#i'm pausing every five seconds to scream not quite internally this is why i have to watch it live otherwise i never finish watching

[qroier]

any time there's roier cubito lore

[nighttimepixels]

So... I've been seeing wonderful people on here lately making versions of their own HorrorFell Sans and well I'm desperately bi and hooked and wanna know if. there's a HorrorFell Serif....?

You are all criminals I’m supposed to be doing things

I love you all holy shit big same so

below a cut because it got long! CW for bear-trap related injuries.

It’s time to meet Dusk.

=====

They weren’t supposed to turn on the machine again.

The guys weren’t exactly ones for promises, but after the incident, after the girls had managed to prove how unsafe it was, how unstable-

-they weren’t supposed to. They weren’t supposed to, to drag anyone else into this, to mess up even more timelines, it was a standoff, but it was stable in the meantime, or it should have been-

Someday, you’d meet this Sans, and you’d personally kick his coccyx into next Tuesday, you swore, for this and for everything else-

But right now, chances were looking pretty slim of seeing it to next Tuesday yourself.

“G-guys, it’s okay, really-”

“she’s got you by the fucking throat-!”

“If you fucking hurt her- te arrancó el brazo y lo tiro al mar-!”

You inhaled sharply, tears pricking at your eyes as the hand around your middle squeezed you tighter, your back pressed to a jagged, massive set of ribs, bare but for the massive coat shielding much of them, and draped around your form. The other hand at your throat held no weapon - but it was a weapon, even without the claws that threatened to prick your skin.

But the hand of the enormous skeleton woman holding you wasn’t squeezing your throat. It hadn’t once.

Blood, meanwhile, dripped slow and hot down your leg, staining the dead leaves of the forest floor below.

You wanted to curse your luck - curse the fact that you were on a walk in the woods with the dogs when Alpha’s monitoring programs picked up the subtle fluctuation in space-time that marked that machine being turned on for even an instant. You wanted to curse the fact that you’d tripped on a dumb root, cracking your phone and, apparently, breaking the ringer so you didn’t hear the many calls that came in. You wanted to curse the fact that you’re a magnet for skeletal trouble-

-or you would, if it hadn’t also brought you too much good this past year…But when you’d stumbled across the wounded, massive skeleton now clutching you, your feet dangling more than five feet off the ground, your first thought had been concern as you only saw her back turned to you, and a bear trap big enough to catch a rhinoceros nearly snapping her leg in half-

“Blade, holy shit- are you… are you okay-?”

The massive hole in her skull had been so familiar… but a moment later, you’d realized it was wrong. As was the way her head had snapped around… two massive gold fangs implanted in a mouth overrun with nigh-feral sharp teeth, a jagged red eyelight in the wrong socket, the hole on the wrong side of her head, the scars all wrong, so wrong-

The fear and fury in her face so unfamiliar and dangerous.

And yet… you… you didn’t leave.

You were nearly an hour’s walk away from the house. You shouldn’t have gone alone in the first place, but you had the dogs, far more intelligent than any normal animal, and you’d been cooped up for weeks because of bad weather and-

-and then, slowly, murmuring, crouching low with your hands out in a deference of power, soft nothings and reassurances spilling out of your mouth… you were approaching, circling in a wide berth to her front. Her snarls and growls were so loud you nearly lost your balance in the physicality, but…

… but slowly, while you were out of reach, she began to growl quieter, pain eking out over anything, though not once had she blinked…

A new arrival, you’d known. You’d found out about the machines a long while back now, and… there was no questioning it. But her tibia and fibula were cut almost clean through in a trap you couldn’t help but wonder if was from her world, brought with her - how long had she been out here? What was running through her head?

Why were you risking yourself-

The sound of fire, the feel of your own fear when your old place had crumbled around you… the soul-breaking relief when you’d been rescued, despite the danger…

You steeled yourself, and slowly came closer.

It took several tries - she nearly lunged at you once, when your hand slipped, digging the trap teeth in on her. You apologized, and kept talking- did she even… even speak English? Gods, you had no idea. But the sound of your voice seemed to help, so you kept at it- noticing more and more scars, noticing how terrifyingly dusty the wound was becoming- when you gestured for her to hold the one side to help undo the mechanism, trying to explain, ask for help as it was too strong for you alone-

-she’d done so, her hand larger than your head. Despite the pain, her grip didn’t shake, but you heard her teeth gritting, creaking as they ground down, erratic, unsteady magic charging the air around her-

And at last you’d freed her.

The trap to the side, you’d hurried to look at her removed leg, shedding your hoodie, forgetting to move slow. You missed the flicker in her gaze, pain undeniable in every shadow of her face, the moment of confusion, of hunger, of hesitance, of her reaching towards you-

But you’d looked up then, sweater in your hands, hovering over the horrifying break, an injury you were certain would have killed her otherwise- ready to bind her up.

Her hand had frozen at the level of your throat.

Like a rabbit in the gaze of a wolf, you’d frozen.

The wind rustled the leaves overhead, afternoon sun growing long, dimmer behind gathering clouds.

Her hand slowly came closer.

You didn’t move, a fine tremble in your spine, but- you didn’t look away.

She paused again. Watching. Waiting- your heart was racing, but- you didn’t run. For a thousand reasons, you didn’t run, despite some deeper instinct beyond logic begging at you to.

And then she’d brushed a lock of hair back from your throat, catching a bead of sweat with it, and lingering over your pulse.

Oh so slowly, her pinprick eyelight dilated.

“… y..ou…”

Without warning, a shout in the distance, cutting in as if through a phone line picked up startled you both. The dogs, waiting, tense, worried just a few feet behind you, barked- and all hell had broken loose.

Serif had shortcut into the clearing, her eyelights no sooner landing on you than taking in the massive, dangerous looking skeleton with her hand at your throat. She’d sworn, magic suddenly flaring at her fingertips before, as if desperately wrenching her senses back, it vanished, and she lifted her hands, furious and hiding too much emotion but clearly attempting to look reasonable, to calm down the newcomer.

It was too late.

The sudden appearance, the split second of aggressive magic was enough. The injured skeleton woman was surging forward, enveloping you- before, as if forgotten, her leg gave out with a sickening crunch.

You both fell, and your leg slammed into the hellish, too-jagged bear trap you’d just removed from her leg. The jagged metal and sharpened bone teeth of the closed trap protruding from it cut into your leg and dragged viciously as intertia and gravity took over before she could catch herself, taking the brunt of the fall-

The smell of blood had a visceral effect on the woman holding you, even as your vision was cut off by the ground and her arms and jacket- your scream mingled with a guttural sound, a language glitching and feral- clashing with the sounds of more people arriving, hitting the ground running, swearing, your vision blurring and whiting with pain lancing from your leg straight through you and whiting out your conscious mind for a moment- vertigo as you were suddenly upright-

Now you stared at your friends, leg throbbing, hot blood staining your jeans and shoe, struggling to keep your vision clear and not panic. She was cornered - you were too, you supposed, in her arms. Her leg was… it wasn’t right. You couldn’t quite see it when you glanced down, and that was… a problem. She seemed to be propped against a tree, against a steep hill that was nearly cliff- staring down, chest heaving at Serif, Scarlet, Crimson, Sapphire, and Cinnamon. You had no idea where the others were. There was no time to spare to think about it - or how they’d found you at all-

“P-please, I think she’s just scared, I think she’s feeling my pulse, s-since- I’m hurt-”

“doesn’t mean she gets t'hold you hostage,” Cinnamon’s low voice was a drawl, but her stance was one you’d only seen once or twice. Ready, ready in a way that would set your internal alarms off if they weren’t already pealing.

“Come now, let’s… let’s just take it easy,” Sapphire’s voice was measured, even almost warm - her eyelights were steady, and she was the only one who didn’t visibly appear to be a moment’s away from a fighting stance. Still, her voice was almost too measured. You knew her too well to miss it. Nonetheless, she met your gaze, and her chest took a steady inhale, then slow exhale, ever so minutely.

You blinked, tears threatening to spill at the silent message to breathe, that she’d stay calm too, she’d try and de-escalate-

The rough, static-like inflection of the woman’s speech behind you twisted and rumbled, short, dark, aggressive-

A huff of air tickled your hair, and you felt her… her head, dip down to the back of yours. It cut through the pain, almost tingling with a wild sort of magic, but… not in a bad way.

The others looked confused in varying degrees, and Crimson’s arm out only barely kept Scarlet from acting- but there was a flicker of deeper confusion yet on Serif’s face… one of almost-recognition and angrier confusion on Cinnamon’s-

But Crimson’s sockets widened.

“ay, ni de coña-”

Several eyelights snapped to her as she swore, shaking her head as if to clear it of cobwebs-

And then… slowly, she stumbled through a handful of similar sounds.

Words.

Glitching, uneven, but also rich like radio static - if a little clumsier in her mouth-

You felt as much as heard the surprised intake of breath behind you.

And slowly, came a response.

Crimson frowned, scowled outright, sockets squinting and head cocking a bit. A few more words- a grunt, then a continuation that sounded corrected-

An angrier response from the woman holding you-

“could you please let us in on the conversation, thanks,” hissed Serif sharply at Crimson, but she was promptly waved off as Crimson haltingly tried a few more words-

And slowly, the hand at your throat drifted just a little further down.

“… n..o.”

“pendejo-” Crimson swore, making a sharp rude gesture - but not at your captor, at the sky.

“¿Qué le hizo?” Scarlet was sharp, too quick, her Spanish rough and thick with anger-

“that bastard must’ve turned it on alright- she’s…. joder, she’s like Blade but- us too, hermana. our estrelita here apparently helped her outta a trap she was dyin’ in, and when we showed up-”

“shit,” Serif swore softly, her hands lowering again, anger and stress and understanding flickering over her face.

“she’s still holdin’ her,” Cinnamon pointed out, words tight - but her posture had relaxed… slightly. “we gotta get her some first aid-”

She paused, then, quieter.

“both of ‘em…. fuck, her leg’s completely…”

“Please, let us help you- both of you-” Sapphire’s voice was earnest, firm but gentle- but you couldn’t quite focus on her. On any of them, now, not with your vision threatening to tunnel.

You were starting to shiver a little, following along but only just. The wound in your leg must be… pretty bad. You were feeling faint. Your body shifted in time with the growing shallower breaths of the woman holding you…

Crimson was swearing, attempting a word again, and again, but clearly not knowing how or what to say in that strange language-

“what even is it you’re speakin’-” Cinnamon pressed.

“shh, it’s just- it’s– old, old monster shit, most forgot except uh- certain scientist, and a few others, it’s been ages but-”

Suddenly, you were higher off the ground, your mind slipping for a moment in vertigo. The next, you realized… both her arms were supporting you, cradling you close, a modified bridal carry to accommodate the size difference and your wounded leg that-

“Oh god-”

You dry heaved, forcing yourself to look away from the open gash in your leg.  You’d never been good with great quantities of blood, but - but you’d seen white in the deep, long wound, and your head was spinning, fuck-

“…n.ow. b… oth.”

The two halting words were punctuated by a longer phrase in that radio-static language you couldn’t understand. Your eyes were closing, unable to focus any longer. Whatever was going to happen, you couldn’t fight it… at least… at least they didn’t seem like the others were going to fight, either…

“you gotta give her to us- you can’t pass through a shortcut with that-”

Your mind was fading, and you barely registered the harsher, almost booming radio-static words falling from the woman holding you possessively, protectively. The following swears tumbling from Crimson might as well have been white noise...

“Take… take care of her, first,” you mumbled, not seeing the other girl’s attention snap to you, nor the wide stare of the woman holding you. “She was… d-dust, at… at her wound… please don’t let- let her… fall…….”

And with that, your mind slipped away in pain and anemic exhaustion.

—

It wouldn’t be till much later that you found out that the girls had apparently surged into action that, and somehow, together, managed to shortcut you and your new friend back to Blade and Twist’s place.

Both of you were patched up…

But the cost of teleporting while so grievously injured cost this new arrival her lower leg. A cost she apparently knew she might pay.

You cried when you found out.

But you’d also awoken in her arms, a place she’d apparently refused to let you free of, even at Blade’s anger and Twist’s worry. Her leg was gone, yours was patched and stitched by Twist’s patent, phenomenal care. And still, you were there... warm, bundled in new blankets, with the woman’s eyelight rarely leaving you, even as Crimson and Serif explained what happened, Blade looming nearby.

She couldn’t speak English well, you found out then, too. She’d… forgotten it. What monsters were left in her world forgot it - forgot a lot, apparently, forced into a feral survival, hunted by… something.

But in the end, to start… you were able to help her choose a new nickname, at least. A beginning. A start, because… Despite their concern, well, none of the girls were going to kick this new arrival out on her own. Crimson in particular had been there too, the whole time, helping translate broken sentences and try to parse together what she knew…

Dusk, she chose as her name, after a long game of suggestions and narrowing in on sounds and concepts she seemed less opposed to. She seemed pleased… if you were reading her right.

And… she didn’t have a sister that came with her.

[the-gay-trashmouth]

Rating: teen

Warnings: Internalized homphobia

Ship(s): Sprace

Era: Canon

Notes: Hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh this hurt my soul just a little bit

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Spot Conlon was many things.

He was a leader. He was a fighter. He was a Cuban-American sixteen-year-old boy with more Brooklyn pride than should be able to fit inside his five-foot-three body.

What Spot Conlon is not is a liar. So when is second in command asked him where the fuck he was going at midnight it was all the more believable when he shrugged noncommittally and said he had left his hat at the docks.

Well, believable for everyone else in the room other than Spades herself. She had played enough poker with the boy to know his tell. 

Spot Conlon bit the inside if his cheek when he lied, and he was biting the inside of his cheek hard. She gave him a pointed look at what to her was a blatant lie

He just glanced between her and the girl who's head was currently in her lap, raising an eyebrow in a challenge for her to say something. She rolled her eyes "fine then, keep your secrets, asshole"

He slipped out the door without further remark. Puffing up against the cold night air he headed toward the docks. At least he was truthful about one thing.

And when you really think about it, he was truthful about the reason he was going too. He really was going to get his hat, it's just that he was going to get it from Racetrack.

Spot scowled to himself, Racetrack Higgins was another thing altogether. He had this way of getting Spot to do things that Spot Conlon doesn't do.

He had him visiting the races just to see him, he had him blushing and losing sleep, he had him leaning in closer than he should.

He had him sneaking out at midnight to go get his stupid cap after Race had plucked it straight from his head, pulled him into an alley and whispered to "meet me at th'

docks" so close to Spot's ear that it made him shudder.

He shuddered again thinking about why Race might have asked him here. His mind wandered to places it shouldn't have. He started thinking maybe Race wanted to tell him something that no one else could hear, maybe he would be the one leaning in this time-

No. No no no. Spot Conlon is not a queer. So what if he's never had an interest in girls? He runs Brooklyn! He doesn't have time for feelings! And yeah, maybe he stares at Race's lips a little too much and maybe it is a little weird he let a Manhattan boy sell on his turf but that doesn't mean he's a queer!

Spot Conlon isn't a liar, but Race sure makes him lie to himself

He shook the thought from his head and hardened his expression as he approached the docks. He couldn't see Race anywhere so he assumed that he was just later then Spot was.

The Brooklyn boy leaned on a piling, staring out at the waves as his thoughts rolled in his mind.  He was so stuck in his mind he didn't notice the figure creeping up behind him until it was too late.

Arms draped across his shoulders and, without so much as a gasp, he ducked out of them, whipped around to face whoever the fuck thought it was a good idea to touch the king of Brooklyn, and swung his fist.

"Ah! Jeez Spotty!" The dumbass jumped back just in time for Spot' s fist to hit empty air and Spot realized that this wasn't just any dumbass, this was his dumbass! Ahem, the one he was going to see of course. That's what he meant. Shut up.

"Jesus Racer, the fuck were ya thinkin'? I woulda soaked ya" Spot leaned back against the piling whilst he masked his racing heart with a confident smirk.

Race scoffed and impishly punched Spot in the shoulder. "Please, I could take ya!"

Spot raised an eyebrow but didn't retaliate. "Zat so?"

The taller boy grinned and did it a few more times. "Yea, it sure is" flipped a coin from his pockets "wanna bet on it?"

Spot snorted, "ya know, I could use some easy cash" he snatched the coin out of the air before Race could catch it again and used his other hand to half-heartedly smack Race in the face.

Race laughed and punched him back then they were horsing around. It must have been quite a sight, two boys running around the docks at one in the morning with red cheeks and loud laughter, both trying to the pin the other or just get a few playful hits in.

Somehow Race got Spot pinned against a crate, holding his wrists above his head and using almost all of his body weight to keep him there whilst the shorter boy struggled half-heartedly.

They were both flushed and panting, grinning like the idiots who just chased each other around a dock at one in the morning they are.

"See, I told ya I could beat ya," Race said in between shallow breaths.

Spot just smirked "ya know, ya say that but," he kicked Race's feet out from under him and, when he stumbled, flipped them around to where Spot had Race's back pressed against the wood of the crate, "that wouldn't really be right, now would it?"

Race groaned "Oh fuck you, I almost had ya"

He just laughed "and yet ya didn't," he said, pressing Race to the crate just a little harder to prove his point.

Through all the excitement, Spot hadn't realized how close he and Race were, but the blush the painted Race's cheeks reminded him of his earlier dilemma. Namely, the whole 'I'm not queer but maybe a little bit' dilemma.

"Ya have a lot of freckles" Race breathed, bring a hand up to softly brush against the spots that gave the leader of Brooklyn his name. Spot forced down a shudder at the touch, he wasn't going to let Race know how much he affected him.

"They's called sunspots, 's how I got me name" he whispered, voice a little raspy.

"Huh," he paused, brushing his thumb across a few on his cheeks bones, and Spot let him.

He didn't move back, he didn't smack his hand away, he didn't laugh and say he was being a little queer. He just stood still, hands still fisted loosely in Race's overshirt.

"They's suits you" Spot flushed as Race smiled, hand still resting on the shorter boys cheek.

They were silent for a beat before something passed through Race's eyes and suddenly he was leaning in.  Going against every voice in his head screaming at him to run, to push Race away, soak him, anything! Spot met him in the middle, letting his eyes flutter closed as their lips brushed softly.

It wasn't much, just the soft press of his lips against Race's, but it left Spot breathless. When they pulled back after only a second his breathing was labored, just a bit.

Race didn't open his eyes, he scrunched them up as if when he opened them the world would end. His hand had moved down to Spot's shoulders, and his slight shaking was giving Spot anxiety.

He moved his hands from where they were still fisted in Race's shirt and moved them up to cup Race's face in his hands, brushing his thumb across his cheekbone with more gentleness then anyone would have thought possible coming from Spot Conlon, feared leader of Brooklyn.

Spot Conlon isn't gentle with anyone who's not Brooklyn, and yet here he was, holding another boy as if he was made if glass.

His eyes finally snapped open and searched Spot's for something. For what, you may ask? Spot doesn't know, but he didn't seem to find it as he just looked confused.

"You'se ain't gonna soak me?" He asked quietly, and the legitimate fear in his voice stirred something painful in Spot's chest. He brushed his thumb softly against his cheekbone again, rubbing slow, careful circles into the side of his cheek.

"Course I ain't, why would I do that?" He didn't dare raise his voice above a breath but he knew Race caught every word.

"Well, I'se a queer, an' I just kissed you, an' you'se like the most powerful newsie in New York-" Spot cut of his anxious rambles with another quick kiss.

"Do I not seem queer to you, Racer?" He said after he pulled back barely an inch.

"Youse serious?" He sounded as breathless as Spot felt and it made him braver, even if was just a little bit.

He smiled. Full out, teeth showing, squinty-eyed smiled and pressed his forehead to Race's. "Yeah, I 'se serious Racer"

Race laughed, breathless. "God I'm so glad I asked ya to meet me"

"Me too, Racer," he pressed a kiss to his lips again "me too"

So Spot Conlon may not lie, be gentle to anyone other than his newsies, let Hattan boys sell on his turf, meet boys on the docks just to get his cap back, or let boys kiss him breathless under the stars-

But Race was and always will be the exception.

[wanderingworldwarrior]

Of Twisted Emotions - Chapter Five: To Seek

The darkness plays tricks on you. You find that once the path closes, you cannot seem to move on. Your heart pounds in your ears, but it isn't loud enough to drown out Loki's next words. 

  It's as if he knows you have not truly left, that you remain close by, a step away in an alternate space that he cannot reach. But he speaks, regardless, and you hear. 

  "Am I to understand that you've forgotten our ledger, my dear?" he asks quietly, his words dripping sweet poison. They pass through the dark like an echo, bouncing around and then fading away into nothing. "You've been indebted to me since our very first meeting. And paying a debt to a god is never an easy task. It would be easy to take a step in the right direction, however. Why not take part in this war against Earth?" He says the word with clear disdain in his tone. "I hold true power here, and I know you would revel in it." He pauses for a moment, waiting. When he's met with silence, he offers a final plea. "After everything we've been through together, you would simply walk away?" 

  And why not? You think to yourself as you shake your head. Didn't you? 

  But in your mind, there is an odd sort of pull that accompanies his words. It brings up images of you at the Trickster God's side while he sets out to accomplish his goal. You have always been a rebel without a cause, wandering aimlessly in search of meaning, of a next battle. And here he offers you a battle, a grand battle at that. A war against Earth. You've never much cared for the denizens of this planet; would it really be so wrong to test the limits of your power? 

  You close your eyes and breathe in deeply through your nose, trying to clear your head. Something is off. You feel... not quite yourself. Loki doesn't sound so insane to you anymore, and you know that screams danger. Willow's face flashes behind your eyelids, followed by the two astrophysicists and the intern. Will has always had a soft spot for humanity, much like Thor has grown to care for them. There are a few humans you admit you feel friendly towards as well. So, why are you entertaining these mad thoughts? 

  You feel a rising instinctual urge to flee, chills running down your spine at the sudden rush of fear. It's as if you've been poisoned by Loki's terrible blue, like it's slowly planting seeds and rooting in your thoughts. 

  Your eyes had always searched out the scepter, where it lay on display in the prince's trophy room. But it had been in passing each time, as you walked from one room to another. You had never lingered... at least not purposefully. Never given it much thought. But now with the weapon clearly playing a hand in Loki's demented state, you fear you have tarried too close for too long. 

  You pull away from him, forcing yourself through the dark, out of the dead town and down familiar paths towards your initial destination. 

  You have to see Willow. 

  --- 

  Sigrid and Asmund stand near the barracks, golden and blue eyes searching for any familiar face. Sig's initial joy at Asmund's proposition had shifted towards apprehension when she found she could not contact you. He had suggested they give you time and search for you once evening fell, and she had agreed. 

  And now night has fallen, and Sigrid's unrest is quickly growing as she realizes you are truly gone once more. But where has the Allfather sent you, that her mind cannot find yours? The last time this had occurred, you had been lost to Midgard. 

  Asmund's hand is wrapped tightly in her own. She is thankful that he stands beside her; to be in the presence of a sorcerer lessens the oddity of the pair hovering near the army's barracks. 

  The majority of the soldiers are in the feast halls, but Sigrid knows she will not find you there. The rest are milling about the area, chatting and talking, speculating when and where their next march will take them. It is when she spots a familiar face walking towards a small, seated crowd that she tugs on Asmund's hand. "I'll be right back." 

  The girl steps away, eyes locked on the man you'd introduced her to. He smiles as he listens to another soldier speaking, although he does not join in their spirited laughter. Amsund shadows Sigrid uncertainly, wondering what she could hope to gain from talking with these warriors. 

  Bjorn spots the pair as they approach, his brown eyes widening slightly in surprise. He sets his mug of ale to the side (where it will surely be kicked over by one of his companions), and meets the both of them halfway. "Greetings," he says cordially. "Sigrid, I believe it was?" 

  "Yes, indeed," the girl answers, dipping her head respectfully – a servant's habit. "And this is Asmund." 

  "Pleasure," Bjorn states, nodding as he hooks a thumb through his belt. "I am Bjorn. I attended your ceremony today, you know. Congratulations, Master Sorcerer." 

  His smile is warm and genuine, which Asmund was not expecting. There are some soldiers who look distrustfully upon the arcane arts, which creates tension when the two types of fighters must work closely together. "Thank you," Asmund says appreciatively. His inquisitive nature is quickly getting the best of him, and before Sigrid can say anything, he further questions, "May I ask why you gather outside of the barracks rather than within?" 

  "Oh," the man says. He glances over his shoulder, where the other soldiers are talking and drinking. "You know, I never considered it until now. I suppose we're used to standing around campfires and spending our time outdoors. To be inside is just not the same anymore." 

  "And your accent, if you don't mind my asking, where are you –" Asmund begins, but Sigrid cuts him off. 

  "You'll have to pardon us, sir, but we don't mean to keep you," Sigrid says, squeezing Asmund's hand apologetically. "I'm seeking our mutual acquaintance." 

  "Yes, the Bloody Warrior," Asmund agrees, quickly getting back on track. "Is she around? We'd thought to venture inside the barracks, but weren't sure we'd be welcome." 

  Bjorn takes a subconscious step back, his impulsive action earlier in the day flashing again to the forefront of his mind. He looks away in shame, cheeks warming. "She's gone, now. Sent away by the Allfather, but where, I do not know. She left in a rush.... Seemed all out of sorts. It was as if she'd seen a ghost." He looks over at Sigrid and Asmund, who cast a long glance between one another. "That's all I know," Bjorn promises. 

  "Thank you for your time," Sigrid answers, although her thoughts are miles away. 

  Speculating. 

  --- 

  You've been to Will's apartment once before, and it is therefore not hard for you to find again. You're truly exhausted on all fronts: mentally, physically, and emotionally. You have to talk with her, someone who understands, who you know will not hesitate to help. And you desperately need help. 

  You haven't been writing to Willow as much as you once had, although you are sure to let her know where you are and what battles you face. She has always been one to respect your privacy and need for space, and you'll be forever grateful. 

  You figure she will be asleep, probably with her captain, and so you step out of the shadows and into the apartment's living area. The room is lit by a single lamp, which casts a warm glow across the vintage furniture. It's a welcome change from the cool gleam of the jewel embedded in Loki's scepter. Your mind feels more at ease immediately, and you breathe a sigh of relief as the shadows close. 

  There's a soft snap from your left, and your gaze cuts over. 

  A woman is in the room with you. And it isn't Willow. 

  You quickly take her in, assess the situation. She's holding a gun on you, aimed right at your head, but has yet to pull the trigger. She has thick, brown hair that is pulled back into a tight ponytail, tawny brown skin, and red lips that are pressed into a thin line. There's a laptop sitting on the table in front of her, papers scattered around it with a very familiar emblem at the top of each page. It matches the one on the woman's uniform. 

  S.H.I.E.L.D. 

  You silently stare her down, debating on what to do. Do you have enough energy to avoid a gunshot? Who is this intruder, and where is Willow? You don't necessarily feel threatened by the woman, but your fingers itch to call up a sword or at least a dagger. The silence stretches on, the tension in the room mounting every second, and then the woman speaks. 

  "Who are you?" she asks, and her voice wavers slightly (although her gun does not). 

  "Who are you?" you counter. "What are you doing in Will's apartment?" 

  You see recognition spark in the stranger's eyes. "You know her?" 

  "Will?" you call out, briefly breaking gaze with the woman as your eyes flicker over towards the bedroom. 

  "She isn't here," the woman informs you tightly. "Now, who are you? What are you... what are you wearing?" 

  Shit. The S.H.I.E.L.D. uniform you took off the guy in the hall. That probably wouldn't look good to another agent. You turn back to the stranger, and you can feel your anger and exasperation rising once more. "Did you do something to her?" you demand. "Is all of S.H.I.E.L.D. working with Loki, or what? What are you doing in Willow's apartment?" 

  "Listen, now, I'm the one asking questions," the woman snaps at you. "The safety on this is off, you know. So, one last time, who are you?" 

  You're sick of this absolutely hellish day. You cave, angrily spitting your name at her. "Your turn, now. Who the hell are you?" 

  She stiffens, as if she doesn't want to tell you. But at last, she says, "I'm Carla. I work for S.H.I.E.L.D. And judging from the blood on you, I'm guessing that you don't." 

  She gestures with her gun to your attire, and you sigh. So far, she hasn't shot you, and she's missing the ominous blue glow in her eyes. You figure this woman isn't under any orders from Loki, although that doesn’t mean she isn't an enemy. You work to calm yourself down; you can't just kill her. You need information. "Look, Carla. It's been a long fucking day for me. I didn't have a shirt, so I took one. Just so happened to be from a S.H.I.E.L.D. guy. There was a fight, yeah, and I won, but the circumstances were a little weird. I have nothing against S.H.I.E.L.D. I've met some of your agents before, my friend works for you guys.... I just really need to see her, okay?" 

  The woman stands silently, her gun still trained at your head. You wait rather impatiently, and she finally speaks again. "How did you do that? Just appear here? You're like Willow, then?" 

  "We're alike, yeah," you state shortly. "She has powers, I have powers. That's not really what I'm focused on right now." You wait a few beats, and when she still says nothing, you blurt out, "Look, I'm not going to hurt you, all right? And if you're not going to hurt me, then just put the gun away, because all I really care about right now is Willow!" 

  Carla's red lips press into a thin line again, and then she abruptly lowers her gun. "Willow is missing. I've been stationed here in case she returns or someone tries to contact her." 

  Your thoughts pull up short. "Will's missing?" 

  Carla nods, her features serious. "Rogers is out with S.H.I.E.L.D. looking for her. That's the last I heard." 

  "What happened?" you ask, pulling your bag around and searching through it for your notebook. 

  When you glance up, you find that Carla has drawn her gun on you again. You show her the book and roll your eyes. She warily lowers the weapon once more, and then says, "As far as I know, she went out on a mission and didn't return." 

  "Probably bullshit," you say idly, thumbing through the pages until you find your last entry to Will. 

  It was yesterday, when you'd been approaching Asgard (had that been only yesterday?). She hasn't replied. You fish out one of your pens and scrawl a hasty message to Willow as Carla answers your comment. 

  "I... honestly think so, too. Something's going on, although I'm apparently not cleared for the information. Now, I care for this girl. She's a good soul, if that's something you can understand. So, if you're truly her friend, and you can do... that," she gestures towards where you had stepped from the shadows, "then do you think you'll be able to find her?" 

  "What the fuck is going on?" you groan, rubbing your face as you stow your pen and notebook away. "Weirdest day of my damn life, I swear." You look back up at Carla, distrust clear in your gaze. "I don't think I can find her, I know. Where was she last? I can start there." 

  "They tried that," Carla states, tapping a finger on the edge of the table near her, where the laptop sits. "The base is completely destroyed. But... I... have a theory on how to locate her. My superiors don't like it, not that anyone listens to me anyway." 

  Now, you're interested, your guard lowering slightly. "Yeah?" 

  "Willow creates flares of energy when she uses her abilities. That's how we tracked her in the first place, when she initially landed here." 

  Your thoughts immediately go back to the Bifrost disaster, which had landed you in New Mexico with Thor, and Will in New York. "Okay, and?" you ask. "Can you track that again?" 

  "I don't have the capabilities here," Carla tells you, and you sigh as you start planning out your next course of action. But then she continues, "However, I've been monitoring power surges in the nation. And there's been several. I can't run the data from here, but I know someone who can. And he's nearby." 

  Your brow furrows as you consider this. "Why hasn't S.H.I.E.L.D. already brought him in, then?" 

  "I think S.H.I.E.L.D. knows where Willow is, if I'm being honest," Carla answers. "So, they really don't need him. But as they aren't sharing their information, we need him. He..." she purses her lips, "doesn't play well with others. But he'd be your best bet of quickly getting the information you need. If you can convince him to do it." 

  "I can be very convincing," you say bluntly, and Carla frowns at you. You ignore the look. "Where can I find him?" 

  You're throwing yourself into this new problem, pushing your thoughts of Loki back on purpose. If your friend needs you, you'll be there for her. But first, you have to find her. 

  Carla turns towards the apartment window and points at the dark skyline, red fingernail tapping against the glass. "Head that way. He's in Stark Tower. It's a tall building with its name lit up at the top like a neon sign. You can't miss it." 

  You consider her, wondering about the likelihood of this being a trap. You slowly nod your head, lip between your teeth. "All right. Thanks. If you're right, that is. If this is some sort of ambush, you'll be hearing from me real soon." 

  Carla snorts and rolls her eyes. "You can't intimidate me. That's why S.H.I.E.L.D. hired me. But there's no need for any hostility. Not towards me, anyway. Save it for Stark." 

  You decide that if this woman doesn't get you killed, if she isn't a liar that has hurt your friend, you may end up liking her. "Yeah, okay," you answer, and then step backwards into a rift of shadows once more. 

  Time to visit Stark Tower. Whatever that is. 

---

We’re stepping off the angst train for a bit! :D Hooray!

Carla is @shootingstarsojourner‘s character from the sister series to this fic, “To Walk Together”. You can find it in my fic rec list, which is in my bio!

Is it Tony time?

I think it’s Tony time.

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