered what you saw there. She knew she couldn’t look like herself, not if Steve was worrying about her. Then your arms were reaching across the table to snatch her hands up in a movement that was becoming all too familiar to her. When physically connected like that, she could feel a faint shaking coming from you that almost matched the frantic buzzing in her own head. “Natasha,” you said, “please.”

“Please what?”

“Talk to me.”

She looked away. Things weren’t quite so bad that she wanted to tear her hands away from yours; there was some comfort to be gained by touching you. Couldn’t she get out of this somehow? Couldn’t she laugh it off? “What’s there to talk about?” she asked with her best attempt at a smile that you did not share. In fact, you let go of her hands entirely. “[Name]?”

“You still don’t want to talk about it.”

Well, this was a straight answer. Natasha couldn’t really ask for anything else. You were being honest with her—but that did not mean that Natasha had to be honest with you in return. She shook her head. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“That’s not what Captain Rogers said.”

“And what did Captain Rogers say?” Natasha asked. She kept her voice neutral, but it was a loaded question nonetheless. The flinch that flickered across your features made plain that you were well aware of this as well. Your hands slid into your lap as you tried to come up with an answer that would soothe her, and serve the further purpose of not getting you in trouble with Steve. Defeated, you sighed and allowed your shoulders to slump.

“He just said you were sad.”

“About what?”


Natasha’s eyes narrowed. “You’re lying.”

Pink blush burned brightly in your cheeks. Try as you might have to meet her eyes, you just couldn’t manage for very long. Seeing Natasha’s obvious disbelief, you lowered your eyelids and fidgeted for a moment with your hands in your lap. Finally you said, “About your past,” almost as quietly as was possible.

“Mm-hm,” said Natasha. “Did he say anything else?”

“No!” you burst out. “No, Natasha, I swear. Captain Rogers just called and said that something had happened while you all were in Europe, something to do with Red Room—”

“What do you know about Red Room?” Natasha asked, unable to keep her voice from becoming sharp as steel. Your blush darkened to tomato red. She felt like her insides were quivering, and she did not like the sensation. There was not a time in her recent memory, outside of Wanda’s manipulations, that Natasha had felt scared. This was no manipulation, either. Natasha was honest to god afraid of you in a way that she had never been afraid before. “What did you read?”


You looked panicked: somehow pink and pale at the same time, sweaty and shaky, and altogether upset. But you looked honest, too. God, how Natasha wished that you didn’t always have to be the better of the two of you. “That stuff on me has been out for a while. Anyone could read it. You had plenty of time while I’ve been away.”

Her words caused you to shrink back in your chair. Natasha felt bad about that; of course she did. Yet there was something that felt nice about someone else feeling crummy for once that made Natasha’s more brutal side not want to stop, not even when you said quietly, “You asked me not to.”

“And when has that ever stopped anyone before?” asked Natasha, keeping her voice light. Your pink flared up to lobster red; she had only ever seen fair-haired Steve turn that color before. You kept your eyes on her, however, in a way that inclined Natasha to think that you were telling the truth and that she was being a jackass.

“You told me not to, so I didn’t. If you’re going to tell me what happened, I want to hear it from you. Not some SHIELD report leaked on the internet.”

“You want me to talk about it? Fine. I'll talk about it.” Natasha could hardly believe her words, let alone her tone. Suspicion, nervousness, fear. This was no way to live. Natasha hated herself more and more, not only because of what she had been, but because of what she was becoming. All over again she felt the hopelessness of loving someone real and human. Natasha was an assassin. A broken woman. A monster.


“When I was just a kid, my father sold me to Red Room. You probably already know that.” She didn’t even look at you to confirm this, just barreled right on, wishing that spewing the acid burning in her chest would get it out of her body. It wouldn't. “But when I graduated? They butchered me. I can’t have kids anymore. I can’t have a normal life. I-I tried to fail.”

It felt worse, infinitely worse, to hear her own voice crack like that. Last time she had come this close to genuine tears was standing in front of Loki over a year ago and listening to what he planned to force Clint to do. Only now she was breaking down in front of one of the few people who would really see through the breaking, that would know that this time it wasn’t a game. Natasha didn’t need anything from you—not anything that could be bought with crocodile tears, at any rate. What she wanted, she already had, but she didn’t deserve it. That was worst of all.

“Natasha,” you said, taking her hand in yours again. That was what broke Natasha, in the end. “We can’t have kids anyway. Not if we…”

If we stay together. That was what you intended to end your sentence with. Natasha knew. She knew, and she hated it, because she had let this situation happen. She had played too long and fallen in love for real, and now she didn’t have any idea how to get out. You understood her, even without understanding what she’d done. She took a deep breath that sounded far too shaky to mean that she was truly steady. Natasha had to speak, though. But what to say?

“This—this is fairy tale.” Natasha gestured at you and her and the table and the restaurant. “That’s the thing about fairy tales: they don’t come true.”

You pressed your lips together until they disappeared. Natasha looked away. She had hurt you, and had probably meant to. Unfortunately, she wasn’t a good enough person to accept your kindness and confess what was bothering her, let alone to watch your reaction to her refusal to do either. No, happily ever afters were for princesses, and Natasha never had been close to being a princess. This had started as Beauty and the Beast, but there wasn’t any magic spell for you to break. There was only Natasha’s past, and not even you could do something to break that.

Natasha RomanoffxReader: Just a Myth [Ch. 18]
Part 18 of 32 of my Just a Myth collection.

Prompts come from the "A Perfect Love..." challenge by Raicho Kurubi on Lunaescence Archives.

Not my best work. Like, it's okay until I get to the end. The end is so abrupt. But I just couldn't think of anything to continue on with that wouldn't just make it go on for no particular reason. .~. Sorry. I'm still learning.

Previous Chapter: 17. Be her escape.
Current Chapter: 18. Tell her you believe this is a fairy tale.
Next Chapter: TBA

Once upon a time, there had been something comforting about Twilight Town. The sunsets there stained the pavement red and there was always the smell of sea salt on the air. For Roxas, this stirred something inside him that he did not understand—or at least, it used to. Everything had changed now. He wondered if anything would stir him ever again, least of all sunsets and the promise of popsicles after a long day of work. But there was plenty to think of before that hour came: heartless to destroy and information to gather and mission after mission after mission.

“What’s the point?” Roxas muttered as he flexed his empty hand. The keyblade ought to have shone into being, but Roxas simply didn’t care. Sure, he’d finish his job here, but then what? Another lonely day at the castle with Demyx begging him to take his work. As if whether or not the work was done even mattered…

He knew he had to get around to it eventually. Saïx would have something to say if he didn’t. The desire to put things off, however, grew and grew, until Roxas found himself just standing there, as though he was waiting for the sun to finish setting. Maybe darkness would soothe his restlessness a little, but he doubted it. One foot was lifted in preparation for his walk when Roxas heard the sound of voices coming toward him. He froze.

Heading his direction on a higher level of the street was a gaggle of teenagers, all chattering excitedly. Two were boys, one thin with a thick cap covering his head, the other thick and dark-headed. The other two were girls, one reedy and purple, the other laughing at something one of the others had said. The last glanced his way and her smile faded, leaving her blinking at him for the split second before he darted behind the nearest wall. As bad of a mood as Roxas was in, he still didn’t want to be caught during a stealth mission. A lecture from Saïx really would be the cherry on top of this lousy sundae.

“Hold on, guys. No—No, go on. I’ll catch up with you, okay? Just go,” he heard one of the girls call, and huddled even farther behind the wall. None of them had seen him, surely. Maybe that last girl had looked straight at him, but why would she care? No one in Twilight Town ever cared. It was like they didn’t even see the creatures Roxas and his friends spent their time sniping from the dark. Poison Plants and Detonators and Scarlet Tangos all went unnoticed. Surely Roxas would, too.

There you are!”

Roxas nearly jumped out of his skin, or his coat at the very least. Standing behind him was the girl from before, the one that had been laughing. You were laughing now, too, a wide smile on your face as you rocked back and forth on the balls of your feet.

“Where’s your friend?” you asked after a moment of silence during which Roxas’ nonexistent heart attempted to burst free of his chest. Apparently you took his shocked silence as confusion, because you soon went on: “You know, the one with the crazy red hair?” You mimed pulling out a long spike of hair as you spoke.

“Axel,” Roxas said without thinking.

“That his name? I see the two of you around here all the time. Wondered what you were doing all alone.”

“You…see us?”

“Yep. All the time,” you said again. “Sneaking around in those coats of yours. Where do you get those? I’ve been looking all over town for one them, and I can’t—”

“I’ve got to go,” Roxas said, abruptly turning in the direction he’d been trying to go before you interrupted. Unfortunately, you did so again, by putting an hand on his shoulder and shouting:


“Huh?” When he turned once more, he saw your smile for a third time. It made an odd, uncomfortable feeling start in his stomach, like his intestines were trying to flip around inside him. The reverse spell, maybe? But you looked so mundane, so ordinary, and Roxas could still move whichever way he intended to. You were moving on before he could work things out.

“You can’t go without your buddy, right? I’ll be your buddy!”

Roxas could only stare dumbly at you for several seconds. “I don’t need a buddy,” he said at last. What in the world were you doing, sticking around? Couldn’t you tell that Roxas wanted to be alone? For once, he could be, but here you were ruining that. You stuck your hands on your hips.

“Then why do you always have Axel around?”

“He’s assigned to me,” Roxas said nervously. All these questions coming every which way, all these observations coming from someone obviously not a member of the Organization—Saïx was going to kill him. Well, that might not be too bad, really. “I don’t need him along, and I don’t need you.”

“Fine.” This distinct groan, Roxas felt, was a good end to this conversation. If he hurried, he could probably still have ice cream on the clock tower alone. Not one block passed before he realized that his footsteps had a distinct echo. Sighing, Roxas came to a stop. So did the second set of footsteps.

“You’re following me, aren’t you?”

“I don’t have anything better to do.”

“What about your friends?”

You shrugged. “They’ll wait up for me.” Roxas’ eyes widened. If this was how people with hearts treated their friends, then the idea that anyone in the Organization wanted to obtain a heart was utterly baffling. He would hate to treat Xion—or even Axel—as callously as you treated the three he’d seen you walking with. “What?” you asked at the look on his face. “All Seifer wants to do is hang around the Sandlot and wait for people to challenge to fights. It gets old after a while.”

"I know what that’s like. Heh.” Roxas hadn’t meant to make that noise; it had simply slipped out. To his surprise, he found that he was smiling as he talked to you. You! Not Axel or Xion or—on some bizarre world—Saïx. Just some random girl with a nice smile and an even better laugh. Maybe you wouldn’t mind going for ice cream when he was done?

Just then Roxas remembered that there was no way he’d get away with that sort of interaction without someone finding out about it. He could just see Demyx using it as a way to get Roxas to do his work for him, or Xigbar lording it over his head, or Saïx towering over him as Roxas tried to explain no, you were just someone nice to talk to. Oblivious to his tumultuous thoughts, you prattled on. Roxas opened his mouth to interrupt and—

There was the familiar sound of something ripping through the darkness to a brand new world. Roxas only had to glance behind his shoulder to find a Watcher right behind him. Before he could think, before the heartless could aim, Roxas had lunged forward, snatched your wrist, and yanked you after him. Only once this was done did he think to shout, “Run!”

All he heard in response was a yelp as the Watcher sent a blast right where you had been a second before. Roxas turned his head just to make sure that you hadn’t been hurt too badly. You hadn’t. In fact, you were beaming as you pelted after him. Too late, Roxas realized that he was holding your hand rather than your wrist in a vice grip. There was no time to change things now. There were heartless appearing every which way as the two of you raced through the corridor of empty shops in the middle of the town.

He didn’t want to summon the keyblade, not here, not in front of you. For the time being, he preferred to pretend that he hadn’t given himself away, and that what was waiting for him back at the castle was not the worst punishment that Saïx could think of. Besides, as you and Roxas rushed hand in hand toward the train station, he thought that he might actually somehow be having fun.

A Shadow appeared at your ankles, and you shrieked. As you stumbled after Roxas, however, the shriek turned into laughter. Soon the tiny Shadow was left in the dust with all the rest, with spells ricocheting off the walls and exploding in the air around you and Roxas like fireworks. His cheeks hurt; with a start, Roxas realized he was smiling. That certainly wasn’t what he had expected out of this day. The station reared into view just as Roxas had started laughing along with you—and just as a Neoshadow pulled itself up from the dark, dripping pool on the cement.

Roxas gasped and slowed to a stop. The hand in his contracted around his palm. He saw, now, how stupid it had been to run up here, where there was nothing but a dead end. The Neoshadow blocked his way inside—as though a train could take him far enough away to flee these monsters, or the ones back home. Going back was impossible, too. He couldn't drag you back through that mess you'd left behind.

“What’s—” you began. Too late. The Neoshadow lurched forward, razor sharp claws headed straight for your heart. Roxas screwed his eyes up and the next second heard a satisfying “clang”. When he opened his eyes, the keyblade gleamed in his hand, and just short of it shook the heartless’ claws. Its yellow eyes widened near-imperceptively. Roxas waited for it to strike again. Instead, it disappeared into the pavement. He held his breath. Was it leaving? No. The circle of darkness moved until  was right underneath your feet. You looked down curiously and bent, fingers outstretched.

“Get away!”

He shoved you just in time. The Neoshadow erupted from its puddle right where you had stood seconds before. Roxas had no time to see where you had tripped off to. He was already battling the heartless, keyblade ringing as it crashed against the dark body again and again. Roxas ducked, looped, swung, dodged. It was over as soon as the Neoshadow dissolved underneath his final slash, leaving nothing behind but a swiftly fading golden heart. Scowling, breathing heavily, Roxas threw his gaze back and forth across the station landing, willing any heartless foolish enough to come at him then. He was angry and tired and fed-up up with—


The sound of rapid applause broke through Roxas’ rage. Further still did the cry of, “Bravo! Encore! Encore!” that followed. He turned on the spot and found you again, still sitting on the steps where you had fallen, clapping your hands. Much to his surprise, you didn’t look at all angry. A bright pink stained your cheeks, but you looked merely exhilarated. This did not stop when you got easily to your feet to march over to him.

“You have got to let me hang out with you again soon,” you announced, and went on before Roxas could inform you of how terrible an idea that was, “let me take a few swings at it, right?” You held up your fists and punched at the air a few times before grinning at him. “’Specially if Axel isn’t around to help out.”

Roxas knew he ought to tell you that that was impossible. He wasn’t ever going to see you again, let alone get you in this sort of danger. Then he thought: why not? If you thought you could take care of yourself, and so long as Roxas still brought home plenty of hearts, there was no reason for Saïx or anyone else to find out what he was up to in Twilight Town. He smiled back. “Yeah. I think I’d like that.”

Your grin widened as you stuck out a hand. “Nice to meet you…”

It took him a few moments to realize what you were doing. Once he did, he quickly grabbed your hand and gave it a firm shake. “Roxas,” he finished for you.

“Nice to meet you, Roxas. I’m [Name].”

“Nice to meet you, too.”

Releasing him, you began to walk backward toward to slope leading back to the rest of the town. “I’ll see you around, then. Fuu’s probably furious I left her all alone with Rai and Seifer.” With that, you turned and headed back to your friends. The friends you had, despite running off to have adventures with strangers in dark clocks. Roxas’ lips turned quickly into a frown. He had no such people to return to once his work was done. Maybe…

“Hey, [Name]!” he shouted after running to the end of the station front. Though you were almost around the corner, he saw you pause. “When I’m done with work, do you want to go get some ice cream?”

“Love to! You know where to find me!”

That he did. The smile returned to Roxas’ face as he watched you wave and disappear down a ramp to some lower part of Twilight Town. It was about time for him to do his job anyway. The sun was low and the bricks beneath his feet were red. From somewhere beyond the wall drifted the smell of the ocean. Twilight Town really was beautiful—and so full of nice people. To think that earlier that day Roxas had been prepared to dismiss it as a world altogether.

RoxasxReader: Run
Part 20 of 160 of my The Space Between Stars request booklet on Quotev.

This is supposed to be set during 358/2, but heck if I know when. The chronology is a mess. Also, not my favorite game in the series. Possible my least favorite, in face. Makes you wonder why I chose to set a one shot in it to begin with.

I like meet cutes. *shrug*

Next up is Leonard from The Big Bang Theory.

Kingdom Hearts
 belongs to Square/Disney.

The wind whistled in your ears as you fell, fell, fell from the quickly disappearing quinjet. The STRIKE team’s voices faded entirely, leaving you with nothing but the sound of the grinding engine as the flaming body of the plane soared further and further away. An accountant. Why hadn’t you become an accountant? Your aunt had asked you time and time again. You were good with numbers, and at least you wouldn’t have died in such a mortifying fashion: falling unprepared out of the back of a jet, with coffee stains down your front and your hair a mass of tangles. In the end, nothing about your life had been glamorous, least of all yourself.

And poor Natasha still up there. You’d have felt sorry for her, if you didn’t already know full well she’d get out because there was no way her last act in life had been to try and get Steve Rogers to ask you on a date. Your last act was going to be that awkward conversation, though. If Natasha thought you weren’t going to spend your afterlife haunting her, she was sorely mistaken.

Just when you had come to grips with this underwhelming end to your life, something dark burst out of the disappearing quinjet, black against the slowly yellowing sky. The shape was above you in a matter of seconds, wrapping thick arms around you and steadying you against its chest. You expected next a yank upward, some sign of a pulled parachute—but there was none. The muscular body in front of you had no straps on its torso. Were they crazy? To come out here only to die with you?

You screwed up your eyes, anticipating that final hard smack. There were worse ways to go, you were sure. Not that you could think of any at the present moment. As you tried to come up one or two, you felt the arms around you shift slightly, pulling something forward, just in time for you—“CLANG!”—to hit the ground. Your back slammed into something hard and a crack followed almost immediately. Black spots bloomed across your vision too quickly for you to worry much about the pain in your side. Your lungs heaved, but no oxygen entered them. So this was death. So this was the end. So this was your so called rescuer rolling off you to reveal a sky spinning with grey clouds.

“Are you alright?” asked a deep voice.

You gasped, which served the dual purpose of getting you breathing and forcing you to sit up. Forget the pain you felt all over; that was nothing compared to what you felt at the sound of that voice. Sure enough, kneeling beside you, concern written all over his face, was Steve. “You!”

He blinked and looked around. Seeing no one else in the near vicinity, he looked back at you and pointed at his face. “Me?”

“What the hell are you doing here?”

You were being irrational. You knew you were being irrational. Steve’s expression changing to one of mild exasperation wasn’t necessary to tell you just how irrational you were being. But, oh God, his pep talk from the plane was fresh in your mind. Peggy Carter had never had to be rescued in such embarrassing fashion, you were pretty sure—or ever at all.

“I thought you might want some help after you fell out of the plane,” Steve answered, like he thought that your question hadn’t been rhetorical. Well, if he was going to make it non-rhetorical:

“Why didn’t Natasha come after me? She had a parachute!” Natasha always had a parachute. She was a good agent, unlike you.

“I don’t know. She said you’d fallen out and pushed me toward the exit. Was I supposed to have done something else? Did you want to die?”

The accusation in his tone stung, but you weren’t about to give Steve the satisfaction. Still breathing raggedly and throbbing with every breath in, you forced yourself off his shield and into a seated position on the broken cement. Moving only made the pain in your side sharpen; you couldn’t entirely avoid wincing as you settled in. Of course, that Steve had to notice, too.

“Are you alright?” he asked in a somewhat softer tone. You shot him a look of pure venom.


He frowned at your answer, but didn’t press. Instead, he just stood up to his full height to look at you. His silhouette against the sunrise was just as impressive as you had imagined, and—oh, god, were you going loopy? That fall really must have done a number on your head. Time to shut this one down. Clamping down on your lower lip, you managed to struggle to your feet, only to ruin the effect by gasping again and instinctively pressing your hand to the stabbing pain where you had hit Steve's shield. “Shi—”

Blush flooded your cheeks as you realized you had just been about to swear in front of Steve. Apparently Natasha had only asked you along on this mission to make sure you embarrased yourself irreparably. Rumlow wouldn’t have cared if you’d cussed. He’d have laughed. Rumlow wasn’t Steve. That was kind of the point. Freezing in your tracks, you cast your gaze back at Steve to find him watching with that same stern expression he'd worn earlier. You would have to ignore the pain, because you couldn’t stand to be in that spot a moment longer.

“Where are you going?” You glanced once behind yourself, then kept going. “Where are you going?” Steve called a second time.

“To find the rest of the team,” you snapped. Your whirling on the spot to face him was less than impressive, what with the death grip you still had on your side. Steve regarded you for a long minute, then sighed and scooped his shield off the pavement. It left a crater just its size behind. He ignored this damage to what was likely private property, simply sliding the shield into place before following briskly after you.

“Which way?” he asked when he arrived at your side. You blinked at him, still slightly hunched over your wound.


“Which way are we headed? I assume you got a comset. Mine broke on reentry.” Steve gestured with his chin back toward the crater. Sure enough, there it was: a crumpled mess of shattered black plastic and twisted metal. You lifted a finger to your ear.

“Natasha, do you have a ground position?” you said. A cold chill crept up your spine at the lack of answer. Either she was in trouble, or already dead. “Natasha. Natasha, come i—goddammit!” You realized, just then, that no, you had not picked up a comset. It was back on the burning remains of the jet with your damn parachute and dignity.

“Didn’t get one of those either?” Steve asked.

Oh, that was it. You spun back to him and jabbed a finger into his chest. “I tried. I was going to get one and a parachute, but I ran into you instead. There wasn’t any time for me to grab one before we were hit.”

“So you’re saying that all of this is my fault?”

“N—You know what, yes!” The pounding pain in your side was so great that you couldn’t think straight. That was your only excuse for this sort of behavior—but use it you would, because you wouldn’t be hurt like this if Steve hadn’t decided to come crashing to your rescue. If he’d just stayed behind, you would have been dead, and hoo boy wouldn’t that be preferable to what you were suffering now. “I can actually do my job most of the time, you know? If you hadn’t been here to distract me and get Natasha all riled up, I would have had the parachute and a comset, and have been halfway toward Baker’s hideout by now.”

Steve lifted his chin. You didn’t back down. It was all true, wasn’t it? He’d had to stop for that stupid excuse for a pep talk, and it wasn’t like Natasha had been encouraging you to focus on the mission before that. Unfortunately, Steve’s next words cracked your stony façade:

“How on earth did I get Natasha riled up?”

Too late, you realized you had given up her game. The blush rose again all the way to your hairline. If there was ever a SHIELD agent incapable of keeping her cool, it was you just then. “Nothing. She’s just Natasha. I—dammit!”

You doubled over with a surge of pain in your side. For a moment, the world around you spun again and your breath caught in your chest. Things stayed that way for just a few seconds before you felt a warm pair of hands steadying you once more. You sucked in some air and tremulously looked up at him. “[Name]—Agent [L Name],” Steve hastily corrected himself.


“You’re injured.”

Forcing yourself to straighten up took much longer than you would have liked. “I’m fine,” you said once that was done, though both of you knew that wasn’t true. For a second time, the look on Steve’s face hardened. He had not, you noticed with some trepidation, taken his hands off of you.

“Let me see,” he commanded. The order, combined with his countenance, made it impossible for you to refuse. Wincing, you nodded. His hands moved with surprising care up your abdomen. You hissed when his fingers pressed into the exact spot it hurt. Steve lessened the pressure, but focused his attention on that area. He only grew graver as he did.

“I think your rib is broken.”

You stared at Steve, dumbstruck. Then: “No.”

“I’m sorry?”

“No. That can’t be what happened.” It sure as hell felt like that was what happened, but you weren’t about to allow yourself to suffer the indignity of that failure on top of all the rest. You made a brave stab at another step—and had to stop immediately due to how much doing so hurt. Again, Steve was there in a flash.

“You should sit down,” he said firmly with a hand on your shoulder. “I’ll see if I can’t get ahold of anyone to come pick you up. You need medical evacuation, stat.”

You drew in a very deep breath. Now was not the time to yell at Steve. Clearly yelling at Steve had very little effect on him anyway. “Your comset is broken,” you reminded him. This did not deter Steve from marching past you, though he did turn back to answer:

“I know.”

“Then how exactly do you plan to get someone here to pick me up?”

“I’ll head to the target point. I saw it on the map, and I know where to go. The rest of the team should be headed in that direction. If not, I’ll retrieve Zodiac, then inform SHIELD of your whereabouts when—”

“Excuse me?” Steve was not used to being interrupted, that much was clear. Had your head been equally clear, you probably wouldn’t have been so aghast at what he was saying that you had to interrupt. “You’re leaving me here?”

“You’re in no condition to—”

“What if you get taken out? What if the rest of the team is dead or unable to get to the target? What then, Captain Rogers?”

Either Steve had to take a few minutes to make sure he didn’t snap at you for all your insubordination, or he had about as much of a clue about what to do from this point as you did: not very much. Finally, he inhaled and settled his hands on his belt buckle. “Agent [L Name], your dedication to Rumlow is admirable, but in this sort of situation, your presence would be more of a hindrance than a help.”

There was a lot to be offended at in that sentence. So much that normally you wouldn’t have had any idea where to begin. At that exact moment, however, you could only gape at Steve while one point tried to get through your head. “My dedication to who?” you demanded.

“Agent Rumlow,” Steve repeated. “Your boyfriend.”

“I wouldn’t mind making sure Nat is okay.” Heaven knew no one else at work would sit with you at lunch, especially given Clint’s propensity to simply not show up for weeks at time because he was too busy falling in love or rescuing dogs from the Russian mob. Take Natasha out of the equation, and you’d be eating at the unpopular table for the rest of your short life. Not that that was really the important thing here. “Agent Rumlow is not my boyfriend.”

Steve blinked at you. “Are the two of you engaged?”

“No!” you burst out, loud enough that Steve actually backed away from you. Yes, he backed away and actually relaxed a little. That made no sense at all; you must have been imagining things. “Brock Rumlow isn’t my anything.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. I, uh…accidentally walked in a room the two of you had at the party last year. After what I saw, I just assumed…” he trailed off into embarrassed silence. His embarrassment, however, could be nothing in comparison to your own.

“That was a mistake. I had too much to drink, and—I don’t know, it just happened.”

“Really?” Now Steve was smiling. What on earth he had to smile about, you didn’t know. Regardless of whether or not Rumlow regularly had his tongue down your throat these days, both of you were still stranded at an abandoned docking station in the middle of nowhere. “Because last week he said he was taking you out to dinner.”


“I take it he did not take you out to dinner,” Steve observed. What tipped him off? Probably the rising color in your cheeks. You tried, however, to breathe and speak normally when you asked:

“What else has Agent Rumlow been saying about me?”

For whatever reason—and you had a pretty good idea of what reason it could be—Steve blushed at this question. “I don’t really…not polite to repeat…” he trailed away.

“Okay, that’s it. We’re leaving,” you said flatly, forcing yourself to walk upright in a straight line the way Steve had been headed.

“Wait. You’re still not well enough to—”

“I don’t care. We’re getting there and getting this done, and then I am going to find Rumlow and murder him with my own two hands.”

“The two hands connected to your broken rib?”

He had you there. Rumlow was a major figure not just in SHIELD, but the STRIKE team as well. But you were no slouch, and you were well aware of that. “It might take me awhile to warm up,” you told Steve, “but I can be just as good as Natasha and Clint. There’s a reason they let me hang around them so much.”

“I know.” There was not a hint of sarcasm in Steve’s voice. “Still might be hard with the broken rib. You might need some help. I hold him down, you do the punching.”

There was a curve to Steve’s lips, you’d swear it. He didn’t sound like he was making fun of you though. Had you actually died back there and found yourself in some bizarre version of hell? “I don’t think that’d be within company regulations.”

“Probably not,” Steve agreed. “But if he’d said what he said about you in front of me back when I weighed ninety pounds, I would have taken him outside for sure. I’m not sure if even Bucky would have been able to pry me off.”

You allowed Steve a tiny smile, then it was back to business. “First we gotta find him, though.”

“Right.” Even he didn’t sound too hopeful now. Why should he? He was the only one who knew for sure where the exact location was; all you had was a general direction. You were injured and a hot mess, and now really wasn’t the time to be just the slightest bit thrilled over Steve’s concern over your rib, or that he wanted to help you grind Rumlow into a pulp. For goodness sake, the two of you were all alone and after what was a neigh invisible terrorist group. You had got to pull yourself together, and you did, pulling yourself up straight and managing to take several strides forward without folding over once. “You coming?”

Steve was practically grinning. That was odd, but you were starting to think Steve himself was odd. Handsome and brave and smart and strong, but odd. He fell into easy step beside you, not in front of. This was probably just to be on hand if you collapsed. Was it so wrong to hope it was just because he wanted to talk to you, though? Probably. What would Captain America want with you?

“So what’s the plan when we get there, anyway?” you asked conversationally as the abandoned docks disappeared behind you. Even if he was walking beside you as an equal, you were well aware that Steve outranked you on several counts. If there was any lead to follow, it was his. He was quiet for a few steps before he answered:

“We can’t assume Natasha and the others will be there. I didn’t see Natasha get out of the plane, and even though STRIKE did, we can’t just figure that they weren’t picked off by Baker’s men, or that they’ll be within easy walking distance.”

You agreed with that. Hell, it made sense. Natasha had to be alive, though. Who else was going to spend the rest of the mission making up cockamamie reasons to shove you and Steve into janitorial closets when you got back to work? Being well aware of how agents weren’t technically supposed to have feelings—especially when still on a mission—you felt your throat clog up with the thought of Natasha being dead in the flaming wreckage of a quinjet somewhere. Steve noticed; he touched your elbow gently.

“Natasha will be okay,” he said firmly. “She’s tough.”

“Aye,” came an unfamiliar voice from behind. The hand on your elbow stiffened, as did your spine. Looking around, you saw that from every decrepit building around you was coming some figure dressed in all black. The way you had come was already closed up by numerous people in similar clothes. Standing in front of them was the only familiar one of the bunch: a bald man with a bright red beard—and he was grinning. “The red-head woman was pretty tough. How do you think the two of you will fare?”

Steve RogersxReader: Matchmaking [Ch. 2]
Part 2 of 3 of Natasha Romanoff's Matchmaking Service.

Was supposed to be a fic trade entry for Chereza on Lunaescence Archives. The prompt was "Late-Night Bonfire." 

I went too far and ended up with...this. ;w; I'm sorry. I had about 1000 words written of chapter 2 when I posted chapter 1, but then I got all caught up in work and writer's block, and then those words were awful so I rewrote everything. I am already working on chapter 3, though, and I am trying to write one sentence of each of my projects per night, so hopefully the next chapter will be up in a few months, max?

I gotta get the rest of those sentences done. Bye!

Previous Chapter: The Setup
Present Chapter: The Magic
Next Chapter: TBA

“Oh my…” the words slipped out before you could stop them, but at least you cut them short. Your suddenly trembling fingers forced the bag’s pocket shut. Of all the things to find in this man’s belongings. It made sense, perhaps, but not in any good way. Your breath hitched as you stood there. Could you—but—Again, you spun back to him, where he was still half on the ground, white-faced and shaking. “What is this?” you demanded.

He stared at you, thin lips pressed together in a pale line. His fingers still shook abominably, but some of the fear had faded from his eyes. They looked hard now, like chunks of frozen sea. “Six decades worth of pay.”

Your heart thumped so fast and hard in front of your ears that you could almost swear that you heard him wrong. Surely there was no way that he’d just said sixty years of pay. He wasn’t that old. Maybe this guy wasn’t on drugs. More and more it seemed to be that he was simply just insane. ‘Talk him down. Talk him down, get him calm, call the police. “Pay for what?” you asked.

His lips twisted. “Changing the world.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Does it matter? I might not know much about things out here, but you’ve got to pay rent, and I need a place to stay. Money’s yours, so long as I can stay here and you’ll keep your mouth shut.”

Where did this guy get off on being so rude? For that matter, where did he get off on being so rude one minute, and then shaking and crying on the floor the next? “And what if I don’t want the money?”

“Then I’ll kill you.”

“You really think,” you said, forcing such calm into your voice that it quaked, “that sounds like a good deal? I let you stay when you’re obviously a murderer, and in exchange I get a few hundred dollars that you probably stole?”

“They didn’t need it anymore,” he said. His eyes were unfocused again, like it wasn’t really you he was talking to. “They didn’t need it anymore, and they didn’t pay me, so why not take it? I needed it. I don’t want to kill you.” His focus returned to you so quickly that it was almost eerie. You subtly tried to feel for some sort of phone in one of the bag’s several pockets, but you didn’t get very far. “I don’t want to, but if you keep that up, I will.”

You froze in your tracks. “You’re crazy.”

“I’m saner than I have been in years.”

If that were the case, you’d hate to see him on a bad day. His smile twitched, up and down, off and on. Then, quite suddenly, he flinched, swore, and got himself to his feet. It was not a graceful rising, but before you could say anything about that, he was moving toward the bathroom much faster than you would have expected from a man that size and that injured. The door slammed shut behind him, and you were alone.

Your heart pounded very fast in your chest. He didn’t want to go anywhere; he wanted to stay in your apartment, that much was obvious. Were you really that stupid? ‘He’s scared. You used to be scared,’ you thought, only to answer yourself, ‘You’re not a murderer.’ But did you really know this guy was a murderer? All he’d said was that he would kill you, not that he’d killed before. Oh, sure, and that was better?

Kat, you thought. You needed Kat. But where had you put your phone? A few more frantic pats of the man’s bag found you nothing the size or shape of what you could reasonably expect to be a cellphone. You probably couldn’t remember her number off the top of your head anyway. Now was the time to think fast. Any second now, he’d back. You needed a plan. Legs shaking, you forced yourself up. If you remembered correctly, the phone was on the kitchen counter—and now your guest stood right beside it.

“Looking for something?” When had he returned from the bathroom? When had he got ahold of your cell? When had he started looking like one stiff breeze wouldn’t strike him dead? It didn’t matter. He already knew he had the upper hand. “One move and I crush it.”

You took a deep breath, one that rattled all your bones around. Or maybe it was just him rattling your bones. “Go ahead and get it over with, then.”

“Get what over with?”

“Killing me. If you’re going to kill me, then kill me. I’m don’t want—I’m not going to wait around and play games with you.”

His hand, still wrapped snugly in a glove, tightened around your phone. “I already said I don’t want to kill you.”

“Then what do you want?”

“I just want you to hear me out.”

“About what?”

“About why I’m here.”

There was something in that that made you freeze. You weren’t just cold anymore; no, you were downright frigid. The look on his face was contemplative, serious, but not one that looked as though he were contemplating your death. You swallowed. “Do I have a choice?”

His expression hardened. “No.”

You did your best to harden yours in return. “I’ll call the police.”

“No, you won’t.”

For years you had perfected setting yourself still on the tiny raft of your sea of fear. Anxiety was a part of you always, and always would be. It had taken this long for you to get the hang of sailing through it untouched. Now you very, very much wanted help, or to throw up, or both. Neither was an option. You could only feign that you still had some control. “And how do you know that?” you asked. The haughtiness you attempted failed to crack through the high pitch your voice reached.

“You want some poor, dejected soul to take in? You’ve found him,” he answered. “It’s not ideal for me either. But you promised you would help me. I intend to make sure you make good on that promise.”

“I already was helping. Those phonebooks—”

“They’re not going to help.”

“Why not?”

He smiled. It was not a pleasant smile. “Have you ever met a ghost, ma’am?” ‘Oh no.’ The smile twisted, turned upside down, and soon he was scowling as he tossed your phone back onto the counter. His eyes met yours. “Hail HYDRA.”

Bucky BarnesxReader: Tastes a Little [Ch. 14]
Chapter 14 of 100 of Tastes a Little Like Freedom, a Little Like Fear.

All prompts are taken from the "100 Drabbles Adventure" challenge by SubtleQuirk on Lunaescence Archives.


Name] has finally got her life on track. She's been clean a year, has a full time job, and recently moved into an apartment that is actually fit to live in. Against the wishes of her friends, she decides to visit her father's memorial exhibit at the Smithsonian, only to run into someone who looks a bit familiar. Adopting a fellow addict is one thing. Accidentally adopting a recovering brainwashed Nazi super soldier is another. [Name]'s life is about to run off track worse than ever before, but there could be a reward at the end if she can just hang on for the bumpy ride.

I reread the rules and apparently the chapters are supposed to be 1000 words long at the most. I'm sure that's why I chose it originally, but I forgot. ;w; I'm not going to go back and break them up, though. Nor can I promise the rest of them will be under 1000 words either. This one is a little less than 100 words over and it still feels too short. I'll just call them as I see them. I wasn't trying to win the challenge anyway.

Previous Chapter: 13. Pride
Current Chapter: 14. Smile
Next Chapter: TBA
  • Mood: Stumped
  • Reading: Party Princess
  • Watching: Daredevil
  • Playing: The Last of Us
Not that I have that many FAQs on this site, but I just updated the one I have on Quotev, so I might as well put this here. I have had a few of these questions asked here, anyway.

Q1: Where are your other accounts?
Lunaescence Archives (Straw), Ghosts of the Vanguard (Straw), Quotev (Straw/Strawchan), and Tumblr (mostlyieatburritos).

If you ever see anything of mine under any other names or any other sites, please report it and then let me know. They are stealing my work.

Q2:  What are you currently working on?
A: My "About Me" section always has current information on what I'm working on, and how far along in it I am.

Q3: When are you going to update x?
A: I attempted to go in a certain order, but as I got stuck on chapter 11 of Brightest for several months, I've decided to go back to just updating whenever I feel a chapter coming on. Stories ((Don't) Hold Your Breath, Brightest, Adventures in a Realm Without Divorce Court, and Tastes a Little like Freedom, a Little like Fear) I intend to keep a sort of rotating schedule on. Tastes gets two updates per round because the chapters are short, and it's suppose to have 100 of them. You can always check out the "Fic Progress" link at the top of my Tumblr to see how many words I currently have for anything upcoming. 

Q4: What are you planning on writing?
A: My "About Me" section always has a list of fics I am considering writing once I am done with present ten projects I am currently doing. You can find them below the current projects section. Sometimes I will also discuss plans and put excerpts up on Tumblr, under the tag "fan fic" or "WIP."

Q5: I think the things in your Avengers collection are too short. Can I take them and rewrite them?
A:​ While I am flattered--especially since I've been writing longer one shots lately--I would prefer that you did not. Credited or not, if I do find you posting nothing more than rewrites of my things, I will report you. Thank you for understanding.  

Q6: I think your reader-insert clip is great for my OC. Can I put it in my story and replace the reader with my character?
A: Please do not. Credited or not, these are my words not yours. If I find you doing so, I will report you. Thank you for understanding.

Q7: Your story has inspired me! Could I write something based off my idea?
A: Absolutely! I can't really say no, since I'm writing fan fiction, too. All I ask is that you put a link to whichever thing of mine inspired you in one author's note, if it's particularly close to my idea. Example: if you want to write something that goes directly off Trigger Warning, please link your readers to that in the first chapter. If it's barely related and just made you think of a story somewhat similar, you need not credit me. 

Q8: Are you going to continue this thing that you have finished?
No, I never plan to add on to something marked "completed." Sometimes, I will add sequels to drabbles or one shots in my Happily Ever After collection, but this happens more and rarely. If the book is marked "completed" or "discontinued," I would appreciate you not asking me for a continuation. Thank you.

Q9: Update this!! (Or any number of ruder or politer ways of phrasing this.)

Q10: Do you roleplay?
A: I used to, but not anymore! Sorry to disappoint. Nowadays all I do is some StevexBucky with one specific person.

Q11: I think I have a neat idea for a fan fiction. Would you like to collaborate?
A: No, thank you. The thing about all this is that I have very high standards. Half the time I drive myself crazy trying to perfect my stuff (which, of course, I never manage to do). I do not want to suck all the fun out of this website for you. Besides, I'm so busy and bad at updating these days that you would end up doing most of the work, which hardly seems fair to you.

Q13: Can I repost your fan fiction on another site?
A: No. I don't care if this is another website or even a website I'm already on (like Quotev) in one of those collections of favorites people make. If you like my stuff, then you should link it to people you want to share it with. Since I'm the writer, it is only fair that I am the one that gets any of the feedback you might otherwise receive. Collections where the fic still is on my account is fine. Collections where you put under yours are not.

Q14: Do you take requests?
A: I do have a reader-insert request booklet. You can post a request on that collection, entitled The Space Between Stars. Please note that you may only request characters for the reader to be paired with, and you can suggest a scenario. 

Q15: I want something more specific/with my OC. Will you do a special request for that?
A: No. However, you may commission me. I realize that a lot of people on this site are young and have limited amounts of money. If you want to discuss me writing something more specific, then you can leave me a comment and I will contact you so we can discuss prices, and we'll see if we can come up with something that will work for both of us.

Q16: I think the pairing in this story would be better as something else.
A: Then you will need to go find another story to read, or write it yourself. With the exception of stories where people vote for the end pairing (something I have only ever done with But Uh-Oh Those Summer Nights), I never start something without knowing exactly where the relationship is headed. I have at least some idea of what I'm doing with every chapter, so I cannot change what I'm doing five chapters in.

Q17: I do not like the way you portray me/the reader in this story.
A: Sorry, but I do not ascribe to the idea that reader inserts are to have no real established personality outside of the generic "lol I am a so randumb Hetalia-loving high school student." Generally speaking, I write the characters as adults, and since I plot my story, I need to know who the character is as a person. I fully understand that you, as a real person, might not be a doormat, a recovering addict, a professor at a school in New England, or a bitter ex-athlete who suddenly lost their arms. But that's the character I need to tell the story. My writing is more geared toward "virtual reality": letting you step into the shoes of someone different. If this is not how you like your reader inserts, that's perfectly fine. But you will need to find somewhere else to get it.

Q18: Read this story!
I don't read other fan fictions, unless it is specifically for a fandom I know of, but don't have much interest in, and is really, really short. As I said above, my standards are high, so when I read stuff about, say, Tony Stark beating his Avatar daughter into unconsciousness, it upsets me. I am aware, however, this isn't a cool attitude to have, as when I was 13, I also wrote a lot of garbage (and still frequently do). So I stay away, and let everyone have their fun. If you are posting this on one of my stories, though: Get off, and quit wasting my time. That's uncool, too.

Do you have further questions, or wish for clarification, or still just want to talk to me? Feel free to leave a comment or contact me on Tumblr.

This question and answer series is subject to revision and updating whenever the author wishes.


TehStraw's Profile Picture
Artist | Student | Literature
United States
(ID made on Doll Divine's Hipster Doll Maker)
(So was my icon, obviously)


Hello there. Nice to meet you. Please make yourself at home.

I'm Straw. I've been writing fan fiction for nearly eleven years now, which makes me twenty-four. I have a bachelor's degree in English and Creative Writing, and a master's degree in English--not that you can tell, due to my ludicrous inability to find typos. I'm better at improving the works of others than I am at writing my own, but I absolutely adore writing and am constantly reading books and attending conventions to improve my craft. I have a full time, Monday through Friday job in a call center at a local doctors' office; I also frequently fall ill, the combination of which results in my spending more time daydreaming about updating than actually doing it.

I'm vegetarian, Christian, feminist, and presently identify as aromantic and asexual. I keep goldfish (Ken, Chikusa, Loki, and Clint) and a pleco (Groot), all of which occupy much of my time due to their collective attempts to die every few months. I also have a cat named Seymour, who thankfully does not frequently attempt to die, but does get urinary tract infections often.

I tend to find one fandom to hunker down in it for several years, writing and learning about it in my spare time until the story gets to the point of disappointing me. Presently my main fandom is the Marvel Cinematic Universe. My sub-fandoms are The Last of Us, Star Trek (Original Series and Reboot movies), and the Daniel Craig James Bond movies.

I'm terribly shy, which is why you don't see me interacting with any of the writing communities I'm on much. Please do not let that keep you from contacting me. You can e-mail me with the link above, or message me via Tumblr at my blog,

Presently Attempting To:
- Write more scenes instead of sequels
- Incorporate sex scenes
- Write middles that are cohesive and entertaining
- Make the characters less melodramatic unless the character is, in fact, melodramatic
- Actually write something

I also post my fan fictions to Quotev (as Straw/Strawchan), Ghosts of the Vanguard (as Straw), and Lunaescence Archives (as Straw). If you ever see my stuff on any other website, that's not me. Please report them for stealing, and let me know so that I may as well.

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
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!

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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!
LokiAvengerFangirl Featured By Owner May 28, 2015
You're welcome :) Hope it was good
amzimme Featured By Owner Jan 27, 2015  Hobbyist General Artist
Thank you for the favorite, Straw! :D
myINQI Featured By Owner Aug 16, 2014  Hobbyist Photographer
:iconbedanker: on Knoblauchsland by myINQI :iconcip33:
hypermagical Featured By Owner Jun 8, 2014
Thank you for the recent fave! :la: 
killstein Featured By Owner May 26, 2014
TehStraw Featured By Owner May 26, 2014  Student Writer
Aw, thanks.
killstein Featured By Owner May 26, 2014
Welcome~ < 333
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