#I LOVE the purple shirt! “forced to wear for moral” SO funny!!!

[shyspider]

Read the latest chapter and felt super inspired to draw the version of eva in my head :D I love how the story is progressing!

From @jampreserves

[wyn-n-tonic]

Golden, Like Daylight -- Part V

Word Count: 2,005 Warnings: PTSD. Allusions to sex (it borders on the edge of smut but we should know by now I'm shit at that). Hint of a praise kink. Bit of marking kink. Death. Ben Affleck. Author's Note: The last few chapters have taken a lot out of me, I put a lot of my own experiences with PTSD and mental health into them. I tried to make this fluffy, I needed that comfort after a hard week and I feel lighter for it. As always, thank you so much for your kind words and loving this like I do.

MASTERLIST | PART: I | II | III | IV | V | VI | VII | VIII | IX

“Fuck you.” Benny stares straight into Tom’s eyes. "This is my fuck you money.” The held breaths are louder than gunshots, waiting for a reaction that doesn’t come.

Cold Camp Davis grunts a laugh, “We don’t have enough men to carry all this money so we might as well be warm.”

Benny giggles like a child as he grabs a strap, zippo clicking to ignition again.

The laughter that bubbles up is like a light, warmer than the thousands of dollars burning bright against his eyes.

Frankie, you might as well take your salary out on the front lawn and pour some kerosene on it.

He hears it so clearly in his head and in his heart, Leah teasing him for all the lights being on the first time he took her home.

Tom stands up, dumping an entire case down to tinder in the cold air.

Eight dates in and she’d already witnessed one of his attacks. It was the third date, he’d wanted to take her home that night. His body on hers for hours. Wanted to make breakfast the next morning, having already committed to memory the way she takes her coffee. Instead, she spent that night holding tightly to his hands as his panic crescendoed in the backseat of his car.

If it wasn’t then that he realized he loved her, it was in the way she turned to look at him when he quietly said,

The lights being on make me feel safe.

It wasn’t pity, like he’s used to. It wasn’t the look somebody gives a broken man with a broken mind and a broken soul. The only change he found in the already soft features was an understanding behind the dark eyes staring back at him.

This fire makes him feel safe now.

He’s always straining in the dark. It’s not just about watching his six. It’s all twelve hands on deck with two eyes and a ringing in his ears so intense he can feel it in his toes.

But here? It beats back against the edges of gloom that have continuously threatened to consume him.

He can sweep enclosed spaces in minutes, assess the situation and the danger within. It’s a lot harder in the extended wilds, nothing but the moon to guide the eye.

Before Leah—and for a while there after—he combed room for room upon his arrival home. He’d ask her to stay in the car, his conceal carry coming out as soon as the door would swing open.

He’d sheepishly grin, collecting her from the passenger side after his survey and she’d hug him. Holding tightly around his middle section, pressing her cold hands up under his shirt to that hot place where his heart beats and whisper with genuine gratitude,

Thank you for protecting me, Frankie.

It was never condescending, that’s all he ever wanted to do. Protect her. Protect himself. Protect the men giggling like schoolboys around him right now.

And he liked being told what a good job he did at that. —————

“What's Frankie short for?” Barely audible, her breath fanning across his chest as she continues to catch it. Like willing waves of normalcy in the aftermath of a hurricane.

“Francisco.”

“Francisco,” she repeats, dragging out the o. “Do you like it?”

“Used to make me feel like I was in trouble, very harsh coming from pissed off higher ups and even angrier parents but it sounds…” he thinks on that for a second, the events of the night still rippling through his body, “a lot sweeter in your mouth.”

“Watch yourself,” she hums a kiss into the flat plane of his breast before sinking her teeth into the flesh there, biting as hard as she can.

A chuckle vibrates from deep within him, “one hell of a bite too, I won’t soon forget.”

He looks down into her eyes, bright with mischief as she pulls her bottom lip between her teeth now. He’d had hickeys before but never like this. He surveys the purple marks across his body, somehow burning brighter than the rest of him, and a contentedness pools in the pit of his stomach. Her stamps on him in easily hidden spaces to match the lipstick stains she’s started marking across his right cheek in the moments before they walk into the bar or the restaurant.

Little ways she says mine.

And he is hers. He knows it in the steady way his lungs rise and fall underneath her now.

He brushes a soft wave from where it tickles across her nose, “is Leah short for anything?”

Her nose scrunches, “not a goddamn thing.”

“Do you know what it means then?” His large hand is sprawled across her lower back, the weight of it an anchor.

Don’t leave me, it says.

“I don’t know,” she drawls, the slight twang coming forward in moments of exhaustion and inebriation, “just think my mama liked the sound of it is all.”

His heart is blazing underneath her cheek as she settles against him once more, her soft voice tumbles towards him, “Francisco…” as her eyelashes brush against his skin and he swears he can count them all on sensation alone.

“Yeah, baby?”

He feels a smile tug at her lips, stopped in its tracks where she’s rooted into him. It’s the first time he’s called her that.

“I have nightlights.”

The light makes her feel safe too. —————

He’s standing over Tom’s body and he hates to admit it but the feeling washing over him is one of relief.

Relief mingled with guilt.

Guilt that nobody was watching his six, his back wide open to the world behind it. Five seasoned fucking veterans and nobody watching the higher ground.

Relief at the silence he knows will engulf the group now. No more orders from a child who should’ve never been granted the lead to begin with.

Guilt because he was climbing up a fucking rock when he should’ve been doing his job as a friend and brother.

Relief that it wasn’t his brains splashed across stone.

His head is fucking pounding and it has been for days, pain dulled by consistency but never not there.

At least I can feel my fucking head.

He thinks of all the other things he can feel now, the things service beat from his body.

The ache in his limbs, heavy with exhaustion.

He’s dreading adding the dead weight of a dead body to the load.

The pang in his stomach, too used to consistently hot food.

He wants black coffee and bacon and tiny spoonfuls of sweet potato puree he airplanes into his own mouth to show Luna it won’t hurt her. Hell, he’d take the mushed peas right now.

Benny’s sobbing. The one amongst them all that never breaks is the broken one now.

He’s staring off again at everything and nothing, Santiago and Will unfurling bags for the body.

What a present to bring home.

It was always the risk they faced, they knew it.

If you were lucky, truly lucky, you came home whole. Untouched, unscathed, unmarred. The safe deployments, the technical shit, the brains behind the operations never seeing bloodshed. Everybody else though? Some were held together by duct tape and pure grit.

Others tied up in a flag with a bow.

Daddy’s not coming home but here’s a purple heart for the dress uniform he’ll never wear again.

I should’ve done more.

He’s not getting a purple heart for this.

I should’ve held on tighter.

He didn’t die in service to his country, he died in service to himself.

I should’ve made a bigger issue of the weight.

Another family he’s failed to protect.

I should’ve said no. —————

The darkness is cut through with a warm glow in every outlet as the clock tips over the edge of midnight.

Wednesday, the eleventh of October.

Nose to nose, the excitement of the day hangs over them like a wave threatening to crash. A giddiness in their bed forcing sleep to the edges of thought.

“Do you think they’re gonna know?” Her voice is soft, featherlight. Trying not to disturb the peaceful bubble they find themselves in now.

“No,” he lifts to press his lips gently into hers, “but I can’t promise I won’t shout it out on the altar.”

Panic takes her eyes, he knows it all too well and he’s gripping tighter before she can inhale. Fingers splayed across the small of her back, the weight of it a comfort to the tender bones and aching muscles.

I'm right here, it says.

“Breathe, breathe,” he’s speaking softly into her hair, “it was just a joke, baby.”

“You're not funny, Francisco Morales.” She speaks it like a fact, like she doesn’t spend hours in his arms filling his head with the music of her laughter. She says it like he isn’t watching smile lines appear in real time, falling more in love with each one.

“Would it be so bad though? If I did? If people knew?” It’s hope in his voice that she’ll say yes. That he can announce to his best friends all at once, every single one, before Santi leaves again. He doesn't want his happiness to arrive by text message. He wants to see the light of congratulation dancing around him.

“I don’t want to jinx it,” she’s scared, “besides… it’s not traditional.”

He scoffs, “what about us has ever been traditional, mi alma?”

“I'll make you a deal,” her fingers run through the stubble along his jaw, thumbs lingering over the patches, “don’t shave this tomorrow and you can tell the boys.”

“You want me to keep this malnourished shit on my face? For our wedding?”

Her giggles vibrate against him, “Yes. I have plans for it after you say I do.”

He growls, “this deal sounds pretty sweet to my lazy soul, what do you get out of it?”

“Hmm…” she brings her hand up to tap on her chin, “well, to begin, I’m getting a hot husba—”

“Debatable.”

“I'll fuck you up, Morales, take the compliment.”

He laughs a kiss into her, “what else?”

“Benny and Will will become automatic attack dogs around me, I’m fairly certain they will clear their schedules for all of April to stand guard outside the room. My own personal security team.”

He laughs again at the truth in her words, “what else?”

She pushes forward again, taking his lip between hers. A soft kiss with the burning desire for more.

“I’ll wake up on Thursday morning with a rawness between my legs that I’m usually only gifted on the weekends.”

His grip tightens, any suggestion of sleep leaving his body in a rush of blood straight through him, “I will never shave again.”

“Don't threaten me with a good time, my love.”

He rolls himself into her at that, kissing down her jaw. Her neck. The sensitive skin of her breasts, low lying cotton barely above indecency. He raises the hem, the curve of her belly burning hot against his lips, two hearts now beating inside her.

He grabs the elastic around her hips and gently pulls, kisses so soft across her pelvis they feign an innocence to his true intentions. Her legs kick out to help discard the fabric tangling her ankles as he settles broad shoulders at the base of her being.

Her fingers twirl through the soft curls that have been crushed against a pillow for hours by her side.

He kisses her soft thighs, slowly dragging his rough cheek against the delicate flesh.

“Francisco,” her fingers flex tighter as he looks up to meet her eyes, “don’t be such a fucking tease.”

He smiles wide, the devilish grin splitting his face as he drops his eyes to where she wants him, the fever that’s taken over her body in the last three months beckoning him in.

His hands are heavy on her hips, clenching deep purple into her. Marks in easily hidden spaces, his little ways of saying mine.

TAGLIST: @justanotherblonde23​ | @greeneyedblondie44​ | @icanbeyourjedi​ | @princess76179​ | @bbuckysbeardd​ | @notcookiebelle​ | @knivesareout​ | @phoenixpascal​ | @lexi-b-writes​ | @empress-palpat1ne​ 

[dilfbane]

Your Weeping(Your Need For His Touch)

Summary: When things go south on a mission, you have to confront more than just the sketchy town, cartoon villains, and one-bed hotel room you’re forced to share with Loki. You have to come to terms with not only the consequences of being captured, but also the God of Mischief’s feelings for you - Because for all that he might be an asshole, sometimes, he really does have a heart. Written for the Picture Is Worth A 1,000 Words 6k Follower Writing Challenge by @startrekkingaroundasgard 

Pairing: Loki/(Female)Reader

Warnings: Descriptions of injuries and medical treatment, as well as discussions of the inevitable mindset around sacrificing oneself for the mission that I feel like being part of the Avengers would entail. Also swearing, because at its core, this story started out as a bit of a crack! fic. 

Word Count: 7.8k. 

A/N: So apparently when I have mental breakdowns they result in me writing crack-fic that takes a 180 veer into angst and fluff for absolutely no reason. For the sake of the crack-fic, in this timeline Loki was forced to help the Avengers take down bad guys directly after the end of the first Avengers movie, so… Is that a confusing plot hole I didn’t know how to account for except by making this AU? Maybe. Did I do it anyway?…. Yeah. This really was meant to be a crack-fic about Loki and the reader confessing their feelings set in the bizarre world of meme culture, I didn’t realize there were going to be feels in it until it was three in the morning and all of a sudden this happened. That being said, your girl went there, so enjoy! 

“Oh, shit,” You say, as you take in the grimy hotel room. The walls all smeared in what looks like dried blood, the putrid smell of rotten eggs, a crack-screened television with a fine dusting of some suspiciously white powder. And, of course, “There’s one bed.” 

“Hmm?” Asks Loki, turning towards you, briefly, from unpacking. He had dumped his suitcase(Magically plucked out of a chaotic liminal space) unceremoniously on the bed’s scratching, pilling coverlet without so much as a second glance at the rest of the room. And why do you need a suitcase, anyways?? You wonder. It isn’t like we’re planning to be here that long. In fact, you hoped with every fiber of your being that you’d be here for as little time as possible, because this town might actually be the sketchiest place you’ve ever seen in your life; no small feat, for a bona-fide member of S.H.I.E.L.D. 

You’ve kicked alien ass on a mutated purple Mongolian death-worm three thousand feet over New York City. You’ve run reconnaissance to rescue debatably-magical items sequestered away in an ancient cave labyrinth plastered in paintings and untranslatable runes, gunfire and what could only be described as the baying of hellhounds in the near distance. You’ve fist-fought a gigantic hive-mind robot in a field of artificially sentient feral steel suits - You’ve even survived Tony’s parties. 

Yet none of those scenarios hold a candle to this fucking town. 

And Loki, the asshat, seems utterly, competently - no, maniacally - unfazed. 

“There’s one bed,” You repeat, into the air. 

“Ah,” Says Loki, straightening. 

“You don’t see that problem with that?!” 

“Should I?” He asks you, walking across the room in long, graceful strides to stand in front of you. He wears the same expression he always wears, amused and indifferent, but this time with the addition of a single, elegantly-arched eyebrow. You drop your head, refusing to meet his somewhat-curious gaze. It physically hurts, how attractive Loki is. Not for the first time, you curse whatever god decided that you and him would once again be mission partners - in this case, you belatedly realize, and choke back a thick laugh, said god is, unsurprisingly, Thor. 

If you survive this, you make a note to beat his head in with Mjolnir. As it is, you are here in this room with Loki, with perhaps twenty IPP agents and a reckless poisoner dogging your every move, and there’s a high chance that you won’t live long enough to navigate whatever the hell sleeping with your crush-who-has-murdered-men. Ok, so ‘murdered men’ isn’t entirely accurate. More like ‘caused the murder of men inadvertently through his schemes’. It doesn’t seem to make much of a difference, right now. 

And what about Loki? He is still staring you down, like you’re some wind up toy moments away from going off. Funny, that, you think. If ever there were a time to not have a mental breakdown, it would be here, with him. You’ve crossed a lot of moral lines in your life, but you will be damned if you let Loki Laufeysson see you cry. Loki is graceful. Composed. Sarcastic. Lithe. Rolls his eyes at almost every statement that comes out of somebody’s mouth. But he is, also, beautiful. Shockingly comforting, in his own nihilistic way. You don’t know what it says about you that you find comfort in statements like, Try not to die, you know that I hate funerals. Part of you - most of you - doesn’t want to. But it gives you strength, somehow, to shrug off the day and ground your flailing mind in evading Loki’s calculated manipulation. I won’t show you my weakness, you think to yourself. It’s not enough, but it’s a start. 

“No,” You tell him - too quickly, he’ll pick up on that - “You’re right, you shouldn’t. It’s fine. We have - a lot to deal with, is all.” 

Loki nods, seemingly accepting your answer, but his eyes are still narrowed, watching you like he’s calling your bluff. You talk right past that look - have to, to keep yourself sane, to not think about the one bed that looms large over this entire conversation. It doesn’t even look like a comfortable bed. 

“We have two days,” You say, to stop yourself thinking of it. And, also, to talk your way through your disarmingly disjointed thoughts. Loki nods. It would really help if you said something, you think. Swallow the thought, hot and thick, down your throat. What’s the point of a mission partner if you can’t even soundboard off them? “The Pink Cobra could strike anyone, anytime. The IPP is planning something in New York - “ 

“Isn’t everyone, these days, planning something in New York?” 

He sounds regretful, and for half a second you want to offer him the reassurance that his very presence offers you. But you are sure he doesn’t know what he does to you - with his words, with the sidelong glances that you’ve felt linger on your form far too long in the heat of a fight. If you didn’t know any better, you would say Loki worries about you. 

“We have to shut him down,” You say. Focus on the Pink Cobra, because honestly, that’s easier. “Find out where he manufactures. Not get poisoned,” You add, at the end. 

“Yes,” Loki says, tone dripping with sarcasm, “We should certainly try not to get ourselves killed. Failing that, I suppose, we can at least request that no one in H.Y.D.R.A gets autopsy access.” 

“Loki?” You ask. Rhetorically. “You’re not helping.” 

He smirks at you, then. He knows. 

“What do you propose that we do then?” He asks, taking a step towards you, getting so close that you can feel his hot breath. “About the Pink Cobra?” 

“Find him.” You say, fumbling, blush rising high on your cheeks. 

Tonight? 

One bed? 

You are screwed. 

                                                             ***

When you were a kid - think really little, Capri Sun pouches and still believing that true love wasn’t complicated - your father told you that every story needed a good supervillain. You aren’t sure if the Pink Cobra counts as a good supervillain, but he’s the least confusing one that you have to deal with - and, as far as villains go, a fine enough challenge to face. He’s like a madman out of some high fantasy novel, with dark eyes and a sable-sewn cloak and a penchant for poisoning. He is adept in all the arts of the woman’s murder; he has a keen grasp on the side-effects of arsenic and camphor and tansy and cyanide and strychnine. He’s been found to have dropped crystal phials filled with belladonna and ricin while fleeing a scene. If all else fails, he’s more than practiced with daggers. 

In other words, he’s the kind of villain that none of you, with your flying suits and telekinesis and super-strength, are anywhere near prepared to waylay. 

The plan, as far as team Avengers is concerned, is easy: 

You and Loki. This town, where the webs of his manufacturing production and the few glimpses of information that Thor has totally legally excavated out of his captured minions has led to. Two days until some undefined grand attack bears down on the city you live in. Two days to find the Pink Cobra and kill him. The more time passes with no headway, the more you think that this is an impossible task, but you know what Tony would say. We have our best minds on it. 

The thing is, you aren’t sure that that’s true. The minds that have been set to this task are you and the God of Lies. It’s hardly the best they could have come up with, considering your track records. Actually, you take that back - Loki was a good choice for this mission, because, not three hours after arriving in this hellhole of a city, he seems to have somehow developed the ability to read minds. More specifically, yours. And that could prove stunningly useful. 

The scene, as it stands: Loki, sprawled across the lumpy bed, three pairs of crisp white shirts, a plaid scarf, and a full set of Asgardian battle armor neatly hung in the mothball-infested closet, flicking through channels on the grain, cracked television with an apathetic expression and one arm thrown haphazardly over bent leg. Propped up in such a way that he could jump or spin or parry at a moment’s notice, yet perfectly, devastatingly languid, leafing through Nick Fury’s dossier on the Pink Cobra. He looks at you like a god, you think, and then remember. He is one. 

You, on the floor, because on top of all the other things this hotel doesn’t have, like two beds, there isn’t anything even resembling a desk, shifting through a glowing, holographed file archive from headquarters that barely runs on your severely outdated laptop. It’s a point of pride to you, keeping the laptop - not because it’s good, but because it’s survived five years of being an Avenger, which is something not even all the Avengers can claim to have done. You’re also fairly certain that Tony’s attempts to update the firmware had infested it with some sort of renegade virus. Elevated above your screen, the files are split into two groups, the sum total of everything that you know about both of the groups that are avidly trying to kill you. 

There’s the wealth of information containing the Pink Cobra’s poisoning sprees, but those aren’t the files that interest you, and you know that Loki’s not much interested in them either. That honor falls to the fanatics at the IPP, the Imminently Predictable Psyops organization, which you know even less about than you do about the Pink Cobra, chief among which the fact that they need a new name. Imminently Predictable Psyops?, Tony had said, when you’d finally apprehended one of their proxies. What do they think this is? Some type of ARG? 

What you’ve gleaned, from months worth of studying the network, is that they operate as a sort of cringe-oriented death cult intent on ‘reshaping the universe through meme agents’. They’d been on S.H.I.E.L.D’s radar for a long time - upwards of a year - before anyone at team base learned they existed - which, you can almost hear Loki saying, was a failure in the extreme. Currently, it was your job to obsessively worry over whether they were going to send ‘meme agents’ to bust through the door of your seedy hotel room and off you both. You hated - truly loathed - how casually Loki was taking it all. 

He’s acting like nothing was wrong with this situation, when, in fact, you’re ninety-nine-point-nine percent sure that this night will end up with one or both of you dead. It is, to say the least, disconcerting. 

Kill switch, the holograph files read. Cross-referential Neil Cicierega acoustic weaponry. Your mind sees the words, but doesn’t comprehend them, and you run a hand up to rub at your bleary eyes with annoyance. You risk a glance upwards; on the bed, Loki scans page after page after page with disinterested nonchalance, punctuating the flipping over of each document with a noncommittal hum; as if to say, I understand you. As it to say, This could be worse. You try to slip into that mindset. Certainly, things could be worse. 

Actually, though? Not really. 

Because, for all the world, the holo-file in front of you just said ‘Pepe The Frog Chaos Banking Laser Initiative’. 

“What the fuck does that even mean?!” 

“Sorry?” 

You whip your head around. Loki, raising an eyebrow. Damn that - perfect - eyebrow. 

“Sorry,” You echo back at him, rubbing your eyes again, perversely glad for the break, even if it is this awkward. “I … said that out loud, didn’t I?” 

“Marginally,” He tells you. “Yes.” 

“Sorry,” You - well, it’s not a whine, not exactly. You’re tired, and there’s no way you’re going to sleep tonight, so you feel like your tone’s justified. “I didn’t mean to do that. I think I’m just - this is. Completely nonsensical.” 

“Show me?” He asks, and you snort. He could totally just look up, but - 

“Do you have a P.h.d in memes?” You ask him, and, before he can answer, “Because unless you have a P.h.d in memes, I don’t think you’ll be able to help.” 

“You’d be surprised,” Loki says. Vaults over the bed with the speed and grace of a panther, filling the air with a cringing wheeze as the rusty springs bend underneath him, and landing in front of the holo-file, pushing you aside slightly to get a better view. When his fingers brush against your side, cool and firm, you flinch. 

“Tired,” You offer, when he shoots you a momentarily concerned look. “Just. Need to sleep, later, I think.” 

But Loki is already scanning the file, and when he looks up, not five seconds later, you want to hit somebody. Preferably, you think, him. 

“I would assume,” Loki says, “That they’re using time travel in order to obtain and store monetary value by way of a Pepe-the-frog inspired laser array.” 

“Oh,” You say. You blink once. Blink twice. Still have no idea what that means. “Right.” 

“Do you not know your memes, love?” He asks you, smirking. And oh, if you don’t feel things. 

“I don’t go on the internet, much,” You tell him. “Too busy, you know, trying not to get killed.”

 Loki shrugs. Sidles away from the file. The groan and squeak of those springs tells you he’s back on the bed, giving you some well-needed space, but you can’t bring yourself to look. 

“You can sleep,” He says, “If you want.” 

“Ha!” You yelp/choke/embarrassingly bleat out into the room’s stale silence. Underneath the rotten eggs, you catch a whiff of bong-water. “No.” 

“There’s a bed,” Loki says, cocking his head pointedly and patting the lumpy covers. 

“Yeah, that’s - kind of the problem.” 

“Why?” He asks you. 

“You - really?” 

“I was only asking,” Says Loki, re-focusing his attention on whichever Pink Cobra document’s next in the folder. “If you aren’t comfortable telling me - I merely thought, seeing as you were tired, you might take this opportunity to rest.” 

“Yeah,” You  tell him, “Of course, that’s - nice of you.” 

It comes out stilted. Patently off. If he notices, he doesn’t say. 

“Are you going to - um. Do you need help, with the rest? The ones I have seem kind of hopeless. I mean,” You say, when he doesn’t look up, “I don’t think that we have to worry about getting demolished by trans-dimensional Agarthian wormholes.” 

“Of course not,”” Loki says, scoffing and incredulous, gaze, you are sure, on his page. “If they wanted to kill us, they’d send someone with a gun.” 

In reality, it’s several someones. 

                                                             ***

“You jinxed it,” Is the first thing you tell him, when the men leave you. They’ve thrown you into a one-room warehouse, rickety shelves stacked with cartoonish tubs of green goop and mildewing boxes filled with grenades and machine guns and what appears, at second-glance, to be twelve-fingered latex gloves. You’re tied wrist to wrist, ankle to ankle, and your throat feels uncharacteristically parched. Fear, you tell yourself. Apprehension. “Can’t you just - use your seidr to magic us out of this?” 

If you could see him - which you can’t, because you’ve been tied back to back - you’d swear that Loki was glaring. 

“Do you - do you have a plan?” You ask, after a moment. 

“I’m working on it,” He says. 

“That’s all?” You say. “We were dragged out of our drug-dealer’s hotel room by a bunch of robed men with guns and the only thing you have to say is ‘I’m working on it?’” 

“I’d get it done faster,” Says Loki, “If you wouldn’t interrupt me.” 

“Ok,” You tell him, “No interrupting you. Got it. That’s - Alright.” 

Unfortunately, not interrupting him is easier said than done, because without the sound of your voice, you are left to your thoughts. 

The men had broken in nearly immediately after Loki’s glib, sardonic retort to your worries, shooting the glass out of the room’s already half-smashed-in window and kicking the door in simultaneously. A bit much, isn’t it?, Loki’d asked, and you had wanted to smack yourself on the forehead. Really not the time, you had hissed, but Loki hadn’t seemed to hear you. Do you do this with everyone they send you to assassinate?, he had asked, instead. The men had been dressed in long, billowing cloaks of bright red, embroidered with orange snakes framing a picture of Beaker from the muppets with early 2000’s emo hair. Chaotic meme agents, you had thought to yourself. So that’s what they’re supposed to look like. 

You hadn’t picked up, until now, on the snakes. 

“They’re working together,” You say, when you can’t stand the playback of Loki being disarmed after spinning and tossing his silver daggers at the men, of the men kneeing him in the balls and twisting your arms behind your back, holding a gun to your head to stop you from trying to fight. Waking up in the back of a van that smelled like microwaved fish. Being tossed like garbage onto the floor of the warehouse, painted in bruises and cuts from the small pieces of glass that had dug their way into your skin. “The IPP and the Pink Cobra.” 

“Obviously,” Loki says. Sharply. 

“Did Tony not -“ 

“Stark,” Loki practically growls, and, ok, you’re not losing it but that did make you jump in your skin, “Is an idiot. He wouldn’t know how to connect the dots if they were presented to him in a Buzzfeed Unsolved episode.” 

“That’s - You had that on Asgard?” You ask him, momentarily distracted. You wish that you could see Loki’s face, and are very glad that you can’t. 

“That isn’t the point,” Loki says. 

“I know,” You tell him. You’re scared that your voice is trembling. Scared that he can tell, even though he’s not facing you, how badly your fingers are shaking. Scared that he knows your worst, biggest secret - 

That, despite being an Avenger, you are anxious. That, despite him being Loki, despite him being here, and wonderfully, infuriatingly himself, he cannot help you, this time. 

You are going to die, covered in cuts and abrasions, on the floor of a meme network’s headquarters, at three a.m in the morning. They are going to come in with umbrellas that shoot poison darts or the ex-presidents Point Break masks and mow you down, and Loki has no fucking plan. You feel the ropes tighten where they’re knotted, itchy and fierce, and you have to fight to keep yourself from whining in terror and nerves. Whining isn’t what Loki needs right now. Whining’s not going to save you. 

What is going to save you, you try and remind yourself, is Loki. If you can shut up. If you can let him decipher what needs to be done. If he can figure out some way to do it before the blowtorch-wielding robed vigilantes or some disincarnate meme god comes back and draws their electronically-sharpened fingernails across your throat hard enough to split skin and sinew, send waves of blood down the front of your shirt like a river of sweet, thick red honey and toss your corpse in a ditch by a highway and - 

“Y/N?” It is foggy, barely-heard. Posh. “Y/N!” Louder, this time. There are fingers on your wrist, bent backwards to grip you. Squeezing, insistent and there. “Breathe.” 

Fuck, you think. You’d started to hyperventilate. To shake, with a full-body tremor that forecasts a great, unstoppable wave of sobbing panic. And Loki had noticed. “I need you to trust me,” He says. “Trust me to get us out of this. Can you do that for me, darling?” 

He has never called you darling before, but God how you’ve wanted him to. You feel like you’re being stabbed in the heart - because there is no way he means it, no way that this is anything other than a desperate and cruel attempt to get you to calm down. Something that belies how obvious you are. How needy you are. How pathetic. And yet - 

And yet, he doesn’t say it meanly. He speaks like he cares about you, and in the face of your impending death, you want to think Loki cares. You’d let him say anything, do anything to you, right now. More than that, though, more than any of that - as you think back to meeting him, to your blossoming late-night friendship and twitchy banter and the quiet moments you’ve shared with him in-between battles - 

“I trust you, Loki,” You tell him, and feel your breath quiet in you. Feel yourself growing still and calm with the certainty that Loki will do as he’s said. 

That you will survive this. 

That -

“Good,” Loki says. Not relieved, but determined. Leaving you no room to argue. 

“So what do we do?” You ask him. 

“Nothing,” Says Loki, and you can hear his wide grin. 

“Nothing?” You ask him, gawking.

 “Nothing,” Says Loki. He gives your hand a tight squeeze. 

And then the Pink Cobra walks in. 

                                                             ***

This will end badly, you think. It’s about the only thing that you can think, preoccupied as you are with - 

It might be easier not to - 

Fuck. 

The thing is - and you really do try not to move, not to groan, not to scream - the thing is, you thought that when Loki said he had a plan, that said plan wouldn’t involve you being collateral damage for a LARP-er who’d most likely broken out of an asylum. I wish that we could be back in that shitty one-bed hotel room, you think to yourself, and - alright, not the best timing, but it rips a laugh out of you, spiraling and unhinged, before you feel the Pink Cobra, resplendent in coral cloak and villainous swagger, slug you one in the jaw. It hurts worse than you’d thought it would - you’ve never really gotten injured on missions, you’re usually good at talking yourself out of things, which is why the Avengers keep you around. You can speak any language, as long as you’ve heard it once, and your customary daily awkwardness can shift into persuasion like flicking a light-switch on. 

Usually, though, you had an opportunity to speak, and weren’t rendered speechless by - 

Loki, if you’re being honest. How much you want to kiss him. How much of an asshole he is. Trust me, he’d asked you. Can you do that for me? The Pink Cobra’s grip is sharp and bruising on your side; he’s slipped his fingers up your shirt and is pressing the point on your side that threatens to make your knees buckle, making bile rise up in your throat, driving you wild with the aching need to flee. He has one hand clasped over your mouth, now that you’ve quieted, and you can feel something - pain, and a pill - pressed snugly into his palm. He will force it down you, you know, if Loki so much as sighs wrong. 

You’ll never trust him again. 

You wish that you knew what the time was. If you end up dying at 4:20, you’re going to throw fists with somebody in hell. 

You wish, also, for aspirin. Avengers training has left you woefully unprepared for the reality of getting punched in the face. You can already feel your jaw starting to swell, taste an egregious amount of blood. You’re pretty sure that the force of the blow knocked a tooth out. 

What strikes fear into you, though - a fear somehow deeper than the absolutely bone-chilling, blood-curdling knowledge of what the Pink Cobra might do to you - is the look you’d seen on Loki’s face in the seconds after he’d grabbed you, before it fell into practiced, amused apathy. He’d gone white, and his eyes had blown wide. His fingers had spasmed with anger. 

He’d looked as scared as you feel. 

And you have no idea why. 

It isn’t like you’re anyone special. Not any more than the rest of the team. Less so than most of them. You aren’t a god, like Loki and Thor are. You don’t have stealth-assassin training, like Bucky, or super-strength like Steve. You can’t seamlessly pilot mechanical suits over the New York skyline like Tony, or use a crossbow like Clint, or beat thirty people in single-hand combat like Nat, or change into a nitro-fueled rage machine like Bruce. 

You can’t do anything, much. 

Except, apparently, die.

You squeeze your eyes shut, not letting yourself look at him. You won’t let Loki’s disinterested face be the last thing that you see. It makes the Pink Cobra’s words all the worse, when he speaks. His voice is dark and sick and timbered, and you feel maggots crawling over your skin as he slots you closer to his body, tightening his already painful grip on you so that you can’t move even an inch away from his tensed, coiled muscles. 

“So,” He says, “You are superheroes? How long did it take me, to apprehend you? Ah - three and a half hours? Tell your boss-man, do better next time.” 

“I’ll pass it along,” Loki says. His voice sounds different. You can’t place why. Still won’t look. 

“You won’t,” The Pink Cobra says. You can feel his shoulders rise, then fall. Feel him smirk. You love Loki’s smirk - secretly delight in drawing it from him, sometimes - but the Pink Cobra’s only fills you with yet more terror. You’ve pursed your lips tightly shut against the intrusion of his hand, but when Loki speaks he forces your bruised, bleeding jaw open and shoves the pill into your mouth. The pain of your injury tears through you like white lightning and you thrash, trying to escape. A keening sound claws its way out of you, fevered and anguished, and you feel your hands, still bound up in ropes, trying in vain to push off and away. The man behind you sighs, and then aims a swift kick at the back of your knees, which sends you down before you can so much as yelp. Your knees hit the floor, and he’s holding you by your hair now, twisting it so hard that you’re almost sure he’ll scalp you. He’s pulled something - too big to be be a knife, some kind of shortsword?! - Out from beneath his cloak, and is pressing it up against the column of your throat. You feel the weight of the capsule between your teeth heavily now, and realize what it means in the split-second before the Pink Cobra bends and whispers, Your choice; stale and rancid into the shell of your ear. 

Next, he addresses Loki. 

“You’ll be wanting to know what our plan is,” He says. Our, you think. We were right. “Hmm? I know how you people are. Always wanting to know. Tell me this, Mischief Man. What will I get, if I tell you? What price are you willing to pay?” 

You know what this is. You know it like the ache in your heart when Loki brushes you off. Like the safety you feel in his arms. You open your eyes. Take in Loki’s face - he’s trying to hide, but you know, you know how he feels. You know what he’s going to choose. 

And you know that you can’t let him choose it. 

“You’ll let her go,” Loki asks, “If we let you leave here?” 

“The thing could be managed.” 

No, you think. No, Loki, don’t! Whatever the Pink Cobra’s going to do, whatever the IPP’s planning, knowing’s worth more than your life. 

“One thing I want to know,” Loki says. He’s twirling a knife of his own, a slim silver number he keeps on him at all times, and you feel the blade on your own throat start to dig in - not enough to draw blood, but enough for you to feel it. The threat of it. The promise of it, and the coldness of the gleaming metal. “You and the IPP? How does it fit?” 

“You want information from me?” The Pink Cobra asks. Lets his blade bite you, just barely, and the strength it takes for you not to scream is more strength then you’d known you possess. 

“Yes,” Says Loki. “It’s not like I’m asking for much.”

He meets your gaze. You meet his. You hope that he cannot read it. His eyes are so worried, so desperate, you nearly break down. 

“I suppose,” The Pink Cobra says, “That you’ve earned it. Getting here - getting this far - it must have been no easy task. Fine. There is no Imminently Predictable Psyops organization. They were a - what do you call it? Red herring? A scent of blood for the shark.” 

“You fabricated them,” Loki says. “Why would you fabricate them?” 

He is losing his composure, you can tell. You will never be ready for this. He will never be ready for this. You hope that he will forgive you, and you know that he never will, and you swallow the pill in your mouth. 

“Because it was fun,” The Pink Cobra says. 

And then your body knows pain. 

                                                             ***

“He didn’t think I would do it,” You say. Your mouth feels thick, clotted with blood and shock, and your body is one raw, gaping wound, but the giddy feeling of victory has begun to course through your veins. Pure, unfiltered adrenaline. You had waited for the moment of death to come, and it hadn’t. The pill is fake, your mind had screamed. But there’d been one thing left, that might work. You had breathed as slowly as you possibly could, forced every muscle of your scared, writhing body into single-minded limpness, rolled your eyes backwards into your head,  drew one last breath in, and fallen. Twitched, for a few seconds, like a rag-doll. Then made yourself still. 

Loki had slit the Pink Cobra ear to ear, beaten him within an inch of his life as he bled out, screaming like a man deranged. He’d left him a wet, bloody mess on the floor, and the blood had run down the not-quite-steady plane of it, pooling around you and mixing with the blood from your jaw, from the evening’s earlier glass cuts, from the deep, burning stab wound the Cobra had got on your arm. 

You breathe, and your body knows pain. 

You look at Loki, and your body knows pain. 

He is shaking. Visibly shaking. His hands are clenched into fists at his side, and he looks as pale as bleached bones. His eyes are shot red - he had sobbed, when you fell, and a howl had torn through his body. You don’t know what to do, what it means, what the hell even to say to him. His cheeks are tear-stained, his breaths ragged. 

You blink, and your body feels pain. 

“We won,” You croak out. “Loki, we won.” It hurts worse than anything you’ve ever felt in your life. “I think he broke one of my ribs.” 

You don’t mean to say that last part, but you do, and you are the one crying now, because it feels like he probably has, and you can barely even stay awake through this pain. It feels like the Hulk is pulling you limb from limb. Like all of those nightmares you’ve had where Loki decided to leave you - to go back to Asgard, and never speak to you again. 

Stupid, you think. He won’t, again. Not after this. 

Loki still hasn’t spoken. He’s looking at you, and his eyes are wild. Desperately, jaggedly roaming your body. His fists twitch with every new part of your body they land on. 

“That bad, huh - Oh, fuck.” 

And just like that, the tension leaves Loki’s body. The dam that had held him firmly in place is broken, and he’s running towards you with none of his usual grace. Dropping down by your side. He hoists you, and you hiss, and the tears won’t stop coming, so you bury your face in his shirt, nose pressed at the crisply ironed collar. Don’t care that it’s bleeding, because Loki’s here now. Holding you. Keeping you real. He’s got one hand stroking your hair and his touch feels right, nothing like the Pink Cobra’s, and he’s whispering: You brave, precious, idiot, how dare you, how dare you throw your life away like that?! 

“It worked,” You exhale - it’s the most you can manage. You would laugh, if it wouldn’t shred you to pieces. Loki cradles you fiercely, hands grasping at the sweat-and-blood soaked fabric of your shirt, running over you as if he doesn’t believe you’re alive. “It - hurts,” You get out. Barely. “Loki, it - I can’t -“ 

“Don’t,” He tells you. His voice has gone brittle, choked with thorns. “Don’t talk. Don’t - Don’t ever do that again. Do you hear me? You will never do that again.” 

If I need to, I will, you think. And you wonder if that’s why you’re here. Wonder if that’s why you’re strong. You wonder, and hurt, and believe. Feel the strength of him, clutching you like you’re the only thing in the world, taking in greedy lungfuls of your weeping, your need for his touch. 

You can’t talk, anymore. It hurts too badly. But you surge, upwards, up into where he’s holding the back of your head, pressing your forehead into the dark, warm space under his jaw that smells like smoke and peppermint. Loki is taller than you are - you fit right into the curve of his neck, and his long curls curtain you in a bubble of warmth and content. 

“Promise,” You say, but it comes out unintelligible, and Loki’s hands are running, so gently, over your skin. 

“What was your plan?” You ask him, forcing it out of your body. 

“Hush,” Loki says, “Later.” 

There might not be any later, you think. Not like this. 

                                                             ***

In the hotel room, an ocean of scattered pages and ceiling mold and blessed privacy, you balance, cross-legged, on the bed. The wind blows wet and cold from an earlier rain through the busted out window. You have managed this out of sheer stubborn-ness, because it is the most that Loki allowed you to do. You’d passed out, twice, on the journey back - he had magicked you there, though it had taken a considerable amount of effort that you weren’t sure you really deserved - and had immediately propped you up on the pillows and stooped to ruffle through his suitcase, emerging not long after with binding tape, cat-gut thread, and a needle so sharp you could feel it slicing your flesh. You had opened your mouth to protest, but Loki had silenced you with a glare that could fell Director Fury. So you had gone quiet, and caved, letting him kneel over you on the distinctly lumpy mattress and begin inspecting your wounds. It had taken a few tries and a Please to convince him to let you sit on your own, and it hurt much more than the manner in which he’d arranged you. You were starting to, slightly, regret it. 

“You don’t have to do this,” You say, pulling it from bleeding lips. He shushes you with a harsh, stern tut. “You’re not my mother,” You tell him. 

“You could have died,” Loki says. There’s a snarling undercurrent to it that you can’t even start dissecting. “What were you thinking?” He asks. It is easier, though still painful, for you to answer him - he had used nearly half of his Thor-limited magic reserve to perform a basic stasis spell on your injuries, but the spell wouldn’t last forever. You’ll need stitches, he’d said, choking it out like he was the hurt one when he’d seen the number the Cobra’s blade had done to your arm. 

“I’ve had worse,” You say, grinning weakly. 

“Are you lying to me?” He asks you, with the tone of someone who’s distinctly not in the mood for joking. 

“I thought,” You say. Steel yourself. “I thought you weren’t going to do what needed to be done. So I - Did it myself.” 

“What needed to be done.” Loki says, enunciating every word. 

“We couldn’t let him walk away,” You say, meeting his eyes. Emerald, clouded with fury. You don’t let yourself flinch from that anger. You don’t let yourself run from your choice. “You know what he would have done.” 

“I don’t,” Loki says. “I know nothing. I know - I know that you think that your life means so little I wouldn’t care if you were gone. That I could - Live, without you.” 

That’s… different. 

“And I know,” Loki continues, “That I told you to trust me, and I meant it.” 

“I do,” You say. There is no hesitation. “I trust you - Loki. Of course I trust you. It’s not - it wasn’t -“ 

“Stop talking,” He snaps. Gentles, when you jerk your head away, blink back a fresh wave of tears. “You need rest,” He says. “And - This is. This is going to hurt.” 

You nod. 

“Best get it over with, then.” 

“You should keep your eyes closed,” He says. 

“No! I want - I need to look.” You bring your eyes up to your arm, which he’s settled onto bed’s chewed, scratchy quilt without you realizing, but Loki tilts your head up with a barely-there graze of his fingers, achingly gentle to avoid aggravating your swollen jaw. He holds your gaze for a long time. Doesn’t look mad, anymore. 

“Are you sure?” He asks you. Like all of this could be over with, if you wanted. 

“How bad it could it be?” You ask back. 

The injury is horrendous. You’d thought - honest-to-God, you’d thought the pain was terrible, but you weren’t ready for what your arm has become. The line of the wound runs in a craggy jigsaw from just under your shoulder to the tip of your elbow. Small wonder you can’t move it, can barely think through it at all. 

“Y/N?” Loki asks, “Are you -“ 

“Fine,” You say. Blink, and your body knows pain. Try not to let how scared you are show, when you look back up at Loki. The Pink Cobra’s dead. You shouldn’t be scared, anymore. “It’s really bad, isn’t it?” 

Loki sighs. Long and low and sad. 

“Will I have to - “ 

“Bite,” Loki says, and shoves something - the sleeve of his shirt, crusted in blood which you realize, sickeningly, is yours - into your mouth. “It’ll help.” 

It doesn’t, but he holds your hand through it, hushing you through the pain with furrowed eyebrows, thread and needle flying deftly through skin, air, skin again. His fingers move precisely, deliberate,  quick, and when, on one stitch, you audibly whimper, he pauses to lean down and press a soft, utterly unexpected kiss to your hairline. You are unable to fully express how much it means to you, so you do the next best thing and kiss him yourself, pressing him back once he’s finished the last of his stitches and breathing all the the words you can’t say into him. You press every fear and gratitude and lingering nerve into the warmth of his lips, wending your fingers through his dark hair despite the pangs of agony still thrumming through every inch of your body. Your face hurts, but the kiss is all you’ve ever needed and more, and Loki is so, so gentle with you, pulling away with creased eyebrows and a look of genuine concern. 

“I wanted to,” You tell him, mustering all of your strength. “It didn’t hurt.” 

“Stop,” He tells you, voice cracking, “Stop lying.” 

“I’m not,” You say. “I wanted to, Loki, I did.” 

“And you wanted to -“ 

“No.” You are vehement about it, for a broken-ribbed, broken-jawed, freshly-stitched person coming off the high of his teeth and his tongue. “Not that, I swear, never that.”

 “Why did you do it, then?” Loki asks. He has steepled his fingers under his chin, and his narrowed eyes pierce through you to the soul. You couldn’t lie to this man, you think, if your life depended on it. 

You know that you have to tell him, this time. Really tell him. You don’t. 

“”Why didn’t you use your magic?”

“You know why,” He says, and you do. You’d remembered it as the white pill turned to white powder in your gums, as the Pink Cobra’s knife had carved its way into your flesh. Thor had put a set limit on it, as condition of Loki’s release - Proof, he had said, We can trust you. Loki had thought to save it for later, that you wouldn’t need him right then. He had thought you’d talk them out, to safety. 

You’d failed him. 

“You didn’t,” He tells you, voice raw. He goes to grip your chin, to force you to listen to him, but with a glance and ill-concealed wince at your purpled jaw he thinks better of it. “You think that you failed me? You let yourself be - be beaten and stabbed - just so people you’ve never met in your life wouldn’t die, and you call that a failure?” He runs a hand through his hair. Bites back a snarl. Drops your arm. “I need you to listen to me,” Loki says, “Very, very carefully. You’re going to tell me why now, love. And then we’re going to fix it.” 

You raise an eyebrow. Worse than he does, you’re aware. 

“Sleep,” He amends, with a pointed look at the bed underneath you, “And then we’re going to fix it.” 

“There’s only one bed,” You tell him, “And I feel like I just got run over by a truck.” 

Loki huffs, a puff of warm air that you feel, from how close he still is. A grin twitches at the edge of his lips. It sets off sparks inside you. 

“I thought -“ You say. Shake your head, and restart. “You would have let the Pink Cobra attack. You would have let him just walk away, and I couldn’t just - let that happen.” 

“Enlightening.” 

“No,” You tell him, “I mean it. I couldn’t - I’m not - I’m not worth more than anyone else. We’re the Avengers. It’s our job to save people, Loki.” 

He’s regarding you carefully, eyes still narrowed, all vestiges of softness gone from his face. When he opens his mouth, it’s to close it. Form thoughts. Discard them. Exhale. 

“My mother once told me,” He finally says, “That I would never know what it meant to be human until I found the person who made me want to bleed the world dry. Take all of its’ suffering, all of its’ cruelty, and leech it out of the very fabric of time, just to keep that person from anguish, from harm.” 

“I don’t -“ 

He holds a hand up. You still. 

“She never said they would infuriate me,” Loki says. “She never said they would make me laugh, or smile, or question my sanity on a regular basis. She never said that they’d try and get themselves killed, and that I’d have to watch, and that I would feel like my heart was being ripped from my body and torn to a bloody pulp; that I would make the sky rain blood and fire at the sight of it alone. But she was right about one thing - Many things, but also this. She told me that it wouldn’t matter. That I would - love you - anyway.” 

“You don’t,” You say, not daring to hope. It’s an automatic retort. 

“Foolish girl,” Loki chides, and you blink back fresh, stinging tears. How long have you wanted to hear Loki say that to you? How many sneaky looks have you stolen in the heat of your missions, just to see his smart mind and tricky magic at work? How many nights have you sat up together, sequestered from your insomnia in a bubble of hard-earned banter and peppermint tea, fighting the tight, coiling urge to push aside your steaming mugs and pull him into your needing? 

He could not - he can’t - feel the same. 

“Loki,” You say, stumbling over the words, “You can’t - This is - This is me we’re talking about.” 

“Is there anyone else here,” Loki asks you, “That I could be talking about?” He seems nonchalant, now, as if this - this cruel fucking joke, when you already feel you’re on fire - is merely a fact of his life. “We’re going to leave this excuse of a town, and get you - proper care. Fix it. Because I will not, on my honor, watch you suffer in pain. But first, you’re going to sleep.” 

“There’s only one bed,” You tell him, and feel your resolve as it shatters. You cling to the statement like it’s the last remnant of the girl you were and the woman that you’ll never be, “And the shower doesn’t work. And I’m covered in blood.” 

But when you look at Loki, his eyes twinkle, mischievous. 

“Will you stay with me?,” You ask him, biting your lip. 

“You astound me,” He tells you, and rolls his eyes, and it feels - it feels normal. Good. A tender heat unfurls in your heart like orchid petals in the sun, numbing the persistent ache in your ribcage. “To even think that I would do anything else.” 

Later, you will ask him why. Why do you love me?, you will ask, and Loki will hum, low in his throat, curled around you just like this first night; your back pressed into his chest, your legs tangled up hopelessly, his fingers tracing nonsense patterns onto your spine in the dawn-light’s syrupy gold. Because, he will tell you, trailing a line of soft kisses up the scar on your arm - an ugly thing, but it functions, mostly, and only ever seems to hurt on the days when he isn’t there - I was given no choice. 

But if you’d had one?”, You will ask, and spin around, propping yourself on your elbow. 

You tempt me, He’ll tell you, baring his sharp teeth. Shouldn’t you know better than that? 

You will lie there, next to each other, not needing a single word. Because you will know. Because he will have told you, a thousand times, a thousand ways, exactly how he feels about you. 

Tonight, though, isn’t that night. It takes a moment to get settled in his hold, and the rain spits and drums against what glass remains in your window, slicking the carpet with dark, greasy splotches. It figures, you think, that even the rain in this city has the smell and the texture of oil. You feel like a bag of bones, stretched too thin. But safe, in his arms, in a way that you’ve never felt, before now. Loki is with you, you realize. Wrapped around you like a traveler’s cloak, the comforting weight of a slim, balanced blade at your side in a fight. He is cool, around your afraid. Warm, where his clever fingers whine and needle their way through your skin to your heart. 

“I hate you,” You tell him, “You know that?” 

Loki laughs, a deep, rumbling purr. 

“Go to sleep.”

[hyperfixationtimego]

Happy little hcs to atone for my sins

Taka and Hina are study buddies

Sometimes Aoi manages to get Taka off track because she’s just so enthusiastic and wants to hear about all of her friends’ hyperfixations and special interests

37.2 minutes later

Taka’s infodumping about how he despises moral philosophy but also thoroughly enjoys it bc that’s how moral philosophers are

Or he’s infodumping about political science and debate tactics and how speeches were effective or not for various reasons

Sakura and Mondo work out together

It started off as a coincidence when they were in the gym at the same time but it kept happening so they called it a schedule

They talk about their SOs and they’re smiling

Sakura teaches Mondo certain stretches and exercises to help relax different muscle groups for whenever he pulls a muscle or has a flare up from the thing with the bikes

Leon constantly asks Chihiro to turn alter ego into a vocaloid or at least program a bit of that tech into their system

Bc he would rather shave his head again than talk to Sayaka about producing music

He just has so many ideas

And it’s cool when there are kinda punk rock songs that are covered in an 8-bit or a vocaloid style

Byakuya and Celeste have a small series of bets with low stakes about what their inferiors classmates will do to lead up to them jingling away morosely like the fools they are

Sayaka shamelessly advertises her group’s mercy to her classmates and friends

Everyone gets their nails painted at some point

Nobody knows how Byakuya got roped into it but it worked

Makoto has rainbow loom

Atua forgives you

anyway YEAH LEGIT?

Hina has fully and thoroughly fallen in love with all of her friends and classmates’ expressions whenever they’re talking about something that excites them omg 🥺

she sees someone rambling and having a good time and hears the enthusiastic pitch of their voice as well as the general Vibe™️ that they’re giving off and she just???? [Y E A R N]

:)

and also just???? her and taka being study buddies is so valid oh my god??? they’re really close because of it!!! And Taka always loves hanging out with her because he knows she’ll let him just Talk??? and he adores that about her????? And she’ll be ENGAGED which!!!!!! oh my god!!!!?????

hi in this house we love and adore hina

And Sakura and Mondo???? absolutely?????

they have friendly competitions over who can lift the most weights/do the most reps/etc. (they do it sparingly, ofc! bc Sakura at least knows that they’ll both be subconsciously trying to beat the other as opposed to listening to what their bodies need in the moment. Sakura is the single braincell of class 78 no I won’t take it back because it’s true)

and they totally doooooo like they both get such cute loveydovey pining expressions whenever it’s Their Turn™️ to discuss the latest cute thing their partner(s) did. and listening to the other talking???? oh my god it’s literally the neatest thing????

Sakura looking at Mondo: I would die for this man

Mondo looking at Sakura: this woman is literally beauty and perfection in human form

THEY’RE SUCH GOOD FRIENDS OKAY???

also chihiro joins them for training sometimes!!!! She obviously isn’t able to do as much as the other two are, but both Sakura and Mondo are always so proud of her progress??? They’re like “you are so cool and strong do you know that??? you better know that”

and speaking of chihiro hdbdvdvdvdvdvdvdvd on GOD Leon will Not leave them alone abt it and they’re just like

“y....you do NOT have the attention span,.......you’re gonna get frustrated within like the first five minutes......and then I’ll have done all that work for nothing..............”

but Leon’s >:( no I won’t!!!! music is my Passion!!!!!!!!

so it’s like *sigh* okay

and anyway leon genuinely does rlly like it???? like he gets burned out very easily and can only compose things in short bursts, but he’s always so so so proud of the finished products??? (Even if nobody else likes it but shush 😌)

and it makes chihiro :D to know that something she made (even if it was done with reluctance) has brought one of her closest friends so much happiness????? she’s also like good for Leon but also if he ever bothers them about something like that again they are Literally Going to Snap but that’s another story for another day vwv

AND YEAH LIKE. HE DOESN’T MIND TALKING TO HER ABT MUSIC IN GENERAL BECAUSE IT’S AN INTEREST THEY SHARE (quite possibly one of the only times they will have a conversation without one constantly insulting the other ❤️) BUT. ADMITTING TO HER THAT HE NEEDS HELP WITH IT IS THE WORST HE HATES IT HE HATES IT HSBDBSBD

god okay so. his first impression of her when they had just come to hope’s peak and met for the first time was “oh my god!!! she’s a pop idol!!! so she must know a lot about music!!! maybe she’ll help me become a popular musician!!!” and her immediate reaction when she first heard him ask was to literally roll her eyes and he was like oh okay fuck her actually

and then slow burn enemies-to-friends 💛

WHEBDVSVS CELESTE AND BYAKUYA JUST BEING RICH ASSHOLES IS SO FUNNY??? LIKE THEY HAVE WEALTH SOLIDARITY AND THEY ACT ALMOST LIKE alright your status makes you worthy of my time, I suppose-

they’ve had bets on everything from how many times kirigiri will pass out from exhaustion by the end of the school day, to how long it’ll take before Kirumi finally Loses Her Shit, to how many people will be harmed by Komaeda’s luck while hanging out with him.

Mfs about to die smh

and dhdbwvwbsvwvwb yeah like??? sometimes a normal conversation with maizono will turn into her being like “yeah, and by the way, if you’re looking for a change of style and wardrobe, you should check out the newest shirt my band just released as part of our merch drop, and-”

Makoto is the one who gets baited into her merch ads most often sndbsbsbdbdbw

even mentioning the word “merch” around Leon or Kaz will earn her a lot of groaning and sighing, and occasionally a pillow or other soft object being hurled at her face 💛

oh my god they all have a manicure spa day,,,,,,,class bonding 🥺

hdbdvdvdv they got Jill to break into his dorm and kidnap him ngl like the specifics they gave her were something along the lines of “use as much force as you need to without killing him” and she was like “DONE”

and okay I’m not gonna talk abt everyone’s nails but now I’m thinking about it and like-

Sayaka gets like a lighter violet background with gold and white stars smattered around them, more concentrated in some areas than others, and it’s generally very pretty 🥺

chihiro’s are a different solid pastel color on each finger!!! it’s very kidcore and fun and they love it so muchhhh!!!

leon gets a little self-conscious when it’s his turn because his nails are highkey disgusting from all the time he spends playing baseball - there’s dirt trapped under them and everything so he’s just like hhhhhhh anxiety go brrrr but anyway he gets solid black because he’s edgy and cool like that 😎

I think Taka gets a French manicure with little dark red flowers pressed towards the tips because!!! simple yet pretty!!!

Celeste probably takes the longest because her request is sooooo complicated like it’s black and red and long ass acrylics with overlapping patterns and everyone else just kinda sits there feeling h o r r i b l e for that poor nail stylist

Toko gets a checkerboard pattern, with each nail having a different neon color in place of white!!! Because she knows that Jill will find it cool and pretty and colorful the next time she fronts (visual stimming jill?? 👀)

Togami just picks whatever will get him out of the chair quickest hdbsvdvdvdbdbdb

anyway Makoto????? rainbow loom????? absolutely

he has so many bracelets!!!!! so many so many so many and he knows how to create such a wide variety of styles it’s so cool!!!!!! he wears a bunch of them at any given time because they are so fun to fidget with!!!! and rubber texture hvvvvhvv!!!!

and he creates personalized ones for his friends, too, like he knows their favorite colors and sometimes picks up on whether they prefer a certain style or not from the way they react to the other ones he’s made and it’s!!! just so neat!!!!!

I’m thinking about it and!!! he has a bi pride fishtail, a trans pride arrow stitch, a black and neon green railroad, a pastel pink/blue/purple/yellow ladder, a jelly yellow and green dragon scale, a rainbow double cross, and a bunch more!!! he also has a bunch with charms and beads added into them!!!!

He also makes them for his friends even if he knows they won’t wear them!! Like Toko, for example, isn’t the biggest fan of jewelry because she doesn’t like the texture, but he creates one for her anyway and fills it with so much love (it looks like a daisy chain!!!! because at least she’ll be able to look at it and hold it and still be interested in it without it needing to be on her wrist!!!)

he makes a ton of bright colored ones for Mukuro (usually either single or inverted fishtail because he knows she wouldn’t enjoy wearing anything too heavy or overbearing) so that she has more mobile visual stims!!!

similar for Jill!! although most of hers tend to be black and bright neon rainbow in various bulkier styles!!!! Jill will also force him to let her look at his bracelet-covered arm whenever they hang out because. my god,,,,,,so many Colors™️

he’s found that togami prefers black and white simpler styles, and that Kyoko absolutely adores singles, fishtails, and double fishtails in any shade of purple, and that Mondo likes any of the larger styles in darker colors + blacks and grays!!! Chihiro loves anything with jelly and glitter bands!!!

Leon usually only wears one at a time, but he cycles through every single one that his boyfriend’s ever made for him because????? GOD they’re so cool and his boyfriend is so crafty and incredible and just,,,,,,,,,hvvvhvv every time he looks at the one he’s wearing he’s able to calm himself down and remember that Makoto loves him........it’s also very good for stim and fidgeting <3

anyways sorry yes Makoto with a rainbow loom is filling me with serotonin and it’s canon now

[the-awkward-outlaw]

Hi! I love your works and I was wondering if you could write something about a new "lost soul" saved by the gang and trying hard to fit in. A reserved female reader who secretly develops feelings for Arthur, knowing well he has no interest in getting involved with anybody. A good ol' heart-wrenching, I-will-pine-from-a-distance-and-suffer-in-silence kind of unrequited love. Ending is up to you (but maybe it's a happy one

This one turned out sweet. Arthur’s the biggest softy. That said, FLUFF AHEAD!

Masterlist

Read on AO3

You look around nervously, not sure you’re entirely in the right place. Everything’s changed so quickly, it’s hard to process. Sure, you’ve heard endless tales of gangs and outlaws, living wild and free, but you never knew the gritty details about any of it. Now here you are, living it. 

You ended up here with the Van der Linde gang because your life has a funny habit of putting you in the wrong place at the wrong time. You’d been on the train two days ago, and it got robbed by a gang. As they were busy killing the engineer and the conductor and going through everyone’s possessions, a man you’ve come to know to be named as Arthur rode by and killed the bastards. You sank to your knees in fright, afraid you’d be killed too. 

As you sobbed into the grass, your hero dismounted and comforted you. When you explained that you had no home, nowhere to go and nothing to return to, Arthur offered you to come with him. You accepted, of course, you just found yourself incapable of saying no. He put you on the back of his horse and rode down south of Blackwater and into a small hideout called Thieves Landing. 

You’ve never been here before, your parents told you as a child to avoid the place as though it had the plague. Everyone south of the Upper Montana knew it was where criminals hid and because of its layout, it was hard for the law to take. 

It was here that Arthur told you his gang was hiding out in and that you were welcome to stay until you got your life sorted. An older woman named Grimshaw immediately jumped on you and started barking orders, despite you being completely dumbfounded and confused. 

It’s been two days since you were brought in, but you’re not entirely convinced you’re fitting in all that well. The gang’s big with at least twenty members. All of them, even the women, have a track record. The only one who’s as innocent is a child named Jack, but the rest have done something to earn them at least a few days in jail, but most have earned even the noose should they ever get caught. 

It’s not a comforting idea exactly, but already you can see how tight-knit they all are. There’s a sense of family here, the likes of which you’ve never had the fortune of experiencing. While in the day, Grimshaw barks and even nips, at night she turns pleasant, making sure everyone gets a plate to eat and singing songs around the campfires. 

She’s not the only one to let down their hair at night. Most of everyone does, telling stories about things that have happened or singing songs. You especially liked it last night when a young man named Javier sat down and played his guitar, singing in Spanish. Being from down south yourself, you were used to hearing his native tongue though you understood none of the words. It was still pleasant to hear. 

“So, how’s you adjustin’?” asks the young girl next to you as you scrub at a shirt in the wash bin with a rather stubborn spot that doesn’t want to come out. She’s got brown hair and she’s wearing a faded purple dress with a rather pretty necklace. 

“I… I think I’m okay. But… Mary-Beth, isn’t it?” you say. She nods. “Can I be honest with you?” She nods again. “I really don’t fit in here. Not because you’re criminals and I’m not, it’s just… I have nothing to offer anyone. I don’t know how to steal, shoot a gun. Hell, I can barely ride a horse.” 

“And that’s okay,” Mary-Beth says with a small smile. “You can learn how to do those things. I’m more than happy helpin’ ya, and I bet the other gals will too.” 

“Not only that, but we can always use another girl,” Grimshaw snarls, stomping over to you both. “Now get to work, both of ya!” She marches away to go bully Tilly. 

“Don’t worry about Ms. Grimshaw,” Mary-Beth says when the woman’s out of earshot. “She likes to act tough, and sometimes she can be a little too forceful, but she does care.”

“That’s to be debated,” says Karen, walking over with a repeater in her hand. She must have just finished with guard duty. “That ol’ bat wouldn’t give a damn if we was all on fire, long as we’re workin’.” 

Mary-Beth gives a little giggle, but Karen walks off to go and talk with a red-haired man. Because Thieves Landing is so large, you’re still learning the names of the members of the gang. You’ve kept your ears open though, wanting to learn about these people, see how the other side of society works. 

Growing up, you never had many friends, always being very shy. At school, you were bullied a lot for reasons you couldn’t understand. Your parents tried to help you but there was little they could do aside from pulling you out of the school and teaching you themselves. They didn’t know much about math or science though, so they taught you what they knew: how to ranch and garden. 

When you were about ten, your father got sick and died. A few weeks later, your mother, who had contracted his illness, died too. You ended up at your uncle’s house, but he was such an abusive, angry drunk you just left one day when you were 15. You’ve been on your own since, jumping from one job to the next. You were between them when you were on that train a couple days back, when Arthur found you. 

As you sit and work, you smile as you think of your father. He used to tell you many stories, but your favorites were those about gunslingers and outlaws. Something about them seemed romantic and fantastical, the way they represented the idea of freedom, of never being tied down. You never thought you would be incorporated into a gang of them as an adult. 

A few hours later and you hear the somewhat familiar voice of the camp cook Pearson shouting that dinner’s ready. You sigh in relief, knowing that dinner signals the end of the day’s work and you can relax. The past two nights you’ve spent alone on your bedroll, being too shy to mingle, but as you stoop to collect your stew, you wonder if you can muster the courage to change that. 

Several of the gang has gathered around a large campfire to talk over dinner. There’s an empty seat, but it’s right next to Arthur Morgan. Sure, he’s the man who brought you here, but you feel especially unimportant next to him. He’s a big guy, much taller than yourself, broad, handsome. The girls told you he’s got a very rough exterior but secretly harbors a heart of gold. However, it wasn’t until you found out he holds some of the greatest weight in camp that made you shy around him. 

A hand pats you on the back, making you jump a little. Turning, you see Grimshaw. 

“Go on, have a seat, dear. You’ve earned it.” 

Unable to say no to her, you walk over and take a hesitant seat next to Arthur, hunching down a little. He doesn’t seem to notice as he’s listening to a man named Hosea tell a story about how he’d nearly been busted for robbing a house during a wake but how he’d managed to act his way out of being caught. It’s a rather funny story and as the others laugh appreciatively, you feel yourself relaxing. That is until Hosea’s story ends and he asks you a pointed question. 

“How are you settling in, miss?” 

You hate being brought out in the spotlight like this and it doesn’t help that Arthur, sitting so close, turns to look at you, his expression neutral. 

“Oh, I’m… I’m doing okay, thank you. Mary-Beth said she can teach me how to rob people, so I’m hoping I won’t be so useless to you anymore soon.” 

“No one’s complaining about you being useless,” says a man named John, sharpening his knife on a whetstone. “When you start bein’ as useless as Uncle, then we’ll have a problem.” 

“Hey, I work!” complains the man in question. 

“Really? When was the last time you lifted a finger ‘round here, ol’ man?” Arthur challenges. The group happily begins to bicker, but you’re grateful as it’s pulled their attention off of you. 

As the days pass, you begin to hear people in the gang beginning to talk about a big score. A member named Micah came in to bring the idea of a big river boat to the gang’s leader Dutch. From what you can make of Dutch, he’s a clever, calculating man who cares deeply for his family. Mary-Beth and Tilly told you how he and Hosea took both Arthur and John in as their sons despite not being much older themselves. They formed this gang together and it’s stayed strong. 

Ever since Micah brought in the potential job, the gang’s been humming with excitement. It seems to be a very big score and will need a lot of help for it to work. You’d like to volunteer, to contribute something, but you know you’re utterly useless right now. Mary-Beth’s only begun to explain the basics of robbing to you. However, this job sounds like it’s to come with a guaranteed gunfight. 

The day for the heist arrives and pretty much every man in the gang goes to do it. A few hours later, they return to Thieves Landing bearing bad news. Somehow the law knew the boat was going to be hit and they met the gang with fierce opposition. Poor Jenny, whom you’d just started to get to know, was shot and so was Davey and John. Dutch and Hosea start shouting for everyone to get packed up as the Pinkertons are in pursuit. 

Days go by and Thieves Landing is far behind you and the others. The gang has moved north, still trying to shake the Pinkertons off. Jenny passed away two days ago, but no one has been able to bury her as a massive snowstorm moved in shortly after she passed. 

Moral is at an all-time low, yours included. You wouldn’t dream of leaving though, these people have become your close friends and even border on something like a family. Grimshaw tries to encourage everyone to stay positive, but it’s clear she doesn’t feel it much either. 

Night falls once again as the wagon train goes along a narrow pass, the horses trudging through the thick snow. The weather has stayed horrible for days, dumping the white powder in great heaps. The Pinkertons haven’t been seen in the past two days. Perhaps this means the gang can finally find somewhere to hide. Dutch sent Arthur out a few hours ago to scout, along with John and Micah. 

Arthur returns just as Abigail makes note that Davey is nearly dead. He reports that he found a place to shelter and guides the train there. It’s a small town named Colter according to a small sign by the main trail. The gang moves into the largest building but Abigail says Davey’s passed. Soon after, Dutch and Arthur go out to find what else might be around and they end up bringing back a heartbroken woman named Sadie. 

Two days go by and the weather’s hardly let up. You stand outside in the freezing, snowy morning. You just need a break from the others for a while. Even though you enjoy most of them, being cooped up in such tight quarters for so long has worn you out. However, you’re already shivering from the cold under all your layers. 

“You doin’ okay? Ya look half frozen,” a voice says from behind. You turn and see Arthur, wrapped up in his big blue coat, his face hidden beneath his hat. 

“Yeah. Yeah, just need a break. Been a tough few days.” 

“It sure has.” Suddenly a fierce blast of wind whistles down the path and Arthur wraps an arm around you as though to protect you from it. As you lack a hat and your head’s covered only by a thin blanket, you bury your head into his chest. He lets you though, but as soon as the wind dies a little you pull away from him, your face red. You blame it on the cold wind. 

However, something changes with your view of Arthur. Sure, you’ve seen him comforting most people in the gang and he’s known for being caring and gentle, interested in all movements in the gang. But you were never a receiver of that care until now. You try denying your feelings, saying you’ve just been isolated for too long. 

Nearly a week goes by and you’ve tried keeping distance between yourself and Arthur, believing your feelings will cool down with the space. The weather finally breaks and Hosea suggests camping in a new place he knows in the Heartlands. The gang is moved into action finally and the wagon train moves down to it. 

It’s a great relief to finally be surrounded by trees and green rather than white and feel the warm sun instead of cold wind. The new camp spot, Horseshoe Overlook, is beautiful. Immediately you’re set to work by Grimshaw, but when night falls, you’re allowed to rest. 

You stand on the edge of camp near the cliff, overlooking the river and the canyon. This place is beautiful. You’ve rarely seen this much moving water, being from the desert. Arthur walks over with two bowls of stew. 

“Here, noticed you ain’t eaten yet.” He hands you one and you thank him. 

The two of you stand together, eating without speaking for a few moments. 

“So, now you been with us a while and seen us at our best and worst,” Arthur says, “what you thinkin’ of doing?” 

“How do you mean?” 

“I mean what you plan on doin’? You gonna stay or you thinkin’ of movin’ on? No one would blame you if you decided to leave.” 

“Do you… want me to leave?” you say with a pang. 

“No. No, far from it. I think you could easily find a place among us. Seems like you already have too. Pretty much everyone here likes ya.” 

You blush a little and look away. “I think I wanna stay. I like it here.” 

He smiles a little, his blue eyes shining. You feel a surge of desire to hug him, your heart beating a bit faster. “Well, good. Like I said, think you’ll fit in easy.” 

He takes your empty plate and heads off, leaving you alone. You turn and watch him, wanting nothing more than to be with him. Part of you wishes he’d come back to you, but he heads off to sit next to John and Hosea at the campfire. You turn back to watch the sunset, trying to push him out of your mind. It won’t do you any favors.

The next morning, you’re sitting with the other girls doing chores. Mary-Beth turns to you. “So, saw you blushing when Arthur said good mornin’ to you.” She gives you a sly look. 

“I… I thought I had to sneeze right when he spoke to me,” you lie. 

“It’s okay if you like him,” she says consolingly. “To be honest, I think we all developed a little thing for him in the beginning. I did anyways.” 

“I’d be lyin’ if I said I didn’t,” Tilly says. “But, do yourself a favor, Y/N. Move on from him. I ain’t sayin’ that out of selfishness or cruelty, but Arthur’s unavailable.” 

“I didn’t know he had someone,” you say sadly. 

“Well, he doesn’t anymore, but he can’t seem to move on from her,” Mary-Beth explains. 

As if on queue, Arthur walks out of his tent, reading a letter. Susan walks up to him and they exchange words. You hear the name Mary and Susan tells him she never liked her. He says something to her and then heads out. 

“And there he goes, off to see her,” Karen says sourly. “She barely has to say his name and he’ll move mountains to see her.” 

Your heart sinks even further. You’d just begun to accept the fact that you have some strong feelings for Arthur, but this is a harsh blow. If he’s still attached to this woman, it means he’s definitely not interested in you. It’d be best if you give him up. 

Night comes and Arthur’s returned. Once again, he brings you a plate of food as you stand near the cliff. A long silence passes between the two of you, your mind heavy. 

“You okay? Awful quiet,” he says. 

“I’m doin’ just fine, Arthur, thank you though,” you say somewhat coldly. You mentally make a note to be a little nicer. It’s not his fault you’ve got a crush on him. 

“You sure? If ya need to talk, I’m always willin’ to listen. I want ya to be happy.” 

God, why does he have to be so sweet yet so unavailable? It’s incredibly frustrating. You turn to him. 

“Well, maybe you can help. Have you ever had real strong feelings for someone? Someone you couldn’t be with because you know they’d never want to be with you, and because they’re hung up on someone else?”

He gives you a curious look. “Who you talkin’ about?” His face falls a bit. “It’s John, ain’t it? You got a thing for him, don’t ya?”

Is that envy in his eyes? “J-John? No, Arthur, I don’t have a thing for John. Sure he’s nice and funny, but he’s not my type. Plus I think Abigail would murder anyone who tried anything with him.” 

His face lightens up a bit. “I think you’re right there. Well, I don’t know much about relationships. Pretty useless, in fact.” 

You smile up at him. “Well, thought I’d ask.” 

“Who is this person?” he asks. “Anyone I know?” 

“Definitely. He’s… someone in this gang, but like I said, he’s emotionally unavailable. Besides, I wouldn’t stand a chance with him.” 

“Ah, don’t sell yourself short.” He sighs a little. “Well, maybe you just need to walk up to this feller, tell him exactly how you feel.” 

“Okay. Arthur, I like you.” 

“Exactly. Just like that.” He smiles. “See? It ain’t so hard.” 

“No, Arthur, you’re not listening to me,” you say, your face beat red. “I said I like you.” 

He blinks and straightens up a bit. He looks shocked. Or maybe that’s anger. Fear stings your stomach and you take a step back. 

“I… I’m sorry. I was… just practicing.” You turn to walk away, deciding never to be alone with Arthur again. You can’t blame him for being angry either. You wouldn’t like you if you were him. 

“Y/N, wait.” His hand’s on your shoulders. “Did you mean it?” 

You look down at your feet. “I’m sorry, Arthur. I didn’t choose to like you, and I’m sorry for it. Not because you’re not a good man,” you say hastily at the look on his face. “What I meant is I’m sorry for… me.” 

His eyes soften considerably. “Please don’t apologize. Especially for you bein’ yourself. Can I tell you a secret?” He leans in a little and whispers, “I’ve liked ya since that day up in Colter.” 

You blush even deeper. “Me too.” 

His arms suddenly slide around you, hot and gentle. Your hands are on his shoulders and he leans down, placing his lips on yours. Something flutters in your chest. It’s like a bird is trapped inside, fighting to get out. They’re slightly chapped, but the moment his lips touch yours, the bird settles and gives a satisfied purr. You lean into the kiss, sighing a little. 

“Bout time you two finally did somethin’,” Hosea says, walking past. He gives you both a sly smile. “Dutch and I been gettin’ tired of seeing you two gettin’ all dovey eyed when the other wasn’t looking.” 

You laugh and put your forehead onto Arthur’s chest, trying to hide your face as Arthur laughs. 

“Sorry, Hosea.” 

“Nah, you two kids have fun.” He walks off, chuckling a bit. Arthur looks down at you and smiles. 

“You wanna go somewhere a little more private? Try that kiss where we won’t be spied on?” 

You bite your lip and smile, nodding. Arthur takes your hand and leads you off into the trees. You pin him to a tree and kiss him hard, pressing your body on his. His arms slide up your back and wind into your hair. As the kiss deepens, you wonder where else this night will go. 

[nightashes]

Anxceit!! With Virgil having stood up for Janus, Virgil got hurt, and Janus now has to help him!!

You Help Me. I Help You.

a/n: Thanks so much for suggesting this! You’ll have to let me know what you think!

warnings: bullies. blood. violence.

ao3 version - writing masterlist

The sun is high in the sky. A few clouds drift by, wispy in appearance. As if an artist had taken a paintbrush and lightly blended them into the blue of the atmosphere. Janus sits amongst a collection of philosophy books, full of sticky notes and highlighter. His computer lies open in his lap, an empty word document stares out from the screen, mocking the student. Taunting him with the blinking of the text cursor, as more and more minutes pass without anything new to add to the page.

Janus has plenty to say on society. On morals he could rant for hours. Gender roles, he might as well clear his schedule for the day. But, the philosophy of love? He just couldn’t bring himself to care. 

Marriage is just a made up cultural obligation that society forces everyone to care about. Oh, these people love each other! Let’s spend all of our money on an unnecessary ceremony that will force the couple to stay together or face tons of debt to undo. And that’s just marriage. Romance in general is completely overrated, overpraised, and overdone. 

Janus sighs, shifting his capelet on his shoulders in agitation. With spring slowly turning to summer, his signature outfit was beginning to grow uncomfortable in the heat. But did Janus care? Absolutely not. Beauty was pain and he loves his bowler hat and capelet more than society loves its billionaires. 

He stares out across the campus lawn, scowling. The warm weather not only threatens his comfort but it has attracted hordes of students, crowding together to distract people like him that actually have papers to write. Warm weather is just awful. Truly horrid. Nothing good about it. He thinks to himself, watching a nearby group of students push and prod each other, their laughter loud and obnoxious. And to his left, another student, similarly dressed in dark clothing lounges beneath a tree. He spies Janus watching him and gesturing to the loud group rolls his eyes in annoyance. Janus smiles back, nodding in agreement. The purple clad student smirks. Flipping to a new page in his notebook. He begins sketching, quick and messily he runs his pen across the lined paper. Drawing hurriedly, and sneaking glances at the group before them. Catching Janus’s eye once done, he grins deviously. Flipping the notebook over, the student dramatically reveals a rather rough sketch of the three being attacked by a giant snake. Their shocked and terrified expressions caused the philosophy major to burst out into a deep and ruckus laughter. Booming out through the area, it shocks the offending group into silence. They turn around seeking the source of the sound. “What the fudge, you laugh like a Disney villain.” The one wearing a puka necklace calls out.

Janus stifles his chuckles, as the three make their way over to his position. “What are you even laughing at? Did your imaginary friend tell a joke?” A guy in a baseball cap, who thinks himself clever, speaks with bravado.

His friend with the sunglasses continues. “Are you seriously wearing a cape right now? What are you, some kind of nutcase?”

“A cape, I have no idea what you could possibly be referring to? I’m wearing a perfectly boring and unoriginal outfit just like you three fashionistas?” Janus speaks, sarcasm dripping with each word, his eyes glinting with mischief.

“Did he just insult us?” Baseball cap questions. Genuinely looking confused. Janus can’t help but chuckle at the poor fellow.

“Oh, of course not. It was a compliment. I love it when people think wearing jeans and a t-shirt makes them an individual. You three must be so brave. I applaud you.” He slowly claps his hands, emphasizing each word. ”Good job on being so unique.”

Baseball Cap grabs the front of Janus’s jacket, lifting him up to a standing position. The brute leans in closely, his breath stinking of onions. He whispers menacingly. “You think you’re smarter than us? You think you’re better than us? You're wearing a frickin’ Halloween costume in April. You’re a freak.”

“Takes a freak to know a freak.” Janus breaks in. The brute throws him to the ground. He lands on his computer, a loud crack filling the air as the screen digs into his back. He winces painfully.

“HEY!” A voice, rough and angry, yells over the commotion. Janus rolls his head to the side, seeking the source of the shout. The darkly clad student is marching over, his fists are lowered to his side, his face dark, and his features pinched in rage. “GET AWAY FROM HIM!” His voice booms, venom dripping from his words as he shoves his way through the group, trying to reach Janus. 

Puka necklace grabs the hood of his jacket. Yanking him back into the center of their crew. Sunglasses grasp the student’s chin, “Well, well, well, What do we have here? Does the freak have a friend?”

The student glares back daggers, opens his mouth, and seizes Sunglasses’s hand between his teeth. He bites down hard, eliciting a scream of pain. Puka Necklace yanks him away from Sunglasses, while Baseball Cap gives him a right-hook to the check. The student collapses to the ground. Sunglasses kicks him in the ribs, clutching onto his bleeding hand. He lets loose a string of curse words. Kicking out again at the already down student, before stomping off. His buddies follow, angrily yelling and gesturing maddeningly.

With them gone, Janus rushes to the fallen student. The injured man lies on the ground, curled into a fetal position. His arms wrapping around him in comfort and protection. Janus kneels beside his fellow student. 

“Hey, hey don’t worry. You’re okay.” He whispers assurances as his gloved hand rests on the boy’s shoulder.

The student weakly shoves his hand away. “Leave me alone.” He snarls, trying his best to rise. He manages to crouch onto his knees. His palms pressed into the fertile green grass of the campus lawn. He bends his fingers, digging his nails into the soil, breathing heavily from his mouth. A drop of blood is smeared across his lower lip. “I’ve got this.” The student sighs.

Janus appraises the stubborn student. “Yeah. I can see that.” He shakes his head in exasperation. The philosophy major sits there in silence, his chin resting in his hand as he watches the much too proud student attempt to stand. The purple clad man clutches his ribs as he brings his legs up beneath him. Trying to shift onto his feet, only to wobble and fall to his side. 

“Ugh, everything hurts.” He groans.

“Oh really? Because I thought you were doing great? But, please, do let me know if you need a hand?”

“I’m fine.” The student spits, lying on his back, clearly not fine.

Janus rolls his eyes at the obvious lie. “Are you always this stubborn or is it only on Tuesdays?”

The student shifts his eyes to the side, examining his odd companion. “Just Tuesday and Thursdays. Although on Sundays I flip a coin.”

An amused tsk escapes Janus’s lips. “Well, I do appreciate the help with that gang. Running in like you did. You’re a true hero.” Janus bats his eyes, while his “savior” scrunches his face in annoyance. 

“Oh har-de-har-har. You’re a real comedian.”

“No, really, I mean it. You… well.. You tried to help. And I suppose, that’s a nice thing to do. It’s a shame it backfired so spectacularly.”

“Yeah, well, that’s the story of my life, I suppose.”

“Things would probably go a little better if you’d let me help you. The name’s Janus by the way.” He sticks out a hand to the supine student.

“Virgil.’ His attempted savior answers, giving an odd two-finger salute in response.

Janus smiles, refusing to withdraw his hand. “Will you let me help you, Virgil?”

Virgil stares into the sky, genuinely considering his options. “I suppose I’ve already made a big enough fool of myself.” The purple student declares to the universe, finally taking hold of the offered hand.

The philosophy major growls at the self deprecation. “Wow, you truly are a fool.” Janus pulls his “savior” into a sitting position. 

Virgil winces at the movement. “Thanks for the motivation.” 

“No, really, you are an absolute fool. Stay here, I have some napkins in my bag.”

“Uhh...How am I a fool?” Virgil questions, watching Janus grab his bag and return, holding a napkin up to Virgil’s face. 

“The fact that you think accepting help makes you a fool.”

“Yeah. Yeah. I get it. Everyone needs help. Oh, thanks.” Virgil winces as Janus applies the napkin to his lip. 

“No, you clearly don’t get it. Hold that there.” Janus releases the napkin into Virgil’s grasp, pulling out his phone to text Remus. “My roommate is pre-med. I’ll see if he’s free. Can you lift up your shirt? I need to see your ribs.”

“Uhh.. is that necessary?” Virgil blushes red and well… Janus just couldn’t pass it up. He leans in. 

“Is something wrong? You’re flushing red?” He hurriedly removes a glove from his hand. Pressing his bare palm to the forehead of the injured student. He leans in close, smiling. “You’re not feverish. Could it be… that you find me attractive?” His smile is wicked.

Virgil scowls pushing him away. “Please, just because you’re dressed like a Disney villain, does not mean I think you’re cool or attractive or anything.”

“Wait.” Janus reels back. “You like my outfit?”

“I mean, yeah. It’s just so unashamedly you. And well, Disney villains are just cool.”

“I can’t argue with that.” Janus leans in close again. “But I still would like to check your ribs. If you’d allow me.”

“Ummm… okay.” He lifts his shirt up slowly. Revealing bruises that are already beginning to show. “Is that bad? That looks bad?”

“Absolutely not. Ribs are supposed to look like that.” Janus jokes. Virgil does not find it funny in the slightest. He sighs. “You’ll be fine. Don’t worry. I’ve seen worse than this.”

“You have?”

“Yeah. The roommate I mentioned. He gets into quite a few scrapes. He’s a lot like us. Unabashedly himself.” Janus speaks gently pressing his fingers to the ribs as Remus had taught him. 

Virgil winces at the touch. “Maybe that’s not the best thing to be.”

“Don’t be an idiot, Virgil. Being myself is why you find me attractive.”

Virgil blushes, spluttering. “What??”

“It’s okay.” Janus smirks. “It’s why I find you attractive too.”

Virgil is practically gasping for air, the poor fellow. Janus pulls Virgil’s shirt back into place. He rises to stare into his savior’s eyes. “Well, I think you’ll be fine until Remus gets here. Until then, do you think I could have your number?”

The purple student gulps, nodding his head vigorously. He attempts to speak. His voice cracking. He pauses. And tries again. “Yes. Yeah. Um… okay.” He speaks quietly. 

Janus unlocks his phone. Handing it over, he leans in to watch as the student types in his number, trying his best not to smile from ear to ear. “Thank you for letting me help you, Virgil.” He whispers as his phone is returned to him. Taking it back, he lightly lifts Virgil’s hand to his lips. Kissing the back of his fingers. “I think you’ve just helped me write my paper.”

awesome people to tag: @stop-it-anxiety @rainboots-are-for-snobs @hexatrash @ollyollyoxinfree @battlebunnyteardropsinthesun @leiasolo77

[markoberposts]

More Fun Movies Seen

     Well, I did yesterday as I’d forecast within my prior posts.  I went out and saw another large group of movies all at once...this time FOUR of them one after the other all at the same theater...this occurring once again at Tempe Marketplace as I’d done the day before as well.  In fact, I’ve just set what I’m sure are 2 separate new records for myself thanks to all of the great new Summer movies that have come out all at once.  As I’d talked about yesterday, I had just seen on Thursday all of the 3 movies: Child’s Play, Annabelle Comes Home, and The Secret Life of Pets 2.  And then on Friday--yesterday--I followed this up by further seeing the 4 movies: Men in Black: International, Anna, Toy Story 4, and then lastly, The Dead Don't Die.  So seeing yesterday’s 4 movies both sets a record for me for the most theater movies seen all in the same day as well as the most--as in 7--theater movies seen all within a short time period...that of a 2 day period.  So I think that the movie-makers have been making up for last year, being that I don’t recall there having really been very many movies at the start of Summer that had attracted my attention in 2018.  But wow...this was a lot of movies for having seen all at the same visit, with my having scheduled them intentionally so that I’d have about a half an hour between each movie if for no other reason but to go outside the theater and get warmed up again!  And I say that with this even being in Phoenix and with it having been 110 degrees at the time!  Yes indeed, they keep our theaters cool by comparison, especially when you are wearing shorts and a thin T-shirt.

     Anyway, to start with, the movie Men in Black: International was a very fun and cool movie, with both of the lead actors of course being great within it and with my particularly enjoying watching Tessa Thompson, even with my not having become a fan of hers before this movie.  And of course all of the cool aliens really make it interesting and fun to watch...it being right up there with Star Wars in this regard and probably even much more elaborately designed within these movies compared to Star Wars or most other Sci-Fi movies.  Anyway, the story was exciting and fun, and the special effects were as great as ever.

     And next I saw the movie Anna.  And although it was a bit different than I’d expected, it was nevertheless interesting and fairly exciting.  I admit that what had attracted me to it the most was the previews where it had showed her literally destroying guys around her with hardly lifting a finger, being such a precise and skilled fighter.  I hadn’t read about it in advance, however, so I was surprised by it being a story about growing up in Russia and working for the KGB.  But that was still by itself somewhat interesting, although I admittedly enjoyed the action scenes quite a lot more.  I was, however, sympathizing with her all along, hoping that she would eventually find freedom.  And even though I’ve always been strongly against killing any life forms (and no I’m not a Democrat...I’m actually an Independent simply because I don’t align with ANY political parties...not even whatever being an ‘Independent’ represents simply beyond being literally independent from all party ideals, my feeling repulsed by ALL political parties), I nevertheless find it odd that I’m able to--for movies such as this--feel completely okay watching her slaughter people left and right, perhaps simply because they’re supposedly the bad guys...or at least they’re agents who align themselves more with loyalties to bad people rather than to upholding what’s good and right on a moral level.  And of course I also really enjoyed the movie because the actress is simply beautiful.  In fact, I had to look her up after the movie for this very reason, finding that she is actually a true Russian actress, and that this film was a French film, even with it also focused on the American C.I.A.  And when I looked her up in Wikipedia and then in IMDb, I was at least happy to see her smiling and happy most of the time, being that she did a great job of appearing so depressed and sad most of the time in the movie, with the couple of sex scenes not really detracting much from this overall dark mood.  But in the end, it actually finished rather nicely.  So I’d say that it was a pretty good movie overall.

     And then I saw the movie Toy Story 4, which I really found to be very pleasant and entertaining, with it actually being just as much a love story as it was a movie about helping “Forky” to get back to its little human female creator kid who was really missing it quite a bit.  And aside from the movie also being a love story involving Bo Peep and Woody, it was also the tiniest bit about it kind of resembling the Transformer movies, at least as far as how a human might be able to cause their toys to “come to life” as happens within the Toy Story movies.  But this movie was really fun and exciting, and the dummies in it were really rather scary.  In fact, I’d always wondered exactly why the ventriloquists had designed dummies to look like that...with their always looking so spooky-like!  We never find out within this movie...but it does work well to make it rather scary.  And I love all of the carnival scenes, being that they reminded me of another recent animation movie that I’d seen of a similar nature called Wonder Park, which I’d enjoyed because of the fantasy aspect of finding a hidden giant place such as Disneyland tucked away in some remote hidden forest.  Anyway, this movie, Toy Story 4, was great and exciting and fun and was well worth seeing.

     And finally, I then saw as my last movie for the night the movie, The Dead Don’t Die, which was a very, very slow-paced but nevertheless campy type of amusing movie about the end of the world zombie apocalypse.  It has a lot of appealing parts to it, although it certainly didn’t follow the typical Hollywood type format of a small group of people--especially the heroes--surviving in the end.  Nope!  We all die in the end...and that is that!  LOL.  It really was a bit sad in this respect, however, because I really wanted the always-attractive Selena Gomez--normally known for her songs--to actually survive in the end.  But SORRY!  She’s a goner just like everyone else is...except perhaps the man in the woods...oh, and the alien-lady, who was VERY interesting to watch because of her always looking...well...kind of like an alien!  But she was really great in this movie with her abilities to strike zombies down with her sword!  Too bad she couldn’t rescue them all in the end.  But perhaps some of the funniest and oddest things were the tendencies of Adam Driver--the bad guy in the latest Star Wars movies who KILLS his father Han Solo (DARN HIM!)--to step outside of character and talk about the script of the very movie itself.  And this is part of what makes it so funny, being that from the beginning, Bill Murray asks him about what’s going on and Adam Driver always responds that he has a feeling that things will end badly.  Eventually, in fact, Bill Murray finally asks him why he always acts like he knows that it’s going to end badly, and that’s when Adam reveals that it’s because he’d read the script!  In response, Bill Murray finally then admits that he’d read the script as well, of course, but that he hadn’t read that it would end badly.  Anyway, there are plenty of other fun jokes within it as well, with the key to the humor being of course the deadpan reactions by most people, especially Bill Murray and Adam Driver, to all of the various events that happen around them, even as they work to both figure out things and at least attempt to see if there’s anyway to help people out.  But of course there isn’t in the end, because when the Moon develops a purple edge to it, and the Earth changes its rotation, then we are all DOOMED for sure!  So we’d best take a lesson from this movie, with that lesson apparently being for us to simply give up!  I mean, if there ever really is a zombie apocalypse to come of this nature, then there wouldn’t seem too awfully much that we could do about it.  But who knows, perhaps a small group of survivors might be able to board one of the rockets from either Elon Musk or Jeff Bezos and somehow make it outside the scope of influence of such a badly-resurrecting type of force!  Or then again, perhaps instead someday a resurrection might occur where the people aren’t really zombies, but actually become once again like normal people, although perhaps with bodies that no longer age nor feel pain.  Wouldn’t that be great?!  One can always hope...   :)

[koalaaquabear]

My Long, Mature, Spoiler-Filled, Annoying, Critical, Analytical, Angry 2am Review of MS:WAF... PART 1

Sidenote: I had watched this beforehand, but I watched again to take some notes. Also I got very angry during this, but I actually loved the episode!

-Aww Jess' giggle -OOOOO new blujay studios thingy! -Sidenote: Irene literally plays like ZERO PART IN THIS EPISODE but is somehow in opening scene and is the FUCKING THUMBNAIL bitch you ain't special. -This was the concept art that Jason tweeted! I pay attention, honey. -Change course dumbass! -Agent R you idiot! "They won't shoot yet" Of course they're going to shoot, get into the fucking cabin! Why are you even on the deck? Nobody is manning this boat's controls! -WHAT DID I JUST SAY? THEY. ARE. GOING. TO. SHOOT. -How the hell are they missing every single shot, the fuck? They're like freaking Stormtroopers. -Ah yes, move towards the bullets. -Is Michael Bay on the Blujay team? -Wait, what about the other guy? Is there a crew that you just left behind to drown/burn to a crisp? What the hell is happening? -Okay it is literally impossible that he hasn't been shot, his boat was crossing DIRECTLY THROUGH BULLETS. -Ah yes, boat mechanics. That's how it works. Abso-looney. -YEET -Well, there goes the animation budget. I'm gonna go watch MSS4 Ein vs Aaron fight scene to redeem this. -Also, he was lying on the ground for long enough to get aim and fire. Who the hell did they hire for the Guardian Forces and why are they terrible at their jobs? Almost as terrible as Zack is at being a father oooooo too soon? No, fuck you Zack it's never too soon. Sorry I got emotional, continue. -AHAHAHAHHAHAHAHHA HIS EARS ARE THE SAME COLOUR AS HIS HAIR AHHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHHA also shit he's a werewolf. -He says 'for me?' like really flattered like "Oooo they didn't forget me and my very important suitcase!" -Wait did he say go? It sounded like no..? I'm gonna assume it was go. -AHHHH HE hAS A LITTLE CURLY TAIIIIIL! -Oh shit, this place got ransacked. -Agent R literally just said ransacked :O I read minds. -GF... GF... huh. Ok. I'll play your games, Jess, but just know that I don't like it. -OKAY so the Guardian Forces came in, the gang had to "Fight for our lives to get out", and Garroth has not a scratch on him, and nobody seems to be dead. How plausible is this? Not. Not at all. But, I said I'll play your games Jess... continue... -Actually scratch that the Guardian Forces are terrible at their jobs so the fact that he isn't injured is absolutely plausible. -Evacuated inland? Who's genius idea was that? Probably Derek's. Coward. -The only reason they can't see you, Garroth, is because they literally have their eyes covered by annoying and unnecessary helmets that no army force should be wearing. -Werewolf strength+potion strength=Garroth can singlehandedly kill most of these guys. -Don't worry about the guns, guys, they have no fucking idea how to use them. -Rookie? I mean sure the guy can't even USE A GUN but y'all didn't know that. He could've been quieter, but he was JUST turned into a werewolf and probs can't control his strength. Idk I'm spiraling. -"Kid" because he isn't Guy Fieri. -Landing like that directly on your legs, without being like a trained gymnast, will most likely injure you to the point where you can't run like you are right now. But hey, that's none of my business. -None of the force decided to stay outside to guard it so they couldn't escape? They keep proving my point of being dumbasses. -Ah, a peaceful panoramic to disguise what just happened. -Those things on the poles look like Travis' shirt hahahahahha. -Is that Aphmau? Ah, the camera is now following her, and she is wearing purple. t is Aphmau. -How did they get that photo? -Ooo everyone's trapped! -Searching the island, but still can't recognize this black haired, amber eyed girl with a purple choker on, the same girl in the photo with their main suspect... These fucking imbeciles. -HOW DID THEY GET ALL OF THOSE PHOTOS!? "Acquired photos" That just so happen to be the most SPECIFIC photos. Like if it was passport photos or drivers liscense or social media, like that I could get, but these are literally impossible, especially the close up of Derek. If they were secretly taking photos, they wouldn't be able to get one from that close up. Funny how this random thing makes me upset. -Why are they both southern? Well, why not I guess. -Mysterious alley? Must be getting money for her drug dealer, -Skip Ad. -Why does it say "thanks for watching" before even the halfway mark? I'm somewhat confused by that for some reason. -Not drugs, secret apartment, okie dokes I like this better. -Of course Zane is being a whiny bitch. -"Safety" is a very flexible word, which is all that you need to know about this conversation. Also that this is apparently now The Maze Runner? I don't know either. -The Guardian F? Just call it the G-Force, like that movie with the guinea pigs and that blind mole who are secret agents. That would make for a much funnier video lol. -That was much longer than it needed to be. That convo did not need to be on screen either, but whatever, it was a really cute friendship moment. -DOES HE HAVE A CHAIN ON HIS JEAnS!? -What is that? -Thou may not have lighting. Well, nevermind, turns out they do have lighting. -How does no one know they're here? -That's the worst map ever. -AWWWW LUCINDA'S OUTFIT! -Oh they haven't looked here yet? You're telling me that there is a huge search out for the Lycan family, and they havene't even MADE IT TO THIS AREA YET? -Okay you won me back with Aaron's smile. -Why are they moving systematically? How small is this task force? How big is starlight? I need numbers people! -So they have a fleet around the island, but no more people to storm the island and actually find the people? Get more people then, call in a SWAT team? Is the Guardian Force even a government approved task force? If they aren't, why are they allowed to shut down a HUGE resort? If they are, how come they don't have A) People who can shoot. And B) Enough people to actually search properly for the people they're looking for? So many unanswered questions! -No Aaron. -No! Say no Derek! -THANK YOU! There are so many holes in this plan! -ALrighty Lycans, you need to step back because NEITHER OF THOSE WILL WORK! Moving inland will corner you, Derek, but transporting your entire group will get you caught, Aaron. What you need to do is figure out their patterns. Move systematically, somewhat like they are, and not in one place for too long? You are stuck in the perfect storm, and none of these options will work, but if you think you can just move inland, away from the GF, you are dumb, but you also can't move all together. -New idea, get guns and shoot at them, because no matter what, they can't shoot back. Because they suck. A lot. I'm still salty. -The thing about being fugitives, Aaron, is that YOU HAVE TO RELOCATE EVERY TIME THEY GET CLOSER! -No it is not. -How about you plan ahead Derek? Why are the women not speaking up, Lucinda probably knows her shit. -DEREK YOU ASSHOLE LISTEN TO AT LEAST A BIT OF WHAT YOUR SON IS SAYING~! -They were both wrong, but I probably would have to agree with Aaron? He's right, move too far inland and you'll run out of places to hide. -Finally a casual Kawaii~Chan. -Nobody knows it's you, Aphmau, or you woulda been taken in. -Dammit Garte. -IT DOES GARTE, YOU WERE PART OF THE MICHAEL THING! -YOU CAN'T DO ANYTHING ABOUT IT NOW, SO SHUT THE HELL UP! -STOP YELLING AT YOUR WIFE, SHE IS RIGHT! -You cannot be a pessimist right now, Garte, it is not the time. Be there for your son instead of bitching about it. -Well, I guess Garte has 0 loyalty for anyone but his family. -You are interrupting, but thank Irene I was about to slap him. -How much money do they have on them? -STOP BITCHING ABOUT EVERYTHING GARTE! -He's so selfish, what the hell! -Green does not accentuate blue, Zianna. -Flirting gets him to shut up! Hazah! -OH MY GOD I SWEAR I OWN THAT OUTFIT! -Oh shit, that is bloody. How come she is injured, but Garroth and most of the others aren't? -Melissa modesty is not needed rn. -Skip Ad. Also JAX! -Is Zane's hair different? -Everyone always forgets that Garroth isn't the only Ro'Meave. -And then the acid kicked in. -Zane Ro'Meave triggered something. -Aww cuties! -That is not sugar, it is 100% cocaine. -Aww that's sweet. -It's called boosting morale, bitches. -"Eh" Does not mean it didn't go too well, it means that the Lycans are dumbasses. -Yeah, and failing miserably. -No gunshot wounds? Who the hell are these people? -"Hun" aww that's cute. -Garroth=best character -ROWANADNSANSNAJD -What is in the case? -The boat defied laws of physics. -That was a cute reunion, now let's ruin it. -Tons of techies, absolutely TERRIBLE strategy. -No they haven't, and even if they did, nothing would happen because MICHAEL YOUR TASK FORCE SUCKS! -Ok ok I get it, so they don't have full access right? Which means that they do not have a warrant. Which means that they aren't legal. Which means that they DO NOT HAVE THE RIGHT TO GOOSE CHASE THROUGH ONE OF THE LARGEST THEME PARKS EVER... right? -Michael actually doesn't care, apparently, about catching the guy who betrayed him, or about the Ultima case. He just holds thousands of people hostage on some islands for fun! -He is right! Don't take this Toby, fite him! -Fucking Cyborg walks in, just casually, just as you do. -Michael, that's not how time works. -What are they doing? What? Huh? -AND END EPISODE. Wow okay.

[starwrite-er]

Poster Boy [Chapter 16] - Poe Dameron x Reader

A/N: *coughing* this update is long overdue holy shit sorry but hey the last jedi is coming out next month so I shld probs get around to finishing this lol *coughing*

A/N: was kind of imaging the outfit the reader wears in coruscant to be like what Nadine Ross wears to the Rossi Estate auction in Uncharted 4, but, like, more nightclub-esque?

Tag List (jesus this has decreased in number yikes): @firefeatherx @plethora-of-things @britishteahater @umbrellabrass @purple-skeleton @winchesterandpie @the-creative-lie @i-alrightokaycool @definitely-nota-fangirl

 Three days after Keipii apparently referred to Poe as ‘dad’, I find myself up early, preparing to leave on a mission of my own. Keipii insisted on seeing me off, resulting in Jessika being woken up at a painful hour to watch over her, at least until Poe arrived back on base later that day.

 “Ready to go?” I ask Niyele.

 “Ready as I’ll ever be.” She replies. I smile at her reassuringly, reminded that this is her first mission.

 With my old friend by my side, we depart from D’Qar, following through with our plans for Coruscant. It was nothing too hard: Niyele would be gaining ‘field experience’ by sticking by me while I dealt with extracting information from a First Order official stationed on the highly industrialised and urban planet.

 “So, how’re you feeling about your first mission?” I ask my old friend.

 “Uh, nervous? Almost apprehensive?” She tries, shrugging. “I don’t know. It’s kind of surreal that I’m doing this, to be honest.”

 “And to think, just a few short weeks ago you would have never considered joining the Resistance,” I crack a smile in her direction as I continue to pilot the low-profile ship. “Don’t worry about it though, just stick by me and use your common sense and you’ll be fine.”

 “So no wandering around the cityscape?” Niyele tries to joke, but I shoot her a look.

 “Listen, I don’t want to put you off, but I’m being dead serious when I say you need to stay by me at all times,” I tell her, the tone of my voice humourless. “Coruscant is crawling with criminals; one foot out of line and you won’t even make it back to base.”

 My warning quiets Niyele, at least for a moment.

 “I mean, that’s funny though, because aren’t we technically criminals?” My friend speaks up, taking me by surprise.

 “What?” Is all I can manage to say in response.

 “The mere existence of the Resistance goes against a couple laws, not to mention the individual charges that could be given,” Niyele pauses, glancing over at me before she continues. “Destruction of property, theft, kidnapping, illegal dealings, murder... and that’s just to list a few.”

 I swallow thickly, completely caught off guard by her words. I frown, knowing that, really, she isn’t wrong.

 A strong feeling of guilt twists in my gut at the thought, and I find myself rationalising it the best I can - the First Order is doing worse to more.

 The silence that settles over us for the rest of the journey isn’t an entirely comfortable one, at least until we arrive at our destination.

 Despite it’s rough reputation, it’s hard to deny how impressive the ecumenopolis is. A historical centre of galactic politics, there’s a lot to Coruscant, from the neon lights glowing from the deeper levels, to the glinting metal buildings that pierce the troposphere, reserved for only the highest ranked in the galaxy. We’re here with a purpose, though. We don’t have time for sightseeing.

 “Intel has told us that there’s a club not far from here that this First Order guy will be at tonight,” I refresh Niyele’s memory of the details. “The place is likely going to swarming with guards, so we needs to be as inconspicuous as possible.”

 Niyele hums in acknowledgment, drinking in the sights around us. Right - she’d never left Pamarthe before the incident a couple weeks ago. This is all brand new to her.

 Upon our arrival, we step out of the small ship and venture into our temporary quarters. It’s nothing too fancy, just a simple grey room with a single, long window giving us a good view of the surrounding city. If all were to go well, the mission would be done with by the following morning.

 In the bag I carry in with me is a top and trousers more suited to a nightclub setting. I slip into the change of clothes as the time of the mission draws closer, the more dressy outfit feeling foreign compared to my usual attire.

 As the mission is simply to extract information from a specified member of the First Order, I’m not sure of what I’m looking for him to say - intel just said that, as rumour has it, he has some info that the Resistance would be interested in. So, to avoid me missing anything, a holocam is hidden in a necklace I’ve been told to wear, and an audio recorder concealed by the fabric of my shirt. Set for the mission, I flick the devices on, and leave the quarters with Niyele, also dressed for the occasion.

 Galactic City is illuminated more by artificial lights than perhaps even the sun it orbits as it struggles to pierce the braze, and as night falls, the synthetic glow keeps the ecumenopolis as bright as it would be during the day. The high level club our mission dictates we must visit seems to be no exception to this, the surrounding neon signs bathing us in bold colours. On a planet so far from it’s sun, I’d find myself cold if it weren’t for the industrial heat.

 The haze inside is intoxicating, strobe lights flashing throughout the room. The hum of music and the buzz of conversation is almost deafening as we push through the crowd. Amongst the numerous bodies, I spot my target sitting at the cantina. Glancing back over my shoulder, I nod at Niyele, and we go our separate ways. I approach Captain Stit of the First Order.

 “Must say, I do love a man in a uniform.” I speak up, leaning against the bar counter and flashing a smile at the man. He gives me a look up and down.

 “And who might you be?” He questions, still somewhat on guard, but, judging by his near empty glass, he’ll be tipsy soon.

 “You can call me Aubramay,” I give a name that isn’t mine, offering another charming smile as I take the seat next to him. Pretending to only just notice the rank insignia on his uniform and feigning curiosity, I reach out and brush my fingers over the band on his sleeve. “Oh, this looks official. What does it mean?”

 Stit sits up a little straighter. “I’m Captain Stit of the First Order,” Pride oozes from his words as he brags. “It’s one of the highest ranks you can achieve - I did a lot to get there.” 

 “Really? What sort of stuff do you do?” I inquire, tilting my head a bit, acting oblivious to his overselling of his rank.

 “Captain, I-“ Some buckethead interrupts our conversation, much to my annoyance.

 “What? Can’t you see I’m busy here?” Stit gestures at me to the trooper that must be accompanying him.

 “Sorry, Captain, but I have just received word that-.” The stormtrooper states looks in my direction and pauses before lowering their voice to relay to Stit what I assume was classified information. They exchange a few more words, and then the trooper is off again, the Captain downing the rest of his drink.

 Across the room, I catch Niyele’s eye. She shoots me a reassuring look as First Order Captain returns his attention to me.

 “It must be hard, organising an entire force of soldiers.” I muse sympathetically. Stit nods in agreement.

 “It is, but that’s not all there is to my job,” He says and leans in slightly. I can smell the alcohol on his breath. “Can you keep a secret?”

 “I’d love to.” I reply, a sly smile slipping onto my face. He glances around, checking for eavesdroppers, oblivious to the wire I have on.

 “I’ve recently been working on a top priority project, planning a mission to go ahead in a couple months, probably sooner,” He says lowly, an attempt to impress me. I raise a brow, my interest piqued. “We’ve been tracking down this old, Jedi-sympathiser that the higher-ups think has something the First Order wants. We reckon the scumbag’s somewhere in the Western Reaches of the galaxy’s Inner Rim.”

 “Well, I must say, the galaxy has some nicer places to go into hiding than there.” I remark, to which Stit laughs. His cooperation has been useful, but Light, I’d hate to have someone so easily manipulated holding my secrets.

 The stormtrooper from earlier returns, once again interrupting us. “Captain, we have received a call from base. Your presence has been sent for.”

 Stit takes a deep breath, glaring daggers at the soldier. There’s a pause before he addresses me. “I’m going to have to cut this short, but it’s been good.” The First Order official gives me what I’m sure is meant to be a charming smile, but his morals make me sick.

 “I’ve enjoyed myself; I hope I see you around again.” I give him a wink. He leaves, and I watch him go, waiting until he’s out of sight before I get out of the club.

 I scan the crowd for Niyele as I push my way towards the door, but can’t spot her in amongst the bodies in the low-light. I bite my cheek, stepping outside, trying to come to a decision.

 “You looking for your friend?” A bouncer at the door notices my search. I smile sheepishly and reply affirmatively. He gestures down the street. “I saw her leave a couple minutes ago, headed in that direction.”

 Well, cheers to him for remembering her face.

 I thank the bouncer before setting off to find my friend and partner on this mission, angry that she ignored my earlier warning about the dangers of Coruscant. At least she seems to be going towards the location at which we’re staying here.

 After walking for a few minutes with no sign of Niyele, I’m getting anxious. Every dark alley and every shady person puts me on edge, the small blaster hidden in the waistband of my trousers my only comfort in this unfamiliar setting.

 When I finally catch sight of my friend, I’m initially met with relief as I see she’s fine, but as I take my first step into the alleyway, I quickly become confused, catching the words being exchanged.

 “Niyele? What’s going on?” My question is naive and desperate to remain oblivious as I break into the conversation between my old friend and a stormtrooper. She whips around, her wide, guilty eyes proving she’s been caught in the act of doing something wrong. “Were you- were your really about to-“

 “Halt!” The stormtrooper commands, raising their blaster at me. I already have my weapon ready though, and the white-clad soldier hits the ground, dead, barely a moment later.

 “You weren’t suppose to see this.” Is all Niyele says.

 “Weren’t supposed to see what? You selling us out to the enemy?” I spit my words, my chest tight as the pain of her actions takes hold. “How could you do something like that?”

 “How could I not?” Niyele retorts, any guilt in her expression vanishing, replaced with anger, her voice rising. “It’s because of you and the rest of the Resistance that my village - my home - was obliterated!”

 I stare at her in stunned silence, the venom in her words stinging.

 “You think... you think it was our fault?” I can barely whisper my words, her glare steely. I swallow thickly, my throat constricting and my stomach twisting. “We did everything we could to stop the First Order, and that’s what you have to say?”

 “Your presence only encouraged them! If it weren’t for you, my family wouldn’t be dead!” She shouts back at me, her fists clenched tight.

 “We all lost people that day,” My voice rises at her accusation. “Yet you would betray everyone that survived by giving away the location of our base. Why?”

 “It’s a small price to pay to ensure the Resistance doesn’t ruin the lives of anyone else.” She justifies her actions, not a trace of regret in her voice.

 I take a shaky breath, unshed tears blurring my vision. She was one of my oldest friends, but she’d leave us all for dead.

 Seconds of silence in our argument tick by. The sound of shouts in the distance urges me to do something.

 “At least they died protecting the people they cared for,” I speak up, meeting Niyele’s eye. “You... you just died a traitor.”

 “Wha-“

 Thump.

 She doesn’t even finish her sentence, hitting the ground before she gets the chance, dead by my hand. The blaster, still raised in her direction, feels foreign and suddenly so wrong.

 It clatters to the floor, and I crumple to my knees alongside it. I scrunch my eyes close, burying my face in my hands, but the imagine of Niyele’s lifeless body is seared into my memory.

 Niyele is dead. She betrayed us. I killed her.

 She’s dead. She betrayed us. I killed her.

 She’s dead. She betrayed us. I killed her.