1. This one time, at lacrosse camp…

    This one time, at lacrosse camp…

    Okay so it really didn’t start like that. In fact, when Derek first encountered Stiles his initial assessment was not, shall we say, favourable.

    The skinny kid who he’d been paired up with to run the clinics for the 8-to-10-year-olds was loud, and abrasive. The worst part was that the kids seemed to love him, and therefore ignored Derek and his (really quite reasonable) instructions and requests for decorum.

    “Call me Stiles, dude!” just tossed him the goalie’s crosse, told him to stand near the goal and started tossing balls in his general direction, coaching the kids through their swings and stifling laughter when Derek proved exactly why he played offense and was kept out of the goal at all costs when he’d played with his home team back in high school. 

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  2. Teen Wolf piece (Sterek) that I need some feedback on. Come take a squiz, fandom family?

     
  3. well crap.

    I swear I didn’t do it on purpose.

    I;M NOT PUTTING THIS ON AO3 BECAUSE I’M HAVING A BABY IN THE NEXT FEW DAYS AND PROBABLY WON’T TAKE IT ANYWHERE ELSE. 

    HOWEVER.

    HERE. 

    HAVE SOME HOOKER!DEREK.

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  4. Anonymous said: I am trying with all of my might to be patient, but could you please, please, PRETTY PLEASE WITH SUGAR AND EVERYTHING YOU LOVE ON TOP update Loki, that was an inappropriate use of applied physics. It's the only gender swap fic i've found that i actually enjoy and i just wish I could read more of that storyline for the rest of my life.

    I would *love* to update that fic… but I’m having a baby this week! (Well, sometime in the next 10-15 days) I’ve been working on updates and hopefully once I’ve evicted the person in-utero I’ll get rid of my writers’ block… perhaps sleep deprivation will prove to be inspiring…

    But I am trying!

     
  5. restless

    Clint barely managed eight days with Sitwell as his handler before he found himself sitting in his quarters with both knees jiggling, his fists clenching and unclenching as he itched for something to shoot at.

    He’d broken some kind of obscure regulation by saying something (he had no fucking idea exactly what, because as far as he knew he’d said exactly the same things as he would have to Coulson; what was the problem?) over the comms while on a routine reconnaissance mission and had been restricted to quarters for the next week.

    Yeah, like that had ever worked before.

    He’d actually managed 48 whole hours obeying that order, and now he was about to crack.

    He tugged his cell phone out of his pocket and dialled the third number down - he’d never changed Phil’s label, he was always ‘Coulson’ - waiting for the response.

    Two rings.

    "Clint, you’re not supposed to be calling me."
    "You answered, you’re just as culpable."
    "Don’t use big words."
    "You love it when I’m erudite don’t deny it."
    "What do you want, Specialist?"
    "Don’t make me say it."
    "You know, I don’t out-rank Sitwell in any way, I can’t reverse Fury’s decision."
    "You can appeal to his better side."
    Phil just let that hang in the air for a moment, until Clint thought through what he’d just said.
    "Okay, maybe not." Clint admitted.
    "It’s only two weeks, Barton."
    "You’ve called me three different names in the course of this conversation."
    "And you haven’t even referred to me by name at all."
    "I never do."
    "Valid point. You’re counting down the days, aren’t you?"
    "Hours."
    "Right. "
    Clint sighed. “This is what you warned me about, isn’t it? We’re going to have to make a decision.”
    "Yep. In six days time."
    "Phil."
    "Clint."
    "My legs won’t stop moving."
    Now it was Phil’s turn to sigh.
    "My door isn’t locked."
    "It never is."
    "Not to you. Come on up; we’ll worry about the consequences tomorrow."

     
  6.  
  7. image: Download

    “…the fuck?” Clint narrowed his eyes slightly then closed his right, focusing entirely on the red-headed subject at the other end of his scope. His eyebrows drew together in confusion and he spat his dog-tags out so that he could be understood over the radio.
“…seriously, what the fuck?” he repeated, and his earpiece crackled.
“Which part of radio silence was difficult to understand, Specialist?” “The part where the target is twelve. I’m not shooting a kid, no matter what SHIELD thinks she did.”
“…what?” Fir the first time in the three years that he’d known him, Clint heard hesitation and disbelief in his handlers’ voice. “No, that’s not right. This is Black Widow… she’s killed thirteen men, including two of our operatives. You sure there’s not just a kid hanging out there?” “This red-headed kid is the only person for about two miles, other than me… and I think she’s… yep. She’s spotted me. Going silent.”
“Barton! DAMMIT YOU-” Clint cut Phil’s rant off with a tap to the tape on his neck holding his throat-mike in place, silencing his entire radio array, and got to his feet, keeping both eyes on the slim girl in torn jeans and an oversized black button-down shirt. She was barefoot and filthy, skinny but not emaciated, just pre-teen-kid skinny. She was also looking directly at him, two hundred and fifty yards away and he *knew* that she couldn’t see him. Intellectually, he knew that… but the way she was looking at his nest was just… unnerving.
He moved, slowly and deliberately lowering his rifle but in the second it took him to refocus from scope to distance the girl vanished.

Shit.

He shifted in place and scanned the area, but there was no sign of her. 

He didn’t actually speak, but he was letting loose a rather impressive string of swear-words (in several languages) inside his own head, because no way in hell should some not-quite-teenaged kid be able to get the drop on him like that. 

Hell, he was Hawkeye. Nobody should be able to get the drop on him.

He sat there, half-twisted in his little nest and waited. If this girl was half as good as SHIELD was giving her credit for, then… well, he needed to be ready. He withdrew his grip from the rifle and reached down to grip his sidearm, flicking the safety off and ready to draw it the moment he heard anything.

He carefully kept himself still, and it was only his extensive training and self-discipline that stopped him from whipping his head around when he heard something crack above him, then a rush of air.

He moved just as she landed, rolling entirely onto his back and catching her in a bear hug, using his size in an attempt to overwhelm her, and failing rather miserably when a heel made high-velocity contact with his groin.

Two seconds later he found himself doubled over, gripping… himself… while the kid pointed his own sidearm at his face.

She was tiny, really tiny, with acid-red hair and pale skin, massive blue eyes and she was… she was terrified.

He uncurled, slowly, no sudden moves around the kid with the handgun, and shifted so that he was on one knee in front of her, then lifted his hands, showing her that he was unarmed, and reached out and gently brushed her hair back from her face.

“I’m not going to hurt you.” he told her, and she narrowed her eyes at him, setting her jaw and adjusting her grip on the pistol - the firearm was far too big for her delicate little hands, but she was certainly confident enough with it for Clint to be more than a little unnerved.

“I promise.” She was still glaring, so he switched to Russian. They were only 23 miles from Moscow, after all, and the rumors flying around all indicated that the Widow was Russian.
Unfortunately, Clint only knew a few phrases, and a lot of them were rather inappropriate for conversation with a kid at least fifteen years younger than him.
“Who hurt you?” he asked, because that was about the only thing he could think of to ask, that wouldn’t result in another kick to the balls, or the girl pulling the trigger on him.

They were like that for a solid minute, Clint’s pinkie finger brushing her jugular as her pulse  slowly settled and eventually, when she realised that she had all the power and that he was being genuine, she lifted the gun.

“Nobody hurts me. If they try, I kill them.” she told him, and he took a moment to translate that inside his head.
“If I promise not to hurt you, will you not kill me?” he asked, and she cocked her head to one side, considering.
“Da.” 
“Can I have my gun back?” “Niet.” “Do you want a piece of chocolate?”
Her entire bearing changed. Suddenly, she was a kid. Just a kid, and the gun in her hand could have been a toy. She dropped the weapon to her side and her eyes lit up, she stepped forward and was smiling properly, now.
“Chocolate?”
“If you give me back my gun, I’ll give you some chocolate.” She considered this for a moment, before her gaze flickered down to the hunting knife strapped to his thigh.
“Knife and chocolate for gun.” “Deal.”

    “…the fuck?” Clint narrowed his eyes slightly then closed his right, focusing entirely on the red-headed subject at the other end of his scope. His eyebrows drew together in confusion and he spat his dog-tags out so that he could be understood over the radio.

    “…seriously, what the fuck?” he repeated, and his earpiece crackled.

    “Which part of radio silence was difficult to understand, Specialist?”
    “The part where the target is twelve. I’m not shooting a kid, no matter what SHIELD thinks she did.”

    “…what?” Fir the first time in the three years that he’d known him, Clint heard hesitation and disbelief in his handlers’ voice. “No, that’s not right. This is Black Widow… she’s killed thirteen men, including two of our operatives. You sure there’s not just a kid hanging out there?”
    “This red-headed kid is the only person for about two miles, other than me… and I think she’s… yep. She’s spotted me. Going silent.”

    “Barton! DAMMIT YOU-” Clint cut Phil’s rant off with a tap to the tape on his neck holding his throat-mike in place, silencing his entire radio array, and got to his feet, keeping both eyes on the slim girl in torn jeans and an oversized black button-down shirt. She was barefoot and filthy, skinny but not emaciated, just pre-teen-kid skinny. She was also looking directly at him, two hundred and fifty yards away and he *knew* that she couldn’t see him. Intellectually, he knew that… but the way she was looking at his nest was just… unnerving.

    He moved, slowly and deliberately lowering his rifle but in the second it took him to refocus from scope to distance the girl vanished.

    Shit.

    He shifted in place and scanned the area, but there was no sign of her. 

    He didn’t actually speak, but he was letting loose a rather impressive string of swear-words (in several languages) inside his own head, because no way in hell should some not-quite-teenaged kid be able to get the drop on him like that. 

    Hell, he was Hawkeye. Nobody should be able to get the drop on him.

    He sat there, half-twisted in his little nest and waited. If this girl was half as good as SHIELD was giving her credit for, then… well, he needed to be ready. He withdrew his grip from the rifle and reached down to grip his sidearm, flicking the safety off and ready to draw it the moment he heard anything.

    He carefully kept himself still, and it was only his extensive training and self-discipline that stopped him from whipping his head around when he heard something crack above him, then a rush of air.

    He moved just as she landed, rolling entirely onto his back and catching her in a bear hug, using his size in an attempt to overwhelm her, and failing rather miserably when a heel made high-velocity contact with his groin.

    Two seconds later he found himself doubled over, gripping… himself… while the kid pointed his own sidearm at his face.

    She was tiny, really tiny, with acid-red hair and pale skin, massive blue eyes and she was… she was terrified.

    He uncurled, slowly, no sudden moves around the kid with the handgun, and shifted so that he was on one knee in front of her, then lifted his hands, showing her that he was unarmed, and reached out and gently brushed her hair back from her face.

    “I’m not going to hurt you.” he told her, and she narrowed her eyes at him, setting her jaw and adjusting her grip on the pistol - the firearm was far too big for her delicate little hands, but she was certainly confident enough with it for Clint to be more than a little unnerved.

    “I promise.” She was still glaring, so he switched to Russian. They were only 23 miles from Moscow, after all, and the rumors flying around all indicated that the Widow was Russian.

    Unfortunately, Clint only knew a few phrases, and a lot of them were rather inappropriate for conversation with a kid at least fifteen years younger than him.

    “Who hurt you?” he asked, because that was about the only thing he could think of to ask, that wouldn’t result in another kick to the balls, or the girl pulling the trigger on him.

    They were like that for a solid minute, Clint’s pinkie finger brushing her jugular as her pulse  slowly settled and eventually, when she realised that she had all the power and that he was being genuine, she lifted the gun.

    “Nobody hurts me. If they try, I kill them.” she told him, and he took a moment to translate that inside his head.

    “If I promise not to hurt you, will you not kill me?” he asked, and she cocked her head to one side, considering.

    “Da.” 

    “Can I have my gun back?”
    “Niet.”
    “Do you want a piece of chocolate?”

    Her entire bearing changed. Suddenly, she was a kid. Just a kid, and the gun in her hand could have been a toy. She dropped the weapon to her side and her eyes lit up, she stepped forward and was smiling properly, now.

    “Chocolate?”

    “If you give me back my gun, I’ll give you some chocolate.”
    She considered this for a moment, before her gaze flickered down to the hunting knife strapped to his thigh.

    “Knife and chocolate for gun.”
    “Deal.”

    (Source: orange-om-nom)

     
  8.  
  9. for sugar-coated-cricket-bat

    "Ammy? Ammy is that you?"
    "What?"
    "Ammy, why are you in London?"
    "William, why are you in a broom closet?"
    "I could ask the same of you."
    "I heard gunfire and decided to take cover! Please tell me that it wasn’t you or your idiot mates?"
    "No, no… I don’t think so. But hey! What are the odds? Us, ending up in the same broom closet, in London! Last time I saw you-"

    Ammy cut him off with a palm over his mouth and rolled her eyes when she felt him smiling.

    "Brandt, much as I love your reminiscing, please will you shut up, for once in your life?" 

    He muttered something that Ammy was pretty certain would have offended her, so she kneed him in the thigh for good measure and he winced, but shut up.

    Another gunshot sounded and Brandt’s eyes narrowed.

    "That’s not my mates… that’s a Beretta."
    "I’m not even going to question that. Do you even know what’s going on?"
    "No idea, but I’m about to find out."

    And as quickly as he’d arrived, William departed the broom closet, removing his own handgun from the waistband of his pants and stalking down the corridor in search of whoever was causing all the ruckus. 

     
  10. for whyamipluto

    "Benji! DUNN! GET BACK HERE!" Kerry knew that shouting was fruitless, because Benji was chasing after Will and there was going to be no stopping him.

    Apparently Brandt had somehow managed to palm Dunn’s favourite bluetooth headset, and now they were running around the hotel lobby that they were supposed to be lying low in, like a pair of four year olds on a sugar rush. 

    Kerry sighed.

    "I’m going to put glitter in your shampoo bottles if you two don’t stop acting like such a pair of idiots!"

    And as per usual, they ignored her. It was almost enough to make her wish that the other two were here, but that would have probably just escalated things - Ethan had a bad habit of getting too rough with Benji and of course that got Will’s back up and led to their routine of pissing contests. 

    Eventually Will was persuaded to relinquish the headset, and Benji returned to the couch, slamming into it with enough force to almost dislodge Kerry and her laptop, while Will just calmly settled himself in the armchair opposite, picking up the gin and tonic that Kerry had ordered for herself and taking a generous swig.

    "Hey, hey! I’ll buy you another!" He raised one palm and put the drink back down when she glared at him over the computer screen, then, when the glare didn’t abate, picked the glass back up and drained it.

    "I’ll get you another one right now." he amended, and the glare lessened.

    "Yes, you will." she told him, before turning her attention back to the computer screen and batting Benji’s hands away from the keyboard.

    "Hey! Benji, you asked for my help, stop overwriting my changes!"

     
  11. Blackwood Academy

    Chapter 2 is up! Thanks to my lovely beta, Tegan, for her notes and fixes. 

     
  12. Blackwood Academy

    New work. Inspired by a few photos of our Darling Ben dressed in a lovely suit and vest combination that *someone* said made him look like a hot professor.

    Also, Sherlock with his ruler, as cosplayed by overconfidence-and-a-screwdriver, will be making an appearance before long.

    Welcome to my insanity, beta-read by the lovely timelordy-teganbreann.

    Blackwood Academy.

     
  13. cumberbuddy:

    He’d be such a hot teacher.

    goddamnit.

    GOD DAMN IT. I HAD JUST GOT RID OF ALL THE PLOT BUNNIES AND *KAPOW*.

    DAMMIT.

    Professor Holmes, it is. Teaching sixth formers Chemistry and Biology. Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn, damn!

    (Source: sirhlmes)

     
  14. I really need to get off tumblr

    and finish the last chapter of I Hate Magic, because NYSOM needs a little closure.

    Dammit, Barton! Co-operate! Stop being a petulant toddler for ten minutes and let Phil sort you out!

    Then, of course, there is Loki, that was an inappropriate use of applied physics… which is a whole other set of problems that don’t even bear thinking about.

    /dead!

     
  15. "Barton’s been compromised."

    Tasha took a bare half-second to process that.

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