#its so funny to wear that suspicious looking ass cloak while also wearing his very identifiable clone trooper armor underneath

[genyasglockk]

rex doing his dramatic little identity reveal every time he meets someone. the way he flips the hood of his cloak back just screams "i used to work alongside a number of sassy jedi and boy did they loooove being all mysterious behind their droopy fucking robes"

he definitely picked that shit up from ahsoka who learned it from anakin who learned it from the one and only obi-wan kenobi. they're a lineage of drama queens.

#the bad batch #the clone wars #commander rex #ahsoka tano #obi wan kenobi #anakin skywalker #star wars #its so funny to wear that suspicious looking ass cloak while also wearing his very identifiable clone trooper armor underneath #king of stealth

[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.”

#picture1000wordswc #pic 4 #loki/reader #female reader #crack #so much crack #just a lot of references to bad memes and cringe movies that turns into all the angst #because for some reason i’m like this #guess which character from another popular franchise i based my crack villain off #soundtrack to this was 800 percent mouth moods #in all seriousness though huge congrats to @startrekkingaroundasgard #you deserve all the love #unfortunately i showed my love by writing insane crack fic but HEY #loki is in it so hopefully that makes up for the c r i n g e

[raviotherabbit]

royal pain in the ass - chapter 7

Chapter 7: Era of Force Princess Zelda heads to the forge.

[first] - [previous] - [next] read it on ao3!

  △ ▲△

“Is the peppermint tea alright?” Zelda asked her companion sitting across from her on the picnic blanket. “I thought we’d try something a bit more herbal this time.”

“It’s lovely, thank you,” Hyrule smiled at her past his cup. “In fact, I’m tempted to start growing peppermint myself.”

Ever since she found out the Hero of Hyrule liked tea, Zelda had begun setting aside certain flavors for him to taste whenever he visited. Though he was older than the two of them, he reminded her a bit of Link just a year or so ago. A bit brash, always buzzing back and forth… they both needed to be reminded when to relax.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Zelda responded. She sips at her own tea, deeply sighing as its warmth settles in her stomach.

What a beautiful day…

“Excuse me, Princess Zelda?”

Looking up from her drink, Zelda was a bit surprised to see the Hero of Warriors. He stood above the two picnickers, ignoring how Hyrule’s gaze narrowed on him.

“Why, hello hero!” Zelda happily lifted her teapot to show to the captain. “Would you like to join us? Today’s choice is peppermint.”

“Maybe some other time,” Warriors waved the pot away. “I had some questions about the castle’s security.”

Subtly, Zelda met eyes with Hyrule. His lips were pressed together tightly, and his grip on his teacup seemed almost desperate. But the moment he saw her, she swore he forced himself to act natural.

“Go ahead, Princess,” he hesitantly nodded. He brushed himself off before he started to head towards the castle gate. “I need to stock up on potions in town, anyway. We can talk more later.”

“If you’re sure,” Zelda stood, taking Warriors’ nervous hand into her own. “Come with me, brave knight.”

Wordlessly, Warriors allowed himself to be guided into the castle. Zelda looked back towards the gate one last time. Despite his words, Hyrule was still there, leaning against the stone.

Then the door closed.

One step at a time, Zelda walked Warriors through the castle’s defenses. The armory, the barracks, even the throne room. But wherever they went, it seemed the hero grew even more nervous. He eyed the knights with suspicion as they passed by, and every time Zelda looked at him, he was even more fidgety than before.

But there was no reason to suspect Warriors of any ill intent. He’d been nice on all of the Links’ previous visits. Better than nice, really. Always courteous, opening doors ahead of her, even joining in with ribbing Four a bit. So if he was a bit nervous about her safety, Zelda would do anything to assuage those fears.

“You’re kind for your concern,” Zelda told Warriors, leading him into one of the empty banquet halls. “But we’re safe here. With Vaati sealed, there’s no longer any threat to Hyrule.”

“What about threats from within Hyrule?” Warriors asked the second they were alone.

Zelda couldn’t but gasp at the accusation. “Are you speaking of traitors?”

“Soldiers can be… easily manipulated,” Warriors explained warily. “It’s happened before, hasn’t it?”

“Yes, we… we did have an issue with mind control,” Zelda admitted with a frown. “But again, Vaati is gone for good. None of our soldiers will harm us.”

“What if… what if it wasn’t just any soldier?” There was a paranoid gleam to his eyes. “What if it was someone you know?”

Warriors was taller than Zelda, that was true. But the wrath of a princess is not feared just for her height. Zelda’s hands tightened into fists, and Warriors almost seemed to cower from her rage. “Just what are you suggesting, hero?”

His shock wore off, and Warriors righted himself again with the rigid composure of a knight. “If Four turned his blade against you, what would you do?”

“Stop!” Zelda commanded, silencing him with a single pointed finger. “Don’t speak of my four that way. He… none of them would ever do that!”

“But what if he did?!” Warriors suddenly grabbed onto her arm with a vice-like grip. “Can you honestly say that you would fight against him?!”

Zelda yanked against his hand. “Let go! Let go of me!”

“Stop it!”

There, silhouetted by the hallway’s light, was Hyrule. He rushed past the doorway, shoving Warriors away from the princess.

“Wars, you need to control yourself!” Hyrule shouted. “What’s wrong with you?! Why are you all acting like this!?!”

Warriors blinked is confusion, as if waking up from a dream. He spotted Zelda, helplessly clutching to her aching arm behind Hyrule.

“I didn’t mean…” he started, but his words drifted away.

“Just go,” Hyrule sighed as he dropped his head into his hands.

Stunned into silence, Warriors left before Zelda could stop him, scattering as quickly as he could and leaving the door open.

“I’m so sorry, Princess,” Hyrule turned to her. “I knew he was acting off, but I didn’t think… Anyway, are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” she said breathlessly. The light spilling in from the door only twisted her stomach further. “I’m fine.”

  △ ▲△

With her head held high and her steps confident, Princess Zelda Lucille Hyrule passes through the town gates.

“Princess!” one of the guards shouts after her. “It’s dangerous to go alone! Let us come with you!”

“I’m just going to visit Smith!” Zelda calls back, keeping up her quick pace. “I’ll be back before you know it!”

The soldier says something, probably about her father or the minister. But to be honest, Zelda couldn’t care less. A little time out of the city could never hurt, after all, and someone has to check in on the old man.

Once she’s out of hearing range of the guards, Zelda takes in a deep breath. The morning air is still fresh, a bit of a chill hanging onto it. It’s the perfect day to spend out in the world, not cooped up in the castle.

The walk to Link and Smith’s house is rather short. Zelda lightly knocks on the door, pushing it open as she does so.

“Smith? Are you home?”

But when she peeks inside, Zelda’s surprised to find she’s not Smith’s only visitor today. There are five girls seated around the room, Smith delicately balancing glasses of water as he delivers them to his guests.

“Princess!” Smith grins when he sees her at the door. All eyes turn towards Zelda, embarrassingly enough. “Come in! You’re right on time.”

“Uh, who are all these people?” Zelda asks, slowly stepping into the humble home.

“Friends of Link! They just stopped by asking about him, so I thought I’d offer the poor things some hospitality,” Smith moves behind her, guiding her to one of the chairs by her shoulders. “How’s your arm feeling, by the way?”

“I’m fine, not even sore anymore!” Zelda waves her arm up and down to demonstrate. She eyes the two ladies across from her, one in a simple pink dress and the other in a long black cloak. “So, you all know Link.”

“Well, we know the Links!” one of the girls sitting against the wall, wearing bright blue, amends, putting emphasis on the ‘s’.

“Plural,” her short friend with the bandana clarifies.

“And you,” the cloaked one leans forward, folding her hands on the table. “You’re Princess Zelda.”

“Yes, I am,” Zelda’s eyes narrow at the strangers around her. This has got to be the most suspicious way she’s ever been approached by potential crooks, that’s for sure.

“Well then,” the tallest one, wearing light pink, pushes herself up from the floor. “Welcome to the club.”

  △ ▲△

Of course, once they explain the situation to Dot, she sweetens right up. Her suspicious glares and crossed arms melt away, and by the time they’ve stayed their welcome at Smith’s home, she’s walking in tandem with Tetra along that path back to town, all while Flora takes notes in her journal.

“So, you and your Link have known each other for quite a while,” Flora remarks as Dot finishes a story about the time Four lost his first tooth. He’d cried so hard that day, the whole town was complaining. But in hindsight, it’s incredibly funny.

“We’ve been friends since we were kids,” Dot explains, a fond smile on her face. “His grandfather is friends with my father, and his dad is one of the kingdom’s best knight’s. We’ve always known each other.”

“That must be nice,” Flora comments, speaking as she writes. “I didn’t meet Wild until we were twelve, and it was a bit of a rough start.”

“Yeah, well, Wind I met two years ago,” Tetra chimes in. “But unlike Four, I don’t think he grew up out of his crybaby phase.” She snickers to herself. “Still my best friend, though.”

“Oh, same here,” Flora twirls her pen.

Dot giggles. “Ditto.”

“When was the last time you saw them?” Dusk suddenly asks from the back of the group.

When Dot turns back, Dusk has stopped in her tracks. There’s something about the way she looks at her, desperation mixed with something else. Regret? Guilt?

“It’s been about two months,” Dot reveals. She looks to the one of them standing next to Dusk, Artemis, concern clear on her face. “Your hero is Warriors, right?”

Artemis startles, perhaps a bit shocked by the shift of conversation. “Y-yes,” she confirms.

“Well, he was-” Dot suddenly glances down, fidgeting with her hands. “He- Did you see him after me? Because he seemed very upset, so I was wondering if-”

“Woah, hold on,” Artemis interrupts. “He was upset?”

“Paranoid, more like,” she amends. “He wanted to know about the castle’s security, he was convinced that… that Four would turn on me.”

Artemis gasps, covering her mouth with a hand. “His paranoia came back?”

Flora gently closes her book, moving to place a hand on her fellow queen’s shoulder. “Artemis, are you alright?”

But before Artemis can respond, someone else speaks.

“Sky was also acting strange, when I saw him,” Tetra says.

Suddenly, all of the group’s attention is focused squarely on the pirate, particularly Sun, whose eyes are wide.

“What?” Sun questions. “Something’s wrong with my Link?”

Tetra snaps suddenly. “Oh, he’s yours! I’m not the best at keeping track of all these guys.”

“Tetra, now isn’t the time,” Flora reminds her.

“Right, right,” Tetra leans back on her left foot. “Well, I found him all alone, and he asked me about the flooding… About who died when it happened.” She sighs. “Called it the legacy he’d left the world, shamed the faith the people had in the Goddesses.”

“He… what?” Sun brings a hand to her forehead. “He said that?”

“Twilight was also angry, when I last saw him,” Dusk reveals abruptly. “He… he snapped at me, said that protecting Hyrule had always fallen to him when I should have… But we-we’ve talked about it before, I don’t know why he…”

A deafening silence hangs over all of them. After so long, so much work to get close to normal again, Warriors was somehow convinced once again that there was a traitor around every corner. Sky, always so brave, so dedicated, now believed that faith in the Goddesses could only bring sorrow. And Twilight, the loyal farmer, who’d always listened to his friends, used words spoken in confidence against Dusk.

What had happened to their boys?

  △ ▲△

After so long on the road, being welcomed to Hyrule Castle feels like a dream. Nice soft beds, clean clothes, and the first bath Flora’s had in a week at this point. The grime of seawater and city filth washed away like nothing. Afterwards, she sat on her bed in one of the castle’s guest rooms. It’s much smaller than she expected, in fact, she and Artemis would be sharing a room. It reminds her a bit of their first night together, back in the Era of the Sky.

Idly, Flora doodles in her journal. Silent Princesses have always been her favorite, and their curled leaves and five petals are practically engrained in her mind with how much she draws them. One hundred years ago, whenever she was stressed, it was always these small sketches that helped calm her.

Flora’s stomach twists, the deep dread from before their arrival to the castle returning. So far, none of them had mentioned Wild, but if something had happened to her dear hero again…

So she writes it in her journal. Everything she knows, from what Dusk, Tetra, and Dot have shared. She may not know what’s wrong, but for Hylia’s sake, she’s a researcher. If anyone’s equipped for putting mysteries together, it’s her.

Luckily, just as she finishes her writing, the door creaks open. Artemis steps in, her hair damp from her own bath. She’s wearing a robe the castle staff so nicely provided.

“Artemis,” Flora smiles. “Thank goodness you’re here. I’m going to figure this out.”

“Oh, are you?” Artemis quips, though she’s missing some of her spark.

“I’ve just finished writing my own account of the last time I saw the Links,” she taps her journal. “And we know that you saw them next. So-” she pats the spot on the bed next to her. “Tell me everything that happened. Leave out no details.”

Artemis’s smile is weak, maybe even a bit forced. But she sits down by Flora’s side anyway.

“Alright,” she says. “Their portal appeared in the courtyard, early in the morning…”

  △ ▲△

By dinnertime, Flora has managed to collect a statement from everyone she has available.

Flora (me) -Last saw the Links 3 months ago. -The Links spent an afternoon at Hyrule Castle. -Four and Legend were allowed to investigate the library, but to be careful. -Wild and Wind took a trip into town. -Twilight was concerned Wild would get into trouble, but I told him they’d be fine. I got some drinks for us, and I asked him about his time period (refer to prior notes). Same questions were asked of Warriors later. -I’m not sure where Time, Sky, and Hyrule were. -Everyone left before the evening. Wild said goodbye, promised to let me know as soon as he returned.

Artemis (Era of Warriors) -Last saw the Links 2.5 months ago. -Heroes went through a portal right into the castle courtyard. Artemis let them know they were welcome to explore Hyrule Castle and the town. -Wild wandered off with Sky and Legend, though Artemis noted he was leading that pack. -Warriors brought Wind to visit some of his fellow soldiers he hadn’t seen in a while. -Time came to her with concerns about group morale, so she suggested spending time with some of their loved ones (including the Zeldas! This bodes well for future statements). -They left the next morning. Other than Time, nothing seemed off. -Artemis wants it known that their army has had troubles with traitors in the past. This caused much paranoia for Warriors for quite some time, but she was sure he’d worked past it by the time he began travelling with the heroes.

Sun (Era of the Skies) -Last saw the Links a little more than 2 months ago. -Arrived at the Sealed Temple late in the day. Sun and others helped make them feel comfortable (classic Skyloft hospitality), they let most of them sleep in the temple that night. Sky slept in Sun’s tent. -They were all very tired from traveling, so she didn’t see a lot of them. -Sun found Legend staring up at the Goddess Statue. He was wondering what the point was of defeating evil if it always rose again. Sun told him a story about the First Hero (reminder: ask for THAT later), which seemed to calm his nerves. (Is this strange for him?)

Dusk (Era of Twilight) -Last saw the Links less than 2 months ago. -Four told her at some point before arriving, Legend said something rude and Twilight had to tackle Wild to stop him from pouncing on his fellow hero. -At the castle, Four made a comment about the armaments available to the guards. Something about this made Twilight explode, saying how they couldn’t even protect the castle. He turned on Dusk, asking why she couldn’t have stopped the Twili invasion on her own. She tried to reason with him, but he stormed off. -Dusk took Four to the armory to try and calm him down. He noted that all of them seemed to be tense. -The next day, Time went to Ordon Village (Twilight’s hometown) to look for him. The rest of the Links followed in the afternoon.

Tetra (Era of the Great Sea) -Last saw the Links 1.5 months ago. -They were staying on Outset Island (Wind’s hometown), so Tetra decided to drop anchor and spend some time with Wind. They were there for several days. -Wind was excited to see Tetra. He babbled on and on about his adventures with the heroes. She asked if he’s done any exploring, and he said he had in Wild’s time. Got very quiet. -One the second morning, she found Sky alone in the woods of the island. He asked her about the flooding that created the Great Sea and wanted to know how many lives were lost. He was dismayed by the “legacy [he] left the world”, wondering what faith brought the people.

Dot (Era of Force) -Last saw the Links about a month ago. -They were only passing through the area. Four and some of the others had stayed back at his house to talk to Smith. -Over time, Dot has made friends with Hyrule. Apparently they both like tea a lot. -While she and Hyrule were having a picnic, Warriors approached with questions about the castle’s security. Hyrule said he’d go get supplies and catch up with her later. -After Dot showed how secure the castle was, Warriors began questioning the procedures for traitors (see Artemis’s statement). He then asked what she would do if Four betrayed her. -This part, Dot has asked me not to share with Artemis: Warriors grabbed onto her arm with enough force to hurt her. The bruise lasted for quite some time. -Hyrule suddenly appeared and stopped Warriors, asking what was wrong with him. Dot thinks he implied there was something wrong with the others, too. Warriors left, seeming confused. -Four came to visit with Wind, later, to say goodbye. She didn’t mention the incident to him.

Several red flags stand out to Flora. The first being Time noticing tension amongst the group. If their issues started small and built their way up, then perhaps what he saw were the beginnings of whatever happened to him. He’s not specific, though, about where their problems were originating from, much to Flora’s dismay, but whatever happened must have been not long after they left her castle.

Sky was definitely acting strangely, but truthfully, Flora has no idea if Legend’s actions were out of character. She can only hope they’ll make it to his time soon, so she can ask his Zelda herself.

By the time they visited Dusk, though, there was clearly something wrong. Wild apparently almost physically attacked Legend at some point, which Flora can barely believe. Wild would never hurt his fellow Hylian, let alone another hero. And Twilight’s respect for his queen apparently going out the window? What was up with that?

If what Artemis says is to be believed, though, Warriors has regressed. He’s lost a lot of the progress he made towards himself after the War Across the Ages. If he’s so out of line, Flora can only imagine what’s happening to the rest of them.

Flora’s stomach grumbles loudly. Right, dinner is soon. A full stomach will definitely help her thinking, and Dot already made the rounds to let everyone know her father will be attending. Whether he knows anything or not, she has about a million questions to ask him anyway.

Closing her book, Flora carries it with her to the dining hall.

  △ ▲△

The whole world, all of it, is coated in shadows. They hang from the sky like drapes, and never before has Zelda felt more alone.

“Link?” she calls out to the darkness, raising her torch just a bit higher. “Link, are you there?”

WIth her limited light, she almost runs right into a small statue. It comes up to Zelda’s hip, depicting a bird with its wings outstretched. But the top of its head is caved in, revealing a pile of kindling.

Right, it’s a torch.

Zelda lights the bird torch, which does nothing but provide a little more light. Perhaps on a whim, she decides to follow its directions, walking where its beak points.

“Link?” she shouts again. “Please, answer me!”

Again, Zelda comes upon another bird torch. And another, and another. Each time she finds one, she lights it, and she changes her path to follow its point. In the back of her mind, she remembers an old fairytale about finding your way back home.

As she travels more and more through this darkness, Zelda can see other things as well. Just on the edges of her torchlight, there are ruins. Buildings, torn apart or decayed, suffocated by the pervasive shadows. But she can’t stray from her path, not now.

Then, her light finds someone.

“Link?” Zelda asks. “Link, is that you?”

When he turns to her, Zelda is relieved. It’s Link, it really is! They can go home now, together, and-

The torch’s light gleams against the Master Sword. Blood drips from its hilt.

“Link, what did you do?” Zelda demands.

He says nothing, just takes a step closer. In fear and betrayal, Zelda steps back.

“Stop it,” Zelda says shakily. “Link, I’m warning you.”

Link still doesn’t respond. He darts towards her, raising the sword in a swift motion, and Zelda-

And Artemis wakes up in bed, gasping for air.

  △ ▲△

There’s one last thing Dot wants to do before she leaves with her fellow queens and princesses. A job that’s all hers, as Princess of Hyrule, and one she wants to make sure is done before she’s away for who knows how long.

“You’ve all met my Link,” Dot explains to the group as they make their way through the woods. Her pack is already full, “And you’ve seen his sword, the Four Sword.”

“It’s a remarkable blade,” Dusk comments. “From the legends I’ve heard, it could give the Master Sword a run for its money.”

Sun humphs at that, crossing her arms and sticking her chin up.

“Not as you’ve seen it,” Dot reveals. Just then, they come across an old stone sanctuary, with pillars standing proud. Everything is covered in moss and vines, except for one item. At the center of it all is a sword, its hilt gleaming a pure white.

“The Four Sword that my Four carries is a fake,” Dot continues. “A recreation, with the power Four needed after his journey. This is the real Four Sword.”

“Oh, wow!” Flora marvels at the blade. “I can’t believe it! To see such a historical artifact up close like this…”

Dot tugs on her cloak, stopping her from running. “I’m only here to check on the seal,” she states with exasperation. “We don’t want to disturb Vaati, now, do we?”

“Oh, don’t we?”

As the Zeldas were distracted, none of them noticed the shadows behind the Four Sword twisting and gaining shape. The being behind the sword was a perfect facsimile of Link, but with pure red eyes and darkness all over his body.

“Shadow?” Dot can’t help herself but reach out. “Is that-?”

Tetra suddenly grabs onto her shoulder, pulling her back. “Whoever you think that is, Princess, you’re mistaken. He’s no friend.”

Of course, Tetra’s right. Shadow never had such malice in his eyes, and he would certainly never hover over Vaati’s seal like that.

“I’m hurt, Princess,” Dark Link fakes a pout. “I’ve always been a friend to her grace.”

He turns to Sun, a wicked grin suddenly on his face.

“Isn’t that right, Hylia?”

All eyes turn to Sun. The progenitor of their bloodline, the founder of their kingdom. The first Queen of Hyrule.

The… Goddess Hylia?

Flora is finally the first one to speak. “What?”

#linked universe #lu dot #lu flora #lu artemis #lu dusk #lu sun #lu tetra #rpita #fanfic #rav's writing

[bestworstcase]

farran rereads lost lagoon: chapters 16-17

back at it.

re: romance novel: “I saw a patch of red flowers, and I thought they would be striking against Cass’s dark hair. She wasn’t exactly a flower wearer, but maybe she’d let me pin one on her dress? The color would set off her fair skin so perfectly. And she could at least keep some in a vase by her bed. I refused to believe there was a person alive who didn’t feel better with freshly cut flowers in her room.” that’s gay rapunzel

i do admittedly have some ambivalent feelings about this passage. on the one hand it’s - yes, very gay. but also it feels to me like such a clear illustration of the difficulty rapunzel has with empathy and listening to other people when their experiences or expectations or needs diverge from hers; she acknowledges that cass isn’t into flowers, but follows it up with “but maybe i can get her to wear some anyway,” and of course there’s the whole refusing to believe anyone could feel differently about having flowers in their room than she does. and it also has this weird undercurrent of - god, i don’t know how to phrase it in a succinct way.

this specific passage was on my mind when i wrote this bit in moonless air chapter 4: 

Still. She plucks at the stitches of her jack-of-plate, self-conscious.

It’s the nicest thing she owns. Soft green velvet sewn over sturdy layers of canvas and steel. Armor. She’d saved up for more than a year to buy it for herself on the anniversary of her adoption two years ago, and at the time it had been nothing but a frivolous luxury. Stupid, really. She’d never had real reason to wear it in Herzingen, not for anything besides teaching herself how to move with its weight and entertaining ridiculous fantasies—but last night, Moira had intimated that their destination in Vardaros is fancy as well as dangerous. So the jack seemed… appropriate.

Sharp. She twitches.

Clothing—fashion isn’t– Cassandra’s always hated dresses. It’s a trait that demands a certain amount of indifference to what other people think of her appearance.

And she can do indifference. Cassandra has indifference in spades. But nobody’s ever paid her a compliment quite like that before: baldly appreciative. Straightforward. Not like all the times Rapunzel coaxed her into tolerating crowns of late-summer flowers because the colors look so nice with your complexion! and not like the Commander’s gruff praise for how grown-up she looked in the hideous pastel gowns that had come with the lady-in-waiting gig.

because – like, cass is butch, and “not a flower wearer,” and here in lost lagoon we have this passage where rapunzel expresses this pretty straightforward attraction to cassandra but in the context of imagining cassandra presenting in a much more feminine way than she is comfortable with - in a dress with flowers in her hair etc - and it just... rubs me the wrong way a little bit. and this is not to say like cass can’t be butch and put a flower in her hair but when it’s paired with rapunzel specifically acknowledging that cass doesn’t WANT to wear flowers then it - yeah i feel weird about this passage. 

and that translated into cass having a whole little crisis over being complimented for her appearance without implicit pressure to be more feminine for the first time ever

anyways

i still can’t get over the name monsieur lefleur 

rapunzel summarizes hervanian culture as “brash but can be funny; distrustful but not mean-spirited” so, basically, they are americans

she is feeling very Prepared to meet with them, in contrast to every other time she’s met with foreign dignitaries or nobility before this. eugene tries to warn her that cass is PISSED with her and she just brushes him off, as one does, by saying that cass is “not all bubbles and moonbeams” but that she is “a softy” inside. 

of course this leads up to cass blowing up and going off while rapunzel tries to calm her down and just - groan this line. 

“People don’t change! You told a criminal a detail that puts my entire future at risk!”

how many times have i said “cass doesn’t act this way in tts” i feel like it’s a constant drumbeat. but i have to say, again, that cass doesn’t act this way in tts. i don’t think it’s unrealistic for her to think like this, given that her father is essentially corona’s chief of police and she idolizes him, but i feel the need to reiterate that there is zero sign of cass having this mindset in tts proper. and it does sort of bother me when people read this into cass’s character because it undermines and delegitimizes her dislike of eugene in early s1. 

which like. tts itself sort of frames their mutual dislike as a mutual problem, but it’s... really not? and imo the best illustration of this is in this exchange from cassandra vs eugene: 

CASSANDRA: Unbelievable. Did you eat all the cookies?

EUGENE: I’m not a pig, Cassandra. I ate all of your cookies; I’m saving mine for later.

CASSANDRA: Ugh– you are nothing but a self-serving, inconsiderate, arrogant freeloader!

EUGENE: [scoffing] You know, I can rattle off insulting adjectives describing your personality, too, but to do so would imply that you actually have a personality, and I just wouldn’t feel right about doing that!

this is the dynamic every time they squabble in early s1. 

1 - eugene does something selfish or thoughtless - in this case taking all the cookies and milk for himself. 

2 - cassandra calls him out for it, and he doubles down, often taking a potshot at her in the process. 

3 - cassandra gets mad and calls his behavior what it is (self-serving, inconsiderate, arrogant)

4 - eugene gets defensive and insults her as a person, typically with variations on calling her icy / unfeeling / humorless / joyless. 

which is to say, their fights are initiated by eugene’s poor behavior, and cassandra attacks his behavior but eugene attacks cassandra herself. like, eugene is the dude who insults you and then goes “pfft why can’t you take a joke” when you get upset with him. that’s what this is. 

moreover, when eugene’s, for lack of a better term, residual flynn rider-ness starts to taper off, cassandra’s criticism of his behavior also tapers off, AND she gets much gentler about how she phrases this criticism once he starts to actually take it on board. but there’s no accompanying shift in the way eugene speaks to and about her - the jibes about her being humorless or cranky or soulless literally never stop and at no point does he ever seem to consider that cass might not appreciate them as much as he thinks she does. 

(to be clear, i don’t think they bother cass very much if at all - but they do create and reinforce a perception on eugene’s end that cass Doesn’t Have Feelings and the background radiation of that contributes to the toxicity that develops in season 2.)

like again, pulling from cassandra vs eugene here, eugene is extremely insulting towards cassandra even when he’s ostensibly coming to her defense: 

RANDOM THUG: Look at that, Fancy-Boots has got something to say!

EUGENE: Name-calling? Come on, we’re better than that, aren’t we? Sure, we could sit here and make fun of each other—tease Cassandra for her chronic joylessness, or me for my uncommonly good looks, or you for your poor dental hygiene, tragic fashion sense, robust body odor, and what are clearly woefully misguided decision making skills, but do you really want to go down that road?

ALL OF WHICH IS TO SAY - besides demonstrating an obvious willingness to give eugene another chance once he starts doing the bare minimum to not be a dick to her, cassandra doesn’t like eugene because eugene is an asshole to her and takes the enormous privileges he is given completely for granted. 

saying “well she doesn’t like him because he was a criminal and she doesn’t believe criminals ever change” erases that completely and reframes the conflict as cassandra treats eugene unfairly because of bigotry that she needs to unlearn. lost lagoon takes this even one step further in that lost lagoon eugene is genuinely trying to be responsible, he is taking his new lot in life seriously. he doesn’t need cass to tell him off for acting like an ass because he doesn’t act like an ass. he shows actual interest in getting to know cass and makes an effort to break through her hostility in order to get along. unlike his tts counterpart, lagoon eugene really doesn’t do anything wrong, and that makes cassandra’s intense hatred of him on the grounds that he was a thief look completely irrational and, like i said, bigoted. 

it’s just very frustrating to me.

anyways

rapunzel tries very hard to persuade cass that it’s actually totally fine that she told eugene the secret because she just can’t keep secrets from eugene (except the lagoon which she has arbitrarily decided is totes fine to keep secret and i am pretty sure this contradiction never gets pointed out) - and cass is having none of it, and of course arianna interrupts before anything can get resolved. 

they rush out and monsieur lefleur interrupts them, asking questions about the lost lagoon. he reveals that he heard an ~elegant cloaked person~ inquiring about it in the library. he asks for the book. they say no. the red herring smells to high heavens, and the chapter ends with rapunzel subtly telling cass to hide the book ~for the safety of the kingdom~ and oh my god i just can’t handle the low stakes. 

seventeen picks up from there with cassandra’s point of view; she’s suspicious of lefleur and angsts a lot about how she has no time to train and she needs to get out of corona yada yada. her plan is literally to just walk until she finds someone to hire her on as a guard which. lol. this kid.

i feel like this is the strongest passage in the whole book: 

She said there couldn’t be any secrets between Eugene and her. But why—especially when it meant sacrificing my future and everything I held dear? I’d read about romantic love in poems, and it seemed to me like a spell. Sounded great for the lovebirds, but what about the other people.

Did I just not matter in the face of this love, even though I had been the one to risk everything to show Rapunzel the world? Was I just supposed to fall on my sword because Eugene was uncomfortable that he didn’t have every last piece of information about Rapunzel?

she has a brief argument with owl, who is a pretty obvious stand-in for her own doubts / feeling that she truly belongs in corona and doesn’t actually want to leave. but she has no choice! but it’s stormy, so she can’t leave! oh no!

(i think if tts really strongly felt she had no choice but to free corona, a measly thunderstorm would not be enough to stop her.)

#lost lagoon reread #cassunzel