#detective loki x yn

[writingfortoomanyfandoms]

Black and Blue - Five [FINAL]

Pairing: Detective Loki x Reader

Summary: She saw her life in black and blue

Requested: Nah

Warnings: Mentions of past abusive relationship, swearing

A/N: so this has been a wild ride from start to finish! Apologies again for the previous break between three and four, but I hope you enjoy reading this final part to the miniseries. I’ve really enjoyed writing BAB so I hope you guys also enjoyed reading it :) as always, please remember to let me know what you thought - likes are cool but please reblog, comment and send asks telling me what you thought. If you want more BAB content then feel free to request spin-off blurbs for the series if you have any particular scene you want me to write :)

One // Two // Three // Four

Y/N had forgotten what it was like to wake up in someone’s arms.

She had forgotten many of the intimacies of relationships, the simple domestic acts that made all the difference to a person’s day.

Intimacies like him trying to make her breakfast in bed (the emphasis being put on the word ‘trying’, it had very quickly been agreed that the cooking would remain in her hands), the way he’d refuse to leave for work until he had gotten a kiss from her, how he’d do the dishes for her since he knew that they were her least favourite chores.

All the different, sweet actions that made a relationship feel real.

But waking up in David’s arms. That was something else entirely.

Yeah, David had a presence that made Y/N feel safe and secure no matter what but… waking up in his arms and being held by him, that was a feeling of security that Y/N could have only dreamed of having after her years of living constantly on edge with Caspar.

Y/N was scared to do anything even in the comfort of her own home (not that being home brought her any comfort by the end) and a little of that fear had managed to board her plane to Pennsylvania with her. But with David with her she felt as though she could take on the world.

She felt like she could actually be herself. 

“You awake?” His voice was raspy, laced with sleep and exhaustion from having been spending so long working on his last case. It had been a struggle for Y/N to convince him to sleep and she was glad that he was finally beginning to manage it.

“Yeah - didn’t want to wake you up,” she explained, switching off her phone and reaching over to place it back on the bedside table before rolling over.

David’s arms tightened a little around her, nuzzling his face into her neck.

“Why?”

“You need to sleep, Dave,” she whispered.

“Much rather be awake with you,” he declared, the words a little muffled from being spoken against her skin.

“You’re a sap.”

“I’m intimidating,” David insisted, pouting a little, nestling even closer to her.

“Even I’m not scared by you,” Y/N pointed out, her fingers lifting to pull through his hair, messy from sleep. “And I’m scared of everyone,” her voice lowered as though she was sharing a secret with him and she could hear David laugh against her skin in response to her words.

“Yeah, but you’re different.”

“Hm?” David let out a content sigh and pressed a kiss to her exposed collar bone.

“You’re different to anyone I’ve ever met before.”

///

The previous six months had been hard to say the least.

Since the tearful night that they had spent together in the bakery the day David accidentally stood her up, they had been working on it. Working through everything together.

Y/N had tried to talk about Caspar, through sobs and anger she tried to explain who he was, what he did to her.

She told him about the first time he hit her.

That had been the first time that David hugged her, seeming unable to keep apart from her, desperately wanting to try his best to hold her together.

They fell asleep together that night on the floor of the bakery, Y/N’s head rested on his chest and David’s arms around her.

Of course they had both been stiff when they woke up the following morning and a little cold from the snow outside, but it was the best Y/N had slept in over a year.

The first time she had felt safe in over a year.

It had taken a little while for the full details to be disclosed. Weeks of little hints being dropped by Y/N to the full extent of her trauma, of her being launched into panic attacks if David would say or do something that brought back a repressed memory for her.

Weeks of her apologising to David for something that wasn’t at all her fault.

Each time that David would unintentionally have that effect on Y/N, she could see him beginning to beat himself up over it. He would calm her down, make sure she was okay and disappear for the rest of the day. Y/N knew it was so that she could have space to calm down properly, but she also knew that it was so that David could scold himself quietly.

Though, while it took Y/N weeks to divulge the details of her abusive past, it took David months to confess his own fucked up childhood.

It was on the anniversary of his parents death.

David hadn’t been in the bakery all day. He always still came in every day for a cup of coffee, a baked good and a chat with Y/N, even going so far as hanging around until she was free to sit and talk with him for a little bit. But that day he hadn’t been in even for just a five minute chat.

He did arrive, though, ten minutes to closing time. His hair was dishevelled, his eyes were tired and he fell into Y/N’s arms, which were open and waiting, clearly picking up on his complete defeat with the day.

Y/N had closed early, apologising to the people who were in the cafe still but knowing that David just needed her.

David had cried in front of her for the first time that evening, explaining what happened to him. It was as though, for the first time, he was truly coming to terms with all of the shit he was put through as a kid after his parents died, growing up in the boy’s home.

Y/N held him as he spoke, the words continuing to spout from him, unable to stop them from escaping now that he had allowed them to be spoken. Everything from his past up and out in the air. She held him as he fell apart and put himself back together.

Everything was a little easier after that night.

After they knew the darkest parts of each other, the trauma that lurked beneath the surface for both of them. The sadness that hid behind their smiles.

To say it was simple would be a gross exaggeration. Nothing had been simple about their relationship from the day that they met. They were broken and dysfunctional and in dire need of being saved.

But it was easier to fix themselves with each other than it was to fall apart alone.

///

Y/N Y/L/N still saw the world in black and blue.

The black of David’s damp hair, messy and tangled from having just gotten out of the show, scented of her shampoo which he had had to use because he forgot to buy his own.

The black of his tattoos, decorating his skin, a reminder of a life that he left behind, the past he wanted so badly to forget. But decorations that Y/N adored and often found herself tracing when her fingers could make contact with his bare skin.

The black of his coat, which he would regularly shrug off and give to her, the comforting aroma always serving to comfort her.

The blue of his eyes, which Y/N found to be too often clouded with worry or hazy with sleep, but would light up and sparkle with laughter when she’d say something dumb or invite him to join her as she baked.

The blue of the blanket he had brought from his apartment the day that her heating broke and he was coming over for dinner, a huge, fuzzy, fluffy thing that completely swamped the two of them. Y/N had expressed her love for the soft blanket and, despite David’s own adoration for it, he had left it for her when he went to work the next day, insisting that she could keep it.

The blue of the spotty mugs he had bought her to replace the one that he accidentally broke. He had turned up the next day with a pack of four blue and white dotted mugs and given them to her with an apologetic look on his face in spite of her assurances that it was okay.

Yeah, Y/N Y/L/N still saw the world in black and blue.

But, the truth was, Black and Blue didn’t seem so sinister anymore.

[kashimos-hajime]

sing for the lion and lamb

Summary: “This was what she had signed up for - a good man and minimal pleasure.”

WARNINGS: spoilers as we get through it, swearing, backstory, struggles, this is one of the happiest chapters Pairing: Dectetive Loki x Reader Word Count: 3.7k

A/N: i’m a mess over prisoners and i wrote this super mess series called 1996. this is the first chapter. this is finished so i’ll be posting the other parts later but its movie+extra scenes bc theres so much stuff to get through and also reader and loki need to get through shit

... | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05

To say you love Loki would be a stretch. Two humans, born and raised in Pennsylvania who just happened to have known each other since the care system should have a natural tendency to gravitate towards each other. The two of you found each other again, so you are bound to have some sort of connection. But whilst you have a certain fondness for the man, a certain bond you are quite sure was deeper than blood, you wouldn’t name it love.

No, love is for those who didn’t know better. 

Love is not for the shadows of your eyes or the darkness in his soul. Love is not for men and women like you. 

“Detective.” 

Your eyes raise from the police report of the missing girls before you, blinking away the black boxes and messy scribbles as the man tilts his head at you. “You need something?”

The corner of his mouth twitch into something almost like a smile but your eyes only soak in the pale half-moons under his eyes. He’s sleeping again. Good. He needs all he could get before the case on the missing kids gets some steam. Rolling out your neck, you slide the report into a manila folder and stand.

“Wanted to know if you wanted to head home for a minute or two.” There comes his wide smile, one that completely morphs his face. It tugs at his cheeks, wrinkles his eyes, makes him look younger than he is. Whenever he smiles as he does now, it makes you forget about the paleness in his cheeks, the taste of coffee on his tongue, the rough stubble along his jaw. It makes him look young and handsome and like the street kid you’d known.

He knows you like that smile. Like looking at him. In bed, flushed and moaning, or otherwise. He knows it will convince you and you roll your eyes because this is not going to be a rare occasion where it’ll fail.

“Are you trying to sweet-talk me?” You stretch your arms high above your head, ignoring the way his smile drops off his face as you turn off the burning lamp on your desk. Only the pale lights of the office remains, washing the both of you in ugly pale light. 

“If you have room for dinner, maybe I will.” 

You grab your long coat, popping the collar around your cheeks and he pushes off the wall of your cubicle, walking around and stuffing his hands in his pockets. You sling your bag onto your shoulder and pull hair from underneath your collar.

“No plans for Thanksgiving?” you ask, knowing the answer. It’s only polite to ask. Detective Loki always has a pleasant way of surprising you outside the bedroom.

“None without you, I s’pose.” 

“And we’ve spent the day at work.” You don’t sound particularly surprised and the detective merely shrugs. “Come on, I know a place.”

He cocks his head to the door. It isn’t only the two of you in the station at this time of night but your caffeine-lacking brain rationalizes that they wouldn’t care and you lean up to kiss his jaw. He turns at the last moment and presses a hard kiss against your mouth, teeth snagging on your lips and you sigh into his mouth, tasting coffee and gum and the faint scent of his aftershave. Hands finding his jaw, your fingers scratch at his cheek, trail down his neck and take fistfuls of his jacket.

Your heart thrums in your throat, beats at your stomach like a drum and all you want to do is peel off the clothes burning your body, feeding the fire in your core as he noses your chin, granting himself access to your neck.

“Hey,” you whisper, hands carding through his hair. You aren’t quite sure if you want to push him away or pull him closer as he raises his head from where he’d been sucking a wet mark along the cord of your throat. “I’m hungry.”

“I know.” He ducks again to gently nip at the mark and you smack him lightly, pushing him away.

“You know I’m actually fucking hungry,” you mutter and he growls against your lips, kissing your mouth bruisingly and too, too quickly before he rips himself away. You hadn’t even realized he’d been sucking the life out of you while his hands had casually been in his pockets but he shrugs, the jacket shifting along his shoulders.

Cocky bastard. 

“Come on. Sooner we get dinner, sooner I get you,” he whispers against your ear and you chuckle into his mouth as he snags another kiss.

.

“Do you know what your, uh, Chinese zodiac sign is?”

You wipe at your mouth with a napkin, frowning when your lipstick smears over white. The detective looks up from where he was reading the meaning of each on the paper place mat, offering a smile. This restaurant is one of your favourites, having been the restaurant you went to after your… well, you wouldn’t call it a first date. You went here for a meal once, alone, ‘cause you were hungry after a night with the man sitting across from you. 

After-fucking meal. That’s the phrase. Apt, and conventional, and...

Point is, you like it here and you want him to like it.

He sips on his white mug, taking in the tea as you push around your fried rice. He’s working on some noodles as you drag a finger over the drawings of the Chinese zodiac on the paper.

“No. Do you?”

“Rat.” You watch as he turned to read, finger trailing until he finds the animal at the top of the list. 

“Intelligent, charming, quick-witted. Hm.” He arches an eyebrow and you roll your eyes as the waitress came with the check. It’s only the two of you in this small establishment and you look around, nothing the absence of fortune cookies in the red metallic bowl near the register.

“Happy Thanksgiving.”

“Thanks.” He raises his hand to gesture in a vague shape and you squint as the waitress poured your mug full of tea. “Hey, you have any of those, um, fortune cookie things?”

“My boss told me cops don’t like fortune cookies.”

“Well, it’s Thanksgiving,” you murmur and the waitress laughs under her breath. “What’s your Zodiac sign?”

“Monkey.”

You toss a glance expectantly at the man sitting across from you and he drops the bill he was reading, looking down at the paper.

“Very intelligent. You have an ability to influence people.” You hum thoughtfully at his answer as he continues, “Maybe you could influence your boss to lower the check a little bit?”

You snort quietly, hiding your laugh as you pull out your wallet. Picking up the slip of paper, you read the the total and begin to lay out bills to pay as the waitress shakes her head.

“Mr. Li is a rooster, Detective,” you comment, extending the check back to the waitress. 

“Thank you.”

“Keep the change.”

“How do you know that?” You don’t miss the edge of his tone as he takes another sip of his tea. Jealousy. You opt not to answer and his gaze drops to the paper. 

“What does the rooster mean?” Leaning on your hand, you watch as he reads out the description. 

“He’s selfish and eccentric.” His eyes raise to meet yours and his gaze carries a hint of mischief. “That’s—”

In unison, both your phones vibrate. David’s clatters against the table and you shove a hand into your bag, feeling for yours. Digging out the phone, you stand and gather your coat and bag as David grabs his own raincoat. The heels on your boots click hard against the tile in your haste to get from the restaurant to the car with as little rain contact as possible as David answers the phone, right at your heels.

Shielding yourself from the rain, you walk to the car and duck into the old thing, slamming the door shut. He slides in beside you, twisting the keys in the ignition and he hands you the radio on instinct. As the two of you pull out of the parking lot, you can’t help the warmth in your gut extinguishing. 

It is so easy to pretend, sometimes. To act as if you’re people you wish you could be. A bitter taste floods your mouth as you think about moments like the ones in the restaurant, ones where you felt so perfectly normal that it’s crazy to even think about the broken parts between you and the man beside you.

But then you’re dragged back into the real world. The real world of long nights, and bullet rain, and the fact that you and David are merely co-workers who live together because that is the only way you can survive having him in your life.  Any more than what he is now, the occasional hook-up, your partner in every case, it might as well break you.

It’s clockwork, working with him. Without rust or a knot in the system, you never feel like there is a task you cannot handle, a case you cannot crack. That ease, that bond, doesn’t come from something messy like what could’ve been. It comes from someone who knows your mind better than you. 

The thought terrifies you at night because you sure as hell think about what could’ve been more than you’d like to admit.

Shaking yourself of the person you were in the restaurant into the person you are, you roll down the window and let rain-slick wind slice into your cheeks. There is a plastic container of gummies on the dash and you reach for it, nerves biting at your fingers. Your other hand reaches for the radio as you respond.

“This is 13-40 and 13-41. We’re five minutes out. We’ll meet the responding units there.”

.

Your whole body drenched in sleet-cold rain, you feel your jaw twitch as David interrogates the man into the corner of the room. You can’t help the pity welling up inside you as you gently tease your hair through a proffered towel, and you can’t help the fire burning in your stomach, warming you from the inside out.

His tactic, getting up close and personal with the potential suspect, always has a way of messing with you.

Shaking it off, you ignore the thoughts that dog at you persistently — the images of him grabbing at Alex Jones and wrenching him to his feet — as you turn away. You squeeze your hair between the towel as you walk through the halls of the station, your heels echoing in the mostly-empty building. Linoleum reflects the artificial light as you reach the locker room, pushing open the door and throwing the damp towel into the dirty wash basket.

Shedding your long rain coat, you sigh and begin to unbutton your blouse. It sticks to your skin like wet paper as the air conditioning puffs goosebumps onto your chest and arms. You unzip your boots, tugging them off before peeling away your pants and examining the status of your socks. Your badge clatters against the wooden bench as you sit down in nothing but your bra and underwear. Your nose twitching, you stare down at your toes and inhale sharply. Rain is clogging up your sinuses, but your socks are dry.

Not soaked through, so boots held up. Good. 

The shower pelts against your skin, hot bullets that slam into your skull deliciously and chase whatever chill rain left on your skin as you hear the door open. Closing your eyes, you let the shower run over your face, focusing on the hissing stream over the clatter of boots you can hear.

It’s nearing 12 AM and you are sure everyone who doesn’t want to be here and don’t need to be here are gone. No one is here more than you and David. No one showers in here if they had a choice. So much for Thanksgiving. Should I be giving thanks that we might’ve caught the sick fucker already? Perhaps.

In your heart, somehow, you know it isn’t him.

Through the shuffling of fabric, you rake shampoo through your hair and begin to lather your body with soap, merely waiting until he shows up as steam begins to soak into your skin. A pair of pants drop to the tile, the clink of a belt against ceramic. Then, soft footsteps that brush against the shower tile and a shadow that blocks out the faint light. Taking a deep breath, you run your hand over your face and pull open the shower curtain. 

“Come here,” you murmur over the steam rolling out of your little shower stall. David steps in through the shaft of light that pours through to your little world before thrashing the curtain back into place. The stall dims remarkably as he leans down to kiss your forehead. You step back so he can stand under your stream of burning hot water and he blinks against the current.

Your forehead rests against his collarbone. His arms rise to run hands through his hair and he cards fingers through the dark strands as your hands encircle his waist. It’s darkly intimate, and all too familiar but you can’t help the addicting heat that he provides. Water runs down his chest and over your arms as you count the tattoos on his chest. One, two, three...

“Any leads?” Your voice is barely audible over the hiss of the shower.

“Aunt’s house.” He has a tattoo of a robin mid flight along his ribcage, and you trace the arc of its wing, palm flat against his heaving ribs. It’s one you know every stroke of, one you watched being carved into his chest. Your eyes close as a finger curls underneath your chin, lifting you to him. “Open your eyes.”

You do to see strands of hair falling into his eyes, his skin red against the blistering heat of the shower. Cupping his face with one hand, you use your fingers to delicately pull away the dark slick hair. His eyes bleeding midnight, his breath ghosts against your lips as his finger trails down your neck. His hand is warm against your throat and he makes sure that your eyes do not stray. As if an astronomer can look away from the phenomenon in the universe, a clash of asteroids, a dying star. He reaches into your mind, pulls you apart like a well-worn book, and reads your thoughts like a diary entry before he pulls out and his eyes fill with shards of glass.

“This isn’t like that,” he promises, insists, convinces you, and you nod because it’s the only thing you can do. Your heart splits in your chest, thrumming in your mouth and crushing your stomach all at once as his gentle grip on your neck firms. Your hands trail his waist, fingers dancing along tattoos that used to have meaning as you count the seconds you can stay standing. “We’re gonna find these girls.”

“Yeah. I know that.”

He sighs, eyes searching your face and you kiss him fully, softly. His lips taste of wind and rainwater.

The shower turns off and the two of you step out, drying each other’s legs and arms, face and hair as is routine when you shower together, and then you get dressed. He clips your badge to your belt, you slide the ring onto his pinky finger. He zips up your boots, you clip the necklace around his neck.

Clockwork.

You toss your hair up into a tight knot and hang your raincoat over your arm. Your gut twisted, you turn to your… something. He gives you a short nod, raking his hair back with rough fingers. You shed your old self, leave it in the shower to slip into the drain.

“Let’s go.”

.

Whilst David went for the Birches, you stop outside the Dovers, walking up the steps. The two of you had gotten no sleep last night after the visit to the aunt’s and forensics for the RV came back negative. Caffeine rules your system as you climb the steps and ring the doorbell.

A kid no older than sixteen or seventeen answers, all pale and terrified-looking. He looks like he hasn’t slept a wink either and you press your lips together. Although you empathize with the family, you can’t afford to become attached. You nudge your coat to flash your badge and the kid steps aside. Your fingers unclench from its tight fist as you enter the home.

“What’s your name, kid?”

“Ralph. Uh, my dad… I… I saw the RV first. Did my dad tell you guys that?” 

You pause, turning around to spot the kid closing the door. He looks like he’s seen death, and his eyes are wide-eyed and shine under the light through the windows. Poor kid.

“Yeah, I read the statement.”

“Okay, Dad wanted me to, uh, make sure,” the boy says and you follow him to where a blonde sits on the couch, tissues littered around her. “Mom?” The woman looks up as you stick out a hand for her to shake.

“Detective Y/L/N. My partner and I are heading the case for your missing daughter.”

“Yes, of course. Sit. Do you need anything to drink?” She begins to unfurl on the couch but you simply hold out a hand. The woman’s face is sallow and thin, and she looks almost as if she is phasing from another time to your present. You sit down on the couch. Her voice scratches and you wonder when the last time she ate was, the last time she showered or drank or slept.

“I’m fine, thank you. I’m just here to…” Your voice fades as your phone vibrates in your pocket and you dig it out, turning on the screen to see an email notification from David. Opening it up, you frown at the few attachments strung along.

Better photos of the other kid. Heading over to you now. -D

“So, did we pass?” As you watch the bar across the screen signify the speed of your download, you also begin to forward the photos to the Captain.

“Hm?” You are only half-listening. Your phone vibrates again and you open up the downloaded photos, letting out a soft sigh as round, dark brown eyes stare back at you on your tiny screen. What a fucking shame.

“The poly thing. The lie detector we took this morning.” Turning off your phone, you let it fall into your tight fist as you look at the mother. She stares at you as if you hold all the answers and you swallow a tight knot. “Did we pass?”

“Yeah. You’re fine. I don’t think anyone really suspected the two of you anyway,” you say, glancing at your phone again. “Thank you for your cooperation, though. You understand — the formalities we have to take. Precautions.” You tuck a slip of hair behind your ears and her eyes flicker to the movement, gaze following your fingers. You know what she is trying to do and you interlace your fingers, hiding the permanent ink needled into your skin along your knuckles.

“Yes, of course. It’s just… it’s embarrassing. I don’t know. All this fuss — people are just going to think we’re crazy when they show up here, perfectly fine or… I don’t know.” The woman’s arms crossed tight against her chest, she doesn’t even look at you anymore. Your eyes dart to her knuckles to find them stark white, her fingers digging into the flesh of her bicep.

“Do you have any reason to believe they might’ve run away?” The words come out tough as rubber in your mouth. The woman’s eyes close and you sigh, already regretting your words. You know in your gut that that isn’t the case.

“No,” she breathes, “no. They’re happy. They… the must have run away.” A silly child’s game. The woman nods along to her own words as she tries to convince herself. Your heart crumbles to ash in your chest as you force on a smile. “I think they must have run away, right?”

“Of course, Mrs. Dover. But we’ll find them,” you assure, setting a hand gently on her knee. She seems to quiver under your palm as she swallows and looks at you with bleak, earthwet eyes.

“Your police captain told me about the two of you. Um, he said that you and your partner—” You suck in a quiet breath, already knowing what her next words are going to be. You don’t like it, the pressure, the want to keep a record pristine, but your reputation has always preceded you in cases like these. Cases where you just wanted to find the grave and be done with it when your very thought should be finding a warm body, not a cold one— “he told me that the two of you have solved every case you’ve ever been assigned. Is that right?”

Your nails dig into the flesh of your palms as you look away. You don’t want to give this woman hope, even if she needs it. It’s stupid, you realize, to stare at the reflection of yourself when you have already smashed every mirror.

Your nose twitches.

The doorbell rings. The kid, Ralph, goes to get it again as you look up at the woman. She’s beginning to break down, hiding her face in her hands as she mumbles out apologies.

“I’m sorry. I am so sorry,” she whispers through her tears as the door opens. You can see the shadow of him on the walls before he comes in and you shake your head minutely as soon as your gazes meet. Nothing here. “Do you… do you have children, detective?” 

You bite your lip until you taste blood.

“We’re gonna find your daughter.” Mrs. Dover looks up jerkily, flinching at the man’s voice. Closing your eyes, you hang your head as your partner walks deeper into the room. Everything feels like it’s been scooped out of you, replaced with nothing but sick and acid.

You can’t listen to promises you aren’t quite sure you can keep anymore.

[davidlcki]

idk if this is to general but if you want to run with this i’d be v happy: a david loki fic where the reader is brought in the be his partner on the case and he just isn’t having it and feels like he is “babysitting you”

new partner

thank you so much for this request anon! i apologize for being so late on these requests and i’m sorry if my writing isn’t the best here, i’ve been really busy and unmotivated lately but am trying my best to catch up with my requests. i really hope you stuck around to see this and i hope you enjoy!

pairing: detective loki x reader

warnings: none, loki is a little mean?

“loki.” o’malley grumbles, stomping up to his desk. with a sigh, loki places his paperwork down and looks up at his boss, waiting to hear what he has to say.

“you’re going to have a partner with you for the rest of this case, okay? she’s new, and an intern, and i’m expecting you to teach her and show her around.” o’malley gives loki a firm glare, before walking away. as o’malley left, you stepped into view. loki was almost shocked at your demeanor. you were bright and happy, a light inside of this precinct, something that loki usually avoided with a passion. he held back an eye roll as you stepped over to him.

“hello! i’m YN, and you must be detective loki? i’m really excited to lean from you.” you smile brightly, holding a hand out to him. loki shakes it, giving a nod and a simple “hi”.

the rest of the time in the office, loki got no work done. any time he did anything, signed any paper, clicked on any email, you had a question that he had to answer.

“what was that paper for?” you ask, watching as loki clenches his jaw before looking over to you.

“same as the last one.” he snaps, his voice coming off ruder than he had meant it to. you nod faintly, before shrinking back into your seat.

suddenly, a call is sent in to sweep for evidence in the woods nearby, and loki immediately jumps up, eager to get out of the precinct.

“come on,” he grumbles, “we need to go sweep the woods for evidence”. he turns around and makes his way to his car once he sees you jump up. the sun had started to make its way down now, and there was a chill in the air. silence falls between the two of you as you walk through the woods, scanning every inch of the area for clues. loki had noticed your silence, and the somber look on your face. he hesitates before talking.

“i apologize” he mumbles out, trying to hide the embarrassment as he speaks. he didn’t like apologizing, but as much as he hated to admit it, he missed all your questions and curiosity from earlier.

“for what?” you question, looking up at him.

“being rude. just.. not used to having another person around at work.” he responds, eyes trained on the ground as you both continue to move forwards.

“it’s alright, loki. probably should not have bombarded you with questions like that in the first place. i am genuinely excited to learn from you, though. i wanna be as good as you some day” you shrug, looking over at him again.

this time, he looks back, a small smile grazing his lips. “i’m looking forwards to teaching you, even if i don’t seem like it.”

[writingfortoomanyfandoms]

Black and Blue - Four

Pairing: Detective Loki x Reader

Summary: She saw the world in black and blue

Requested: Nope

Chapter Warnings: Some swearing I think??, PAST DOMESTIC ABUSE, panic attack - PLEASE DO NOT READ IF YOU FIND ANY OF THESE TOPICS TRIGGERING

A/N: So here’s the fourth part of BAB! Sorry that there was such a break between posting the last one and this one, hopefully the same won’t happen for the fifth and final part. Please remember to let me know what you think - reblog, comment, send asks, I love hearing from all of you :) and remember that tag requests are only accepted through my inbox xx

One // Two // Three // Five

Y/N Y/L/N saw the world as hope and disappointment.

Though recently she had squashed down the hope that wanted to remain. 

A childish notion, in her mind. 

An innocence associated with hope that she hadn’t had for years.

Disappointment, though, that was safe. She was safe in the knowledge that disappointment would always come. Something that was reliable for her to believe in.

Perhaps that was as pessimistic as her mother thought it was.

But Y/N had never prided herself on her optimism.

No, not an optimist, not a pessimist.

A realist.

///

Y/N knew it was too good to be true. 

She waited at the restaurant for half an hour before giving up completely. Loki - David, though she wasn’t sure she wanted to call him that anymore - had asked her to meet him at the restaurant at six o’clock for their date.

He had told her that he would try to pick her up from the bakery but that because he was working that day, chances were he wouldn’t get off early enough to pick her up from work and bring her.

Y/N had assured him it was fine and she actually arrived at the restaurant early - at ten to six - to ensure that she wasn’t late.

She had made more of an effort in her appearance than she had in the past one and a half years. It was the first time putting herself out there in that long as well.

And no, it hadn’t been worth it.

The front door closed behind her and she fell back against it, letting out a loud, guttural moan. She flung her bag to the other end of the hallway, allowing herself to indulge in the catharsis from the show of anger. 

She slid down to the floor, her anger sinking into sobs, her hands moving up to cover her face as she cried. Her shoulders shook and her breathing was ragged as she fell apart on the cool wooden floor of her hallway.

Really it was her own fault. She had spent her time in recovery to build up her walls, to make herself understand that it wasn’t safe to hope. Hope was dangerous and destructive and only led her to disappointment.

And she had been so good at squashing down any traces of hope that wanted to remain, so good at reminding herself what had happened the last time. But of course she had to go fuck it up for herself.

This was why she was safer alone. Happier alone. No one else to rely on but herself. No chance of others disappointing her. Perhaps some people would view that as being pessimistic. 

Not her. 

No, she wasn’t a pessimist or an optimist. 

She was a realist and it just so happened that the world was a shitty place for people like her. So maybe her view was a bit more negative than others.

After what she had been through a year and a half ago...

After what she had been through with him - with Caspar - no one could blame her.

///

When she had first escaped, the first place she had gone was back home. It was from there that her family had taken her to the hospital and there that she had finally agreed to have the police called on him.

From the comfort of her mothers arms as she lay in a hospital bed, she had called the police with shaking fingers.

“999, what’s your emergency?”

She remembered how her throat had closed up, barely able to breathe never mind confess the secret she had been hoarding for a year of her life. It was her sisters hand resting on her shoulder that worked to clear her airway.

“I-I want to report a case of domestic abuse.”

“May I ask whose?” 

Y/N remembered looking to her family members with panicked eyes. Taking in her father’s clenched jaw, her sister’s sympathy, her mother’s worry, her grandma’s tears. Her brother’s eyes were full of sadness but he was the only one who could look at her. She remembered how he had nodded.

“Mine.”

Now she stood in the kitchen of her bakery, tear tracks on her face feeling just as helpless and pathetic as she had that night. 

When she had been released from the hospital after hours of being patched up and police interviews, she had collapsed at home. Anger bubbled inside of her but that was covered by shame. Deep shame at what she had allowed to happen to herself.

No matter what her family said, no matter how hard they tried to assure her that it wasn’t her fault, that she had nothing to be ashamed about, Y/N couldn’t wipe that feeling from herself.

Her Grandma had forced her out of bed a week later. She was making bread for the market and said she needed help with it.

Y/N knew she didn’t need help - her Grandma made all the bread herself normally, there was no way that she needed the help of her traumatised grandchild. But Y/N was happy to pretend.

And she found herself taking her anger out on the bread dough she was kneading. 

Now her hands were shaky as she measured out the ingredients. She had to stop every few minutes, close her eyes and take a couple of breaths before continuing. 

As she kneaded the dough now, she pictured Loki’s eyes. How genuine he had seemed when he talked to her, when he asked her on the date. 

That was what hurt - how genuinely interested and concerned he seemed to be for her. 

Her hands pushed harder at the dough as she thought about his expression. Thought about his laughter, the tired, exhausted smile that it sometimes felt he reserved for her.

She had been there before. She had done heartbreak once, she wasn’t going to do it again. She wasn’t going to be destroyed by a man again.

Y/N thought she was imagining it when she heard knocking. It wouldn’t be the first time that she had been hearing things. But it became more and more insistent, bringing her out of the daze she was in as she took her anger out in the bread.

She walked through the kitchen of her bakery out to the front section, stepping around the tables and chairs that had been neatly stacked to allow her to mop the floor earlier. 

Y/N stopped short when she saw the all-too familiar face of Loki looking through the door at her.

White snow dusted his dark, thick jacket. Despite the warm garment that was draped over him, he was still shivering as a result of the heavy snow fall that had started in the time that Y/N had arrived back at her home above the bakery. His hair was disheveled and the look on his face was frantic.

For the first time since Y/N had met him, she was genuinely scared of him.

Not the nervous energy that flooded her body when she was him or any man - a remnant of her time with Caspar, he made sure that fear locked her in place whenever she was with any man, though she had gotten better about that in her time recovering. 

No, seeing the wild look on his face and seeing the restless way that he was moving around on the spot on the doorstep of the bakery, Y/N was scared of him.

“Let me in!” 

Y/N was paralysed on the spot and all she could muster the courage to do was shake her head.

“Y/N - Y/N, please - let me in!”

“Please no,” she whimpered out, tears springing to her eyes again.

She remembered all too well the last time she had heard those words.

It was only a few months into their relationship, only about a month since Caspar had started to hurt her, and she had had enough. She wanted to break up with him, of course she did, but every time she tried he managed to worm his way back in.

That day, though, she had had enough. She had locked her apartment door, refusing to let him in no matter how much he begged and pleaded her to just open it for him. She remembered the tears streaming down her face as she listened to him talk - she remembered the threats, how he swore he would kill himself if she didn’t open the door right that moment, how he would find her family and make them pay. 

He had won, of course he had won. Y/N couldn’t remember a time when Caspar hadn’t won. That day, the consequences of her actions were worse than ever before. She couldn’t feasibly leave her apartment for two days until the bruises had faded just enough for her to be able to cover it up with make-up. 

Shortly after that incident, Caspar had insisted upon Y/N moving in with him.

“For safety”

YN had to get permission to leave the apartment after that. She didn’t have her own key. Caspar accompanied her almost everywhere. The only place that she was alone was in her university lecture theatre. Caspar would walk her to and meet her after the lectures.

Now she could feel her breathing begin to pick up at the too-familiar words falling from Loki’s lips. The pleads to let him in. Her hands flew to her ears, trying to block him out and she stumbled, falling to the ground.

“Y/N, please listen to me,” Loki’s voice went up an octave in concern. “Just try and breathe for me, okay? Just breathe, it’ll be okay, I promise you. Just breathe. Please, just listen to my voice, okay? In and out.”

///

Y/N let Loki in.

It was strange for her, to be the one being served rather than the server. 

To be the one whispering her thanks as a mug of tea was placed before her.

“Is it okay if I sit here?” His voice was gentle and oh-so-kind as he asked her. Not pushing her, making sure she was okay.

Caring for her.

“Please,” a whisper, a plea for him to stay with her and stay always. To take care of her because God she needed it. She needed him. 

And she hated herself for how much she needed him. How much she needed the safety he brought her.

Wasn’t it this feeling that had led to her original state that evening? The trust in Loki’s words that brought her to her fear of him?

Loki wasn’t him, though. He wasn’t Caspar. Not every man was Caspar. 

Sometimes she needed to be reminded of that.

“Are you feeling better?” Loki asked, concern lacing his words.

Y/N gave a minute nod of her head before hesitating, closing her eyes and shaking her head.

“W-Why?”

“Why didn’t I come?” Loki whispered and Y/N nodded. “I meant to -  I really did. I was meant to be leaving the station early today to make sure I was at the restaurant early and everything,” he promised her and when Y/N risked peaking her eyes open and allowing them to drift to him, his head was hung low, his hands carding through his hair in clear frustration.

Y/N realised with a jolt that his anger wasn’t directed towards her but towards himself.

“But then there was a lead in the case and... and I couldn’t pass it up. I tried to call you on my way there but my phone died and... and I’m so sorry, Y/N.” 

It was as though her hand was acting on its own accord as she reached across the table.

Loki froze when her fingers brushed across his hand. Y/N was grateful, though, that he didn’t move or try to look at her as she did it. She knew she would chicken out if she felt his eyes on her. 

Y/N took a deep, shaky breath before latching her hand around one of his fingers and pulled.

Y/N was surprised when there was no resistance and let out her breath, sliding their hands so that they fit together.

Their fingers linked across the table.

[kashimos-hajime]

i’ll be good

Summary: “I have to believe that even if something seems like it cannot be fixed, it doesn't mean it's broken.”

WARNINGS: really not that much for once, just a tiny bit of angst Pairing: Detective Loki x Reader Word Count: 5.6k

A/N: we’ve made it. i hope you enjoy the finale. now, it’ll be known what all of this has been for. all the tattoos (both yours and loki’s), the pain, the allusions, the title and a callback to the VERY BEGINNING! and who knows? maybe i’ll write more for our big jacket boy. for the proper vibes of this chapter (and the whole fic, really), i recommend listening to I’ll Be Good by Jaymes Young.

01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | ...

Beep. Beep. Beep.

“She’s been dead for three days, at the most”

Beep. Beep. Beep.

“If I had to guess, and I don’t, it would’ve been the snake bite.”

Beep. Beep. Beep.

“Snakes. Fucking snakes.”

Beep. Beep. Beep.

“It’s your fault!”

Beep. Beep. Beep.

“Look at me. Look at me! I fucking love you.”

Beep. Beep.

“You think love is enough?”

Beep. Beep.

“I don’t want to fight anymore.”

Beep.

“Neither do I.”

...

“We can’t let this happen again.”

Beep.

“This isn’t that case.”

...

Beep.

“Clear!”

.

Your chest burns, aches as a click, click, click echoes in your ears in time with every breath you take, and you groan. It’s dark outside — or are your eyes just closed — and you turn your head, squeezing your eyes shut with every clank of plastic. Your neck flares up, your muscles protesting against the movement as a soreness spreads up and down.

Your head, oh, god, your head. It’s like a stampede of wildebeest came to stomp all over you and then an elephant decided to toot its trunk into your ear at full blast. Your hand moves on its own accord, every muscle in your limb nothing more than putty as you try to move it towards your head.

Fuck...

You can’t move your hand. Your fingers twitch and a prickly sensation pokes at your palm. So you aren’t paralyzed, not anymore. You’re not numb, except for whatever’s probably cutting off your circulation. Okay.

Okay.

Something warm, hot, is pressed against your hand, wrapping around your digits and palm tightly. Wetness has gathered in the crease of your thumb, and you frown, sinking deeper into the softness surrounding your head.

You need to see. You need to focus on that despite the aching pains in your chest, the cracking agony in your skull.

Your eyelids peel back, and the soft light to your right makes you squeeze them shut again. Dry-eyed, you blink at the coldness before trying again. With wet eyes, you open your eyes and squint, trying to clear your throat. Something jostles in your throat and a cough erupts in your chest. Your other hand, untouched by the wet heat, reaches for your mouth and you let out a whine. Your throat shudders as nurses swarm your bed, telling you to calm down. The heat leaves your hand and you reach an arm weakly for the retreating heat, only for it to flop back down on the bed.

“Is she alright?” a voice barks, deep and rough over the croonings of the nurses stroking at your shoulder and working at the pain. They peel the tape securing the intubation tube to your mouth and slowly pull it out. You gasp, eyes squeezing shut and a nurse elevates your bed until you’re nearly sitting.

The nurses continue to work, monitoring your vitals or something and you feel something nudge at your lips. Turning your face away, you grunt. Your throat feels like it nearly rips and cool fingers touch your jaw.

“Try opening your eyes, miss. You’ve been out for a while. Here, water.”

Sipping greedily, you nearly cough at how slippery it is, how quickly it slips down your throat. Slowly opening your eyes, you let your head drop deep into the pillows. Someone curls your fingers over something hard, and you run a finger over what feels like buttons.

“This is your remote. This button to call a nurse, these to adjust the elevation of the bed.”

“Detective, you have to wait. She might not be fully lucid—” the nurse beside you begins and you turn your head slowly to the sound. Although your whole world is still a big blur of colours and lights and shadows, you know the shape of him from miles away. Lifting a weak hand, you squint at the IV line and oxygen clip on your finger. “She’s dehydrated, and malnourished. She needs rest, alright? Don’t strain her or we’ll be forced to remove you.”

“No, no, I won’t. Just… let me see her.”

“We’ll be right outside, miss,” the nurse whispers in your ear but you barely hear them as a warm, crushing thing clamps down on your hand. A rough thumb strokes away the wet on your skin. The other hand brushing hair away from your face as his chapped lips press against your forehead, you smile up at him. 

“L… David.” Your voice cracks and he presses his wet face against your palm as he sits down. The hot tears run over your skin, and you realize then that the sticky heat of your palm had been him. What else could it have been?

“I called 911 on the way, I… I didn’t know.” The feel of his muscles moving against your palm, just the heat of him, sends strength into your arm and your thumb rubs over his wet cheek. Wrapping weak fingers around his neck, you pull him closer and he lets out a soft sigh, leaning over the bed to press his cheek against yours. Stale coffee, bearglove deodarant, gum. Home floods your nose, and you nose at his cheek, lips brushing against the corner of his mouth. “They said it’d be touch and go — she fucking overdosed you with ketamine and they had to intubate, you were paralyzed — and they said I needed to get my bullet wound checked out, but I—”

“How’s Anna?” you ask, first on your very long list of things you need to ask him about. He sniffs, kissing your knuckles before setting your arm back down. Fatigue runs its way up your body, and, with your eyes at half-mast, you smile.

“Still in recovery.”

“And you got a GSW? I wasn’t hallucinating that?” You push him back so softly yet he pulls back instantly so you can look at him. Your hand cradles his face on its own accord, and you spot the bandage taped to his face that’s stained with new blood. Your fingers, brittle and weak, brush over his cheek. You let out a sharp, breathless laugh. His right eye is red with blood, and dark holes circle his eyes. You don’t know if it’s the drugs still left or just your frank gratitude that he’s still alive, but you merely admire the swell of his eyebags, the sunken quality of his eyes. “Did they say your CT was clear?”

“Still waitin’ on that, but I’m up and around. So long as the nurses can keep an eye on me.” He drags his chair closer and leans into the bed, elbows digging into the mattress. You smile tenderly as he presses your knuckles against his forehead, head dipped as if in prayer. “Oh, god. Fuck, I thought… I never want to choose again. I never…” His lips lift to find your fingers and you squeeze his hand weakly as his eyes close and you sniff. Your own tears begin to burn at your eyes.

“David, hey. David. Loki. Loke.” Your throat aches but you swallow, blinking wet trails down your cheeks. Your other hand rests on your abdomen and your gaze flickers towards it, seeing nothing there. You lift up the covers, hand travelling over your hospital gown and lift it up to find nothing but smooth skin. Raising your head despite the screaming in your neck to stop, you gaze down at yourself. Nothing. Furrowing your brow, you drag your hand up to your face where the crow had pecked at your cheek. Nothing. Nothing. “Oh, my god.” You let your head drop into the pillows with a relieved smile, and the tears that run down your face are anything but misery.

“Are you okay?” His lips move against your fingers, his eyes never leaving your face as you sink into the pillows in relief. Your whole body seems to melt as a wave of cool washes over you. It chases away the uncomfortable heat growing in your stomach and lets you close your eyes. But you don’t/

You turn to gauge his reaction, instead. “Yeah, yeah. I just… had a lotta dreams about birds.” 

It’s crazy just how fast a face can change. All of a sudden, his fingers tighten around your palm, his eyes squint and shine, he looks so much older and your weak smile prompts one of his own smiles, barely there, just a hint. It causes an old wound in your heart to nearly split open, aching like an old joint in the rain.

“Yeah?” 

You slip your hand from his grip, drag your knuckle over his cheek and he kisses your wrist where the IV isn’t digging into your skin. “Yeah.” You blink slowly, savoring every bit of his face and you sigh. “I had a dream about her, too.”

“Yeah, me, too,” he whispers and your lower lip trembles before the tears come. You feel so exhausted. You just want to sink into a bunch of clouds and sleep a century with him by your side. You’re just so sick of crying.

“I love you,” you sob, pulling his hands towards you. You need more of him near, more of his heat and his scent and him, and your fingers catch his sleeve. He gets up, the chair scraping against the floor and you open your arms. He settles into bed beside you, careful not to crush your IV and you turn to press your lips against his hair. “I love you. I’m so sorry. I love you.”

“Why the hell are you sorry?” he asks into your collarbones and you melt when his fingers trace the tiniest of shapes into your back. “Fuck.” Your tears slip down your face, nestling into his slick hair and your fingers gently scratch his head, tracing over the edge of the bandage as he lets out a soft groan. “If I had to bury you, too, I don’t… I don’t know how—”

“You don’t have to,” you promise, and he looks up at you, eyes porcelain blue, fragile as wisps of smoke, alight with new life. You feel the broken pieces of him click together in your arms as he tentatively presses a kiss against the corner of your mouth. Curls of hair fall boyishly into his eyes and you push them back with your inked hand.

“Get some rest,” he whispers against your jaw and you close your eyes. His heat envelopes you and your heart feels like it stitches itself back together as the bits of yourself you lost so many years ago come back like a moth to a flame. “I’ll be right here when you wake up. I promise.”

He tucks into the semi-colon of your body, a little snug nuclear radiator comma that holds the shattered pieces of you together and keeps you safe as you slip away, at last, to a deep sleep.

.

“Can you stand? Are you okay?” David’s voice is so warped in worry you nearly smile at how much it reminds you of another time, when he was worried for a whole other reason. You’ve been transferred into the same recovery room as David and he sits on the edge of his bed, hands out. His face is red in the light, his eye looking like it’s been sucker punched in the socket, and he looks much worse for wear than the ICU, but the small cut from where you’d punched him what feels like days ago is just beginning to heal.

“I think I’ll use the wheelchair when we go for a walk,”’ you say, your legs shaky as soon as they brush the floor. “Yeah, walking is not going to happen, right now.” David takes hold of your hands and you take a deep breath as he comes to sit next to you. Sunbeams stream against your back, and you nearly sigh at the heat of him next to you again. It’s so familiar.

It feels a lot like home.

“Not much of a walk then, is it?” he teases, stealing your breakfast placed at the table on the end of your bed. He puts the newspaper in your lap and you take it, unfolding the page to reveal Alex Jones on the front. You sigh. The man’s been transferred to a mental care facility after reuniting with his family, and you’re quite sure that he won’t ever make a full recovery. You fold the newspaper in half, and spot the picture of Keller. Eyes scanning it briefly, you look at the man beside you.

“Still haven’t found him yet?”

“No. No sign of him anywhere.” You unfold the newspaper and he opens up a fruit cup. It’s the most appetizing thing out of all the assortment on your tray. You send him a soft smile, leaning against his shoulder as he digs his spoon in.

“Um, detectives?” 

You lower your paper, the thing crushing in your lap as Loki sets down the fruit cup. Your eyes widen. You hadn’t expected to see them so soon. Grace Dover stands with Joy, Nancy Birch, and little Anna in her wheelchair. The poor girl is pale and dark-eyed, the chair dwarfing her. Your heart rends.

“I hope we’re not interrupting.”

“No, ‘course not.”

As the girl comes closer, you spot the shiny red whistle around her neck. David shakes his head, a tentative, soft smile that makes your heart melt on his lips as you set the paper aside. Your eyes train on the tiny girl who stares at you with a burning fire as her mother leans down to stroke her cheek.

“She’s doing real good.” You turn to look at David to see his eyes chained on the little girl and you wrap an arm around his waist, squeezing gently. “She’s gonna be up and around in a few days, aren’t you, buddy? She just wanted to come and say thank you and hi to her heroes.”

Your small smile grows at the defiant little raise of her chin and David’s hand on your knee squeezes gently as he looks down, unable to figure out what to say. He exhales through his nose, glancing from his knees to you. You nod, smile shrinking but growing more tender.

“Hello.”

“Hey, Anna.”

Your hand falls away from David’s waist and joins his hand on your knee. Your fingers interlock softly. Grace looks between the injured detectives and her company before clearing her throat minutely.

“Would you mind giving me a minute?”

“Yeah. Say goodbye, Joy.”

“Thank you.”

“I’ll be out in a minute. Say goodbye, Anna.”

“Bye,” Anna whispers just barely, fingers lifting to wave and you send the little girl a smile in farewell.

You give a little half-wave, too, as she goes and Grace smiles after her daughter as she leaves. When the room, however, is left to the three adults, the temperature drops. You shuffle closer to David, arm weaving with his despite the strange pain that festers in your legs. The hospital gown isn’t enough to fit the cold grief in her face.

“She found her whistle,” David murmurs. Your head, still full of water, tries to nod but it explodes in pain, and David turns to support your neck immediately, gently lowering you onto his shoulder with a warm hand to your throat. Grace’s gaze soaks in the gesture but she doesn’t comment on it as she replies.

“No. She keeps insisting that Joy helped her find it… on Thanksgiving before they were taken. But I think she’s just confused. I got her a new one.” 

David nods and you press your temple into the cotton of his tee, sniffing in the smell of antiseptic. The smell is all too familiar, and reminds you of a lot of things — good and bad. Your nose twitches and his thumb runs over your pinky knuckle. He’s here. He’s here with you. Always has been. Since the beginning.

A strange silence encompasses the air as Grace’s gaze sinks to the floor. She lets out a sharp breath, something more of a scoff as if she doesn’t know whether or not to tell you before she raises her head. “He hasn’t contacted me. I know you don’t… I know you probably don’t believe that—”

“We believe you,” you whisper and Grace nods, eyes dropping again.

“Do you think you’re gonna find him?”

“Yeah.” 

“And he’ll go to jail?”

“Probably.”

The charges would be stacked. Kidnapping, assault, depending on what he’s sued with, it’ll be multiple charges. You shiver at the thought of the court case. You tried your best to save him, yet here he is. The fingerprints he left, the location, the blood-stained clothes, all too much incriminating evidence for you to argue against. Not that you would. 

“Anyway, thank you for everything.” The woman’s face crumbles and you press your lips together in a sympathetic frown. Her voice fades and she turns away, slapping a hand over her mouth and David’s hand slides over yours, squeezing tight. “Oh, god.” She pauses at the exit, and David looks away as your eyes train on the woman’s barely-shaking shoulders. Breath hitching, she turns just barely, just enough that you can see her red cheek, the soft tears. “I miss him. He did — he did what he had to do to find Anna, and I thank God for that. He’s a good man.”

The woman leaves with a barely uttered farewell and you can only echo her ‘bye’ before she’s gone. You watch her go before David presses a kiss to your temple unconsciously, shoulders curving forward.

He is, your thoughts whisper. Good men do desperate things for the people they love. Your gaze flickers to David who’s already looking off at the wall, no doubt letting those words sink in, and you, you just sag in the bed. Everything in his eyes is just a reflection, an extension of who you are, and you twist your wrist, interlacing your fingers with his.

“David,” you whisper, and he blinks hard, turning to look at you. Your free fingers reach to brush along his jaw, and you lean forward to press your forehead against his cheek.

“Wanna go for a walk?” he asks, quiet and soft. You raise your head, fingers falling to dance over his forearm where a calligraphy tattoo marks him and your lips press together in a tired smile. He glances down at the ink on your knuckles, at you and you kiss him softly.

“Okay.”

He helps you into the wheelchair. A nurse doesn’t have to accompany you since David is getting discharged this afternoon, and you grab a blanket for your legs, covering the hospital gown. David helps you shrug on a jacket and the two of you walk out into the walkways surrounding the hospital. It’s a bare garden, leaves stripped away and melting snow dotting bushes as the two of you set off on a path.

The fresh wet wind curls against your cheek and you inhale, letting the coldness of it slink into your body.

“You were right,” you begin once you think you’re away from prying ears. No one is outside besides the two of you, and your eyes flicker from the tree branches to the benches. You’re quite sure it’s lively and lovely and green other times of the year. A small slice of Eden for those suffering in your mortal world. 

“About what?”

“It wasn’t that case,” you say simply. You reach up to touch one of his hands and you just place your palm over his, despite the cold wind nipping at your knuckles.

“Yeah. I… I heard her, the aunt, talk to you. I… she was the one who did it, and I’m really fucking glad she’s dead.” You turn in your chair to look up at him but he doesn’t look at you. Against the pale grey sky, he looks ashen, the blood red of his cheek the only sign of life in him. You squeeze his hand. “Fuck.”

“What is it?”

“We’ve cut so much shit out of our lives because of her, you know?” he says, parking you by a bench in the shade of a bare tree. The bench is mostly dry and he swipes off the snow before sitting down as close as he can to you. “And I’m grateful. I’m grateful that you stayed and I stayed but… but there are so many things we could’ve done, I…”

“You think we cut her out?” you ask gently, brow furrowing. “I… I didn’t know we were trying to burn her memory away.”

“You didn’t?”

“No, I… I didn’t.” You look into your lap, fingers playing with a stray thread of the hospital jacket. “I thought you bought those gummies on purpose. The candies you keep on your dash? They… they were her favourite, y’know? And the tattoos, right here.” You tap his knuckles where astrology signs are inked darkly into him. “When did you get them? Three, four years after?” Right after our dog died. She loved that dog, you realize. His eyes widen and his breaths come short as he watches you. She’s ruled our whole lives since she's been gone, you tell him silently. Outloud, you point out, “They’re each of our astrology signs.”

“I thought you wouldn’t notice.”

“I’m a detective, David. It’s my job to notice things.” You slot your fingers with his. “We’ve never had peace with it, huh.”

“Of course not. Shit. Just… shit.” He leans into you, his head nestling against your shoulder and you tilt your head to press your cheek into his hair. “I miss her. I fucking miss her.”

“I know, baby.” 

It’s so quiet here, peaceful, and you feel like you don’t ever want to move from this place. Everything here… it’s what you want now. Quiet. His fingers dance over the ink on your knuckles as your eyes close, nail tracing every number along your skin.

1 9 9 6

.

Keller Dover is in surgery for eight hours.

It’s meticulous work, digging out a bullet and saving a tourniquet-bound leg. You sit at the police station, awaiting word in the Captain’s office as David paces back and forth. The two of you may have been discharged, but you’re supposed to be taking it easy.

This is not taking it easy.

The Captain glances at the two of you.

“I didn’t know… that that was the reason this case was so important to you,” he begins and David sends the man a glare. He means well, you guess, he just can’t help not knowing things. You slouch into the couch, playing with the masonic ring you’ve taken to wearing again along your thumb. David’s matching ring glints in the light as he tugs at the gold chain around his neck. The words engraved on the inside of the gold band press into your skin.

“We had a reason to keep it a secret, Captain, but everyone fucking knew.”

“If I knew, neither of you would’ve been on the case.”

“If you knew, Anna wouldn’t have been found,” you retort distantly. David sits beside you, his hand finding the small of your back and you look at him, twisting the ring around your thumb. “Respectfully, sir, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t bring it up at all.”

“Of course. The two of you have done fine work,” he praises and you take hold of David’s knee. “The P.S.P. are breathing down my neck in an effort to snag the both of you.” Your mouth nearly drops open and you straighten up, blinking. Your eyebrows knit together as David cocks his head. “They want you for their Criminal Investigation Unit. Good pay, perks. Better than what you can get here.” 

Captain drinks his brandy, and you rub David’s knee, getting his attention.

Quiet, you tell him. Like that hospital garden. We can have that here. David’s hand on your back reaches up to cup your neck before he looks up at the Captain. He blinks, hard, and the red skin along his eye wrinkles when only hints of a smile curl at his mouth.

“Tell them we’ll stay,” he whispers. “We’ll stay here.” You touch the chain hanging around his neck, the one he hid underneath shirts and sweaters and now one he shows openly, and you smile at the golden letter that hangs on it. The Captain bows his head, draining the rest of his brandy and setting the glass on the table before heading out of the office.

“I’ll make the call. The two of you… thank you for staying.” He sends you both a nod and David gives a pressed smile to your boss. The door clicks shut. Your fingers slip over the golden R and you sigh, pressing your forehead into the curve of his neck. His thumb strokes the cord of your throat as he turns to kiss your hair.

“Maybe we should buy a house,” David mutters aloud and you smile, using your other hand to run over his ribs, run over the robin mid flight on his heaving chest. He takes hold of your wandering hand, dipping his head to look at you. You trace the tattoo of the cross as he holds you tight. “Get out of that flat.”

“That’d be nice.” You curl against him as the two of you lean into the couch and he hoists your legs into his lap as his hair falls over his eyes. You tuck it back with a smile, lifting your chin to kiss the marble of his cheek. It’s still an angry red, but you’re used to it. It means he’s healing, and so are you. “But I wanna go visit her first.”

“Really?” His voice rumbles in his chest and you close your eyes. You could fall asleep to his voice, through the nightmares, through the memories. He holds you close to him and you press your cheek against the cotton of his grey tee. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I think we should.”

“Okay.”

“But in a minute.” Your hands fist the fabric of his shirt and it twists underneath your palms. “I just… I just need a moment with you.” His lips find your hairline, hands soothing away the ache of ketamine in your system and you nearly shiver at the memory of the vulture in your stomach. He traces your side, the curve of your thighs, the bow of your lips and you feel a smile pull at your mouth.

Rough stone has been picked away from your skin, smoothed away with sandpaper and chiselled off with a hammer until all that is left is soft skin and a mind that knows better than to make the same mistakes. Summer heat kisses your flesh in the heart of winter as David runs his lips over the inside of your wrist, the tips of your fingers. He simply indulges, and so do you.

He is ceramic in your hands, glass, malleable metal that bends at your touch and you press a sneaking kisses down his neck, at every point of the tattooed star. 

“We should’ve been better,” he whispers when you’ve exhausted yourself in lazy and sweet kisses and have resorted to just sitting on the couch, legs tangled together, bodies pressed in inexplicable heat. “Just… just been better for her.”

“Yeah, well… I have to believe this is what was meant to be.” Your eyelashes brush against his cheek as your words ghost against his jaw. “After everything… you’re still here, aren’t you?”

He smiles — you can feel it — and so do you. “So are you.” He turns his head away to look at the clock and he sighs, detaching himself with a groan. “We’ve gotta get outta here. You hungry?” You straighten your legs, sitting up on the couch as David stands and runs his hands through his hair.

“Yeah. I know a place.” He sticks out a hand towards you. You grin and place your hand in his. As he pulls you up, you can’t help the words that slip out. “We’ve gotta figure out your zodiac sign.”

.

You set the bunch of flowers down, white flowers bright against the grey stone as you kneel in the dry dirt. The lavender looks like it wilts in the wind as David crouches beside you, reaching forward to touch the stone. 

He looks like a man scorned, but a bitter smile still finds its way onto his face as you set down the glass container full to the brim with gummies. Kissing his necklace, David closes his eyes and sits down flat next to you. You brush your fingers over the etched letters and an emptiness inside you grows as you take in the polished thing. You haven’t come here… in so long. It’s been so long. Your heart falls apart again as you press a kiss to the stone.

“I’m sorry we haven’t been here in a while, honey,” David rasps, fingers trembling as he runs them over. “We’ve been so busy and fuck, I miss you so much. I… I know someone’s been takin’ good care of you up there. God, probably. You know he loves his angels.” You watch as his face crumbles and you close your eyes, a shivering breath crawling out of your mouth as you bow your head. “You’re still my baby girl. I didn’t forget you, I promise. I love you. I love you.” His forehead presses against the stone and you open your eyes as tears slip down your nose and cheeks, catching on the bow of your lips before dripping onto dry dirt.

“We saved a little girl,” you begin, the words burning through your throat and chest. The weak smile that surfaces shakes uncontrollably as you let out a breath, muscles aching. “She reminded me a lot of you, and I know that doesn’t mean shit, because you’re still gone, but it just… it felt good. Knowing I could save her when I couldn’t save you. Although,” you murmur, “your daddy saved the both of us.” Polished stone glides over your fingertips. “I love you so much, darling. Your daddy killed the woman who took you. She’s going to hell, now, and you can rest.”

“You know your daddy. No one hurts his girls without paying for it,” David murmurs, lips brushing against the stone. His eyes are shut tight, tears tracking down his blotchy skin, and you reach over with a quavering hand to brush them away. One of his hand flies to yours, holding your palm to his face and he kisses the heel of your hand.

“We’ll be okay, without you. I think… I think we’ll be okay.” You sniff, a laugh biting through your pain as your other hand flattens against the stone. You can almost feel her… feel her presence. A tiny body against yours, warm like a fire and smelling like clean sheets and chocolate. Ribbons of tears cool against the wind as you press your cheek against the top of the stone. “I love you. Daddy loves you.”

“I love you so much, baby.” His eyes closed, his breaths mist in the air as you reach out for his hand on the stone. Immediately, his fingers lace with yours. “You keep me going. You and your mom.” He sends you a weak smile and your hand his cheek strokes away the fresh, hot tears that warm your skin despite the winter wind biting at your fingers. The two of you sit there around the tombstone for what feels like hours, pouring your souls out, and you weep when snow begins to fall. A bird caws in the distance and you raise your head as a tiny little thing flits to a branch above your head. 

The red-breast creature chirps and a wet, desperate smile makes its way onto your face. You want to believe that, despite everything, this is your little girl. The bird chirps again, and you turn to your…

Your something.

“You think it’s her?” you whisper and he chuckles throatily, kissing your tear-stained cheek with tear-stained lips.

“I think she’s telling us to get off our asses and get some rest,” he replies. Snowflakes land on your skin like feathers and you lick them away from your lips. “You telling us to go home, baby?”

The bird chirps and the two of you smile. Your fingers find his, his interlock with yours. You kiss the stone farewell, and stand. David lingers still, and you swallow the cold that settles in your gut as you squeeze his hand.

“See you soon, baby,” he whispers and you pull him up. You nudge the glass container closer to the stone as you blow a kiss to the sky. “Come on. Let’s go home.” You wrap an arm around his waist and nod, the knots in your throat preventing you from uttering a single word. The emptiness inside you is more pronounced, you think, as you walk through the cemetery, but you feel a lot more human, too. You know that hole inside you won’t ever fill, but perhaps it’s something that doesn’t need to be fixed. 

You lift your head to the drifting snow as you walk to the car together. All is silent in this solemn winter land and you pull off the masonic ring, fingertip running over the inscription. 

The same inscription carved into the stone you’ve left behind. 

Robin Loki

1996-2003

David presses a kiss against your wet smile as he twists the keys in the ignition. You chuckle, wiping at your cheeks and you reach for the container of gummies on his dash. The Sedan rolls into motion and you sink into the chair, eyes closing. 

To say you love Loki…

Maybe it’s not so much of a stretch after all.

tags: @woah-jess @jenlrose @mytinybaguette @arcaneloki @space-helen @dulharpa @bohemianrhapsody86 @bubblemyg @sataninsatin @detectivelokiisabae @deviantly-gayy

[writingfortoomanyfandoms]

Black and Blue - Two

Pairing: Detective Loki x Reader

Summary: She saw the world in black and blue

Requested: Nope

Chapter Warnings: Some swearing I think??, mentions of panic attack

A/N: So I hope you guys enjoyed the second part of BAB!! Please remember to let me know what you think! Reblog, comment, send asks whatever guys, I love hearing from you and getting feedback! I really love writing this series so I hope you enjoy it as much as I do and I promise it’ll get a bit less heavy soon enough :)

One // Three // Four // Five

Y/N Y/L/N saw the world as free and trapped.

Bird and fish.

Sky and tank.

For so long as had associated the colour black with locked doors and small spaces. Gaps only a foot across each way. Her breath her only company.

Before that, though, she had loved the colour black.

How she had loved the night sky, inky blackness covering her from head-to-toe as she would lay in the field back home, the chickens having been locked away hours ago. The black fur of Monty, the sheep dog, her only company those nights.

Soft fur between her fingers. Bright white sparks above her head. And black everywhere.

It had been so long since she had been unafraid of what the night would bring.

///

To say she was surprised to see him was a severe understatement.

After her meltdown in the station the previous day Y/N was sure she was never going to see Detective Loki again.

He had been suitably freaked out upon walking out of the interrogation room to see Y/N curled up and shaking on the floor of the hallway but appeared to know exactly what to do as he cleared the space from the nosey onlookers and crouched in front of her, instructing her gently through breathing, exaggerating his own breaths as an example to her.

Loki had gone to get her some water once she had calmed down enough to accept it and had offered her use of the interrogation room to recover herself properly. Y/N had denied him quickly, just wanting to go home. though he had insisted that she couldn’t drive herself home after the panic attack he had witnessed and called her a taxi instead.

She had walked back down to the station early that morning before it had begun to get busy and had driven her car back, assuming that that would be the extent of her run-in’s with Detective Loki.

But here he was, the bell to her bakery jingled as he walked in, alerting her to his presence. She straightened up from the table she was wiping down and acknowledged him nervously, twisting the cloth between her fingers.

“Good to know the lie detector is accurate and this really is where you work,” Loki finally broke the silence that had lain between them.

Y/N cracked a small smile, grateful for his attempt at breaking the tense atmosphere that hung heavily around them.

“I take it I passed?” She asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah,” Loki breathed. Y/N saw him look around her workplace from beneath her lowered gaze, still finding herself unable to meet his eyes. “I thought you run a bakery, not a cafe?” Y/N walked backwards until she reached the counter, moving behind it for safety.

“Some people suggested I convert it into more of a cafe because I already sold coffee so it... made sense?” She offered unsurely, seeing Loki give an understanding nod.

“Right... I was... I was hoping to see you when you came to pick up your car,” Loki admitted, hesitance clear in his voice, slowly walking up to the counter.

“Oh... sorry,” Y/N whispered, her fingers twisting together.

“No! I just... wanted to check you were okay after yesterday.”

Y/N wanted to cry at how genuinely concerned Loki appeared to be for her. His voice was soft and his tone gentle as he tried to make sure that she was doing alright after her meltdown.

It had been so long since anyone outside of her family had shown any semblance of worry for her that wasn’t completely superficial.

“Yeah... I actually... I wanted to apologise about that,” she admitted awkwardly.

“What do you mean?” Loki asked and Y/N risked a glance up, meeting his eyes for the first time, seeing his confused expression.

She gulped upon seeing his blue eyes staring back at her, dropping her own eyes back down to the counter immediately.

“Miss Y/L/N?”

“Y/N,” she corrected impulsively. “Just... Y/N,” she gave a wry smile. “Miss Y/L/N is my sister.”

“Sorry,” Loki said, his lips turning up at the edges.

“Can I... can I get you a coffee? It’s on the house?” Y/N offered. she could see Loki’s hesitation and watched his hand creep around to his pocket where she was sure he kept his wallet. “Free. Honestly. It’s the least I can do after yesterday.” 

“I can pay, Y/N,” Loki countered and Y/N allowed herself another quick look up, smiling softly at his quirked eyebrows.

“I know,” she agreed. “But I won’t let you,” there was a moments pause before Loki’s hand dropped back down to his side and he nodded.

“Thank you,” he said, the words seeming to take great effort for him to form.

Y/N was grateful for the distraction. To have the excuse to properly look away from the dark detective. 

Her hands stopped trembling for the first time since Loki entered her bakery as she worked the coffee machine, pulling out a take-away cup.

She was in familiar territory here. She could do this and do it well.

“How do you take it?” Y/N asked over her shoulder.

“I’m sorry?” Loki asked and Y/N looked over at him, seeing his gaze locked on the glass cabinet containing the baked treats.

“The coffee - how do you take it?” She repeated, smiling a little before biting her lip to prevent it from getting wider.

“Right - black, no sugar,” Loki said, leaning onto the counter and pulling out his phone.

The bell jingled again, catching both of their attentions and Y/N smiled at Mrs Smithson, an elderly regular who came into the bakery every day and had been one of the first people to recommend her beginning to turn it into a cafe.

“Morning Mrs Smithson,” she greeted and the woman shuffled to wait behind Loki, who moved slightly out of her way.

“Good morning, dear,” Mrs Smithson beamed. “The place looks wonderful with all the tables. When did you do that?”

“Yesterday, Ma’am. I closed early to get it all sorted,” Y/N explained.

“Well... I guess I better eat mine here then, rather than take it to the park,” Mrs Smithson teased and Y/N giggled a little.

“Take a seat, ma’am, I’ll bring it right over,” she promised and Mrs Smithson nodded her thanks to her before shuffling away to a table by the window.

“I think you forgot something,” Loki murmured.

“I’m sorry?” Y/N asked as she turned back to the coffee machine, finishing up his drink and placing a lid on the top.

“Her order?” He offered.

“Mrs Smithson comes in every day - she’s got a usual,” Y/N shrugged. She saw Loki’s face turned slightly towards the cakes still. “You want one?” 

“Oh, no, that’s alright,” he waved her off immediately.

“Come on, Detective, what was your favourite as a kid?” She probed quietly, wheedling the truth out of him as best she could, her own eyes staring at the take-away cup that lay on the counter between them.

“I didn’t... We didn’t get cakes as kids,” Loki’s tone was wistful and almost longing. 

Y/N’s lips parted slightly as she looked up at him, her eyes wide. Her shock preventing her from her fear.

“Never?”

“Not really,” he confirmed, a bitter smile on his face. He picked up the coffee and shrugged. “Thanks for the coffee,” Loki told her.

“Wait!” She called as he turned away, embarrassed by the volume of her own voice but it did the trick, getting the detective’s attention back. “Brownie for the road?” Y/N offered a little pathetically, already getting the tongues out and a box to put the brownie in.

“Y/N-”

“No buts,” she pleaded, swallowing nervously as she placed the brownie inside.

“Thank you,” Loki conceded, taking the box from her.

“Good luck with the case,” was her parting words.

She didn’t watch him leave, turning around to get Mrs Smithson’s order prepared - a latte and a slice of cheesecake. But she couldn’t deny the slight longing she felt for him to come back and visit.

Something about his presence made her feel safe. 

Safer than she had felt in a long time.

Y/N placed Mrs Smithson’s order on a tray and carried it over to the woman, who was engrossed in her book.

“Oh, thank you, dear,” she smiled. “Here you go,” she said, handing her some money. “And, before I forget, that man asked me to give you this,” Mrs Smithson added, her hand going to the pocket of her cardigan and pulling out the money for Loki’s order, placing it in Y/N’s hand alongside her own money.

Y/N huffed a laugh as she looked at the money in her hands, shaking her head slightly.

 Butterflies went rampant in her stomach.

[writingfortoomanyfandoms]

Black and Blue - Series Masterlist

Pairing: Detective Loki x Reader

Summary: She saw the world in black and blue

Series Warnings: Panic attacks, past abusive relationship, swearing

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Spin-off Blurbs

He wants affection

[writingfortoomanyfandoms]

Black and Blue - Three

Pairing: Detective Loki x Reader

Summary: She saw the world in black and blue

Requested: Nope

Chapter Warnings: Some swearing I think??, mentions of past abuse

A/N: So here’s the third part of BAB! I really like this one so I hope you guys enjoy it as well! Please remember to let me know what you think - reblog, comment, send asks, I love hearing from all of you :) and remember that tag requests are only accepted through my inbox xx

One // Two // Four // Five

Y/N Y/L/N saw the world as pain and waiting.

Somehow the worst part about it was the waiting.

Because at least when the pain came it was happening. She knew how bad it was. 

Whereas with the waiting, she had to calculate every decision she made carefully. She had to anticipate what it would be like. What he would be like. How much the inevitable pain would be.

For the longest time she had loved the colour blue. Even after he had come along she had loved it.

Loved him.

The blue eyes that would beam at her. Sparkle in joy. 

Blue eyes she could get lost in. That could set her free.

Blue eyes like the sky.

She had come to loathe the colour blue. 

For too long it was the only colour she could see. He wouldn’t let her see any other. 

And even when she was permitted to look at his colours there was no sparkle anymore. No birds flying in his blue sky. 

Now there were clouds in his sky.

///

Y/N was less surprised than she had thought she would be upon seeing Loki entering her newly renovated cafe the next day. 

She allowed herself to scan over his face properly, taking in his features. She had come to the conclusion that he didn’t mind her looking at him. Taking him in. He hadn’t commented on it. On her meeting his eyes.

There were bags under his eyes. His hair was unkept compared to it’s usual gelled-back style. 

“Are you okay?” She asked quietly as he reached the front of the queue.

“Long day,” he muttered, pulling out his wallet. 

Y/N knew all about his long day. It had been on the news that morning when she woke up. Alex Parker had been released from jail.

She considered phoning the Dovers or the Birches to check up on how they were doing but she wasn’t sure if it would be appreciated or not.

“Did you sleep last night?” She blurted out despite herself. It was none of her business really, she knew that. But Loki just looked too exhausted.

“I was following leads,” he told her following a brief hesitation. “Coffee?” He asked finally and Y/N nodded.

“Of course.”

“And... and one of those... one of those brownie things?” He added unsurely. An unwarranted shyness in his voice.

“I’m actually sold out of them - but... would come cookies do?” She questioned, biting her lip in worry as she saw the disappointed look on Loki’s face.

“I - uh - are they good?”

“They’re my sisters favourite?” Y/N offered, lips twitching a little at the edges as she watched Loki not his head.

“I guess I can trust her judgement,” he muttered. He passed her over the exact change and Y/N smiled to herself as she took it, waiting until he was down the other end of the counter to make room for the next person in line until she began to prep his order.

Instead of putting his money into the till, she opened up the box where she would put the baked goods and placed it in there instead, grabbing a napkin and writing: I told you it was free before closing the lid immediately and beginning to make his coffee.

“Hey, Detective?” She asked, placing the lid on the take away cup and handing that with the box of cookies over to him.

“Yeah?” 

“You... you’ll find them, right?” Y/N questioned, biting her lip nervously as she waited for his response.

Silence fell thick between them, broken only by the background chatter of her other customers.

“I’m not giving up on them.” 

That was enough for Y/N.

///

Loki had a usual.

He’s come into her bakery-turned-cafe every day while he was working the Dover/Birch case of the missing girls.

He’d order the same thing every day - coffee, black, no sugar, and then something from the cabinet of baked treats that Y/N picked out for him.

She hated to admit that she had begun to bake things especially for him that she thought he would like. She couldn’t believe he had never had baked goods growing up and so it seemed that she was trying to make up for that single handedly.

Y/N looked forwards to his visits into her shop. She looked forwards to the five minutes of conversation that they would share.

The bags around Loki’s eyes got darker every day and his shoulders sagged a little more, carrying the weight of two worlds on his shoulders.

And yet, despite the huge, crippling weight carried on his back Loki always mustered up a smile for her. A tired, overworked smile but a smile nonetheless.

Occasionally he’d even update her on the case, how it was going and how far along it was.

Mostly, though, they just spoke about mundane things. New chairs Y/N had bought, new mugs that Loki liked or new recipe’s she was trying out. Things which had no real relevance to anything.

But they would always - always - pass the money backwards and forwards between them. It was a game at this stage. To find the most creative way to get the other person to accept and keep the money. But they never kept it. They would always hand it back to the other person the next day with a mischievous smile on their face in the knowledge that they’d be getting it back in only a few hours time.

In those five-minute interactions she felt safer than she did the rest of the day.

So she missed him on the day that he didn’t come in.

But that turned to worry when she heard the news and found out that he was in the hospital with Anna.

Y/N closed up a little early that day, filling a box she had set aside for him with almost everything that she had left - brownies, cookies, salted caramel shortbread, cheesecake, angel cake and a cinnamon bun.

She made two drinks in to go cups - two chai lattes. 

Y/N had coerced Loki into trying one one day that he came in late and she refused to serve him caffeine, insisting he needed sleep and Loki had admitted that he liked them.

Though he wouldn’t be caught dead ordering one for himself.

Y/N was nervous as she walked up to the hospital. Her fingers drummed relentlessly on the box as she balanced the two take-away mugs on top of it.

“Name?” The bored receptionist asked, barely looking up at Y/N.

“Y/N? Y/N Y/L/N,” she breathed.

“Who are you here to see? And what’s your relation?”

“Detective Loki? I’m his... his friend.”

That got the receptionist’s attention and she looked up in shock.

“You’re friends with dark and stormy?” She asked, her nose wrinkling just a tad and Y/N bit her lip to prevent herself from giggling. The woman focused on the box in her hand. “What’s in the box?”

“Just some food,” Y/N said.

“From the bakery in town?” Y/N nodded. “I love that place,” the woman admitted with a grin.

“Thank you,” Y/N bit her lip to stop her smile getting too wide and the woman’s eyes widened a little.

“Oh shit! That’s where I recognise you from! I used to come in every day on my way to work before I moved house! Your bakery is the best thing that’s happened to this town this year,” the woman insisted and Y/N smiled shyly down at her feet.

“Thank you,” she said again, biting her lip.

“Sorry - he’s in room 102,” Y/N nodded her head at the woman and began to walk through the way that she had been shown.

Y/N paused outside of Loki’s door. She shifted awkwardly from foot to foot, debating whether or not she ought to go in.

Would he appreciate her coming to visit him?

She took a deep breath and raised her hand to knock on the door.

There was a subdued ‘come in’ from inside and Y/N pushed the door open.

“Hey,” she said, watching Loki’s head snap up to look at her.

“Y/N?” Y/N walked over to the side of his bed and placed the box and chai lattes down on his bedside table.

“Is it okay I’m here?” She asked and Loki swiftly moved into action, shifting to make room for her on his hospital bed as he nodded.

“Yeah! Yeah, of course!” He patted the sheets next to him with a small, unsure smile.

Y/N sat down at the very edge of the bed.

“I just... wanted to make sure you were okay,” she admitted softly.

“I am,” Loki said immediately, clearly seeing the doubt on her face. He reached out hesitantly and took her hand, giving her time and space to pull away if she wanted to. “I promise.”

Y/N squeezed his hand.

“I brought you a chai latte? And some... things I had left over in the bakery that I thought you’d like?”

“You didn’t have to do that,” Loki told her.

“I know - I wanted to.”

“I’ll pay you back,” he promised and Y/N squeezed his hand again, assuring herself that he really was okay.

She hadn’t realised how worried she had really been until right now.

“How many times do I have to tell you not to?” Loki let out a raspy chuckle.

“Thank you.”

///

“Hey,” Y/N sat down on the seat at the table opposite Loki. He looked up from his paper work confused.

“Oh - hi,” a small smile graced his face, softening his features. “Don’t you have to work?” Y/N grinned, gesturing around them.

“You’re the only customer, Loki,” the detective laughed gently as silence fell between them.

“David.”

“Pardon?”

“My name - it’s David,” he smiled at her, his fingers playing with the handle of his mug. “Can you... could you call me that?”

“If that’s what you want,” Y/N agreed, biting her lip.

“Yeah - I really do.”

Silence fell over them again, comfortable and light as opposed to the heavy, awkward ones that Y/N was used to.

Anna had been found just over a week ago, Loki having been released from the hospital the day after he had been admitted, though he hadn’t been allowed to drive immediately from the amount of painkillers he was on and had rung Y/N to ask if she would pick him up.

Y/N had been happy to agree and help him out, shutting the bakery for half an hour as she drove to the hospital. Though she had been reluctant to drive him anywhere other than his home, especially when he said he wanted to go to Mrs Parker’s home.

But Loki had been insistent and Y/N couldn’t help but give in to his pleas.

Loki found Keller. He was still in the hospital a week later and Loki had visited him, unsure of whether the man would want to see him or not but needing to discus the case and what would follow with him.

Since closing the Dover/Birch case for good, Loki had dove straight into his next one and had been spending even more time at Y/N’s cafe, often coming to sit in there rather than take away, reading over his case notes in the corner booth by the window - which had essentially become reserved for him by now. 

“I was wondering something,” Loki finally spoke again, though his eyes were fixed on his mug of coffee.

“Yeah?”

“Would you... maybe... ever, like... I mean... would you...” Loki bit his lip and shook his head. “Doesn’t matter.”

“David?” Y/N considered taking his hand across the table but wasn’t sure if he would appreciate the contact. 

He never did.

“Would you... maybe... could I take you out for dinner sometime? I mean you said that - that you hadn’t really eaten out since you moved here and... I just...”

Y/N closed her eyes.

Her mind flooded with images. 

Pictures of blue, blue eyes.

Or black spaces.

And red. Red everywhere.

With the screams.

The fear.

The doubt.

The unknowing.

But - but she had taken refuge in the unknowing recently. She liked the unknowing. 

Loki was the definition of unknowing. So maybe...

“Yeah... yeah, I’d like that.”

[kashimos-hajime]

in my veins | 1996

summary: “i keep thinkin’ there should be a noise. robin’s up because she can’t sleep, and you’re watching lion king with her, or something. i don’t know.” after two years, you're going home.

WARNINGS: angst, swearing pairing: detective loki x reader word count: 2.6k

a/n: written as a pre-post 1996 one-shot. for those who don’t know, 1996 is my detective loki x reader mini-series and i recommend you read it before you read this for full context. vibes are in my veins by andrew belle. gif not mine

2005

You’re fucking exhausted.

There’s nothing more to it. It’s an endless cycle of coffee and restless sleep and a mattress that’s too hard, and you’re exhausted.

Maybe it’s ‘cause sleeping on a bed that still needs to be broken in is the one thing robbing you of your sleep, or maybe it’s the way you wear the the mattress uneven.

Maybe it’s the permanent ache in your heart.

It still feels raw, an open wound soaked in salt and citric acid every single day, and you wonder if moving out has helped it close or ripped it even wider. You’ve been wondering for two years now, among other things. Among your feelings that you still can’t sort out regarding the man who has shared more than he has taken.

The last of your coffee was drained hours ago, and now here you are, slumping in your seat as you read through your emails. Time is an unknown entity to you and your stomach growls as the last of your dinner no longer fills you up. It’s like you’re handcuffed to your desk, and your eyes drift to the time glaring back at you, barely fighting to stay open. 

1:42 AM.

You need to be at work in seven hours to continue solving the Parker case, and yet here you are. Tilting back in your chair, you pinch the bridge of your nose and exhale, eyebrows furrowing as you try to grab what’s left of your motivation to get up and drive back to your lumpy ass mattress back at some small apartment you’ve been renting with the broken electrical socket and unexpected pet rat.

It’d be better than sleeping in this place, you tell yourself, and your hands run along the arm rests, pushing yourself up into a stand as you turn off your computer. Stretching your arms high above your head, you hear your shoulders pop and you arch your back, feeling the delicious sensation of waking up flooding your body. Blood runs warmly through you as you twist to grab your jacket, folding it over your arm.

Your eyes, still a bit squinty from staring at a bright screen in a dark room for so long, blink away the light as you shoulder your bag and reach to turn off the lamp. 

On its own accord, your gaze drifts over the cubicle wall to the empty one beside you. You don’t mean to look, but it’s a habit, and your heart swells in your throat when you see it empty, a jacket still thrown messily over the back of the chair. The pale light from the computer screen casts sharp shadows over the empty seat, and you let out a sigh.

He’s still here.

Well, so are you.

Dropping your bag into your chair and letting your jacket fall atop of it, you rake hair out of your face and hold back a yawn, legs finding their own way to the room you last saw him in. A feeling wells up inside your stomach, and you try not to think of the two words you’ve said to him in the past 24 hours, and how once, the word count would’ve been close to twenty thousand. But you think of it anyway, because you’re exhausted, and your heart has been squeezed until not an ounce of blood is left to pump, and when you’re tired…

You have no fucks left to give when you’re tired and your mind can wander all you want.

“Loke,” you call softly, fingers curling around the doorframe as you peer into the dark room. An interrogation tape is playing back, and a figure is slumped over the desk, shoulders hunched over as blue light sieves through his hair, illuminates the apple of his cheek. His eyes are black in the shadow cast by his brow bone, and your lips press together in an almost-smile as you walk in as quietly as you can. 

Your fingers outstretched, your quirk of your lip tugs deep into your cheek at the curl of hair that falls over his face, at the tiny twitches in his face as he dreams, and you run a hand down his shoulder. His nuclear heat burns into your palm, and you inhale sharply, eyes flickering from him to the interrogation tape he’d been watching.

Your own voice streams out of the speakers in the lowest volume setting, and your eyebrows sink, coming together as you try to decipher what he’s doing, watching this tape. He’s not even on the Parker case. His notepad is just clipped beneath his cheek and you snort at the way his lips seem to move along with the lines of the tape as you turn to look at his hand. Yep, pen trapped beneath his fingers.

Fingers trembling, you gently tug the notepad into your grasp and you pick it up, eyes narrowing in the dark as you make out what looks like… notes. On your case. 

You look at the man slumped over the desk, and you let out a soft sigh, pressing your knuckles against his cheek. He’s burning, as usual, and you find the tingling heat that wraps around your bones much more comfortable than the rattling radiator back at your place. Dragging your hand to the remote, you pause the tape, the sound of your own voice making a shiver crawl down your spine and instead gently sit up the detective. No doubt his back will be aching, and if you’re right by the coffee cup by the remote, he’s been here much longer than you’ve been slouched over your own desk. 

Crouching down until you’re eye level, you gently cup his face despite your heart hammering between your ears and your smile fades away when his jaw muscles twitch against your palm. He nestles against your palm, the lines in his face easing and you shuffle closer, reaching out with your other hand.

“Wake up,” you whisper, the words coming out breathy as your lungs constrict. Inhaling shakily, your thumb strokes at his cheek and you try not to think about how you haven’t been so close to him in so long and just being in his proximity is nearly addicting… and… “Wake up, Loki.” Your hand travels down to his shoulder, and you feel the curve of his muscle underneath your palm. “It’s like 2 AM, you needa go home.” You don’t shake him, because you know how to wake up a David who can barely sleep as it is, and instead settle on drawing him out of his sleep slowly. “Come on.”

Your whispered nothings slowly coax his eyes to flutter open, and you smile at the glaze in his porcelain blue eyes. He raises his head blearily, and you run your thumb over his cheeks. The chair twists beneath him, scoots forward, and suddenly, his legs bracket your body and you swallow, staring up at this man who only stares as if he’s shocked you’re this close to him. Your lips parted, you scramble for something to say as your hand on his shoulder curls into a fist, twisting his black pullover in your grip.

A gust of fruity gum pushes into your mouth as you try to pull yourself away. It’s too much, the smell, the heat, the feel of his breath against your cheek and the way he soaks you in. The way he looks at you now, with dark hooded eyes and lips just barely parted as his tongue darts out to wet them, it sends live sparks down into your stomach as your heart jolts. Blood roars in your ears as a shaky hand reaches to your cheek, thumb just tugging on the corner of your mouth. 

Like you’re ethereal, not quite real, a ghost that’s come back to haunt him.

Yeah, you get the feeling.

The air smells like cold electricity and Bearglove deodorant, and you inhale sharply as his head dips, or is it you that reaches for him? The argument is chased from your mind at any rate by soft, searing lips pressing against yours, and the way the other hand cusps your jaw, a blast of heat against your frigid skin. Swallowing the taste of him, your eyes slip shut as his hand loses itself in your hair and you lose yourself in him. You want to drown in the second kiss he presses against your lips, and the third, and you just barely pull away because you cannot breathe and you don’t know if it’s because of how he still has the ability to take your breath away, or because your heart is racing too fast for you to keep up.

“Loki,” you whisper against his mouth, pleadingly soft and your breath shatters in your throat when he jerks back, chair rolling over the floor until it collides with the desk behind him. Standing, you blink at the cold numbness that spreads from your face to your throat and you back into the wall, the back of your hand wiping at your mouth.

“Shit.” His voice cracks, hoarse and you manage to look at him, an oily feeling coating your skin. Your fingers rest on your lips as you try to catch the breath he’d stolen, and you press yourself into the wall. What you wouldn’t give to melt into the plaster right now, away from his heavy gaze and how it seems to penetrate through your clothes, strip you bare. God.

Your eyes close and you tilt your head back.

You’re just so fucking exhausted.

“David.” His name terrible and needy and wanting, sounds young in your head and you beg through it, although you don’t know for what. You don’t know. But your body does. 

The mere kiss has ignited the dying fire inside you, and although you don’t want to feed the flames, you know burning alive might be sweeter than freezing to death at this point. You’re hollow, a carcass carrying someone just barely breathing, and when the chair squeaks, you want to ask him something you don’t know how to put into words.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, saving you from the trouble, and you open your eyes, leaning against the wall. Angling yourself, you cross your arms over your chest and send him a bitter half-smile.

“What are you?” You nod to the interrogation tapes and in the dim light, you can see him swallow, the cord of his throat pulsing. “Taking notes on my interrogation?” Another time, maybe you’d have tacked on something with a coy smile, a “Seeing how a real cop gets the job done?” or a “Miss me?” 

Another time that’s long gone.

“Helping with a breakthrough,” he shoots back, and you push off the wall with a nudge of your shoulder as he stands up. “You should be sleeping.”

“And you should be…” At home lingers on your lips, but that’s not what you should say. “... too.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t sleep much.” He turns off the tape, running a hand over his hair and you walk towards him as the simmering in your stomach grows to singe your lungs. “Why’re you here?” He braces himself against the desk and your fingers float above his shoulder.

“Why are you?” you ask, voice so very soft, and he turns his head wretchedly towards you. His hair has lost its crisp, slickback appearance, and you wonder if he’ll even bother to wash out the gel or if he’ll simply run it back again. You wonder if he’s eating enough and sleeping enough, and if he’s paid his electricity bill on time. You wonder even though it’s not your place and you wonder out of habit, because it’s better than knowing the startling truth engraved in the hollows of his cheeks and the darkness swallowing out his eyes.

“Empty flat. Too quiet,” he mutters, eyes drifting back to the black screens and you swallow. “Keep thinkin’ there should be a noise. Robin’s up because she can’t sleep, and you’re watching Lion King with her, or something. I don’t know.” His voice cracks and he hangs his head, a hard sigh escaping his lips. 

Your hand lands on his shoulder, and he stiffens beneath your touch as you swallow down the knot in your throat. Your eyes sting but you ignore the feeling of being split open as you run your hand through his hair, fingers stroking the dried clumps back.

“How’s your flat?” he asks, and you sigh, dropping your hand. “Since you’re here, I’m assuming your rat is keeping you up.” 

“He’s a great roommate. I feed him sometimes because he likes Chinese takeout,” you retort and he almost chuckles. He straightens up and you see the shadow of a smile on his face against the golden light from the hall. “But it’s… it’s the mattress. Feels lumpy.” You tilt your head up to stare at him, at his washed-up appearance, and you smile, just barely. “And it’s hard sleeping alone. You’d think we’d both be better at sleeping alone.”

“Yeah.” He clears his throat and you look down, stepping away. When had you gotten so close? “Yeah, but we should both head home. Separately.” On opposite sides of town where there are two phone bills and electricity bills and gas bills and bills we used to share, and you have the coffee maker but I have the toaster— 

“Yeah, of course.” Yet still, neither of you dare to move. Your lips still burn from the strength of his kiss, and you want to kiss him again. Your body wants to feel him again. Your eyes drift up to where he stares at you with those empty blues. They stare through you, and you press your palms against his cheeks, the corner of your lips digging into your cheeks in a sad, sorrowful smile. The man you loved — love, maybe — is hollow. You wonder if you look just as broken. “David.”

“I fucking hate this,” he whispers hoarsely and you try to repress how bitter your smile grows. “I fucking hate sleeping there. I can’t, I can’t fucking sleep.” He crumbles within your hands and his long fingers wrap around your wrists as he leans forward for your touch. Forehead pressing against his, you want to melt into his body. His hands trail down your arms, feeling you through your clothes and you slide your arms around his neck as fingers dig into your hips. An unpleasant ache balls up in your chest and your eyes flutter shut as he sucks in a breath. It’s as if he steals from your lungs, takes what’s his and you want to tell him that you’re more than open to try, if only to stitch up the wound splitting you open. 

You still bleed. 

“I couldn’t get a break on the Parker case,” you whisper against his cheek and you hold him against you, just to feel the heat of his body, unwilling to let him go. “I’m open to going over some things back at your place… if you want?” His eyes open, just a sliver of cold blue and your own eyes flutter shut as he squeezes your hips, then pulls away.

“Fine.” He clears his throat and you wipe at your face, trying to chase off the heat that kisses your skin. He grabs his notepad and you stand there, unsure of what to do now that you’re going home for the first time in two years. 

Home.

“I’ll go wait in the lot,” you say for lack of nothing else and he shoots you one quick look before he gives a jerking nod. You excuse yourself, and gather your belongings, saying your farewells to the night shift before you walk out into the bracing air and suck in a huge breath as if you haven’t breathed in ages. 

Your lips burn as wind sweeps against your face and you let your eyes close again.

You’re just so fucking exhausted.

tags: @space-helen @dulharpa @woah-jess @jenlrose @mytinybaguette @arcaneloki @bohemianrhapsody86 @bubblemyg @sataninsatin @detectivelokiisabae @deviantly-gayy @if-i-were-your-raven

[kashimos-hajime]

While I excitedly wait for the final chapter!!Question!! If I may ask? What’s broody and moody big jacket boy do if a little kid goes up to him after a case is all said and done and offers him a baked good under the pretence of “you’re my hero Mr. Detective Loki, and heros get cookies!” ???

title: reward

summary: and sometimes, he gets more than just money.

warnings: just a swear or like, fifteen and lokis a cute boy

a/n: i like this so much!! especially since conyers is such a small town :) hope you enjoy this anon!!

There’s a constant to the chaos that is the case-to-case life of being a detective. David Loki wouldn’t know how to describe it other than, with no other adequate words, ‘Fuck.’

Every case is different and with every case comes different witnesses, different circumstances, different stories and alibis and pieces of evidence, and that’s what makes it constant. The constant that every case is different. In some, strange, paradoxical way, it gives David comfort that when a case is done, he knows he’ll never have to face something like it again.

Unless there’s a serious serial killer. But those are rare around these parts, in a small town like Conyers. People barely get past three before David is kicking down their door with a gun aimed at their head, and mostly, it’s quiet here. So, the occasional missing persons, the assault and battery, the theft, that’s his bread and butter.

After every case, there’s a sort of tension that eases itself from his shoulders. No, he’s never completely unburdened because tomorrow, there’ll always be something new, or maybe he’ll be sent to the cities leagues outside Conyers because they need his eye on something, and no, it’s not because a case solved means good pay. The tension that eases itself comes from the relief or the heartbreak, the lull in the fact that, shit, today is done and the kid’s safe, and fuck, what he wouldn’t give for a hot shower right now. He can rest for a few hours, right?

So he spends his time, working without working. He keeps himself in shape, he catches up on groceries he’d ignored while on the case, goes on runs through the park, heads to the gym to tighten up on his boxing skills.

He just takes a drive through Conyers, because shit, better to catch the criminal in the act than wait until it’s done. His phone goes off and he re-wraps the burrito he’d been scarfing down for lunch, answering with a short, “Hello?”

“Detective.” The Captain. Ah, shit. “Would you mind dropping by the precinct, now? We’ve got something for you.”

“Yeah.” And so he drives, burrito all but forgotten, wrapped in his cupholder as he cruises along the empty roads. His mind makes up figments of what the Captain could want. New case? Fuck, tension already winding up in his shoulders in knots. Promotion? Unlikely. New case. Has to be. Just solved the Myers one two days ago so— 

He pulls up and gets out of his sedan, slamming the door shut. Running a hand through his hair, his jacket shifts when he yanks open the door and walks in to see the Captain and…

The Myers kid? 

“What’s going on?” he asks, arms spread, and the kid runs into him before anyone can respond. Letting out a grunt, he glances down at the kid holding onto his legs and frowns. “Hey, kid.” His dad holds something in his hands as David bends over and detaches the kid from his legs. 

“Detective Loki! I have a present for you,” he announces and David’s lips twitch into a frown. A present. Huh. That’s… that’s something. “Daddy, can we give it to him, now?” 

“Go ahead, kiddo.” 

The kid runs back to his father, who hands him whatever the fuck he’s holding in his hands and Loki straightens his jacket, trying to steel himself for whatever comes next.

“I made them myself!” the Myers kid says proudly, extending a tupperware container full to the brim with sugar cookies, and the corner of David’s mouth twitches up at the messy frosting, the faces littered with red sprinkles. “Well, Daddy helped, too.”

“Huh.” Cracking open the container, he crouches before the kid and glances up at him, smirking. “Look five-star to me, kid. But why am I getting them?”

“Because heroes deserve cookies, Mr. Loki, and you’re my hero!”

An unexpected warmth rolls down his spine as David pinches the cookie that has his name piped onto it and the kid beams when he bites in. It’s a bit too sweet for his taste, but hell, he doesn’t mind as he clamps the lid over the container once more. For once, the weight seems to slide off his shoulders and he shrugs, smile growing. Ruffling the kid’s hair, he stands.

“Do you like them?” the kid asks, and David nods, glancing down at the mess of cookie and frosting and sprinkles.

“Yeah. I do.”

[kashimos-hajime]

if i time it right, the thunder breaks

Summary: “And he hated himself and hated her, too, for the ruin they'd made of each other.” 

WARNINGS: swearing, it’s getting bad, mentions of (sexual, if you interpret it that way) child abuse, violence, angst, these idiots dont know how to take care of themselves but they know how to take care of each other Pairing: Detective Loki x Reader Word Count: 6.1k

A/N: thank you for the crazy response babes. truly thought this would flop and y’all proved me wrong. this is an important chapter and there’s a lot to say. i am open to tagging people so just lemme know if you want to be by sending an ask. GIF not mine

01 | ... | 03 | 04 | 05

“Stop eating my shit.”

“Fuck off,” you snap, tossing the container of gummies onto the dash. It’s only half-empty and it’s not like you won’t buy him more. “God, I fucking hate this case.” You pinch the bridge of your nose as he slams the door, shaking rain off his coat. You swallow the gummy, feeling it all the way down to your stomach. The list of level-three sex offenders is like your death sentence as you cross out another name on the list with jagged black lines. “Nothing?”

“Just some German porn. Fuck.” His palm collides with the steering wheel as you try to sink into your chair. The air is stuffy in here but you don’t have the strength to open a window. “Fuck.” He sucks in a breath between his teeth, the cord of his throat pulsing. You lick your lips, turn away.

“You need some coffee?” You lean forward and pull out the giant thermos you have filled to the brim with coffee from your bag, and he snatches it from you, letting the black roast scorch his throat. You press your temple against the cold window before he nudges your shoulder. He offers the open thermos back to you and you down it, the bitterness waking up your mind as you twist the cap on shut again.

“Where next?” Your nose twitches again as you sniff, trying to see straight at the list. Reading out the address, you fold it back into your pocket and lean into the window as the Sedan rolls into motion.

It is raining now, a gentle pattering that you could fall asleep too if you were home instead of here.  David sends you a glance but otherwise focuses his gaze on the road. It’s a long night before you, and you can imagine the thermos would be empty before long.

David’s fingers tap the steering wheel when he drives. You know you’re not supposed to notice such a habit of his, but it’s a part of him, like how you know when he’s under stress, he blinks like someone squirted lemon juice in his eyes, or how he takes his coffee black because he nearly choked on watered down sugar for coffee once when he was fifteen. 

But, you do. You can’t help that he’s part of you and you can’t help but smile at his young face, spitting that awful coffee into the street, one of the brightest memories in your head, surrounded by so much smoke and shadow that pulls, claws, tugs you in and then you are spiraling.

“You’re thinking loudly,” he comments, banishing the smoke for mere moments, and you toss him a look from where it had drifted into the dark trees. Bundling your coat around yourself, you recline into your chair. 

“I’m just thinking about us,” you reply and he lets out a sharp breath, a gesture often paired with him shaking his head in irritation or disbelief or something. You don’t want to look at the ruins of what you’d done. “When we were younger.”

The fingers on the steering wheel pause, wrap tighter instead, and you close your eyes.

“Really?” He is stiff, every inch of him. You’re sure the cord of his neck is hard as a rock against his skin. The line of his reflection is just visible in the glass and you press your temple against the window, looking into your lap. 

“The years you were at Huntington,” you begin, and this time you must look at him. There are only some times you can bring such a time up and by the twitch of the muscles in his jaw, this isn’t the best, but it bottles up inside you that you might… you just don’t want to think about it anymore. “Those were the worst years of my life. I don’t think I’ve ever told you that.”

“You haven’t.”

“Well, I hated seeing you there. I hated seeing what they did to you.” 

You can see it play before your eyes, a mere spectator to some biopic film that you are forced to see.

Two figures under the shade of the church, one tall and thin and, another carrying a can and bags and stale bread that spilled over tiny arms, food that could’ve gone to those who didn’t have a home like he did. He’d insisted you take it back, but you simply dented a can against the rock until a tiny hole formed and told him to suck the juice from the mangoes before it leaked into the moist dirt. Moonlight bathed two figures even under the shade of the church as the taller one helped the tiny one over the fence.

“I’ll come back,” you promised in harsh breaths. He held the rest of the food in his arms, granola bars he could eat quietly, bread he could rip apart in small bits and chew on, and you grabbed the front of his ratty shirt desperately despite how much he must feel, a purple and blue plethora underneath his little church uniform that’d been torn in all the wrong places. “My uncle won’t notice. I’ll come back for you.”

You thoughts drift even further back. 

A hospital waiting room, reeking of antiseptic and too much bleach. This boy you met just an hour ago, sitting with his respective social worker in that antiseptic waiting room was the most interesting person you’d ever met. He had cards, and said he’d taught himself magic tricks if you wanted to see. You nodded but played goldfish instead. 

“They’re not my real parents,” he’d told you almost angrily, and you’d balked at the thought. “I’m only here because they have to do something before they bring me to a Huntington Boys Home. They think I have ‘problems’.”

“Oh.” You had frowned artfully and he asked if you had a seven. You shook your head and said goldfish. “Where are your real parents?”

“I think they died.”

“Oh.” You remember the disappointment, the utter sadness compelling you to watch the boy as he looks into his cards.

“Why are you here?”

“My mom can’t take care of me anymore and I don’t know my dad.” Your shoulders had risen, fallen indelicately and the boy smiled with the teeth he had. He was missing one of the lower ones and you had smiled back faintly, nervously. 

“That sucks.”

“I guess. I didn’t like her that much.”

You swallow and close your eyes as if that’ll help bat the image away but it only serves to show you the bloodied knuckles, the bruises on pale, milky thighs and the scars shown in the mist of hot showers and empty locker rooms.

“You, uh, you liked the canned fruit the best. I remembered.” Your voice is faint, barely heard over the rain and rumble of the engine that’s already just a whisper.

He swallows, too, eyes burning into the windshield. You know he’s trying his hardest not to swerve or stop the car, or even look at you, because his arms shake from the strength he holds the steering wheel. You’re quite sure it might detach if he goes any longer. 

“You told me there was life outside of priests and sick fucks like them.”

“Well, I didn’t know. It was just something I heard my uncle say, when he was sober at least. He said there was a life outside of your shitty circumstance,” you reply with that indelicate shrug. You haven’t thought of the man who’d offered a roof over your head and nothing else in a while. “It was one of the few things I learned from him, not because of him.”

“You shouldn’t fucking be here,” he says softly. Your eyes trace the arch of his neck, a feather-light gaze that flickers across his cheeks, the slick-back hair, the hands that loosen on the steering wheel as you travel over a bump on the road. “This town will never be good enough for you.”

“It has you in it.” You know it’s something you shouldn’t fucking say but you can’t help it. That boy in the hospital room with the gap-wide smile sits before you and you can’t do anything about it. You turn your body inwards, towards him, and his hand finds your knee on its own accord as you settle into your new position. “I fucking hated seeing you there.” “I know.”

“I’m glad you left when you could.”

“I know.” His hand, a heavy heat on your knee, squeezes before he lifts it and your eyes dart to the warmth he’s left on you, a warmth that spreads through your body like warm wine. “I’m glad you did too, either.”

Terrible, ugly, screaming and the smell of vodka spits in your mouth. You shake off the feeling and you know that David saw you shudder. He doesn’t say anything more. Neither do you.

Time does not heal all wounds, and you wonder if love could’ve ever built a palace on sand.

.

You can’t sleep. Even with the father in custody, you can’t sleep. David’s arm tightens around your waist as he sleeps, but you know he is uneasy in his slumber. 

Fuck.

“Sleepin’?” he mumbles suddenly and you close your eyes as if that’ll help you. “Me neither.”

“Get some sleep,” you murmur back, burrowing your face deeper into the pillow. You can still see the dead man’s body in the father’s basement and your nose twitches. You had held the father above the hole, made him look at the darkness of his basement, at the bones of his work. Made him look into David’s eyes, made him see.

Not his work, a voice in the back of your mind whispers. The devastation beside you is not this man’s work. The smell of dust and cobwebs still lingers. So does David’s voice. The boys home. Sweet fruit nectar and the taste of blood form a strange cocktail in your mouth.

That’s justice unserved, too. You suppress a shiver.

“Come on.” His voice warms your neck as he pulls himself closer, nose pressed against the back of your shoulder. You tug his arm tighter around you, fingers slipping to interlace with his. “Close your eyes.” “They’re closed,” you promise. His lips brush against the bare skin of your shoulder before a feather-soft kiss lands on the juncture between your neck and shoulder. His legs press underneath your thighs and the warmth his body radiates drowns you, melts you away until you’re nothing. He digs his fingers into your bare stomach and you can feel him blinking hard against your skin. “Sleep. Please. Don’t think about that anymore.” You utter the words so softly, so desperately you barely recognize your own voice.

“Fuck,” he whispers and something wet touches your skin. You open an eye to stare through the window, at the moon nearly blocked out by the branches outside your window as he holds onto you tighter. You feel the fire burning, an ice cold fire that makes you hurt so much. Makes you want to throw him off and rip those memories from his head. Anything to make it stop. “Fuck.”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, but it is unheard over the sounds of his harsh, hot breaths. More wetness tracks down your bare shoulders as his arm goes taut around you. You twist around immediately, and pull him close to your chest. Your eyes are closed, your hands clutching into his hair, fingers digging into his skull, salt rain sliding over your cheeks. 

He tries to speak, puffs of air that could’ve been words had he not been so choked, and you merely let him try and break you, let his hands grip bruises into your skin and trace the scars people have left behind. You trace every crack in the porcelain of his back, every fissure that you know reaches from his neck to his legs.

Why couldn’t you have chosen something other than some broken little thing? Something that does not remind you of pain and sick and ache.

You don’t know whether you ask this of yourself or to him.

.

When you wake up, it is hard to even get your eyes to open. You don’t remember when you fell asleep and you wonder if you even had at all.

Three days. Has it really been three days already? You screw up your face to wake yourself up as David shuffles around the room. He’s already awake and you glance blearily at the clock. It’s only 4 AM, that means…

Shit. An hour or two of sleep if you can even call it sleep. Fuck.

Pushing yourself up, you drag yourself out of bed on unsteady legs and wade to the bathroom. 

You’re done in record time and when you leave, David is out of the room and in the kitchen preparing coffee. You begin to poke your head through one of his shrunken dress shirts. You’d stuff it into a pair of looser pants and tie it with a belt today. You just need something looser than one of your own tightfitting blouses. Maybe it’d help you breathe easier. 

He returns moments later to button up his own dress shirt. You can see his eyes rake over your figure, over the shirt you wear, but David doesn’t say anything as you dress. The shadows of the room playing tricks on you, you pull your hair out from underneath your collar and your nose twitches. Sniffing, you try to chase away the exhaustion pulling at your ankles, trying to chain you at your bed. Your hand rubs deep into your eyes as you gather your raincoat and stuff your feet into your boots in the living room.

When the two of you are ready to leave, you a cup of black coffee already in your system and David a piece of chewing gum in his mouth, you grab your bag.

“Here.” You look up. Your huge thermos is filled to the brim with coffee, twisted shut, and you slip it into the bag. 

“Thanks.” 

Letting David press a lingering kiss to your temple before he opens the door, you dig through your bag to make sure you have everything. 

“Let’s head to the station,” he mutters. “I’m not fucking hungry.”

“Yeah, me neither.” Adjusting the straps on your shoulder, you follow after him, locking your apartment door behind you. Neither of you speak the ride to the police station, because there is nothing to say.

Last night is already forgotten.

Not really.

.

Fiddling with your phone, you run a hand through your hair. You can’t describe the uneasiness, the nausea that swirls in your stomach for the first time in years. Whilst David had left in search of the owner of the home where the RV was parked, you are stuck at homebase. You rewind the tapes, watching the interrogation of Alex Jones. It’s ten hours worth of tape, worth of footage that can mean absolutely nothing and a waste of time, or be a breakthrough in the case. You scroll back as the police officers work outside your dark room.

You can hear them talking, the little tap-tap-tap of their keyboards or the sounds of them laughing at some little joke made in the break room and fight the impulse to scream.

When did you get so fucking tired? When did invisible weights chain you to a desk, make the remote effort of rewinding a task as you watch the footage reverse?

“Detective.”

You raise your head, turning only just enough to see Chemelinski standing at the door. That ugly artificial light streams in behind him and you squint at how bright it is outside the dark room. 

“We got something.”

“What?” You stand abruptly and black dots invade your vision as you blink, hand finding the back of the chair as casually as you can. Chemelinski keeps talking and you catch bits and pieces as you walk after him, knuckles brushing the wall just in case your legs decide to give out on you. “What’d the father say?”

“Something. I dunno if you got the sense to make it fit, but it’s something.” The older man opens the door to the interrogation room and you walk in, eyebrows knitting together. The father is sitting there in his grey cardigan, looking rather pathetic for himself, and you sit down.

“Good morning, father.” You lace your fingers on the table, sitting upright as Chemelinski closes the door. “Detective over here tells me you said something specific about the… the child abductor we found in your basement. Care to share it with me?”

“He was… waging a war against God.” One eyebrow rises as you send a glance to Chemelinski who clenches his jaw so visibly you wonder if his teeth are gonna crack. You return your gaze to the father who has yet to look at you. Leaning back into the chair, your hands roll into dragging fists over wood.

“Anything else? About how they were kidnapped or…”

“He said… he took them in daylight. Sometimes, more than one child at a time.”

“Great.” Your knuckles rapping against wood, you wait for anything else. Nothing. Prompting him will have to be the way to go. “Did he act alone? Did he ever mention any family, partners?”

“He said he had a family. He was suffering from a great loss.”

“That’s it?” A numb nod. You stand, the chair scraping against the scuffed floor and you send Chemelinski a foul glare. Blackness swarms your vision and you blink, trying to get rid of it before he notices. “Great. Thank you for your cooperation, father.” Opening the door, you adjust the handcuffs stuffed along the back of your belt and walk down the hall. Chemelinski follows after you but you ignore the detective in favour of jotting down what you’d learned and sending it in a text to David.

Child abductor — took them in daylight, more than one child at a time, had a family. Father decided to talk. 

Text me when you can. -xx

You pause, staring as the text goes through. XX. 

XX.

You hadn’t thought about it before you sent it. It was merely an instinct that took over you and hollows you out now as you stare at the letters. Two simple taps of the same little shape, but it means a world of things both of you buried. You pause in the hallway, staring at that tiny screen, the pixels forming the twenty-fourth letter of the alphabet. Chemelinski sends you a strange glance, passing by you, but you ignore him as you wait for his response.

I will. -D x

He replies in a manner that means he hasn’t forgotten either. You hold the phone tightly in your fist and lift your head to the ugly artificial light as if heaven has washed you in a golden glow. Leaning against the wall, you press the phone to your chest and suck in a breath, hoping that the wind will not whisk you away.

.

Heading to the candlelight vigil. Could be a lead. -D x

What makes you think that? -xx

I dont know. Just something I wish we had. Ill see you soon. -D x

Stay safe. -xx

.

“Fuck.” 

You press the ice pack against the bruising on his shoulder, sniffing with a twitch of your nose as he let out a long, drawn out moan. The coloring isn’t bad; you assume the jacket got the brunt of the damage, but you are sure it’s gonna be worse tomorrow. 

“I should’ve been there for you,” you whisper, fingers brushing over the crisp gelled curls that fall into his eyes. He groans, leaning forward on his knees. The locker room is empty and you leave the ice pack on his shoulder for a second to get the elastic bandage and vitamin K cream. David lets out a huff as you return, moving the ice pack to unveil the red and purple.

“It’s fine. Shit.” Your fingers dipped in vitamin K cream, you smear it gently over the plane of his broad shoulder. “You couldn’t have known someone would’ve jumped onto me.”

“Yeah, but…” you trail off. You don’t know how to argue a point you are too tired to make. “How’s that feel?” you murmur, spreading a thin layer over his skin as he turns to watch your work. You wipe your hand of the excess and ask him to raise his arm a bit. Beginning to wrap his shoulder, you hum to yourself as you work.

“Too tight,” he occasionally says, or he’ll comment on the looseness of a certain round and you steadily make your progress. Forming a figure-eight pattern around his arm, shoulder, and chest, you murmur for him to take a deep breath before continuing. “Thank you,” he utters as you near the end of the elastic bandage. Your fingernails scratch against the fabric as you unfold a lip in the bandage.

“What for?” Grabbing elastic tape, you follow the same pattern to secure the bandage. The rip of the tape fills the silence David does not and you pause to look at him. “Loke.” The nickname feels fucking weird on your tongue. By David’s expression, he feels the same. He doesn’t even look at you as you smooth over the black tape.

“You don’t have to do this.”

“What do you mean?” You take hold of his arm, curling his hand into a fist to test bicep size. Sticking a finger beneath the bandage, you check for room and mobility. “Is it too tight?”

“No.”

“Okay, try moving it for me.” With your support, he eases into full mobility and you suppress a small smile. “Good.” You cross your arms and move to stand before him. “You need to get some sleep before the Captain calls you in.” 

“You don’t have to do this for me.”

Uncrossing your arms, you step forward and run your hands through his crisp hair. He looks up and, with you between his legs, rests his chin on your stomach. His fingers interlock on your back, his arms swathing you in the heat of his shower.

Your hands run down to his cheeks as you stare into his porcelain blue eyes, all at once so dark and fragile. Purple half-moons threaten to swallow up his eyes whilst you trace the hollows in his cheeks.

There is so much you have to say. So much you need to say. But you can’t. Not now. Not in the middle of this case. You know it’ll utterly destroy the pillars of what you two are if you do and you know he’s thinking the same thing.

Your eyes search his, and you sink down to a crouch before him. He looks so much older in your arms and you wonders if that is your fault, too. Your fingers drag from his cheek to the robin on his ribs and he lifts your inked hand to his lips, kissing the knuckles where you are marked.

“Get some rest, Loke. Go home and eat.” The words taste like blood and wine in your mouth, all at once bitter and sweet and sour. You draw away and his arms fall around you as your lips find the spot between his eyes. His eyelids flutter shut, and you wonder about many things that you can’t put a name to. “I’ll see you in the morning.” 

“Come with me.” He grabs your arm, fingers snagging your wrist and your gaze, torn from the door, lands on him. The shadows are there again, and he pulls you towards him. Your boots brush against the tile as you let him pull you between his legs. “Don’t stay here alone.”

“Loke—” Your hands find purchase on his shoulders, and the rough scratch of the bandage on one palm, the silky skin of his other, topple you from within. You remember once, once some version of you would straddle him right here and now and make him yours. When you had room inside your heart for childish little tricks and David and your work. How had you ever done it in the first place? “Loki.”

“Stay with me.”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Your heart stops in your chest at the wide eyes, the marble of his cheeks. You can’t. 

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“We don’t do that shit,” you let out in a breath, tearing yourself away. He stands and you close your eyes as if that’ll stop the heat of him from enveloping you. Even so, David Loki has the body temperature of a nuclear radiator and you can sense him from a mile away. “David, I—” Your words ghost against blazing lips as he presses a severe kiss against your mouth. Your eyes open and you gasp, trying to breathe. He suffocates you, eyes squeezed shut. Urgent and desperate and pleading, his arms hold onto you as if the world will swallow you, take you away.

You wish to tell him that’ll never happen, so you do. Your arms loop around his neck on their own accord, your lips pushing back against his in an agonizing battle of your desire and his as you tug at his skin, fingers raking red over his back. Your palms flatten and touch the scars, tiny little things, the bullet hole from the heist in ‘08, the stabbing from the breaking and entering on Holder Street, some much older than that.

But then he pulls away, and your eyes open, cold air conditioned wind breathing against your burning skin as he tries to stop himself from kissing your aching mouth again.

He only succeeds on the second try. 

His eyes are shadowed with fear and anguish, and you close your eyes, You don’t want to see that again. Not again. You hate the feeling in the very core of who you are. It feels like a personal attack, a graverobber digging up a coffin you want to remain hidden as his hands, on your neck, slide to your waist and he leans forward to kiss your cheek. His breath whispers over your chin. His thumb brushes away smeared lipstick from the corner of your mouth and you press your lips together, desperate to hold it in. Your eyes search his face, soak in every little blemish as his forehead knocks into yours. 

His other hand plays with your wrist, gently pulling until your fingers interlock and he swallows, looking down at the chasm between you two. Your chests barely brush and yet you feel he is at one end of the world and you are at the other. You are at a stepping off point, and he sits on the other end of the lake.

The smell of him is everywhere, stale coffee and gum and Bearglove deodorant he buys whenever it’s on sale. You inhale sharply, softly, and all too quickly when your gazes meet. It catches in your throat, and you don’t know when your eyes began to burn but they do. His hand holds your face like a fragile little thing, and you find yourself grabbing at his arms, his waist, inked skin that runs for miles and scars that once gave you comfort and now give you heartbreak. You hold him because you are desperate and he holds you because he knows.

You beg, you beg him because you can read his mind and know his tongue, his eyes, his taste. You know his heat and wishes and darkest desires. It is why you cannot hear this — it’ll make it too real.

Do not break a broken thing, you plead. Do not stir up dust in the ruins of the dead. We know, we know, we know. We can live in denial. Don’t do it. Don’t, don’t, don’t— 

“I still love you,” he mumbles forlornly, deliberately, at last, and your breath rattles in your chest. The weight that lifts is only momentary before it slams into you and you rip your hands away, fingers burning from lightning. The words barely sink in before your mouth opens, the response so automatic you nearly let it slip out. But he doesn’t let you. He merely kisses your forehead, and his lips press into some sort of smile written in the language of heartbreak and tragedy. It’s a language you wish you didn’t know so well. “You don’t have to say it back. I just wanted you to know.”

He grabs his black pullover and shrugs his injured shoulder. You’re left standing there, lips barely parted and still pulsing from the heat of his kiss despite how much you want to yell at him, scream for him to stay for just a moment more.

I want to say it back. I want to. I want you. I will.

I can’t.

Your legs are frozen to tile as he pauses at the door. Your head dips, eyes slipping closed as hot wet tears stream down your nose. He’s waiting. You know he is. He waits for a thing you cannot give him once again.

“I love you,” he whispers again, and this time the words bounce across walls and lockers, metal and ceramic before it reaches your hollow heart. The door swings open and shut.

You wonder how you can patch a broken heart with the very thing that broke it.

.

“Are you serious? Loki and I specifically said that we need surveillance on this guy.” It’s a bright 8 AM when you spit these words, collar twisted in your fist. “I know you’re stretched thin, but you gotta keep your word.” Your other hand grips a cup of steaming coffee you want to throw into the man’s face. Instead, you toss the dog collar onto his desk and hope the poison in your voice is enough.

“You said he was innocent.”

“And we also said we wanted surveillance on him. Look, you could’ve called either one of us. We’re a team for a reason. I could’ve went out and kept an eye on him. This was a stupid mistake, and I don’t want this to happen again.” You lean forward, fingers digging into the wood as you make sure the Captain is nearly shitting his pants.  “You fucking know how important this case is to the both of us. Don’t fuck it up again.”

“What do you want?”

“You think we can do something different, tell us.”

“Detective, when’s the last time you slept?”

“Unimportant. We need to know where everyone is.” You slam your hand hard against the desk and the pens clatter before you straighten up, taking a long pull of your coffee.

“Point made.”

“Good. Communication lines—” You gesture between yourself and the Captain— “need to be open. I’m gonna work on finding the guy. Communication. You have my number.” Whipping around, you brush past your… the man who had confessed feelings he shouldn’t have and you sigh, leaning against the wall farther down the hall. You suck down the rest of your coffee, the warmth of it chilling your stomach.

He’s in a foul mood, you know, and you’re sure it’s about the dead dog you found last night. Or it could be the fact that you slept in a motel last night. TBD. 

You hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep last night. You had sweated and tried sleeping naked, then got too cold and the covers hadn’t been enough. You tried to blame it on the shitty heater in the motel, but your body ached in a way you had only known to happen once before so you’d instead gone out for a late night stroll around the block to jog out the energy. 

In the break room, you find it empty and you sigh, opening the fridge to check for food that hasn’t been claimed. Nothing. There’s a stack of icecream, but you’ll eat that later. Slamming the door shut, you catch your warped reflection in the metal. Your eyes are sunken and red, purple smearing your skin like someone punched you right in the sockets and your skin is dull and weepy. You gently probe at the swollen eyebags, tossing your coffee into the trash.

“Morning.” Spinning around, you spot him leaning against the door, hands shoved in his pockets. Concern is etched onto his face, but so is every hour he didn’t have as sleep.

“Good morning.”

Your eyes drift back to the trash can. You’d rather get tossed into a dumpster then face him right now. “I have… work to do.” You fucking hate this. No matter how much you try, you know that if your eyes meet his for even a split second, you won’t be able to control what happens next.

“Yeah, so do I.”

And you walk past him as if he means nothing. As if he does not stare holes into your back. As if you will not seek him out later because the two of you are moths and flames, gold to a thief, the moon and ocean, an inexplicable pull that defies the laws of every science.

.

“You’re only three hours into the tape.” 

The man whips around in the office chair and you cross your arms, the corner of your mouth twitching. He turns around, pressing his face into his fingers as you walk into the dark room. You can see the tapes he’s watching, the ones you’ve obsessed over, and you blink, nose twitching at the sight of Alex Jones.

“You know this shit well,” he mutters. You place a hand on his injured shoulder, you don’t feel the foam padding but he stiffens and not from the pain. Cramps crawl up your arm and your fingers roll into a fist when you peel yourself off of him. “Fuck. I don’t… I don’t know if there’s something there that I’ve missed or—”

“You get any sleep last night?”

“Did you?”

Silence. He runs a hand over his face, leaning into his chair and you look down at him. All hard lines and soft edges, you want to touch him even though you know you’ll burn.

“Why’d you say it?” you ask softly. He doesn’t turn to look at you and you wrap yourself in your arms, squeezing hard enough as a reminder. “We agreed.”

“I know. I know, but— ”

“Detectives.” The two of you spring apart like you’re highschoolers caught fucking at prom and David digs a finger into his swollen eyes. He looks as fucking tired as you feel. “You’ve got a call.”

Sighing, he pauses the tape. “Right. Fuck, you… you don’t have to go.” You step back to give him room, and when he stands, you hate how much he towers over you. Hate how much you want to tell him he’s wrong. But instead, you nod.

“I’ll stay. You, go.” 

Your eyes meet for just the briefest of seconds and he blinks hard. Running a hand over his mouth and chin, he nods and turns to go.

He’s muzzling himself. You hate it when he fucking does this, but now, you can’t do shit about it. Words that threaten to spill out of your mouth slam against your lips as you watch him leave, and you sit down where he did mere minutes ago, the warmth of him still lingering like a mist, a cloak.

You pretend you can’t think about him anymore. Love is not for men and women like you.

.

He goes to Value Mall every week, buys different sizes for kids -D x

Pays with cash, messes with mannequins. Gave her both our numbers. -D x

Thought I should let you know. -D x

I know. Thanks. -xx

Alright. I can go to a motel or whatever. -D x

No it’s okay. I wouldn’t mind if you were there -xx

.

David crawls into bed with you for the first time in more than twenty-four hours. His back presses against yours tentatively and you turn, the sheets twisting around your legs. Your arm wraps around his waist, eyes closing. His heart thuds underneath your ear, an echo that fits into the hollow of your ribs.

Peace lasts for two hours before you’re done pretending trying to sleep. For lunch, you grab a coffee from the cart near the hospital on the way to the station.

You don’t talk about what he said, pretend it never happened in some unspoken agreement, but you can read it in his eyes every time he thinks you’re not looking. You wonder if things were different, would he have told you still? Or would he have doomed himself to silence forever instead?

The answer to your question is ashes in your mouth.

tags: @woah-jess @jenlrose @mytinybaguette @arcaneloki

[kashimos-hajime]

unbreak my heart new

Summary: “I scream for everything that has gone wrong. I scream for everything broken in our lives.”

WARNINGS: SUICIDE, torture and drug abuse implication, physical and gun violence, swearing Pairing: Detective Loki x Reader Word Count: 5.3k

A/N: thanks for the continued support guys. we’re halfway there

01 | 02 | ... | 04 | 05

The call to the Dover’s house, David goes to that. Stalking Keller Dover, he does that too.

You think it’s an awful idea that he’s taking so much of the responsibility but you know half of it is his way of focusing on the case. The other half is so he doesn’t have to look you in the eyes, so you don’t have to look him in the eyes.

Day seven. Nearly. Almost enough to make you forget.

Kids gone for a week have their chances cut in half. You don’t sleep on the eve of day seven and David asks if you want to come with him on the drive to Keller Dover’s house. You don’t understand his sudden change of heart but you more than welcome it. You’ve been chained to the office for what feels like days, and to even walk is such a chore you can barely muster the strength to try. You don’t want to talk to anyone and no one talks to you. 

You’re a zombie in the land of the living, just trying to find someone to put you out of your misery, and today it appears to be David.

“His house?”

“The dad’s house. Committed suicide in the red brick across the liquor store.” The sharp edges of his face soften when your lips press together. “I want you to come with me.”

“I…” Your voice falters. “I’m tired, David, I just… I’m so fucking tired.” You hold him so tight to you that you nearly snap his spine in two. “It’s day seven.” The words sound so simple, and terrible, and you wonder if officers ever know how awful simple facts sound to those who grieve.

“I know, baby.” The endearment comes and goes, through one ear, out the other, and you want to sob into his chest. In the stairwell of the station, you wonder how easy it could be to just fix all of this between the two of you.

“Alex might be there.” An ugly sound wants to screech through your throat. “Fucking Keller might’ve… he probably took him.”

“Come with me to the house and find out.” He pulls back, wipes invisible tears from your oily cheeks. The pads of his thumbs are rough as you breathe in the scent of his gum. You need to shower, you need to eat. You need to breathe fresh air and learn how to smile again. “Come with me.”

The word shapes your mouth weirdly as you nod. “Okay.”

It wouldn’t be easy at all.

.

You wish David were here. 

You know one of you needs to go find the new lead, but you wish it didn’t mean you had to split up.

It isn’t that you don’t trust your own instincts or skills around Keller, but size can overcome you in a small space like this, the hallways of the old Dover home narrow. Plus, you like it when someone has your six.

“Just you and me now,” you comment loosely, walking through the kitchen back downstairs. Best to double check everything before you head out and meet with David at whatever address he’ll text you.

“Look, can you… can you go? I prefer drinking alone,” Keller replies. Your finger drags through the fine layer of dust on the countertop as you turn around, frown gracing your features. There’s something off about this house. Maybe it’s the aura — suicide, abandoned ever since. Maybe it’s the company.

“Something you’re hiding?” Wiping off the residue, you feel the dust slip off your fingers before you look at the empty beer bottle Keller holds with a pearly white grip. “Just wanted to stay, make sure we didn’t miss anything.” You stroll out of the kitchen, eyes dancing from broken walls to fallen plaster along bare floors and he follows after you, a dog on your tail. The mat he was sleeping on has been displaced and you crouch before it, sniffing.

Nudging it with a finger, you turn to glance at Keller before inspecting the fabric. Besides the fact the man’s wearing at least day-old clothes, you spotted some stains on the crevices of his fingernails. The stubborn kind blood leaves when it’s left to dry.

“You and your partner close?” he asks, and you pause before standing straight up again. “I… you seem close and the captain said the two of you’ve been partners since you graduated. That you’re good.”

“Detective Loki and I have been friends for a long time. Any further than a professional relationship is none of your business.” Your words come out bitter and cold.

“Yeah, well you’re wasting your time following me and searching a house you didn’t find anything in.”

Blood floods your mouth. “Yeah? And you’re here instead of being with your son and wife. You’ve a good kid, and you’re here getting drunk, alright? I’m trying to do the best I can.” You let out a metallic breath, nose twitching and you wipe at it, turning to face the man fully. Your words burn vilely in your mouth and you can’t help but wince at the lost glaze in his eyes. You close your eyes. Fuck. 

You gotta regain your wits.

Inhaling a lungful of dust and plaster and probably asbestos, you open your eyes and look to the stairs. “I’m gonna head up if you wanna keep following me.”

Your boots thunder against creaky wood.

“I think I will.”

His storm after you.

Your eyes sweep the bedrooms again, every inch of the hallways, the spider crawling along the shoe moulding, its cobweb in the doorjamb. Your phone vibrates for a moment and you pause, taking it out and flipping it open. Placing it near your ear, your hear David’s voice come over the speaker.

“I’m at 437 Carrol Street. Right outside Value Mall guy.”

“Alright. Update me on what you find.” You glance back to see Keller looking at you like a wolf. “I’m sweeping the house one more time in case you missed anything.”

“Think I’m slipping?”

“Think we’re tired.” You fall silent, just hearing him breathe on the other end as you press your lips into a thin line. Half of you wants to say more than just ‘bye’ but you can’t betray your previous words to Keller. “Talk to you soon.”

“See you.”

With that, you pocket your phone and head into the bathroom. It’s a small space, and you shiver at the way the walls seem to cave in on you. 

“What is this?” you ask, turning around to look at Keller. The shower boxed in wood. The smashed sink. Your eyes rake over the tiled wall and plaster around the covered window as you shove your hands into your pockets. Your fingers play with the phone as you sniff. The whole place reeks of mold and shit. God, it’s awful. “Mind telling me what happened here?”

“Nothing. Renovating. Keeps me busy while the police waste their time.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure.”

Your eyes float over the wood again as you walk as close as you can to the shattered window. Your gaze drops to the floor then. No signs of broken glass, porcelain remains of the sink basin are clean too and tucked underneath the actual sink. You lift a hand to run it over wood, eyes following the grain. 

“How’d the window break?”

“I don’t know. It was broken when I came here. Probably some kids playing pranks on an empty house with rocks.”

“Mhm.” You turn to the boxed in shower again, knocking on the wood. An indescribable feeling pulls your lips down as you lean forward. You hadn’t missed the black tubing on the lower left of the box. The reek intensifies and you furrow your brow, tipping your ear to the wood. “You have faulty plumbing or something?”

“Yeah. Old house.”

“Right.”

Your hand falls flat against the rough surface, dragging down with a soft whisper until it reaches the black tube. Tapping the tube, you frown.

“What’s this for?”

“Lets the gas disperse. I don’t want to let it build up,” the man says. Liar. Keller’s eyes wide, his hands shake at his sides and you know that this is something he wants to hide. Tracing the edge of the tube, you take out your flashlight and point it into the tube.

A long, long shiver crawls up your spine as you spot the liquid condensating along the inside as well as a figure, shifting in the pitch black. Pulling out a tissue, you shove the thing down the tube and swipe at the insides before pulling out.

You pull your tissue out, and swallow a knot at the redness smearing the tissue. It shines under the pale yellow lights and you want to scream as you crumple up the blood-soaked thing up. A shiver of revulsion crawls up your stomach and you fight it down unsuccessfully. Fuck.

“What’s in here, Mr. Dover?” Your voice shakes even though you don’t want it to. Your eyes lift to the man and you can see the moment he realizes you know. You think you would’ve felt anger well up inside you at the abduction of a man that you need to solve the case — the case — but inside of your empty body is nothing but grief. He doesn’t attack you, doesn’t even move from the doorframe and the gun at your hip weighs heavy, unbalances you.

“He took my daughter.”

“This is 13-40. I need additional unit for search. 437 Carrol Street. Possible kidnapping victims on the premises.” 

The radio clipped to your belt blares too loudly for such a quiet space and you both jump. Your eyes widen as you silence it, gaze returning to his. You swallow a dry tongue and taste ash as your hand finds your gun.

“He wasn’t the one who did it. You can hear it now, can’t you?” You glance down at your radio for a moment. “I’m going to call an ambulance and head to Carrol Street. And, I’m not going to take you with me.”

“But he knows. He knows who did, and he can tell me.” You turn to stare into the wood, the dark prison that holds a man with the brain of a boy and you shake your head. It’s atrocious. It’s inhumane. It’s disgusting and you hate that you feel like you would’ve done it, too, once. Now, you’d tear down the wood yourself if it didn’t mean you’d lose your fingers in the process. “Detective, wait.”

“This is me letting you off easy, Mr. Dover.” You dig out your phone and dial, waiting for the line to connect as you leave the bathroom and walk down the hall. “You should take it.” Your hair falls into your face from the sway of your gait. You can barely see straight and you sure as hell see something red as you rake your hair away from your eyes. “I need an ambulance. Possible multiple blunt force traumas, burns, and other unknown injuries at my location.”

“Tracked. We’re dispatching. Confirm location?”

Descending the steps, you give the address of the liquor store just across the hill and slip your phone back into its place as Keller calls after you. You break out into fresh air before he catches you and grabs your arm. You spin around, thrashing your arm of his grip and swiping out a leg.

He’s pinned to the ground before he can even speak.

“Here’s what I want you to do,” you spit, your hand grasping the collar of his shirt so tight you can feel his chest heaving. His eyes wide, his breaths come harshly as your fist tightens at his throat. Stale beer and iron air ghosts over your cheek as you lean down towards him. “You’re going to let Alex Jones free, dump him at the store, and then you’re gonna run back to your family. You’re gonna pretend you weren’t here, torturing this man, alright?” 

A nod is your response.

“You let him go, or I’ll be back to arrest you, and you’re not going to see your daughter again, whether we find her or not.” You push off of him, pushing hair out of your face as your lungs struggle for cold wind. You feel like you’re covered in dust and you shiver, walking back to your car. Swinging open the door, you pause to watch Keller get to his feet before sliding into the leather driver’s seat.

It’s nothing like David’s uncomfortable Sedan, but you’d rather have the company over the car.

“This is 13-41,” you report into the radio as soon as you’re inside. “10-4.”

You twist the keys into the ignition. You don’t focus on the road as you should. Instead, you wait for Keller Dover to walk back inside before you even think of joining David at 437 Carrol Street.

.

“There’s something you’re hiding from me.” David’s voice weaves dulcetly into your ears as you watch Bob Taylor drag charcoal over paper. You glance at the man, sitting on the table. His eyes do not stray from Bob Taylor, and you blink. The shadows carve at his face magnificently, a Grecian work of art, and you wonder if his skin is marble or just a trick of the light.

“Why do you think that?” you ask lowly. 

“I just know.” He turns his head just enough to catch sight of you in the corner of his eye and you meet his gaze steadily. 

“Alex Jones was found and you still doubt it? I told you where he just showed up at the liquor store.” You shrug and instead focus on the monitors, watching at different angles as Bob rotates the ruler to add another straight line in that circle of his. “I’m going to go see the aunt as soon as we get a peep outta this guy.”

“Police haven’t told her yet?”

“Wanna make sure he’s gonna come out of it alright. He has internal bleeding and a broken cheek, other shit. Hospital said he’s in surgery.” Your hands rub together as you lean forward on your knees. 

“Okay.” You know that tone. Disappointment, we’ll talk about it later, normally ends with a shouting match. You can’t wait.

“Look, you said snakes were there?”

“Yeah, fucking tons.”

You drag your hand over your face and your fingers rub over the swollen purple underneath your eyes as you look at him. Your throat knots itself as your stomach curdles like spoiled milk. What you wouldn’t give to throw up right now. The thought of those thin little reptiles, spiraling up your legs and body, causes the blood to flush out of your face. You shiver.

“And bloody clothes?”

A cough, and then: “Yeah.”

“Any of hers?” 

David’s mouth opens to respond before the door opens and the two of you jolt out of whatever bubble was forming.

“Evening, detectives.” Captain strolls right in like he owns the place and you sigh, fitting your forehead to your palm. Your eyes are beginning to burn from the brightness of the interrogation room. “How long has this Bob Taylor been working on this map?”

“Three and a half hours.” 

“Think this is gonna lead to the bodies? I sure as shit don’t.” 

“Why don’t you go ahead a few rounds and try questioning him?” you snap, lifting your head. Your fingers press together before your lips, your elbows dig into your knees, and you barely rein in whatever else you want to say. David’s fingers roll into a fist on his thigh and you eye the gesture wearily. You know he’s on his wit’s end and you sure as hell don’t have any intention of saying it’s okay. The two of you are running out of time, and you can’t fucking afford this bullshit of your captain doubting your abilities. Day seven, day seven, day seven.

“That looks more like a maze than a map,” he inputs. As if either of you were begging for his input.

“He’s got a thing for mazes.” There is a beat afterwards where the Captain’s gaze flickers from you to David, both intently watching a man draw a stupid fucking maze, before he sighs.

“I’m going home. Call me if something happens.”

“Fuck,” you whisper as soon as he’s gone. You stand up on unsteady legs, hands bracing yourself against the table as you lean in beside David. You can’t be staring at him. Some guy who might be the one is sitting drawing fucking mazes and all you can feel is the taste of rot. “It can’t be him. It can’t be. He’s too young.”

“This isn’t that case,” he murmurs, quietly enough so only you can hear. “You know it could be him.”

“I don’t, David.” And your eyes find his. A muscle in his jaw ticks as you find yourself gazing into the monitor again. “I don’t.” 

David does not utter another word. He slides into a chair, rubbing his cheek and you sit down next to him. Your hands rest lifelessly on the arms of the chair and you feel his fingers brush over your knuckles. Over the ink. He’s thinking about it again.

You don’t move your hand away.

It’s two hours more before you think you’re going to vomit. Your muscles have reduced to nothing more than a molten mess. David sits rigidly beside you, a statue that is close to cracking. He’s been hunched over, face shoved into a screen for more than an hour now and despite what you want to say, you don’t. You don’t even know if you can speak. You run a finger over your brow, leaning into your chair.

A soft hum rolls through the comms. You straighten up, glancing from the monitors to the window. “What the hell…”

“Give me that card, John. The key card.”

You straighten up and turn around, grabbing David’s arm. “What the fuck are you gonna do, huh?”

“I’m done waiting.” 

“No. David—” He thrashes his arm from your grip and you stand, your knees giving out for a moment before you catch yourself on the chair. “David, wait!” Pushing yourself up, you sink back into your chair and turn to the monitors. Another bout of nausea dousing your brain, you cover your mouth with a hand and swallow.

“All right, it’s done now. Tell me what you’re drawing. You said you’re drawing a map. That looks like a puzzle.” There is a pause and you lean in closer to the monitor. You can see every line of tension, every inch of David’s body that hasn’t had a wink of sleep since this whole case started and your bones turn to lead in your arms. You know how to read this man inside and out, a man full of half-torn pages and unfinished thoughts. A man no one bothered to raise and shit, your heart burns for him as you press your fingers together before your lips. “Tell me what you’re drawing.”

Silence.

“I can’t.”

You blink and you miss it. David takes the man by the shoulders, wrenching him back into the chair and you stand suddenly. Black stars erupt in your vision as you stumble for the door. John’s hands reach for you but you slap him away.

“Give me the fucking copy of the key card,” you hiss and a slip of plastic is placed into your outstretched hand as you hear a solid slam of someone colliding with the table. Your breaths come out harsh as you swipe the card, hearing the beep like a saving grace. Another slam. The sound rattles in your ears as you twist the handle and shove open the door. You stumble in and grab your partner by the shoulders despite how much it burns and you feel him twist out of your grasp.

“Yes, you can! Yes, you can!” 

“David, fuck! Calm down!” Hauling the broad-shouldered fucker back, bodies surround you as John and Carter help you pull the detective off Bob. “Get him off!”

“Yes, you can! Tell me!” Your fingers dig into the veins of David’s hands and you hear him scream in your ear as you finally claw his hands loose and shove him away. John and Carter tear him away and you give him an extra push, eyes glaring daggers into his face. 

“Oh, shit! Gun. Gun. Gun!”

“Detective!”

Heart shredding within your ribcage, your lungs burn in your stomach as you turn around slowly. You breathe deeply, jaw clenching as you raise your hands above your head immediately. Your eyes, no matter how much you want to close them, remain open to see a gun in Bob Taylor’s hands, aimed right at your chest. Lips parting, your pants whisper between your teeth, shaking uncontrollably as you swallow, trying to grab at the fleeting remains of your voice. You hear the sound of guns drawn and you press your lips into a thin line, slowly approaching the man.

“Bob… Bob, it’s okay.”

Blood trickles down his broken nose and tears run down his flushed face. A wild, hunted animal stares back at you with doe, red-rimmed eyes. He must see you as a wolf before him but you lift your chin so he can see you better as he moves the gun right between your eyes. 

“I can’t tell you.”

“I can help you,” you whisper, taking another step towards him. He whimpers and lifts the gun, going from your forehead to his jaw. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Put the gun down, now!” 

You lower your hands. You can hear the gun shake in his palm, his finger dancing over the trigger and you hold your hands out in front of you. Blood swims in your ears as something trickles down your cheek.

“Help me.”

“Bob, it’s okay. I can help you.”

“Bob! Put the gun down!”

“Shut up, David! Bob. It’s okay. I can help you. You don’t have to worry. It’s okay. Ignore them.”

“Put the gun down, now!” Bob Taylor’s eyes no longer focus on yours, instead drift off to where you’re sure guns point directly at him. Your jaw clenches until it aches as he takes a step back from where you nearly reached him. He presses against the wall and you shuffle forward, barely taking a step.

“It’s okay. Ignore them. Bob, hey! Bob—” You gently touch his arm and his eyes dart to yours. A wolf leading her pack. The blood flushing from your face, an intense cold overtakes your senses. Your fingers urge him to lower the gun, pushing down on his wrist and you can feel the sweat gathering in his palms, the cuffs clinking as his eyes lift to them again. “Don’t look at them. Look at me. It’s okay.”

“Put the gun down, Bob.”

“Stop fucking shouting at him!” 

“Back down!”

“No! Stop pointing guns at him!” You whip around to spot John and David, guns aimed right for the both of you and you nearly wretch at the vile acid burning up your throat as David’s eyes widen.

“Bob, no! Bob, Bob, Bob. No!” Whirling around, blood and iron flood your mouth as the sight of the muzzle deep down Bob’s throat burns itself into your head. “No! No, no, no!”

“Bob, no, don’t do it. It’s gonna be okay.” Your hands find his wrists, and you make him look at you as your heart pulses in your throat like thunder. “It’s gonna be okay. You get to finish your maze. It’s okay. It’s okay. Just gotta take it outta your mouth. I can help.”

His finger slides over the trigger and you can feel a vein in his forearm pulse as he closes his eyes.

“Bob, it’s okay.” You want to close your eyes, too, but instead, an unforgiving smile finds its way onto your lips. “It’s okay. Just listen to me. It’s okay.”

“Put the gun down, now!”

“Just take it outta your mouth. Slowly. It’s okay.”

“No, Bob. No! No! No, don’t!”

“It’s okay, Bob. It’s going to be okay. Just lemme help. I can help you. Let me—”

“Get down!”

BANG.

You drop. It’s an instinct they drilled into you when you were just a kid, to get down at anyone's command and you fall to your knees, hands slapping over your ears as a body drops next to you. Your ears nearly burst at the sound but it hollows out quickly as you raise your head and let your hands drop to the floor. Your knuckles collide with the linoleum floor as blood slides over glass and paint.

“Fuck. Go call a fucking R.A.” Your eyes drift over the placid body as hands grab at your shoulders. “You… you okay? Fuck, you okay?” David whispers, voice shaking uncontrollably and you turn to look at him. You blink, eyes searching his face and he cups your cheek, wiping away something wet.

It takes a moment for the sound, the sight, the smell, all of it to sink into your mind. And when it does, you see red. Taking him by the collar of his shirt, you swing at him.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” you scream as soon as your knuckles meet his face. “What the fuck were you thinking?” Something wet slides over your cheeks as he falls back, off balance by the weight of your punch and you crawl over him, your fingers hooked into his shirt. You shake him as hard as you can, lifting him up as tears track over his blossoming cheek. His whole face shattered, he merely looks up to you with wide, accepting eyes and you pull at his collar, wanting him to hurt, wanting him to feel as sick as you do. “What the hell was that?”

When he does not say anything, merely looks at you with that fragility of broken glass and the darkness of an eclipse, you cannot swallow back bile any longer. You throw him to the floor, getting up on unsteady legs and stumble out of the room, slamming into the door. You don’t know where the fuck you’re going, your vision swimming with black, but you don’t care as your hands reach out blindly for something to throw up into.

You fall into a room, managing to slam the door shut behind you as you collapse. The smell of stale coffee fills your sinuses and you gag. Your fingers find a plastic bag and you lean over just as coffee and stale water dribble over your chin. Water and acid and whatever else you’ve managed to stuff into your stomach splash into the trash can, and you sniff, tears slipping over your cheeks as you close your mouth only for more to come. Something soft and warm and tasting utterly disgusting crawls its way up your throat and you only know after you’re done vomiting your guts out that it’s gummies you ate nearly three days ago.

When did you last ingest something that wasn’t coffee? Or gummies? Or… or toothpaste? 

Fuck.

Hands run down your back and you swing behind you blindly, landing hard with a bicep as you sob into the trash bin. Collapsing against the black plastic thing, heat clouds your face. Snot and saliva track down your face as those hands pull your hair away and you throw up again, throw up foul air and tears and fuck, fuck, fuck.

“I’m sorry, baby,” someone whispers, a wet cheek pressing into your back and your head dips into the trash bin. Your hot, rancid breath puffs back at you but you don’t have the strength to get up. Your arms line the sides of the bins, and your legs are sprawled behind you as a figure presses itself against your shape. Arms wrap around your abdomen as you raise your head, sweat-slick skin cooling against the air outside the trash bin. Your eyes slip closed.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” you ask. Your throat aches and your muscles have atrophied but you still muster the strength to look at the man behind you. “Why?”

“I don’t fucking know. I just wanna find her,” he mumbles into your shirt and a watery attempt at a smile fights its way onto your face. Wiping at your mouth with a sleeve, you twist around and embrace the quivering man. Your legs wrap around his waist as he slumps against your chest, and you bury your nose in his hair as tears mark their way through your cheeks again. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Fuck, I… Fuck.” Your hands rake through his hair, down his back, through the heat of his waist as your body almost melts into him. He lifts the exhaustion, fights off the weights chained to your ankles as his shoulders still underneath your hands. Pressing your cheek against his head, you open your eyes and let him sink into you. His weight is so familiar you cannot help your soft, warbling sigh.

He takes a broom and dustpan, and sweeps up the shattered fragments of who you could’ve been, before delicately gluing them together again. For a mere moment, you feel so much younger than you are, just fifteen and on the other side of a chain link fence, and you want to scream.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers into your chest, cheeks slick with tears. Your fingers still card through his messy hair, trace the tattoo along the vein of his neck, and you lift your head to the soft, cool air. “I’m so sorry.” His hands grab at you desperately, like you’ll disappear into thin air, and you lean against the wall, legs barricading him, shielding him away from the world for a moment. 

You close your eyes. You wonder if the monsters in men always win and then shake the notion away. If the monsters always won in life, David would’ve left you in a drug den long ago.

“You’re a good man, Loke, and when you find a woman who loves you, you’ll make a fine father, too.”

“You don’t love me?”

“You know I do.”

The memories swim in your head like minnows. Your eyes closed, you just wait, even though your legs are numb and you can barely feel the tips of your fingers. David’s fingers begin to trace pointless shapes into you and you raise your head at the sensation. Disgusting sweat and vomit has left you covered in something that feels a lot like hot oil but you merely press the bridge of your nose into his hair.

He raises his head and you sniff when he sits up, pulling you into his lap. Your legs wrap around his waist and you hook your arms underneath his, burying your face into his shoulder. His hand runs over his hair, his other arm wrapped around your waist like a belt as you close your eyes.

You’ve missed him.

“Tell me it’ll be okay,” you whisper, voice muffled by his shoulder and his hand, still threading through your hair, pauses. You close your eyes tight as his jaw brushes against your temple, and you turn towards him. You feel like a hundred cars have run you over, and your whole body aches. His hands soothe some of the pain, but not all of it. “If we don’t find these girls, tell me we’ll survive it.”

“I love you,” he tells you instead, a broken promise and you raise your head, eyes blank and distant and his, deep as oceans and just as heavy, barely find the strength to meet yours. His lips press against your temple and something quiet, something completely broken inside you, tells you he’s only desperate.

It’s an hour before you two disentangle and walk through the halls again, and he whispers this broken promise once more before you must part for the locker room and he, the conference room. This time, you cannot even bear to look at him, and you walk away, the sound of a gunshot echoing in your skull.

tags: @woah-jess @jenlrose @mytinybaguette @arcaneloki @space-helen @dulharpa @bohemianrhapsody86

[jakegyllenhaalsupportgroup]

Have a shameless self promo 😉

Black and Blue - Four

Pairing: Detective Loki x Reader

Summary: She saw the world in black and blue

Requested: Nope

Chapter Warnings: Some swearing I think??, PAST DOMESTIC ABUSE, panic attack - PLEASE DO NOT READ IF YOU FIND ANY OF THESE TOPICS TRIGGERING

A/N: So here’s the fourth part of BAB! Sorry that there was such a break between posting the last one and this one, hopefully the same won’t happen for the fifth and final part. Please remember to let me know what you think - reblog, comment, send asks, I love hearing from all of you :) and remember that tag requests are only accepted through my inbox xx

Y/N Y/L/N saw the world as hope and disappointment.

Though recently she had squashed down the hope that wanted to remain. 

A childish notion, in her mind. 

An innocence associated with hope that she hadn’t had for years.

Disappointment, though, that was safe. She was safe in the knowledge that disappointment would always come. Something that was reliable for her to believe in.

Keep reading

[writingfortoomanyfandoms]

BAB is officially finished!! It’s been a bit of a rollercoaster but I hope you guys enjoyed reading it as much as I loved writing it 😊 please remember to reblog, comment and send asks with what you think and, if there are any Spin-Off blurbs you want me to write from the BAB universe then please feel free to send them in 😊🥰

Black and Blue - Series Masterlist

Pairing: Detective Loki x Reader

Summary: She saw the world in black and blue

Series Warnings: Panic attacks, past abusive relationship, swearing

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

[jakegyllenhaalsupportgroup]

Have a shameless self promo 😉

Black and Blue - Series Masterlist

Pairing: Detective Loki x Reader

Summary: She saw the world in black and blue

Series Warnings: Panic attacks, past abusive relationship, swearing

One

Two

Three

Four

Five