#i spent the next few days tearing off fingernails in fear that she would actually watch it

[lxvenderjewel]

SO IT TURNS OUT THAT THE PERSON WHO WATCHED HALF OF S1E1 OF GOOD OMENS ON OUR FAMILY PRIME ACCOUNT WASN'T MY BROTHER.

IT WAS MY MOM

[in-tua-deep]

I would like to see Hargreaves family time please :3

HMMMM have a bonding scene ;3c

it is unedited though bc i never got around to it lmao

...

The thing they don’t tell you about recovering after escaping from terrible experiences, is that there are some things that you miss about them. You can be glad that you escaped while still mourning what you left behind, even if as far as you are concerned there shouldn’t be anything to mourn in the first place.

Five hated the apocalypse with something heavy and terrible that settled deep in his gut and that tended to be vomited out at the most inopportune times. Or perhaps it wasn’t hate at all, but fear that he experienced. Not that he would ever admit it, mind you.

But there were just some things that just - well. Five had spent over forty years in the apocalypse, sifting through rubble and ruin and scratching out equations on walls that were too broken to offer even the memory of the comfort and safety they’d once upheld. He’d spent forty years clinging to life by his fingernails and re-reading a book that was the only thing he had of his siblings outside of the grave sites he refused to visit,

He didn’t want to go back there. His entire life’s work was getting out of that hellscape and making it so that it never existed in the first place. Five hated and feared the apocalypse, but oh there were some days that he missed it with such a terrible fierceness it rather took his breath away.

He missed it on the days when nothing seemed to go right, when every word that came out of his mouth was wrong. When people looked at him with tightness around their eyes and pinched lips, and his siblings looked at him with pity in their eyes. Poor little Number Five, who couldn’t even accomplish the simplest of social interactions without inevitably fucking it up. Poor little Number Five, who forgot that people weren’t supposed to write on walls or hoard food in their rooms or freak out when someone burned food in a kitchen. 

Adapting to a normal life was a challenge that Five hadn’t ever thought about - because what about his life had ever been normal? He was a child soldier, and then an apocalypse survivor, and then a temporal assassin and then - he wasn’t quite certain what he was now. Was he a child, or an adult? What was he supposed to do with himself now?

He missed that sense of purpose in the apocalypse. He missed Dolores. His one companion for so many years. He’d actually known her for longer than he’d known his own family, and wasn’t that an odd thought?

He missed the spot he’d holed up in before an earthquake had ruined it almost ten years before the Commission had found him. It wasn’t much, but he’d found a handful of records that had miraculously survived and an old record player that had even more miraculously done so. 

He’d admitted to Dolores that he didn’t really know how to dance, not beyond the general flailing and swaying his siblings had used to drag him into when Luther played something from his budding collection.

(Five hadn’t had the heart to go rooting through the remains of the Umbrella Academy for things that could be salvaged, but he wondered about it often. He wondered if he’d find a whole entire collection of records, of if Luther would have lost interest and gotten rid of them all. He wondered if Allison still read through all the trashy magazines she could get her hands on as an adult, if she still tried to balance books on her head and walk regally through the house just because she’d read it once in a princess book or if she’d grown out of that. 

He was back now, and perfectly capable of asking, but he didn’t. He looked at his siblings and saw strangers and missed his childhood even with the shadow of Reginald looming over them all. He loved his siblings as they were now, but oh he ached with the knowledge that the siblings he had known, the ones he had tried so hard to get back to, were lost to time. As good as dead. But then again, perhaps so was he.

He wasn’t the child who left on that fateful November day. He would never be him again.)

He missed Dolores teaching him to dance under the pale moon. Or well, not perhaps dancing so much as gently swaying together with his arms around her, cheek pressed against hers, as he closed his eyes and pretended for a moment that he hadn’t met her in the apocalypse at all. That they’d just bumped into one another in the street and gone on dates where he made her laugh and where he stressed about what to wear - a million inconsequential moments that meant nothing and everything at the same time. He’d wished they’d had a life together instead of the slow drawn out death that was the only thing that existed in the apocalypse.

And perhaps, there were other things he didn’t know he would miss until they were already gone and out of reach. Things he didn’t even think about, until he looked up at night and wondered where all the stars had gone.

It was a silly thing to get upset over, to go tearing through the house like a man possessed to figure out what had happened to the stars.

(Or perhaps it wasn’t so silly after all - the almost-apocalypse he had witnessed destroyed the moon. Was it such a reach to wonder about the stars, as well?)

Light pollution was the simple answer. It wasn’t that the stars were no longer there, just that they were drowned out. Only a few pinpricks bright enough to shine through and be picked up by the human eye. There had been no human lights in the apocalypse, with no one to turn them on or off except one lonely man who had a flashlight with scavenged batteries. Not nearly enough to make any difference.

The stars had been so beautiful. On the clear crisp nights, he’d lay next to Dolores on the ground staring up at the brilliant specks of light and tried his darnest to remember the constellations that once upon a time Luther had enthusiastically outlined for his unattentive brother at the height of his space phase.

(“When we get back,” He’d whispered to Dolores ever so softly, in the way he whispered every wish that only seemed appropriate to utter out loud under the night sky, “I’m going to get Luther to tell me them again, and I’ll actually listen this time. I won’t tell him to shut up, or that stars aren’t important. I’ll listen.”

He’d never been very good at listening, even as a child. But outside of a seven day deadline - the apocalypse had taught him patience. It was something the Commission found to be a boon as well - there was nothing more deadly than a very patient predator on the hunt, after all.)

Klaus had told him that the apocalypse was an addiction, and Five had done his best to quit cold turkey. 

He’d returned Dolores to her store, mourning what could never be between them. In darker moments, he wondered if she would have ever actually chosen him - in that imaginary world where they met on a crowded street by happenstance. They’d been forced together at the end of the world, and even though he loved her he wondered about things like choice and happiness and shared trauma. Them breaking up was the right thing to do, he knew that, he just hadn’t realized quite how much it would hurt.

So it shouldn’t come as a surprise that Five sought comfort where he could. That he stole a record from Luther’s collection (it had gotten bigger, a passion pursued into adulthood which was one question answered) that he must have played dozens of times on that record player in their little sanctuary at the end of the world. That he slept on the floor instead of the bed that was far too soft in so many ways.

That he crept up to the roof and lay on his back and stared at the stars that were visible, remembering a sky filled with diamonds and a cool hand in his own and whispered hopes and dreams and secrets from one terribly lonely boy to the uncaring infinity of the cosmos.

And maybe it shouldn’t come as a surprise that it wasn’t long until he was discovered up there, gazing at the sky with such careful mourning carved across his face.

(He hated and feared the apocalypse, but he mourned it as well. It had raised him, in the harsh and terrible way that was all the apocalypse knew how to do. He’d been raised by Reginald Hargreeves and forged in bruises and thoughtless brutality, and then delivered into the arms of something else that didn’t care for him either. 

He grew into a boy with careless cruelty and harsh criticisms and a love for his siblings that burned hotter and longer than any fire the apocalypse could produce. He grew into a man, or perhaps just something man-shaped, in starvation and desperation and terrible all-consuming loneliness.

Reginald had been fond of telling them, “You will learn through suffering.” It was something trotted out whenever the children were forced to skip meals or run up and down stairs until their insides twisted and they retched on the floor barely held up by burning thighs and weak knees. It was being tossed behind locked doors until they promised their unrelenting obedience to a man who had done nothing to deserve it.

If suffering was a teacher, then surely Five was one of the wisest people alive.)

“What are you doing up here?” Luther asks, too loud in the stillness of the night. Five doesn’t begrudge him it though, it wasn’t every day one was confronted by their teenage shaped brother laying listlessly on the roof at hours when everybody should be tucked away in bed.

“What are you doing up here?” Five parrots back, melancholy mood sharpening the edge of his words into something more pointed than he perhaps meant them to be.

Luther shuffles, looking awkward in his own skin as he so often does. It’s enough to make Five soften, just ever so slightly. After all, Luther isn’t exactly the only member of the house who feels alien in their own body. 

Perhaps it’s cruel to take comfort in his brother’s discomfort. But perhaps Five is cruel. It isn’t the worst thing he’s been called in his life.

(No one speaks about the dinner where Five and Diego had been sniping at one another and pushing each other’s buttons where Diego had brought up Five abandoning the family. That had been his exact word - abandoning. Five had frozen and Diego had pressed on, snarling about Five not getting an opinion about Reginald because he’d ditched so early and left the rest of them to Dad’s tender mercies. He’d said far more, but the rest of that dinner was a blur of sound and colors for Five.

Diego had apologized over the incident and then proceeded to not look Five in the eye for the next week. The whole family were so good at picking at one another’s weak spots and hitting them hard and fast. It was practically second nature. They knew which points to leave alone when it came down to it for each other, but not for Five. Not yet.

They didn’t know him anymore. It was a work in progress navigating their respective minefields of trauma in the meantime.)

“I asked you first.” Luther says, childish statement bringing Five out of his own thoughts. At the end of the day, they are brothers.

And perhaps it is that brotherly spirit that prompts Five’s lips to quirk as he offers the equally childish response of: “I asked you second.”

Luther scowls, but he’s fully aware of exactly how stubborn Five could be. That’s Five, built out of spite and pettiness, who never knew how to just lay down and give up. But if he’d been any less himself, they would never be there that night on the roof irritating one another. The thought fills Five up with something that could almost be called fondness.

Luther crosses his arms, and looks away. “I like looking at the stars.” He admits haltingly, and it makes Five sit up from where he was still sprawled on the ground. “I just - on the moon - I don’t know. It’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid.” Five cuts in with a fierceness that surprises them both. Five doesn’t look at Luther, just the sky. “There’s not as many stars, here. Not that you can see. It’s supposed to look different, but what’s left is still comforting because the sky is a constant. Because the stars don’t really change, even when the rest of the world does.”

“Yeah.” Luther sounds surprised at Five’s insight. There’s a moment of hesitation before Luther is gently lowering himself down to sit on the roof a few feet away from where Five is. When Five dares to sneak a glance, Luther’s eyes are trained on the sky with an almost wistful look on his face.

“I know I’m not supposed to miss it,” Luther begins, and the thought sounds so much like what Five was just pondering that he can’t help but startle. Thankfully, Luther doesn’t see. “But - it was always my dream, you know? To go up there, into space. I know it was just a rejection now, that Dad didn’t want me around so he wouldn’t have to face his failure.” Luther’s face twisted as he spat out the last word. He’d taken it hard, learning that he was just as insignificant in the grand scheme of their father’s plans as the rest of them.

“But.” Luther continues, his face smoothing out, “It was still four years of my life. I had a routine. It was lonely, but god Five. The weightless feeling? The stars? The sunrises? There’s nothing quite like it.”

There’s a silence between them for a moment that Five decides to break. Because he’s trying, he really is.

“Sometimes,” Five says, so softly that Luther actually shifts closer to hear him, “Sometimes the apocalypse was beautiful. A decade or so in, when the plants just tentatively started realizing it was safe to grow again, and the weeds came back first. Just spots of green and bright yellow dotted through the cracks and crevices.”

(Five had spent many springs of his life wandering through the rubble, leaning down to pick dandelions to admire before he ate them. Even when he was terribly hungry, he’d never eaten all of them - always leaving some to mature and bring more the next year. Picking them up and blowing softly and remembering the first time he’d seen one - on a mission where Ben had quietly and excitedly informed them that they had to blow on it and make a wish. That he’d read about it in a book.

Five had made the same wish for forty some years. He wasn’t sure what he’d wish for now, now that it had come true.)

“And when the skies were clear, at night - the stars were beautiful.” Five admitted, Luther made a sound but Five ignored it to carry on because if he didn’t speak his mind now he might never. “There were so many Lu, way more than we ever saw out our bedroom windows. And on nights where the moon was just a sliver, there were even more. We’d lay out there for hours.”

Luther coughs. Five looks over and isn’t quite sure why there’s a guilty look on his brother’s face. “’We’ would uh, be you and uh, Dolores, right?” 

Ah, that would explain it. Luther always got that look when Five brought up Dolores, no doubt thinking about when he’d held her out of a window as leverage to prevent Five from killing someone. Luther hadn’t known then, Five thinks, about exactly how much Dolores meant to him. He’d known she was important, but hadn’t known why. He hadn’t asked.

There’s nothing Five can do but nod though, in response to the question. “Yeah. She likes the stars, she’s always loved things that glitter.” It was why she loved sequins so much, and Five was secure enough to admit that he liked them as well. 

There’s an awkward silence between them now, one that Five can’t help but try and break. “I tried to remember the constellations.” He blurts out, grasping at the connection the two of them had shared before it slips between his fingers and results in them quietly going to their rooms and forgetting this conversation ever happened.

He can’t look at Luther, not as he admits this. So he doesn’t, he turns his gaze upwards to the pinpricks of light. “Do you remember, when we were eight and Mom gave you that book of constellations? And you wouldn’t shut up about it for like, a whole month? You kept waking all of us up and dragging us to the roof and you said we had to listen to you because you were Number One?”

Luther surprises Five just a little by laughing, “Yeah! Yeah I do remember that. Diego threatened to throw me off the roof if I ever woke him up in the middle of the night again after the fourth time and I’m pretty sure Klaus learned morse code to complain about me to Ben.”

Five grins, “Nah, don’t flatter yourself. He learned morse code with Ben to gossip at dinner. Your little nighttime shows were just something else he could yell about in front of Dad without anyone the wiser.”

“Of course he did.” Luther just sounds exasperated at their most colorful sibling’s antics, which is a big improvement on how he would have felt about it when they were actually eight. “To be honest, I didn’t think any of you actually listened to what I was saying at the time. I’m surprised you remembered.”

Five shuffles, not exactly wanting to admit he doesn’t remember most of the content but not quite willing to lie to his brother either. “I only remembered bits and pieces. Some names, other shapes. Those three stars that make up that one dude’s belt or something.”

“You didn’t just find some astronomy book?” Luther asks, looking puzzled. He doesn’t look offended at least, that Five didn’t pay that much attention during those lectures so many years ago. To be fair, he’s had plenty of time to come to terms with the idea.

“It felt disloyal.” Five admits after a heartbeat, only half grudgingly. He isn’t exactly the king of heart to hearts, but there is something about Luther that seems to encourage them in him. Even during the stress of the days preceding the apocalypse weighing on him, it had been Luther who Five had told about finding their bodies and who Five had told not to waste his life.

Maybe it was the certain level of kinship between them, both of them trapped in bodies that they did not choose and did not want. Both of them left alone for years on end, having to relearn how to interact with the general populace. Luther was loyal where Five was rebellious, but they had enough common ground between them to be significant.

“Disloyal?” Luther’s tone isn’t quite questionioning, just offering a way for Five to continue his thought where he’d trailed off. 

Five’s stomach squirms at the blatant emotion, but it would have to try a lot harder than that to stop him after he’d gotten used to the hollow aching pain of starvation. “I didn’t want to learn the constellations from a book.” He says, and it’s easier to admit to hopes and wishes in the dark with the stars above him. It’s familiar. It’s not Dolores next to him, but Luther isn’t half bad company when he’s by himself. “I wanted to learn them from you, except you weren’t around to ask anymore.”

Now that he’s out of that hellscape, he can half admit to himself that not allowing himself to pick up an astronomy book might have been him giving himself even more incentive to go back and fix things. Not that he needed it but - half of it might have also been a sort of punishment for abandoning his family to whatever fate left them buried in rubble and dead at the end of the world as well. Never let it be said that any of Five’s coping mechanisms were actually healthy.

There’s a silence where Luther mulls that over, before he opens his mouth with a soft expression, “I’m around now.”

It’s an offer and a question rolled into one. It’s not Luther immediately launching into a lecture assuming that’s what Five wants or needs at the moment, it’s him asking, which is an improvement all in itself. If Five was too raw tonight, he would accept that without a question and they could look at the sky in silence together until the dawn came.

The ball is in Five’s court.

“What - what’s the name of the dude with the belt?” Five asks, hesitant and careful and feeling as brittle as the porcelain vases that Reginald decorated the halls with.

Luther’s answering smile is bright and tender enough to hurt.

“His name’s Orion...” Luther explains, and Five closes his eyes and lets Luther’s voice wash over him. When he opens them, it seems like the stars twinkle just a tiny bit brighter than before.

Or that might just be his imagination.

[heauxplesslydevoted]

Coming Down (Ethan x MC)

Summary: They break up. Dassit

A/N: I’ve been tired of this imposter Ethan, and the back of forth nature of his romance route for the entirety of book 3, so I wrote this.

Warnings: None

Title Inspo

~v~

Naomi’s fingernails tap impatiently against her leg as the shrill ring of her cell phone rings at her ear. It rings 5 long times before she’s sent to voicemail.

“Hello, you’ve reached Dr. Ethan Ramsey. I’m sorry for not answering your phone call, but leave a message, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Thank you.”

“Ethan, it’s me...again. I haven’t heard from you in,” lifting her wrist, Naomi checks the time on her watch, “wow, in over 24 hours. I’ve been calling and calling, to no avail, and you just aren’t responding.”

The news of Ethan getting hit with a malpractice lawsuit hit her like a freight train. As soon as things started to feel good again, as soon as the diagnostics team started to find its rhythm with two new physicians, this torpedoes any chance of normalcy she could ever experience.

“If you could give me a call back and let me hear the sound of your voice, that’d be great. Bye.”

There’s a lot more that she wants to say, but she’s been given a limited window of time so Naomi hangs up.

Switching tactics, Naomi opens up her messages, and scrolls to her thread with Ethan.

Naomi: Hi

Naomi: Are you okay? I haven’t heard from you in a while.

Naomi: Can you at least reply, telling me to leave you alone?

Naomi: At this point, I’d settle for at least knowing if you’re alive.

She waits a few minutes, and when she gets no response, she shoves her phone into the pocket of her white coat. Anxiousness and worry pools in the pit of her stomach, and the only thing she can think about is Ethan’s well being. And this situation doesn’t bode well because Naomi is still in the middle of her shift.

Her thoughts are interrupted by the sound of quiet chatter as the door to the diagnostics team’s office opens and in walks Tobias and Harper. Their conversation is cut short once they notice the youngest member of the team.

“Hi, Naomi,” Tobias greets, an easygoing smile adorning his face. “What’s up?”

She wishes she could feel as casual as he looks, because every part of her body is twisted inside out and turned upside down.

“Have either of you talked to Ethan today?” Naomi asks, skipping the pleasantries.

“I spoke to him yesterday just to gauge how he was handling the malpractice suit,” Tobias answers. “Obviously, the conversation didn’t last long because he and I rarely interact outside of these four walls, but he seems…” he trails off when he notices Naomi’s face fall. “What’s wrong? Is everything alright?”

Any other time, Naomi would be ecstatic to hear about Tobias extending an olive branch, and Ethan actually accepting the support, but today isn’t that day. She’s been trying to get in touch with him all day with no success, but he answers a phone call from his sworn enemy?

“I haven’t heard from Ethan today, so I’m at least glad to know he’s breathing,” Naomi says, her voice tight.

Too caught up in her own pity party, Naomi misses the way Tobias and Harper exchange worried glances. The team has been through enough the past few months, the last thing they need is romantic friction between Ethan and Naomi seeping into the office.

“Maybe he’s turned his phone off since then?” Tobias suggests. “Times like this can force you into an introspective mood, and he’s probably going technology free.”

Naomi chuckles humorlessly. She appreciates Tobias’s effort to satiate her foul mood, but she can’t think of a single excuse short of death that could justify Ethan’s behavior.

She stands, dusting off her coat and straightening it out. “Thanks. I’m going to get some lab work done on our patient, page me if you need anything.”

“Will do.”

Without another word, Naomi exits the office.

Working helps slightly. For an hour or so, Naomi is successful in turning off her brain and focusing diligently on work. She manages to not think about Ethan at all.

Until she hears his name brought up in conversation. She’s strolling towards the nurse's station when she sees Sarah and another nurse, Ronnie huddled in a corner.

“Sounds like Dr. Ramsey’s not as perfect as everyone thinks, huh?”

“Screwing up a standard tracheotomy that way? Frankly, I’m just surprised it took the patient this long to sue!”

Naomi slows her steps before she stops walking all together. The nurses are so engrossed in their conversation, they don’t even notice her.

“I heard from Marlene that the patient wouldn’t have even needed a trach if they hadn’t dosed her wrong in the first place,” Sarah adds in an excited whisper.

“Seriously? That’s next level…”

Her first instinct is to stop this, to tell them to stop talking, the urge to protect Ethan still as strong as it’s always been.

But she stops herself from doing that. Because why should she? Why should she put forth the effort to defend the honor and reputation of a man that doesn’t even have the decency to answer her phone calls?

And just like that, she’s plunged back into her flurry of conflicting emotions: worry, fear, annoyance, and most of all, anger. The emotions war inside her, all fighting for dominance, and she hasn’t felt like this since her intern year when he left to go to South America without any sort of goodbye or correspondence.

That wasn’t a good period in her life. Naomi can still feel the cold grip of anxiety that plagued her chest when she came into work one day and he was nowhere to be seen. She heard through a LVN that he left before confirming it with Naveen. She can still taste the saltiness of the tears she shed after leaving her 5th unanswered voicemail. Experiencing such a high of beating her ethics trial and getting picked for the diagnostic team,  and the low of him leaving in that short amount of time left her spiraling and isolated, and it took entirely too much time clawing herself out of that dark place.

Turning on her heel, Naomi speed walks in the other direction, her original plan long forgotten. The hospital passes her by in a blur as her legs move, the rest of her body and brain moving on autopilot.

She doesn’t stop moving until she’s in front of the residents’ lounge. She spots Aurora, Bryce, and Sienna sitting at a table.

“Naomi, come join us!” Sienna exclaims. “We’re going to make cappuccinos with this fancy machine.”

“I’ll have to take a raincheck on that,” Naomi says. She turns to Bryce. “Can I borrow your car keys please?”

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah, I just have a couple errands to run and I don’t feel like taking the train. I’ll bring it back with a full tank of gas and everything.”

“I’m not gonna nitpick you about gas, Omi.” Bryce’s warm gaze sweeps across Naomi’s face, studying her. If he notices anything wrong with her, which he probably does because Bryce is a lot more perceptive than he gives himself credit for, he thankfully doesn’t mention it. He reaches into the pocket of his mint green scrub pants and pulls out his keys. He tosses the keys to Naomi with a wink, and she catches them mid air.

“I keep a shovel in the trunk in case you need to bury a body.”

Whether he realizes what is going on with her, or if he just cracked a joke to lighten the mood, Naomi is grateful either way.

~v~

Naomi spends an hour driving around Boston, people watching and attempting to collect her thoughts before she ends up in Back Bay at Ethan’s apartment complex. She didn’t want to go to his house in her previous state, guns blazing and emotions all over her place.

Even on the ride on the elevator up to his unit, her stomach is in knots and her heart beats faster than normal. She hasn’t been this nervous about seeing Ethan in a long time, and it dawns on her just how fucked this entire situation is. Why should she be nervous to talk to the man who claims to want to be with her?

Steeling her nerves, Naomi issues three sharp knocks to Ethan’s front door. Approximately 45 seconds pass before the door opens.

“Naomi!” Ethan’s eyes widen when he sees her standing there. “What are you doing here?”

“Are you going to let me in, or should we have this conversation in the hallway?” Naomi asks. Ethan steps aside, widening the door so Naomi can enter. “Thank you.”

The apartment is stale, like Ethan hasn’t opened the windows in a few days. He looks disheveled, the bags under his eyes are extremely pronounced like he hasn’t gotten a wink of sleep.

For lack of a better word, Ethan is a mess. And she wants nothing more than to just...wrap her arms around him and make everything better. But she doesn’t. She keeps her distance.

Ethan shuts the door before turning back to her. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“No.”

“Well let’s sit down.”

“No, I think I’d rather stand because I don’t plan on being here long.”

The coldness stuns Ethan. Naomi almost seems indifferent towards him, something he’s never experienced before. It doesn’t go unnoticed that she didn’t bother greeting him warmly, no hug or kiss, no excitement in her voice, nothing.

“I needed to see with my own two eyes that you were alive and well,” Naomi starts. “Because you’ve gone radio silent on me. I know you’ve seen me calling and texting. Your phone works just fine because you picked up a call from Tobias of all people.”

He averts his gaze, ashamed of himself. “I’m sorry, I–”

She holds up a hand, stopping him mid-sentence. Naomi doesn’t believe for one second that he’s apologizing due to actual remorse. “I have spent the entire day wracked with intense worry. I feel like I’ve been turned upside down, and I could barely focus on work. Every time I thought I could be productive, something or someone was there to remind me of you. And then I’d spend more time ruminating over you and your situation, and the fact that you’re ignoring me, and then I’d feel like absolute shit. And earlier today, as I listened to the nurses gossip about you, I realized that this feels so much like your two month sabbatical to the Amazon, and our relationship hasn’t changed at all since then.”

“That’s not true,” Ethan argues.

“It is,” Naomi insists. “One step forward doesn’t mean anything if we end up taking two steps back immediately afterwards. A year and a half later, you’re still holding me at arms length, keeping yourself closed off, ignoring my calls.”

“I don’t mean to do this, to be this way.”

“But you continue to do it, so at this point you have to see it’s a pattern. You won’t even open up and talk to me about this lawsuit that’s being waged against you.”

“I just don’t want you getting needlessly involved.”

“While it’s a noble excuse, it’s complete and utter bullshit. If you think you’re doing something to save my reputation, remember nothing you do will ever top me almost losing my medical license my intern year, and then having a resident face a malpractice lawsuit a few months later. So come on, give me another excuse.”

“I’m doing this for you!”

“How? How could this possibly be for me?”

“Everything I touch becomes tainted!” Ethan snaps. “Because there is something wrong, in which everyone arounds me leaves or dies, or everything falls apart. I don’t have control or autonomy over anything, so yes, the one precious thing in my life, I’m too scared to touch.”

“But I have been right here with you! I was right here in this exact same spot when we worked on Naveen’s case. I sat by your side while we watched over Dolores’s son. I was there when they wheeled your mother into the hospital, and when you took her to rehab. Time and time again, I’ve proven to you that my loyalty is steadfast, and not once have I ever wavered, so you don’t get to stand here and punish me for some unrealized fear. You don’t get to treat me like I’m a passenger in this relationship, if you can even call it that.”

That’s what gives him pause. “Of course this is a relationship.”

“This isn’t a relationship, I am just a woman you sleep with. Occasionally you open up to me, we share a cute moment and promises, and then you clam up and up goes the barriers, and it starts all over again. And every single time, we’re a little bit deeper into this thing we’re in. I’ve shared more, I’ve let myself be more vulnerable with you, emotionally and physically, I’ve deluded myself into thinking ‘This time it’s the real thing,’. And I’m afraid that this is going to be our reality. One day I wake up, 3 years in, tentatively living with you, trying to settle into the pieces of a life I’ve scrounged up with you, and you do this again.”

“I don’t speak on it, and I don’t like to because I try to keep it all together, but you don’t understand the toll it takes on me every time we do this back and forth. I was a train wreck when you quit. I had the trial looming over my head, Landry, a guy I considered one of my closest friends betrayed me in the worst possible way, you weren’t the only person scared of losing Naveen, and I couldn’t even verbalize any of it to you because you slammed a door in my face when I tried to bring it up, and then you left me. And then you did it again, and I spent two months worried that you might not even come home because you could contract the deadly disease you were off fighting. And then you go on national television declaring your relationship status, and you made promises to me on my deathbed that led nowhere, and then finally we make some headway in Hawaii and establish what we have going on, and then I come home to this. So while you say one thing to me, time and time again, your actions say otherwise. It’s clear I’m not a priority.” 

This conversation triggers Ethan’s fight or flight response. He doesn’t know where this conversation is headed, but he’s smart enough to know it’s nowhere good.

“Naomi, what are you saying? Spell it out to me like I’m a preschooler.”

“I think we need a break,” Naomi says in one breath, afraid she’ll break if she prolongs this any further. The six words leave a sour taste in her mouth that she has to choke back.

“No,” Ethan’s tone is gruff, and the seriousness almost startled Naomi. “No, we’re not breaking up.”

“From where I’m standing, we already have,” Naomi retorts. “I’m just confirming it.”

Ethan takes one long stride towards Naomi, but she takes a step back. “Look, I am a daft asshole to put it mildly, and I know I have a lot of work to do, but this is by no means a reason for us to break up.” He takes another step forward, and now Naomi is backed up against the door. He tugs her forward, wrapping his arms around her. “I am sorry. I know the words probably sound hollow, but trust me when I say I mean it. I’ll fix this, I’ll do whatever it takes. You’re the only person I want, the only one I’ll ever want, and I’m not losing you. Not now, not ever.”

Through this right embrace, Naomi can feel just how rapidly his heart is beating. He’s scared.

A tear slips from the corner of her eye, and she’s too drained to even wipe it away. “This is reactionary. You’re saying all of this because you’re panicked, but if you meant any of what you just said, it wouldn’t take the threat of a breakup in order to want to change things.”

“It shouldn’t have taken me this long to realize what a fool I’ve been,” Ethan says. He refuses to let go of her, his arms still wrapped so tightly around her petite frame, he almost worries about crushing her.

“I agree.” What does that even mean? She gives him nothing more than that, and Ethan is left to stew in his own doubt and worry. Naomi breaks free of his embrace and presses a palm to his chest, signaling him to give her some space. “But I still think we need some space.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“Trust me, I do.”

It becomes hard to breathe. When Ethan woke up this morning, the last thing he expected was Naomi to dump him. “What can I do? Tell me how to fix this. Do you want consistency? Done, I’ll talk to you every single day, multiple times a day. Transparency? Sit down right now, and I’ll explain this entire lawsuit top to bottom. You want proof that I’m never going to up and leave again, you can take my fucking passport. Naomi, I don’t care what I have to do, I will do it, but I will not accept you walking out of that door.”

Naomi inhales deeply, trying to stop a full son from bursting out of her chest. He’s saying all the right things, but at the wrong time. It’s too late now. “I’ve warred with myself all day about this decision. You’re clearly not in the right space to sustain a healthy relationship, and that’s fine. I just need to remove myself from the situation, for my own health and well-being. And I think you need to do the same.”

“So...what? This is it? It’s over?”

“Let’s be honest Ethan, you never gave us the opportunity to begin.” She wants to touch him so badly, reach out a run her hand through his hair or stroke his beard one more time. It takes everything in her to not. “You’re a great doctor, one of the best ones I know, so I really hope you beat this entire lawsuit and I get to see you back at Edenbrook. Take care of yourself, Ethan.

Ethan shakes his head in denial. He refuses to let things end like this, and for her to give him the same cool professionalism she extends to every other coworker.

“Naomi, wait–”

She’s out of his apartment before he can convince her to stay. It doesn’t register until he hears the soft click of her door shutting that she’s actually gone. And another minute passes before the gravity of the situation finally dawns on him.

For the first time in a long time, he’s truly alone.

~v~

Tags: @mvalentine @choicesaddict5 @professorkingslay @maurine07 @aka-calliope @bluebellot @whimsicallywayward15 @blossomanarchy @takemyopenheart @jamespotterthefirst @fanmantrashcan @whatchique @ao719 @x-kyne-x @colourmeshy @paulfwesley @the-pale-goddess @writinghereandthere @ramseyandrys @perriewinklenerdie @aworldoffandoms @thatcatlady0716 @drakewalker04 @canknot @hatescapsicum @lapisreviewsstuff @senseofduties @badchoicesposts @ethandaddyramseyx @chasingrobbie @zodiacsign1 @choices-lurker @my-heart-beats-for-ya @adrian-motherfucking-raines @riverrune @edith-eggs1 @thatysn @bellcat2010 @blainehellyes @cecilecontrera @junehiratas @choices-love-affair @openheart12 @caseyvalentineramsey @desmaranj @nazario-sayeed @aestheticartsx @ruinedbypixels @nooruleman @rookie-ramsey @uneravine @choicest @schnitzelbutterfingers @missmiimiie @stateofgracious @mooons-isabelle @doilooklikeiknow

[madnessinwrighting]

When They Know (You're the One)

(Summary: There's a moment, one distinct moment, when you know you're going to spend the rest of your life with someone. This is the Avengers (plus Loki and Bucky) having those moments.

Reader Insert, inspired by an imagine I have long since lost the link too. Open to writing a part two for the other characters.

Notes:  Hey all! This is something I've pretty much sat on for a year, but the convincing of two best friends has pushed me to post it. Basically, it's just a quick bite of little moments with each Avenger, with a reader insert. Yes, it was slightly self indulgent. Hope y'all enjoy.

Read on AO3

Steve

It was how you welcomed him home.

He comes back to your shared floor in the tower after a day of meetings. He was tired, and wanted nothing more than to take a hot shower and wait for you to come back from your training with Wanda. He paused when he heard music softly playing. Glenn Miller’s "Moonlight Serenade" drifted around the corner, pulling Steve into the living room. His guard dropped when he saw you curled up on the couch in one of his sweatshirts, book in hand. Regina, your cat, and Doger, his dog, were laying at your feet.

Steve was always captivated by your beauty, but in this moment, with your attention completely held by the book in your hand, thinking no one is watching you, is when he found you the most stunning. Before he could clear his throat to let you know he was here, you glance up at him. A breathtaking smile broke out across your face as you got up to welcome Steve home. It was in that moment, he knew that he would never let you go.

Tony

It was in your careless beauty after an event.The two of you were in his room, lounging on his bed, after the monthly Avengers Gala that Stark Industries held. Every month, the Avengers and Stark Industries held a fundraising Gala to help different organizations in need. It had been your idea; being the Avengers PR person, you had proposed the idea after seeing the growing interest the public had in seeing the “real life superheroes” more, but still being unsure of the Avengers after New York and Sokovia. The galas let the general public mingle with the elite, all while the Avengers mingled with both. (You had started to notice how much the heroes spent less and less time with the elite and more with the general public (especially Steve and Bucky)).

You were wearing one of Tony’s button ups and a pair of pajama shorts. A champagne bottle rested against your leg as you grabbed for another slice of pizza. Tony laughed at you; you were always hungry after the galas. He reached for a slice too. He glanced up at you as you took a bite, just staring for a moment. Your hair was in an imperfect bun, wet strands falling around your face from where you missed a few pieces after your shower. There was a smudge of black under each eye from leftover makeup. As you wiped some sauce from the side of your mouth, Tony could see where your fingernail polish had started to chip. You noticed his staring. “What, playboy? Do I have something on my face?” He laughed at the nickname. Any other time, he would have sassed back. But the whiskey that had been coursing through his veins finally reached his head. Or maybe it was your beauty. Maybe it was a combination of the two that made him say, “No. I just realized I’m going to marry you someday.” You rolled your eyes at him, laughing. You thought he was joking. But Tony knew the truth, and that’s all that mattered; for now.

Clint

It was how you interacted with his kids, and how you could read him.

He had just come back from a mission. He and Nat had gotten banged around, nothing serious, but he knew his ribs were going to be hurting for a few days. He heard laughter the moment he stepped off the elevator to your shared floor. His smile grew when he saw you and his kids in the process of building a blanket fort, you standing carefully on a leaning chair to get the blanket on a high hook. Lila hid her face behind her hands as you made a show of “almost” falling, before doing a flip and landing perfectly. Little Nathaniel clapped his hands as the three cheered. The four of you took a step back to admire your work. The three kids all come in close to you, Nate hugging your leg. Your hand came down to play with his hair. You all talk quietly about what to add. Clint’s heart clinches at the sight. While his and Laura’s split was mutual, and they still cared for one another, it had been hard, for both them and the kids. To see you interact well with the three people that made up a big portion of his world, and them to do the same with you… Clint really couldn’t ask for more.

He caught the repetitive tapping of your fingers on your leg. “Take your time. Love you.”

Natasha

You learned Russian for her.

Any time she came into the room when it was just you and Bucky, the two of you would stop talking and a red hue would cover your cheeks. It didn’t take a spy to know you were hiding something. At first, Nat had a fleeting thought that you might be cheating on her, but she knew you, and knew Buck, and knew that that wasn’t the case. So she let the secret go for the time being; well, that’s a lie. She actually decided to turn it into a game and see if she could find out what it was that you were keeping from her. But sneaking up on the Winter Soldier proved to be difficult, considering most of her skills she had learned were from him.

She thought she had figured out a way to catch you. She was thinking through her plan while making her coffee that morning when your arms snaked around her waist. She smiled as you rested your head on her shoulder, placing a kiss on the bare skin. “Доброе утро Любовь. Спать хорошо?” you asked.

“конечно, ты был следующим -” Natasha froze as she processed what just happened. She spun in your arms to face you. “That’s what you and Barnes have been doing?”

“Yes. Were you going to say because I was next to you?”

“Yes. Why are you learning Russian?”

You rolled your eyes. “Because of you, silly. Your Russian, are you not? And while most of your Russian adventures are in your past and not really you anymore, they and Russia are still a part of you. I love every part of you and want to know every part of you, so I asked Bucky it he would be willing to--”

Natasha cut off the rest of your explanation by placing a kiss on your lips. If there were tears on her checks, neither of you mentioned it.

(Translation:  Доброе утро Любовь. Спать хорошо? - Good morning, love. Sleep well?конечно, ты был следующим. - Of course, you were next -- Done with Google. I'm sorry if they are incorrect. Please let me know if they are so I can fix it.)

Thor

You didn’t treat his brother like a villain.

None of the team was thrilled when Thor announced that Loki would be coming to live with him on Earth. But considering the alternative was for Loki to be executed, Thor convinced them to allow Loki to stay in the tower. But of course there were rules. Loki and Thor accepted these; Loki just wanted to leave the place that never felt like a home to him, and felt even less so now, no matter what his mother did to try and help. Thor was excited to see you once again, to be able to be with you once again, but he worried about how you would react to Loki. You had been badly injured when the Chatiri attacked. Thor loved both you and his brother; he wanted, no, needed you two to get along.

When the time came for Loki to move in, all the Avengers were waiting in the teleportation room. The alarm alerted you to the brothers incoming arrival. You all shielded your eyes as the Bifrost opened. The blinding light cleared, leaving the polar opposite sons of Odin in its place. Everyone stayed still for a moment. You rolled your eyes at all of them before throwing yourself at Thor. He caught you with a laugh, spinning you around.

Loki rolled his eyes. “Maybe I should have chosen execution.”

You sensed the movement of the team tensing and gripping their weapons. Placing a kiss on Thor’s cheek, you walked over to Loki. You knew he recognized you from when he fought against you during the Chatiri invasion; you also knew it wasn’t his fault. Hardly any of the New York Attack was Loki’s fault, directly. Knowing that, you placed your hands over both of the bracelets on his wrist, said a small incantation, and melted them away. You felt and saw Loki’s magic return to him. His eyes were swirling with questions. All you said to him was, “No one, not a single being, deserve to be cut off from something that makes them whole.”

Thor had tears in his eyes. He had been trying to convince others that his brother wasn’t the enemy, and here was the woman that he loved, showing that she believed that too.

Bruce

You loved him despite his inner demon.

Bruce Banner had felt ever since his… accident, that he was very much two different people. You once joked he was a modern day Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde (Tony thought it was hysterical, Bruce not so much). Despite his green friend always being just under Bruce’s skin, you never once feared him. The Hulk and Bruce were one person, and that was something you accepted very early on; Bruce knew he loved you then.

But the moment he knew he would spend forever with you was when you didn’t shy away from his true inner demon. Not the green one, but the one that was very human. The self doubt that he was nothing and only ever became something because of a gamma radiation explosion. The anxiety that he would one day lose control and destroy everything that he held dear. The depression that came from every so-called mistake he thought he had made in his scientific career. The depression that manifests in self isolation so no other mistake could be made, or at least no one was there to be hurt when they were made. He was certain that these monsters would be the ones to push you away from him; they would be the ones that would make you run away screaming.

You never once left his side, though. You calmed the anxiety attacks; you silenced the dark thoughts in his mind. You were his voice in every moment that he needed you. You were his protector, and he would do everything in his power to keep you.

Loki

You saw through the illusion.

Loki moved into the tower not long after everything that happened with the Battle of Sokovia, which was when you joined the team. He was brought to Earth to atone for his sins; Odin thought it poetic to banish his son to the place where he caused destruction.

Besides Bucky (shared trauma in brainwashing and all), you were the first one to accept Loki as he was. A connection flowed easily between you, bonding over books and similar battle styles; you both favored knives and daggers. One night, you two were in the living room of the comunal floor. Loki and you had only been dating for a few months, but your friendship led to a strong bond already. You were reading; Loki had been too, though he was now asleep, head resting in your lap. Your hand stilled in his hair as he started to fidget. Twitching and moaning, you recognized the signs of his nightmares immediately. Your gentle coasting to awake still startled him. A moment on the couch, the next on the floor staring into red eyes surrounded by a blue tinged face. As quickly as it was there, Loki was his blue-eyed, pale skinned self, helping you from the ground.

“Apologies, my love. I do not know what came over me.” He ran his hands through his hair.

You rolled your eyes. “Bullshit. Are you okay?” You reached out for him.

He smiled softly before turning away from you. “Yes, yes, I’m fine, love.”

“Loki, you are not--”

“I said I’m fine, Y/N,” he interrupted. He started to walk away.

“Wha- No, wait.” He didn’t stop. “Loki of Asgard, you stop right now and look at me, damnit!” He stopped, but didn’t turn. “Loki. Please. You can pretend with the team, with your brother even. But don’t lie to me. You’re not fine, not have you been for a long time. Look at me.” While you spoke, you walked closed to him. You reached out to place a hand on the back of his shoulder.

He caught your wrist, half turning to look at you. “You see through the illusions.”

It wasn’t a question. You still answered. “Yes, I do.” You used your captured hand to turn his face to you. “You may be the God of Mischief, but your lies have never worked on me.” You whipped a tear from his cheek.

He’d never admit it to you, but his heart clenched and he was at a momentary loss for words. All he could think to say, as he pulled you into his arms, was, “I know not how I got so fortunate to have you in my life, but I thank whoever it was that allowed it.” You just hugged him tighter.

Bucky

It was how you celebrated his 37th birthday.

Bucky had a doopy smile on his face as he read one of the texts from you; he and Steve were disembarking from one of Stark’s planes. Bucky brought his head up at the sound of laughter. “What, punk?” Bucky shoved Steve’s shoulder.

Steve rolled his eyes. “Nothing. Tell y/n hi from me, jerk.”

Bucky shot back that he would as he headed straight to the garage.

When he did get home, a wonderful aruma tickled his nose while Janet Blair’s “You’d be so Nice to Come Home To” floated to his ears. Dropping his bag by the door, he rounded the island. All of his weariness from the mission vanished once he saw you. Your hair was pinned up and you wore a y/f/c swing dress. He caught the reflection of your makeup; simple, with eyeliner your top lids, just a kiss of it on the lower, massacre gracing your lashes, and a red perfetingly complementing your skin coating your lips. When you faced Bucky, he had to grip the island slightly for support. You looked just like the dames he knew growing up. But unlike all of them, you were his, and you took his breath away.

“Buck! I didn’t hear you come in,” you exclaimed.

He reached out to you; you willingly stepped into his arms. Bucky placed a kiss on your lips, humming as he pulled away. “You look stunning, doll. What’s the occasion?” He started swaying you to the music.

You laughed. “You are, you dork. Or did you forget you turned a whole century while you are on this mission?”

“Ouch, doll. You really know how to make a man feel loved. I’m only 37,” he tried reasoning as he dipped you.

“Is that so? Then why does your birth certificate say you were born in 1917?” Bucky raised an eyebrow at you. “Fine, happy 37th birthday, even though you were born 100 years ago. Do you want some cake? I made this one special.” You began biting the side of your lip.

“Sure, babe. I’d love some.” Bucky gave you once last peck before letting you go.

You went to the cake, cutting two slices. Bucky saw you fidget slightly as you set them pieces down on the island. Not sure as to why you’d be so nervous (you’d made him chocolate cake before, it was his favorite), he picked up his fork and took a big bite. The explosion of flavor in his mouth caused him to pause for a moment before he kept chewing. Unsure if his senses were playing tricks on him, he took another small bite. Nope, that tasted exactly like-- “Is this my mother’s recipe?” Disbelief clouded his voice. You nodded your head. “And her icing?” You nodded again.

“It wasn’t easy to replicate, or even find the recipe, but this birthday is a big deal so I thought--” you were cut off by Bucky pulling you to him and crashing his lips to yours. You could taste the chocolate on his lips.

[hercleverboy]

four times

spencer reid x reader 

genre > angst

wc > 3.1k

four times the reader loved spencer and the one time she didn’t

The first time she knew she loved Spencer Reid, was when he brought her coffee early one morning on a boring paperwork day.

Y/N had only started at the BAU a few months ago, and had pretty much instantly fallen for the intelligent man with eyes like honey. She grew very close with the rest of the team, being the new youngest member, she very quickly became a part of their family. One day, without a new case that demanded their attention, Hotch had assigned them all to paperwork before dismissing them. Spencer had stumbled in through the doors of the bullpen, ten minutes late with flushed cheeks and a small paper bag in one hand, and a coffee cup in the other. 

“You’re late.” Hotch stated. 

“Yes Sir.” 

“Don’t let it happen again.” Hotch tried to remain stern, but he let a small smile spread on his lips when he noticed the little paper bag Spencer held. 

“Yes Sir.” Spencer smiled sheepishly as Hotch walked back to his office, and Spencer placed his satchel down on his desk before making his way over to Y/N’s desk, little paper bag and coffee cup in hand. “Morning Y/N!” He spoke, a little too excitedly for 8AM. 

“Hi Spencer, What you got there?” She smiled back, nodding towards the items. 

“Um well I remembered you saying that you loved the chocolate croissants from Tilly’s Bakery, and that your favourite drink was a vanilla latte, and I- um, I thought I’d stop by and get those for you on the way to work.” He fumbled over his words, like an idiot. His cheeks were red with embarrassment, and he thought he’d overstepped. 

“Tilly’s Bakery? Spencer that’s- that’s all the way across town, Thank you so much but you really didn’t have to go so out of your way.” She was shocked he would’ve done something so kind for her. Not only that, but he’d remembered her exact order, something that she’d said in mindless conversation over six months ago?

“It was really no trouble, I had to get something else from that side of town anyway.” It was a lie, he knew it. Yet he shrugged his shoulders and acted like it was no big deal, when really he’d woken up an hour early to get the subway across town just to see that smile on her face. 

“Oh, well thank you. So much. You’ve really made my day.” She smiled, and Spencer’s heart nearly burst. 

 “It’s okay. I try.” He joked, before turning back towards his desk, ignoring the proud smirk that Derek gave him from his own desk. 

Y/N had a grin on her face for the rest of the day, Spencer’s gesture really making her feel so much better. 

She loved him then.

The second time she knew she loved Spencer Reid was when he comforted her after a tough case.

 They were on the way home on the jet, and Y/N sat playing with her fingernails anxiously. The case had been bad, and involved children. They’d managed to save the last child, but couldn’t forget how five others had died before they could track down the unsub. 

Spencer had sat down across from her, watching her carefully before he spoke. “It wasn’t your fault, you know that, right?”

She looked up, surpised to hear his voice. “Yeah I know I just, I can’t help thinking if I was quicker at figuring it out then we could’ve-“ Her small voice broke mid-sentence, and in a very uncharacteristic move, Spencer reached out and took her hand in his, his thumb smoothing over the back of her hand comfortingly.

“Listen to me.” He spoke quietly, trying not to alert the rest of the team to her upset. “There was nothing different you could’ve done, okay?”

She nodded and smiled gratefully at him, but her emotions betrayed her, the tears slipping from her eyes.

He pulled his hand away, and she thought he was getting up to go back to his previous seat on the other end of the jet, but instead, and much to her surprise, he sat down next to her, placing his arm around her shoulders and pulling her into him.

Y/N was shocked to say the least. Spencer Reid, the man who swore off touch because he was cautious of germs, was willingly holding Y/N to his chest, and he gave no indication of feeling uncomfortable about it. When she gave in and rested her head on his shoulder, he placed his head on top of hers. 

Derek nearly spat out his coffee at the sight, and the rest of the team looked bewildered to be honest. They’d never really seen this affection from Spencer, and on the rare occasion it was shown, it was with people he’d known for many years, not a few months. Y/N felt her eyelids droop and was lulled to sleep by the sound of his heartbeat.

She loved him then.

The third time she knew she loved Spencer Reid was at a party being thrown at Rossi’s place, to celebrate Y/N’s first year at the BAU.

Y/N had been dancing and drinking with the team all night, and had politely excused herself to get some fresh air. She found a balcony connected to one of the spare bedrooms on the second floor that overlooked the city. She leaned on the railing, taking a deep breath as she took in the view, the little lights of the town seeming so far away. 

“It’s a pretty great view, huh?”

She let out a little yelp of surprise and turned to face the voice, seeing a sheepish looking Spencer standing there, his hands rasied in a sort of surrender. 

“Sorry! It’s just me! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you.” He profusely apologised and Y/N let out a small laugh as she shook her head.  

“No it’s okay. I just didn’t expect to see you there is all.” She smiled. “and yeah, it’s beautiful really.”

 “So are you.”

Smooth Spencer. Real smooth.

Her mouth opened in slight shock, and she really didn’t know what to say. Seeing her shocked and confused expression, Spencer began to ramble. 

 “What I’m trying to say is that I like you? Not just like a friend, I like like you, I have since you first joined and actually I’m pretty sure I’m kind of in love with you-“ He mumbled and winced when he realised what he’d just said. When she didn’t respond immediately he’s quick to speak again. “Oh my god, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that, you obviously don’t feel the same and now I’ve made you uncomfortable, I’ll just go.” He turned to leave, looking shamefully down at his feet. 

“Spencer, wait.” He turned back to face her nervously.

“I kind of love you too.” She confessed, and Spencer had never felt a relief as sweet as hearing her say those words. 

 “Oh thank god.” He murmured, coming to stand next to her again. They laughed together, and talk about nothing in particular as she looked out at the city, and he looked at her like she was the world.

She loved him then.

And he loved her too.

The fourth time she knew she loved Spencer Reid came a year into their relationship. She was spending the night at his apartment, watching some reruns of Doctor Who on TV, (a TV that Y/N had insisted he bought for that very purpose).

Somewhere between her head resting on his chest and his arms around her  she’d fallen asleep, and Spencer only noticed when something happened on screen that would normally illicit some kind of reaction from her, but instead she was silent.

He glanced down at her and smiled at the sight of her looking so peaceful. He reached over to the remote, turning the TV off. He then gently moved Y/N off of him, careful not to wake her. He stood, and then lifted her into his arms, carrying her bridal style towards his bedroom, her head resting gently on his shoulder. 

He gently placed her on the bed, removing her leggings successfully without waking her up, leaving her to sleep only in one of his shirts she’d stolen from him. He didn’t mind, they looked better on her anyway. It was a cold night, so Spencer grabbed a pair of socks from his drawer and slid them onto her feet, before laying next to her and pulling her to his chest, placing the covers over them to keep them warm. 

When she woke up the next morning, she noticed she was up before him, which was a rare occurance. She glanced down to her feet, and noticed how he’d put socks on her feet to keep her warm on one of the coldest nights of the year. When he woke up, he didn’t even take credit for it, just bashfully smiling and whispering “anything for you” when she thanked him.

She loved him then.

And he loved her too.

Spencer’s headaches were getting worse, so when he told Y/N he found a doctor who finally seemed to be helping him, she was estatic for him. 

Everything seemed perfect.

Then the cold nights that he held her close to his chest turned to cold nights where he’d turn his back to her and giggle quietly as he texted her, thinking Y/N was asleep but she wasn’t. Spencer would lock his phone, and turn back towards Y/N, pulling her into his arms to hold her tightly. It made her feel sick.

Mornings where he’d kiss her forehead and they’d make love became mornings where they had pretty meaningless sex, where he was the only one really getting any pleasure from it. Then he’d retreat to the bathroom and call her, speaking with hushed whispers, thinking Y/N couldn’t hear but she did. 

Every word. 

It made her feel physically sick, like he was using her, a warm body in the place of this other woman. 

What made her feel more sick was that she let him do it.

Y/N didn’t know when it happened. She spent so long in love with Spencer Reid that she didn’t really register when she fell out of it. She spent months in a haze, watching him have an emotional affair with some other woman in front of her. For the first few months she clung onto him and the love she still had for him for dear life, afraid she didn’t know how to live without him. 

but with every morning spent alone, every time she strained to listen to his conversations

 “Bye, Love You.”

Every time suddenly he’d leave on the evenings where they didn’t have a case, he’d tell her he got called in by Hotch to complete some paperwork, which was a half assed excuse that he hadn’t thought through properly, but Y/N had begun to lack the incentive to care. 

She eventually confided in Penelope about her fears, after months of dealing with them by herself, letting them eat away at her like a disease. Penelope had become much like a sister to Y/N in her time at the bureau, and Y/N knew she would be honest with her when she asked if she thought something was going on with Spencer. Penelope wanted to tell her she was being silly, but she’d noticed it too, as had the rest of the team.

JJ had noticed when Spencer sat next to Y/N on the jet home, he wouldn’t comfort her after a bad case like he used to. That he no longer looked at Y/N like she was the only person in the world that mattered. Instead, he would sit with his eyes locked on his phone, smiling at the screen as he typed, before he’d lace Y/N’s fingers with his, as if nothing was wrong.

Derek saw how he no longer bothered to bring her coffee or her favourite pastries. And on the off chance he did bring her one, he’d bring her something she didn’t like. (“Oh, I’m sorry, I guess I forgot you don’t like this one.)

Hotch noticed too, it was his job as Unit Chief to notice when his team members were acting differently, as it was up to him to decide if that difference would impact their ability to work. He’d noticed how Y/N and Spencer never came into work together anymore. Instead, Spencer would stumble in 10 minutes late with a smile on his lips that wasn’t because of Y/N.

Emily watched sadly as Y/N became a shell of a person, no longer bright and bubbly but numb and almost paralysed. She saw how Spencer didn’t seem to notice. 

It didn’t take the team long to conclude that Spencer was cheating. Not a physcial affair, but an emotional one was just as bad, if not worse. 

Spencer seemed to think he could get away with hiding his emotional affair. As if he wasn’t a part of a team of expert profilers. He did feel guilty. It was true, he loved Y/N. But his ego had been boosted so high with the idea that two women wanted his affection, when he was so used to being rejected, he let it get to his head. He didn’t love this other woman, not like he loved Y/N anyway, but he did love her attention. He craved it.

He began to notice how Derek scowled at him from time to time, for hurting the woman he protected and cared for like a little sister.

He saw how JJ would cut him off with a cold tone, not a nurturing, mothering tone like usual.

How Emily refused to work with him in the field, angered at him for the pain he was putting one of her best friends through. 

How Hotch wouldn’t even look at him, but remained professional because that was his job. In her time at the BAU, Y/N had become much like a daughter to him.

With every lie he told (and he couldn’t seem to keep track of them very well), Y/N fell more out of love with Spencer Reid. 

Eventually, she reached her breaking point. Y/N was so emotionally exhausted of living this way, so tired of mentally trying to pinpoint where everything had gone to shit, but she couldn’t. She didn’t care anymore. 

She knocked, and he seemed surprised to see her when he answered.

“Hey baby. I didn’t know you were coming over.” He smiled, and reached out for a welcoming hug, but she stepped back out of his reach, her hands coming up to gently push him off. 

“I just came to get my stuff.” She stated. It wasn’t a question, she wasn’t asking permission. Over the time they’d been together, she’d been keeping some clothes in a drawer that Spencer had cleaned out for her in his chest of drawers. She also kept some of her toiletries in his bathroom, as well as a few other items she’d placed around his tiny apartment. 

“What do you mean?” He asked, confused.

“You’ve been having an affair, and we’re done. I’m just collecting my things and I’ll go.” She spoke so nonchalantly, like the subject bored her. She was so numb, no tears fell and no words caught in her throat.

She was so fucking tired of this. 

“I don’t-“ He didn’t know why he tried to deny what he knew was true.

“Don’t start, Spencer. I know it’s true, and so does the team. We are profilers, you know.” She pushed past him, walking towards his bedroom. He stood shocked for a moment in his doorway, trying to process what had just happened. Of course she knew, of course the team knew.

 He scrambled to follow after her, and his breath hitched in his throat when he saw her collecting all her things and stuffing them in her bag.

“Y/N, please let me explain.” He tried.

“What is there to explain? You fell in love with her, you fell out of love with me. It happens.” The way she spoke in such a bored tone was scaring him. How easily she dismissed the love they had. 

“I don’t- I don’t love her. I promise I don’t I was just- god I was getting this attention I didn’t know what to do with and I liked the feeling.” He seemed confused as he spoke, like he couldn’t figure out why he ever got himself into this situation, why he’d ruined something so good for a meaningless fling. 

Y/N zipped up her bag and placed it over her shoulder, before moving to walk out the room.

He grabbed her hand, holding it tightly, forcing her to look at him.

“Wait, Y/N please don’t go. I love you. I’m so sorry, I don’t know where this all went wrong, where the attention got to my head but I don’t need her. I need you, I love you, please.” He was sobbing, begging.

She felt nothing. This was what his lying and sneaking around had reduced her to. When she saw the man she would’ve done anything for practically begging her not to go, she should’ve felt something. but she didn’t.

 “I don’t love you anymore, Spencer.” Her words were sharp, clear. They wounded him. He sobbed, and pathetically continued to beg as she ripped her hand from his grasp. 

She turned swiftly and left the small apartment. The click of the apartment door closing shut behind her left Spencer to be swallowed by the silence, and his heavy breaths and sobs filled the cold apartment. The anger he felt at himself came to the surface and soon he was trashing his apartment, pushing books off of shelves and shoving the paperwork from his desk.

He crumbled to the floor in sobs. Not only had his lost the respect of his team, his family, but he’d lost the love of his life too.

As Y/N walked out the apartment building, she smiled for the first time in months at the weight that was lifted off her chest. The sense of freedom she felt filled her with a sweet relief. She felt alive again. Being with Spencer had chipped away at her, but she was ready to rebuild herself, to do better, to start a new chapter in her life. 

Spencer loved her then.

But she no longer loved him.

-

When you go,

and would you even turn to say

 I don’t love you like I did yesterday.

[depressedtransguy]

if you’re not @angelwiththeblue-box don’t read or i’ll feed your hand mouth lotion until it vomits

Loki sobbed harder as the body he had spent almost two years loving slumped against the wall with a trail of blood and other internal entities following him on the way down, squeezing one hand across his heart and one on the gun that he was still holding. Both were trembling badly. I had no choice, I had no choice, I had no choice, he repeated over and over in his head, trying to remind himself that he did the right thing, but his heart just couldn't accept that. Yet it was too late to go back. He was dead. And it was all Loki's fault.

The crying soon enough overtook his whole body and he was forced to drop down onto his knees, folding over until his pale forehead was resting against the cooling concrete and his tears were soaking the part beneath him. "I never wanted to hurt you, by god I never wanted to hurt you," Loki choked out with a following sob. Only then did he finally let go of the gun to claw at his neck as if that would open up his trachea from being strangled by tears. "I loved you. I love you."

"Oh my god, what the-? LOKI?"

A new and very familiar voice echoed against the hard surfaces and forced Loki to snap his head up to look him in the eye. His frightened eyes. Eyes that unfortunately had just doomed their host's life.

Within just seconds a knife had been yanked out of Loki's weapons belt and more blood was pouring out onto the floor, this time from a neck. His unconscious body crumbled down into the puddle. Loki felt less bad that time. The pair hadn’t been as close as he had with the original victim. But the more he thought about it, Loki realized that he didn't have to die in order for himself to live, and that fact alone twisted up his guts. Collateral damage. Not great.

Loki dropped the blood covered knife with a clatter onto the floor and collapsed down to his knees once more, the second death pushing his oppressive sorrow into nothing but crushing apathy. They were dead. Because of him.

When the door opened back up behind him Loki jumped up to his feet once more-already ready to kill again-only to stop when he saw that it was Odin.

"Good, the job's done."

Fingernails dug into Loki's palms. He was the one who set him up to this in the first place. Maybe I should kill him.

But Odin was quicker.

As Loki snatched a second knife-this one more ragged-and raised it up to pierce him right in the jugular vein, Odin turned on his heel and stopped him by his wrists, then shoving him into the other wall after disarming him. Loki’s head smacked into the concrete and he slid down to his ass. "Don't even think about it. I know you've heard the stories, and I'd hate for you to become nothing but a scary story to keep new trainees from stepping out of line," Odin spat, impaling the knife into the crown of the closest body’s head, before stepping forward to stand upright in front of Loki and display his dominance. Not that Loki really needed the reminder. “You could’ve been something really great, you know? I’ve seen you train, I’ve seen you in the simulations, and I just watched you kill two of your friends almost effortlessly, you could have been the best assassin in this place. But no, you’re selfish, aren’t you? You had to go and start this fling with that fucking amputee, and go against everything we’ve ever taught you. Stand up, hitman.” 

Loki was forced to listen. But he was immediately struck in the face only to collapse on the floor once more. The pain of his hit shot through his nose and made his eyes water, the only tears not from sadness joining the wetness on his cheeks. He just stayed silent on the floor in fear of being hit again as the pain continued to gnaw at his face. 

“We gave you a perfect road to success. And you destroyed it because you only had yourself in mind. You’re going to have to make up for this.” Only then did Odin wave him up from where he lay scared. But as soon as he did, knees shaking and hands shoved in his pockets to hide the trembling, a hand wrapped around his throat and tightened until he couldn’t breathe. Then his surprised face was brought up close to his superior’s. “Here’s what you’re going to do. Keep excelling in class. Keep doing what you’ve always been doing. But drop the little posse. And don’t step out of line again, or else next time, you won’t get a choice between your slow death or a quick murder. You understand?”

He still couldn’t breathe, his hands grabbing at Odin’s forearm and squeezing as if that would remove the iron grip from his throat, but he did his best to nod in understanding. 

Thankfully after that he was dropped onto the floor and left to gasp. “You’re not going to be a victim of this horror. You’re going to be the perpetrator. Do you understand me?” 

“Ye-yes,” Loki choked out. “I understand… sir.” 

Odin smirked. “Good. You’ll be back on track in no time to be the monster we raised you to be.” With a tap of his steel toed boot against Loki’s rib cage, he then opened the door once more and swept out, leaving the teenager heaving against the floor with two dead bodies, a strew of his own weapons, a knot in his stomach, and a hole in his heart. 

“Monster…”

~~

Loki felt two arms wrap around him from behind and a head flop down on his shoulder as he slipped his boots on and tightened the laces, only then pausing at the feeling of his husband latching onto him. "Nightmare, huh?" Stephen whispered against the skin of his neck. "You always get up early for work when you have a bad one."

After seventeen years together Loki was practically an open book that his husband had memorized by heart. "Yeah. It was... bad." A shiver ripped down his spine as he felt familiar fingers slowly dragging themselves over the brand on the back of his neck.

"Was it about this?" he questioned without stopping.

Wordlessly, Loki nodded. Although most of his past he still kept locked up out of fear, and Stephen respected it, he did have a vague idea. And much of that idea came from the thick red ringed brand of the numbers '4269'. It was discovered only a few weeks into their relationship, as it wasn't exactly in a hidden area, but Loki released bits and pieces of an explanation over the years without pressure from his partner.

From those alone Stephen basically knew that Loki was abandoned by his parents as a baby and handed over to some sort of group or organization that branded him as one of theirs and he only managed to escape very closely to the time that they first met. That was it. 

But that was just enough for Stephen to be satisfied and have enough to comfort his husband, while Loki still had enough hidden that he could sleep at night knowing that his husband was still far from the entire truth.

"Would you like to talk about it?"

Honestly he did. Every day he wanted to rant to Stephen about the trauma of his past and just how much they still affected him up to the present. But that came along with the risk of losing him and absolutely everything else, so he kept it all locked down. "Not today, I actually should get to the shop early. I owe Nebula for leaving her with a double shift last time."

Stephen accepted it, but only released one arm from his midsection, first pushing his head over to the side for a sleepy kiss which Loki enthusiastically returned. "Come to me at any time. Okay? I'm not going anywhere."

He could still read him even without knowing everything. "I will. I promise."

With a small smile, Stephen pressed another kiss to the corner of his mouth before reluctantly slipping off of him and flopping back onto the mattress. "I love you Dewdrop."

"I love you too." Loki stood up after one more kiss was shared, snatching up his phone and keys as he quietly made his way out of his bedroom and into the kitchen. There he ate a bit of a leftover bagel and cast nothing but a sideways glance at the mess on the counter, knowing that it was most likely from one of his daughter's midnight stress baking sessions, which she'd clean up once she woke up within the hour for high school. I'll have to talk to her about that, he thought as he plucked his biker jacket off the coat rack and tucked some of his handheld items into the pockets, already pushing the nightmare out to make room for his daughter. Just one reason out of many why he adored his family. As for his daughter, Hela's, problem, he was pretty positive that it was most likely about her upcoming finals, as she was a huge perfectionist that could barely handle getting a B, and her practice tests hadn't been going too well. Stephen had mostly been handling that, since Loki didn't go to any sort of real school, but he figured that maybe giving up a bit of his unorthodox learning strategies as a child could help her. After all, it did eventually lead to him speaking seven languages and knowing just as much (if not more) about medicine than his doctor husband did. Who knows, but he had to try something to stop watching his daughter suffer over her own expectations.

Right before he was about to step out the door and get to his six AM shift a half an hour early, the thoughts of his daughter reminded him that he should check on his children before he left. Many mornings he had opened his kids doors to find out that they never went to sleep in the first place: Hela from either school or YouTube and Thor from his books.

So as quietly as possible he crept up the stairs up to where dim light was seeping in through windows from the early morning sunrise, carefully twisting the knob to his son's room first and pushing it in. There he saw Thor curled up in his bed with his favorite frog stuffie gripped tightly to his chest, the small lullaby that was usually played to help him sleep floating softly through the still air, and his glow and the dark stars on the ceiling shining down on his apparently sleeping form. But Loki was smarter than that.

"Oh alright, I guess Thor is asleep then. Too bad. I guess I can't give him this brand new Frogger game boy then," Loki acted out as he moved farther into the room, doing worse at holding down his smile than his own fidgeting son. "Maybe I should just donate it since he's not awake to take it." Based on his little facial expression alone, he was having a little battle with himself.

But, eventually and inevitably, the frog side of him won.

"No no, Dad, I'm awake!" he exclaimed. "Just give me it!"

Loki grinned at his victory and kneeled down carefully next to his son's low bed, then peeling back the covers a little more to reveal a dog-eared book with a miniature flashlight both hiding under there. "Another all nighter for... Warrior Cats? Thor, you have school today."

"I'm sorry Dad, I lost track of time. I kept reading and reading and then suddenly I saw the sun start to rise and you were coming in," he hastily explained.

It was hard to be mad at that. But, although Loki had never really followed the notion himself, sleep was very important to everyone--especially growing children. "Okay Thor, but I'm going to need you to give me both the book and the flashlight."

And he did, although not exactly willingly. "Alright, good." Loki slipped the flashlight into his pocket and tucked the book under his arm. "Now I'm going to need you to go to sleep. I know your school starts in three hours and you need to wake up in only two, but any sleep is better than no sleep. Believe me. Can you do that?"

"Fine. I can."

"Good. Now please do, and I'll see you tonight. Okay?" After a nod Loki smiled and kissed his forehead. "I love you."

"I love you too Dad," Thor mumbled as he pulled the covers over him and actually snuggled in that time, casting a little wave as his father stood up and rested the book on the dresser by the door.

Loki mimicked the action before closing the door behind him to let him finally get some sleep. He could only wish his daughter was doing better.

Well... at least she was asleep.

When Loki cracked open her door and peeked in, he stepped in to find her passed out on her desk, her dark brown hair strewn across the textbooks she was on top of that clearly showed what she had been doing before she had fallen unconscious. Once he was close enough to realize the latter he then began removing the most likely uncomfortable volumes and then shut off the light-as quietly as possible of course-before finally draping a blanket over her back. It was all he could do for now, so he then gently shut the door behind him and finally left the house knowing that his family was safe. Sometimes reassurance was necessary. Especially after the flashbacks to when he had no reassurance.

~~

Loki stripped off his jacket and hung it over his arm as soon as he stepped into the heated tattoo parlor, throwing a wave to Nebula where she was bent over some muscled guys tanned back, before he stopped at the main desk to clock in. "Any appointments for the day?" he questioned as Mary signed him in.

As she, Mantis as she was known to her parlor friends, tapped at her computer, Loki looked over the many tattoos lacing up and down her revealed pale arms and internally wondered if they all had a deeper meaning like his own did. He could just ask, perhaps, as that would be a billion times easier than just wondering, but that would possibly lead to questions about his own, which would lead to a lot of fear and possibly a good old anxiety attack. Sounded fun. Oh, she was talking. "Only one, so the rest will be walk-ins. Ayesha should be here by eight with a request for some sort of New York City landscape, whatever that means, but I'm sure she'll explain it better than she did over the phone. It was actually late last night. She might've been drunk." Not the first time it happened. From there only 20% of people then actually showed up. "We'll see if she arrives or not."

"Makes sense. Thanks, Mantis."

She didn't answer. Loki was actually 90% sure that she was asleep right there standing behind the desk. "Mantis?" he repeated, waving his hands over her eyes, suddenly feeling bad for never being able to take the night shift. "You alive?"

With a jerk she seemed to come back to consciousness and make the tattoo artist flinch in the same second. "Oh. Yes. Sorry, I have not slept in 36 hours. Just go settle in until either a walk-in or Ayesha arrives."

Although he wanted to listen he stalled temporarily, wondering if there was anything he could do for her, before just nodding and moving toward the backroom.

Loki hung his coat up after he pushed open the door and immediately went for the day-old coffee pot, as neither him nor any other employee really cared what the drink tasted like as long as they got the fast juice. The fast was the important part. All the contents were emptied into a hopefully clean Snoopy mug that was pretty much known as his before he downed it all. Loki had been working there long enough to know how the mug situation works.

A collective 13 years how long he had been employed at Quill's Tattoos, with a five year gap in between when he had been a house husband to take care of his infant son.

skip to news

To Loki's surprise, Ayesha actually showed up.

"Okay, I vaguely remember making an appointment here last night through a haze of my idiotic drunkenness, and I've always kind of wanted one, so now I'm here," she explained to Mantis in a whisper as Loki leaned against the counter and watched, intrigued by her arrival and her hungover state.

Mantis, just as surprised and amused, nodded and explained the situation back to her and the same soft tone that she had used. It wasn't her first rodeo. "Yes ma'am, you did make an appointment last night in a seemingly extremely intoxicated state. You requested an 8 AM slot with the employee with the most gentle hands. So you'll be with Loki this morning." With a blush of embarrassment Ayesha looked over at Loki as he waved, fighting a snicker at what she had asked for. "I can replay the call to confirm if you'd like."

"No! No, I- I believe it."

"Alright." Mantis scribbled a few things out on a piece of paper before tearing it off and handing it over to Loki. "You'll go with him now. Depending on what you want and if you even know what you want, you'll either finish it today or have to make another appointment in the future."

Ayesha nodded in understanding, lightly fiddling with the strap of her purse as she followed Loki from the reception desk and into the main area of the shop, and then past a curtain of beads into a room with a few collected tables and chairs intended for discussions as well as an option for employees to take their lunch breaks. They quickly found one that they wished to sit down at. "So, do you have an idea of what you'd like? Because if you don't know or don't even have an exact idea, I have some of drawings of my own as well as other designs that I haven't gotten to but can also do myself," Loki began in the same gentle voice as to not hurt her, taking out the book he had under his arm and pushing it across the table to her.

"Okay good because I have no idea what the fuck I'm doing," she whispered and quickly cracked open the binder, flipping through the pages and carefully dragging her finger across the laminated pictures and drawings. "But I do know I want it on my bicep."

"Alright, I can start there. See anything you like?"

She flipped a few more pages in silence before she slowly nodded. "This one. I like the style." The drawing she had in mind was a deeply red rose, its overly long stem tied up in itself over and over again, along with jutting thorns that glinted with blood. "Although I'd prefer a different type of flower."

"Oh, that's easy. Just give me a bit to draw up a quick sketch and I'll see what I can do. But what type of flower?" As he anticipated her answer, Loki opened the book a little wider so he could snatch up one of the loose papers at the back to draw on and pulled a pencil from behind his ear.

"Hmm... how about a Narcissus flower? Oh, what's the other name- a daffodil! That one," she responded as she already began to tap at her bicep where she planned for it to go.

Loki immediately got to work. Meanwhile, Ayesha fell silent once more and pulled out her phone, the scribble of his pencil being the only sound that echoed through the empty area. Until about ten minutes had gone by and the client cried out.

"Oh my god!"

"What? I'm not finished but if it's way off from what you were imagining I can change it-"

"No, no," Ayesha interrupted, her eyes locked on the space above him. "I mean... look!"

Loki followed her finger to where she was pointed until he found himself staring at the small TV in the corner of the room, which was currently on mute, but no noise was needed for him to understand what was going on. The picture alone showed him a very familiar face holding a gun to his daughter's head from the perspective of someone who was clearly a hiding student. "I have to go."

"Wait, wh-"

"Talk to Mantis!" he threw over his shoulder as he burst through the beads and eventually out the door, not even bothering to grab his jacket on the way out, just jumping on his bike and taking off. He'd never get that jacket back. He'd probably never go back to his job ever again either. His past had finally reached him, and due to it, there was no way he wasn't going to lose his future along with it.

~~

Loki practically kicked his front door down when he reached it. Thankfully empty, he stormed down the hall and immediately went to his bedroom and opened his and his husband's shared closet. After all clothes were shoved aside in order for him to have access to the blank back wall, Loki pressed his bare palm to the black paint and leaned in, only removing it when he felt the scanner confirm his identity and the hidden door began to open with a small sliding sound. It revealed a 12 by 12 titanium covered secret room covered in weapons, memoriams of his childhood, and most importantly, the world famous outfit that made everyone know his name. The Frost Giant. Flashbacks already started to tear through his mind just at the sight of it. But this wasn't about him. This was about his daughter, and absolutely nothing else. So he grabbed the mask wrapped around the mannequin's head and snapped it on his jaw, doing his best to ignore the shivers that went down his spine. All the bodies he'd dropped were coming back to him. From afar, close up; from world leaders to innocent civilians- all because of him. Just think about her. Just think about her.

~~

Bound at both the wrists and the mouth, all Hela could do was swing her legs and wiggle around in her captor's grip, although clearly to no avail since she had been at it for over 15 minutes. Technically she did accomplish something, as she did manage to annoy her captor. But having a gun pointed at your head and being told to stop otherwise you'd die wasn't really a win. "All of you are recording this right?" he called out to the other students quivering inside their classrooms, phones urgently held up to the window, a chorus of silent nods responding to his question. They were too scared to speak. "And it's on the news?" More nods. "Good. He should be here soon then."

"He's already here."

A click of a gun along with the voice made the man do a 180 on his heel, whipping Hela along with him. She was annoyed before she was screaming at the sight of the new party. "Froosht?" she exclaimed, most likely meaning to say 'Frost'.

Loki's face grew worried at the mention, an expression that was thankfully being hidden by the mask. Frost was his assassin name, short for his full title of 'The Frost Giant', a title that his daughter knew of. She knew his past. She knew his past without even knowing it. "The Collector," he spoke to the man anyway, trying to avoid eye contact with her in fear of recognition. He also lost his accent as an attempt to shield his voice. "It's been a while."

"The Frost Giant. I could say the same. Last time I saw you, you were stealing my daughter."

With a dry chuckle Loki took a step forward. "Perhaps so. But I'm afraid I have to take another female away from you." His chin jerked over to Hela. "The girl. Release her. Or I'll paint the wall with your vital organs."

The Collector laughed as if Loki had just told the funniest joke in the world while his victim looked confused at the assassin with her big gray bambi eyes. The mixture of fear, confusion, and just a slight glimmer of hope inside them cracked Loki's heart. "Oh, no no no no no. You escaped by the skin of your teeth and left a trail of blood behind you last time, there's no way you're getting her any easier than that again," The Collector hissed as he tapped the barrel of his gun to Hela's head. She squirmed and looked pleadingly up at Loki- thankfully not recognizing the 'again' comment. She knew she was looking at an assassin... but she just wanted to get out.

"Why?" Hela was gagged at the mouth, muffling every word, but that one syllable was still clear as day.

Why me? Why you? Why are you doing this? That was what she was asking. But all she got out was 'why?'. The Collector said something before Loki was able to open a mouth that had no words to speak. "Yeah, Frosty, why don't you tell her why you're here? Why are you doing this? Come on, inform the girl," he evilly purred, forcing the girl closer to him with the weapon still pressed against her skull.

Loki of course said nothing about it. "If you don't listen to me I will splatter your brain all over the wall." 

"What, like you did to James Barnes?" 

"YOU SHUT UP ABOUT BUCKY!" Loki spat in a sudden burst of anger, one that made even The Collector step back in a bit of surprise. But then he grinned at the nerve he had struck. The assassin was not in the fucking mood. So he inhaled sharply, shoved down the trauma and the recollection of his dream, and tightened his grip on the weapon. "Put her down and I won't kill you, does that make fucking sense?" 

"No. Wrong. You take off the mask, and I won't kill her." The room froze as every single person's, spare The Collector of course, eye's widened at his deal. He wanted Loki to reveal his identity to the world. After seeing the recording at his work, he already knew he had lost his life (although he was doing a great job at oppressing it), but lost his life in the way that he'd lose his family. But if he took off the mask, then he’d lose not only his family, but the ability to live in the world anymore. Taking off the mask meant death without the freedom of release. "You have 10 seconds." The Collector's smirk was just proof that he knew what he was doing. "And don't try anything tricky; I'll pull the trigger at even the tremble of a finger. So put the gun down, and face the music."

The gun was put down as asked.

"10."

He didn't have a choice, did he?

"9."

Letting his daughter die was worse than anything else that could happen to him.

"8."

For a second he thought about the possibility of disarming him and attempting to get the best out of both really really bad worlds.

"7."

But that was too risky.

"6."

The Collector wasn't lying, he would shoot at the tick of a pinkie, and he had an itchy trigger finger to do so with.

"5."

Lose the mask, or lose his daughter.

"4."

Now that was an easy decision.

"3."

'Easy'.

"2."

Loki would suffer the loss of his husband, and his children, as well as everything in the on-the-grid world that he had ever known-- but they would all live on.

"1."

"Alright!" Loki exclaimed and raised up his hands in defense, his gun having been tucked into the harness being partially shielded by his oversized cargo jacket. "I'm doing it, I'm doing it." After peeling off his right glove Loki's hand reached up to his face and his fingertips grazed the fabric. "But Hela?"

Hela's eyes widened once more. How do you know my name? was what she clearly wanted to say.

"I'll always love you."

Her extreme facial confusion continued until the mask was finally peeled off of his face and she let out a loud gasp. "Dad?!"

More and more gasps echoed into the hallway from the crowded groups of kids that had been eagerly pressed against the glass ever since Loki entered the building, each sound and expression striking the assassin harder and harder- but none more than his daughter's. Her face was filled with such a large amount of pain and betrayal, and all without her saying a word. "I'm so sorry," he whispered as he shoved his mask in his pocket and pulled out his gun once more. "But I did what you asked. We had a deal."

"Okay, okay, you're right. We had a deal. And I'm a man of my word." After the removal of her gag and his grip of her hands, Hela was let free.

But she didn't run. She slowly stepped forward to her father and scrunched her nose, tears clearly building up, and her fists clenching and unclenching at her side. Her mouth opened like she was going to say something. But then she closed it and stormed off behind The Collector.

Of course he was still grinning. "Why do you look so crushed? She's not even your daughter anyway."

Hela stopped walking. "What the hell does he mean?" she slowly questioned, unhurriedly turning back toward the two men.

"Get out of here, Hela, it's not safe."

"What the HELL does he mean!?" she repeated.

The Collector looked back at her and raised an eyebrow. "Go on, Frosty, don't be shy. Tell her how she was the daughter that you stole from me. Tell her how you took her right from her bed. Tell her what you were doing when you took her from her crib."

"Crib?! You had her in a bloody cardboard box!" Loki snapped.

Which was just what The Collector wanted. Proof from the man himself that Hela wasn't his, and was in fact stolen from him. "Tell her how you carried her, while you, bloody and beaten, hid scared to death in an alleyway, waiting there until your current husband found you. Tell her. Tell her who you were that led to all of this." His voice was as slick as a mother fucking snake. Once again, his plan was going perfectly. And that plan was to push Loki into the past.

~

Loki had been sipping a glass of Rosé wine-both of which he had stolen-in his dark underground hideout in Britain when he got the call. A job of his that he only barely managed to escape from had just ended 30 minutes prior, so as he lowered his glass to the ground next to the pile of blood spattered money he had gained from it, he only pulled out his burner phone with extreme reluctance. To be perfectly honest, he was too tired to take another job. But in the business that he was in, he didn't have a choice. Missing a call or denying a mission, or even just being too rude to one's hirer, could mean at the very least receiving no money for one's work, and at the very most... death. So he answered the call. "What is it?"

"It's The Watchman. I know you just had a job, but this is important."

Oh. Perhaps the day was looking up. "Well if it isn't my favorite boss. What do you have for me now?"

"There's this drug lord, in New York City, who calls himself 'The Collector', and he works in an abandoned warehouse near the water on West Houston Street. As you can predict, I want him dead. I don't care what method you use whether it's obvious there's foul play or you frame it as a suicide, he just needs to have no pulse. You're allowed to take any money or even cocaine (to sell, I know you're clean) from the scene. Only requirement is that there's no witnesses. As for pay from me, I'll leave 10K on the corner of 6th Avenue and West 8th. You know it?"

Although Loki spent most of his time in and around Europe, he had visited America a lot (mostly New York), so he did know what he was talking about. "Yeah, near Bleeker Street, I remember."

"Good. Get it done ASAP."

"On it."

An eight hour flight filled with a lot of vodka and opera music followed. (The former probably shouldn't have happened since he was the one driving the plane. He had already stolen it, he wasn't going to steal a pilot only to kill him as a witness later. Too risky.) But he still successfully made it to New York.

He touched down in Marine Park in the dead of night. Late enough that the city seemed unusually asleep. From there he walked a bit before he stole a motorcycle and continued his journey to the scene of where the crime was to take place. He then stopped about half a mile before he reached the warehouse in order to not make a loud entrance, then walking the rest of the way with a gun in hand and his mask already settled in place, a knife also at his belt in order to silently kill anyone in his path. Guns would warn his victim that he was coming. Sure, sometimes there were random gunshots around, it was America, but he still had to be careful.

By the time he reached the actual building he had slit about two guards throats. Less than usual. There must be more traps inside, Loki thought. 

And dear god there were. The classic flour blown down an empty hallway as soon as he silently broke through the door revealed a shit ton of lasers that Loki considered way too overboard for just a popular cocaine dealer, making him consider that this guy was hiding something more than just crack, but as he slipped among the lasers as if it was nothing he brushed it off and just tried to focus on his mission. At least that one seemed to be the worst of the worst, as all other traps just forced him to knock out a few cameras, stab a few more guards, or dodge a few shots. Simple. Well at least until he passed the final door and heard the cry of a baby. It made him stop dead in his tracks. 

There was a baby? On all of his missions Loki had never dealt with children since children were never really around the types of people he was sent to kill, either good or bad. Half of his brain wanted to paint it as his imagination and just continue and kill the dealer. But the other half was somehow stronger and forced him to go check it out. 

As quietly as possible Loki knelt down on the cement and picked the door's lock, then slipped inside and closed it softly behind him. 

It was almost entirely empty. About 12 by eight feet if he had to guess, with floor to ceiling cement that hadn't been cleaned in... ever, and the only object inside being a small cardboard box in the corner. That was where the baby was curled up. 

She cried out again as he peered down at her, twisting in her box and whining, with nothing but a diaper and a blood spattered piece of cloth covering her body. Loki winced and gently placed a hand on her forehead. She felt unnaturally warm. Fuck, she has a fever, he swore. "Poor baby, is that bastard coke dealer your father?" he purred gently as his fingers cupped the sides of her body, lifting her up into the air and then cradling her against his body, trying to think of something to do. But nothing really came to mind. 

So he just held her close until he heard the click of a gun behind his head.

~

Loki stayed silent as everything came back up from the pile of dirt which he had buried the memories under. He only escaped by the very skin of his teeth that night, so imagining all of that again with the now heartbroken grown up baby demanding an explanation, he didn't know what to say. He couldn't say anything. But it broke him even more when Hela scoffed, tears slipping down her cheeks, and said 'fuck you, 'Dad'' before storming of once more. The quotations stung. Everything stung. And he didn't even have a physical scar on him yet. "I was an abused child, forced into an organization that I had no business being in with no way to escape except timeless torture, and after I finally escaped it and got to grow my own life, this is what I get. There is no way in hell you're getting out of this alive," Loki hissed, cocking the gun once more and slowly dragging the trigger back with the barrel pointed right between his eyes.

The sliding of tile against metal was occuring as his opponent slowly shook his head, but Loki didn't want to take his eyes off of him just in case. It's not like they'd pose more of a danger that The Collector did. "Oh, Loki. Once again; you're wrong." The click of a gun informed Loki that there was in fact someone behind him. Fun. "I'm going to leave. And my henchmen are going to kill you." More and more footsteps echoed down the hallway as if they were coming. The Collector really had perfect timing, didn't he? "Sound fair?"

Cool steel pressed against the back of Loki's thick tied up hair. And for some reason, that was what made everything flood out of Loki's body. It reminded him of the night he had rescued his daughter. Sadness, anxiety, all of it drained out- and he just saw red. "Completely fair."

Although a little put off by his response, The Collector nodded at him before then turning on his heel, soon disappearing down the hallway. Loki waited a few seconds in silence to make sure before he spoke. "Kids. Close your eyes." His tone, which was calmer than the gentle breeze on a soft summer's day, was scarier than any other tone The Collector had put forward.

His gun dropped to the ground with a clatter and Loki ducked down and kicked back his legs, simultaneously dodging the bullet the henchmen shot out and knocking him down, before he rolled forward and stood up. Then without missing a beat Loki

hahaha fight scene who?

Stephen arrived at the building just as the cops grabbed Loki from where he stood at the front doors of the school, covered in spattered blood and an apathetic expression, soon to be shoved down against the hood of a police car and aggressively handcuffed. "Hey, HEY, get off of him!" Stephen exclaimed as he opened his door and ran over to try to help his husband. But, as expected, he was stopped by police before he could get close enough.

"Sir, I'm going to need you to stay back," the one of the two officers grabbing his arms roughly instructed. "This is a closed crime scene."

"And that's my husband!" Stephen snapped back with a twist that forced both of them to let go, although he was predictably grabbed yet again.

The officers didn't care. "And your husband is an international killer." Stephen snarled. "So stay back or we'll be forced to detain you too."

Knowing him, Stephen would have very well fought back and have been arrested himself. But then he heard a familiar voice shout his name. "Hela!" Stephen broke out of their grip once more and bolted over to his daughter, hugging him tightly against his chest once he was close enough to embrace her. She was sobbing into his shirt. "It's okay darling, we're okay. I promise."

"D-dad, I'm not his. He's not my dad, he st-he stole me! From that fu-*hic*-from that fucking psycho that held me hostage! I'm his daughter," she hissed out in opposition, only pushing away to prove him wrong. "Nothing is okay!"

The words were entirely new information to Stephen. But this wasn't about him, he had to figure it out and comfort his daughter. "Hela, I know you not being Loki's biological daughter after thinking you were for so long can be shocking, especially since you now know that your genes actually belong to such a terrible man, but biology. Means. Nothing. You're my daughter, aren't you?"

Hela slightly twisted, more tears streaming down her cheeks as she nodded.

"And we're not biologically related. Gene's don't mean shit- what matters is that I love you. And Loki loves you, I promise that. I don't care what this new information is, and I don't even entirely understand it, but he loves you. He proved it concretely today by risking everything just to save you. So please, Hela, don't think otherwise no matter what. Okay?"

She was crying even harder, so Stephen pulled her back in and gently rubbed her back as best as possible as she slowly began to soak his shirt. 

fuck I'm bad at this

It was past midnight. After seeing the police tape of Loki escaping, picking Thor up from school, and shoving their way through the crowd of reporters in front of their house, the Strange family had been sitting in Hela's locked bedroom with no sound spare the TV playing Spongebob, which no one was paying attention to except for Thor. Stephen and Hela just sat there for hours and thought with only the occasional drift off to a device that they couldn't focus on. "I think most of the press is gone." 

"Finally," Hela huffed, tilting her head back until the crown of it was pressed up against the wall. "I hope they don't come back." Both knew very well that they would be. 

Thor had fallen asleep around eight from exhaustion. The other two had tried to follow suit, or at least get in a little cat nap, but to no avail. A mind choked with its own thoughts is not a mind that can relax. "Is this what our life is going to be now?" Once again was the silence broken. "Hiding away from the world, from the second hand guilt and shame of all those lives that Dad took almost two decades ago? This isn't our fault, why do we have to do this?"

"Because I married him, Hela." His answer made her look up ."When I married him, I accepted everything about him, even the things that I was unaware of, so I'm going to stick with him." With a sigh, Stephen pushed up from his position and went to sit next to his daughter across the room. "I never told you this before, since there was really no reason to, but there were a lot of red flags before we got together. Remember how I told you that we first met when I found him injured in an alleyway with you and then brought both of you to the hospital?" She nodded, so he continued. "Well, the story's a bit watered down. Yes, I did technically find him injured in an alleyway with you, but he had been stabbed at least 13 times, and shot once, and was practically bleeding all over the place when I reached him. That was the first red flag. The second one was when he was being examined at the hospital while being patched up. There they found traces of cocaine on his fingers, random wads of a lot of cash stuffed into his pockets, and, weirdest of all, that neither his fingerprint or dental records were in the system. And then the third one I just recognized from our talks in the hospital. We had good chemistry so we had a good conversation, but things still seemed... off. Like he hadn't had any genuine human interaction in a few years. And with all that in mind, when we met up again a year later, I still asked him out. I accepted and dealt with his faults before we even started dating, so I'm certainly not about to stop now. He's my husband and I love him. And he's your dad. That doesn't mean I expect you to be suddenly okay with all the deaths and all this new infamousness, but he is your dad, and he's never treated us wrong." 

By the time he stopped Hela had tears pricking at the corners of her eyes, threatening to spill down her cheeks. "He has never treated us wrong. It just makes it so much more unbelievable that he's committed such... atrocities." Hela turned her whole body to her father as she tucked her hair behind both ears as she normally did when she thought. "Besides those red flags, have there been any more that directly pointed to 'assassin' that you now realize you ignored? Or no?" 

Stephen turned toward her as well. "A few, maybe. Nothing that now makes me think 'holy shit I should have known he was an assassin', but things that make me think 'maybe I should have paid a little more attention'. (Not that I would have done anything about it if I somehow figured it out.) The nightmares that he refused to talk about, being handed over to some 'group' as a baby, the brand on the back of his neck, all the tattoos all over his body connected to people that he shied away from-" 

An unfamiliar creaking noise stopped the father in his tracks. Even though his daughter somehow didn't hear it. "What? Shied away from what? Do you mean those tattoos are connected to people?" 

As politely as possible Stephen told his daughter to stop talking so he could listen to the noises. Maybe he was just on edge and it was just the house settling, but he wanted to make sure. He had a family to protect. 

It came again. It was downstairs. It seemed like the sound of a door opening. "Alright, I have to check that out." 

"What?? Have you not seen any horror movie ever? Don't investigate, you will die! Plus, you're queer and disabled, according to Hollywood, you'll die first." 

"Well I guess it's a good thing we're not in Hollywood then," Stephen whispered as he stood up, softly twisting the doorknob and cracking open the door. 

"But you still shouldn't go, it could be like someone looking to get revenge on Da- Dad! Dad!" Hela whisper-shouted from inside the room, swearing lightly as she watched him disappear down the hallway with a softball bat he took from her in hand, before then turning back around to glance at her sleeping brother. Should she stay and protect him or follow her stupid-ass dad? Decisions, decisions...

~

Stephen had no idea why he had taken the bat. If he hit someone with it he'd no doubt end up hurting himself more than the home invader, therefore making its purpose inadequate, but he had still done it. Maybe because it was just a reflex. Threatened? Grab a weapon for protection. But he wouldn't really be able to protect himself with it. 

Skipping all the creaky stairs that he had memorized over the years, Stephen crept down the stairs toward where he had heard the noise come from, his hands trembling a bit more than usual as he did. Like they always did when he was nervous. Past the kitchen and down the hallway, he crept along the wall until he finally discovered what was making the noise. 

"This is the correct house, right?" the unknown man questioned the unknown woman next to him, raising up what seemed to be some sort of scanner and slowly dragging it in front of the walls. "We're going to be in big trouble if we've broken into some poor unsuspecting person's home. We can't afford a 911 call right now, we're already in enough danger just by coming here." 

"Yes, yes, I'm sure, Bruce" the woman responded with a fake annoyed tone that made the man snort lightly. "You hacked the system, I tracked the house, we know what we're doing."

"Yeah, but remember Mongolia?" 

The woman winced as the man laughed once more. “I'd rather forget Mongolia. Let’s just focus on finding out where Loki is, that’s our first priority.” 

“You’re right, Valkyrie, you’re right.” 

Having seen enough to take a good guess at who exactly was intruding, Stephen lowered his bat and carefully crept back upstairs to where his children hid. Thankfully Hela was still there and hadn’t followed him out as he feared. 

“Good, you’re not dead! Now who’s out there?” she whispered once the door was carefully closed behind him. 

“It’s a man and a woman named Bruce and Valkyrie, late thirties to early forties, and with a lot of weapons. But they’re not robbers, they’re not taking anything, they’re looking for Loki. And something about their nonchalant tone tells me that it’s thankfully not in a negative way. But there’s still two unknown armed assassins in our house,” Stephen quickly detailed, the bat handed off to her as he kneeled down. “And, to be perfectly honest, as your father, I have no idea what to do.” 

“Well neither of us have really dealt with assassins before. Well... knowingly,” Hela pointed out.

“True, but we should still do something.” 

Hela planned to answer with something; maybe a solution of some sort of escape plan, but she closed her mouth when she heard the third step of the stairs creak like it always did. “They’re on their way up.” 

The Strange pair froze out of fear of the unknown, any sliver of a plan completely vanishing from their minds at the sound of their approach, making them no better than sitting ducks. 

[luci-in-trenchcoats]

Just A Little Beat Up

Summary: Dean has grown distant from the reader and she’s convinced he’s done with her until they try to reconnect...

Pairing: Dean x reader

Word Count: 2,400ish

Warnings: language, smut, angst

A/N: Repost of my fic originally written for @ilostmyshoe-79 ‘s 20K follower contest. The theme/prompt was “Blame it on my wild heart.” Features a whole lot of angst with some sweet smut thrown in...

Something was broken with you and Dean. One day, you couldn’t even remember what day it was, he didn’t pull you up against him as you lay in bed together. You figured he was tired was all. Then he stopped sitting as close as he used to. It was only inches but it felt like miles. He stopped making you a cup of coffee in the morning. He stopped wrapping his arm over your shoulder when you walked together. He stopped telling you how beautiful you were to him, how you kept him safe, how you were his and he was yours.

He’d stopped loving you.

You were eating a bowl of cereal when it dawned on you. Even worse, you didn’t get upset. He’d been colder and it’d made you hard, just like him. You didn’t need him, didn’t need anyone, right? You’d been on your own before and you could certainly do it again.

As you were rinsing out the bowl, it actually hit you, no longer the shock but now the hurt as well. The ache in you that was hidden one second, painfully obvious the next. You laughed to yourself as you ran a hand up to your face, already feeling the salty wetness leaking from your eyes.

“Fuck,” you whispered. “No,” you begged to the empty space. He’d ruined you in all the best ways with love and affection and warmth. He was going to ruin you in all the worst now.

You made your mind focus on the one stupid task of washing that bowl, drying it and putting it away. You could handle that, a simple chore. But when the cupboard closed, there was no where left to go apart from that pain. You’d been fighting it forever, knowing it was coming, knowing from all the little things he had been pushing you away, trying to spare you the moment where he had to say he didn’t want you.

It came crashing down over you as you slid down, your back against the cabinet, hidden behind the island, knees curled into your chest as you sobbed, not caring how loud you were. Dean was the only other person home and it was clear caring about you was no longer a concern for him.

Your body trembled as you waited for yourself to let it all out, get it out of your system so you could put on a steely face and pack up, leave this place forever. But it wasn’t working. You’d never broken down like this. As you continued, you only felt worse, felt like a part of your soul was gone, like your heart was dying.

“Dammit, Dean,” you choked out, fingernails digging into your skin to desperately find another source of agony to clench onto. When you knew it’d been more than a few minutes, more than an hour, you understood why.

You loved him. You’d always love him and you’d fight for him. All because of your heart that had to go and flutter wildly the moment you laid eyes on him. All because your heart knew instantly what your mind wanted to ignore. There was no falling for Dean Winchester because you’d already hit the ground in the blink of an eye.

Without warning, just as he’d come into your life, the sound of heavy footfalls echoed through the halls, coming closer until you heard them stop right beside you. Your head was burrowed in your knees, your shirt damp, your body quivering every so often. Dean said nothing, no comforting words, no gentle hand on your back and you lost it all over again. If he saw you like this and felt nothing, he was never taking you back.

His footsteps moved away again and you shook, biting down the pathetic sound that escaped your throat.  

But they came back eventually as you expected to hear the sound of your duffle hitting the floor, Dean throwing you out. You did hear the sound of something but it was too quiet, sounded too much like skin hitting the cement below.

With great effort, you turned your head and opened your eyes, barely able to make out the sight before you through your tears.

Dean looked as bad as you felt. His eyes were red and puffy, his shoulders slumped, everything in him submissive and regretful. He was on his knees, eyes staring into yours with so much pain you couldn’t possibly understand why he was like this.

“Did something happen to Sam?” you whispered in a broken voice, unable to take anymore bad news for the day. Dean shook his head as he whimpered, a foreign sound to you.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he said, nodding towards you just enough that you knew what he meant.

“I’ll be out of here by end of today,” you said, trying to shift your legs you’d gripped so tightly that they too ached horrendously. Dean was shaking his head before he spoke.

“I want you safe and this life isn’t safe,” he said, rubbing his hands through his hair before looking at you with desperate green eyes. “I’ve tried to distance myself and I see what it’s done. I...I have spent the past hour listening to you, trying to convince myself that this pain right now is the better choice. But it’s not, it’s just not,” he said, voice wrecked.

“Why couldn’t you talk to me about this? Instead of us getting to the point where we’re trying to put this back together on the floor of your kitchen,” you said, watching the flicker of fear in Dean’s eyes.

“Our kitchen,” he said, a tremble to his words. “You meant our kitchen, right,” he said, trying his best to not make it sound like a question.

“You can’t fix months of pushing me away like that, Dean. I have to know you’ll never do it again, you have to make me know it so much I’ll never be afraid that it’ll all disappear. If you won’t do that for me, we won’t ever be fixed,” you said, more confident than expected. Dean said nothing as he slid over next to you, his large calloused hand cupping your cheek.

“Please don’t give up on me,” he said quietly, his tired green eyes softer. You had all the control now, could tell him to stop, tell him to keep going, tell him off or give him the silent treatment.

Your lips crashed into his like you were starving for it, the soft pink flesh tasting like salt from where he hadn’t wiped away his dried tears. As you moved together, both of you hungry and needy, you felt new wetness on your cheek. Dean broke away for a moment as your mind flooded with a million possible fears.

“I don’t remember the last time I kissed you. I can’t even...” he trailed off, your hand finding the back of his head, running your fingers through the short strands of dirty blonde hair. “Be mad at me.”

“I am. Now make me forgive you,” you said, nuzzling your cheek against his scruff, the roughness of it a distant memory. You couldn’t recall the last time he’d touched you, even brushed his hand up against yours. You certainly didn’t remember the last you were intimate.

Dean sat up and swept you off your feet with urgency, carrying you bridal style into the bed you hadn’t shared for quite some time. As he sat you down on your old side of it, you sighed. Why had you moved to your old room, before you and Dean were together, when you were still giving each other flirty glances and nervous laughs? This was where you were supposed to be, right next to him.

The sound of the door shutting made you sit upright. He looked shy, like it was the first time you were about to do this, like you didn’t know every inch of one another. Dean shifted on his feet as he walked over to you, taking a seat beside you. One of his hands hesitantly found your waist as he lowered his lips to yours.

He went slow, even slow for Dean Winchester, the hard man who was also the sweetest and gentlest you’d ever come to know. You smiled against him, his lips curling as you realized, he really was trying to learn you all over again.

“Dean,” you said, sitting back to run a thumb across his cheek. You gave a reassuring smile. “You don’t have to be so scared.” With those words, his hold on you got tighter, his lips on yours crushing them with a bruising force, everything more loving somehow.

Eventually, after your mouth was sore from the slow dance of working with his, after the fun of playing had grown into your chests smashed together, you broke apart. There was no fanfare in taking off your shirt, taking off his. You giggled as Dean had trouble with your bra, something the man hadn’t had a problem with a day in his life.

When your underwear fell onto his boxers, you looked at him like you’d never done so before. His body was the same but different. He looked too skinny in the ribs as he noticed the bruise on your hip from last week’s hunt. His fingers ghosted over the area as you took in the scars from a hunt a month ago. They were jagged, not the clean lines you could stitch him up with.

“Maybe Cas can heal these,” you said, trailing your fingers over his chest.

“I thought you liked my battle wounds,” he chuckled. He was right. You might have adored the way he looked, but you didn’t care if he didn’t have those locks or pretty eyes, the strong build, the cute freckles. He could be covered in scars and he’d still be gorgeous because you loved the man, the body he was in always an after thought.

“I wasn’t there for you,” you said. Normally Dean would have protested, like you did when he insisted Cas heal the large one on your back. But you liked the one on your back and Dean grew to as well. It was a memory of the first time you jumped in front of him, the first time he knew you were an idiot for loving him.

“Tomorrow,” he said, nodding in agreement. Your hand fell down his chest, pausing a beat as Dean moved his hand to rest on your thigh, long fingers dangerously close to your aching core. With a smooth movement, he reached down and dipped a finger through your folds, not teasing but slow, letting you feel it. You gave him the same treatment, running your thumb over the tip of his cock, gently rubbing into his slit. Dean gave a small groan, his fingers on your clit pulling one from you.

You were both in the sweet spot of close but still far enough from the edge that you weren’t chasing an end quiet yet. Dean moved a finger down to your entrance, ready to move in when your hand caught his wrist.

“No. No more, I want you Dean,” you said, shifting your hips so his tip was lined up with you.

“It’s been a long time,” he said, some shame on his face. “I don’t want it to-”

“You won’t hurt me,” you said, hands running across his back. He was still letting you call the shots and you were positive he’d be like that for awhile, his hands carefully on your hips as he did as asked.

He slid in slowly, letting you adjust as he pressed in his tip, then more, pausing along the way every so often until he was fully sheathed inside you. Your head dropped on his chest as he lay the two of you down so you were on your back, Dean hovering over top. He felt so good inside of you again, to feel him stretch you, feel the throb of him against your walls.

Dean set a slow pace, pulling out halfway, pushing in with care and you were glad to let him. Until he was sweating with the effort it was taking to hold back, until your fingers were clawing into his shoulders, soles of your feet digging into his ass as you tried to get more from him.

“Baby,” you whined and that was it. Dean slammed in hard, your back arching off the bed. He whispered sweet promises, promises you knew he’d never break as he pounded into you, both of you needing this moment, needing those words to heal.

Dean’s cock swelled and you clamped down on him, your orgasm hitting first, Dean following after as he came inside you. Even after he had finished rutting his hips into you slowly, he stayed, your bodies holding each other close for a long time before he could bare to pull himself from you.

“I love you...and I’m sorry. I’ll talk from now on, we’ll talk so it never gets this bad,” he said, his arms wrapping you against him and holding on for life.

“I love you. We aren’t broken, us. A little beat up but we aren’t broken, we never were,” you said, your hand on his cheek.

“But you said-”

“If we were ever broken, truly done, we wouldn’t be lying here right now,” you said. His breathing calmed as he ran his fingers through your hair.

“Just a little beat up,” he said, cuddling your body.

“We’ll get back to how we were, I know we will,” you said, Dean’s lips pressing against your temple.

“A boy and his girl,” said Dean, softly. “Would you like to go on a date with me tonight?” he asked with a smile.

“I’d love to, on one condition,” you said, seeing not fear but curiosity in Dean’s eyes as he nodded. “Can I move back into our room?”

“Only if I’m allowed to help,” he said with a smirk. “I missed you sleeping by my side.”

“I missed it too, Dean,” you said, Dean’s hands lightly stroking your arm, the little touches flooding you with warmth, filling that pit that had grown large inside you.

“Partners?” he asked.

“Partners,” you said back, knowing this time when you said those words, you both meant it for good.

[crimsonredemption]

Hello Lena! ^^ coming to send this as an ask ^^ the concept in my head is something like Arthur gets wounded during a mission and he needs days to heal, while reader is worried to death. And when they first make love after Arthur gets better, reader starts to cry, because she is relieved and she enjoys being with him too much, she can't handle it. I'd love whispers between them like "You are my everything and more" "I don't know how I lived without you"or smth like this, its emotions time!Tysm❤️

Yes I hope this is a little bit as you imagined! 

Arthur’s s/o gets overwhelmed during sex and starts crying  // NSFW  //  teeny tiny bit of angst   //   fem!Reader 

The sun had settled forthe day, red and orange colors painting a beautiful picture in the sky aboveyou, it was something you usually took the time to admire, but not today. Youwere walking from your tent to the little stream not far off camp to get somefresh water for your patient. Two days ago Arthur had returned from a job, which though successful, left him heavily wounded. After the initial shock from seeing all the blood and not knowing how bad it was, you discovered that thewounds weren’t lethal. But it was still bad, and the fear that something might get infected was still very present, he also was still bed-bound and you estimated it would take him weeks until he was fully healed. You did everything you could – you fed him by your hand, washed his body from head to toe, changed the used bandages, but you didn’t mind it at all. All you wished was for Arthur to get healthy again, to be his old self. You spent your days by his side, watching over him. He looked so peaceful when he slept and you couldn’t help but stare at him while holding his hand in yours, silent prayers leaving your lips as you watched his eyelids flutter slightly as he dreamt.  

_____________________

Sweat pearls were running down your temples while you were bending over Arthur’s body to grab something that was lying next to his bedroll.

“You need any help darlin’?” Arthur reached out his unharmed arm, grabbing the flask bottle next to him, leaving you slightly hovering over his chest.

“Why yes thank you, but you should rest your,” you didn’t get to finish your sentence, as Arthur let go of the flask and reached out to your face, gently pulling you closer to him. Just as your lips were close enough to his that you could feel his breath on your face, he whispered: “kiss me Y/N”.  Without a second thought, you pressed your lips on his, tongues dancing, exploring each other’s mouths as if it was the first time. Trying not to break the kiss you climbed onto him, careful not to hurt him in any way. A glottal moan left his lungs when he felt your weight on his crotch, his hips bucking almost instinctively against your bottom. You only parted when there was no more air in your lungs to share. His fingers expertly undid any buttons he could find, helping you peel yourself out of the heavy dress you were wearing. His hands, as soon as your body was freed from the fabric, roamed your body. Caressing your breasts, gentle at first but cupping and groping them firmly, fondling your nipples. He sat up as good as he could, while you were rubbing your folds against his cock. Now that he was somewhat upright you swung your arms around his body, bringing him as close to you as possible but you felt him flinch at your touch, which made you pull away again.

“I’m so sorry Arthur, maybe we should wait some more until..” but you grew silent as a smile formed on his lips, one of these smiles that whenever you saw it, it left you speechless and weak on your knees.

“Wait? Y/N I feel like I’ve waited my whole life for this, for you.”

If only he knew the effect his words had on you…He kissed his way down your neck, his kisses getting wetter as he trailed along your collarbone. You took the chance to free his shaft from the fabric that separated your sexes, and you watched in awe as his cock grew into his full erect size. He moaned against your skin when he felt your hand around him, slowly moving up and down, squeezing him just a tiny bit which made him quiver under you. “I…I really don’t know how I lived without you…” he whispered against your skin as his cock slowly slid inside you, both of you now breathing heavily. He’s stretching you in every way possible, more than you thought you could bear, more than you thought was possible. Giving you a moment to get accustomed to him, his eyes wandered up and down your body. Feeling his gaze on you, you opened your eyes to meet his. His eyes were dark with lust, but you knew yours were, too. A moan escaped your lips when he started moving inside of you, slowly at first but his hands soon grabbed your ass, guiding you up and down his cock. The pace quickened after a few moments, a silent agreement between the two of you. You had your arms around him again, your face buried in his neck. Your bodies collided in almost frantic ways, and if you weren’t so happy to be with your lover right now you would be ashamed at the noises your body made.

“Arthur, I love you”

He didn’t say anything right away, he was too focused on what he was doing. You didn’t mind that, though since you didn’t say it to hear him say it back. You said it in the heat of the moment, the amount of love you held for that man in front of you, under you, inside you was too much for you to keep for yourself. His thrusts became faster, harder and you could feel your orgasm build up inside of you, the heat in your stomach threatening to burn you from within. Hot tears build up in the corner of your eyes, quickly swelling and finding their way down your cheeks. It was all too much for you - the pleasure you felt, the happiness that Arthur

was alive and on his way to recovery. You came after an unusually hard thrust, screaming his name, clawing your fingernails into his back. Arthur followed immediately after you, hearing you call out his name was all he needed to push himself over the edge, filling you to the brim with his cum. You felt him soften inside you and he let himself sink back into the bed, taking you down with him so that you were now laying on top of him with your head on his chest. Both of you stayed like this for a few minutes enjoying being close to each other.

“You’re everything to me, darling,I…I love you too you know” his voice was shaking a little, it was clear to you that he hasn’t had said these words often in his life. You turned your head to him, a big smile on your face but his eyes widened in shock when he saw you.

“Y/N what happened? Why areyou crying?”

Your fingers touched your cheek, feeling the wet skin beneath them. You didn’t notice you were still crying, looking back at him you saw the complete and utter look of bewilderment on his face and you couldn’t hold back your laughter.

“Nothin’ actually I just” you paused to wipe away the wetness on your face “You make me so happy and I’m so glad you’re healthy, I was so scared I could lose you”

You felt a hand searching for yours and your gladly intertwined your fingers with his, his thumb slowly stroking your skin in circles.

“I won’t leave you for nothin’ Y/N, ok?”

“Promise?”

“I promise”

[theysaywhatasadsight]

The Trouble With Wanting (Chapter One)

A/n: Hooo so I barely made it but here it is! The first chapter for @ciarawritesmarvel and I’s entry for ficwars™2019 hosted by the lovely @chillingbucky and @revengingbarnes (love u two). The prompt for thsi chapter was ‘I clearly didn’t think this through’ but because it wasn’t within inverted commas I used it as...well you’ll see. Also this is kinda short but its more of a setting up chapter than anything. Enjoy!

Series Masterlist

"Not to quote pop culture but this place is about to blow up," Nat grunted as she ducked under a table, crouching next to Clint who was bickering with Tony on the comms.

"How about we get out? It's just collateral at this point."

"Hold up, did you hear that?" She looked towards the other end of the restaurant they were currently battling in.

"Lost the aids a few minutes ago." Clint glared at her and went back to shooting.

Natasha rolled her eyes and anxiously whispered on the comms "Anyone have eyes on the ladies washroom? Pretty sure there's someone there."

"Maybe it's one of them?" Tony's voice crackled in her ear.

"I don't see ammo."

"Widow, get that briefcase and disable whatever's inside, I'll get the civilians if there are any. These IED's, I'm pretty sure we can't stop those from blowing this place to tatters." Steve muttered and then groaned, he did hate unwilling interactions with idiots who were somehow stuck in the one place they shouldn't be.

An Hour Ago

The clock ticked as the hours slipped by. 7 became 7:15, then 7:30, then 8. 8 became 8:30 and then Y/N's phone chimed.

"Hey, sorry, couldn't make it. Something with work came up."

Shooting off a quick text to let the idiot know it was okay, she rose, sniffled once and smiled at the server who had pitifully nodded at her throughout the disaster that was the first date, or rather what wasn't.

Stood up, how nice.

She managed to hold back the tears until she found an empty stall and locked the door.

Can't believe I wasted my fucking Saturday. I could've shopped for groceries. Maybe get some markers for the kids. But nooo fucking Jack Edwards has work so fucking urgent it's not even worth mentioning to your date.

The angry mental rant soon turned physical as she paced about as much she could in the tiny stall.

It wasn't until she spent a good fifteen minutes in there that she heard the screams.

~

"Wait, wait. Where's this attack again?"

"Some high end place in the middle of Manhattan. It's alien tech from when good ol' Reindeer Games tried to take over the world." Tony sighed, closing the briefing they had been sent over.

'And it's being done in public because…?" Nat enquired, not looking up from where she was cleaning beneath her fingernails with a knife. While in foam rollers and wearing a peel off mask.

"Have I mentioned how ridiculously cute you look, widow?" Sam grinned as Nat fixed him with a death glare and Clint ran a finger over his throat over Natasha's head. "They just want security and the chance to take hostages if anything goes south, I suppose."

"Kids, bickering later, please. Sarah just now decided to fall asleep." Steve yawned as he walked into the briefing room, fixing his cowl.

"Daddy dearest, duty calls." Tony grinned. He was the only one who didn't have a relax-and-enjoy-the-Saturday plan. His involved blowing something up, the bigger the better.

"Save the alliterations until later; for the love of God." Clint groaned, catching the last snatches of conversation as he put his hearing aids in.

Now

“Deep breaths. Okay. Calm down. It’s going to be okay. I’ll just...I’ll call 911. They’ll send someone over.” She tried to switch her phone on in vain.

“Anddd you had to die. Perfect. I’m going to die, talking to myself in a washroom stall, with my last message my date informing he stood me up. Mom’s going to be so embarrassed.”

She held her head in her hands, sighing. No one had come looking for her yet, the thought filling her with both relief and fear.

~

“Hello?” No one was there, only a faucet running. One of the idiots noticed him standing there and immediately shot, the bullets ringing on the vibranium shield. He turned and threw it at him, knocking him out. He sighed and turned again.

“Look, we’re evacuating. You have 5 minutes before this place goes to shit.”

Silence. He rolled his eyes and went to close the door.

“Whatever, I’m leaving. Widow, clearly you were mistaken-”

“Hold up.” A voice answered, from a stall far on the left. “Is it okay out there?”

He stepped in, locking the door from the inside.

“Well, not really. We should’ve brought more, they have alien tech and enough ammo for an army.”

“Why are you telling me all this?” the person on the other end was clearly panicking, judging by the accelerated breathing.

“Well, I’m panicking a bit too. And no one has any time to sit and listen.”

“If it’s any consolation, I was a counselor at a school once.”

“Why would kids need a counselor?”

“You’d be surprised. Most parents are. I moved jobs just to get away from it.” He could hear them calming down gradually. “Uh, is everyone dead? I heard screaming but I was having a breakdown of my own so…”

“Yeah, probably, I’m sorry.”

“That’s sad. Oh god, I could’ve been one of them.” They were breathing deeply now.

He clearly hadn’t thought this through. “Er, I don’t exactly know? I don’t do hostage rescue…”

“What the hell are you doing here then?”

“Well I was the closest, My skills are better for taking down the other side…” he was interrupted by the door groaning as it was shot open. “Fuck.”

~

Y/N could feel her heart climbing back into her throat, where it had been perched for the better part of an hour. Climbing back onto the lid, she held her breath, praying her rescuer would survive.

The gunfire stopped within a few minutes, leaving behind some screaming and groaning.

“Oh come on, don’t make that face. You deserve that, you’re evil.”

She leaned against the door. “You’re alive?”

“Well...I guess?”

“This is the weirdest goddamn day of my life.”

“Not that weird, at least you don’t have aliens dropping by. Yet.”

“Your pessimistic ass won’t last a day around a toddler, you know that?”

“I actually have a toddler of my own, who currently must be wondering where her father is…”

“Oh, poor dear.”

They were both quiet for a while.

“So are you coming out or-I mean I do have to get back soon…”

“And if I die?”

“Ma’am I promise I’ll do everything I can to prevent that.”

“If I die, you’re responsible.”

“You’re not dying.”

She cracked open the stall door to find her rescuer with his back to her, clad in navy battle gear.

“I’m sorry you look really…” he turned around. “CAPTAIN AMERICA!?!?”

“Just Steve, thank you.”

“Right, er, Steve. Should we get out?” she turned towards the door and took in various bodies on the floor, bleeding.

“Right. Right. Um, blood. There’s blood on the floor. And I’m alive. Okay.” She pitched forward and he rushed to catch her.

“Rogers? You there?” Widow’s voice came in through the comms.

‘Yep, got them.”

~

Y/N woke in a hospital, the bright fluorescents hurting her eyes.

“Good, you’re up. They’ll want a statement from you, but I won’t let them in till you’re okay.” A cheery nurse leaned over her.

“Was I shot? Why am I here?”

“Hypoglycemia, very low blood pressure, and shock. They just kept you for observation.”

“I can’t afford this. And I have a job.”

“It’s been paid for, love. And you’ll be good to go in a day. Your personal effects are with us, don’t worry.”

Sighing, Y/N leaned back. “I’m never going on a date again.”

[cupidmarwani-archive]

Come Into the Water (1/15)

Summary: Sarah, after a mental break, gets a fresh start in a small Northwestern town with a lot of secrets. (AVA/SARAH)

Warnings: Implied past rape, semi-graphic self harm, implied depression

The first box is the easiest.

Sarah sets it down in the middle of the floor and subsequently spends a few long minutes just staring out the slider as waves crash against the shore not too far away. Far enough that the high tide won’t attack her, but close enough for nothing to obstruct her view of the rolling blue under a sky of marine layer thick like the fog over her head. Bringing the box in was easy, putting it down is easy, but she’s suddenly confronted with the fact that she is not on a vacation, as eager as her mother had been to paint it that way. She gets it, in a way. Everyone would like to believe this is just a vacation, herself included. That’s what her old therapist had said, anyways. They’re still going to call every couple weeks, but she’s supposed to be seeing someone new in town twice a week.

All the boxes in the middle are a little harder, but the hardest is the last box because it forces her to confront the fact that everything she owns fits into only six cardboard moving boxes. One of pillows and blankets. One of towels. Two of clothes. One of plates, bowls, cups and silverware. And one of books and trinkets. Six boxes contain her whole life, or at least what she’s managed to salvage of herself. Sarah just looks at the last box, not bringing it in, while the movers supply her with freshly bought furniture courtesy of her mother. A couch, a dining room table, a few chairs, a bedframe and mattress, and a dresser are put in their places. Then the movers bid her a stiff goodbye and drive off, leaving her to numbly look at the box on the front porch in front of her.

In theory, it’s easy. Pick up the box. Carry it inside. Put it next to the others. It’s a little heavy, but nothing she can’t handle, in all honesty. She’d managed to build some muscle a few months ago, and while it’s begun to wither away, she’s still more than capable of carrying in the box. All she has to do is pick it up. Pick it up. Pick it up. Her hands are in her hair, pulling but not hard, yet. Eyes shut. The weight of her body is too heavy on her feet. Sinking into the concrete porch. Pick up the box. She just has to pick up the box. But instead, she thinks she might be crying. Wasn’t this supposed to be over?

The next thing she knows, she’s sitting on top of the box, pulling absentmindedly at the bandages on her forearm. However, absentmindedly has an implication of something peaceful. Habitual and familiar, absentmindedness is pleasant the way so many talk about it. A forgetful college professor rushing into class, a mother spreading peanut butter on her phone, a kid scuffing his shoe on the pavement. This is a different absentminded, the way her fingers dig into the edge of the white gauze and pull at it with fervor. But it’s still absent, still unintentional and without the awareness with which she has taken to approaching a great amount of her life lately.

She finds herself watching the sun fall into the horizon over the waves, and scours her mind for when she got here. It was morning, she thinks. The sun was low in the sky, the fog still drooling onto the land from the restless waves. Now the day has escaped her, and she’s torn open the first layer of bandages on her arm. For this very reason, there are three or four layers of spirals before her skin.

“Sorry to interrupt, but you’ve been sitting there all day.”

Several things happen in the span of one second; Sarah’s heart skips a beat, her hand tenses on the bandages and rips another layer, her feet skid on the pavement in her effort to get up, and she bursts into frustrated tears. It’s too fast, or perhaps simply feels that way to her because the world has gone too fast lately. Breathing is a chore, the only one she seems capable of handling today, and for a few labored breaths, she stares at the stranger in front of her, a kind woman with rich brown skin, downturned eyes, and a low ponytail. She’s the sort of woman Sarah would like to trust.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” the woman says. She extends a hand tentatively, the way one holds a hand to a dog to sniff before they try to pet it. “I’m Maggie, I live next door.”

“Sarah.”

With a deep breath, Sarah forces herself to shake Maggie’s hand. Her voice is as sweet as the caring expression on her face, one of a woman who has spent a lifetime looking after others. A nurse, or a daycare worker, or someone like that. Someone good. It would be so nice to know someone good instead of cutthroat, but the fear is there. She’s sizing Maggie up, she realizes. Trying to decide if she’d be able to overpower Sarah if she really wanted to. It’s a bad habit she’s supposed to be getting out of.

“Let me carry that in for you, and if you want, I’ve got leftovers in my fridge. We can eat together, or you can just take them. You could use them.”

Maggie picks up Sarah’s box, carries it inside, and sets it with the others. Heat sears into Sarah’s cheeks because she knows how it looks. Six measly boxes. Each labeled in neat handwriting, revealing how little of herself remains. She had been more, she thinks, at some point. But a lot of her died in an office packed with books and journals and photos of a daughter who had made it into the world. She is empty now. Her thumb digs into the center of her bandages. It doesn’t hurt, but she’d like it to.

“About dinner-”

“Thank you, but I really-  I can’t. Maybe another time?”

“Another time,” Maggie agrees. Her eyes trace Sarah’s face too closely. She wants to die on the spot just so Maggie will stop looking. “If you ever need anything, I’m just to the left, so don’t hesitate to come over. And if I’m not home, my wife probably is.”

“Okay.” 

With that, Maggie lets herself out and shuts the door gently, once again leaving Sarah alone surrounded by her miniscule life and furniture she didn’t pick out. She looks around the space and finds herself drawn to the slider again. Darkness edges in above the horizon, and she scrambles forward to close the cheap plastic blinds. They’re not perfect, but they block the window so no one can see in. She gets the kitchen window too and finds the switch for the light in the dining room, one of the only ones the house came with. It allows her the light she needs to tear open the towel box and grab one, a soft bath towel in a forgiving dark red. As of yet, she hasn’t gotten any soap or shampoo, a tooth brush, anything. But she goes to the bathroom anyways and spends a good five minutes figuring out how to turn on the shower and get the hot water she craves going. The crumpled towel earns a home on the toilet seat as she all but tears off her clothing. No laundry hamper yet, either. That’s fine. 

The hardest part of this is taking off her bandages to prevent them from being soaked and contracting an infestation of mildew or worse. She doesn’t want to look as she unwinds the cause and peels up the cotton pads, which join her clothes on the floor in a mess Sarah just doesn’t have the energy to deal with right now. 

Somehow, she’s staring at it. Most of her arm is healed, a splatter of dark pink skin that has scarred, but there’s plenty only beginning to scab from her most recent attack, if that’s what one were to call it. She doesn’t mean to, but when she’s anxious, caught in her head, upset, existing- she finds her right fingernails digging into the tender skin of her left inner forearm. Cutting her fingernails short, wrapping herself in bandages to protect her arm and its scabs, they’re supposed to help. 

She looks at the scabs for a long time before dragging herself into the water and letting it wash over her like it’s washing away her pain. The coating of school and stale white walls melt off of her, spiral down the drain, mesh together to remind her exactly what forced her into this otherwise quaint little cottage. It would be a nice home, had she picked it herself and come voluntarily. Perhaps she’d put art or photos on the walls, which would be painted a warmer color than the current murky dark green-grey-blue. 

When the water soaks through her curls to drizzle over her scalp, she comes back to herself.  As much as she can nowadays, anyways. There’s a thin layer of plastic sheeting between her mind and body, and no matter how hard she tries to break it, it stands impenetrable. Sarah wonders if it’s for the best. It protects her, at any rate. She’s better off on this side of the barrier, she tells herself, and turns off the water. Going out, she isn’t any cleaner; she didn’t wash her body or her hair- which isn’t even totally wet yet. 

Sarah wraps the towel around her, more as a blanket than anything to actually dry herself off. It’s soft, comforting around her. She checks, as she drags her exhausted body into the main area, that all the windows are covered so that anyone walking by can’t see her. So he can’t see her. Sometimes, invisibility feels like the safest thing in the world and she needs more of it than she could ever have.

She lays down on the floor, surrounded by her boxes, although she knows come morning she’ll regret it. It’s only fitting. Regret is the main emotion she deals with nowadays, when she manages to feel anything at all. Her eyes lock onto a little crack where the wall meets the trimming, thin and probably in danger of mold when she’s this close to the ocean. Her mother had said something about keeping the house aired out, but Sarah hasn’t listened to her in quite some time.

By the time she falls asleep, orange has begun to disrupt the sky outside.

-

Taglist: @bookreader525 @sextonsharpwinhalstead @sarahreeese @bipeteypie

[foolscapper]

Exploding Head Syndrome: A MCU Post-IW Fanfic | Ch. 1

(READ IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER.)

It takes two years for them to right everything. Two long years — most of it spent in chaotic shades of tears, screaming, silent defeat, and a very unsuccessful five stages of grief for everyone involved. It's a world where billions of people have all had their candle wicks pinched in tandem between ugly purple fingers, their lights gone out in the pits of their mourning loved one's stomachs. There was not enough time in the day for funerals, not enough room or money for smoothed gravestones, and far too many people that will never, ever be identified as dead. Those people, the ones without families and friends, they simply never existed. Perhaps in the backgrounds of neighborhood photos they weren't meant to be a part of, but ultimately? They are vagabonds who just blew away in the wind.

And those who did have people left behind, who mourned and prayed for them?

They were just memories on walls.

Nobody from their team of heroes took their noses out of books or their eyes off screens, carving out new and old information on celestials, on resurrection, on righting the wrongs done by an arrogant bastard who decided to snap his fingers and purge the universe of any happiness; that same purple bastard had vanished without another word, and Thor had paced through the Avengers headquarters those first days with guilt etched into the lines of his weary face. His brown and blue set of eyes looked into Tony's, and his lips had pulled into something of a haunted grimace, and he said with no ounce of doubt, "This could have been over, had I aimed for the head."

The half of the Asgardians that Thanos had spared came to earth just a few months after; they filled in the broken pieces of a fractured glass Wakanda that had been devastated by the loss of their king. It was an intellectual gathering, more than anything, a concoction of mad sciences that would yield more together than apart. Steve Rogers kept in touch with them, eyes and ears waiting to be sated by something fruitful, about Thanos and his whereabouts.

They didn't need flip phones because they lived down the hallway from each other, and sometimes when Tony wasn't pouring through information with Bruce, he was letting the captain talk his ear off about world news that might matter if Tony would let it. With every passing day, the Sokovia Accords became a relic, something from the old world. The fight in Germany almost didn't feel real anymore. But it was, and it had been the catalyst in meeting a young man from Queens who loved Alt-J and Star Wars.

The scroll bar on the missing children's pages Tony's accrued is so tiny, he can barely see it on his screen. He sits there at the kitchen table while Morgan sits on his lap and slams blocks around like a tiny radioactive dinosaur. And he's tired and regretful as every face seems to blur and morph into Peter's (his goofy shirts, his awful Mets hat, the fifth Jansport backpack that month). Pepper makes Tony coffee, rubs his shoulders, makes breakfast for their daughter. He looks at both of them every day and reminds himself he doesn't deserve them.

Rhodey brings updates from Ross, as an exasperated courtesy more than anything.

Tony also cares very fucking little about that, too. Natasha is in full agreement.

Oh, and the raccoon stuck around, too. Two years, and Tony Stark made friends with a kleptomaniac trash panda who lost almost every person he's ever come to love, and the blue chick might as well be counted among the lost, because she hit the atmosphere running and never stopped (but if there's anyone Tony would bet on for killing Thanos through hate alone, Nebula might be able to accomplish it before supper). Rocket heads out from time to time to try and find clues in the deep reaches of space — "Where's Thanos? Have you seen where he ran off to? Where's that ugly son of a b—" And you know, it ends about as successfully as the last time the little garbage bear rolls back in. Truth be told, he likes Rocket a lot. Good eye for tech, familiar snark used to push people away, a raging hate-boner for a certain mass murderer...

Ah, yes. The bastard who sacrificed his daughter, go fucking figure. Tony looks at Morgan's freckled face as he changes the umpteenth diaper that day and can't fathom the concept of being her end. It's horror fiction, the pages ripped out of books conjured to be nothing more than a terrible daydream of a bored writer. 

It's the same horror fiction where Peter clings to him sobbing for help, falling when his legs disintegrate underneath him. 

Tony looks for that kid everywhere, despite knowing exactly where he is.

He waves the photograph in Pepper's face, inches from her, the sharp juts of his fingernails biting into the Polaroid like dog teeth — (retroware, a camera found in a dumpster, delicately and lovingly re-mantled into a working camera, pictures snapped in quiet labs on lazy Sundays where Tony pretends the kid shouldn't be there) — but Pepper just looks at him like he's a wild man, and maybe he is, with owlish imploring eyes and unkempt hair, but nobody is listening, they just talk about their day and nobody is looking at this kid in this photograph: the kid with the curvy brown hair and pinching, smiling eyes and thin lips, he's only a kid, he's missing, does nobody see that? But Pepper just puts her hands up at the sides of her head and shrugs like he's out of his mind, and she's talking about being behind schedule —

"Tony, honey, there's nothing there — I don't know what you want me to see." And she is getting progressively more furious at him, because there's nothing, but he can clearly see this teenaged boy's face looking back at him when he turns the image back to himself: he's in the lab, Tony took the picture (say cheese, and the kid said provolone, because he's a massive nerd, but Tony would have done it too, so what does that make him), and no, Peter's not in the lab, he's not anywhere. Not in the ground, not in an urn, not standing on his feet, not stuck to his hands.

"No. No no no, look at him, why - why are you not looking at him?" Tony asks, curled fingers pecking over the shirt on his chest, right where his blue heart used to be, and he's so fucking angry that Happy said it Pepper said it Steve said it Everyone says it, the same thing, different voices: "It's a black box, Tony. It's just a black box. The picture's not developed. Something got screwed up, sorry."

He looks at the photo again and wants to see a black box, wants this to just end, but he knows it can't. In the Polaroid, the kid is tied to a chair in sweltering heat in the middle east, under the shadow of cave walls, streaked with mud and blood and wet from torture, and Tony has it on good authority the human body was not made to live in the sea, not made to breathe the deep dark waters in a two-foot basin of murky water. But Pepper looks right through the photo every time and asks him if he's remembered to water the ugly office plant she put on his desk — he shoves it off and it smashes all over, dirt underfoot crunching with the same texture as Titan. The desk is covered in nothing but Polaroids of every waking fear he's had, but they all swear on their lives—

"They're all just black boxes."

He wakes up with a strangled sound of panic, the sheets ripped out from under Pepper's soft pale arms, and she darts awake alongside him with little choice in the matter. He isn't sure how to even begin to explain the nightmare, so he doesn't, which seems adequate enough for her at this point; she instead rakes kind fingernails over his scalp and he lets himself rest in his own sweat, until eventually it dries up with her ability to stay awake with him. But there's no sleeping now. Which is fine, because not an hour later Morgan's crying in a crib that Tony doesn't let leave their room. She's smart — not quite two yet, but she's got an eye for how to get what she wants. She slaps her hands on the bars like she's a chubby convict and says, "Juice!" like she hasn't already had enough juice in the day to turn into a berry.

"... I got her," he says with feigned exasperation, but more than anything, he just wants to hold onto the kid and remind himself she won't crumble into dust. He walks her through the hallways and stares out large windows, places where the memory of Peter Parker ghosts the halls in Tony's mind. He stands where Peter watched in boyish awe as the jets took off — where he'd lead him down a path towards reports and a new suit. Regrets dance like spots in his vision. Run along now, young buck. 

He misses the others, too. He thinks about them often, wants to get them back from the jaws of death.

But everyone knows Peter is a special case, for him. A special mission set aside to complete.

There's an aunt across the city that somehow manages to get up and go to work every day. She's all that's left of a family she'd married into — the last Parker, putting unopened Christmas and birthday presents in a room that hasn't been touched in two fucking years. Tony doesn't know how she does it, after the Parkers and her husband's death; perhaps it's not always the abundance of loss that breaks someone; perhaps it's the abundance of loss that helps steel them for the next blow.

Either way, he gives her as many promises as he can muster, and she just nods like she can actually trust him.

"If it isn't the terrible terror," Rocket slurs from the end of the walkway, as he rounds the bend. Tony can't believe his eyes; he's sure there must be some youtube video out there of a raccoon holding a vodka bottle, but seeing it in person is another thing altogether. The short-statured creature adds, "Not the gremlin baby, I mean you."

"Robbet!" Morgan says, gleeful and unaware of just how alike her and Rocket's walking performances would be toe-to-toe. 

Tony is less enthused.

"Did you — Did you fly back drunk?" And really, he's not one to talk after some of the stunts he pulled in his suits, but when he looks out the window there's a clearly tipped over spaceship on the front lawn of the headquarters, almost meeting the tarmac where the quinjet resides. 

Rocket wags a paw at him like he's nuts. "Seemed like the thing to do. You Terran nimrods are great at it."

"You could've hit the building, you jackass," he hisses, "There are people sleeping here you could've killed."

"Wouldn't be the worst way to go out on this stupid planet."

"You're so lucky I'm holding a toddler, or I'd kick you in the head."

"Bring it, old man." But the longer the squabbling goes, the more Rocket seems to completely lose whatever steam he has. They end up sitting right against the big glass windows, and Tony lets Morgan rub her grubby hands all over the panels, because he's pretty sure the cleaners here prefer her messes over the ones Tony leaves in the labs (you know, the ones that almost start fires). The kid eases something inside him, and he's not one to recommend having a kid as therapy (because it definitely didn't solve his panic over being a shit dad), but it at least keeps him grounded. Gives him perspective. Focus.

"Robbet," she commands, fidgeting with Rocket's ear. The raccoon's gotten used to the attention, so much so that he just lets it be, and Tony watches expectantly for words he knows are gonna come sooner or later. This isn't the first time Rocket's stumbled in like this, though he'd hesitate to say it's common enough for an AA meeting. 

"Nothin's out there, Stark," he says tiredly. "Thanos is in the wind after we pinned him in the rice terraces. Nebula's out there givin' her... I was gonna say blood, sweat, and tears, but I dunno how much of her is even left t'do that. But the universe is too damn big." He rubs his eyes tiredly in a way that is obscenely human. "We ain't ever gonna get the bastard, much less reverse the damage. I can't keep putting off..."

"Mourning?"

Rocket and Tony lock eyes for a moment, the billionaire's face unreadable.

Rocket looks away, and for once, he can't usher up a snarky, assholish retort. 

"Mourning."

And Tony could understand that much. The world has already been grieving and crying it out, but the Avengers? They haven't allowed themselves to do it. Scott's got his kid, and he's all his kid has now — the cops had found her wandering a park alone, crying for Ant-Man to save them, and Tony's paid for therapy but fuck if that always helps. Clint refuses funerals for the two children he and his wife lost, not until Tony can look him in the eye with complete certainty and say 'there's nothing else we can do'. And Tony is not gonna lie about that shit, not even for a moment. Steve always chases for Bucky, and Tony expects as much (both in a fond way, and in a resentful way that makes him wanna strangle the bastard; what, we can't all be perfect at making up)... He also talks about Wanda and Vision and Sam often, and the room always descends into pained silence by the time they both realize how many people they've lost.

"Sorry I called you a gremlin," Rocket suddenly says, and Tony's confused for a moment before he glances over and finds Morgan sitting between Rocket's legs, cupping his furry face in her hands like she's trying to figure out why his beard is so much more out of control than her father's. Suffice to say, the drunk raccoon eventually passes out against the window, and Natasha makes her cameo in the shaded moonlight long enough to click her tongue and heft the creature up. Usually it'd be a more violent affair, but he's so out cold, he doesn't even so much as twitch.

"I'll get him in the recovery position, I guess," she says with a quirk of her brow. 

One time he'd asked her in a moment of admittedly godawful anger how she managed to be a stone-faced robot in the wake of all of this; she had slammed him down onto a table and said it was the hardest thing someone can ever do.

"Could always throw him into a tree," is his reply, and she smirks — but tucks Rocket in, regardless.

They're all he's got now.

Two weeks later, Captain Marvel gives them the location of Thanos.

One week after, Thanos is dead and Bruce and Tony are staring at the melted, twisted remains of a gauntlet adorned with six stones.

It's a full month, when the snap is finally undone.

"W-what the flying fuck just happened?"

Probably not the most eloquent way Peter Jason Quill, Star-Lord and fearless leader of the Guardians of the Galaxy, could have reclaimed his life and body, but that's the way it happened. One moment his sinking despair had been blown away in the wind with the rest of his crumbled body; the next, he's gasping for air like a newborn baby with his hands on his chest — unable to breathe, unable to think, unable to do anything but feel helpless and lost. Then his name comes back to him, his age, where he's from, followed by the first of many memories: his mother and him, making cookies with The Rolling Stones blaring on an old radio in the background. 

Then all of it follows like a stampede trampling over each other: the ravagers, Ego, celebrations full of booze and old 70's and 80's hits with his team; he groans pitifully and remembers too suddenly that his mother is dead, Yondu is dead, Gamora is dead — and then he cries like he's never cried before in his goddamn life. Like, full-bodied sobbing, harder than he's ever allowed himself in the last thirty years. His fingers curl in rough alien soil and every nerve in his body is alight with something he can't really explain, leaving him shivering. When all is said and done, it's cathartic, but his head is pounding and his eyes are red and wet and — and his legs don't want to work, exactly, so he drags himself into sitting and stares all around him with a helpless, sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Where are the others? 

Drax crawls out from behind the rubble with a bit-back curse as if summoned by Peter's sheer will alone, and Strange floats down from god knows where. Both of them wipe their faces and breathe like they'd just run a marathon, one you'd sprint for — to try and escape the returning memories. The questions bubbling under the surface can wait (when, why, how, who, where; where the fuck is Thanos so I can kick his head in and ignore the aching guilt of the stupid shit I've done). Peter's lips curl into a relieved grin despite himself and he staggers to his feet, rushing to meet Drax before the lumbering warrior can collapse on his knees; he steadies the two of them, and between four colt-like legs, they make it work until they can move on their own. 

"Drax, holy shit. I'm so happy to see you right now, I saw you and — where's Mantis? And... Stark and the kid?" 

He's not gonna pretend the last two weren't cliff notes in his order of priorities, compared to Mantis. That's his sister, his family, and his heart is pounding at the thought of losing anyone else from his team... because Gamora's so fresh in his mind, an abrasion so new and raw and — don't think about it, Quill, don't think about it right now, not until you can make it to a ship and find somewhere to lick the wounds. It's so hard to breathe, so hard to keep his memories in check. Judging from the pinched expression Drax has, he can only imagine the miserable television show going on in that thick skull of his. He had family, he had a life, a home, and now it's all coming back in thunderous waves. 

Drax perks. "I hear her. This way!"

And like clockwork, Mantis sobs more loudly from over the hill of debris, and Peter is already leaping over and down it, displacing rubble in his wake. It claws him up as he goes, but what's one more injury if it means getting to his team sooner? Add another wound to the dozens lanced in his heart, whatever, he can take it. What he can't take is finding someone he loves gone again because he wasn't good enough—

("I love you, more than anything.")

"Mantis! Shit, dammit — hang on, we're coming, hang on!" He skids to a stop at the bottom with Drax hot on his heels, and it's only there that he's relieved to find she's unhurt, curled up and sitting on her legs; her back is trembling, hands poised in front of her — no, no, hands pressed to the temples of a crumpled figure with shaggy brown hair and a terribly youthful face. He swallows hard at the sight, guilt coiling in his guts, because he had made this kid a footnote in his concerns all but fifteen seconds ago.The other Peter.

("Peter, huh? Samesies!" the spider kid laughs.)

The kid is on his back, and his eyes are open, face lax under Mantis' shivering fingertips. Quill automatically assumes the worst: that he didn't make it, because even if his skin has a healthy color, he doesn't look alive. Why didn't... he come back, too? What went wrong? Crouching down beside his friend, he examines the boy and his listless gaze that looks right through him, right through everything. A death stare. He's seen so many in his life — from ravagers and enemy alike — that he doesn't question it further than that.

"... Mantis, it's okay," he says softly, placing a hand on her shoulder. "He's gone. We gotta move."

"No, no, Peter," she weeps, freezing him with her desperation, "You're wrong. He's still here. I can feel him. But th-there's so much pain — something is wrong, and it hurts."

"She's right," Strange says with a surprisingly soft voice, "He's still breathing."

Quill watches with wide eyes the rise and fall of the kid's chest, and then the surprising drip of tears into the shells of Peter's ears.

"It hurts," Mantis says again, black hair curtaining her pained expression. "He's further and further away. I can't do anything. He is so afraid."

Peter Parker's eyes are open, half-lidded, without any sign of life behind them. But Quill feels like every word Mantis sobs is a memory he can't quite bring into focus... like — like a dream he'd forgotten in the time he'd been nothing but ash. Like a beacon, scrambling all of his senses and blinding him just before he had burst back to life from under the current of death. He remembers a snippet of what it was like on the other side, rolling over and over like he's stuck in a sea — a sea of souls. He remembers it was the kid's voice, calling out from oblivion as they were hoisted back into their bodies.

He remembers hearing his own voice... remembers saying, thinking, screaming: Hang on, kid, I got you!

— it hurts, it hurts, it hurts—

He puts his hand gently on Peter Parker's cheek.

It's warm. His body breathes in steady rhythm.

So why isn't there any life behind those eyes?

The lab is quiet, save for the rambling of an excited high-schooler bragging about their odds at the new decathlon competition. Tony doesn't really mind so much, though he's not about to tell that to the kid sitting there in his old thrift shop sweater; the same kid whose hair is curling out of control now, escaping the prison of hair gel he adds in the early morning. Peter's always so animated with his hands, most of all — always fidgeting, always moving, always so eager to sign and gesture faster than Peter's mouth can move.  "And Ned's got a brand new video-game he's dying to try out, but I dunno if he can handle it; it's a horror game, you know? He's kind of a big softy — oh."

Tony glances at Peter with a scoff and a raised eyebrow, though his smirk fades a little at what has drawn the kid's already battered attention span from the conversation. Peter holds an old trophy in front of him that he had taken off the nearest shelf: a replica, actually, but still no less important. It's the arc reactor, etched with those intimate, familiar words that Pepper still whispers to him when they're alone and living in their own little world.

"Aaww, look at that," Peter says with a playful smile, pressing the trophy against his chest, where the reactor would've resided in Tony's.  "... Proof that Tony Stark has a heart."

Peter's smile softens painfully, his eyes reflecting a long and sad goodbye before he crumbles away into nothing.

[tinybibmpreg]

Day 34 // ft. Weylin, Rhisiart, Yovak, Indigo, Violet, and another one of the kids

#76 / Rot

“It feels like everyone just forgot that I existed.”

Indigo raised an eyebrow and looked at his younger brother. Yovak was staring out at the rolling landscape below them, hundreds of feet below the clifftop they were seated on. The deep red rock gave way to a swirling field of reds and purples, gradually changing to blues as it stretched out to the horizon. A pink lake was seated off to the side in the field, and Indigo could see some large animals near its edges.

He reached over and squeezed his brother’s shoulder. Yovak looked at him, and Indigo assured him, “I haven’t forgotten about you.”

“Thank you, Indy. I’m glad.”

“And I know our parents haven’t forgotten you, either. They’re just busy.”

“I know. I just miss having them worry about me. Is that strange?”

Indigo thought for a moment. One of the animals swam across the lake, and he wondered if it was a crocodilian of some kind. “I don’t think it is.” Then, catching his brother’s hidden meaning, he asked, “Did something happen that you think they should be worried about you?”

Yovak hummed, and then picked at his fingernails. Indigo leaned in closer, and he could see that Yovak was actually missing a few of them. He picked at the nail on his left ring finger, and it snapped in half. “I think I’m falling to pieces, Indy. I’m rotting. I lost part of a tooth, as well, and I’ve been coughing up blood.”

“Oh.”

“I’ve been taking blood from Father’s oldest cousin, but… I’m not strong like all the rest of our siblings. I’ve always been so weak, compared to them.” He huffed a laugh, and Indigo noticed that Yovak looked tired, his scales pallid.

“Yovak, what are we doing out here?”

“I’m not strong enough to make it back home. I think it would take them a long while to find me, if you didn’t say anything.”

Frowning, he got up and clenched his fists. “I won’t let you die out here!”

“You’re really nice, Indy, but I think this is what the Gods desire. I was always fated to suffer. The second son, the first hybrid. I’m a medical marvel, a magical mystery. Yovak-Indigo, the first Corbane to die before reaching of age. I hope our parents can learn from me so our siblings can survive past adulthood.”

“I’m taking you home. Come on, get up.” Yovak didn’t move. “Get up! Come on, you’re fifteen years old, you can walk on your own!”

“I… Indy, I don’t think I can. I’m hungry. I’m so hungry that it hurts.”

“Then take a few bites from me! I’m a mirage, I’m food!”

“Indigo, I couldn’t eat you.”

“These marks on my face are proof that I’m only to be eaten by you!”

“Indy…”

Biting his lip, Indigo tried to think of a way he could help his brother. He doubted that Yovak would bite down on him if he stuck his arm in his mouth. Looking around, he stopped when he heard rustling. They both turned to see a person stumbling out of the forest underbrush.

The person stared at them, fear in their eyes. Seeing Indigo, they relaxed. “A human! Oh, god, where are we?”

“This is… This-”

“Is that a fae?” they asked, looking down at Yovak.

“Yes. This is my friend, Yovak. Please, he needs help. Can you help me carry him? His house is just a mile away from here.”

“Oh, uh… Is there a phone there? I’d like to get home too.”

“Yes,” Indigo lied. “Please, he’s ill.”

Nodding, the person came over. “I didn’t know fae could get sick.”

“I’m only half fae,” Yovak told them. “My human blood makes me prone to sickness and rot.”

“Ah.” Indigo knelt down and took one of Yovak’s arms around his shoulder. He gave his brother a slight nod, and when the other mirage knelt down, Yovak lunged at them.

-

“Thanks, Indy. I think I can walk now.”

Mirages could bleed, Indigo thought, as he looked at all the blood and gore splattered on his brother and the ground. It slowly faded away, though, and Yovak was soon clean, as if he hadn’t just eaten someone. Indigo helped him limp home.

Their only sister jogged up to them when she saw them. Seeing how ill Yovak looked, she helped support him as well. “Brother, are you alright?”

“Just fine, sister dear. Just fine and rotting…”

“He’s really sick, Violet. Go get Father, I’ve got him.” She nodded, and darted off. Indigo brought Yovak onto the back porch, and had him sit down on the rocking chair. One of their youngest brothers came out from underneath it when it moved. Indigo picked him up. “Hey there, little guy. Want to keep your big brothers company?”

“Ah!”

Right as Indigo set their brother down next to Yovak, the half-fae doubled over and coughed up a mouthful of blood all over his lap. Their brother whined, reaching back up for Indigo. Yovak kept coughing, and the blood kept coming, gradually turning from pure liquid to being full of chunks and strands of goo. Indigo sat next to him and patted his back, unsure of what to do. Their brother started wailing, and Indigo could see tears falling from Yovak’s eyes.

Their father arrived, not looking too worried. When he spotted the two of them, however, a look of horror overcame his features. The expression was quickly schooled into neutrality. Approaching them, their father asked, “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know! I followed him out to the cliff, and he started talking about how weak he was, how he was going to die, or something… He ate a mirage, but then he started coughing up blood. Which he said he’s been doing, and he kept saying he’s rotting-”

“Oh, my dear child, you should have said your usual blood supply wasn’t working.” He cupped Yovak’s face in his hands. “I could have nipped this little problem right in the bud. Hush, Yo-go, your-” “Weylin Corbane / Fae father of you.” “-will take care of this.”

“Request.” “Help to me.” Yovak choked out.

“Vi, dear, hand me your knife.” He reached out one hand, and Violet dropped her carving knife into it. “Indigo, hold up your brother’s head, and Yovak, chew and swallow what I give you.”

He brought the knife to the meat of his palm. Indigo averted his eyes. Though he’d gotten used to seeing blood and some manners of gore in the Corbane household, he didn’t like to watch his parents or any of his relatives hurting themselves.

-

Rhisiart felt something grab his leg, and looked down to see his youngest child staring up at him with wide, teary, purple eyes. “What’s wrong, kiddo?” He lifted the toddler up, and set him next to him. His belly was getting too big for the boy to sit on his lap. The boy pointed towards the front door, and after a moment, Indigo was holding it open as Weylin walked through, Yovak in his arms. Violet was close behind.

Seeing the blood all over his son’s face and shirt, his heart dropped. “Corbane?”

“Ah, Delmar- would you mind giving me a hand with cleaning up Yo-go?”

He passed off his youngest to Violet, and then followed his husband upstairs to the kids’ bedroom. Weylin laid Yovak down on his bed, and tugged off his shirt and shoes. He tossed them to Indigo. “Throw that away, would you? It’s tainted.”

“It’s sizzling…”

“Like I said, tainted.” Rhisiart sat down next to Yovak and wrapped an arm around him. The blood on his face was sizzling, and the skin around it was turning an irritated shade of dull purple. Where the blood had started to seep through his clothes, there was already a rash.

“Question.” “Rhisiart Delmar / Human father of I.”

“Hey, Yo-go… You’re going to be alright, your father will take good care of you.” He shot a desperate look at Weylin, a silent plea. Will he be okay? What’s happening?

Weylin nodded, giving Yovak a soft smile. “That’s right. I’ll go get a cloth and some water. Delmar, keep him comfortable, alright? And don’t touch any of that blood or where it was with your bare skin. It’s toxic.”

“Okay.” As his husband walked off, Rhisiart tried to make Yovak more comfortable, while also taking in what was visibly wrong with him besides the blood and rashes. He wanted to hold the boy in his lap, but he couldn’t, not at this stage in his pregnancy. Instead, he pulled over a few pillows with his magic and leaned Yovak against them. He kissed his temple, frowning at how cold he felt.

Taking the boy’s thin hand in his own, Rhisiart noticed that his knuckles and joints were bruised, and his fingernails were either missing or broken in some way. Now that he was so close, he realized that Yovak’s skin had taken a translucent sheen, his pure white skin unable to go any paler.

Swallowing, he leaned against his son, giving him a light squeeze. How could he have gotten so sick so quickly? Rhisiart couldn’t remember seeing him with any of these symptoms recently. But now that he thought about it… He hadn’t really been paying too much attention to Yovak. He’d been spending most of his time with the younger kids. Yovak was fifteen, so he had brushed off the boy, thinking that because he was older he didn’t need as much attention. Yet, he did. He’d always been sickly compared to his sibling, he needed extra attention.

Gods, how could he have let Yovak get so sick? He should have spent more time with him, noticed that something was off. Children didn’t get so sick in just one day, he must have been getting weaker and weaker for a long stretch of time. He always did this to him, always failed him…

“Question.” “Rhisiart Delmar / Human father of I.”

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

“I’m cold.” Rhisiart brought his legs up onto the bed, and shifted close to his son, to try and warm him up. Weylin came back with a cloth and some water. After saying a spell over the water, he wiped it over the rash on Yovak’s chest. Yovak’s face scrunched up in pain, and he whimpered. Rhisiart hugged him, murmuring against his hair. The boy grabbed his arm, squeezing it.

Weylin hummed quietly. He said a different spell before moving on to wipe the blood from his son’s face. Yovak cried out as the wet cloth made contact with him. “Delmar, hold him steady. Yovak, my dear, this is for your own good. Don’t worry, it’ll only hurt for a minute.” He forced his mouth open and made him rinse out his mouth.

Yovak sobbed bitterly through the pain, and Rhisiart’s heart broke. “It’s okay, baby, it’s okay… It’ll be over soon. Shh, you’re going to be okay…”

Finally putting the cloth away, Weylin told him, “It’s safe to touch him, now.”

Rhisiart wrapped both arms tightly around his son. He ignored how uncomfortable it was. Yovak needed to be held. The boy buried his face in the crook of his neck. After a few moments, he loosened his hold so he could rub Yovak’s back.

“It’ll take a few days before he's back to his old self.” Weylin sat next to them and threaded his fingers through their son's soft hair.

“I’ll stay with you, sweetheart, okay?” When Yovak finally fell asleep, Rhisiart grabbed Weylin’s elbow and asked, “What's wrong with him?”

Eyeing their son, Weylin sighed and then responded, “Delmar, do you remember how I told you that if Yovak didn’t come with me to Otherland when he was a baby, that he would die?”

“Yeah. It’s the only reason I came here.”

“This what would have happened to him. The rotting. I know I told you that he might last with essence from other fairies, but… Even my closest blood relative’s essence wasn't good enough for him. He would have rotted in a week.” Weylin gave him a wide smile. “But now that I know better, I’ll make sure to feed both you and him from me, exclusively!”

[piecesofscully]

The After: ch. 5

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Motel 6 at the other end of town, she thinks.

Jenny’s words repeat over and over in her head like a broken record. A Motel 6, just like the lifetime Before when they had spent their nights chasing monsters and a shadow government. At the other end of town, just a few miles away. 

As she rushes up the dark stairway, she tries to force away the smile that twitches the corners of her mouth at the possibility that this could be the closest she’s been to him in almost two years. She swallows the hiccup of excitement that bubbles up her chest as she hurries to her room, reminding herself that she might be too late. He may have already left.

She refuses to allow herself to consider the fact that it might not be him at all. Not now, not after the information that he could be so close. Scully knows that if she entertains that thought then it will overrule everything, and she will simply continue on her journey northwest having never known the truth. Life in the After is full to the brim with ‘what if’s, and she doesn’t know that she can shoulder another, carrying it with her day to day like a screaming monkey on her back. She doesn’t have the strength.

Scully is pulling her still damp sweater over her head when there’s a knock at her door. She pauses, staring at the door, waiting for an announcement of arrival that doesn't come. The knife in her boot rubs against her ankle as she steps towards the door, and peers through the peephole.

Bobby.

“What do you need?” she calls through the door.

“Well now, Red, I heard from a little ol’ birdy that you were leavin’.”

After a moment, Scully opens the door a crack, enough for her face to peek through. Bobby smirks at the sight of her, and she squares her shoulders. “I’ll be out in ten minutes. Just packing up.”

“You just paid for the room,” he says as he crosses his arms over his chest. “Where you running off to?”

“I just need to be on my way,” Scully says and begins to shut the door, but Bobby’s shoves the toe of his boot in small opening, stopping it. His eyes narrow as he leans forward and grips the door jamb above her, his fingernails scratching as they dig into the wood.

“Which way you headin’?” The scent of whiskey sweetens the bitterness of his breath that comes in gusts from above her, and for the first time she actually feels the size of the man. Standing at a few inches over six feet tall, he towers over her with a neck as thick as his upper arms that look as if they could bench press her with ease. He’s the kind of man that even linebackers would shy away from.

“South,” she lies.

“Right, well you leavin’ early means you gotta pay the cancellation fee.”

Scully’s brows furrow. “The what?”

“That’s the rules, so whattya got in there?” he asks, ignoring her question, and pushes at the door. Scully follows his lead, stopping it with the toe of her boot.

“I gave you what I had for trade already.”

He clicks his tongue. “I doubt that, Red.”

The knife singes the thin skin across her ankle, burning with the desire to be used. “I have nothing left to trade,” she says as she pulls it from her boot. Her fingers work around the butt of the handle, flexing and curling it into her palm. “I’ll be out of here in five minutes, and you’ll have your room open for rent again.”

She watches as Bobby tips his head to the side and stares at her for a moment, the icy blue shadowed by the contemplation of his choices but bright with greed. This circumstance is one she’s too familiar with, standing inches from a situation that is a breath away from becoming ugly with nothing more than a boot against the door enforcing peace. Just let me leave, she pleads with the rise of her brows, and her fingernails dig crescent shapes into the flesh of her palm as she grips her knife tighter.

She releases the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding when she sees him nod once. The words ‘thank you’ fall flat as he shoves the door, her forehead catching the brunt of the hit. She stumbles backwards as he barrels into the room, dropping her knife as she catches herself on the back of the chair. Her vision blurs as he pushes past her and snatches her backpack up from the floor.

“No!” she screams, and rushes towards him. The back of his hand catches her cheek and her head whips to the side, the metallic taste of blood coats her tongue as she falls to the floor. She closes her eyes as a piercing throb explodes in her temples and radiates down the side of her face. Her eyes open almost immediately as she feels his hand around her throat, the butt of his hand applying just enough pressure to cut off her air supply as his fingertips dig into the sides.

“You try that again, I’ll break your neck like a fucking twig, Red, and leave your dead ass in here to rot.” Her fingernails dig and scrape the skin of his hands and along his forearms, but he doesn’t flinch. His grip on her neck tightens. She feels tears stream into her hairline as her chest heaves, silently screaming for oxygen. He leans closer. Darkness bleeds into her peripheral vision, leaving only the clear sight of Bobby’s face in the center; a face she’s sure will haunt her dreams for the next few nights. “I will use what’s left of you to make chapstick and find that man in your picture and sell it to him for cheap, ya got me?”

She isn’t given the chance to agree before he lets go and shoves her to her side. Coughs wrack through her ribcage with such force she fears a fracture, and the carpet scratches her face as she gulps in air. Pressure pounds like a sledgehammer at the top of her forehead. A spark of light off to the side catches her attention, and her eyes strains to focus on it. She almost whimpers when it comes into view.

Her knife.

Just a few feet away the blade glimmers under the stable flame of the lantern, and she reaches for it. Behind her, she hears the zipper of her backpack forced open, followed by the thud of items falling to the floor.

“Not,” she utters through clenched teeth, then coughs. “Yours.”

“It is now, you lying bitch. Water, canned food, shampoo... You’ve been holding out- ah, what’s this?”

Scully groans as she pushes herself onto her hands and knees, her head light with dizziness. She jumps when her backpack lands at her side, and she forces another cough to cover the sound of the vitamins rattling in their bottle.

“Nimbostratus,” she hears him say slowly, sounding out the word. “Sufficient vertical extent to produce sufficient precipitation.”

“It’s nonsense,” she utters through clenched teeth. Her stomach turns as she climbs to her feet, one hand gripping the back of the chair, the other gripping her knife. She ignores the blood that trails down her forehead and swallows the bile that burns the back of her throat.

“What in the actual flying fuck- Red, you’ve really been holding out on me. Diagrams, formulas, a list of dates... this is some kinda weather physics,” he says as he flips the pages. “Are you tracking the Wash or somethin’?”

“Or somethin’,” she says, then pushes off the chair and lunges forward. When she collides into him, they spin like a pair of skilled ballroom dancers. His hands grip her waist as her knife stabs into him twice, three times, four, and they collapse onto the mattress together with his eyes wide and his mouth releasing nothing more than a gurling grunt.

She rolls off of him and scampers around the room, collecting her belongings, stuffing her minimal life into her backpack. She throws a glance his way after she zips it shut, just as he rolls to his side. Blood smears across his large hands, pooling from in between his fingers, staining the blanket as he pulls it tight against his belly.

“You bitch,” he hisses. “You’ll get yours.”

“So I’ve been told.”

Scully pulls on her jacket, swings the backpack over her shoulders, and rushes out the door. She takes the stairs two at a time, and tucks her blood covered hands deep in her pockets as she hurries through the lobby full of patrons.

A woman stands partially cloaked by shadows by the main door, leaning into the frame. As Scully gets closer, the woman side-steps into Scully’s path, blocking the exit as she turns into the warm glow of the lobby.

“You leaving?” Jenny asks.

Scully pulls her hood over her head, watching as Jenny’s eyes flick to the exposed skin of her hands, her gaze lingering at the still wet blood that stains past the sleeves. Scully stands tall and slides her hands back into her pockets. “I am.”

Jenny turns and pushes the door open. Scully offers her a quick smile, then brushes past her and into the Wash. Once she hears the door close behind her, she sprints. She runs until she can no longer hear the pitiful whine of the Hampton Inn sign, and her ribcage twinges beneath the sharp stabs of pain. She slows to a brisk walk, every few steps glancing behind her, praying she hasn’t been followed.

The rain and wind whip at her as she navigates through what remains of the town, the impending winter chill seeping through her heavy clothing, freezing her joints into lethargy. The clouds hang heavily in the sky, unwavering, forcing the moon and its light into a dark submission. Any other night she would have searched out a vacant dwelling for shelter by now, not pushing through frigid temperatures with nothing more than a days worth of food and a glimmer of hope.

She considers stopping, but the thought is fleeting, disappearing almost as quickly as it appears when an After worn sign comes into view.

Motel 6.

A body of water surrounds the motel, rushing and swelling along the lower ground like a moat promising security for a castle, with only a single entrance and exit to the building. Gravel and shattered glass crunch under Scully’s boots as she passes the front office. What was once enclosed by large, square windows, has now fallen victim to the Wash. Drywall dips and hangs from the ceiling with blackened insulation spilling from the gaping holes, piles of it are scattered across the front desk and the floor. Travel pamphlets lay scattered throughout, their pictures warped and smeared with mud. The ‘OPEN’ sign still hangs, lopsided, at the top of the front door.

The earthy smell of rotting wood rolls the nervous flutter behind her bellybutton, and she wills  the acute nausea away as she continues towards room number four. She might have missed him, she could be too late. The curtains are drawn shut, but she still attempts to peer between them as she passes the rooms window.

It might not even be him.

She stops just before the simple, brown door, unaware of how long she’s been gripping his picture like a rosary against her chest.

Please let it be him, she prays.

She feels her heartbeat beneath the palm of her hand, the eighth note tempo beating the moments that tick by like the frantic striking of a drum. Her breaths come in short bursts, her warm exhalations freezing into tiny clouds before disappearing into nothing. She finds it almost humorous that she’s merely inches from this defining moment, yet she can’t bring herself to knock on the door. She almost smiles.

Her hand shakes as she pulls it from beneath her jacket, and knocks. The doorknob jiggles once, then twists and the door opens an inch.

“What do you want?” a voice calls, and Scully’s breath catches in her throat.

“Mulder?” Her eyes burn with unshed tears, and she inches forward. “Mulder, is that you?”

“Scully?”

She squints, as if straining her eyes will assist her brain in registering the use of her name. It’s been so long since she’s heard it, that she’s forgotten what it sounds like coming from another’s mouth. She opens her mouth to ask him to repeat it, when the door swings open and disappears into the shadows, taking her request and the rest of the world with it. All that’s left is him standing before her.

Mulder. Her Mulder.

“Scully,” he whispers, and reaches for her.

If anyone were to ask her what happened next, she would only be able to describe it as an episode of insanity. She feels her fingers curl, her nails piercing into the flesh of her palm, and the next thing she is aware of is her fist connecting with his jaw.

[sarcasmfish]

Just Good Friends

Cullen and the Inquisitor spend a night together working on Inquisition matters, but late nights draw off the conscience and evoke an affection the stark light of day would otherwise burn away.

Cullen Rutherford x Talia Trevelyan

Read here on AO3

Good friends, she reminded herself again.  They were just good friends.

She was sitting on the small couch in her room, leaned back against the arm with her legs tucked beneath her.  Cullen sat on the plush rug before the couch, reclined against the arm for support. Reports, maps, and inventories of troop numbers were neatly arranged around him on the floor.

It was late and he was down to his shirtsleeves.  The commander had long since shrugged off the fur mantle and armor despite the chill that lingered through the room.

There was a missive going unread in her hands.  A similar stack of papers sat on the other side of the couch, waiting with guilty presence for her attention.

She had been watching Cullen instead of completing her work.

He was intent.  The cuffs of his sleeves were rolled up to his forearms.  They had not actually spoken to each other for several hours.  She watched him pluck two papers from a stack to compare, scribble something on one, and then return them to different piles.  Sometimes he merely signed his name, a large looping but neat signature, and then stacked the paper off to the side.

He reached for a different map that lay in a roll a few feet from him.  The muscles in his back were easy to watch through the light shirt and Talia found herself ducking behind the missive in her hand, only her eyes peeking over the top, despite the fact that his back was to her.  He leaned back against the couch again with a weary sigh, his shoulder resting against her knees as he unfurled the map.

The touch jolted her from her reverie, but she did not move away.  She was almost ashamed at what a thrill the little contact sent through her. It felt like such a high honor that he had deemed her and her alone worthy of such close company.  Well, she thought it was her and her alone, but she was often gone for great swaths of time, so…

Silly, childish thoughts, her mind chided.  Stop this at once.  He’s the commander of your armies and you are leader of the Inquisition, not a girl and not a lady to be courted.  You haven’t been a lady to be courted for over a decade!

Despite the bullying from the wiser parts of her conscience her heart hurt.  It was nice to fantasize being something special to someone dear. And not so nice to be reminded of the harsh truths of reality.

“Cullen?” she called, voice soft in the old silence surrounding them and sounding far too wounded for the feared, powerful leader she was supposed to be.

Despite his fierce focus he turned his head to her at once.

“Something wrong?”

The dim firelight made his eyes seem molten and far too filled with concern.  It only served to do further damage to her thumping heart. She cursed the weakness and worked to put something of a smirk on her lips.

“It’s getting late.”

He returned the smirk and the chill in the room disappeared.  That twist to his lips and cant of the scar above them did other things to her heart.

“If you’re trying to get rid of me, Inquisitor, you need only say.”

“Is that all it takes?” she replied coyly.

“I’m not one to disobey a lady who could set fire to me.”

“Hmm, according to the novel Cassandra lent me, the knight should fight for his lady to show his true conviction for her.”

“But what would it look like to my men if you had the guards throw me from your room?”

He flashed such a roguish grin at her she could not help but laugh.  He joined her and before she could school herself she reached out to ruffle the crown of his hair.  She jerked back her hand after the impulse.  He spent such time and care on his appearance.  Instead of chastising her he seemed to only laugh harder.

The late time and stress fueled the giggles that broke through the two, rendering them a tearful mess of laughter.  When the silly mood subsided into mutual grins Cullen swept the heels of his hands over his eyes and then turned back to his paperwork.

“Let me finish these last orders and then I will retire.”

She bobbed her head in a little nod he could not see and attempted to return her wandering attention to the paper still clutched in her hand.

Her attention did not last long.  The dimming firelight and weariness that tugged at her eyes lulled her into that vulnerable loneliness again.

She drifted from the stale paper to the back of Cullen’s head.  He was holding the map in outstretched arms again.  The locks of his hair had long escaped the rigid confines he had sculpted them into that morning, but her ruffling had served to severely agitate them.  The product he had used now assisted the rebellious tresses in standing and twisting at odd angles.  A few of them had arranged themselves into a little horns like that of a young Quinari. It made her smile.  He looked so youthful and free from the burdens that any other time dug into his shoulders.

He had leaned further into the edge of the couch, the back of his shoulders now almost flush with her shins.  She was entranced with the warmth and closeness of him and before her rational mind could catch her she found herself reaching out to smooth down the stray hairs atop his head.

She felt Cullen freeze, watched as his shoulders stiffened and she immediately yanked her traitorous hand away.

Her mind was already roiling with admonishments for her impulsive and stupid act when he spoke.

“You didn’t have to stop.” His voice was soft, not in the usual kind way he spoke to her, but tentative and unsure, something so rare to hear from the commander of armies.

He did not turn his head from the map, but she could tell he was bracing himself.  Was he waiting for her to dismiss him?  To mock him?  To harm him?

She reached out again, willing her fingers not to tremble as they brushed over his hair again.  Though she could feel the remnant of whatever wax he used to tame his curls in the morning his hair was soft against her palm. The strands coiled around her fingers and tickled against her skin.

The tension held so taught in Cullen’s shoulders ebbed out and encouraged boldness in her.  She let her fingers fall deeper into his mane, weaving through the curls with each gentle stroke of her hand.

The map in his hands drooped, his head tilting back toward her.  Though he faced away from her, she suspected his eyes might have slipped closed.

“That feels divine,” he rumbled, his voice a gravely octave that warmed her blood.  “But I’ll never finish if you continue.”

Her hand paused its journey at the nape of his neck.

“Did you want me to stop?”

“Maker, no,” he breathed without hesitation.

She continued to card her fingers through his hair, her movements slow and lazy.  At one point she grew braver and turned the blunt tips of her fingernails to drag along his scalp and Talia could have sworn the groan he elicited almost set her on fire.

The candlelight around them grew dim and some began to gutter in their holders.  Her rhythmic strokes through his hair began to falter as the room around her became woolen, the colors muted in growing darkness. Her eyes burned and blinking became a chore, her lids now weighing more than she could easily lift.

At some point she must have lost the battle to sleep for when she woke Cullen had arranged his work into a neat stack, ready for transport.  He was standing, looking a bit uncertain as to what his next step would be.  When she turned her bleary gaze up to him he crouched in front of her, resting a light hand upon her knee.

“It’s rather late.” His voice was low, almost a whisper, as if he were still afraid of waking her.  “We should get some rest.”

She felt a panic crawl through her, an irrational thing that clawed at her chest.  He was leaving.

“I should help you carry all of that back to your room.”

He scooped the maps and documents up into an arm as she stood, a private smile on his lips.

“Thank you, but I will manage.”  He looked her over a moment and she felt herself almost shrink under his bronze gaze. “You need rest and soon it will be morning.”

She nodded her understanding, but felt her shoulders slump.

Cullen stood before her, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.  She had expected him to leave without another word, but it seemed there was more he was fighting to say.  She peered up at him, willing him to speak his mind, even if a dismissal of the intimacy they had just shared would squash the warm bubble within her.

Instead of speaking he reached out to her with his free hand.  It hung in the air a moment as if he were gathering his courage before his fingers met the fine hairs at her temple.  He combed through her hair, around the shell of her ear and down over the stands that fell just past her shoulder.  His eyes followed his fingers.  They were distant and full of wonder, as if he had laid his hands upon fire and not been burned.

He looked back to meet her, his fingers still twirled within the ends of her hair.  She watched him swallow, watched him try to gather and arrange his words before he could speak them.

“Tomorrow,” he was watching her lips as he spoke.  “Allow me to return the kindness?”

Words and thoughts were becoming wisps of smoke, eluding her grasp with each attempt.  She merely nodded, unwilling to trust that coherent words would form at her lips.

The smile Cullen wore as he loosed his fingers from her hair was generous and peaceful.  His eyes remained on her until he made the turn to descend the stairs from her room.

When the door closed behind him she finally let go of the breath she had been holding.

Just good friends?

[chanzicoup]

“Sweeter Than Sweet” (BTS Suga x Reader Imagine)

A/N: Let me just say, boyfriend!yoongi is my favorite Yoongi and you can’t fight me about it either. Sorry this took so long to do, but school’s been taking up so much of my time! Finals are a few months away, and my “easy classes” are next semester so I will be having more free time soon. I am so sorry to hear about your exam, I hate it when that happens. Don't let it keep you down though, grades aren't everything life has to offer! I'm taking my first AP Course right now and on the first test we had I didn't get the grade I wanted, but a couple days later my teacher gave everyone four extra points because there was a mix up with the answer key.

Count: 1.8k

Genre: Fluff

Warning: None

~Blake

You really thought you'd pass. You studied your butt off for hours everyday for the last three weeks. You ignored Yoongi's texts and phone calls knowing well that he missed you to. He understood you were stressed and needed to prepare for the test that as worth more than half of your overall grade; he eventually he distanced himself from you, until the morning of. He had Jin cook you breakfast and pretended he made it, even though you've eaten Jin's food enough to know that wasn't true, but it's the thought that counts. Yoongi drove you to your school, even thought you usually take the bus t get there, you were thankful he was there with you. He even let you grip his hand to ease your nerves, ignoring your fingernails imprinting his skin. He gave you a mini pep talk about  how you shouldn't have been anxious and to call him when you were done so he could pick you up. It worked for about a minute and you went in with confidence of passing.

But after five hours of working and turning in the exam you could've gotten instant results from the grading machine, but they could not be announced until everyone took the test. Most people went home if they finished early and would just come back tomorrow to see if they passed, but not you. You stuck around for an extra hour, tapping your fingers on the table and bouncing your leg. If you brought a book you would be to fidgety to read it. And phones were not allowed to be out in the testing room. Your jittery movements might have annoyed the people around you but some of them were doing the same exact thing. The professor pinned the scores on the bulletin board by his desk and everyone rushed to see what they've gotten. Most cheered and called their parents, saying things relative to "I did it! Let's go to dinner!" and others sulked away, you only saw one other girl cry and hoped you wouldn't be like her.

Your eyes were burning before you even saw your results, you had to guess on a few questions but other than that you thought you did alright. When the crowd dispersed you scanned the list to the right, where the best scores were, you didn't find it. You didn't find your name on the best scores list. That was a long shot, only about twelve of the eight hundred people were fortunate enough to be in the top percentage. The second list were the average scores, which was the range you were going for since you thought being realistic with your goal was the better choice. After looking up and down and not finding your name, you searched again, and again, and again. It's definitely not there. Then you did something you were really praying you wouldn't have to do, and that was reading the list of the people who did not receive a passing grade. That list had no scores, just the names of the people who would either have to retake the course or not take it at all and do something else. If you were on that list and wanted to know your score you'd have to e-mail the professor so then no one could accidentally hear what you got, some sort of information protection strategy your school started doing a couple of years ago. It never concerned you until now. Your name was on that list and your heart sank.

How could you not pass? Yeah you didn't think you'd be the best but you expected to at least get a half decent grade. Your legs felt like jelly but you walked home anyway. Yoongi doesn't want to drive all the way back just to hear you failed, you thought. Besides, you hate it when he sees you crying. Granted it's not often when you do, usually when something serious had happened or when stress has overcome your feelings. You and him always confided in each other after the fact because you didn't want the other to worry. It was something you both did that ended up concerning the other anyway. If there is a rough path in either of your lives, you two are always wondering when was the last time the other cried about it, but knew confronting them would only make the situation worse. You guys always came around for each other.

This was one of those times. You wanted to cry alone. Just sitting around where no one could see you, maybe on the ground if you couldn't find a bench under a tree, and maybe rain falling down all around you. That's how you felt, like a raincloud was just hovering over your head and following you as you take the long way home in oppose to the short cut through the city. As if mother nature read your mind, you felt drops of rain falling on the bare skin of your face. "God I wasn't serious." You grumbled. Now you were cold, wet, and still not moving faster. You put your hood up and stuffed your hands in your pocket while the other students around you ran into nearby coffee houses or stores for shelter. If only you felt like it, moving.

Slowly tears formed and mixed with the rain on your cheeks. Could this day get any worse? Apparently, because a car just sped by you and splashed you with mud. Now your new sneakers are ruined. You didn't risk asking yourself the same question in fear of jinxing yourself so you just limped home in your spongy sneaks.

When you opened the front door Yoongi's puppy, Holly, ran up barking to you. Something he did every time you came home. It always made you happy but today was just so awful that you couldn't even bare a smile at the cutie patutie. You bent down and pet him, just so he doesn't feel sad. Even though you were soaked to the bone and freezing you went to the living room and sat on the couch, leaning your head against the back of it. Holly was a bit too small to jump next to you from his spot on the ground so when he tried and failed to jump up, he whimpered.

"Oh, come here. Maybe you could make me feel better." Bending down again you set Holly on your lap, but apparently your rained out jeans, literally, were uncomfortable so he got right off. "Thanks a lot. You're a real mood booster." Holly looked at you and ran off into the hall. From your bedroom you hear Yoongi drooling over the bundle of fur.

"Hi Holly, ready to go pick up mommy? She should be done by- woah." Yoongi's smile dropped to a confused scowl. Holly spun around a few times and laid down on the rug by the television. He knew he did something.

"What are you doing home? I thought you were at school." He noticed your condition and sat down beside you, wrapping his arms over and behind your head.

"I walked home." You shrugged.

"WHY? It was raining! Look, baby you're dripping!" Running to the bathroom to grab a towel, Yoongi came back and began drying your hair with his careful touches. Neither of you talked, and you weren't certain if you wanted to or not.

"So I take it things didn't go well?" He said after you were semi dry.

"I failed, Yoongi. I fucking failed." You weren't much of a swearer so he knew this really upset you when the curse came from your mouth.

"You couldn't have been the only one. You studied for weeks! Something isn't right, you were ready!"

"Apparently I wasn't, because now I either have to retake the whole course or do something else in my life." Yoongi knew you were upset and in a bad situation. But he also knew it is not the end of the world, and that something like that takes time to fix itself. The school you were in was strict, but if he were to call the teacher in the morning he thinks he could sort it out. But you were clearly depressed now and all he wanted to do was make you happy again.

"Baby, grab your coat. We're going out." You were surprised by what he said, but you didn't have enough time to react because he grabbed your hand and threw your coat into your arms, barely giving you enough time to actually put it on. You sadness was replaced by confusion with a hint of excitement.

"Yoongi, where are we going?" You asked.

"I don't know yet but we're going somewhere." And with that, you two were in the car and driving in any direction, neither of you seemed to care if you got lost because you both forgot your phones at home. Not that it seemed to bother you two either. The whole drive was spent with the radio turned on high and you and Yoongi singing along, purposefully off-key, to whatever song was on. Even if you didn't know the lyrics. You two drove through towns you've never been in before, tried free samples of new foods, bought dumb couple stuff like key chains and magnets for the sole purpose of them being dumb, took selfies in front of the landmarks that neither of you will ever post to any form of social media because it was for your eyes only. You'd forgotten all about your exam, you'd figure something else out. You guys didn't go home. Instead, you decided to buy fuzzy blankets, take out, and souvenir pillows to camp out under the stars in an empty flower field.

On the roof of Yoongi's car you two laid down. Three blankets underneath you to act as a mattress, some pillows protected your heads from the hard metal of the van, and snacks both opened and to be opened scattered around you. No other noise can be heard except for the crickets off in the distance. If you or Yoongi saw one it'd be game over because neither of you are tolerant of those little shits. The biggest blanket covered the both of you, engulfing your bodies in warmth and isolating the heat the two of you gave off.

"Did you have fun today, baby?" Yoongi asked while looping his arm under your head.

"Yeah, I did. Thanks to you." You turned to your side and kissed Yoongi's jawline, something you did when you two were cuddling.

"I'm glad. Now get some sleep, we have an even longer day planned ahead of us tomorrow."

[depressedtransguy]

only allowed to keep reading if you’re @thedragonemperess if you’re not I’ll push your face into a moving fan

Loki sobbed harder as the body he had spent almost two years loving slumped against the wall with a trail of blood and other internal entities following him on the way down, squeezing one hand across his heart and one on the gun that he was still holding. Both were trembling badly. I had no choice, I had no choice, I had no choice, he repeated over and over in his head, trying to remind himself that he did the right thing, but his heart just couldn't accept that. Yet it was too late to go back. He was dead. And it was all Loki's fault.

The crying soon enough overtook his whole body and he was forced to drop down onto his knees, folding over until his pale forehead was resting against the cooling concrete and his tears were soaking the part beneath him. "I never wanted to hurt you, by god I never wanted to hurt you," Loki choked out with a following sob. Only then did he finally let go of the gun to claw at his neck as if that would open up his trachea from being strangled by tears. "I loved you. I love you."

"Oh my god, what the-? LOKI?"

A new and very familiar voice echoed against the hard surfaces and forced Loki to snap his head up to look him in the eye. His frightened eyes. Eyes that unfortunately had just doomed their host's life.

Within just seconds a knife had been yanked out of Loki's weapons belt and more blood was pouring out onto the floor, this time from a neck. His unconscious body crumbled down into the puddle. Loki felt less bad that time. The pair hadn't been as close as he had with the original victim. But the more he thought about it, Loki realized that he didn't have to die in order for himself to live, and that fact alone twisted up his guts. Collateral damage. Not great.

Loki dropped the blood covered knife with a clatter onto the floor and collapsed down to his knees once more, the second death pushing his oppressive sorrow into nothing but crushing apathy. They were dead. Because of him.

When the door opened back up behind him Loki jumped up to his feet once more-already ready to kill again-only to stop when he saw that it was Odin.

"Good, the job's done."

Fingernails dug into Loki's palms. He was the one who set him up to this in the first place. Maybe I should kill him.

But Odin was quicker.

As Loki snatched a second knife-this one more ragged-and raised it up to pierce him right in the jugular vein, Odin turned on his heel and stopped him by his wrists, then shoving him into the other wall after disarming him. Loki's head smacked into the concrete and he slid down to his ass. "Don't even think about it. I know you've heard the stories, and I'd hate for you to become nothing but a scary story to keep new trainees from stepping out of line," Odin spat, impaling the knife into the crown of the closest body's head, before stepping forward to stand upright in front of Loki and display his dominance. Not that Loki really needed the reminder. "You could've been something really great, you know? I've seen you train, I've seen you in the simulations, and I just watched you kill two of your friends almost effortlessly, you could have been the best assassin in this place. But no, you're selfish, aren't you? You had to go and start this fling with that fucking amputee, and go against everything we've ever taught you. Stand up, hitman."

Loki was forced to listen. But he was immediately struck in the face only to collapse on the floor once more. The pain of his hit shot through his nose and made his eyes water, the only tears not from sadness joining the wetness on his cheeks. He just stayed silent on the floor in fear of being hit again as the pain continued to gnaw at his face.

"We gave you a perfect road to success. And you destroyed it because you only had yourself in mind. You're going to have to make up for this." Only then did Odin wave him up from where he lay scared. But as soon as he did, knees shaking and hands shoved in his pockets to hide the trembling, a hand wrapped around his throat and tightened until he couldn't breathe. Then his surprised face was brought up close to his superior's. "Here's what you're going to do. Keep excelling in class. Keep doing what you've always been doing. But drop the little posse. And don't step out of line again, or else next time, you won't get a choice between your slow death or a quick murder. You understand?"

He still couldn't breathe, his hands grabbing at Odin's forearm and squeezing as if that would remove the iron grip from his throat, but he did his best to nod in understanding.

Thankfully after that he was dropped onto the floor and left to gasp. "You're not going to be a victim of this horror. You're going to be the perpetrator. Do you understand me?"

"Ye-yes," Loki choked out. "I understand... sir."

Odin smirked. "Good. You'll be back on track in no time to be the monster we raised you to be." With a tap of his steel toed boot against Loki's rib cage, he then opened the door once more and swept out, leaving the teenager heaving against the floor with two dead bodies, a strew of his own weapons, a knot in his stomach, and a hole in his heart.

"Monster..."

~~

Loki felt two arms wrap around him from behind and a head flop down on his shoulder as he slipped his boots on and tightened the laces, only then pausing at the feeling of his husband latching onto him. "Nightmare, huh?" Stephen whispered against the skin of his neck. "You always get up early for work when you have a bad one."

After seventeen years together Loki was practically an open book that his husband had memorized by heart. "Yeah. It was... bad." A shiver ripped down his spine as he felt familiar fingers slowly dragging themselves over the brand on the back of his neck.

"Was it about this?" he questioned without stopping.

Wordlessly, Loki nodded. Although most of his past he still kept locked up out of fear, and Stephen respected it, he did have a vague idea. And much of that idea came from the thick red ringed brand of the numbers '4269'. It was discovered only a few weeks into their relationship, as it wasn't exactly in a hidden area, but Loki released bits and pieces of an explanation over the years without pressure from his partner.

From those alone Stephen basically knew that Loki was abandoned by his parents as a baby and handed over to some sort of group or organization that branded him as one of theirs and he only managed to escape very closely to the time that they first met. That was it.

But that was just enough for Stephen to be satisfied and have enough to comfort his husband, while Loki still had enough hidden that he could sleep at night knowing that his husband was still far from the entire truth.

"Would you like to talk about it?"

Honestly he did. Every day he wanted to rant to Stephen about the trauma of his past and just how much they still affected him up to the present. But that came along with the risk of losing him and absolutely everything else, so he kept it all locked down. "Not today, I actually should get to the shop early. I owe Nebula for leaving her with a double shift last time."

Stephen accepted it, but only released one arm from his midsection, first pushing his head over to the side for a sleepy kiss which Loki enthusiastically returned. "Come to me at any time. Okay? I'm not going anywhere."

He could still read him even without knowing everything. "I will. I promise."

With a small smile, Stephen pressed another kiss to the corner of his mouth before reluctantly slipping off of him and flopping back onto the mattress. "I love you Dewdrop."

"I love you too." Loki stood up after one more kiss was shared, snatching up his phone and keys as he quietly made his way out of his bedroom and into the kitchen. There he ate a bit of a leftover bagel and cast nothing but a sideways glance at the mess on the counter, knowing that it was most likely from one of his daughter's midnight stress baking sessions, which she'd clean up once she woke up within the hour for high school. I'll have to talk to her about that, he thought as he plucked his biker jacket off the coat rack and tucked some of his handheld items into the pockets, already pushing the nightmare out to make room for his daughter. Just one reason out of many why he adored his family. As for his daughter, Hela's, problem, he was pretty positive that it was most likely about her upcoming finals, as she was a huge perfectionist that could barely handle getting a B, and her practice tests hadn't been going too well. Stephen had mostly been handling that, since Loki didn't go to any sort of real school, but he figured that maybe giving up a bit of his unorthodox learning strategies as a child could help her. After all, it did eventually lead to him speaking seven languages and knowing just as much (if not more) about medicine than his doctor husband did. Who knows, but he had to try something to stop watching his daughter suffer over her own expectations.

Right before he was about to step out the door and get to his six AM shift a half an hour early, the thoughts of his daughter reminded him that he should check on his children before he left. Many mornings he had opened his kids doors to find out that they never went to sleep in the first place: Hela from either school or YouTube and Thor from his books.

So as quietly as possible he crept up the stairs up to where dim light was seeping in through windows from the early morning sunrise, carefully twisting the knob to his son's room first and pushing it in. There he saw Thor curled up in his bed with his favorite frog stuffie gripped tightly to his chest, the small lullaby that was usually played to help him sleep floating softly through the still air, and his glow and the dark stars on the ceiling shining down on his apparently sleeping form. But Loki was smarter than that.

"Oh alright, I guess Thor is asleep then. Too bad. I guess I can't give him this brand new Frogger game boy then," Loki acted out as he moved farther into the room, doing worse at holding down his smile than his own fidgeting son. "Maybe I should just donate it since he's not awake to take it." Based on his little facial expression alone, he was having a little battle with himself.

But, eventually and inevitably, the frog side of him won.

"No no, Dad, I'm awake!" he exclaimed. "Just give me it!"

Loki grinned at his victory and kneeled down carefully next to his son's low bed, then peeling back the covers a little more to reveal a dog-eared book with a miniature flashlight both hiding under there. "Another all nighter for... Warrior Cats? Thor, you have school today."

"I'm sorry Dad, I lost track of time. I kept reading and reading and then suddenly I saw the sun start to rise and you were coming in," he hastily explained.

It was hard to be mad at that. But, although Loki had never really followed the notion himself, sleep was very important to everyone--especially growing children. "Okay Thor, but I'm going to need you to give me both the book and the flashlight."

And he did, although not exactly willingly. "Alright, good." Loki slipped the flashlight into his pocket and tucked the book under his arm. "Now I'm going to need you to go to sleep. I know your school starts in three hours and you need to wake up in only two, but any sleep is better than no sleep. Believe me. Can you do that?"

"Fine. I can."

"Good. Now please do, and I'll see you tonight. Okay?" After a nod Loki smiled and kissed his forehead. "I love you."

"I love you too Dad," Thor mumbled as he pulled the covers over him and actually snuggled in that time, casting a little wave as his father stood up and rested the book on the dresser by the door.

Loki mimicked the action before closing the door behind him to let him finally get some sleep. He could only wish his daughter was doing better.

Well... at least she was asleep.

When Loki cracked open her door and peeked in, he stepped in to find her passed out on her desk, her dark brown hair strewn across the textbooks she was on top of that clearly showed what she had been doing before she had fallen unconscious. Once he was close enough to realize the latter he then began removing the most likely uncomfortable volumes and then shut off the light-as quietly as possible of course-before finally draping a blanket over her back. It was all he could do for now, so he then gently shut the door behind him and finally left the house knowing that his family was safe. Sometimes reassurance was necessary. Especially after the flashbacks to when he had no reassurance.

~~

Loki stripped off his jacket and hung it over his arm as soon as he stepped into the heated tattoo parlor, throwing a wave to Nebula where she was bent over some muscled guys tanned back, before he stopped at the main desk to clock in. "Any appointments for the day?" he questioned as Mary signed him in.

As she, Mantis as she was known to her parlor friends, tapped at her computer, Loki looked over the many tattoos lacing up and down her revealed pale arms and internally wondered if they all had a deeper meaning like his own did. He could just ask, perhaps, as that would be a billion times easier than just wondering, but that would possibly lead to questions about his own, which would lead to a lot of fear and possibly a good old anxiety attack. Sounded fun. Oh, she was talking. "Only one, so the rest will be walk-ins. Ayesha should be here by eight with a request for some sort of New York City landscape, whatever that means, but I'm sure she'll explain it better than she did over the phone. It was actually late last night. She might've been drunk." Not the first time it happened. From there only 20% of people then actually showed up. "We'll see if she arrives or not."

"Makes sense. Thanks, Mantis."

She didn't answer. Loki was actually 90% sure that she was asleep right there standing behind the desk. "Mantis?" he repeated, waving his hands over her eyes, suddenly feeling bad for never being able to take the night shift. "You alive?"

With a jerk she seemed to come back to consciousness and make the tattoo artist flinch in the same second. "Oh. Yes. Sorry, I have not slept in 36 hours. Just go settle in until either a walk-in or Ayesha arrives."

Although he wanted to listen he stalled temporarily, wondering if there was anything he could do for her, before just nodding and moving toward the backroom.

Loki hung his coat up after he pushed open the door and immediately went for the day-old coffee pot, as neither him nor any other employee really cared what the drink tasted like as long as they got the fast juice. The fast was the important part. All the contents were emptied into a hopefully clean Snoopy mug that was pretty much known as his before he downed it all. Loki had been working there long enough to know how the mug situation works.

A collective 13 years how long he had been employed at Quill's Tattoos, with a five year gap in between when he had been a house husband to take care of his infant son.

skip to news

To Loki's surprise, Ayesha actually showed up.

"Okay, I vaguely remember making an appointment here last night through a haze of my idiotic drunkenness, and I've always kind of wanted one, so now I'm here," she explained to Mantis in a whisper as Loki leaned against the counter and watched, intrigued by her arrival and her hungover state.

Mantis, just as surprised and amused, nodded and explained the situation back to her and the same soft tone that she had used. It wasn't her first rodeo. "Yes ma'am, you did make an appointment last night in a seemingly extremely intoxicated state. You requested an 8 AM slot with the employee with the most gentle hands. So you'll be with Loki this morning." With a blush of embarrassment Ayesha looked over at Loki as he waved, fighting a snicker at what she had asked for. "I can replay the call to confirm if you'd like."

"No! No, I- I believe it."

"Alright." Mantis scribbled a few things out on a piece of paper before tearing it off and handing it over to Loki. "You'll go with him now. Depending on what you want and if you even know what you want, you'll either finish it today or have to make another appointment in the future."

Ayesha nodded in understanding, lightly fiddling with the strap of her purse as she followed Loki from the reception desk and into the main area of the shop, and then past a curtain of beads into a room with a few collected tables and chairs intended for discussions as well as an option for employees to take their lunch breaks. They quickly found one that they wished to sit down at. "So, do you have an idea of what you'd like? Because if you don't know or don't even have an exact idea, I have some of drawings of my own as well as other designs that I haven't gotten to but can also do myself," Loki began in the same gentle voice as to not hurt her, taking out the book he had under his arm and pushing it across the table to her.

"Okay good because I have no idea what the fuck I'm doing," she whispered and quickly cracked open the binder, flipping through the pages and carefully dragging her finger across the laminated pictures and drawings. "But I do know I want it on my bicep."

"Alright, I can start there. See anything you like?"

She flipped a few more pages in silence before she slowly nodded. "This one. I like the style." The drawing she had in mind was a deeply red rose, its overly long stem tied up in itself over and over again, along with jutting thorns that glinted with blood. "Although I'd prefer a different type of flower."

"Oh, that's easy. Just give me a bit to draw up a quick sketch and I'll see what I can do. But what type of flower?" As he anticipated her answer, Loki opened the book a little wider so he could snatch up one of the loose papers at the back to draw on and pulled a pencil from behind his ear.

"Hmm... how about a Narcissus flower? Oh, what's the other name- a daffodil! That one," she responded as she already began to tap at her bicep where she planned for it to go.

Loki immediately got to work. Meanwhile, Ayesha fell silent once more and pulled out her phone, the scribble of his pencil being the only sound that echoed through the empty area. Until about ten minutes had gone by and the client cried out.

"Oh my god!"

"What? I'm not finished but if it's way off from what you were imagining I can change it-"

"No, no," Ayesha interrupted, her eyes locked on the space above him. "I mean... look!"

Loki followed her finger to where she was pointed until he found himself staring at the small TV in the corner of the room, which was currently on mute, but no noise was needed for him to understand what was going on. The picture alone showed him a very familiar face holding a gun to his daughter's head from the perspective of someone who was clearly a hiding student. "I have to go."

"Wait, wh-"

"Talk to Mantis!" he threw over his shoulder as he burst through the beads and eventually out the door, not even bothering to grab his jacket on the way out, just jumping on his bike and taking off. He'd never get that jacket back. He'd probably never go back to his job ever again either. His past had finally reached him, and due to it, there was no way he wasn't going to lose his future along with it.

~~

Loki practically kicked his front door down when he reached it. Thankfully empty, he stormed down the hall and immediately went to his bedroom and opened his and his husband's shared closet. After all clothes were shoved aside in order for him to have access to the blank back wall, Loki pressed his bare palm to the black paint and leaned in, only removing it when he felt the scanner confirm his identity and the hidden door began to open with a small sliding sound. It revealed a 12 by 12 titanium covered secret room covered in weapons, memoriams of his childhood, and most importantly, the world famous outfit that made everyone know his name. The Frost Giant. Flashbacks already started to tear through his mind just at the sight of it. But this wasn't about him. This was about his daughter, and absolutely nothing else. So he grabbed the mask wrapped around the mannequin's head and snapped it on his jaw, doing his best to ignore the shivers that went down his spine. All the bodies he'd dropped were coming back to him. From afar, close up; from world leaders to innocent civilians- all because of him. Just think about her. Just think about her.

~~

Bound at both the wrists and the mouth, all Hela could do was swing her legs and wiggle around in her captor's grip, although clearly to no avail since she had been at it for over 15 minutes. Technically she did accomplish something, as she did manage to annoy her captor. But having a gun pointed at your head and being told to stop otherwise you'd die wasn't really a win. "All of you are recording this right?" he called out to the other students quivering inside their classrooms, phones urgently held up to the window, a chorus of silent nods responding to his question. They were too scared to speak. "And it's on the news?" More nods. "Good. He should be here soon then."

"He's already here."

A click of a gun along with the voice made the man do a 180 on his heel, whipping Hela along with him. She was annoyed before she was screaming at the sight of the new party. "Froosht?" she exclaimed, most likely meaning to say 'Frost'.

Loki's face grew worried at the mention, an expression that was thankfully being hidden by the mask. Frost was his assassin name, short for his full title of 'The Frost Giant', a title that his daughter knew of. She knew his past. She knew his past without even knowing it. "The Collector," he spoke to the man anyway, trying to avoid eye contact with her in fear of recognition. He also lost his accent as an attempt to shield his voice. "It's been a while."

"The Frost Giant. I could say the same. Last time I saw you, you were stealing my daughter."

With a dry chuckle Loki took a step forward. "Perhaps so. But I'm afraid I have to take another female away from you." His chin jerked over to Hela. "The girl. Release her. Or I'll paint the wall with your vital organs."

The Collector laughed as if Loki had just told the funniest joke in the world while his victim looked confused at the assassin with her big gray bambi eyes. The mixture of fear, confusion, and just a slight glimmer of hope inside them cracked Loki's heart. "Oh, no no no no no. You escaped by the skin of your teeth and left a trail of blood behind you last time, there's no way you're getting her any easier than that again," The Collector hissed as he tapped the barrel of his gun to Hela's head. She squirmed and looked pleadingly up at Loki- thankfully not recognizing the 'again' comment. She knew she was looking at an assassin... but she just wanted to get out.

"Why?" Hela was gagged at the mouth, muffling every word, but that one syllable was still clear as day.

Why me? Why you? Why are you doing this? That was what she was asking. But all she got out was 'why?'. The Collector said something before Loki was able to open a mouth that had no words to speak. "Yeah, Frosty, why don't you tell her why you're here? Why are you doing this? Come on, inform the girl," he evilly purred, forcing the girl closer to him with the weapon still pressed against her skull.

Loki of course said nothing about it. "If you don't listen to me I will splatter your brain all over the wall."

"What, like you did to James Barnes?"

"YOU SHUT UP ABOUT BUCKY!" Loki spat in a sudden burst of anger, one that made even The Collector step back in a bit of surprise. But then he grinned at the nerve he had struck. The assassin was not in the fucking mood. So he inhaled sharply, shoved down the trauma and the recollection of his dream, and tightened his grip on the weapon. "Put her down and I won't kill you, does that make fucking sense?"

"No. Wrong. You take off the mask, and I won't kill her." The room froze as every single person's, spare The Collector of course, eye's widened at his deal. He wanted Loki to reveal his identity to the world. After seeing the recording at his work, he already knew he had lost his life (although he was doing a great job at oppressing it), but lost his life in the way that he'd lose his family. But if he took off the mask, then he'd lose not only his family, but the ability to live in the world anymore. Taking off the mask meant death without the freedom of release. "You have 10 seconds." The Collector's smirk was just proof that he knew what he was doing. "And don't try anything tricky; I'll pull the trigger at even the tremble of a finger. So put the gun down, and face the music."

The gun was put down as asked.

"10."

He didn't have a choice, did he?

"9."

Letting his daughter die was worse than anything else that could happen to him.

"8."

For a second he thought about the possibility of disarming him and attempting to get the best out of both really really bad worlds.

"7."

But that was too risky.

"6."

The Collector wasn't lying, he would shoot at the tick of a pinkie, and he had an itchy trigger finger to do so with.

"5."

Lose the mask, or lose his daughter.

"4."

Now that was an easy decision.

"3."

'Easy'.

"2."

Loki would suffer the loss of his husband, and his children, as well as everything in the on-the-grid world that he had ever known-- but they would all live on.

"1."

"Alright!" Loki exclaimed and raised up his hands in defense, his gun having been tucked into the harness being partially shielded by his oversized cargo jacket. "I'm doing it, I'm doing it." After peeling off his right glove Loki's hand reached up to his face and his fingertips grazed the fabric. "But Hela?"

Hela's eyes widened once more. How do you know my name? was what she clearly wanted to say.

"I'll always love you."

Her extreme facial confusion continued until the mask was finally peeled off of his face and she let out a loud gasp. "Dad?!"

More and more gasps echoed into the hallway from the crowded groups of kids that had been eagerly pressed against the glass ever since Loki entered the building, each sound and expression striking the assassin harder and harder- but none more than his daughter's. Her face was filled with such a large amount of pain and betrayal, and all without her saying a word. "I'm so sorry," he whispered as he shoved his mask in his pocket and pulled out his gun once more. "But I did what you asked. We had a deal."

"Okay, okay, you're right. We had a deal. And I'm a man of my word." After the removal of her gag and his grip of her hands, Hela was let free.

But she didn't run. She slowly stepped forward to her father and scrunched her nose, tears clearly building up, and her fists clenching and unclenching at her side. Her mouth opened like she was going to say something. But then she closed it and stormed off behind The Collector.

Of course he was still grinning. "Why do you look so crushed? She's not even your daughter anyway."

Hela stopped walking. "What the hell does he mean?" she slowly questioned, unhurriedly turning back toward the two men.

"Get out of here, Hela, it's not safe."

"What the HELL does he mean!?" she repeated.

The Collector looked back at her and raised an eyebrow. "Go on, Frosty, don't be shy. Tell her how she was the daughter that you stole from me. Tell her how you took her right from her bed. Tell her what you were doing when you took her from her crib."

"Crib?! You had her in a bloody cardboard box!" Loki snapped.

Which was just what The Collector wanted. Proof from the man himself that Hela wasn't his, and was in fact stolen from him. "Tell her how you carried her, while you, bloody and beaten, hid scared to death in an alleyway, waiting there until your current husband found you. Tell her. Tell her who you were that led to all of this." His voice was as slick as a mother fucking snake. Once again, his plan was going perfectly. And that plan was to push Loki into the past.

~

Loki had been sipping a glass of Rosé wine-both of which he had stolen-in his dark underground hideout in Britain when he got the call. A job of his that he only barely managed to escape from had just ended 30 minutes prior, so as he lowered his glass to the ground next to the pile of blood spattered money he had gained from it, he only pulled out his burner phone with extreme reluctance. To be perfectly honest, he was too tired to take another job. But in the business that he was in, he didn't have a choice. Missing a call or denying a mission, or even just being too rude to one's hirer, could mean at the very least receiving no money for one's work, and at the very most... death. So he answered the call. "What is it?"

"It's The Watchman. I know you just had a job, but this is important."

Oh. Perhaps the day was looking up. "Well if it isn't my favorite boss. What do you have for me now?"

"There's this drug lord, in New York City, who calls himself 'The Collector', and he works in an abandoned warehouse near the water on West Houston Street. As you can predict, I want him dead. I don't care what method you use whether it's obvious there's foul play or you frame it as a suicide, he just needs to have no pulse. You're allowed to take any money or even cocaine (to sell, I know you're clean) from the scene. Only requirement is that there's no witnesses. As for pay from me, I'll leave 10K on the corner of 6th Avenue and West 8th. You know it?"

Although Loki spent most of his time in and around Europe, he had visited America a lot (mostly New York), so he did know what he was talking about. "Yeah, near Bleeker Street, I remember."

"Good. Get it done ASAP."

"On it."

An eight hour flight filled with a lot of vodka and opera music followed. (The former probably shouldn't have happened since he was the one driving the plane. He had already stolen it, he wasn't going to steal a pilot only to kill him as a witness later. Too risky.) But he still successfully made it to New York.

He touched down in Marine Park in the dead of night. Late enough that the city seemed unusually asleep. From there he walked a bit before he stole a motorcycle and continued his journey to the scene of where the crime was to take place. He then stopped about half a mile before he reached the warehouse in order to not make a loud entrance, then walking the rest of the way with a gun in hand and his mask already settled in place, a knife also at his belt in order to silently kill anyone in his path. Guns would warn his victim that he was coming. Sure, sometimes there were random gunshots around, it was America, but he still had to be careful.

By the time he reached the actual building he had slit about two guards throats. Less than usual. There must be more traps inside, Loki thought.

And dear god there were. The classic flour blown down an empty hallway as soon as he silently broke through the door revealed a shit ton of lasers that Loki considered way too overboard for just a popular cocaine dealer, making him consider that this guy was hiding something more than just crack, but as he slipped among the lasers as if it was nothing he brushed it off and just tried to focus on his mission. At least that one seemed to be the worst of the worst, as all other traps just forced him to knock out a few cameras, stab a few more guards, or dodge a few shots. Simple. Well at least until he passed the final door and heard the cry of a baby. It made him stop dead in his tracks.

There was a baby? On all of his missions Loki had never dealt with children since children were never really around the types of people he was sent to kill, either good or bad. Half of his brain wanted to paint it as his imagination and just continue and kill the dealer. But the other half was somehow stronger and forced him to go check it out.

As quietly as possible Loki knelt down on the cement and picked the door's lock, then slipped inside and closed it softly behind him.

It was almost entirely empty. About 12 by eight feet if he had to guess, with floor to ceiling cement that hadn't been cleaned in... ever, and the only object inside being a small cardboard box in the corner. That was where the baby was curled up.

She cried out again as he peered down at her, twisting in her box and whining, with nothing but a diaper and a blood spattered piece of cloth covering her body. Loki winced and gently placed a hand on her forehead. She felt unnaturally warm. Fuck, she has a fever, he swore. "Poor baby, is that bastard coke dealer your father?" he purred gently as his fingers cupped the sides of her body, lifting her up into the air and then cradling her against his body, trying to think of something to do. But nothing really came to mind.

So he just held her close until he heard the click of a gun behind his head.

~

Loki stayed silent as everything came back up from the pile of dirt which he had buried the memories under. He only escaped by the very skin of his teeth that night, so imagining all of that again with the now heartbroken grown up baby demanding an explanation, he didn't know what to say. He couldn't say anything. But it broke him even more when Hela scoffed, tears slipping down her cheeks, and said 'fuck you, 'Dad'' before storming of once more. The quotations stung. Everything stung. And he didn't even have a physical scar on him yet. "I was an abused child, forced into an organization that I had no business being in with no way to escape except timeless torture, and after I finally escaped it and got to grow my own life, this is what I get. There is no way in hell you're getting out of this alive," Loki hissed, cocking the gun once more and slowly dragging the trigger back with the barrel pointed right between his eyes.

The sliding of tile against metal was occuring as his opponent slowly shook his head, but Loki didn't want to take his eyes off of him just in case. It's not like they'd pose more of a danger that The Collector did. "Oh, Loki. Once again; you're wrong." The click of a gun informed Loki that there was in fact someone behind him. Fun. "I'm going to leave. And my henchmen are going to kill you." More and more footsteps echoed down the hallway as if they were coming. The Collector really had perfect timing, didn't he? "Sound fair?"

Cool steel pressed against the back of Loki's thick tied up hair. And for some reason, that was what made everything flood out of Loki's body. It reminded him of the night he had rescued his daughter. Sadness, anxiety, all of it drained out- and he just saw red. "Completely fair."

Although a little put off by his response, The Collector nodded at him before then turning on his heel, soon disappearing down the hallway. Loki waited a few seconds in silence to make sure before he spoke. "Kids. Close your eyes." His tone, which was calmer than the gentle breeze on a soft summer's day, was scarier than any other tone The Collector had put forward.

His gun dropped to the ground with a clatter and Loki ducked down and kicked back his legs, simultaneously dodging the bullet the henchmen shot out and knocking him down, before he rolled forward and stood up. Then without missing a beat Loki

hahaha fight scene who?

Stephen arrived at the building just as the cops grabbed Loki from where he stood at the front doors of the school, covered in spattered blood and an apathetic expression, soon to be shoved down against the hood of a police car and aggressively handcuffed. "Hey, HEY, get off of him!" Stephen exclaimed as he opened his door and ran over to try to help his husband. But, as expected, he was stopped by police before he could get close enough.

"Sir, I'm going to need you to stay back," the one of the two officers grabbing his arms roughly instructed. "This is a closed crime scene."

"And that's my husband!" Stephen snapped back with a twist that forced both of them to let go, although he was predictably grabbed yet again.

The officers didn't care. "And your husband is an international killer." Stephen snarled. "So stay back or we'll be forced to detain you too."

Knowing him, Stephen would have very well fought back and have been arrested himself. But then he heard a familiar voice shout his name. "Hela!" Stephen broke out of their grip once more and bolted over to his daughter, hugging him tightly against his chest once he was close enough to embrace her. She was sobbing into his shirt. "It's okay darling, we're okay. I promise."

"D-dad, I'm not his. He's not my dad, he st-he stole me! From that fu-*hic*-from that fucking psycho that held me hostage! I'm his daughter," she hissed out in opposition, only pushing away to prove him wrong. "Nothing is okay!"

The words were entirely new information to Stephen. But this wasn't about him, he had to figure it out and comfort his daughter. "Hela, I know you not being Loki's biological daughter after thinking you were for so long can be shocking, especially since you now know that your genes actually belong to such a terrible man, but biology. Means. Nothing. You're my daughter, aren't you?"

Hela slightly twisted, more tears streaming down her cheeks as she nodded.

"And we're not biologically related. Gene's don't mean shit- what matters is that I love you. And Loki loves you, I promise that. I don't care what this new information is, and I don't even entirely understand it, but he loves you. He proved it concretely today by risking everything just to save you. So please, Hela, don't think otherwise no matter what. Okay?"

She was crying even harder, so Stephen pulled her back in and gently rubbed her back as best as possible as she slowly began to soak his shirt.

fuck you I'm bad at this

It was past midnight. After seeing the police tape of Loki escaping, picking Thor up from school, and shoving their way through the crowd of reporters in front of their house, the Strange family had been sitting in Hela's locked bedroom with no sound spare the TV playing Spongebob, which no one was paying attention to except for Thor. Stephen and Hela just sat there for hours and thought with only the occasional drift off to a device that they couldn't focus on. "I think most of the press is gone."

"Finally," Hela huffed, tilting her head back until the crown of it was pressed up against the wall. "I hope they don't come back." Both knew very well that they would be.

Thor had fallen asleep around eight from exhaustion. The other two had tried to follow suit, or at least get in a little cat nap, but to no avail. A mind choked with its own thoughts is not a mind that can relax. "Is this what our life is going to be now?" Once again was the silence broken. "Hiding away from the world, from the second hand guilt and shame of all those lives that Dad took almost two decades ago? This isn't our fault, why do we have to do this?"

"Because I married him, Hela." His answer made her look up ."When I married him, I accepted everything about him, even the things that I was unaware of, so I'm going to stick with him." With a sigh, Stephen pushed up from his position and went to sit next to his daughter across the room. "I never told you this before, since there was really no reason to, but there were a lot of red flags before we got together. Remember how I told you that we first met when I found him injured in an alleyway with you and then brought both of you to the hospital?" She nodded, so he continued. "Well, the story's a bit watered down. Yes, I did technically find him injured in an alleyway with you, but he had been stabbed at least 13 times, and shot once, and was practically bleeding all over the place when I reached him. That was the first red flag. The second one was when he was being examined at the hospital while being patched up. There they found traces of cocaine on his fingers, random wads of a lot of cash stuffed into his pockets, and, weirdest of all, that neither his fingerprint or dental records were in the system. And then the third one I just recognized from our talks in the hospital. We had good chemistry so we had a good conversation, but things still seemed... off. Like he hadn't had any genuine human interaction in a few years. And with all that in mind, when we met up again a year later, I still asked him out. I accepted and dealt with his faults before we even started dating, so I'm certainly not about to stop now. He's my husband and I love him. And he's your dad. That doesn't mean I expect you to be suddenly okay with all the deaths and all this new infamousness, but he is your dad, and he's never treated us wrong."

By the time he stopped Hela had tears pricking at the corners of her eyes, threatening to spill down her cheeks. "He has never treated us wrong. It just makes it so much more unbelievable that he's committed such... atrocities." Hela turned her whole body to her father as she tucked her hair behind both ears as she normally did when she thought. "Besides those red flags, have there been any more that directly pointed to 'assassin' that you now realize you ignored? Or no?"

Stephen turned toward her as well. "A few, maybe. Nothing that now makes me think 'holy shit I should have known he was an assassin', but things that make me think 'maybe I should have paid a little more attention'. (Not that I would have done anything about it if I somehow figured it out.) The nightmares that he refused to talk about, being handed over to some 'group' as a baby, the brand on the back of his neck, all the tattoos all over his body connected to people that he shied away from-"

An unfamiliar creaking noise stopped the father in his tracks. Even though his daughter somehow didn't hear it. "What? Shied away from what? Do you mean those tattoos are connected to people?"

As politely as possible Stephen told his daughter to stop talking so he could listen to the noises. Maybe he was just on edge and it was just the house settling, but he wanted to make sure. He had a family to protect.

It came again. It was downstairs. It seemed like the sound of a door opening. "Alright, I have to check that out."

"What?? Have you not seen any horror movie ever? Don't investigate, you will die! Plus, you're queer and disabled, according to Hollywood, you'll die first."

"Well I guess it's a good thing we're not in Hollywood then," Stephen whispered as he stood up, softly twisting the doorknob and cracking open the door.

"But you still shouldn't go, it could be like someone looking to get revenge on Da- Dad! Dad!" Hela whisper-shouted from inside the room, swearing lightly as she watched him disappear down the hallway with a softball bat he took from her in hand, before then turning back around to glance at her sleeping brother. Should she stay and protect him or follow her stupid-ass dad? Decisions, decisions...

~

Stephen had no idea why he had taken the bat. If he hit someone with it he'd no doubt end up hurting himself more than the home invader, therefore making its purpose inadequate, but he had still done it. Maybe because it was just a reflex. Threatened? Grab a weapon for protection. But he wouldn't really be able to protect himself with it.

Skipping all the creaky stairs that he had memorized over the years, Stephen crept down the stairs toward where he had heard the noise come from, his hands trembling a bit more than usual as he did. Like they always did when he was nervous. Past the kitchen and down the hallway, he crept along the wall until he finally discovered what was making the noise.

"This is the correct house, right?" the unknown man questioned the unknown woman next to him, raising up what seemed to be some sort of scanner and slowly dragging it in front of the walls. "We're going to be in big trouble if we've broken into some poor unsuspecting person's home. We can't afford a 911 call right now, we're already in enough danger just by coming here."

"Yes, yes, I'm sure, Bruce" the woman responded with a fake annoyed tone that made the man snort lightly. "You hacked the system, I tracked the house, we know what we're doing."

"Yeah, but remember Mongolia?"

The woman winced as the man laughed once more. "I'd rather forget Mongolia. Let's just focus on finding out where Loki is, that's our first priority."

"You're right, Valkyrie, you're right."

Having seen enough to take a good guess at who exactly was intruding, Stephen lowered his bat and carefully crept back upstairs to where his children hid. Thankfully Hela was still there and hadn't followed him out as he feared.

"Good, you're not dead! Now who's out there?" she whispered once the door was carefully closed behind him.

"It's a man and a woman named Bruce and Valkyrie, late thirties to early forties, and with a lot of weapons. But they're not robbers, they're not taking anything, they're looking for Loki. And something about their nonchalant tone tells me that it's thankfully not in a negative way. But there's still two unknown armed assassins in our house," Stephen quickly detailed, the bat handed off to her as he kneeled down. "And, to be perfectly honest, as your father, I have no idea what to do."

"Well neither of us have really dealt with assassins before. Well... knowingly," Hela pointed out.

"True, but we should still do something."

Hela planned to answer with something; maybe a solution of some sort of escape plan, but she closed her mouth when she heard the third step of the stairs creak like it always did. "They're on their way up."

The Strange pair froze out of fear of the unknown, any sliver of a plan completely vanishing from their minds at the sound of their approach, making them no better than sitting ducks.