writing writing writing
For a while there, I was really powering along. Of course, with the onset of June and winter, the waveform has collapsed somewhat.
Next Maria-POV section of To The End Of Love is up, and I'm pretty much just self-indulgently spewing words right now. It feels wrong, but I kind of want it out of my head so I can move on (properly) to other things. mcu_aufest is coming along in bits and bobs. It needs a better ending, but the one I planned isn't quite right, and the one I've written doesn't feel correct.
not_primetime assignment is...hung. It's two characters that I really like, but which I simply can't write together. At least the Gecko & Franzi's Friend-Ficathon is easier: that's a pairing I like to write. And there's
everywoman which seems doable now, but I have a sneaking suspicion it'll be an in-the-last-48-hours fill.
And waiting on my
femmeremix assignment. *gnaws nails*
Too many ideas! Too many thoughts! Too many WIPs!
Plus, half a mouthful of stitches might be a little easier to bear than a whole mouthful of stitches, but it's still damned uncomfortable. (And causing scalp aches and, I think, other issues.)
In the meantime, have a Morning marriage: an inconvenient time of day (Natasha/Bucky)
And, for the sedoretu itself:
(the final version won't be quite so painful)
--
The Quinjet she took has shielding and no trackers, but she’ll still hear a broadcast on open comms.
If she answers, Natasha thinks as Bucky flips through channels. The new arm moves as fluid as flesh - T’Challa’s bioengineers have done brilliant work, easily the superior of any Stark Tech. Dispassionately, she knows she’s distracting herself from the parallels; another Quinjet, another heart, another disappearance. But if she lets herself think- If she lets herself feel-
“This is Hill.”
They suck in a breath, all three as one. Steve reaches for the mic, but Bucky gets there first and his eyes dare Steve to interrupt.
“Goddammit, Maria,” Bucky’s voice seems to grate in his throat. “You said you were going to wait!”
“I said I would think it over. I never said I would wait.”
Across the room, T’Challa turns his head and his eyes meet Natasha’s in compassionate memory of another such exchange - again, in with the four of them present. The kindness is almost more than she can bear. But when she looks away, she can only see Steve, his shoulders bowed, his face turned aside. Her hand claws briefly across the console surface, frustration and anger balling in her belly.
As though he feels her gaze on him, Steve turns, and fine lines groove the corners of his mouth. They neither of them look away, bright Morning anger to sharp Morning guilt.
Bucky is looking at them both with a bleak anguish in his expression as he speaks into the mic, “And you really think leaving is the answer?”
“If I didn’t,” Maria says, Evening’s quiet to Evening’s shadows, “we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
Next Maria-POV section of To The End Of Love is up, and I'm pretty much just self-indulgently spewing words right now. It feels wrong, but I kind of want it out of my head so I can move on (properly) to other things. mcu_aufest is coming along in bits and bobs. It needs a better ending, but the one I planned isn't quite right, and the one I've written doesn't feel correct.
not_primetime assignment is...hung. It's two characters that I really like, but which I simply can't write together. At least the Gecko & Franzi's Friend-Ficathon is easier: that's a pairing I like to write. And there's
everywoman which seems doable now, but I have a sneaking suspicion it'll be an in-the-last-48-hours fill.
And waiting on my
femmeremix assignment. *gnaws nails*
Too many ideas! Too many thoughts! Too many WIPs!
Plus, half a mouthful of stitches might be a little easier to bear than a whole mouthful of stitches, but it's still damned uncomfortable. (And causing scalp aches and, I think, other issues.)
In the meantime, have a Morning marriage: an inconvenient time of day (Natasha/Bucky)
And, for the sedoretu itself:
(the final version won't be quite so painful)
--
The Quinjet she took has shielding and no trackers, but she’ll still hear a broadcast on open comms.
If she answers, Natasha thinks as Bucky flips through channels. The new arm moves as fluid as flesh - T’Challa’s bioengineers have done brilliant work, easily the superior of any Stark Tech. Dispassionately, she knows she’s distracting herself from the parallels; another Quinjet, another heart, another disappearance. But if she lets herself think- If she lets herself feel-
“This is Hill.”
They suck in a breath, all three as one. Steve reaches for the mic, but Bucky gets there first and his eyes dare Steve to interrupt.
“Goddammit, Maria,” Bucky’s voice seems to grate in his throat. “You said you were going to wait!”
“I said I would think it over. I never said I would wait.”
Across the room, T’Challa turns his head and his eyes meet Natasha’s in compassionate memory of another such exchange - again, in with the four of them present. The kindness is almost more than she can bear. But when she looks away, she can only see Steve, his shoulders bowed, his face turned aside. Her hand claws briefly across the console surface, frustration and anger balling in her belly.
As though he feels her gaze on him, Steve turns, and fine lines groove the corners of his mouth. They neither of them look away, bright Morning anger to sharp Morning guilt.
Bucky is looking at them both with a bleak anguish in his expression as he speaks into the mic, “And you really think leaving is the answer?”
“If I didn’t,” Maria says, Evening’s quiet to Evening’s shadows, “we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”