#instead of trying to press your own discomforts onto me to carry in addition to my own

[seiya-starsniper]

.

[one-boring-person]

Could you do a poly with all the boys being secret admirers(?) leaving lil hints and gifts at the SO house because they don’t know how to flirt without scaring ppl and don’t want to scare her and Paul gets caught placing a gift at her door cause he’s a dummy (sorry this is so odd!)

It's not odd, don't worry! I had fun writing this!💛💛💛 I hope you like it!!

You?

The Lost Boys x reader

Warnings: none

Masterlist

At first, I wasn't sure what to think. A small box of chocolates turned up one day outside my door, no note attached, no real hints as to the gifter's identity, a single rose appearing the next day in a similar state. I ignored them both, thinking nothing of it until more and more gifts started appearing, around two or three a week, each of them different to the last. Mentioning it to my friends, I decided I needed to tell someone, worried as to what might be happening, and whether or not I should trust the trinkets appearing on my doorstep, only feeling a little reassured when one or two bring up the thought of me having a stalker, the others all laughing it off, telling me it's probably some boy from the Boardwalk trying to subtly give away his feelings for me. None of this made me feel any better.

That same night, the first note appeared.

Written in sprawling, yet neat, cursive, the note read a little like a poem, or riddle, remaining completely ambiguous as I tried to use all the previously useless analytical skills I learned in high school English lessons to figure out what it meant, only to be left completely in the dark. Even the signature was a mystery: four little dots, alternating between filled in and left empty, giving no real implication of the writer's true identity. Surprisingly, the paper itself is expensive and more akin to vellum than the usual printer paper that I'd expect, implying that the writer must be a particularly well off person, especially since the handwriting is done in smooth, red ink. The colour surprised me at first, but I soon chalked it down to some ridiculous romantic idea.

More and more notes turned up, all of them written in what appears to be four different hands, one scrawling, one neat, one looping and the last more childlike in style, as if different people wrote them. Thinking this to be another strange tactic of sorts, I continue to gather the slips of paper, piling them in a small box under my bed, finding their messages of admiration and longing endearing and strangely comforting, happy to know someone out there feels strongly enough about me to write to me, though there is always a nagging feeling that it's little creepy.

As time wore on, i received many more gifts, ranging from earrings to chocolates to books. At times, I feel entirely sure of the person being a stalker, especially when specific things I've been meaning to buy turn up, like the beautiful necklace I spotted on the Boardwalk, which was conveniently slipped into my postbox the next day, accompanied by a note in neat cursive stating that they thought it would "look much better on [me] than on the stall table top".

To say I'm curious is an understatement. I've been trying for months to catch them out, coming home earlier from work, or dropping into the house between visits to the Boardwalk, constantly keeping an eye open for people on the streets, though I never see anything, which just perplexes me further. I ask around the neighbours, but they only tell me what I know: gifts materialize on my porch, apparently on their own without any human aid. Later that night, another note accompanying an earring is slipped through the door explaining to me that they'd reveal themselves when they were ready, though it spoke in a plural sense, as if talking about multiple people, which can't be the case, even though it would explain the different handwriting. One night in the following days, the note comes littered with little droplets of crimson liquid which smelt like iron, reminding me grimly of blood - the gift with this one is a band patch, which I hesitantly sew onto my coat the same day, hoping that it comes from a decent person.

Tonight, I come home expecting there to be nothing (a box of sweets was left for me the night before), trekking slowly down the road in an exhausted silence, having worked a long day with rather irritating colleagues, not really paying much attention to the surroundings until I reach my house. At this point, I reach into my pocket and pull out my keys, jangling them slightly as I look up again, freezing in place at what I'm seeing.

A tall man is bent over my doorstep, his body tensing as he hears me reach the drive, his face snapping round fearfully as he does so, figure straightening in seconds when he spots me. Vaguely, I can see a dark shape at his feet, instantly revealing his identity to me, a burst of curiosity and interest sparking to life within me, drawing me to observe his face in the pale cast of the streetlights, marvelling at the bright blue eyes that stare at me from under a mop of blonde hair, lips parted slightly in surprise as he looks me over, his identity finally falling in place - one of Santa Carla's mischievous biker gang.

"You?" Is all I manage, eyes widening as he takes a step forwards, eyes remaining locked with mine as he starts edging around me, his countenance betraying his sudden discomfort. Frozen in confusion and curiosity, it's all I can do to watch him make his way around me and to the main road, where he starts running away, long legs carrying him away from me with ease, leaving me feeling utterly bewildered.

After a few more minutes, I move over to the door, grabbing the gift as I step inside, still reeling a little from what just happened. Opening the small box, I look inside to see a small silver pin badge in the shape of a tiny bat, it's eyes made up of miniscule rubies that flicker slightly in the dim light of my hallway, the detail on it precise and accurate. A note is attached to the pin, which I pull away to open up and read, taking note of the handwriting - the more childlike style. Reading through it, I smile before pinning the badge onto my coat, replaying the written words in my head as I do so:

Wear this and we'll know you're ready to talk with us. If we see it on your jacket, we'll come over to you,

•°•°

*

I shift slightly on my feet as I lean back against the wall of parting the beach from the Boardwalk, biting at my nails as I do so, my coat pulled tightly around my shoulders, not really doing much except for expressing my intentions and wishes to my secret admirer. The bat sits well amongst my other pin badges and brooches, the blood-red eyes glittering in the lights coming from some lit fire barrels a little way away, giving the metal creature a more life-like appearance, despite its size. In addition to this, I also wear some of the other gifts: an earring with a loop of leather pushed through it, a bracelet of twisted strands and beads and a chain necklace from a few weeks back. In my haste to impress my admirer, I forgot to sort out some form of back up plan in case something goes wrong, though I highly doubt it will.

A low chuckle interrupts my thoughts, my eyes instantly drawn to the platinum figure before me, scrutinizing his incredibly handsome features briefly before realising exactly who it is. A quick flick behind him shows me that the other three are there, too, including the one I believe to be my secret admirer. Wary of them, I shuffle uncomfortably as I wait for them to make some sort of comment.

"C-can I help you?" I question them, cursing the involuntary stutter in my words.

"You wanted to meet us, didn't you?" The leader returns, lifting an eyebrow as he speaks, his smooth voice resonating pleasantly in my ears.

"I don't remember telling you guys that." I say, not quite grasping what's going on.

"You're wearing the bat, which means you want to meet with us." The shorter blonde butts in, gesturing to the pin on my coat.

I look down at it briefly, my eyes widening as I suddenly understand what is being implied.

"Hold on, all four of you are my secret admirers?!"

"Yep." The taller blonde confirms, reaching over to shake my hand with a smile, "I'm Paul."

The shorter blonde offers me his hand next, smiling happily at me with large doe eyes.

"I'm Marko."

The tall, dark haired one steps forwards, lifting my hand to press his lips against it in greeting.

"Dwayne." He supplies quietly, eyes betraying his excitement and joy.

"And you can call me David." The leader adds, slinging an arm around my shoulders with a confidence I've never seen from someone shy enough to send letters instead of directly asking me out.

"Right, well, I'm (Y/n)." I murmur, feeling a little overwhelmed.

"We know." The blonde smirks, leading me away.

[darkblueboxs]

All the Guys Love a Bruiser

Posting attempt two because tumblr is fucking with me and I can’t fix the read more on the original ask. Not today, Tumblr! Not! Today!

Read here or on AO3 (Check AO3 notes for content warnings)

Original ask

“You like watching me fight.” “It’s more interesting than watching you run.”

Neil learns how to throw a punch. Andrew is more than a little into it.

*

*Edit*:  In the original version of this fic, Nicky faces racist abuse in addition to homophobic abuse, and quotes the offensive language and slurs used against him. After concerns were raised regarding how I handled this abuse (specifically, the language used, the context in which the abuse takes place, and my position as a non-latine) I censored and subsequently removed the relevant dialogue. I sincerely apologise and promise to do better in the future. Please don't hesitate to contact me with any questions and concerns regarding this subject.   

[01/06/2020]

*

Neil’s mother taught him how to throw a punch, of course she did. Their lessons took place anywhere spacious enough to swing a fist, in empty parking lots behind greasy gas stations or in dingy motel rooms if she thought the walls were thick enough to cover up the noises they made.

Mary had always been more flight than fight, an instinct she had forced into Neil over years of running. Even she had to admit, however, that sooner or later they would hit a dead end, and while that would spell certain death for both of them, it would be better to go down fighting than it would on their knees.

If their lessons ended with Neil aching black and blue, it was his own fault. He needed to be quicker, smarter, crueller. More like his mother.

Matt’s teaching style is different from Mary’s, as is his fighting style. It bears the hallmarks of professional athleticism, all stances and positioning and strategy. While his mother’s idea of a lesson in self-defence was to hit Neil until he figured out how to dodge her blows or hit back, Matt talks him through how to angle his body, how to make a fist in a way that won’t break his fingers. At the end of their first boxing lesson, the only bruises on Neil’s body are the light purple marks spreading across his knuckles.

That evening, he and Andrew take over the beanbags, TV muted in the background while they dig into ice-cream. The tub is pleasantly cool in Neil’s hands, and he rubs his knuckles against the sides like an improvised icepack. When the residual cold has melted away, Neil flexes his fingers, enjoying the faint tingle dancing across them. These marks are different from those his mother gave him; they weren’t inflicted on him unwillingly but earned with sweat and exertion. When Matt had let go of the punching bag and told him they were done for the day, Neil had been surprised by his own disappointment. He had never been sorry see the end of his mother’s lessons.

Andrew takes his hand suddenly, startling Neil from his thoughts. It’s a purely analytical touch; he turns Neil’s hand over and runs a finger across the blossoming bruises of his knuckles.

Neil bites back the I’m fine, knowing the look it would earn him. Instead, “I had fun. We’re meeting again next week.”

Andrew nods. It’s a few moments more before he relinquishes Neil’s hand, however. The heat of Andrew’s skin mingles with the singing twinge of Neil’s bruises like an after-print.

Next week, Andrew slouches into the gym after Neil. He ignores Matt’s invitation to join them, flopping onto a rowing machine and leaning back against the machinery so he can kick his feet up on the seat rail. They’re lucky that they chose unsociable hours for their workout, or a line of athletes would be forming to glare at him.

Andrew watches them train from across the room with apparent disinterest. He can feign boredom all he likes; Neil knows he wouldn’t have bothered following him to the gym without reason.

Matt, if anything, seems amused by Andrew’s presence. “Dan comes to watch me practice sometimes, too.” He pauses to correct the angles of Neil’s feet before nudging his arms into blocking positions. “She did it even before we started dating. She used to sit on an exercise bike and pretend she was cycling so I wouldn’t know she was there to watch me. It was never very convincing.”

“Why did she want to watch you?” Neil shifts his weight, trying to copy Matt’s position.

Matt’s face crinkles up with laughter. “That’s the most Neil thing you’ve ever said.”

“Everything I say is a Neil thing.”

“She liked it when I took my shirt off. C’mon, man, join the dots.”

“You don’t take your shirt off to box.”

“Yeah,” says Matt. “Don’t tell her that.”

Neil rolls his eyes. “Can I hit you now?”

Matt barks out a laugh, and training resumes.

“Enjoying the show?” Neil asks Andrew an hour later, dropping down on the gym mat next to him. Andrew hands Neil his water bottle with an unimpressed look.

“You’re awful.” Andrew flicks a look over to Matt, who is using their break to chat with the only other gym regular insane enough to be working out at the crack of dawn on a Sunday. “He could knock you on your ass with one right hook.”

“I know I’m awful. That’s what training is for.” Neil pauses to gulp down most of the bottle. A droplet escapes his lips and tracks down his jugular before falling into the dip of his clavicle. Andrew’s eyes track its path. “Matt isn’t going to hurt me. Is that what you’re worried about?”

“I’m not here to babysit you.”

“Huh.” Neil drains the last of the water before shaking the residual droplets over his head. The beads glint in the corners of his vision as they catch in his bangs and fleck his cheeks, mercifully cooling against his skin. Andrew is still watching him intently. His eyes flick to Matt once more, checking that he is still absorbed in his conversation.

“Yes or no?”

“Yes,” Neil replies, and he watches as Andrew takes Neil’s hand in his. The skin is flushed from strike after strike, not yet coloured in bruising patches but soon to be. Neil’s hands feel softer for it, sensitive to Andrew’s touch.

“I know my limits.” Neil isn’t sure why the gym suddenly feels three degrees warmer. “Really, it doesn’t hurt.”

“I know. I trust you.” Andrew sends one more look over Neil’s shoulder like he’s checking the coast is clear before pressing Neil’s knuckles to his lips.

The breath Neil was in the process of catching slips from his grasp entirely. “Oh.”

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“You like watching me fight.”

“It’s more interesting than watching you run.”

Neil leans in until he can see each individual freckle on Andrew’s cheeks. “Interesting?”

Andrew’s cool look is betrayed by the twitch of his jaw. “Something like that.”

If Matt notices Neil’s new vigour when they return to practice, he doesn’t comment on it. When he catches Neil’s eye, however, he grins knowingly. Perhaps Matt’s conversation had not been as absorbing as he made it out to be. Soon, however, the rhythm of the exercise draws Neil’s attention back to the task at hand.

Neil first learned to throw a punch because his mother believed that one day his life could depend on it. That isn’t the reason that he has resumed his training with Matt; it turns out that a good instructor and fewer death threats make the activity far more pleasant than Neil remembers. It may be a useful skill, but he values the challenge more than he does the practicality. The physicality, too – in fact, he likes boxing for the same reasons that he loves Exy. Quick, brutal, thrilling. He finally understands, too, why Andrew likes to spar with Renee whenever his emotions get on top of him. There’s a certain a sense of control that comes from putting his fist through a break-board. Not that he needs the empowerment as much as he once might have – most of Neil’s tormentors were killed long ago, his fears with them. Given his new life of safety and security, it’s likely that he’ll never really need to know how to throw a good punch.

It takes all of one week for Neil to be proven wildly, wildly wrong.

Opposition strikers – with one glaring, now very dead exception – are not typically Neil’s problem. Generally, if they end up playing on the same side of the court as him, something has gone wrong in the team’s strategies.

He can tell even from a distance, however, that one of the Terrapin strikers is causing difficulties. Not in terms of ability – of which Terrapin’s #13 has little – but in attitude. Thirteen is a vocal player, and Neil can hear snatches of his voice echoing across the court. No fists have been swung, which is an impressive feat for the Fox defenders, but perhaps only because the luck of substitutions has put Thirteen against Nicky more than anyone else, and Nicky is more likely to react to insults with mirth than anger.

Shortly before the end of the first half, Nicky is subbed off at the same time as Thirteen. Nicky passes Neil on the way to the court doors, clacking their racquets together with half a smile. “Give them hell, Neil.”

Thirteen passes them at the same moment, slamming Nicky’s shoulder as he passes. Nicky mutters a word under his breath that would have earned him a month of washing-up duty at Abby’s house before heading for the Foxes’ bench. Neil watches him go, eyebrows creasing together. Nicky isn’t easily upset by the cruelty of strangers; it’s the cruelty that comes from within his own family that is most likely to shake him from his good humour. The barbed insults of nameless players on the court, on the other hand, are usually brushed off with a rude gesture and no more.

Swept up in the rush of the match, Neil forgets about Nicky’s discomfort until half-time. The team pours from the court in high spirits; they have a decent lead over the Terrapins which should carry them through the second half when exhaustion starts to kick in. Nicky, despite having blocked more shots on goal than anyone, reacts to the arrival of the rest of the team with only a pallid grin. His grip on his water bottle is tight, and the cheap plastic crackles and caves in his hands.

Nicky is an easy read, and it doesn’t take long for the other Foxes to notice. After he brushes Renee’s concerned enquiry off, however, the team leaves him be.

When Neil returns to the court for the start of the third quarter, he breathes a sigh of relief to see that Thirteen is nowhere near Nicky. He’s standing closer to goal than Neil is happy with, but Andrew is more or less impervious to verbal abuse and Thirteen has yet to show signs of physical violence. As much as he wants to keep a closer eye on the situation, Kevin’s barked commands draw his attention to the match at hand. The best thing Neil can do for the Foxes’ defence is to spend as much time lobbing the ball at the Terrapin’s goal as possible.

Neil and Nicky are substituted at the same time; they collapse onto the bench and drown their exhaustion in Gatorade. Thirteen crushed Nicky against the wall moments before the substitution, and Nicky is uncharacteristically quiet as Abby examines the cut over his eye.

“You’re not whining about cramping your style,” she says as she presses a plaster in place. “Should I be worried?”

“Nah, this is great for my style. All the guys love a bruiser.” Nicky winks despite the blood crusting in his eyelashes. “Neil knows what I’m talking about, don’tcha, Neil?”

Abby makes a noise that isn’t convinced, but doesn’t press the issue. Neil waits until she’s out of earshot before saying casually, “I still have a few contacts in the mafia.”

“Your sense of humour is dire,” says Nicky, but he’s grinning, so Neil counts it as a win. “Don’t worry about it. I think Andrew’s drawing his fire now. Andrew handles that kind of thing a lot better than me.”

“What kind of thing?”

Nicky winced. “Don’t ask.”

“Tell me.”

“Let's just say he isn't exactly lining up to lead a Pride march.” Nicky snorts humorlessly.

The joke doesn’t land, and not because of Neil’s non-existent sense of humour. He may not be as obvious as Nicky in his preferences nor as dark-skinned, but he has still been on the receiving end of enough of that brand of bullshit to know how it scratches at one’s insides.

“I wasn’t joking about those contacts.”

Nicky sighs. “I was worried you would say that.”

Neil’s attention keeps slipping from the game and over to Andrew, who is standing in goal and ignoring the tirade of insults being thrown his way like a statue facing down a breeze. His non-reaction only seems to stoke Thirteen’s fury, spittle catching in the mesh of his helmet as he watches Andrew knock yet another attempt away from the Foxes’ end.

Andrew spares Thirteen no more than a second of blank indifference in the face of his tirade. Then he drops his stance, shoulders setting into a silent challenge that sends a hot bolt of excitement straight Neil’s to gut. Andrew is locking down the goal.

The Terrapins don’t score again for the rest of the match.

Neil is through the doors before the final buzzer has died, charging into the crush of Foxes at centre-court to join in their celebrations. Andrew, as usual, hovers at the edge of the throng, but he accepts the clack of Neil’s racquet against his. A light sheen of sweat dances across Andrew’s forehead and his lips are parted as he regains his breath after the exertion of locking the Terrapins out.

“Did Thirteen give you trouble?”

Andrew snorts derisively despite his breathlessness. “He tried.”

Neil gets to see Thirteen up close during the handshakes. He barely grazes the tips of each Foxes’ fingers as he passes one by one, but he stops when he gets to Neil. “I remember you. You were all over the news, weren’t you? The runaway Wesninski.” His expression speaks to his delight at the revelation. To no-one’s surprise, Thirteen is a sore loser.

Andrew barely moves, just a slight adjustment to his footing so that he presses a little closer into Neil’s shoulder.

Neil smiles. It is the kind of smile he has not had use for in some time. “Looking for an autograph?”

Thirteen snorts. “Bet you think you’re real bad. Bet you think those scars make you look tough. Too bad you’re still a puny little bitch.”

Neil flexes his hand before clenching it into a fist. “I do think I’m real bad, actually. Want to find out why?”

The striker waits for the hit to come. Neil doesn’t give him the satisfaction; the guy is a piece of shit, but he isn’t worth the trouble he’s clearly looking for. Neil drops his hands, meets his gaze, and waits for him to give up on getting his reaction and leave.

Most of the other players are moving off to their own respective sides, and their stand-off is beginning to attract attention. Kevin squints over at them, and at his side, Aaron pulls off his helmet.

“Oh shit. Twins.” Thirteen’s gaze swings from Aaron to Andrew, flashing with sudden recognition. “I remember you too.” His expression turns sharkish. “Now that was a story. So, which one is the murderer, and which is the brother-fucker?”

Andrew barely twitches. Neil’s reaction is less restrained.

It’s almost a play-by-play of decking Riko at the Winter Banquet.  The key difference between that punch and this one is hours of training with a borderline-professional boxer.

Neil squares his stance, draws back his fist, and puts his whole body behind the punch. He’s rewarded with the sickening crack of a nose breaking and a hot spurt of blood splattering his knuckles.

Thirteen staggers back, shock registering for a second before he spits blood at the floor. He’s swaying on his feet, but there’s still fight in his eyes.

Andrew’s hands go to his sheaths, but Neil waves him back. He wipes the hand bloodied by Thirteen’s face across his jaw unthinkingly, feels the wet, red heat clinging to his skin. “Hey. This one’s mine.” The smile he tacks onto the words is toothier than he means it to be. With blood still smeared across his chin, he can only imagine how he looks.

Andrew’s hand judders to a halt at the hems of his armbands. His jaw is clenched tight but roaring over the current of concern is something far darker. It creeps into his eyes, a weight to his gaze normally only visible in the privacy of their bedroom. Andrew’s gaze runs the length of Neil’s body before coming to rest on Neil’s mouth. His bottom lip catches momentarily in his teeth as he nods.

Thirteen’s first swing hits, and a burst of blood dances across Neil’s tongue as his lip is split open. Thirteen’s luck ends there; Neil blocks his second punch with a move Matt taught him the day before. He drives his free hand into Thirteen’s solar plexus, knocking the air from him.

Neil doesn’t get much time to appreciate how the striker falls on his ass as they’re rushed by teammates and officials who break them apart.

Neil stands placidly before Wymack and bears his row with the bare minimum of decorum. The lecture is undercut by Nicky, who’s expression alternates between elation, amusement and mock disapproval from moment to moment. Matt, at least, waits until Wymack is finished before applauding.

“I’ll give you some notes later, but all things considered it was a solid right hook.”

Neil brushes the team’s reactions off as best he can; he certainly didn’t do it for their recognition.

He takes his time showering, watching with a strange, sick pleasure as he rinses the striker’s blood away. It turns pink in the shower basin before swirling at last down the drain. Beneath the blood, Neil’s knuckles have begun to bruise, satisfaction burning them blue.

It’s at these times that Neil worries that he may have inherited too much from his father; the temper, the violence, the bloodlust. Then again, they all served as tools to his survival at one point or another. The key difference between Neil and his father is who they choose to turn their anger on. Neil’s father always set his sights on the underdog. Neil prefers to punch up.

No; if there’s one thing Nathan gave him, it was a distaste for bullies.

There’s a familiar tap at the door to Neil’s stall. The rest of the Foxes cleared out some time ago, still rowdy from the post-match high. Tonight was a home game; most of the team will be halfway back to Fox tower already, thinking only of booze and the weekend stretching ahead of them. There’s only one player who would have any reason to linger.

Andrew steps under the spray, his hair is plastered to his head by the steamy drizzle. He holds his hand out, and Neil offers his without question for Andrew’s inspection.

Andrew’s voice is dispassionate as he inspects the damage. “I don’t need a knight in shining armour. Nor for you to fight my battles for me.”

“The fight was for my own satisfaction. But I’ll stop if you want me to.”

Once again, Andrew presses his lips to Neil’s raw knuckles. The contact stings, sweet and savoury, pleasure and pain. “Would it kill you to make life easy for once?” The words tingle against the tender skin.

“I thought you liked to watch me fight.”

“Just because I find your stupidity entertaining doesn’t mean I encourage it.”

“It’s my stupidity you like, is it?”

“What else do you have?” Andrew’s eyes track the rivulets of water snaking down Neil’s neck.

“I’m sure I can think of a few things.” Neil says. Then, for clarity, “Yes or no?”

“Yes.” Andrew doesn’t let go of Neil’s hand, thumb running across the reddening knuckles once more before leading it to his chest. Neil leaves it resting there, marvelling at the colours bleeding between them under the shower’s onslaught, pink and brown and red and blue. Andrew soon tires of Neil’s staring, and is the first to bridge the gap between them.

Neil once compared Andrew’s kisses to a fight with their lives on the line. Countless kisses later, this fact has not changed in the slightest. Andrew leaves a bruising trail of kisses across Neil’s neck until he can’t remember which marks are from Exy and which are from Andrew. They all sting the same, sweet way.

Each kiss pressed to his mouth carries a metallic tang from Neil’s burst lip. He can tell from the fierce pressure of Andrew’s mouth against his that Andrew can taste it too, is feeding off the adrenaline rush just as Neil is. He catches Neil’s bottom lip between his teeth and with it sucks a groan from deep in Neil’s chest.

Andrew draws back to level him with an unimpressed look. “You’re far too into this.”

“You’re one to talk.” Neil raises his hand to Andrew’s eyeline, wiggling his fingers. Andrew’s eyes catch on the blooming violet patches. “You like this. Admit it.”

Andrew steps forward until his cheek brushes Neil’s fingers. Neil turns his hand automatically, cupping Andrew’s face.

“Yes,” says Andrew. His eyes stay on Neil’s, even as Neil’s hand drops lower.

It’s a small miracle, Neil thinks, that Andrew can trust Neil’s hands on him, after all he knows they are capable of. Maybe that’s part of the appeal, the evidence painted into Neil’s knuckles that Neil’s gentler touches are reserved for Andrew and Andrew alone. It’s strange that Andrew should love Neil’s fighting spirit as much as he does. After all, it was Andrew who taught Neil how to stand and fight in the first place.

It’s a fact that neither will ever let the other forget.

Neil leaves the shower sporting several more bruises than he entered with. Some are from Exy, some are from fighting, and some are from Andrew’s mouth.

He loves them all just the same.

*

Thank you for reading, let me know what you thought! Still open to fic prompts, ideas etc.

[realityhelixcreates]

Lasabrjotr Chapter 58:Hysteria Drive

Chapters: 58/? Fandom: Thor (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe Rating: Teen And Up Warnings: none Relationships: Loki x Reader (There We Go) Characters: Loki (Marvel), Thor(Marvel), Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanoff, Tony Stark, Stephen Strange Additional Tags: Post-Endgame: Best Possible Ending (Canon-Divergent), Brains Are A Hell Of A Thing, Cultural Differences, Thor Isn’t Stupid Tho?, There’s A Bit Of A Spectrum Between Genius And Dumb

Summary:  Some things just never go away.

The world felt distant as your heavy breathing slowed, the adrenaline thudding in your ears. You withdrew your hand, so slowly, from pointing at Steve, who poked at his chest in bemusement.

“Huh. That was weird.” He said.

Then the babbling began. You couldn't apologize enough. You didn't know what you had been thinking, why you automatically assumed that the tiniest flash of light meant murder. The thing on the ground wasn't even a knife; it was a key, like the one you wore hanging from your chatelaine. He hadn't thrown it at you, he had tossed it to Mr. Rhodes, who wanted to go back to their rooms to retrieve something.

It had all been nothing. And you had reacted with possibly lethal force. If that had been a knife, it would have stuck right in his chest. It would not have killed him, you didn't think, but if it had been someone else...

Yes, if this whole situation had been different, but it wasn't, and you were panicking now with no way out, and the other trainees were surrounding the group of you, uncertainty on their faces, but weapons in their hands. They knew you, knew your association with Loki, but they also knew that these other human visitors had associations with their king.

Andsvarr broke ranks, removing his helmet and pushing past Steve, who barely reacted to stop him, and knelt beside you with Natasha.

“My Seidkona, what ails you?” He asked. “Do you need water? Do you need space? Do you need to be taken to a shaded area?”

“I just-I'm sorry, I didn't-I mean I should have known, but I thought-I just thought that-I'm sorry-” You gabbled. You needed all those things, but you couldn't make yourself say it.

“Can you stand?” He asked. “We can lead you away from here. We can take you back to your room for now.”

It sounded good. Andsvarr was trusted, and his even tone was more helpful than Natasha's, being much more familiar. Neither Steve, nor Mr. Rhodes had approached, which was probably for the best.

You stood at Andsvarr's gentle urging, unable to bring yourself to meet anybodies eyes.

“There, everything will be all right now.” He said, just as strong arms circled you from behind.

You screeched in terrified surprise, and drove your heel down on the top of your assailant's foot with all your might.

“Ah.” Loki's voice murmured in your ear, dryly amused. “I see we have been learning new things.”

The gibbering apologies resumed. You needed to be removed from the area. You were hurting people! Well, not actually hurting them; phenomenal luck had directed your violence against those you would have a very tough time actually causing harm to, but the fact remained that you had tried.

Loki lifted you up in his arms and carried you away from the sunny training yard, murmuring calming platitudes on the way. But you just kept seeing blood on the potato leaves, the way the mans body jerked, even after you had split his head open. Why now? Why were you remembering now?

You hadn't even buried him. You'd just taken all the potatoes home, and never gone back to that field. Just left him there, murdered in the dirt.

You were babbling about it, without realizing, bloody leaves dancing in your minds eye.

You would never get the chance to apologize.

“What is going on? Is she going to be all right?” Steve asked.

“You know exactly what this is. Do you pretend not to suffer in the same way?” Loki said in a clipped tone, then amended himself to a more gentle sound when you squirmed in discomfort in his arms. “It's alright my dear. You are sheltered now. None can reach you.” He jerked his head at the Avenger escort. “Go. She won't calm with so many eyes on her. Give us time.”

Bucky nodded and helped Natasha to shoo the others away.

Loki cradled you in his lap, rocking gently until you went quiet and still, and then he just waited.

“Think I'll be okay now.” You mumbled. He didn't let go, but he did loosen his grip to allow you more movement.

“Can you tell me what happened?” Loki asked. “Was there too much dust? I'll have the courtyard swept-”

“No, I thought there was a knife! I thought someone else was trying to kill me again.”

“Oh darling. Of course, who wouldn't be afraid of that? I think some of the armor I commissioned for you should be finished by now; shall I have it brought to you tonight?”

You nodded. “Yeah. That's not all though. I just...reacted. I used my magic to send it back, but it was just a key, and it was just Steve. It wasn't even a danger, but I was totally willing to hurt someone. Just ready to react with violence, and then I couldn't stop thinking about that guy I killed...I murdered a man, and I just left him there-”

“That was self defense, my dear, anyone-”

“I just left him there!” You cried, voice raising again. “I knew him, but I just left him on the ground and dug up potatoes! Like he was nothing! I just left him and took a bunch of food home, and didn't tell anyone! Just left him there for the coyotes.”

Loki was stroking your hair now, just letting you vent.

“I thought it was over, you know? When it all went back to the way it was, but I never got past it. I'm still so angry at him, and at myself. I knew I shouldn't have gone out there alone, but I did it anyway. But it's still with me, and it's coming out more; that willingness to get violent, to kill even. I tried to hurt Steve, I tried to hurt you. I'm just damn lucky the two of you are so resilient, but other people aren't so lucky. Am I going to get worse? Will I end up killing someone again?” You looked up into his face, but his gaze was distant. “Loki?”

“I...feel we differ in attitude about this subject, my dear.” He said softly. “Asgard was always at war. Even after Father ceased conquering, the realms that now depended upon us still had to be protected. I have lead armies, fought, and bled, and killed for Asgard and the safety of the realms. And for far less noble reasons as well. Violence is...normal. Even here, it is normal. There are countries at war on this world, right now, as I hold you. All you did, both then and now, was try to protect your own life against someone unfairly trying to harm you.”

“But Steve didn't try to hurt me! It was a mistake!”

“Of course he didn't. But that slime out in the country did, and that has stayed with you. How could it not? Humans may try to convince themselves that violence is primitive and beneath them, but you need it, if only to keep yourself safe. It seems the cultural dichotomy does not allow you to reach equilibrium with your nature and your noble ideals. But my dear, you have caused no tangible harm. No one was hurt. You were not hurt. Let your heart be calmed. You have done nothing wrong.”

It didn't help, not really. His voice soothed, and his touch warmed, but his words didn't settle the unease. He didn't seem to understand why this rising trend of violence within yourself troubled you, even though he had been victim to it before! You had used your magic then too, to strike him in the bath when...you thought he was going to attack you. But even then, you had allowed your anger to take you a step farther. You could have demanded to leave after you found out he had been messing with you. Instead, you punched him. You could have run away after you had knocked that man down in the potato garden. Instead, you had chopped him. And you could have done anything else with that key-that-was-not-a-knife. You could have teleported it across the field, or into your hand, or onto the ground. Instead, you had directed it at the throwers heart. Your temper was dangerous now; it had the power of magic behind it.

It must be a cultural difference. Asgard prized warriors, gloried in battle. Even Saldis could use a sword. Not well, by her own admission, but she could. And 'not well' by Asgardian standards, might mean something very different than 'not well' by your standards.

To Loki, to everyone around you, your occasional outbursts were normal. If you weren't careful, it might become normal to you too.

                                                                               *****

Steve spent a few extra minutes asking certain questions of various Asgardians before heading back to Thor and the others. By the time he returned, they were discussing Asgardian architecture, Thor regaling them with stories about what Asgard used to look like, and how they planned to incorporate classic Asgardian styles into stable, Icelandic buildings. It was surely an interesting conversation, but something had been bothering Steve for over half a year now. Something about you, something about the occasional thing you said, the way you reacted every now and then. Something that didn't add up. Or rather, something that added up too well with something it shouldn't.

Tony scooted to the side to make room for Steve, as Thor continued in his excited way about pressing mosaic into concrete, using glass and tile, rather than gems or other stones no longer available to them. They would each have a mural-he insisted-they were all part of Asgard's history now; Asgard's first official Midgardian allies.

There was a great honor in that, Steve knew. Asgard's unique, animated paintings were reserved for important events only. It didn't stay his tongue.

“Your Majesty, I have some questions regarding your...royal ward. And I'm gonna need you to play it straight with me this time.”

“Yes, of course.” Thor said, face open and innocent. He would stay that way, even as he lied to Steve's face, he knew that now. He would think it was impressive how Thor had duped them for all these years, but that would probably be narcissistic. The man was not human; he was centuries old, with godlike powers, though Steve was still not convinced he possessed true divinity. He was a prince as well, and Asgard seemed to take the whole 'divine right of kings' thing pretty literally. Thor would have been schooled in diplomacy, in deception, in the etiquette of multiple worlds...and they had all allowed themselves to be convinced that Loki was the smart but evil one, and Thor was the good but dumb one. He wasn't, but that narrative suited him at the time. It garnered him trust.

But Steve saw it now, and was torn between being impressed, and being uneasy. He sighed, and spread his hands.

“She remembers, doesn't she?” It was more a statement than a question. The big, friendly expression remained on Thors' face, but those bi-colored eyes were inscrutable. All eyes turned to him.

Steve watched him open his mouth, expected the lie to come-

“Yes.” Thor said. “She does.”

“Are you referring to what I think you're referring to?” Sam asked. “Because if you're referring to what I think you're referring to...”

“_____ remembers the events of the Snap. It has left an indelible mark upon her...as it has on all of us. She did not know the causes behind it, but she remembers living through it.”

“She 'did not know'? Past tense?” Tony demanded. “You told her?”

“Of course I did.” Thor admitted. “She had spent all the time since the Reversal believing that she was insane. If I could give her at least some small peace of mind regarding that, of course I would. How did you figure it out?”

“Some of the things she said, some of the ways she acts.” Steve said. “I took a peek at her birth records after we got into a conversation about birthday traditions, and realized she remembers being a year older than she should.”

“And you didn't think this was worth mentioning to anyone?” Rhodey accused. “This one thing we were trying to avoid happening, and you didn't have anything to say?”

“Did your brother have something to do with this?” Tony demanded. “Is that why he's all lovey-dovey? Trying to keep this under wraps?”

“No, no. Please, friends, remain calm. There's no sinister reason behind this. It's just that _____'s mental state was very fragile when she first came to us-”

Tony snorted.

“-And in some ways, still is. She was very paranoid when it came to this subject, full of self doubt, and worried about how she would be treated if other people found out. I didn't want anyone coming here with prying questions, not until she was more comfortable. As for Loki...Well, that's just what he looks like when he's happy. I know you've never seen him like that, but I remember.”

“Is she the only one?” Bucky asked.

Thor shook his head. “She said there were forums. Like small, electronic secret societies. None of them knew why they remember, what the connection is.”

“It's the magic, naturally.” Strange interjected. “You know? She has magical capabilities, these other people likely do as well. The stones are the source of magic, so it stands to reason that those that have it might not be affected by the spell.”

“You knew?” Tony snapped.

“You didn't?” Strange asked.

Then the shouting began.

[rhinozilla]

Whumptober Day 25: Humiliation

Summary: Hank takes Connor home after the events of Day 21: "Laced Drink."

--

Hank pulled his car up directly behind Chris’s squad car and turned off the ignition. He was out of the car and stepping to the open passenger side door of the squad car before the engine had completely quieted. He spotted Chris looking over and gave him a wave of acknowledgement. The other officer nodded, still standing by the two women who had called the police about the situation.

The sidewalk outside the bar was quiet for a Saturday night, and if a crowd had gathered to curiously gawk at the scene, then they had already dispersed by the time Hank got there. Chris looked like he was still in the middle of taking statements from the two women, and Hank wasn’t sure how he felt about the fact that he didn’t see any android emergency care technicians around.

All of that went to the background as he zeroed in on Connor in the front passenger seat of the squad car, and he beelined toward his partner.

“Connor!” He came to a stop by the open car door. “It’s Hank. I’m here. Are you all right?”

Connor was sitting sideways on the seat, his feet planted on the street and his elbows on his knees. His forehead was lowered into one hand, and the other hand was holding a half full bottle of thirium. There was thirium on the sidewalk, dribbling into the gutter and painting a path toward the street drain. It was an unusually bright color; not enough for a civilian to notice a difference, but unfortunately Hank had seen enough blue blood to know contaminated thirium when he saw it.

“Hey,” he prompted quietly, bending a little toward the android. “Connor?”

He reached out and lightly touched his shoulder. Connor’s head snapped up, eyes wide as he locked gazes with whoever had touched him. Hank kept his hand there as an anchor, giving him a second. As soon as he recognized Hank, Connor’s eyes squinted closed in discomfort, and he raised his hand to press his fingers against the closed lids.

“Hank…” His voice was small and low.

“I know,” Hank murmured, carefully taking the bottle from Connor’s loose grip. “Did you get it all out?”

Connor started to nod, must have found the act to be painful, because he abandoned it and sighed. “Yes…I threw up…a lot.”

“That’s okay,” Hank assured. “That’s good, actually. Got it out. Did you run a diagnostic?”

“Yes.”

Hank waited for him to elaborate, and when Connor didn’t, Hank took a measured breath. “And?”

Connor slowly sat up straighter, eyes half open and pointedly avoiding the beams from the nearby street lights. He looked reluctant to speak, or maybe the world was still leaning and tilting too much for him to focus. Hank didn’t force him, simply moving his hand from Connor���s shoulder to his forehead.

“You don’t feel like you’re overheating.” He paused, frowned, and moved the back of his hand to the side of Connor’s neck briefly. “Actually feel a little cool.”

Connor watched the expelled thirium trickle toward the gutter. “My internal temperature is stable and within normal parameters.”

The words sounded good, but Hank didn’t like the way he was saying them. The night air wasn’t overly chilly, but there was no telling what kind of havoc the drug might still be wreaking on Connor’s systems. Hank shrugged out of his jacket, straightened it out, and draped it across his partner’s back. Connor didn’t react to the extra layer; he only glanced over at Chris and the two women before looking away, back to his shoes.

“I want to go home, Hank.”

God, he sounded exhausted…but lucid at least. Hank locked his jaw and squinted over at where Chris was wrapping up his interview.

“Has a technician checked you out?” he asked mildly.

“No…Unnecessary.”

“Connor, you were—“ He cut himself off, looking back down at Connor. “I’d really like to hear a technician give you a clean bill of health after this. You were…poisoned.”

“And I expelled all of the contaminated thirium,” Connor said, a little more firmly now. “The residual effects will be corrected by my healing program during my rest cycle tonight. None of them are life threatening or even dangerous…A technician is not going to say anything that my diagnostic system isn’t already telling me.”

Hank sighed, eying him worriedly. “Connor—“

“Hank,” Connor’s voice was strained, and he was deliberately not making eye contact. “I want to go home.”

Hank ran a hand over his beard, taking in the state of his friend, and then cautiously nodded.

“All right. Okay. We won’t go anywhere or do anything you don’t want to. No facility. I’ll take you home, son.”

Connor buckled slightly in relief, lowering his head between his shoulders and pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. “Thank you.”

Hank took a step back, gesturing to get Chris’s attention. “Hey, Chris. I’m taking him home.”

Chris looked concerned, and the suggestion to go to a facility was clear on his face. Hank gave him a knowing look, and Chris nonverbally conceded, bobbing his head and holding up his notebook.

“Okay, I’ve got what I need.”

Hank turned back toward Connor, holding out a hand. “Let’s go home.”

Connor slowly sat up again, involuntarily securing Hank’s jacket more over his shoulders. He did not take Hank’s offered hand, grasping the frame of the car door and the interior arm rest of the open door instead. He gingerly levered himself up and onto his feet.

“Go slow,” Hank suggested quietly. “Take your time.”

Connor made a low, aggravated noise, and he finally stood up fully. There was a visible effort to recalibrate his balance, and Hank kept his hand in an open position to help if Connor wanted it. Connor took two shuffled steps to the side down the length of the car, leaning against the vehicle for support, and Hank closed the door once he was clear.

“Can you walk okay?” he asked.

Connor nodded once, his posture locked up despite leaning against the car, and he resumed his uneven steps toward Hank’s car. Hank kept pace beside him, moving slowly and keeping his arm clearly available for additional support if needed. Fortunately, because Hank had parked his car’s nose practically up Chris’s squad car’s ass, Connor was able to transition his lean from the squad car to the Oldsmobile fairly easily.

As soon as Connor had shuffled past the passenger door of Hank’s car, Hank opened the door for him, pulling it all the way wide and stepping around it. Connor wordlessly lowered himself into the seat, and Hank slipped a hand in the space between his head and the top frame of the car as a buffer in case Connor hit it. Connor slumped in the seat, drawing his legs in and busying himself with the seatbelt while Hank closed the door for him.

He walked around the front of the car and climbed into the driver’s seat, and Connor was still fumbling with the latch on the seatbelt.

Hank silently turned over the engine and got the heat running in the car, and he set the bottle of thirium in the cup holder before he finally turned toward his partner. Connor’s hands were visibly shaking too much to slide the seatbelt latch into the buckle.

“Here, let me.” Hank reached over to assist.

“I can—“ Connor snapped, but didn’t even finish the sentence before he abandoned the seatbelt, facing forward and dropping his hands in his lap.

Hank hesitated, then lowered his eyes, quickly securing the seatbelt for him and straightening up in his own seat. Connor was stiff as a board on the other side of the car, fists in his lap and his eyes shut, his expression forcefully smooth. Hank could see the tension coiling in his jawline, and he faced forward.

“Breathe. You’re all right.”

The Oldsmobile edged onto the road, pulling away from the curb and aiming toward the main street. Hank turned the wheel onto the familiar route that would take them home the fastest.

Fast wasn’t fast enough to avoid a thick blanket of unease that swaddled the cab of the car. Hank left the radio turned off, and the only sound was the creaking noises of the old car as it carried them home. Connor said nothing for the duration of the drive, only opening his eyes when Hank pulled up the driveway to the house. Even then, he merely stared through the window to the front porch.

Hank turned off the engine, and Connor was immediately punching the buckle to release his seatbelt, then popping open the door to get out.

“Connor—“ Hank started.

Connor paused, eyes pointed toward the porch. The car door hung ajar, but he didn’t climb out.

Hank swallowed. “They’re going to find those two androids. Those two witnesses had video images of their faces, voices, and their license plates. We’ll probably have them in custody before tomorrow’s up. Then—“

“I’m a fool.”

Hank choked on whatever he had been about to say next, and he frowned. “No, you’re not.”

Connor exhaled hard, yanked the car door closed, and rounded on Hank, finally making eye contact. His eyes were dark and wet and full of a heartbreak that Hank could see went deep.

“There were warnings,” Connor said, his voice thick and shaky. “My system recognized the warnings from the moment I met those two men. I ignored them. I chose ignorance in a situation that—I didn’t want it to be dangerous. I should have realized what was happening, but I wanted—“

He stopped, slouching far down into the seat until his knees were nearly hitting the glove compartment. He covered his face with both hands, and a low noise of distress keened out of his throat. The soft noise turned sharp and gravelly as it increased in volume, finally turning into a loud groan of frustration.

“Stupid…”

“Hey, hey.” Hank put a hand on his shoulder. “You’re not stupid for taking a chance on people. Optimism is a goddamn superpower around here, and it is NOT your fault that somebody tried to hurt you for it.”

“Hank…” Connor lowered his hands from his face and stared at him. “They weren’t trying to hurt me because—They were trying to—because they hated me. I-I-I was the Deviant Hunter. I was the monster that terrorized them and every other deviant in this city until the revolution. I hunted them, and I was GOOD at it. And I actually th-thought that…I was stupid to think that those two or any of my kind would ever…could ever…give me a chance. I don’t deserve it.”

“Now you stop that,” Hank pressed. “You’re being unfair to yourself. What you did under Cyberlife, you did as a machine. What those two deviants tried to do to you? That is completely on them.”

“I am the most advanced android ever created by Cyberlife,” Connor said thinly. “And I was overpowered by two older, common models because I refused to face the reality of my status among fellow androids…I could be dead right now if not for two humans who happened to see what was happening. Androids hate me, and I am an idiot for thinking that was going to change anytime soon.”

Hank opened his mouth to argue, but Connor abruptly opened the car door again and hauled himself out…only to promptly collapse to the concrete.

“Shit, Connor!” Hank shoved open his own door, yanked his seatbelt off, and climbed out, running around the front of the car.

Connor got his hands under him, pushing himself up into a sitting position against the car, and he tilted his head back against the car with enough force to hurt. His face pinched, and he repeated the motion, smacking the back of his head against the metal, overwhelmed by it all.

“Hey, hey, HEY!” Hank knelt down, cupping a hand around the back of his head to stop him from doing damage, while the other hand wrapped around the side of his neck. “Connor, stop, son.”

Connor’s expression was painfully tight, and tears finally broke loose from the ring of wet collecting under his eyes. He took a deep, heaving breath, and Hank felt some part of him shatter right there in Hank’s hands in the driveway.

“I’m sorry,” Connor choked, bowing his head forward, his knees bending toward his chest like a ball. “I’m sorry, and I can’t say sorry enough…I thought…Hank.”

“Right here, I’m right here.” Hank pulled Connor’s shaking form to him, wrapping his arms around him and keeping one hand on the back of his head. “Oh, Connor, you are not stupid, and you’re not a monster. The worst thing you are is somebody who has too much faith in other people.”

That didn’t seem to give his friend any comfort, and Hank sighed, deciding to hold his tongue for the time being as Connor broke down completely in his arms. The neighborhood was quiet tonight; the other homes around Hank’s house had never been overly lively or curious anyway, but the openness of the driveway felt suddenly very exposed for such a private thing happening. Connor felt humiliated enough tonight about things Hank couldn’t save him from, but he could save him from any nosy eyes that might see this now.

“Okay,” Hank murmured, rubbing his hand up and down Connor’s back twice quickly. “Okay, son, let’s go inside.”

Connor took in a few sharp breaths, struggling to calm himself, and he managed it enough to nod. Hank carefully took one of Connor’s arms around his neck and then slowly began to stand, taking Connor to his feet with him. His partner swayed heavily, still under the effects of the drug and physically and emotionally exhausted. He was alarmingly pliant as Hank walked them both from the car to the front porch and into the house.

As soon as they were inside, he closed the door to keep the rest of the world out. The world had taken enough from Connor today. The least it could do for the rest of the night was leave him the fuck alone.

“We’re home now.”

[13ismyheart]

13xReader - Finding Truth In The Rain

A/N: This wasn’t a request, but something I wanted to write for a while. I hope you like it. Warnings: None. It’s just fluff Summary: The Tardis had left you and the Doctor standing alone in the rain, in the shelter that you found one truth reveals itself.

You and the Doctor were just about to follow the rest of the team back into the Tardis when suddenly an invisible force shield made the blue box inaccessible for you. Confused you turned to your left to see the Doctor banging against the imperceptible wall.

“Oh, no, no, no. Don't do this to me. Can't you see that we’re soaked to the bone?”

“Doctor? What is this? Why can't we go in?”, your voice carried a hint of worry, but also annoyance as you really wanted to get out of those wet clothes and into your warm bed.

“I don't know. It's some sort of shield, but I have no idea what could have caused it. I have thoroughly checked this planet and we are the only intelligent life form currently inhabiting it. It must be – Y/N!”. While you were listening to the Doctor's thoughts you had leaned against the shield, the shield that had now vanished along with the Tardis. You lost your balance, but thanks to the Doctor's quick reflexes, your hitting the ground was once again avoided. Looking into the Doctor's eyes as she steadied you, you thanked her. You were almost sad when she let go of you. “Well I guess that answers the question. The Tardis must have put that shield up herself. The only question that remains is why she wanted to lock us out and leave us here? Well, nothing we can do now but wait and find shelter from that rain.”.

The rain had actually stopped coming down as hard, but there was still a slight drizzling coming down and judging by the colour of the sky a second round of cats and dogs wasn't completely out of the question either. You just nodded and decided to follow the timelord in her quest to escape the wetness. Even soaking wet the Doctor was the prettiest woman you had ever laid your eyes upon, you had noticed her eyes and her jawline the very first moment that you saw her. Since then she had only become more attractive to you and you found yourself slowly falling in love with her. Of course, nothing would ever come off this. She was the most generous, lovable, beautiful and honourable woman in the whole universe and you were just – well, you were you. Knowing this didn't keep you from looking at her though daydreaming about how it would be to see some of the telltale signs reflected in the Doctor's gaze. You sigh, catching the Doctor's attention again who immediately tried to console you and reassure you that the Tardis would come back soon enough to come and pick you both up. 

“Can you imagine the team being in there alone and having no clue what's going on?”, you asked the Doctor laughing. Her face scrunched up in amusement and you really had to hold yourself back not to reach out and touch her. “Oh, I am sure they'll be fine.”, she chuckled, thought about it once more and then added, “Although I am not so sure about Ryan, he is a bit wary of the Tardis since the toaster incident last week.” These words made you laugh even harder, actually causing you to snort which in turn made your cheeks redden in embarrassment. The unfortunate happening had been a tiny misunderstanding between Ryan and the Tardis and since it happened Ryan refused to go anywhere near the console. You and the Doctor had found a little cave to settle in for the time being and it had turned out to be a rather good idea because the rain had indeed started up again. Still a bit breathless from your laughing fit you remarked on the time. “It must be getting pretty late.”. But the late hour wasn't the only inconvenience as it was also getting colder and colder. It wasn't long before even your thick jacket couldn't keep you warm anymore and you started shivering. The Doctor didn't seem as fazed by the cold, but that did not surprise you. No one who gets cold easily wears the same clothes in summer and winter, with the small addition of a loose scarf. The Doctor noticed your discomfort though and started to scoot closer towards you. “You are freezing. We need to share body heat to warm you up a bit.”, she said and proceeded to take her coat off to lay it on the ground. She gestured for you to remove your jacket as well and then pulled you down onto hers. You were lying very close, her left pressing to your right with your coat dealing as a blanket for both of you. 

It wasn't uncomfortable per se, but it was weird, to say the least. You had never been this close to the Doctor for a prolonged amount of time, you had hugged before of course, but never longer than a few seconds, not that you would have minded them being longer, but you also did not want to seem like a creep who preys on her friends. Now you have already been lying next to each other for about 10 minutes and no one knew how much longer you were forced to stay here before the others found their way back here, or rather before the Tardis lead them to you. You were quite content to just stay quiet, silence never really bothered you, but you also knew the Doctor and her intense need to talk. If you thought about it it was already quite out of character for her to have been completely silent these past 10 minutes, so with a confused look you turned to look at her., “Cat got your tongue? You aren't usually this quiet.” She quickly turned her head towards you on reflex before staring straight up at the ceiling again, but not quickly enough for you not to notice her blushing. You grin, you didn't know there was anything that could get someone as confident as the Doctor to blush. “Come on, you can tell me. I swear I won't judge you.” The grin in your voice was as tangible to the Doctor as your finger which was insistently poking the timelord's torso. Instead of answering she blushed further. Suddenly it hit you, the Doctor was thinking about someone she liked. The most common reason people blush is when they are asked about something related to the person they have a crush on, right? Now it was your turn to blush, you tried to say something, to apologise for invading her privacy like that, but instead, you just opened and closed your mouth a few times looking like one of those fish your GP kept in his waiting room. You laid back down on your back. Where the contact of your bodies did not faze you before it now felt as if someone constantly sent tiny electric shocks through the whole right half of your body. 

You started shivering again, catching the Doctor's attention once more. Worried looks were sent in your direction, but your mind was pre-occupied with one thought only the Doctor is in love. You tried to focus on the plitter-platter of the rain, a sound that never failed to calm you, at least not until now. A numbing sadness had suddenly taken over your mind and body. You had never really thought you had any chance with the Doctor, you really hadn't, that's why you never told her. Having proof of her affections lying elsewhere, however, was still crushing you.  The Doctor interpreted your shivering differently though and moved again, this time to lie half on top of you with her arms around you to chase the coldness away. But this closeness hurt you more and the shivering intensified, plus you couldn't look at her right now, it would only pain you further and she would know instantly that you were in love with her. You couldn't jeopardise your friendship. If that was all you were ever gonna have with the Doctor you would do anything to protect it. You were so focused on your thoughts that you didn't pay any attention to what your body was doing. Currently, your face was very openly declaring your discomfort and when the Doctor saw this she gasped and immediately rolled off of you to sit up, causing your jacket to slip off as well. Shit, you thought, she knows and now she is disgusted by you. Now the tears you were so desperately trying to hold back burst free and even if you wanted to talk, to explain to her that you weren't in love with her and that you are sorry you made her uncomfortable, you wouldn't have been able to because all that was currently able to leave your mouth were sobs. The Doctor was evidently troubled, she didn't know what to do or how to comfort you. In the end, she just opted for a straight-up apology. “I am so sorry my feelings made you uncomfortable, I thought I could hide them better and I totally understand if you want to leave me now. As soon as the Tardis is back I can get you home and I won't bother you ever again, I promise.” She was looking at you with tears of her own in her eyes, but she was trying her hardest to be strong, she didn't want you to feel guilty for not returning her affections. Her words hit you like a wall of bricks and you yanked your head around to face her, not minding the cracking of your neck as you did. Stuttering you asked her “What did you say?”. You were sure you must have heard it wrong, in your frenzy, it had sounded like she had apologised to you for having feelings for you. The Doctor gulped once and repeated “I said I am sorry I made you uncomfortable. I totally understand that you don't like me like that and if you want to leave I will drop you off back home and not bother you again.”. Your eyes were as wide as saucers, so you had heard correctly. Your heart began to hammer wildly and you sat up to be face to face to the Doctor. “Do you really mean that?”, you had to ask again. Your head still couldn't wrap itself around the idea of the Doctor returning your feelings. Her face fell, as she lost all hope that you would still be travelling with her if given enough time. Swallowing hard she nodded once and lowered her head, not being able to look you in the eyes as she slowly lost the battle against her own tears. Your face, however, showed the definition of contradiction. Your eyes were puffy, cheeks swollen and decorated with wet trails of your tears, but your mouth was spreading into the biggest grin you had ever worn. The Doctor was in love with you! You couldn't believe your luck. With new found energy you raised your hand to the Doctor's chin and gently lifted it up. She was a little startled by your touch and when she looked into your eyes, confusion shone in hers. It hurt to see her so broken, but the happiness over the news overweighted and without thinking about it you lunged your head forwards and pressed your lips to hers. The Doctor gasped in surprise and you wasted no time, deepening the kiss and sighing contently. You don't know how long the kiss lasted, all you know is that her mouth tasted of custard creams, early grey and something heavenly that must have been the Doctor's own specific taste. You loved every second of it, only registering the sighs and moans both of you let loose and ignoring everything else around you.

When you reluctantly broke the kiss to fill your lungs with desperately needed air, both of you just took a second to look at the other. Outside of your little cave, it was still raining and slowly the cold was returning to your bones, without looking down you grabbed for your jacket and covered the Doctor and yourself as best as you could. You were still looking at each other, smiling softly and sharing small touches, when you finally broke the silence. “God, I love you so much!”. Again the Doctor blushed, but this time she didn't look away, instead, she leaned in close and whispered, “I love you too, Y/N.” As your lips met again you heard the unmistakable whooshing sound of the Tardis.

[broken-clover]

12 Days of Whump- Battered & Bruised

Much happier with how this one came out! Maybe I just really enjoy Elphelt.

Day 7 of the 12 days of Whump- Battered & Bruised, featuring Milphelt

Additional content warnings for domestic violence/abusive relationships

Elphelt Valentine wasn’t entirely sure when the exact moment was that she had accepted Millia’s presence as an average, normal part of her life. Perhaps it was when she began leaving a spare key to the apartment under the welcome mat. Maybe it was when she found a third chair to drag to the table, so none of them had to be relegated to the couch. Maybe it was when she’d started adding red licorice to the grocery list, because she knew how much Millia liked it. Or, perhaps, it was when Elphelt returned home for the night, expecting a quiet evening to herself, only to find Millia at the table, munching on a bowl of cereal.

“...Hello, Millia.” Choosing to not make a scene out of things, Elphelt hung her purse on the wall peg and tossed her coat onto the one next to it. She had been hoping to open up the new bottle of bubble bath that she had been saving until the weekend, but instead, she sat down at the table. “Guy trouble?”

Millia sighed, swirling the spoon in her bowl. “Zato kicked me out again.”

“Again?” She tilted her head.

“Yeah.”

“What happened?”

“I told him I didn’t like the way he’s been using me.” It was difficult to read the expression on the blonde’s face. “He’s been trying to talk me into seducing that bartender over at Westchester. Apparently he hasn’t been paying them off as much and Zato wants to teach him a lesson, but he’s hard to catch.”

“And you told him you wouldn’t do it?”

“Why the hell would I?” She pushed the bowl away, half-eaten. “I’m not gonna be some goddamn seductress for my boyfriend’s shitty wannabe-mob just because he can’t deal with his own grudges. So he kicked me out for the night.”

Elphelt got up, putting a kettle on the stove. “He take your key away, too?”

“No, but I’m not going back. He’ll just scream at me more until I tell him yes.”

The apartment was quiet, aside from the low whistling of the teakettle. Elphelt didn’t stare. She merely did what she always did, went about her own business for Millia to avoid or join in as she pleased.

“You wanna take Ram’s room tonight? She’s out helping Sin study for midterms, so she won’t be back until tomorrow morning.”

“I’ll just take the couch, if that’s ok. Don’t want to impose.”

“Really, Millia, it’s fine! You’re more than welcome to…”

When Elphelt moved to sit down at the table again, she caught sight of a half-hidden bruise underneath Millia’s carefully-brushed hair. Immediately after, she took note the the heavy overcoat.

“Millia, did he hurt you?”

She turned away. “I’m fine, Elphelt.”

“Millia, please. I promise I’m not gonna do anything. I just want to see how bad it is so I can help you. Are you bleeding?”

Reluctantly, Millia brushed her hair back behind her ear, revealing a black eye that trailed bruises up her cheek. She pulled her overcoat off after that, letting it rest on the chair behind her.

“Oh, Millia…” Elphelt couldn’t stop herself from speaking. Bruises were blooming around the woman’s wrists and up her arms, with a few scratches on the outsides. “Did he…?”

“No. Once I told him I wasn’t going to do what he wanted, he grabbed my arm and started dragging me. He tried hitting me a few times until I kicked him and started running. Then he tried sending Eddie after me. Tore my pants up a little but didn’t manage to get my leg. Did skin my knee on the way over here, though. Think that’s still bleeding a little.”

“Well...at least you didn’t get bitten. Doberman bites can be nasty.” Noticing the discomfort in her friend’s eyes, Elphelt got up and went back to the counter so she could have some space. “Want some more cereal? I’m making hot water, I’ve got cocoa and tea if you want either.”

“What are you making for yourself?”

“Cocoa?”

“I’ll do cocoa, then.”

Elphelt grabbed a couple of coffee mugs and swiped the tin of cocoa mix. On second thought, she reached up to the top shelf to pull out a bag of pink marshmallows, and grabbed a can of whipped cream from the fridge. She brought the entire haul back to the table, and started leveling powder into both mugs.

“I’ve got stuff to put on top, if you want either. Help yourself!”

Millia didn’t quite smile, but she did laugh a little at the sight. “Cocoa and marshmallows? How’d a six-year-old get into university?”

“I’m just that smart.” Elphelt replied, grinning as she dropped a handful of marshmallows into her mug and swirled them around with a spoon. “Besides, the pink ones are raspberry, and everything is better when it tastes like raspberry.”

“Whatever you say, El...pass the marshmallows, please.”

“I toooold yoooou~” Her teasing smile faded after a moment. “So. No hospital trip unless you want to.”

Millia recoiled. “Hospital? Are you serious? Why?”

“Not going, unless you want to.” Elphelt stared into her mug, watching the marshmallows melt. “I can patch you up in the bathroom, but they could probably scrape some of Zato’s DNA off of your wounds and set up an assault case. I-I- we can both testify, I’m sure they’d be able to-”

“Elphelt, are you crazy?!” Sapphire eyes widened in panic. “I’m not gonna do that!”

“Come on. You know he’s a scumbag.”

“I know, I know, just…”

“You don’t have to be with a man like that.”

“You don’t know him like I do, El. He wasn’t always like this. I just feel like...maybe if I try a little harder, things will be like they used to be.”

Elphelt donned a pleading look. “You know he isn’t gonna change. How many times have we done this?”

“I know, El. I know. Look, you shouldn’t have to be involved in this anyway…” Millia looked away, arms protectively crossed over her chest.

“You’re my friend, Millia.” She reached out to place a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “And I know it’s hard to leave. But you shouldn’t have to live like this. What kind of a person would attack their partner, and with a dog, no less?”

Millia didn’t reply. She merely grabbed onto her mug and started drinking.

Elphelt sighed. “Hold on a sec.” She got up and grabbed an ice pack from the freezer. “Here. Put this on your eye. Helps the swelling go down. I'll look at your leg when you finish your drink.”

Fifteen minutes later, Millia was sitting on the edge of the bathtub, with most of her clothing tossed in a pile in the corner. One hand pressed the ice over her eye, with the other clutching the tub, grip tightening and knuckles going white every time her leg was touched.

“Yikes, you did scrape this up pretty bad.” Elphelt was kneeling on the floor, carefully analyzing the injury in front of her. “Lemme just finish cleaning it up, and then I’ll wrap it for you.”

“Ngh- ow- can I- nhh- put pants on after this?”

“Yours are pretty torn-up, but I can lend you some of my stuff instead!” A bit of antiseptic was dabbed on the wound. “It’ll be a bit big on you, I think, but it’ll probably still fit.”

True to her word, after wrapping up Millia’s leg and placing a few bandages over the cuts on her arms, Elphelt hurried off and returned with some comfy shorts and a faded shirt.

“Heh. Pink bunnies. Of course.” Millia smirked as she slipped on the shirt she was offered. “How else would I be able to know it was yours?”

“Hmmm, pink kittens?”

She finally laughed at that. “Fair enough.”

Elphelt looked over the wrapping and bandages she’d put down, making sure everything was still in place. “How are you feeling? Any better?”

Her companion nodded, placing the ice pack back over her face. “I really owe you for this.”

“It’s really no trouble. Just as long as you’re okay. Why don’t I get some stuff to make the couch nice and cozy? You can go and relax while I find things.”

“N-no, I can help-”

“It’s okay, really! You should definitely take it easy.”

Every time Millia stayed at the Valentines’ apartment, she was in awe of just how…homey it all felt. At least it suited Elphelt perfectly. Cheery photos of Elphelt and her family framed on the walls, big mismatched pillows on the sofa, an arrangement of cartoon DVD’s and knicknacks on the TV stand and the shelves nearby. Millia felt rather out of place in such a warm, cozy environment.

“I had some blankets come out of the last laundry load, they’re still nice and toasty!” Millia flinched as something soft and warm flopped over onto her head. It took her a moment to process Elphelt’s words, but when she did, she tugged the blanket down over her head and shoulder, snuggling into the quickly-escaping heat.

“Heh. Comfy, right?” Elphelt had switched out into her own pajamas, and carried another bundled blanket in her arms. “That one’s the best. Want a second one?

“Yes.” The second one was just as comfy, and it was easy to make a blanket cocoon that enveloped Millia on all sides.

Elphelt laughed. “Aww, lookit you! All nice and cozy. Think you’ll be good like this?”

“It’s perfect, Elphelt. I can’t thank you enough for letting me stay.”

“Get a good night’s sleep, okay?” She turned around and began leaving. “I think I’m gonna hit the hay, myself.”

“W-w- Elphelt-”

“Huh?” She paused, turning back around. “Something wrong?”

Millia’s face had gone pink, still bundled up in the blankets. “I know it’s stupid, but...could you stay with me? Just a little longer?”

Elphelt’s face was unreadable. Before Millia could say anything else, the girl turned and walked away.

Millia was positively mortified. She tugged the blanket down over her face and tried not to go any redder. Why had she done that? She’d been taking up too much of Elphelt’s time already, it was greedy of her to-”

“There we go!”

To her confusion, Something Elphelt-sized flopped down on the sofa next to her. When she pulled the covers away, she found her friend stretching out, with extra pillows and a third blanket in her lap.

“So I don’t have to take yours!” Elphelt got to work moving things around, until she had her own little nest. “Haha! Now I’m a burrito, too! Slumber party!”

Millia wasn’t entirely sure how it had happened, but when she awoke to a barely-started sunrise that painted the room in sherbert-orange, Elphelt was half-curled up against her side, snoozing peacefully. They hadn’t even started off facing the same direction, and somehow now the girl was cuddling her in her sleep, head resting on her chest.

“El…?” She gave her companion a little prod, simultaneously taking note of the purplish hue that her bruises had taken on. Elphelt merely let out a cute little murmur, moving a little and settling into a slightly different position.

She wasn’t used to sharing a place to sleep, not with anyone. The thought of doing that with Zato made her stomach twist just from nerves alone. Elphelt didn’t feel like that, though. Nothing about her seemed especially intimidating. She was soft and sweet and drank hot cocoa with pink marshmallows and snuggled people in her sleep. Millia wasn’t used to feeling so secure around anyone. Elphelt felt safe. Elphelt felt like home.

Nuzzling back into the pillow, Millia threw her arms around Elphelt as she went back to sleep.

[xmoonyxbunnyx]

Blinded

(I somehow forgot to post this fic here I’m-  Anyway, warning for physical abuse and blood, I dunno, that’s it.) Ever since the entity emerged the atmosphere in the office had shifted. The whole building, in fact, took on an aura of heaviness and discomfort. It was subtle, but many of them felt it regardless. Whenever Dark left, his return was taken with unspoken but shared displeasure. Well, save for Wilford and Google. Hence, it was not surprising that three egos - the Author, Bim and doctor Iplier sat secluded from the ones indifferent or even happy about the start of another meeting. Oddly enough, Dark was late. 

Having the additional time was sure to spark a conversation, and the catalyst in this case was a snide remark in form of a mutter on the writer’s part. “Funny how we’re expected to potentially waste a whole day in this shithole, and yet wasting his time is almost punishable by death.” “He does hold the position of the most influential, you know. After Wilford here, that is.” Bim countered, although a hint of distaste swept through the cheerful tone, noted by both other parties at his sides. “Sure, sure, hierarchy and all that shit. Don’t have to rub it in my face.” The Author rolled his eyes, leaning back, arms crossed over his chest. “Y’got nothing to add, Doc?” Only at the mention of his title did the medical ego acknowledge the conversation. Or at least that he was considered a part of it. Really, all he had to add was a shrug. He seemed to be more preoccupied with his own grudges, if it were to be judged by a glare stuck to the oblivious pink haired man at the other side of the table. “Well fine, I suppose emo boy gets all the rights to be an absolute dick-” The writer’s words fell flat as he noticed all eyes were set on him. No, not quite on him. More to the left. Then he heard it. The faintest ringing that had drawn his eyes towards the side, only to meet nearly entirely black glare directed at him, paired with a displeased frown. “Care to join me for a talk, at my office?” Inquiry followed up by, “everyone else is dismissed for the day,” not leaving the targeted one even a chance to attempt objecting. It wasn’t the small remark that set Dark’s decision in stone though. It was just an excuse to finally get the chance without it seeming out of the blue. And it would not make the others question it as much. It was all about planning with him, to the most miniscule detail. As the door clicked against its frame behind the younger looking ego, a wave of insecurity washed over him. Not a common emotion he felt, even less of one he liked to express. On the contrary, Dark’s stance was towering as he turned to face the other, unable to hide the immense satisfaction with how this was playing out. Concealed within the four walls of his office, darkened, isolated inside his world from the moment they entered. “You’ve been a bother to me since day one, Author. It’s amusing to me, how you knew this, and yet, you still tested my authority.” His words serpentine, steps carrying him ever so close to the reality bender. “Daring for someone who only has the power with a pen in hand.” “It’s at your disposal anyway. And I shit talk everyone, don’t feel special.” The Author either held his grounds very well, or truly had no filter. Either way, it wasn’t too wise to grin in the face of darkness like that. Which was proven right once Dark’s hand grasped at the black fabric of his shirt, pulling him uncomfortably close. “Mayhaps you should treat me as special. As for the ‘at my disposal’ part, you are correct. Hence, I’ll make them more convenient, if you don’t mind.” If it weren’t for that uncanny sneer, it may have sounded like a good offer. But knowing the entity, it could not have possibly been beneficial for the writer. Even that thought was questionable as the bichromatically outlined ego tacked another sentence on. “I need a right hand man that is actually useful at any given situation.” Perhaps if he was given the chance, the Author would have posed a few questions about what was said. Firstly, a right hand man? And secondly, no one was truly aware of the extent Dark’s abilities reached to, but to alter other egos? Both were soon to be answered through the suited man’s actions though. As Dark easily lifted the other, to slam him on the desk, pinning his hands over his chest with one arm, the other free to reach for a pen conveniently situated there before it rolled off. “What the hell!?” The young ego protested, proving quite troublesome to keep in place. “Not to worry, dear Author, it will be done with quickly.” The gray entity falsely reassured, a sadistic spark in his lifeless eyes giving the pinned man a clear idea of what he was about to go through. It gave him the much needed adrenaline boost to try and shove the other off of himself; all in vain. “You sick fuck!” Last desperate call out he could manage. Dark paid it no mind as he drove the tip of the pen deep into the writer’s eye socket. Not even minding the pleads to stop, nor how the other jerked his head away causing deep scratches along the side of his face. No, the head of the egos simply moved onto the other eye, repeating the action, and stepping back abruptly as soon as he was sure the optic nerves were damaged beyond repair. For the injured one to slip onto the floor, frantically trying to press against the sockets and flinching every time due to the unbearable stinging. “Scream as much as you’d like. No one can hear you but myself.” Dark blandly noted. Although the Author could hear it was said through smiling lips, his senses were overwhelmed far too much to acknowledge the entirely new level of hate he felt for the desaturated man. He would not give him the satisfaction past the gasps and groans, almost choking on them, but not letting any sounds pass the threshold of the door. Slightly disappointed he was, Dark had to admit. Oh well, that couldn’t be helped. His features contorted into an expression of disgust, but the looming shadows still regressed from the room, situating solely in his immediate vicinity. “Fine. I’ll send the Doctor your way immediately.” He spat out, turning to head out. A pause as the door was opened to look at the bleeding mess of a man over his shoulder. “Ah and, you’re welcome.” As soon as the sound of it slamming closed echoed out, the writer reached for the edge of the desk, finding it, but having a bit of trouble when he pushed himself up. His hand being drenched in crimson made it slip a few times under his weight, but he managed to keep the grip there long enough to prop his frame up. Navigating to the door though? It was a straight line, how hard could it be? With how distressed the writer was, very hard. Orientation went out the window, coherent thinking was near impossible… All there was, was the looping thought - get out of here. But he was still locked in place. Legs refusing to cooperate, uncertain of where to head, busy trying to blink away the darkness he knew would never leave him again. And then, a panic induced moment of clarity. He took a deep breath, holding it in for a few seconds. Calm down. Speak. “The Author stood by--” Sharp inhale that pained him cut the sentence off, however, only for it’s duration. “By the desk. Turning his head to the right, he was now facing the door.” It caught the ego by surprise. The narration leading his thoughts instead of the other way around. With writing, it was always his intention. And now… Understandable. Knowing was of more use than changing minor details. And before he could think again, he continued, his hearing confirming the words. “As he was about to move, a pair of footsteps approaching from the hallway caught his attention.” Indeed, he did tense up as someone entered. But the immediate hurried steps assured him it was not Dark. “What did he do to you-” Shock prominent in the voice he recognised as doctor Iplier’s but the slightly higher pitch and naturally softer intonation. He didn’t respond. It was fairly obvious after all. Feeling a hand coil around his wrist, slight flinch as he fought off the urge to completely jerk it away. “Come on, I’ll...I’ll do all I can to tend to the wounds.” To tend to the wounds. He wasn’t getting his vision back. The doctor phrased it well enough to make that clear at just a glance. Consciously or not, that was the fact that shattered last threads of hope the former writer didn’t even realise he held onto. No more writing stories, only narrating what is to come.

[realityhelixcreates]

Lasabrjotr Chapter 23: The Workers of Sacred Metal

Chapters: 23/? Fandom: Thor (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe Rating: Teen And Up Warnings: None Relationships: Loki x Reader (Let’s try this again) Characters: Loki (Marvel), Reader, Brunnhilde(Marvel), Thor(Marvel) Additional Tags: Post-Endgame: Best Possible Ending (Canon-Divergent), Here Have More Hedacannons, Loki Can Be Thoughtful, Thoughtfulness is A Form Of Scheming After All, Reader is Always Curious, Nidavellir Has The Potential to b Really Cool. Summary: Reader returns in triumph, Loki goes into Teacher Mode. 

Loki kept his expression polite and even as Andsvarr presented him with the gift of a cinnamon roll, but internally he was dancing. A treat for him! From you! Yes, it seemed like several others were also receiving them, but he had got one, and that was the most important part.

He took it back to his desk, shoved the papers aside, and dug in.

Paradise.

Loki had never tasted a cinnamon roll before. Humankind had created such an incredible variety of pastries; it would probably take many years to sample them all. This was a good start. This was the best start!

He let himself melt away into silly little daydreams. Your flour-dusted apron, your shining eyes, your deft hands, kneading the dough. Wiping your face, smearing your cheek with flour.

Himself reaching out to wipe it away. You leaning into the touch instead of shying away. You don't hate him. You make him cinnamon rolls.

Loki was brought back from his lovely reverie, by an insistent knocking. With an irritated sigh, he rose, and found Andsvarr at the door, with a wide-eyed young child.

“Your Highness, she says that-”

The child began babbling, and all Loki could really make out was that you had been struck by Stormbreaker out on the Valkyries field, and now you could not get up.

He dashed down the hall at a dead sprint, not caring who might see. Stormbreaker weighed around ninety pounds. It was solid uru and living wood, nearly always charged with electricity. There was no angle on the thing that wasn't deadly.

Would he actually feel it, if you died? Would the rune flare, or fade, would he feel pain, or a sudden emptiness? Or would he be unaware, until someone like that child back there informed him?

He did feel a tugging on the mark, as he approached, gravel crunching and flying under his boots. Brunnhilde and his brother were kneeling in the field, while the trainee Valkyries huddled at a distance.

What nightmare awaited him? A crushed or mangled corpse? Was he to lose you now, after everything? After surviving an assassination attempt, did you now fall to an accident? Was there to be no reconciliation, the half-eaten cinnamon roll your parting gift to him?

The knot tightened in his chest with every speedy step. Thor and Brunnhilde moved away at his approach, leaving him to kneel next to you. You were shivering violently, and he nearly collapsed onto the ground next to you in sheer relief. Shivering meant life!

He gathered you into his arms, cradling you to his chest. The Valkyries were watching, but he didn't care. All of Asgard could see, and he would not care. As your shivering subsided, he felt the satisfaction of a purpose fulfilled, a service that only he could provide. You sighed softly, delivered from the discomfort of magic fatigue.

“Thor...”Loki growled. Thor made a nervous noise and glanced at Brunnhilde, who answered with a look that said he was on his own.

“You hit her with Stormbreaker?” Loki accused. “What in the soaring, glacial hel were you thinking? You can't swing that thing at mortals!”

“I didn't!” Thor defended. “I absolutely didn't! I would never!”

“The child said you did!”

“Valda may have been mistaken.” Brunnhilde cut in. “I should have sent someone older. He's right, he did not swing at her. Use your head now, you can tell he's not lying!”

Loki harrumphed and turned away from them both. Yes, he could tell. But this had left him agitated, defensive, like a ruffled rooster.

You cracked your eyes open to gaze tiredly up at him. “I did it.” You whispered. “I did the magic all on my own. I'm...seidkona...” You yawned wide.

“You did? Is that what happened?”

“Yes.” Thor said, smiling fondly. “Stole it from my grasp and brought it right to herself. It was too heavy for her to hold, though, and it knocked her down.”

Loki stood, lifting you easily in his arms. “You shouldn't be out here in the dirt. I will take you somewhere better. I've...Well, I've redecorated your room. Would you, perhaps, like to go there? I can also take you to Bjarkhild, or back to the Valkyrie's barracks, or wherever you would like, of course.”

“Redecorated?”

“Yes. Would you like to see? I've wanted to get your opinion on it. It's not quite finished, but we've got all the basics laid out.”

“I'd like to see.” You agreed. “I don't think I'll be walking around much more today.”

He didn't bother trying to hold back his smile. “Then let me see to your needs today. In exchange for the gift you gave earlier.”

“You got the cinnamon roll?”

“Is that what it's called? Such a simple name for such blessed ambrosia.”

“Oh, you don't have to...It's just a simple recipe my Nana taught me...”

Loki could practically feel the heat radiating off your face. Was that all it took to make you show him that adorable flustered expression? Just flowery compliments? If he'd known that, he would have taken a different approach.

He headed off the training field. Aides and secretaries approached, but seemed to unanimously decide to present their business at a later time, leaving him free to carry you back to your room. You hardly recognized it. There was color. Blue, and green, and gold, and silver, predominantly, with the bed in a warm terra cotta. That bed looked so soft and inviting now, with it's fluffy pillows and heavy comforter.

Loki sat you down on it, and you wiggled your way slowly under the blankets.

“Will you tell me about this Nana, of yours, who taught you the mystical art of the cinnamon roll?”

“Wow, you really liked it, huh? Well, Nana wasn't really my Nana, she was my aunt. Mom died when I was still a baby, and Beth was my aunt. She always wore yellow, so when I was a little kid I tried to call her Banana Beth, but it just came out Nana Beth. She taught me how to bake. She wanted kids, but she thought it was better that she didn't have any...Um. I should tell you, there's a medical condition that runs in my mom's side of the family. I might die early.”

Loki took your hand. “Not while I breathe.”

“Ah, um.” Your gaze fell. “It's not that simple. It's brain stuff, there's not much that can be done about it.”

He placed his other hand over the top of yours, forming a little shell of sincerity and reassurance. “I promise you that we can. We have the knowledge, we have the technique. Put that fear to rest. You will not die of any tumor. I will not allow it.”

“You can just...decide that.”

“Yes.”He assured you. “I can.”

“Well...that's...um. Ok.”

The face you wore now was less embarrassed, but no less adorable.

“How are you feeling now?”

“Like I bench-pressed an elephant. My arms feel so heavy; my whole body does. I know I'm gonna have a bruise. What is that thing made of anyway?”

“Stormbreaker? It's made from uru.” Upon your stumped expression, he held up the illusion of a lump of metallic stone. “It's a very rare metal, very hard to find and even harder to work with. There is none naturally occurring on Earth, and unlike nornbein, it cannot even be artificially created here. It comes from stars that have destroyed themselves by becoming supernovas. Hence it's rarity. Not many stars do that, and some of those that do, then go on to become black holes, which consume all the uru. Thus, we must find stars that have exploded powerfully enough to create uru, but not so powerfully as to swallow it all. And of those, some form nebulae, and new planetary systems, all of which are difficult to navigate, especially when one is looking for lumps of metal that can be of any size, and separated by millions of miles. Mjolnir was made of uru as well, and my father's spear, then gilded in nornbein.”

“The hammer? Whatever happened to that?”

“Eh, I'll show you later if you'd like. There is a hall we have set aside for Asgardian history, and there are several things resting there that I might show you.”

“I think I'd like to. It would be good to know more history. I mean, I guess that's going to be expected of me now. How do you work with uru, if it's so hard? Special forges?”

Loki smiled. “Oh yes. The most special of forges, unlike any others. Behold, Nidavellir.”

The image formed in his palms, cradled like a pearl.

You leaned forward to get a better look at the illusion. There was a strange light, and an even stranger ring-shaped structure surrounding it.

“Is...is that a star?” You asked, pointing at the little light pulsing slightly in the center. Loki nodded. “How?” You exclaimed. “That space station or whatever would have to be gigantic! Like, beyond reason!”

“Oh, no no. This is a neutron star. It's what you get when a collapsing star is too big to make a white dwarf, but still too small to create a black hole.” Loki explained. “This one is about the size of one of your larger cities. This ring is rather like the outlying suburbs that surround your cities. So yes, the structure is impressively large, but not quite to the degree you are imagining. This was the last of the eight realms to be added to the count, discovered by my father shortly into his reign. Being so small, neutron stars are not so easy to locate, though it does seem that even human technology has been able roughly estimate where some are.

But when Odin found this one, when he realized what he was looking at, he refused to attempt to conquer them through any violent means. Though there were protests, he could not bring himself to destroy even one member of a race capable of such craftsmanship. This star created the largest amount of uru in all of Yggdrasil, and the entire ring is made of it. The Dvergar that live within it have plenty more stored away as well. They are the only people we know of that can smith the metal.”

“Why?” You asked. “What's so different about the way do it?”

“For one thing, they have a resource that no one else does. They use the star to power everything. The radiation of a neutron star is enough to melt uru for forging. They are also the only people who can withstand that radiation themselves. Someone like myself could not stay for long on Nidavellir. Perhaps only to make an order, or to pick it up. And as for you...well, unfortunately this is another realm I can never take you to see. You'd burn in minutes.”

“Oh. Uh, yeah. No thanks. So how did they become one of your realms, if they were never conquered?” You asked. Loki couldn't help but notice the disapproval you placed on the last word. He understood that you found the concept distasteful, but didn't quite understand why. The entire history of your species was one of conquest. Not a single tribe or clan in all of human history was innocent of it.

But there must always be those who try, mustn't there? There must always be those who think and act differently. There must always be a new way. That was the kind of thing that resonated with him.

“Through trade and treaty. We could offer them things they could not get on their own, such as other kinds of metal, not native to the system, and also safe escort to other worlds.” At the inquisitive tilting of your head, he continued. “The Dvergar never managed more than very local space travel, just enough to sweep their system for all the materials it held. Mostly, they had uru, iron, and nickel. That was pretty much it. We brought in metals that, to them, were bizarre and exotic. They loved it! We also provided transport to other worlds, and kept them safe until they went home. You might well imagine that there were plenty of people out there who wanted their own, private, uru-smith, or who wanted to destroy the workers of the metal, so that it couldn't be used against them. And so, a Dvergar abroad is in danger all the time, and they are very limited in number.

So, often for only the price of the materials, they provided us with the finest metal crafts Yggdrasil has ever known. They created Stormbreaker and Mjolnir, my mother's sword and my fath-my spear. Several of my knives, and the enchanted berserker's staves. The Valkyries weapons as well, though only one of those is still extant. And that's just the weapons! We gave them silver, gold, and platinum, and they created the most exquisite artworks. We gave them copper and bronze, and they created the finest wire, the most delicate mechanisms.

Of course,” He said regretfully. “That treaty with them is now null. We can no longer provide them safe escort, or metals in any quantity, so I feel our usefulness to them is at an end. Even when we get the bifrost running, I know of nothing we can offer them that they would want.”

“It couldn't hurt to talk to them though.” You said. “Let them know how your circumstances have changed, and why. You lost your whole world after all, surely there can be some arrangements made. Especially if there's no bad history there.”

“Now that's what I like to see in a seidkona.” Loki praised gently. “Optimism, and a willing-to-try attitude. This is what we need in this time, in this place.”

“Oh, uh, um, thanks.” You mumbled, looking shyly aside.

Oh yes, that was fun.

“How did they make it?” You asked. “The ring I mean.”

“From what they tell, they originally lived on the belt of asteroids that it has replaced. They built bridges linking the larger asteroids together, with their little, local ships, and gathered up the smaller ones as they went. And they just kept building, and gathering, and expanding, until they had an entirely enclosed ring around the star, built up out of the very asteroids that once orbited freely. Technically it is the asteroid belt, only now in the form of one of the most stable structures in the galaxy.”

“I'd like to meet one, someday.” You said idly.

“They are not a handsome people. Also secretive and quite brusque. If they truly evolved on the asteroids, and were separate most of the time, that only makes sense. There are only about thirteen-hundred of them in all, and though they can share a fierce camaraderie when a challenge is laid before them, they more often go for decades without seeing each other. Just working away at whatever project occupies their thoughts at the time. They, unique among all the eight realms, are not a social species. However,” Loki amended, thinking that perhaps he was painting the Dvergar in too negative a light. “They are the ultimate crafters, perhaps in all the universe. They do not know cruelty, or war, only creation. They are honorable people; a Dvergar will never go back on their word, nor ever present less that perfect craftsmanship for trade. And though they are short of speech, that does not mean they are impolite, or inhospitable. Just that they do not share personal information, and they do not waste words.”

You lay back against the pillows, and Loki let the little image dissipate. You looked tired. Perhaps he should let you sleep now, and make the room your own.

“You can use a spear?” You asked suddenly.

“What? Yes, I can. I am trained in the use of a variety of weapons. Most of us are; we simply have weapons that we prefer over others. I like the swiftness and precision of small blades, Thor prefers something heavy enough to destroy armor and knock foes down, and father preferred...distance.”

“And you inherited your father's spear? Is it just because the king doesn't like to use it?”

“Sort of. My brother bequeathed it to me in something of a ceremonial act. Every king since Buri has held that spear, but it was given to me in acknowledgment that I was king before Thor. Also that he intended to break certain traditions, and also because I use it better than he does.”

“Can I see your spear?”

Loki kept his face very carefully neutral. He definitely should not say that you already had, no, he should absolutely not say that. You were tired, and not thinking about your phrasing.

“Later, yes. It is being kept in the History Hall. I'll show you the whole thing. Who knows, perhaps someday you will find mention there. The first human member of the royal court. A bridge between us and Midgard, in this dawning of a new age...”

But you were already asleep.

“Oh. Well. Being the first of anything is always difficult.” Loki whispered, drawing the blankets up around your shoulders. “I know. It's confusing, and there are no instructions, no rules. You must make your own. Tomorrow.”

He left just as you began to softly snore.

                                                                     *****

You walked the road along the fields, whistling cheerily to yourself. Your garden hoe across your shoulders, a spade in your tool belt, and a song in your heart, you crossed over to an empty plot.

These were not the fields of home; there was no corn to be seen, and the white and purple flowers of Iceland dotted the verge. This was more of a community garden, and each plot bore strange plants, significant to the person who grew them.

You had no seeds, but intended to work the soil of your little plot, so that it would be ready whenever you got some.

You chopped at the soil with your hoe: how dry and hard it had become! How stony from neglect! Nothing had grown here for a long time, but soon it would. Just as soon as you had all the supplies...

You saw Loki approaching from a distance, resplendent in the heat shimmer, the eternal summer sun glinting off his fine armor, his gilded horns. In all his finery he came to you, and said nothing, just held out a handful of seeds. You did not recognize them, did not know what kind of plant would spring from them, but you decided to take a chance on them. You sprinkled them carefully over your plot, Loki standing silently at your side.

What would grow? What would it say about you? And would it be what you needed? Only time, care, and tending would tell.

You rolled over in your sleep and snuggled a pillow. You could almost smell the freshly turned earth.