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atom-writings · 8 months

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Hi!!!!!!

Can I request the main 8 with a poet/writer s/o?

The main 8 find their s/o's poems or writing about them and it's like how much they love them !!!

(hopefully this makes sense :D have a nice day!

Also your writing super coolio )

hetalia allies + germany with a s/o who's a writer

1.6k words ~ gender neutral heacanons + mini scenarios

tw: swearing, thats it!

a/n: i believe this is after the cutoff so its only 6 characters sorry! also ty :)

America

Alfred may not seem like it, considering his less-than-stellar attention span, but he can be quite an avid reader if he wants to be.

In fact, when he was travelling the western frontier, he often wrote poems himself.

He loves your work, (he’s always the first one showing up on release day!) but he doesn’t love how much time it takes away from you.

Seeing you exhausted and frustrated after a long night, trash can filled with discarded drafts, just breaks his heart. He’ll make sure your office is always stacked with

Alfred wasn’t usually so easily swayed by cheesy romances, despite his sweet soft for them. But now, reading your book, he couldn’t help flushing at every interaction his favourite couple had.

The one he was reading now, well, it just took the cake. Spending the day wandering East Potomac Park? It was something out of his dreams- just endlessly… familiar?

Wait, hadn’t he done that recently with you?

Oh.

He set the book aside, burying his face in his hands as he blushed wildly.

Guess the blue-eyed, blond love interest hero was a bit more than a stereotype after all.

England

Ah, a writer. Arthur has long admired the literary arts, having many a classic writer come from his home. Yes, he’d quite enjoy someone like that.

He loves reading your work, regardless of what it is, but he’d prefer you read it to him. Then he can get all of your silly little notes along with it. Just for him <3

Although he wouldn’t appreciate you spending all day working. He’s not needy usually, but by the time you two go to bed, he’s DESPERATE for your attention.

He tries not to disturb you, though.

From the moment he picked up your work, he could tell where your inspiration for the main love interest came from. Sandy-haired, green eyes, tall but not too tall, always how you had described him.

Of course, that made his reading even more of a joy.

The only thing that bothered him was how the protagonist described themself. Always dismissed, below-par, never worthy of his love. Now, that just wouldn’t stand.

So he began to write as well. In between the margins, on attached papers, on the sides, everywhere. Correcting every disparaging thought.

Then when he finished, he handed the book back to you, with a cheeky comment.

“It was absolutely wonderful, my love.”

Whether you ever saw the notes or not didn’t matter. He had made the book even more perfect, at least to himself.

France

As said before, Francis is a very artsy guy. Very artsy. Although he’s not always skilled at making art himself… so having another artist would help with that.

He’s absolutely the number one collector of your works. Every scrap, every trashed draft, every misprint, he’s keeping everything.

He’s also pretty ok with how much time it takes! It gives him time to relax, or maybe even join in working on creative projects.

Although he would insist on regular breaks. Fortunately, Francis is a hedonist at heart, so those breaks will always provide much inspiration.

True beauty is rare. Living for so long had proven that time and time again for Francis. It isn’t natural, it isn’t easy, and it never lasts. But…that doesn’t make the pursuit of it any more meaningless.

Even more rare than its existence, is the constant presence of it.

But when he read your poems, venerating and elucidating your own feelings, he felt as if he had found it. God, it was beautiful. Your words, unlike any other’s he had read in his many years, made him feel as if he was falling in love all over again.

Instantly, he was transported into your shoes, viewing himself in a light that had never been shone on him before.

He wasn’t entirely sure what to do with himself now. It felt wrong- wrong to not give absolute reverence to this piece of art.

If he had had access to the Louvre, he would’ve kept it there. But, well, his kitchen wall would have to do for now.

China

Finally, some good fucking talent. He's very excited about his S/O being an artist! He's not much of one himself these days, but it's good to see the youth catching up to the old masters.

As much as he loves you, he's very opinionated. Everything you write he either LOVES or HATES. Though he's always excited to show off his favourites of your works, he's very proud of you.

Though he absolutely is not stand by while you spend all day sitting around and writing. Get off the couch and come with him, you're never gonna write anything real good if you don't have any life experience!

Because of that, he's gonna be a little hesitant to cater to you while you're writing.

Your last work was good, to be sure, but nothing like this. Your newest release blew him off his feet with ease, captivating him with every turn of the page. One of his favourites, he thought to himself, that'll be one he'd have to return to.

The only problem was that it was almost over already. He wasn't that much of a fast reader, was he? Well, I guess it's easy to go quickly if you love it.

And love it he did, to the very last page. Wait, this is the last page, isn't it? Why are there three more?

He flipped through them, his eyes quickly widening as he read the last page.

A love letter? To... him?

“Is this in every edition?” He asked you shakily, looking to you for reassurance.

“Yeah?”

“That's...” He brought a hand to his mouth, covering his blushing cheeks trying to hide the tears welling in his eyes, “That's such a waste of paper...”

Russia

Frankly, Ivan doesn't care much what you do. The most exciting part of you being a writer to him is just that you'd need to spend plenty of time at home.

But he'd always read your work. (Especially rough drafts, he's really good at being blunt but not mean.) And as time goes on, he'll fall in love with your talent more and more. Despite his country's many famous writers, he thinks none of them stack up to you.

He wouldn't mind how much time you dedicate to your craft, but he'd make sure to take good care of you while you're writing. He's truly very worried about you withering away in that desk chair of yours...

“Oh, I absolutely loved the part where-“

Ivan had been ranting for hours, going over every single detail that had caught his eye. Every time he thought of something new, it would lead to another excited train of thought. But there was one thing they all had in common... he really loved one character.

”He's strong!“ He'd gush, ”He's kind, and loving, and I just want him to have a happy ending!“

You let him explain over and over again how much he looked up to this character, wanting to change to be more like him in every way.

But it wasn't until he calmed down a little bit that you felt it was time to reveal the truth.

”Yeah, you know... he's based on someone I know.“

”Really? Who? I must meet him!“ He clasps his hands together in excitement.

”You, you big dummy.“

He pauses for a moment, his smile fading. He looks upset for a moment, trying to figure out how.

”But... but I am none of those things.“

”You are to me. I mean, whenever I thought about you... I'd just write that character.“

He laughs awkwardly, “You are joking, right?”

“No, of course not. You're strong... and you're kind....” he shifts away from you, tears welling in his eyes, “You're loving... and... and I'll give you a happy ending, ok?”

Before you can react, he wraps his arms tightly around your waist, burying his face in your hair.

”Promise?“

”Promise.“

Germany

Ludwig would definitely love a S/O who writes. Mostly for one specific reason, though. Writers, well, they see the world in a different way. Whether that be in a more romantic, more objective, or more sympathetic way, he doesn't care. He wants to talk things through with someone like you.

He wouldn't be a total fanboy, but he'd still love your work. Although, he might not show it the way you want... it's hard for him not to criticize. He wouldn't be too harsh though!

He wouldn't mind how much you get sucked into your writing either. He knows what it's like to be dedicated to your craft, and he won't bother you too much.

Ludwig had never been an emotional person. Never, not once, throughout his many years was he truly moved to tears by fiction. Art depicting real life? Of course, many times. But he simply never found fiction as compelling as reality.

That was, of course, until he read your own works. Now, going through what you had so effortlessly created, he couldn't help tearing up at nearly every turn of events.

The way you were about to put him into the character's shoes without him even realizing, forcing him along the same journey they had gone through. It was... stunning, to say the least.

But when one of the characters began to fall in love, it was like nothing he had experienced before. Not because of any significant jump in quality, but just because... you had written it.

For a moment he sat in silence, pondering the book when he realized.

Was this what it felt like for you to fall in love with him?

It sent a chill down his spine. No, he didn't feel any differently, not at all. But... he had assumed you couldn't possibly love him as much as he loved you. Except... now?

Well, if this was how you had felt. He couldn't possibly let you go anytime soon.

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stillwintering · 1 month

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All's Fair in Love and Politics (a modern Nessian AU - where Rhys is running for president)

Summary: In the ruthless arena of politics, victory demands risking everything, even one's own heart. Rhysand has his eyes on the presidency. Feyre convinces her estranged sister, Nesta, to join the political campaign. Nesta and Cassian find themselves forging an unexpected bond as the campaign intensifies. But can their budding romance survive the treacherous waters of modern political warfare?

Read on AO3

Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4 / Chapter 5 / Chapter 6 / Chapter 7 / Chapter 8

Chapter 9

One run became two. Then, before she knew it, Nesta found herself training with Cassian three times a week. Even when they returned to DC, they continued to run together.

They fell into a natural routine, meeting up after their workday at a major landmark on the National Mall, like the Lincoln Memorial or the Washington Monument. Cassian, evidently a seasoned runner, would lead her on beautiful routes around the Potomac. Although Nesta had spent many years in DC, she had never taken the opportunity to visit any of its cultural sights.

"The Lincoln Memorial is best viewed early in the morning, at first light," Cassian had remarked once when they met at the white granite steps to begin their run. He knew full well that Nesta wasn't the type to rise at such an ungodly hour for exercise.

"Dusk will have to suffice for us," he had said with a wink.

Nesta soon discovered that Cassian maintained a rigorous schedule, rising each day at 4:30 am -- a vestige of his years in the army, he told her. She quickly grew to appreciate the fierce discipline beneath the easygoing demeanor with which Cassian approached his work and life.

"Old habits die hard," he had confessed with a small smile.

Nesta surprised herself by how much she looked forward to her sessions with Cassian. He had been an excellent coach, helping to correct her running form and improving her strength training. She liked Cassian's carefree laugh and how he constantly challenged her to be a little faster and stronger during each workout.

Despite spending entire workdays together -- except when campaign commitments called him away to the early-voting states -- Nesta never felt overwhelmed by his company.

She was seeing a lot of Cassian. But she couldn't bring herself to mind.

As spring gave way to summer in Washington, Azriel joined the two of them on their evening workouts. Azriel's presence was a stark contrast to Cassian's boisterous energy.

Where Cassian was fire, Azriel was water -- quiet, steady, an intensity that lay beneath the surface.

In the sticky heat of DC summers, Cassian and Azriel often completed their runs without a shirt. The appreciative looks and naked ogling from passersby had not escaped Nesta's notice. She had caught many women (and some men) staring slack-jawed at their beautiful forms.

But she had been surprised the first time -- a rainy, humid June evening -- when she saw that they bore complimentary tattoos, intricate black patterns swirling across their chests and backs. She didn't think that it was appropriate to inquire after their provenance.

It was clear that Cassian and Azriel considered each other to be true brothers in everything but blood. And like bickering siblings, they brought out a vicious competitiveness in each other.

There were numerous occasions where Nesta found herself stepping aside so that the two men could engage in additional physical trials as a means to settle scores that only they seemed to keep track of.

Sometimes, Cassian and Azriel would spontaneously challenge each other to sprint races to some designated landmark. Other times, they would engage in impromptu strength contests, seeing who could complete the most burpees or hold the longest plank, with Nesta often roped in as the reluctant judge.

Once in July, the competitive edge between Cassian and Azriel escalated beyond mere athletic feats and into outright hand-to-hand combat. At the end of their official 8-mile route, Cassian and Azriel had challenged each other to a sprint towards a secluded patch of forest by the Tidal Basin, leaving Nesta to catch up to them.

By the time she found them again, they were circling each other with lethal intensity, ready to strike. It was as if all that crude competitive energy between them had finally boiled over.

Cassian eyes flickered to Nesta, marking her arrival to their patch of the forest. Azriel, taking the opening, struck first, his fist launching towards Cassian, who blocked quickly. Nesta observed the ensuing sparring session with a mix of horror and carnal fascination. It was as if their bodies spoke a language of their own, a dialogue of feints and parries, blocks and counters.

It was clear that they'd sparred before, and Nesta wondered whether this was another vestige of their shared military days.

The sight of Cassian's beautiful, muscled body, taut and rippling with every forceful movement, stirred something primal within her. His physical dominance was undeniable. It was like witnessing a live sculpture in motion, each muscle group defining itself with remarkable clarity under his sweat-slicked, golden skin, igniting an urgent warmth in Nesta's core.

Azriel, with his lithe, agile form, displayed a different kind of power. His movements were liquid poetry, each twist and turn highlighting the lean, sinewy muscles beneath his tanned skin. The grace and precision with which he moved were tantalizing, a seductive dance that drew Nesta's eyes to the swell of his back muscles, the curve of his biceps, and the hardness of his abdomen.

Finally, Azriel executed a swift, well-timed strike that connected solidly with the right side of Cassian's face. Cassian staggered back slightly, momentarily dazed, and then raised his hands in surrender.

"Okay," Cassian chuckled, rubbing his jaw where Azriel's blow had landed. "You got me, Az."

Azriel, however, didn't relax his guard. His attention remained sharply focused on Cassian, his body still coiled and ready. "No appetite for a knockout today?" he asked, challenge lacing his voice.

"A knockout? You wish," Cassian answered, playful. "You're in top form today -- I'll give you that."

Azriel's stance finally loosened. The corners of his mouth turned up in a satisfied smile. "Someone has to keep you on your toes, Cass."

Nesta folded her arms across her chest. "Really, you two?" Nesta admonished, her gaze shifting between Cassian and Azriel, still squared off against each other. "Has no one taught you to use your words first before resorting to violence?"

Cassian looked over Azriel's shoulder to where Nesta stood. "Az, here, never got over the fact that I beat his rucking record during basic training," he teased.

Azriel turned while rolling his eyes. "By three minutes," he reminded him drily.

"Rucking?" Nesta asked.

"It's a timed test used by the Army to assess physical fitness," Cassian replied. "Twelve miles in unforgiving conditions while carrying a 45-pound rucksack, along with your standard equipment and rifle."

Nesta arched a brow. "Dare I ask where the record stands?"

"One hour and 28 minutes," Azriel supplied.

Nesta couldn't help but give Cassian an assessing once-over. He flashed her a cocksure grin, loving how her eyes traveled up and down his body. She immediately felt her cheeks flush.

"Don't encourage him, Nesta," Azriel smiled, too aware, "My brother's ego is large enough as it is. It'll be unbearable for all of us if it gets any bigger."

Nesta forced out a frown, self-conscious. But she couldn't tell if she was embarrassed by their brutish behavior or by how she was caught blatantly gawking at Cassian's muscled chest.

"Next time you two feel the urge to engage in a childish, testosterone-fueled pissing contest," she said disapprovingly, face still red, "Please leave me out of it."

Cassian swung an arm over Azriel's shoulders, pulling him into an affectionate side hug. Azriel had visibly relaxed against Cassian -- whatever score between them settled.

"Don't worry, Nes," Cassian laughed, a deep rumble. "Next time, Az won't be getting the better of me."

Azriel knocked against Cassian's shoulder in displeasure, but his eyes were mirthful. "Are you saying you want to go for a second round already?"

Cassian eyed his brother with a wicked glint. "We can move this to a boxing ring."

Azriel took a beat to consider. "Name the time and place."

Nesta shook her head sternly. "I'm going home," she announced.

Sparing one last look at the two half-naked men, Nesta tamped down the flutter in her stomach as she walked away, suddenly feeling like a schoolgirl with a crush.

---

Thankfully, Amren did not assign Nesta to join Cassian on his frequent trips to field offices across all the early voting states. Now that the Iowa offices were up and running under Baz's leadership, Cassian shifted his energy to New Hampshire, South Carolina, and Michigan. But Nesta remained Cassian's primary partner on most projects. While he traveled, she stayed in DC to work on media strategy, messaging, and provided logistical support. They were constantly together or constantly on the phone with each other. She would have been annoyed to depend so heavily on a colleague, but she found Cassian to be resourceful and frustratingly competent.

Nesta was also thankful that Amren refrained from putting her on projects that required her presence in Velaris at the home office. Azriel had been charged with that particular assignment.

Feyre was in and out of DC all summer, primarily to accompany Rhys to important fundraisers. Nesta resolved to build a firewall between her work and personal lives. So, she made a point of keeping her interactions with Feyre purely professional. The last thing she needed was to lose focus when the big political battles were looming ahead.

Sometime during the summer, Nesta decided that she loved her job -- campaigning suited her. She found a profound sense of purpose in shaping Starborn's policies and moving the debate among the candidates. Now that Sean Hybern was the Republican frontrunner in all but name, Nesta felt an exigency in what they were doing that she had never felt before: she was willing to do everything in her power to ensure Hybern didn't win the presidency.

She could tell Cassian was also driven by the same fear. Occasionally, she would catch glimpses of a burning intensity in his eyes while he was in the middle of some task, whether it was on a conference call with the field offices where he would direct their operations with canny efficiency, or it was in the heat of a brutal discussion with Rhys and Amren over campaign priorities. It was the same deadly intent she saw when Cassian and Azriel sparred.

And Nesta wondered what it would be like to have all that military-honed lethality trained on her. It gave her goosebumps.

Every now and again, she could feel that he was watching her in the office. But whenever she caught his eyes, that burning intensity immediately dissipated into something softer and yielding towards her.

It felt like a mask. Like he, too, had a firewall.

---

Like their evening runs, Nesta and Cassian fell into an easy routine at the office.

"So, the Iowa State Fair," Nesta came to sit on the edge of Cassian's desk one late July afternoon. She had been going over the list of Rhys's campaign appearances for August. The Des Moines Register hosted a Political Soapbox event for all presidential hopefuls at the Iowa State Fair -- it was an essential campaign event. Nesta had been helping Rhys hone his interview answers for weeks.

Cassian looked up from his laptop. "What about it?"

"You're not going with Rhys?"

He cocked his head. "No, I have to be in Michigan that weekend."

Nesta smiled coyly. "I just thought that..." she bit her bottom lip in the way she knew would get his attention. "That was the sort of thing that you enjoyed. The reason you liked traveling for the campaign so much."

After all this time spent together, Nesta had finally mastered the art of their repartee. She learned the contours of Cassian's humor, the tempos of his day, and most importantly, the buttons she could press to elicit a reaction.

"What?" He looked dazedly at her face, gaze lingering on her lips.

"Don't you want to see the butter cow?"

Cassian snorted. "Do you want to see the butter cow?"

"You understand it's a life-size cow made entirely of butter," Nesta replied seriously.

He shifted back in his chair. "I'm not going," he said again. "But you are welcome to go and see the butter cow yourself, Nes."

"There's also a butter Elvis and a butter Last Supper which has, I swear to God, Cassian --"

"Butter on the table?" he provided with a wide grin, falling into the rhythm of their now familiar banter.

"It's got butter on the table right there between butter James and butter Peter." She widened her eyes for effect and then leaned toward him so that she was only a few inches from his face. "It's an almost mind-blowing vortex of art and material that dares the viewer to recall Marcel Duchamp," she finished breathlessly.

She watched Cassian swallow. He often became slightly flustered when she entered his personal space unexpectedly. She waited for him to recover.

Up close, she could almost make out all the golden flecks in the hazel of his eyes -- a glimpse of that burning intensity peeking through.

"How do they keep it from melting?" he asked after a beat too long. His expression shuttered, eyes guarded again.

Satisfied, she pulled back. "How, indeed," she said with a wink and returned to her desk.

---

Rhysand's summer calendar was a tightly packed itinerary of political fundraisers from the East to the West Coast. Nesta knew it was essential for candidates to amass the financial resources necessary for the upcoming primary season. But the process troubled her, how much politicians depended on their donors.

When Nesta was still reporting, she was never allowed to attend a high-level fundraiser; they were strictly closed to the press. Now, in her senior role on the Starborn campaign, she had been fielding invitations to various breakfasts, lunches, and dinners around the DC area. She was finally given a look behind the proverbial curtain, and she wasn't sure she liked what she found.

The beginning of August marked Keir Hewn's summer fundraiser for the Democratic National Committee, a blockbuster event among the Beltway elites. With all the high rollers invited, the party was expected to raise millions in one night. Nesta reluctantly agreed to go along with the rest of the senior staff, even though these events always left her feeling greasy afterward.

The sprawling grounds of the Hewn Mansion had been transformed into a spectacle designed to dazzle the crème de la crème of political society for the evening. Fairy lights wove through the foliage and above the walkways, creating an illusion of a starlit canopy that mirrored the clear night sky. A candle-lit path led guests through the manicured lawn to a series of outdoor gazeboes. The large flagstone terrace was set with tables dressed in blue and silver linens, the DNC's colors, with centerpieces of lilies and roses.

Nesta slipped into the garden from the North entrance, careful to avoid crowds gathered near the mansion doors. She remembered the layout of the grounds well from the spring charity gala.

After taking a lap around the terrace, she found Mor and Azriel by the bar.

"Nesta, you must tell me where you found your dress!" Mor exclaimed as soon as she was close enough.

"My friend owns a boutique in Alexandria," Nesta replied, allowing Mor to pull her in for a kiss on the cheek. "I can send you the address. She'd love to dress you."

"Please do," Mor said. "This fabric is absolutely divine!" Mor ran a hand down Nesta's side, feeling the soft grey silk of her gown. She clearly had a lot to drink already. Mor was partial to red for formal events, and Nesta was sure that tonight's red tulle number was made of a material far more luxurious than her own.

Azriel handed Nesta a glass of wine. "Chenin Blanc," he said and leaned in for a kiss as well. "If I recall correctly."

They've attended enough open bar events together now that Azriel knew her preferred drink orders. "Thank you," she smiled.

Taking a sip, Nesta surveyed the assembled guests from the rim of her glass. It seemed like the entire higher echelon of the Democratic Party was in attendance. She spotted Rhys and Feyre on the lawn speaking with the House Whip and Senate Minority Leader. Closer to them on the terrace, Thesan Morgenstern was huddled with Keir Hewn, Speaker Beron, and, from the expensive cut of the fourth man's suit, a high-dollar donor.

Mor sniffed. "Don't worry," she said, following Nesta's gaze. "My father holds another fundraiser in September for the GOP. We Hewns are, if anything, equal opportunity lobbyists."

"Is your father backing Thesan for the Democratic nomination?" Nesta asked.

Mor frowned, picking up another glass of red wine from a waiter. "My father hasn't made a decision yet," she replied, voice low. "My father would never bet on only the favorite when it is possible to bet on all the contenders. He will guarantee that the winner be indebted to him in some way or other."

"No family loyalty?" Nesta arched a brow.

Mor laughed. "It's business," she said simply. "Now, what do you say that we go find Cassian and see about turning this snoozefest around?"

Mor linked her arms between Nesta and Azriel and pulled them towards the candle-lit lawn.

---

Cassian was talking to a bald man Nesta didn't recognize beneath a sprawling elm tree just below the terrace. The soft illumination from the lights weaving through the branches highlighted the perfect angles of his face as he spoke. The other man was older and seemed intensely interested in whatever Cassian said, but their conversation seemed stilted.

Cassian had been gone for campaign business for the last week, and it was already as if she were seeing him for the first time. When their eyes met, everything around them seemed to fade, and the chatter and laughter in the air became muted hums. Cassian shook the man's hand goodbye without looking at him, his attention solely on Nesta as she walked up to where he was standing.

She drank in every inch of him: his broad shoulders, his dark hair styled just so, and the unyielding strength in his posture. Her heart thrummed a frantic rhythm against her ribs; it had been doing that a lot in his presence this summer.

Cassian wrapped Mor into a brief hug, moving as if on autopilot; his eyes remained focused on Nesta the whole time. Mor returned to her conversation with Azriel. Cassian remained still as a statue.

"Nesta Archeron," he finally breathed, voice low and husky. "You are lovely."

A blush crept up her cheeks, her usual retort dying on her lips. Instead, she allowed herself to luxuriate in the burning intensity of his gaze. He felt like a vision from a dream she rarely allowed herself to indulge in.

Then, she blinked -- the spell broken. "I wasn't sure if you were going to make it back from New Hampshire for tonight."

"I couldn't miss the social event of the summer."

"When did you get in?"

"A few hours ago," he admitted, looking down at the drink in his hand. When he looked back up, his eyes glittered. "Did you miss me?"

Nesta scoffed. "I'm much more productive without you around the office to distract me."

"That's not a no." The corners of his lips twitched.

“It’s not a yes, either. We talk every day on the phone,” Nesta took a drink from her glass. “How long are you back for?”

“I’ll be flying out to South Carolina by Monday,” he replied, looking away and then back at her. "Admit it, you missed me.”

“I miss having a reliable running buddy," she finally conceded with a small smile. "Mine is constantly out of town.”

He leaned against the solid tree trunk, studying her like a puzzle. "Sounds like you might need to get a new running buddy," he finally said.

All these months of close proximity, orbiting each other like binary stars, yet he always pulled himself back, never letting himself get too close.

Did she want him to cross that boundary between them? She didn't know what she would find on the other side.

"Perhaps," she murmured, stepping close so she could press her free palm against the tree beside him. She marked his eyes drop and linger on the low cut of her dress. "It's terribly rude of him to always leave me high and dry while he is away."

He swallowed. "What would you have him do then?"

This close, she could make out all the notes of his cologne: black truffle, patchouli, and ylang-ylang. She would bet all the money she had in her wallet that he smelled even more intoxicating if she leaned into the skin of his neck, right below his ear.

Nesta took a small step back. "Who were you talking to?" she asked instead, changing the subject.

"Ted Marcus," Cassian replied, his posture stiffening. "Hollywood executive, big-time donor."

"Ah," she acknowledged. "Is he one of Rhys's supporters?"

"I imagine so," Cassian said. "But I haven't figured out what he wants yet."

Nesta turned away, her discomfort palpable amidst the buzz of political strategizing and the clinking of expensive glassware. She forced herself to concentrate on the faces in the distance.

"Is there anyone here I should be talking to?" she asked, reminding herself that this was a work event.

Cassian stepped into the spot beside her, so they faced the same direction, towards the terrace. He lowered himself so his face almost touched hers, their eyes exactly level so he could see from her vantage point, following her gaze into the crowd.

"Well," he spoke softly. "Lauren Shelby," he gestures towards a woman in a black dress, "from OMB is crucial; she knows everything that is happening with the major bills. Ryan Pierce, clerks for the Chief Justice. You'll need Senator Arnold Vinick's support to pass anything in the upper chamber." He pointed out each guest to her.

Then, he stopped and waited for the throngs to shift. If she moved even a little bit, she would brush against his temple. She held her breath.

"Roger Salier," he finally pointed out. "Owns half the newspapers on the East Coast. But I suppose you probably know him already."

She nodded. "Only by reputation."

Cassian moved away, straightening to his full height. She almost sighed at the loss of heat from his proximity.

Mor had been watching them out of the corner of her eye. "Would you like an introduction?" she asked.

"What?" Nesta pivoted, almost forgetting that Azriel and Mor were nearby.

"To Roger Salier?" Mor smirked, her eyes glinting with an emotion Nesta couldn't place. "Perhaps you can convince him to part with some pocket change for the campaign. Or grant Rhys a meeting with the editorial board of The Washington Post."

Nesta studied the man in question. He stood on the edge of the party -- he looked young with energetic eyes -- speaking to an older man with a grey beard. His suit was extremely flattering, perfectly tailored to his tall, lithe frame. The fabric and lines were so exquisite that even from far away Nesta was sure it was from Savile Row.

"He's newly single, too," Mor continued. "A very amicable breakup. It wasn't a serious relationship -- if the town gossip is to be believed. Definitely the most eligible bachelor here, I'd say."

Cassian's expression became perfectly neutral, although he clutched his glass so tight that his knuckles turned white.

Nesta only blinked, surprised by the conversation's turn. Mor took Nesta's pause as affirmation.

"Okay, Az, you've got to do the honors," Mor squealed in delight. "I already gave Roger the whole campaign spiel earlier tonight. It would be too conspicuous if I made the introduction. Az will escort you over there. He can divert Myron," she indicated to the bearded man standing next to Roger, "while you make your entrance."

Azriel shifted on his feet uncomfortably. "I am not --"

But Mor was already blazing with unabashed glee, her cheeks pink and eyes bright -- it reminded Nesta of Emerie when she got particularly worked up over some scheme.

"Off you go!" She practically shoved Azriel and Nesta together with a self-satisfied grin.

Azriel gave Nesta a conciliatory shrug and hooked her hand around his elbow. "Sorry," he said softly as he tugged her away. "It's easier to just go along with it. Mor loves to play matchmaker."

Nesta sighed. "Oh, all right," she conceded; after all, she came tonight to primarily socialize for professional gain. She allowed Azriel to escort her back towards the Mansion.

When Nesta looked over her shoulder, she gave Cassian a wan smile, a little disappointed to leave him behind. Cassian's expression was unreadable. Mor talked giddily against his ear, but he didn't move -- his eyes were hard as stone as he watched Nesta walk away.

Azriel was saying something to her. Nesta nodded along but had yet to hear one word. Her mind was churning. She was almost sure of Cassian's interest in her -- he flirted with her constantly. Yet, a nagging puzzle piece refused to fit: his relationship with Mor. Were they, or had they ever been a couple? Or was it Azriel who was Mor's lover?

The questions lingered like specters in her thoughts, and the ambiguity clouded her judgment.

#fanfic #nessian #nesta x cassian #a court of silver flames #a court of thorns and roses #cassian #nesta archeron #acosf #acotar #nesta #all's fair in love and politics #archive of our own #nesta and cassian are working on a political campaign #all's fair in love and politcs

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vandaliatraveler · 11 months

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A bench with a view. Blake gets a bird's-eye view of Central Appalachia's ridge and valley country from the highest peak in West Virginia, Spruce Knob. The valley below is part of the Potomac River drainage.

#appalachia #vandalia #west virginia #spring #allegheny mountains #monongahela national forest #spruce mountain #spruce knob #late spring #june

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potomacdebateacademy · 7 months

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Captain's Corner: Tips For Unpacking A New Topic

As the end of the month is in sight, a new resolution is right around the corner. Being presented with a new topic is often daunting. Here are a few tips to get started!

Break down the resolution.

Pick out key topical words: Who might the actors be? Who might be affected?

Pick out phrasing nuances: “On balance” may indicate cost benefit analysis. “Should” may indicate an action-promoting affirmative. Consider how “substantial” may be interpreted.

Are there any words or concepts you are not familiar with? Define them.

Identify the status quo.

What is happening right now? What might be good or bad about it? How might affirming change it?

Need some inspiration?

Ask your coaches! Your coaches at Potomac Oak are always happy to help you learn more about strategies, the different nuances of debate, and the topics at hand.

Check briefs! Organizations such as Champion Debate, DebateUS, and Victory Briefs all offer analysis and cards on the topic! While many of these briefs cost money, you can often find free versions on Discord or Reddit.

Youtube! Watching videos on Youtube is a great way to gain background information in an engaging way. Various debate organizations provide recorded topic lectures for your viewing.

Let the research lead you!

Instead of hunting down arguments that you’ve heard from within the debate community, allow yourself to explore various postures through online literature.

What are the most common perspectives? What argument is each perspective proposing? Consider the strength of each argument and how they might weigh against one another when choosing your contentions.

We hope that these tips help kickstart your journey on this new topic! We wish everyone the best of luck in their upcoming tournaments!

P.S. The new Nocember topic is Resolved: The United States federal government should forgive all federal student loan debt.

#potomacdebate #public forum #debate #nsda

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minefield-of-a-ninja · 2 years

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Summary: A hot tip turns into a hot night.

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V

Characters: Soldier Boy x unnamed female character/female reader (1st person POV) x William Butcher

Tags/warnings: Dirty talk, name calling, rough sex, Dom/sub, slapping, spanking, bruising, like I said it’s rough, forced orgasms, Butcher refers to himself as Daddy and Ben mocks him for it, rimming, anal, come marking, squirting, choking/breath play

Author’s notes: supercock is for @wayward-and-worn. The rest is for @glassjacket and @brrose-apothecary

Gonzo journalism is an energetic first-person participatory writing style of journalism that is written without claims of objectivity, often including the reporter as part of the story using the first-person narrative, and it draws its power from a combination of social critique and self-satire. The word gonzo is believed to have been first used in 1970 to describe an article about the Kentucky Derby by Hunter S. Thompson, who popularized the style.

As previously mentioned, I have a thing for hot guys who are trash humans who wouldn’t be welcome in my mom’s dog’s house out in the backyard. With Butcher, though, I've convinced myself he wasn’t all bad, just on the surface, which worked for us both; that story helped me sleep at night.

Soldier Boy, on the other hand-

“Hands and knees,” he barks before turning to Butcher. “And you, on your back. Get your face up in that filthy-soaked pussy.”

It’s rumored that Soldier Boy performed black ops for the U.S government in the 60s and 70s; that he used a fire hose on civil rights activists in Birmingham and led the Kent State massacre. My boss at the Baltimore Sun told me he had a source in the 60s who claimed to have evidence that it was Soldier Boy who assassinated President John F. Kennedy. That source was found face down in the Potomac the very next day.

Regardless of how bad he is, Butcher and I obey his orders.

“Beautiful view, love,” Butcher mutters, and I hiss when his mouth connects with my cunt. His whiskers are rough and his lips are plush. He uses his tongue to lick through my seam and wraps his hands around my hips to guide me over his face. I let my head hang and close my eyes to just feel.

Then the real fun starts.

“Fuck!” My eyes fly open and my head pops up when the supe smacks my ass.

He drags his nails down my back and my skin breaks into gooseflesh. I shake and sob when he smacks me again and again before grabbing a handful of my hair to painfully jerk my head back. His voice is deep and low in my ear as he arches over me.

“I’m gonna eat this juicy ass of yours and fuck it raw, princess.” He uses his teeth to drive the point home, clamping the shell of my ear then the side of my throat, my shoulder, and the skin of my back as he makes his way down. “This ass is a work of art, can’t wait to get my dick inside you.”

Butcher smoothes his hands from my hips to wrap around my thighs so his partner in crime can grab my cheeks and spread them open. He spits and licks my back hole just as Butcher works my cunt with lips and tongue.

I close my eyes again as they move me over each other, both making lewd smacking sounds and moaning.

“So hot and dirty,” Soldier Boy mutters against my hole then spits again and works the tip of a finger inside me.

I gasp and clench, and my back tenses, but he doesn’t stop. Instead, he twists his finger, screwing it deeper, and nips at the curve of my ass.

“Yes,” I whisper when he starts to thrust that finger hard. He smacks me again and squeezes a super-sized bruise into my other hip, eliciting a shout from my chest and tears from my eyes.

Butcher slips two fingers inside me and sucks my clit. “C’mon, love,” he breathes. “Come for Daddy.”

“Get him nice and messy, princess.” Soldier Boy speeds up the finger fucking into me, slamming hard enough to jolt another shout from my lungs as Butcher uses the wide pads of his fingers to gently massage my g-spot.

Before I know it, I’m coming and convulsing over Butcher’s face.

The supe doesn’t wait for me to catch my breath before dragging me to the edge of the bed.

“We need lube.” He pulls my hips up high and slides one big hand between my open thighs to stroke my clit.

“In my bag,” I breathe.

Soldier Boy chuckles as he pitches forward to whisper in my ear. “Guess you get what you came for, huh?”

I shudder from the promise and the sound of his voice. He hooks a thumb inside my ass as he circles my clit with his thick fingertips, making me whine.

Butcher makes his way back to the bed with the bottle of lube and condoms from my bag. “Yer positively debauched, love. A thing o’beauty.”

“Butcher,” I whisper, trying to maintain some kind of connection to reality. But the real reality is... I want them to help me forget about reality, if only for a few hours until I get my story and get the fuck out.

As Butcher steps up onto the bed, the other man wraps his hand around my throat and starts to squeeze. “Close your eyes and feel what I’m doing to you,” he whispers. “Think about what I’m going to do to you.”

He slowly releases his grip, then, and stars explode behind my closed lids. My body convulses again, just like before, but longer.

Butcher crouches in front of me and cups my chin to hold me steady, looking into my now open eyes to check-in.

“I’m good,” I tell him and he nods once before standing.

I hear a condom wrapper tear and the lube cap snap open. Butcher watches as the supe opens me up and steadily pushes forward.

“Ahh!” The sting is delicious from being barely prepped and his size. My body flushes with heat and I’m panting like a dog. As he sets a rhythm, pulling me back onto his cock, Butcher cups my chin again and feeds me his own.

The push and pull between them is more intense than I even expected. They’re both incredibly strong, of course, but they’re also effortlessly in sync, sharing my body as if we’ve done this a million times before. It’s practically spiritual.

“Wish I had a camera so I could always remember the way you look being our little fuck toy,” Soldier Boy mutters, abandoning my clit to reach up and push at the back of my head, making me swallow Butcher’s cock deeper. “That’s right, good girl.”

Butcher groans and backs up, slipping from my mouth and I cough. He squeezes his angry-looking cock at the base and swears. “Fuck.”

“Coming already?” the supe smirks, hoisting me up so his broad chest is firmly pressed to my back. “Maybe you should sit this one out, slugger. Take some notes.”

Butcher growls as he steps off the bed before crossing the room to the small kitchenette table and chairs. His cock is hard and tall. He squeezes it again as he shakes a cigarette from the pack and lights it.

“Man, her ass is so tight,” Soldier Boy needles at his benched comrade as he cups my breasts and pulls the nipples taut. “At this point, I don’t even have to fuck, she’s doing all the work. Hot little bitch bouncing on my dick.”

Butcher snarls as I fuck myself on the superhero’s cock. I can’t help but join in the torment. It’s the least I can do.

“He’s so thick and hard, Butcher, so deep.”

“You hear that, Daddy?” Soldier Boy mocks Butcher’s nickname for himself. “She loves my cock. Don’t you, princess? I’m going to make you come like this, and then I’m going to fuck your pussy ‘til you show us how good you can squirt. Understood?”

I nod and fuck him harder.

He growls in my ear and bites down on my shoulder. “What was that?”

“Yes! Fuck!”

I feel like I’m about to boil over. I’m so hot and full, and everything is too much. And then I come again.

I fall back on all fours, only because he’s still holding my hips as he pulls out. Then he lets me slump to my side and peels off the empty condom. “On your back. I want to feel it when you squirt and I want to see your face.”

He climbs on the bed and I gingerly move to my sore backside. My ass stings from his game of slap and grab, and my shoulder blades are scratched from his teeth and fingernails.

He tucks himself between my legs and settles on his haunches. “You are so fucking filthy.” He dips in and kisses my mouth and my jaw and scrapes his teeth down the column of my throat as he slips the head of his cock up and down my slit. “Ready, doll?”

I loop my arms under his arms, around his waist and nod. He rises to kneel and hooks his hands under my knees as he begins a shockingly gentle pace, leisurely swiveling and sliding. I feel every bump and curve of him stroking my insides.

“Shit,” I breathe, skating my hands up his torso and across his beautiful chest and shoulders. He is so smooth and powerful.

“Talk to me,” he urges quietly. “Tell me how good I make you feel.”

“Everywhere, like a white-hot rod splitting me in two. So wet, how...”

“Mmm. Fuck,” he groans, then calls to Butcher. “Get over here.”

Butcher appears in my periphery, stroking his still hard cock, and watching me take a supercock like a motherfucking pro.

“When she comes, me and you,” he looks up at Butcher. “We’re going to give her exactly what she wants.”

Butcher nods and they both look back at me.

“OK, pretty girl, you ready?” Soldier Boy asks, snagging my gaze from Butcher.

I nod, dragging my hands back down to his slim hips. “Yes.”

“Say it,” he presses, driving into me slow and hard.

“I want it,” I reply.

“You want what?” He picks up the pace.

“I want you to make me come again,” I whimper.

“How?” He’s fucking me so hard now that I can’t contain my gasps and grunts.

“Hard and wet,” I gasp.

He nods and opens my legs as wide as they’ll go. “Smack her clit,” he tells Butcher, as he rails into me.

Butcher strokes himself with one hand and taps a few times, lightly, then harder, and harder again until it hurts so fucking good.

“Jesus fuck!” I shout undulating in the air under the control of a hundred-year-old super-powered mercenary.

“Fucking take it, you’re gonna come so hard.”

My skin burns hot and my muscles go rigid. I explode with a silent cry and spurt over Butcher’s brutal touch.

My cunt convulses violently around Soldier Boy’s cock and he pulls out. He drops me to the mattress and tells Butcher, “Do it.”

I lie limp and gasping for air as they jack themselves until they’re both coming over my belly and breasts and throat.

The supe groans and flops to his back, running a hand through his hair, and Butcher stumbles to the chair for another cigarette.

“Better get some food and water in you before round two.” Soldier Boy rolls off the bed and crosses the room to join Butcher for a smoke. He lights two and brings the second to me.

“I could use a shower and a nap. You two together are fucking insane.” I groan as I sit up to accept the cigarette. “I think we ripped a hole in the fabric of the universe.”

“Best fuck of your life, I get that a lot.” He turns back to Butcher, who has been oddly quiet this whole time. “We’ll take it easy on her next time, right? Give that hot little ass a rest.”

Butcher smirks then looks back at me. “Whatcha hungry for, love? I’ll order somefin’ delivered.”

I exhale as I answer. “Thai?”

The supe scoffs. “Uhh, no. Burgers. Or pizza. Fucking Thai...” he mutters, reaching across me to stub out his cigarette on the nightstand. “Get some more reefer and beer, too, and I’ll get our dirty girl cleaned up.”

Butcher opens his Grub Hub app as Soldier Boy stands and extends me a hand. I stub my own cigarette out before accepting his offer, and he leads me to the bathroom for a shower.

PART III

More Soldier Boy and/or Butcher

IF YOU LIKE WHAT YOU'VE READ, PLEASE REBLOG AND TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK!

#soldier boy x reader #butcher x reader #soldier boy smut #ButcherBoy smut

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20th-century-railroading · 10 months

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Chessie at Pot Yard

A look back at what once was the massive Potomac Yard complex in Alexandria, VA. This view from the general vicinity of the southbound hump tower looks toward the northbound hump, where an RF&P SW1500 and slug are in view. A bit closer to the camera a set of Chessie System units await their next assignment. GP38 C&O 3863 seems freshly painted while SD40 C&O 7514 is in need of a bath. Next to that power is an RF&P caboose, and some blue Conrail units can be seen behind the Chessie power.

CO 3863 GP38 CO 7514 SD40 May 1985

#c&o #chesapeake & ohio #chessie system #rf&p #richmond fredericksburg & potomac #cr #conrail #1985 #trains #freight train #history #alexandria #virginia

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nessieart · 10 months

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Teeth pt. 10

|| Before the Fall part 3 ||

WC: 3.3k

AN: Listen here, CA:TWS is my favorite mcu movie ok? And we’re in it now. I wasn’t really sure i wanted to go this route, but now i am. Don’t worry, there’ll be more Tony soon! Promise! Thanks for following along with me and my writing journey! It means a lot to me! Enjoy.

Eventual Tony Stark x Reader.

Warnings: Canon level violence, cursing, made up fantasy elements most likely. No y/n used. Nickname usage: Flowers, Poppy. Nondescript reader.

Summary: It’s all one big misunderstanding, you think. The truth comes out about you and SHIELD.

Masterlist

Previous || First || Next>>

-*-

You were brought into S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters, Leon was sent away as soon as you entered, and you didn't see which way he went. A tall man with short slicked back hair and scar on his chin - you think Rumlow called him Rollins - had gripped your arm with more force than necessary, and dragged you away from the rest of the group. You crane your neck back to get a glimpse of Steve, and you can see he’s in his Captain mode. He doesn’t spare you a second look as he heads down a separate hallway than the one you’re being pushed down.

“Where are you taking me?” You ask, “Where’s Leon?” When you don’t get a response, you shove Rollins away from you. “Hey, I’m talking to you!” You glare at him when he doesn’t respond. He looks down his nose at you, and his lip twitches in a frown. If he was surprised by your strength to push him to the other side of the hallway, he doesn’t show it.

“Someone will see you soon,” he says as he opens up a door and motions for you to walk in.

That was hours ago. It’s mid-morning when the door to the room you were in opened. A bald man in a suit and glasses stood in the doorway. He fixed his glasses and stepped to the side, “come with me, please.” And he turned on his heel and started walking out.

You scrambled out of your seat to keep up with him. His pace was fast as he led you towards an elevator.

It started ascending as soon as the doors closed. Out the glass windows of the lift, you could see the Potomac, and below you, the lobby of the Triskelion.

"Some view, huh?" The man with glasses asked. You hummed, not turning away from the glass.

The elevator doors opened, an AI voice played over the intercom.

World Security Council.

The man in glasses stepped out, and you followed. He opened a door for you, and after you entered, he closed it behind you. The room was large, and as you entered, you saw Steve and an older gentleman, who was turned towards the floor to ceiling windows on the far side of the room.

Steve looked up from his spot on the couch, surprise on his face when he locked eyes with you. You shook your head slightly, and Steve nodded.

You crossed your arms over your chest, and you stood next to the couch Steve was seated on, “What am I doing here? Are you the man in charge or what?” Steve made a small noise from his spot and stared at you with wide eyes.

The older man chuckled lightly, his hands in his suit pants pockets. He turned to look over his shoulder at you, “Just had a few questions for the Captain, and you - Special Agent Jones,” the man turns fully and you get a good look at his face.

You tsk, “Thought it smelled rotten in here, can’t believe they put you in charge, Pierce.”

“What the hell is going on here?” Asks Steve. He stood up as soon as Pierce called you special agent. Pierce motions with a hand towards you, and Steve gives you a look.

Oh, was that suspicion? Mistrust? Ouch.

You heave a sigh, “I used to work for S.H.I.E.L.D., before it was S.H.I.E.L.D. and up until ‘75. I knew Pierce very briefly before I left while he was in the State Department. Suffice to say, he knows what I am,” you’ve moved across the room to put yourself as far from Alexander Pierce as you could. You can tell Steve’s on the defensive with the way he stands, his eyebrows lowered as he looks between you and Pierce. “I worked directly under Agent Carter,” you shrug, “I owe her my life.”

Pierce hums a quietly chuckle and turns away from the window, “Captain, why was Nick in your apartment last night?”

The shift in conversation makes Steve blink a few times, and he straightens himself upright, and you notice he’s back in Captain Mode. “I don’t know.”

Pierces raises a brow, “You know it was bugged?”

Steve nods, “I did, because Nick told me.”

“Did he tell you he was the one who bugged it?” Steve makes no notion of acknowledging the question and just stares at Pierce.

They converse more, Steve getting crumbs of information from Secretary Pierce. Something about pirates, a video of a man being interrogated, comes up on a screen behind them. Pierce hands Steve a file, and he speculates some more. All bread crumbs to a bigger meal Steve won’t get to eat.

“Are you saying Fury hired the pirates?” You ask, only Pierce’s eyes cut to you, and you shrug. “It’s hard not to listen.”

Pierce shifts in his seat across from Steve and crosses his arms, “The prevailing theory was that the hijacking was a cover for the acquisition and sale of classified intelligence. The sale went sour, and that led to Nick’s death.”

Steve sniffs, “If you really knew Nick Fury, you’d know that’s not true.”

Pierce pauses and looks Steve over a moment, and then he looks to you, blue eyes skeptical, “Captain, you were the last one to see Nick alive. I don’t think that’s an accident, and I don't think you do either. So I’m going to ask again, why was he there?”

“He told me not to trust anyone,” Steve says seriously, his brows lower again. Steve hasn’t looked at you since he resumed his conversation with Pierce. You want to take it personally, but you get it.

“I’m sorry. Those were his last words. Excuse me,” Steve stands up and grabs his shield and swings it around to place it on his back. You’re just now noticing he’s in a dark blue suit, the stars of his uniform are silver, and his combat boots are surprisingly quiet as he walks across the large office.

“Captain,” Pierce speaks up. Steve stops next to you and looks back at the secretary, “Somebody murdered my friend, and I’m gonna find out why. Anyone gets in my way. They're gonna regret it.” Pierce looks from Steve to you, “Anyone.”

Steve nods once, “Understood.” And he goes to leave the room, not sparing you a glance.

As you watch Steve leave your shoulders tense, you turn back towards Pierce and eye him up and down, he’s returned to the windows, and he's leaning on his arm, looking out over east D.C.

He laughs, it's full and frightening, and the hair on our arms stands on end. A jolt goes up your spine, and you sprint out of the office to catch up to Steve. The elevators are about to close, but 3 figures step in before they can, and you slip in behind them. You have to find Leon. And get the hell out of D.C.

You sidle up next to Steve, and he peaks at you from the corner of his eye. You’re staring at him with wide eyes, and it startles him, he looks at you fully for the first time since the hospital, he goes to speak but is cut off by the other men in the elevator.

“Keep all STRIKE personnel on site,” Rumlow says, and the other two agents with him affirm. “Forensics.”

Confirmed.

“Cap,” Rumlow nods, and he and his trio move to the side of the lift.

“Rumlow,” Steve acknowledges and turns around to face the doors as they close. You step a little closer to Steve.

“Evidence Response found some fibers on the roof. They want us to see. Do you want me to get the tac-team ready?”

“No, let’s wait and see what it is first,” Steve responds. The elevator stops, and the doors open as 2 more agents fill the space.

“Administrations level.”

Confirmed.

They shuffle to the back of the lift on the other side of you and Steve. He moves you both to the middle of the elevator.

Rumlow glances at you from the corner of his eye and then faces forward again, “Sorry about what happened with Fury. Messed up, what happened to him.”

“Thank you,” Steve nods. The elevator moves down a few floors before the doors open again, and more agents fill the space.

You grab Steve’s wrist as the hair on the back of your neck stands on end. He looks down at you and nods once.

“Records.”

Confirmed.

As the elevator doors close again, Steve shifts his stance and stands up a little taller. He moves his hand that you grabbed and places it on your stomach to move you behind him a little.

“Before we get started, does anyone want to get out?” Steve looks around the elevator. You wait on baited breath.

A few heartbeats pass, and then all hell breaks loose. A baton unfolds, and you can hear the electricity charging in it. Someone pushes Steve back, and the majority of the men crowd in on him and hold him, while one person takes his shield from his back.

A man grabs you by the hair, and you yelp, eyes turning blue as you elbow him in the side. He doubles over, and another man comes up to restrain you. You can see he has a collar in his hands. The hum of electricity is loud as he snaps it open to put around your neck. As Steve struggles with the 8 or so agents you’re dealing with 2 of your own. They hold nothing back in trying to subdue you both. One of the men grabs you from behind and bends your right arm back. You hear a crack.

“Fuck,” you hiss out, that’s going to hurt trying to reset. You notice out of the corner of your eye that Steve has managed to dwindle the men down he’s fighting to two. Show off.

You bring your head back sharply and headbutt the man that’s holding you, pull him around by his arm, and toss him over your shoulder into the man in front of you that’s holding the collar. The collar goes around the man you flung, and it closes around his neck, and you can see sparks as it electrocutes him. You’re breathing heavily as you look over to Steve. He’s stuck to the side of the elevator by his wrist. He’s struggling to pull it free.

From the floor, Rumlow stands wiping his mouth, two taser batons in his hands. He looks at you, and you bring your left arm up, claws out as you wait for him to make a move. Your right arm pulled tight to your side. It was definitely dislocated.

Rumlow points one baton at you and the other at Steve, “I just want you to know, Cap, this isn’t personal.” And he lunges at Steve. They trade blows while Steve is still restrained before he knocks Rumlow out.

“Kinda feels personal,” he says between huffs. He brings his foot down on the edge of his shield, and he catches it on his arm and cuts the brace from his right wrist. Steve looks at you with worry for a moment, and then you pop your shoulder back into place, a grimace on your face.

You nod to him, and he hits the Emergency Stop button so the elevator can resume its descent. Before it can move, the doors open, and there’s a dozen agents in tac-suits awaiting with rifles drawn.

“Drop the shield and put your hands in the air!” Before you can even blink, Steve moves in one swift motion, lifts his shield, and swings around. Breaking the glass and elevator cables. You let out a squeak as the pair of you rapidly descend. The breaks kick in, and the lift halts between floors. Steve stands to open the door, more agents filling the hallway, and he closes the door again.

Give it up, Rogers, you have nowhere to run! A voice says through the door.

Steve looks at you, “Do you trust me?” He pulls the traps a little tighter around his arm of his shield as he moves to the back of the elevator.

“You know I do.” That seems to be enough for Steve as he runs and grabs you by the waist. He brings his shield up and goes through the glass on the side of the elevator, and you’re both free falling 20 some odd floors to the ground.

You try not to let out a scream as you tuck yourself into Steve, and he curls his body around yours, shield ready to brace your fall. You hit the ground hard, and it would have hurt like hell if it weren’t for the shield. You roll out of Steve’s embrace and stand on shaky legs.

“Let’s never do that again,” you say as you help Steve up. He huffs out a laugh, and you both sprint away. “I need to find Leon,” you tell him, Steve gives you a look and tears well in your eyes. You go to reach for your phone, but it’s gone. You forgot some member of STRIKE took it. “I can’t-“

“We can’t trust anyone right now, Flowers,” Steve forces his way through a door, shield first, and you follow him out into the garage. Steve jams his helmet on his head and starts the motorcycle with more force than necessary. You jump on behind him, and he takes off. You two barely make it out before the blast doors close as Steve speeds across the bridge.

There’s a personal jet that speeds ahead and hovers midair, aiming its guns at you both, “Stand down, Captain Rogers. Stand down.”

“Steve?…” you yell out, unsure how you’re going to get away from a rain of bullets. He weaves the bike around to avoid gunfire, flings his shield out, and it gets jammed in a propeller.

“Hang on!” He yells back, and he hits the brakes so hard you both go flying up and onto the jet. Steve rolls forward and grabs his shield, and you hold on as tight as you can. He flings his shield at the tail, and the jet begins to falter and smoke. It rapidly descends, and you follow Steve off the wing and land with a roll onto your feet.

You roll your eyes at his superhero pose, and he gets up and begins to sprint off the bridge. You follow close behind.

-*-

Leon is fidgeting out of his skin. He can’t get ahold of you because your phone keeps going to voicemail. He’s been in the comms room since he was told to leave you with Rollins hours ago. He’s tried to pull some security footage from one of the computers but doesn’t want to arouse suspicion from Sitwell. That’s the last thing he needs.

No, he needs to stay calm and focused. He’ll find you soon. He just has to be patient.

He notices Sitwell leaving, and he rushes over to a technician, “Hey man, let me borrow this for a sec, wouldja?” He’s all charming smiles as he leans his hand on the desk next to the tech.

“Uh, sure,” he rolls back in his chair, and Leon rounds on the computer, typing quickly to search through camera footage for any sign of you.

There! He finds you entering an elevator, and you’re following Sitwell. What the hell is going on? He flips the footage inside the lift. He notices you looking out across the Potomac, Sitwell says something to you, but you don’t acknowledge him.

World Security Council.

The AI says, and you both exit. The footage then follows you as you enter Alexander Pierce’s office. Leon turns the volume up a little so he can hear what’s being said.

He’s surprised you know who Pierce is. He’s even more surprised that you used to work for SHIELD for over 10 years. And under Peggy Carter? What the hell? Leon takes a step back from the keyboard. He thought he knew about your time apart. He suspects he doesn’t know everything.

No wonder you understood why he joined SHIELD in the first place.

“To find answers about what happened,” you had said. But to find out you were here since the beginning? He never thought it was possible you were so deep into SHIELD that you worked under Peggy.

He cursed silently, Special Agent. Why couldn’t you entrust him with your secrets? You were twins. Didn’t you trust him with your life? He surely trusted you with his.

He’s brought out of his thoughts when Sitwell returns, Leon closes out the camera footage and steps away from the computer and paces to the back of the room.

Minutes go by, but they feel like hours as Leon watches you and Steve fight for your freedom in an elevator. He nearly loses his lunch as he watches you plummet 20 stories to the ground and shake it off like nothing.

“Eyes here!” Sitwell calls to the comm room. “Whatever your op is, bury it. This is Level One. Contact DOT. All traffic lights in the district go red. Shut all runways at BWI, IAD, and Reagan. All security cameras in the city go through this monitor,” he points up to the giant screen behind him, “right here. If someone tweets about this guy, I want to know about it.”

Leon wants to speak up. He clenches his fists at his sides.

“With all due respect,” a blonde agent says, 13, Leon thinks, “If SHIELD is conducting a manhunt for Captain America, we deserve to know why.”

“Because he lied to us,” Pierce enters, and Leon lets a low growl slip from his throat. “Captain Rogers and Special Agent Jones have information regarding the death of Director Fury. They refuse to share it. As difficult as this is to accept, Captain America is a fugitive from SHIELD.”

“And what about the Agent?” Leon speaks up, a glare in his eyes as he scans the room.

Pierce smirks as he looks to Leon, “KOS,” and he turns to leave the room.

-*-

You’re standing outside a hospital room. Your flannel is a little worse for wear as you tug it around yourself. The door behind you is open, just a crack, and you can hear the conversation perfectly as if you were in the room.

“I know who killed Fury,” the red-headed woman, Natasha says, “Most of the intelligence community doesn’t believe he exists, the ones who do call him the Winter Soldier. He’s credited with over two dozen assassinations in the last fifty years.”

You move closer to the door, your back straightening, and your hair stands on end.

“So he’s a ghost story,” Steve says.

Natasha goes on to tell Steve about how she had a run-in with the Soldier 5 years ago, they drove off a cliff and as she was covering her refugee when someone shot through her to kill the person she was protecting.

You barge into the room, and they both turn to you, “what does he look like? Your Winter Soldier.”

Steve’s eyebrows furrow, and he takes a step back from Natasha. Her head tilts to the side as she eyes you up and down. Steve calls your name, and you look up at him. He brings a hand to your face, “your eyes.” You pull back from him and avert your eyes to the ground.

“He’s fast and strong. Had a metal arm,” Steve says. And when you look up at him again, he takes a step back from you. You’re breathing heavily, and your fangs extend, limbs shaking as you try not to shift.

Metal arm, that bastard.

A snarl lets loose from your lips, and your vision goes dark around the edges, but before you can say or do anything there’s a chime from your wrist, and the blue light blinks rapidly.

You inhale sharply, and your senses return as Tony’s voice fills the room.

“Poppy, JARVIS said something was up, you ok?” Your eyes slide closed, and you breathe out a sigh of relief. You feel your fangs retract, and your limbs stop shaking. Your shoulders slump and you take a deep breath.

“All better now, Tony.”

-*-

AN: Thank you for reading! It means so much to me! Like comment rb<3

#tony stark x reader #tony stark x shifter!reader #shifter!reader #mcu fanfiction #Steve Rogers #slow burn

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awellrespectedcavetroll · 4 months

Text

More lights pls

#Christmas #Christmas tree #Ferris wheel #National harbor #maryland #dc #views from the Potomac

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universitypenguin · 1 year

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Hey Alice :) this is prob a weird question but what kind of car do you think Lloyd drives? We know he’s luxurious so I can see him in something sleek and sporty like an Audi or another European make car

Also how do you envision Lloyd’s house? Is he particular about his decor? Is he the type to be in to antiques or more modern pieces of furniture

I think Lloyd would drive something expensive, but also nondescript. I’m picturing a Mercedes-Benz sedan. It would probably be gray or black. I can see him in a few different models. If he was being conservative, he’d have bought a mid-priced model like a C 300. If he was in a spending mood when he bought the car, he’d have gone for the pricier S 580 4MATIC.

He likes the performance of German engineering and the powerful throttle of the motor. It’s an added bonus that in the D.C. metro, the car blends into the sea of other luxury vehicles. The reason he’d never consider a smaller, sporty model, like an Audi R8 or a BMW M4, is simple. You can’t fit a dead body in the trunk. He’s not planning to commit a crime, but proper preparation prevents poor performance. And when you need to move a dead body there’s no room for error.

Lloyd sticks with a roomy sedan that has plenty of space in the trunk. He keeps it stocked with a shovel and a large box of kitty litter. In the Virginia climate, those items don’t attract much notice. They’re snow storm essentials and he keeps them next to the emergency kit with blankets, water, jumper cables, and a tow chain. But a shovel and kitty litter is good for more than just getting traction in an ice storm, you know? 🫣

For his house, Lloyd lives across the Potomac from D.C. in Old Town Alexandria. He chose the house because it’s less than 30 minutes from the office and the charm of the cobblestone streets appeals to him.

The neighborhood he picks has a brick wall and wrought iron gate facing the street. To get to his house, you have to park in a lot down the street, and then walk down the block to the courtyard gate. The gate isn’t locked but it’s another layer of security - something that would slow down an attacker. Inside the gate is a cobblestone courtyard with Beech trees in the middle. There are five townhouses in the courtyard neighborhood, two on the right and two on the left, with another at the back.

Lloyd owns the inner property on the left side. He likes the location because he’s insulated from every possible angle. The gate protects the front and the courtyard access gives him a view of anyone approaching. Both sides are covered by the other row houses and the brick wall hiding the common area means no one can see much beyond the small gate. The large trees prevents overhead photos and the lack of a garage door further secures the location.

For decor, he paid a decorator to fix the place up. She went for a mix of antiques with modern touches, with a subtle nod towards costal styles in the color palette. The walls are a neutral white, to better showcase the eclectic artwork she chose for his home. She went with the traditional set of wingback chairs, a structured sectional sofa to anchor the room, and a jute rug in the living area. His coffee table is a simple design made of reclaimed elm wood and the end tables are mismatched. One table is made out of distressed gray wood and the other is polished brass.

The decorator gave him plants to tie it all together. He has a fig tree, a Japanese maple, and a ficus. There are potted plants in every room, and he loves how they liven up the place. Looking at them makes him feel like he’s at home. That’s in addition to the herb garden with mint, basil, chives, and tarragon, that she installed in his kitchen window. He has to admit, the herb garden is one of his favorite touches. He uses it almost every day.

The kitchen is thoroughly modern. It has a wide island down the middle and cabinets on both walls. The quartz countertops are durable and crafted to look like marble. Having lived in flats with marble counters in the past, Lloyd has no interest in getting the real thing. They’re too easily scarred. He has a farmhouse sink, with plenty of elbow room to peel potatoes and stack up dishes. On the end of the kitchen is his formal dining room with a table that, when extended, seats fifteen.

His bedroom has one of the best antique pieces in the house. The Italian Renaissance walnut headboard has hand carved Foliate Scrolls and a matching footboard. He has it restored and styles it with a green jacquard bedspread. The decorator finishes the look with antique tea tables for the nightstands, and places an overstuffed chair and a reading lamp in the corner. She installs a wall of floor-to-ceiling black out curtains to prevent the east facing windows from waking him up at dawn. On the windows themselves she adds bamboo shades to bring another texture to the space.

And despite his protests, the decorator puts more plants in the bedroom. Lloyd can’t help but leave them there even after she’s gone. They just… work. He’d never have put them there on his own but the morning sunshine makes the Christmas cactus bloom every three months and turns the climbing vine thing into the picture of health within days.

A year later, when it’s time to decorate the guest room and the sun porch, he re-hires the same woman. This time, he hands over his credit card and tells her to follow the same process she did the first time.

#penguin replies #Lloyd’s car and house ask #Lloyd Hansen #lloyd hansen x you #lloyd hansen x princess #lloyd hansen imagine #Lloyd Hansen ask #lloyd hansen fanfic #the gray man fanfiction #the gray man fanfic #lloyd hansen x reader #the princess and the lawyer: ask #series: the princess & the lawyer #the princess & the lawyer

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