It’s a last ditch effort. Darcy swears to god. Really.
She would’ve been happy doing it normally— maybe going for coffee, or watching a movie together on the new couch (the second since Thor’s moved in, because the dude’s a little careless with his equipment), or just passing each other in the hallway and saying hey, how ya doin’? Ain’t the weather awful?
But it’s not freaking working, and so Darcy breaks into the bedroom of a psycho alien wizard giant thing and tosses something small, brown and stuffed on the bed, and retreats retreats retreats.
It’s small, fluffy, and very, very flammable.
They didn’t even get the horns right, so he’s not sure what else he’s meant to do with it.
It’s particularly satisfying when the stitching of the mouth catches fire. It goes up in a whoosh. Like dominoes.
The fire alarm goes off at two thirty in the morning, the sprinklers go off at two thirty two, and Darcy is soggy and irritated and so very, very done.
Horror, no fluff here folks.
There are flashing green eyes and an angular pale face before him, a voice sharp as knives hissing, “Of all the myriad ways in which you might find your end, Anthony Stark, this is not one I’d ever wish upon you.”
started to rec
then got sad
so there’s fic to be had
just no theme yet
that’s not even a haiku
(wow this escalated really quickly. like it was not supposed to be this, but now it is?)(psst, it’s not vampires)
There’s a story about a prince entirely forgotten. Steve remembers it, because his mom’s eyes sparkle through it, and her hands move in the light, the flashlight beam cutting butter through the dark, and he sees the shape of the raven that’s the prince’s only friend and the prince himself, with his wide green eyes and his clever smile, and the tower that the prince hides in, alone, always alone, except for when the raven decides to remember his name.
Steve isn’t ashamed of his imaginary friend when he’s five, because he imagines that everybody has one. But when he’s six, and when he’s eight, and when he’s nine, he talks to Loki less and less, because it’s strange, it isn’t done, it isn’t right, and Loki with his clever eyes and the bitter green around his smile, accepts it.
When Steve is ten and his parents are dead, Loki comes back, offers him treasure (lie), offers him happiness (maybe a lie), offers him forgetfulness (he hopes it’s a lie), and all he has to do is take his hand. He doesn’t, but he does hang onto Loki like a lifeline, all night, crammed onto his thin cot of a bed, his skinny arms wrapped around a torso just as small as his own, if more purposefully so, and he lets Loki tell him about his tower. When Loki tells it, it’s darker than his mother’s story. The tower is higher, the townspeople crueler, his father so much colder, and he doesn’t say anything when Steve pulls him tighter, but there’s a hitch in his voice and Steve thinks, maybe, that helps.
He doesn’t know why he’s expecting a burst of heat, a fireball, something amazing, because he shouldn’t. Because Castiel never gets something amazing. All he gets is a slow, sad crumple of metal against cement, the concaving of his ‘65 Mustang, from classic to scrap heap in five easy steps.
One: seeing a dog run into the middle of the road.
Two: swerving around the dog.
Three: thinking he was in the clear.
Four: feeling like a little karmic reward was maybe kind of possibly present in the murky shadow of his future.
Five: some stupid little Prius clipping the back corner of his car and sending him swerving into the cement median at the side of the highway, taking out his lights, his hopes of getting to his meeting on time, and his dignity.
Steve is Good. Steve is always Good, capitalized, underlined, exclamation mark free of charge.
He is saintly. He is wonderful. He is hiding in Tony’s room, liquor bottle held tight in his hand and his head just below the window, because he’s so goddamned good that he doesn’t want anything to do with human company, not now.
He should be happy, he knows that. They’ve just won something major, the city streets are safe, The Avengers are entertaining several SHIELD departments and probably the mayor, and Steve is hiding away from all of it, because, yeah, they’ve saved the day, but those were aliens, and, yeah, Tony’s efforts have been A+, but he liked science a lot more when it was fiction and not attempting to destroy the world.
He takes another long pull from his second bottle, and wills it to work faster, to do more than burn away the lining of his throat.
If he closes his eyes, he can pretend that his feet feel a little bit tingly.
Death, Death, and Sparkles
He only has to push and he’s on his feet, strong and searing against Ella’s skin, and she screams bloody, her claws trembling before his face. Loki throws her away from him and she skids across the ground, talons scraping up a spray of sparks from the asphalt.
“What are you?” she demands. He can taste her fear on the air, and he greets it like the old friend that it is, smiling back at her and raising his blue arms into the rain, turning them up against the sky.
“I am Loki,” he says quietly—calm, even if he’s seething, anger and rage and vindication and an instinct to protect that he thought far behind him. “I am Jötunn and Aesir. I am nothing you have ever seen and nothing you have ever imagined, and I am your doom.” And their salvation.
Loki is back through the double glass doors, pounding towards the elevators, before something finally breaks.
There’s a shift, somewhere inside him, and he sags against a wall, one arm thrown across his ribs to keep them together. His heart beats an alarm against his breastbone and he gasps at the hot flash of pain, every nerve ending exploding, raw, exposed.
i am embarrassingly excited for the coming chapters
like you have no idea
i’m a mess
three cheers for impending angst-ish yeah!
Loki wakes up slowly. The sun is cutting through unfamiliar blinds at just the wrong angle, and it’s making his eyes throb, the light too much of a glare. It must be evening; he sits up and straightens the bedclothes around his legs, frowning down at the garish pattern.
It’s a paisley—no, those are frogs—although, not quite, not with those jagged… Loki frowns. He can’t quite pin down what he’s looking at; every time he thinks he has it in focus, it swims right out, too quick for him to grasp.
“Don’t kill yourself there, cowboy.” Loki darts his head up—tries to. Everything is too slow, too sluggish, too—
“You’re inside my head,” he says to Ella, but it doesn’t feel quite right because his tongue is full of lead and his mouth is full of wool.
Well, that’s not very positive. Also, Tony has terrible taste in décor and errybody knows it.
ANNNNND IT’S A DOUBLE, WITH CHAPTER 38: Shit Has Yet to Hit the Fan
(Feel like kicking it old-school? Start from the beginning.)
has happened once today and I’m finishing typing up one for tonight and i’ll probably get the next one up tomorrow or something because i’m on a roll i guess? yes.
Title: Twist and Shout
Author: discover & trunkcoats
Fandom/Genre: AU, Romance, Angst
Pairing(s): Dean/Castiel, Sam/Jess, Brief Balthazar/Castiel
Word Count: ~97,000
Warnings: Major character death, homophobia, PTSD, depression, warfare, violence, terminal illness.
Summary: What begins as a transforming love between Dean Winchester and Castiel Novak in the summer of 1965 quickly derails into something far more tumultuous when Dean is drafted in the Vietnam War. Though the two both voice their relationship is one where saying goodbye is never a real truth, their story becomes fraught with the tragedy of circumstance. In an era where homosexuality was especially vulnerable, Twist and Shout is the story of the love transcending time, returning over and over in its many forms, as faithful as the sea.
Steve makes a mistake: he lets his guard down. He lets a momentary relief cloud his judgment. He doesn’t spring into action when Loki spins around and presses a tight-lipped kiss against his mouth. Doesn’t even move when it softens, slightly, Loki’s hands curling over his arms.
And then the god is gone and Steve realizes something important. He realizes, perhaps for the first time, that there are different kinds of war.
(Steve/Loki, mostly pwp)
“Oh, god, I’m a terrible person,” Tony groans, and tosses himself onto the couch, flinging an arm across his face. “I am. Awful. Terrible. I should be hung and quartered.”
“Drawn and quartered,” Steve corrects.
“You would know; that is your time zone.” Tony doesn’t have to look up to know that Steve is frowning at him, and he grins into his arm. Sometimes he makes it too easy.
“I am not that old,” Steve mutters.
“Did you have internet?”
“Of course we didn’t, it was—”
“Hush. You’re ancient. I can put you anywhere, chronologically, and it would still be sad. Actually…” Tony sits up, squints at Steve, and watches the way he fidgets when Tony’s smile widens. “You would look great in a toga.”
“Or, like, the little Roman gladiator outfits. You’d still get your red, show a little leg.”