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Planetoid
- Joined
- Sep 9, 2014
- Location
- Massachusetts
Welcome!
I would like to create some new stories with willing and eager writing partners. I write both wholly original content as well as fandom-based content, primarily featuring canon characters. I only write M/M pairings, though I don't care about the gender or sex of the writer. Everything below is something I am actively craving, but I am open to discussion of other writing possibilities. I would be happy to provide additional writing samples to prospective partners if my newness here gives anyone pause.
My favorite locales are Google Docs and Email, but for the right story I'd try to keep up with something in the forums or PMs. I won't roleplay on Discord, but I am always thrilled for OOC chat there or elsewhere. My posts are typically between 400 and 1500 words in length. I may post anywhere between several times a day and once a week depending on the demands of my job and outside life.
Original Concepts that Interest Me:
Adventure Stories, Particularly on the Dark and Introspective Side: Space Pirates, Science Fiction, Urban Fantasy, Magic Systems that are Internally Consistent or Fascinatingly Inconsistent. I like stories that explore the pieces of stories that don't as often get told on the big screen, what happens to the super heroes after the battle, when they have to deal with what they've seen and done. I like analyzing a character's motives, and internal workings, the deep, ugly, messy stuff that makes people behave in ways they don't want to and say things they don't mean. I want to watch characters grow and mature over the course of a story.
Sentinel Crossovers and A/B/O Dynamics: I recognize that this is technically fandom, but frankly at this point it's strayed so far it's basically a genre. I am up for things set in societies where these social and power dynamics exist. That said, Mpreg is not of any interest to me, so just wanted to put out there that that's firmly off the table.
Epistolary Roleplay: I will almost always engage in a roleplay that is structured in an epistolary format, whether it is letters, emails, or some other form. It is easily my favorite medium and can make for an excellent memorable roleplay. I've been thinking that something involving gamers might be particularly appropriate to try. If we do something related to gaming I'd like to explore escapism, preferably with a positive spin since it usually gets such a hard knock.
Fandom-Based Concepts that Interest Me:
Zombies, Run!: I'm mid-Season 2 but I am completely hooked and would adore an RP partner that wants to play in this world. I'd like to play Runner 5 and have my partner play Sam. I'd play OCs in this world if you don't mind Abel NPCs getting drawn into the action. I'd also play a Eugene and Jack game. Literally counting down the days until Jack and Eugene's World Tour. *This is currently my biggest craving.*
Marvel's Avengers & Agents of SHIELD: I will play basically any MxM pairing involving the Avengers. Below are some plots that are of particular interest to me.
*I'm particularly interested in something based on The Falcon and the Winter Soldier right now. Would love to play either Sam or Bucky.*
I would love to do a game that's really heavily BDSM driven with Clint and Phil, in a verse where D/s dynamics are pervasive and thought to be natural and immutable, with all the societal stereotyping and bullshit that tends to play into such assumptions. I'd like to do a game where Clint's a sub, but is unwilling to seek out a partner because of a heaping load of trust issues, and social stigma attached, so he just kind of locks it down. Phil's been his handler for a while and treats him well, respectfully, and Clint starts acting out, pulling pranks, getting himself into trouble. Phil sees his behavior for what it is and takes him in hand. This will follow a safe sane consensual model, with safewords, negotiation, aftercare, etc. This was going to start out as a fanfiction I planned to write myself, but after writing the first chapter I decided I'd much rather play it as an RPG. So consider what's below as the starting place we'd be working from. I'm interested in playing Clint, but could be convinced to play Phil.
Here is a sample starting place given where I planned to start the fanfiction:
“Agent Barton, when is the last time someone took you in hand?” Phil asked, impassively, his face tense with irritation and not even the slightest hint of amusement.
Clint felt his stomach drop out and the smile slink off his face like dog that had just been caught muzzle-deep in the bin. “Excuse me, Sir?”
“You heard me agent. I am perfectly aware that your antics terrorizing the new training class were intended to get my attention. You know how to avoid detection when you choose to do so. You wanted my attention. Well, now you have it. And I want to know whether the discipline you are so clearly craving is something that you expect to be given as part of our handler agent relationship, or whether this is something else, something that’s going to require paperwork.” Phil suggested coolly.
The archer could feel that his mouth had fallen open but it still took him long moments to clack his jaw shut. His stomach had turned into a writhing pit of snakes and it was lucky they were far from the air filtration ducts, because if he could have simply climbed into the ceiling and disappeared he would have liked to. No one saw him like this, so transparently. He hadn’t even consciously realized that was what he had been doing, but now he knew it was true. He also knew that he’d taken too long to answer when he heard Coulson’s heavy sigh.
“You are aware I’ve read your full psych work up. I know which parts are crap and which parts they got right.”
Clint felt his eyes go narrow, lined and taut around the edges. “You gunna kick me out of SHIELD for what I do on my off time, Sir?” Barton asked, petulant and unaccountably nervous. He knew that Coulson wouldn’t. But he also felt unmoored, anxious, desperate for the very thing that Coulson was accusing him of craving.
It might have been a bit untruthful to call this proclivity something he was doing in his off time, unless dreams and fantasy counted for activity. It was more like what he wasn’t doing in his off time. Clint had needs. For a long time, he’d hired a professional to take care of them, something where the contract was laid out clean and business-like where he knew what he was getting even if it never seemed to last long enough for him. But the same events that had brought him into SHIELD had also made it difficult to trust anybody enough for that. Besides, even if he could find someone safe who would give him what he needed, well he wasn’t itching to explain to Fury why he was hiring a sex worker to slap him around.
“You know better than that, Clint,” Coulson said, and when he spoke Clint’s name hard and sharp, and it went through him with the force of an electric jolt. “You misunderstand me. I am prepared to offer you what you’re looking for; I have been since Montenegro. What I don’t know is whether that’s discipline as your handler, or something more. Would you care to clarify the issue for me?”
Again, Clint was left speechless and confused. Clint wanted Coulson for years, pined after him, dreamed about him, and fantasized about him in several less savory scenarios. He got Coulson’s solid comforting presence as his handler, got his respect, his protection, his trust. Asking for more than that seemed unreasonable, dangerous, maybe even ungrateful. Except now Coulson was offering it to him, or at least that’s what it sounded like to Clint. However, Coulson wasn’t offering it to him for free, he was demanding that Clint ask for it, force out the treacherous words. Words that could easily destroy everything, his work and the little family he, Phil, and Natasha comprised in one deadly blow.
The archer stood there, wrecked with indecision. Phil watched his face darken, watched something wretched happen behind his eyes, and the pain blossom deep and rich across his brow. “I’ll take whatever you can give me,” he confessed, voice low and soft.
Coulson’s irritation and anger seemed to soothe at that. He rounded the desk and came to stand in front of Clint, who was as tense as if he was at attention. Coulson ran fingers through his hair and the gentleness of it caused a lump to form in Clint’s throat. His eyes slipped shut and some of the tension left him. “Come sit with me,” Phil instructed, his voice soft as velvet and hard as steel. He settled himself on the sofa and chose not to comment when Clint had a moment of indecision between the couch at his side and the floor by his feet. Clint sat on the couch, a fact for which Phil was somewhat grateful.
“How about you tell me everything you need and we’ll see what we can do,” Phil suggested.
Clint searched for the right words. “I don’t know how to describe it. I need someone else to take control, to go to that nowhere place where I can just, let go and get outside of my head. When it’s good it’s like being taken apart and having someone put salve on a wound I didn’t even realize was bleeding on the inside. The only thing is. . .my head got all fucked up after. . .there are a lot of things that don’t work for me.” Clint confided.
Phil put a hand on his knee and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Is it platonic for you, or do you prefer something more involved?” Phil asked.
“It can be, platonic, but eventually it all gets jumbled up together for me. It gets hard to separate it out. . .”
“So, you would prefer something sexual.” Coulson stated, confirming his suspicion. Clint set his jaw and nodded, eyes fixed firmly on his knees. “And you find me to be a suitable partner?” Coulson asked, trying too hard to truly accomplish a casual tone.
Clint’s head snapped up at that, and he looked at Coulson’s face searchingly. “Yes” he replied. Coulson looked pleased and nodded. “Paperwork it is then,” he said, with just a hint of glee. He opened the top drawer of his desk, a thin one that required a thumbprint scan for identification before unlocking and produced a small stack of cleanly printed forms. The couch felt cold and empty once Phil had vacated it, and Clint felt a dread and confusion he couldn’t quite contain. Coulson presented him with the paperwork and a good sturdy pen. “You’ll need to fill these out and make two copies. It’ll be eyes only of course, one copy to the director, and one for each of our sealed personal files.” Coulson informed him. Clint read the first line of the first form on the pile. “9683D SHIELD Fraternization Notification Form.” His heart nearly stopped.
“Sir, are you saying, you mean, you’re attracted to me?” Clint asked, a disbelieving flabbergasted tone in his voice.
“Yes”
“Since Montenegro?!” Clint breathed.
“Since well before Montenegro. It’s just, it was there that I realized I was willing to do the rest.” Coulson confessed. “What happens next, Clint is entirely up to you. If you think better on it, decide this isn’t for you, we can pretend this conversation never happened, save the admonishment over your actions today. However, if you want to give it a go you put the forms on my desk Monday morning. They’ll take 48-72 hours to get approval, during which time you will impress me with your professionalism and good behavior.” Coulson stated with a pointed look. “Friday we will have a proper date, and then a long discussion about your limits and about mine. If all goes according to schedule a week from tomorrow we can give it a try. Does that sound acceptable to you?” Coulson asked.
Clint nodded, staring at the papers in his hands as though he was afraid that they might disappear from his grasp. Phil soothed a hand through Clint’s locks once again before standing returning to his desk and permitting a confused and shell-shocked Clint to vacate his office.
Monday morning, bright and early, Phil was greeted with the 9683D form filled out in perfect triplicate and a carefully penned letter of apology to Anderson, the man training the new recruits who had been most heavily impacted by Barton’s antics. Phil couldn't help but smile as he signed the forms. The letter of apology was stowed in a desk drawer to be treasured. Anderson was a bastard and didn’t deserve it. Phil would covet the physical evidence of Clint’s commitment to do him proud.
Phil signed and filed the paperwork that morning and had Fury in his office before lunch. The man’s face was impassive. “Care to elaborate on this Phil?” the man asked holding up the neatly filed forms. “I believe it’s fairly self-evident, Marcus. If you’re planning to deny the request I’m prepared to make an impassioned appeal.” Phil noted carefully.
Fury narrowed an eyebrow at him. “You realize the appeal would come right back down to me, don’t you?” Fury noted blandly.
“I’m trusting in your good nature, Director. And the fact that I very rarely ask you for anything.”
“You’re one of the best teams I have Phil. Tell me you aren’t going to fuck it all up. Tell me this will be worth it. Tell me you love him,” Fury asked, sounding tired.
“I do, Marcus. I think we can make this work for us. If not, I’m prepared to either end it or to see him assigned to another handler. But I need that to be our decision to make, if the time comes.”
Fury sighed. “You’re going to put me into an early grave Phil. Congratulations.”
“Thank you, Sir,” he replied. The forms were stamped, signed, and filed. Phil hid in his office because he couldn’t wipe the grin off his face. He could still feel the bone crushing weight of the bear hug that Marcus had given him hours after his friend had left.
Here is a sample starting place given where I planned to start the fanfiction:
“Agent Barton, when is the last time someone took you in hand?” Phil asked, impassively, his face tense with irritation and not even the slightest hint of amusement.
Clint felt his stomach drop out and the smile slink off his face like dog that had just been caught muzzle-deep in the bin. “Excuse me, Sir?”
“You heard me agent. I am perfectly aware that your antics terrorizing the new training class were intended to get my attention. You know how to avoid detection when you choose to do so. You wanted my attention. Well, now you have it. And I want to know whether the discipline you are so clearly craving is something that you expect to be given as part of our handler agent relationship, or whether this is something else, something that’s going to require paperwork.” Phil suggested coolly.
The archer could feel that his mouth had fallen open but it still took him long moments to clack his jaw shut. His stomach had turned into a writhing pit of snakes and it was lucky they were far from the air filtration ducts, because if he could have simply climbed into the ceiling and disappeared he would have liked to. No one saw him like this, so transparently. He hadn’t even consciously realized that was what he had been doing, but now he knew it was true. He also knew that he’d taken too long to answer when he heard Coulson’s heavy sigh.
“You are aware I’ve read your full psych work up. I know which parts are crap and which parts they got right.”
Clint felt his eyes go narrow, lined and taut around the edges. “You gunna kick me out of SHIELD for what I do on my off time, Sir?” Barton asked, petulant and unaccountably nervous. He knew that Coulson wouldn’t. But he also felt unmoored, anxious, desperate for the very thing that Coulson was accusing him of craving.
It might have been a bit untruthful to call this proclivity something he was doing in his off time, unless dreams and fantasy counted for activity. It was more like what he wasn’t doing in his off time. Clint had needs. For a long time, he’d hired a professional to take care of them, something where the contract was laid out clean and business-like where he knew what he was getting even if it never seemed to last long enough for him. But the same events that had brought him into SHIELD had also made it difficult to trust anybody enough for that. Besides, even if he could find someone safe who would give him what he needed, well he wasn’t itching to explain to Fury why he was hiring a sex worker to slap him around.
“You know better than that, Clint,” Coulson said, and when he spoke Clint’s name hard and sharp, and it went through him with the force of an electric jolt. “You misunderstand me. I am prepared to offer you what you’re looking for; I have been since Montenegro. What I don’t know is whether that’s discipline as your handler, or something more. Would you care to clarify the issue for me?”
Again, Clint was left speechless and confused. Clint wanted Coulson for years, pined after him, dreamed about him, and fantasized about him in several less savory scenarios. He got Coulson’s solid comforting presence as his handler, got his respect, his protection, his trust. Asking for more than that seemed unreasonable, dangerous, maybe even ungrateful. Except now Coulson was offering it to him, or at least that’s what it sounded like to Clint. However, Coulson wasn’t offering it to him for free, he was demanding that Clint ask for it, force out the treacherous words. Words that could easily destroy everything, his work and the little family he, Phil, and Natasha comprised in one deadly blow.
The archer stood there, wrecked with indecision. Phil watched his face darken, watched something wretched happen behind his eyes, and the pain blossom deep and rich across his brow. “I’ll take whatever you can give me,” he confessed, voice low and soft.
Coulson’s irritation and anger seemed to soothe at that. He rounded the desk and came to stand in front of Clint, who was as tense as if he was at attention. Coulson ran fingers through his hair and the gentleness of it caused a lump to form in Clint’s throat. His eyes slipped shut and some of the tension left him. “Come sit with me,” Phil instructed, his voice soft as velvet and hard as steel. He settled himself on the sofa and chose not to comment when Clint had a moment of indecision between the couch at his side and the floor by his feet. Clint sat on the couch, a fact for which Phil was somewhat grateful.
“How about you tell me everything you need and we’ll see what we can do,” Phil suggested.
Clint searched for the right words. “I don’t know how to describe it. I need someone else to take control, to go to that nowhere place where I can just, let go and get outside of my head. When it’s good it’s like being taken apart and having someone put salve on a wound I didn’t even realize was bleeding on the inside. The only thing is. . .my head got all fucked up after. . .there are a lot of things that don’t work for me.” Clint confided.
Phil put a hand on his knee and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Is it platonic for you, or do you prefer something more involved?” Phil asked.
“It can be, platonic, but eventually it all gets jumbled up together for me. It gets hard to separate it out. . .”
“So, you would prefer something sexual.” Coulson stated, confirming his suspicion. Clint set his jaw and nodded, eyes fixed firmly on his knees. “And you find me to be a suitable partner?” Coulson asked, trying too hard to truly accomplish a casual tone.
Clint’s head snapped up at that, and he looked at Coulson’s face searchingly. “Yes” he replied. Coulson looked pleased and nodded. “Paperwork it is then,” he said, with just a hint of glee. He opened the top drawer of his desk, a thin one that required a thumbprint scan for identification before unlocking and produced a small stack of cleanly printed forms. The couch felt cold and empty once Phil had vacated it, and Clint felt a dread and confusion he couldn’t quite contain. Coulson presented him with the paperwork and a good sturdy pen. “You’ll need to fill these out and make two copies. It’ll be eyes only of course, one copy to the director, and one for each of our sealed personal files.” Coulson informed him. Clint read the first line of the first form on the pile. “9683D SHIELD Fraternization Notification Form.” His heart nearly stopped.
“Sir, are you saying, you mean, you’re attracted to me?” Clint asked, a disbelieving flabbergasted tone in his voice.
“Yes”
“Since Montenegro?!” Clint breathed.
“Since well before Montenegro. It’s just, it was there that I realized I was willing to do the rest.” Coulson confessed. “What happens next, Clint is entirely up to you. If you think better on it, decide this isn’t for you, we can pretend this conversation never happened, save the admonishment over your actions today. However, if you want to give it a go you put the forms on my desk Monday morning. They’ll take 48-72 hours to get approval, during which time you will impress me with your professionalism and good behavior.” Coulson stated with a pointed look. “Friday we will have a proper date, and then a long discussion about your limits and about mine. If all goes according to schedule a week from tomorrow we can give it a try. Does that sound acceptable to you?” Coulson asked.
Clint nodded, staring at the papers in his hands as though he was afraid that they might disappear from his grasp. Phil soothed a hand through Clint’s locks once again before standing returning to his desk and permitting a confused and shell-shocked Clint to vacate his office.
Monday morning, bright and early, Phil was greeted with the 9683D form filled out in perfect triplicate and a carefully penned letter of apology to Anderson, the man training the new recruits who had been most heavily impacted by Barton’s antics. Phil couldn't help but smile as he signed the forms. The letter of apology was stowed in a desk drawer to be treasured. Anderson was a bastard and didn’t deserve it. Phil would covet the physical evidence of Clint’s commitment to do him proud.
Phil signed and filed the paperwork that morning and had Fury in his office before lunch. The man’s face was impassive. “Care to elaborate on this Phil?” the man asked holding up the neatly filed forms. “I believe it’s fairly self-evident, Marcus. If you’re planning to deny the request I’m prepared to make an impassioned appeal.” Phil noted carefully.
Fury narrowed an eyebrow at him. “You realize the appeal would come right back down to me, don’t you?” Fury noted blandly.
“I’m trusting in your good nature, Director. And the fact that I very rarely ask you for anything.”
“You’re one of the best teams I have Phil. Tell me you aren’t going to fuck it all up. Tell me this will be worth it. Tell me you love him,” Fury asked, sounding tired.
“I do, Marcus. I think we can make this work for us. If not, I’m prepared to either end it or to see him assigned to another handler. But I need that to be our decision to make, if the time comes.”
Fury sighed. “You’re going to put me into an early grave Phil. Congratulations.”
“Thank you, Sir,” he replied. The forms were stamped, signed, and filed. Phil hid in his office because he couldn’t wipe the grin off his face. He could still feel the bone crushing weight of the bear hug that Marcus had given him hours after his friend had left.
I'd really like to try out a plot during the worst of Tony's PTSD following flying into the chasm. Bruce is someone who can uniquely understand his circumstances and help to train him to manage his emotions. At the same time I'd like Bruce to be handling his own difficulty, perhaps he's lost control and done something unthinkable or just sunken into another bought of depression, perhaps false hope provided by his research that didn't pan out. It would be interesting if they took on some sort of scientific challenge together to help them both lose themselves in something. Also if anyone is going to put the freaking hulk to sleep, it's not Black Widow, it's Tony. I would play either Bruce or Tony in this scenario.
Possible Intro Post:
It had been nearly twelve weeks since Bruce had turned down the kindest offer anyone had ever made him in favor of a ride to the train station and an awkward goodbye. He should have taken Tony up on his invitation to stay when it had originally been made. Now everything was different and nothing had changed. Sneaking back into the country without raising the hackles of some SHIELD lackeys or border patrol agents had been almost embarrassingly easy. Avoiding the multitude of security cameras in New York while trying to keep his heart from beating a rapid staccato was considerably more difficult. His plan began and ended with making it to Tony, not so much for his own protection, but in the hope of restoring some manner of equilibrium to his world and in turn protecting everyone else. Though that, he supposed, was too little, too late.
Bruce looked as he so often did, tired and terribly ragged. Maintaining his clothing was almost always the first thing to go when times became rough. Besides, he’d borrowed the pants and boots he was currently wearing from a South American ranch hand. His feet were blistered and the rough canvas of the too big jacket he was wearing rubbed uncomfortably at the nape of his neck. It wasn’t the clothes, however, that truly showed the wear on him, it was the dark smudges under his eyes, the sag in his shoulders, the terribly exhausted look in his hazel eyes. If this went wrong, Bruce had nowhere left to turn. Perhaps he’d hand himself over to SHIELD, to Fury, let them experiment on the thing he became, erase him, so long as they could keep the beast contained. Better to lose himself in favor of the promise that it was always, always kept locked away and caged. He felt the monster stir in him at even the hint of the treacherous thought. They weren’t there, not yet at least.
He kept his head down and the brim of his baseball cap low over his tanned face as he approached the receptionist at Stark – no Avengers – Tower. He suspected that Jarvis would be well aware of his presence and alerting Stark by now, though some formalities must be observed. He waited at the desk while the receptionist finished up a phone call, then while she played with her nails for a moment, before acknowledging him. “Can I help you with something?” she asked, once Bruce had captured her attention.
“I’m here to see, Tony Stark, please,” he stated in a soft even tone. The woman considered him with a wrinkled brow.
“Do you have an appointment with, Mr. Stark?” she inquired.
“More like an open invitation,” Bruce corrected apologetically, tipping up the brim of the cap just so, allowing the young woman to see his face. The woman gasped, her mouth dropping into a silent “O” of surprise. She pressed back into her chair, putting a few more inches of distance between them and Bruce bit back a wince, knowing that her fear was justified, and knowing that his mere presence was causing it. At just that moment, Ms. Potts strode out of the elevator favoring him with a warm smile and a brief polite hug. He felt a burning in the back of his eyes and a tightening in his throat. It was the first time anyone had touched him in three months. It took everything he had not to collapse onto the petite woman’s shoulder. Instead the moment passed and she released him, favoring him with an appraising but non-judgmental look.
“It’s good to have you back, Bruce,” she offered, almost perfunctorily. “I expect you’ve come to see Tony?” she asked, again more out of politeness than actual curiosity. She almost certainly knew every word that had passed between him and the receptionist, who was still gaping at him openly.
“Yes, please, Ms. Potts,” Bruce agreed softly, shoving his hands into the pockets of the oversized coat.
She smiled at him indulgently. No matter how many times she told Bruce he could call her Pepper he seemed to have difficulty with the concept. She led the way into the elevator and up to the penthouse suite. Bruce felt dirty in the sharp modern surroundings, which were obviously cleaned regularly by a professional staff. He stuck out cleanly as a thing that did not belong here among the delicate glass windows and clean finery. Ms. Potts did not follow him out of the elevator, instead begging back off for work and promising to catch up with them later. Bruce wondered if things were still strained between the billionaire and the CEO who ran his company and (at least as far as Bruce had assumed) the better part of his life as well.
Possible Intro Post:
It had been nearly twelve weeks since Bruce had turned down the kindest offer anyone had ever made him in favor of a ride to the train station and an awkward goodbye. He should have taken Tony up on his invitation to stay when it had originally been made. Now everything was different and nothing had changed. Sneaking back into the country without raising the hackles of some SHIELD lackeys or border patrol agents had been almost embarrassingly easy. Avoiding the multitude of security cameras in New York while trying to keep his heart from beating a rapid staccato was considerably more difficult. His plan began and ended with making it to Tony, not so much for his own protection, but in the hope of restoring some manner of equilibrium to his world and in turn protecting everyone else. Though that, he supposed, was too little, too late.
Bruce looked as he so often did, tired and terribly ragged. Maintaining his clothing was almost always the first thing to go when times became rough. Besides, he’d borrowed the pants and boots he was currently wearing from a South American ranch hand. His feet were blistered and the rough canvas of the too big jacket he was wearing rubbed uncomfortably at the nape of his neck. It wasn’t the clothes, however, that truly showed the wear on him, it was the dark smudges under his eyes, the sag in his shoulders, the terribly exhausted look in his hazel eyes. If this went wrong, Bruce had nowhere left to turn. Perhaps he’d hand himself over to SHIELD, to Fury, let them experiment on the thing he became, erase him, so long as they could keep the beast contained. Better to lose himself in favor of the promise that it was always, always kept locked away and caged. He felt the monster stir in him at even the hint of the treacherous thought. They weren’t there, not yet at least.
He kept his head down and the brim of his baseball cap low over his tanned face as he approached the receptionist at Stark – no Avengers – Tower. He suspected that Jarvis would be well aware of his presence and alerting Stark by now, though some formalities must be observed. He waited at the desk while the receptionist finished up a phone call, then while she played with her nails for a moment, before acknowledging him. “Can I help you with something?” she asked, once Bruce had captured her attention.
“I’m here to see, Tony Stark, please,” he stated in a soft even tone. The woman considered him with a wrinkled brow.
“Do you have an appointment with, Mr. Stark?” she inquired.
“More like an open invitation,” Bruce corrected apologetically, tipping up the brim of the cap just so, allowing the young woman to see his face. The woman gasped, her mouth dropping into a silent “O” of surprise. She pressed back into her chair, putting a few more inches of distance between them and Bruce bit back a wince, knowing that her fear was justified, and knowing that his mere presence was causing it. At just that moment, Ms. Potts strode out of the elevator favoring him with a warm smile and a brief polite hug. He felt a burning in the back of his eyes and a tightening in his throat. It was the first time anyone had touched him in three months. It took everything he had not to collapse onto the petite woman’s shoulder. Instead the moment passed and she released him, favoring him with an appraising but non-judgmental look.
“It’s good to have you back, Bruce,” she offered, almost perfunctorily. “I expect you’ve come to see Tony?” she asked, again more out of politeness than actual curiosity. She almost certainly knew every word that had passed between him and the receptionist, who was still gaping at him openly.
“Yes, please, Ms. Potts,” Bruce agreed softly, shoving his hands into the pockets of the oversized coat.
She smiled at him indulgently. No matter how many times she told Bruce he could call her Pepper he seemed to have difficulty with the concept. She led the way into the elevator and up to the penthouse suite. Bruce felt dirty in the sharp modern surroundings, which were obviously cleaned regularly by a professional staff. He stuck out cleanly as a thing that did not belong here among the delicate glass windows and clean finery. Ms. Potts did not follow him out of the elevator, instead begging back off for work and promising to catch up with them later. Bruce wondered if things were still strained between the billionaire and the CEO who ran his company and (at least as far as Bruce had assumed) the better part of his life as well.
Sam has watched this sad story play out long enough, Steve chasing after Bucky, obviously in love and completely unable or unwilling to say the words. As a counselor, Sam knows the power of words and the importance of putting names to things that were once unspoken. The love that Steve feels for his friend, whether it was ever spoken of in the 40s or not, needs to have a voice now, or it will continue to consume Rogers alive. Of course, putting a name to trauma is the first step to moving on, which Sam has a distant and impossible hope, that they might do together. I would also definitely play this one as an eventual OT3 where Bucky is recovered and Sam and Steve take him in, in whatever condition he's in and try and make a home together.
More generally, I would be interested in the following pairings, or really any pairing between male Avengers:
- Tony Stark/Bruce Banner
- Clint Barton/Phil Coulson
- Steve Rodgers/Bucky Barnes
- Tony Stark/Steve Rogers
- Clint Barton/Peter Parker
- T'Challa/Bucky Barnes
White Collar: I'd like to explore the ethics of conducting any personal relationship with a prisoner in one's custody. I'm a fan of a vulnerable Neal, and have noticed that Neal's time in prison is laughed off regularly in the series. I've always wondered if that's half because Neal wants it that way. Maybe there's something lurking there he doesn't want to deal with. It would be interesting in dealing with Neal's and Peter's viewpoints on the allocation of responsibility. I'd be happy to talk more about my thoughts on this one, as I have several clear ideas.
I'd also kill for a White Collar/The Normal Heart mashup of some kind. This would basically make my life!
The Marketplace Series by Laura Antonou: Honestly if you've read this series, please shoot me a message, even just to say "Hi," because you're probably awesome. If you want to roleplay it, pretty much Hell Yeah!
Firefly: I have a firefly 'verse original character that I'm dying to take out for a spin. Here are his details. He could be put into a number of possible plots.
~BASICS~
Content Warnings for child abuse, neglect, and sexual assault in the history section.
Name: Hale BaiAliases: Graeme Rice [Current], Cavan Thompsett, Hart Thompsett, Gallagher Zhao, Qiang Yuen[Burned], Kade Zhao, Harding Yuen, Jude Yuen, Kent Paige, Xiang Paige
Gender: Male
Age: 31
Homeworld: Charity
Affiliation: Neutral, Independent-Leaning
Location: The Satori
Position: Detailer/Restorer, Temp Position
Education: Ten Years of Church Education; Independent Army Infantry Training; Learning in the Field.
Cortex Flags: “Quiang Yuen” was arrested for assault of a fellow mine worker on Haven. Because he was a foreigner the Alliance police were called in to deal with it and he spent about 30 days cooling his heels in an Alliance lock up. Ultimately they decided he wasn’t worth the trouble and let him go.
Family: A mother, father, nine sisters, and six brothers on Charity. He doesn’t keep in touch with them, so they may not all be living. His extended family is probably very large, but he’s never met his nieces or nephews.
Height: 6’ 0”
Weight: 160 lbs
Hair Color: Brown
Eye Color: Blue-Green
Orientation: Gay
~DETAILS~
General Appearance: When it comes to looks Hale’s pretty average. He’s neither especially tall nor especially short. He has a laborer’s musculature but he doesn’t have the set of a bodybuilder. He keeps his hair short and neat but doesn’t put much thought into it, except to keep it from sticking up when he’s slept on it funny. Hale prefers to keep a little scruffy facial hair but doesn’t let it grow past that. His most remarkable feature is his eyes. They are clear and bright.
Hale’s demeanor compliments his reserved personality, he has a confident stride and a proud posture, but he displays an army-bred stillness, first learned while sitting through church. He doesn’t fidget or use many broad gestures unless he’s explaining something mechanical.
His clothes are simple and casual. Sometimes he looks a bit like a ranch hand minus the hat. He usually opts for Henleys, denim jeans, and his old beat up army boots. He never wears his browncoat from the war anymore, though he kept it. Sometimes he’ll wear an old beat up bomber jacket that looks like something off of Earth that was.
Distinguishing Characteristics: Hale has a tattoo, the symbol for his unit with the Independents. There is an ugly scar across it looks as though he’s tried to burn it off. Usually he wears sleeves long enough to cover both the tattoo and the scar. He has some scars on his hands from manual work.
History: Hale’s daddy was a preacher on a backwater moon called Charity out in the ass end of nowhere. Birth control was the devil’s work so Hale had more brothers and sisters than he knew what to do with. He wound up taking care of the little ‘uns from the time he was old enough to answer to his name. When his daddy was around discipline was maintained with a rigidity that bordered on the maniacally obsessive. Yet despite the fact that he could never be perfect enough for his pop and that his mum forgot his name more often than she remembered it, Hale hung on his father’s every word. He didn’t know a god from a grapefruit, but he damn near worshipped his father.
One of the problems with being a lying, stealing, son-of-a-bitch when a man had a brood numbering in the double digits was there were a hell of a lot of prying eyes to catch one in their lying, stealing, son-of-a-bitch ways. Unfortunately, it was Hale’s innocent eyes that caught his father with his hand in the donation till. If his father had tried to explain, even told him a weak lie, Hale would have eaten it up. But the man didn’t know his little boy well enough to make that call. Instead he shouted accusations at the child, giving Hale a swift spank as he tore out of there with the horrible certainty of what he’d seen cemented in his head and branded cherry red on his ass. He thought it would have been easier losing faith in God than it had been losing faith in his pop.
Education wasn’t a high priority on Charity, and Hale was schooled in a one-room building behind the church with the same bored schoolteacher from the age of six to sixteen learning ancient dogma. He occupied his days searching for heroes, desperate for anyone to look up to. Most of his free-time was spent looking after his younger siblings, sinning in the caves with boys his father would have forbade him to talk to if he ever paid enough attention to notice, and listening to radio channels the Alliance probably thought they’d properly banned. He fell in love with the rebel broadcasts. The Browncoats seemed like superheroes and Hale considered for the first time that he could be one of those people that others looked up to for the right reasons. He stole his daddy’s shotgun and stowed away on a ship heading to Constance, where he’d heard some of the fighting was going on.
It was sheer luck that Yun Adelfie, the brother of a die-hard Browncoat General, was on the transport, otherwise Hale would have eaten atmo when they fished him out of a barrel dehydrated and starved half to death. He hadn’t thought to bring any ammo for his daddy’s gun after all, so there wasn’t much defending himself. Yun smoothed things over, paying his way to Constance. They took away the shotgun and let him sleep in the engine room. Yun became a friend, showing him what he knew about tending to ships, playing cards with him, and telling him war stories. Yun was everything that Hale had imagined as he listened to the rebel broadcasts. He wore an eye-patch like a pirate from an injury in the fighting and he didn’t talk about things like honor or courage or integrity – he practiced them. For the first time in his life Hale felt like he was moving toward something important.
“How old are you anyway, kid?” the man asked over a hand of cards one day. Probably because he knew he was going to lose, Hale decided. (Integrity didn’t extend to cards – as he’d quickly learned.)
“Sixteen” he replied with all the brash defiance of a teenager who suspected they were about to get denied a grown up privilege.
“Not anymore you ain’t. Anyone asks, you say yer eighteen, just small for your age since they didn’t feed you right on whereverthehell you came from,” he instructed.
Hale nodded emphatically and mentally tacked two years onto his age.
Yun delivered him in person and Hale felt like hot shit. Training was hard but rushed. They needed boots on the ground too badly to teach him much more than how to take orders and fire a gun. That was alright by Hale who was eager for heroics, and had a knack for experiential learning. He was assigned to a unit and got on well with the other men. He loved army life, even though he didn’t savor the bloodshed. The lieutenant he was assigned to made Yun Adelfie seem like no one important in comparison. The LT was brave and charismatic, he seemed to really care about each of his men, while being a tough bastard when the situation called for it. Earning his favor was very hard, but Hale felt a seed of that worship he’d abandoned in childhood, in rare moments when he got the approval from the LT that he’d never gotten from his father. He’d have followed that man anywhere, done anything he said.
When he woke up to the LT on top of him in the night, he froze, could barely breathe. He closed his eyes, white-knucked his cot, and told himself it wasn’t really happening. It wasn’t every night. A few times, but not knowing when it would happen laced every sunset with terrifying possibility. Hale told himself it wasn’t real, that it was just nightmares. If he puked up his breakfast some mornings or his hands shook and he broke out in a cold sweat when the LT stood behind him for too long when they were in formation, he wasn’t that much worse off than the guys who were shook up over killing folks. Or at least he could tell himself so. Sometimes he could even forget and look up to the man momentarily, like when the LT gave him one of those signature back-handed compliments all the men strove for, or a draw from his hip flask with real honest to god liquor, or looked at him with something like pride. Hell he’d have done anything for those moments when he first got to the unit. He hated himself for finding even the faintest hint of satisfaction in it any longer, but that didn’t make the satisfaction go away.
When he heard Zan, another one of the soldiers in his unit, crying late at night, after they bunked down, he felt the pit-of-his-stomach horror knowing that it was happening to another one of the men.
Then it was all too ruttin’ real and Hale felt his heart nearly thunder out of his chest. He didn’t sleep that night, or the next. He knew better than to approach a man while he was stifling sobs in his bunk, and he needed time to marshal his courage and find a way to swallow his shame if only momentarily. He waited until he’d gotten a moment alone with the other soldier. “I know what he’s doing to you Zan, it’s happening to me too,” he confided, nauseous and breathless. Zan’s face went sheet-white, and then pain exploded across Hale’s face. It took him a moment to realize that Zan had punched him square in the nose. He held a hand to his bleeding (and rapidly swelling) face. Zan called him a few choice names and accused him of being a liar; threatened that if he ever spoke a word about it to the other men he’d wake up with a round in his skull.
Hale left before sundown. He ditched his unit and walked himself out of the hot zone to the nearest populated area, half hoping an Alliance bullet would find him before he reached civilization. No such luck. He took odd jobs almost always under a different name. His requirements were simple: an understanding that he could leave at any time and his own bunk. Hale gave up on heroes and he couldn’t find it in him to trust anyone in a position to give him orders. He worked with almost two-dozen crews, always reliable for a short stint but usually taking off after a job or two. Since he never intended to stay long he developed a specialty detailing and restoring ships. He’d get a machine looking factory clean and then take his pay and hop onto the next rust bucket that needed restorin’. If he liked the crew sometimes he’d lend a hand in other endeavors when things got dicey. He was a steady shot and didn’t like seeing people needlessly corpsified.
Yet, that feeling that he’d been moving toward something was replaced with the constant sense of running away. He thought it might get better after the war was over, no matter who won, but it didn’t.
Hale learned to enjoy the satisfaction of a job well done and started using the street name Ship Shape which allowed him to change aliases without losing his resume. He became one of the best one-man cleaning and restoration crews in the ‘verse partially because he was meticulous, and partially because he didn’t mind spending ten hours banging out a ding or a dent. Working with his hands calmed him. He also picked up enough mechanical skills to take an engine apart and put her back together again like new, though he was never as great at improvising when a job was lacking the parts.
Even with a strong rep, as an Independent, and a deserter at that, most of his work was for questionable folk. In his darker moments he considered that he might be more like his old man than he’d like to admit. Throughout his travels he tried never to steal a cent and not to kill anyone who wasn’t keen on killing him. This meant patches when work was hard to come by. When he couldn’t find work on ships, he experimented with a handful of manual trades. He’d patch up fences and barns on the ranches or play handyman.
His one attempt at spending some time with a mining colony turned out to be a disaster. He couldn’t shake his paranoia working in a dark closed space, and assaulted one of the other workers who approached him from behind. It was ugly. He felt like shit about it, really he did, and figured cooling his heels in a barren cell for a while was well-deserved. Luckily the assault record was filed for an alias, and considering he and the victim were unimportant, and he hadn’t intentionally made enemies of the guards overseeing lock up, he was released after a thirty-day stint. Surprisingly, he made a few good contacts in the slammer, some he might be inclined to call on again if the need ever arose. As soon as they tossed him out with his meager personal effects and his coal caked coveralls he ditched that fake name for another one and caught some real mechanic and electrical work on a ship heading off planet. Then, back to the grind.
Personality: Patient, Sardonic, and a little lost, Hale’s personality has changed significantly in the past several years. Once a naïve, gregarious, adventure-seeker Hale has become wiser, but also more cynical. He chooses to stay in the background now, less apt to draw attention to himself. He is very independent-minded and occasionally has issues with authority. His demeanor with others, when not reserved, can range from congenial to terse depending on the situation. Yet underneath his somewhat bitter exterior is a caring idealist who has had his hopes stomped on more than once. He is extremely reliable, proud, and considerate. He thinks he’s lost the ability to trust, but he’s never lost the desire to.
Weaknesses: After what happened to him in the military there are some situations where working in dark crowded spaces is an issue for Hale. Whether his sensitivity will be triggered depends largely on the given situation, but it’s occasionally come up in the context of ship maintenance. While Hale has commendable mechanical skills and is capable of using a computer at an average level he learned later in life and programming or software development would be well beyond his capabilities. Hale is also not a strong reader; he’s mildly dyslexic (though never formally diagnosed), so full length books are tough for him to get through. Hale’s most significant weakness, however, is his unwillingness to put his trust in people or get close to them, this goes both for work and personal relationships. He doesn’t stick around long enough for anyone to get close to him and when people try, that’s usually his cue to bolt.
Notable Skills: Hale has a knack for restoring ships and building things. He’s very adept with most tools and takes genuine enjoyment in having a project. His military training and subsequent work have made him adept at handling and shooting weapons. He was also responsible for some demolitions work while with his unit and later when he was working as a miner and is comfortable with a range of incendiary devices. A childhood spent exploring caves has made him adept at hiking, rock climbing, and basic survival skills. Oddly enough, he also knows how to can fruit and veg, as well as making mean pickles and jams. He’s had a lot of experience seeing after young kids and can quiet a crying baby or change a diaper with ease. That’s not to say he enjoys it. Turns out he also has a lovely singing voice should he ever decide to use it (but he’ll only do it when he’s really drunk).
Weapons: Smith & Wesson Model 10 – 38 Special; Colt M1911; Browning Hi-Power - 9x19mm; Mock Colt XM177E2 Commando
Likes: Liquor, Being Out in the Black, Wandering a Quiet Ship at Night, Radio Broadcasts, Anything Lemon Flavored, his Bomber Jacket
Dislikes: Childcare, Organized Religion, Thieves, Liars, Dark Enclosed Spaces, Breakfast
Hobbies: Building Model Ships, Drinking, Listening to Radio Broadcasts,
Fears and Phobias: Security of his bunk, People in his Room at Night, Claustrophobic (but only with people),
Ons and Offs: Hale has a few specific offs due to his past abuse. He isn’t comfortable with a lot of weight on top of him, and needs to face his partner. He doesn’t enjoy being pinned down and is extremely uncomfortable with blindfolds and bondage of any kind – giving or receiving.
Extraneous Information: Part of his backstory was inspired by an Orson Scott Card character from A War of Gifts
Torchwood: I'd be up for some good old Jack and Ianto material. This needs a bit more developing, and I'd be happy to collaborate. I do adore the post-year that never was time slot.
If any of the above interests you, please get in touch.
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