Transcript: . . . . . Five seconds later TC: Sniffle* "YOU'VE BEen throuGH SO MUCh.."
Cass: ...????????...
(He puts her down) And then for the next 5 minutes he profusely apologized for doing that out of the blue.
Hancock was/is probably laughing in a corner.
Here is that fan-art!
.... I just realised, compared to Cass, The Caretaker is huGE. Oh and I guess this piece displays a few of his traits (I.E, Teddy bear, impulsive, and emotional-) Meet the dad of the wasteland- Wait, sorry, the script says the CARETAKER of the wasteland.
Hope you like it! (My god the hair was hard to get even remotely right-). Sorry about the hamdwriting-
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@makerofmonsters I'm sorry it took so long for me to respond but thought this was really sweet and kept it! I hope you're doing well and hope you know I appreciated and loved this introduction to your Caretaker <3
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"...jealous of the space between them, Loki stole it away."
~maker-of-monsters
You know when you read something and then you stop mid-sentence and drag your eyes back over it and read it again, and again, and again, and then murmur the words to yourself, and taste them and feel them take shape in your mouth, and read them a few more times just because you can. And then you sit back and, whispering them one last time, just say
>> OOC: In the spirit of what happened today, the mun had a drink
What's currently in my drafts:
russian-or-was: Deprivation
elaya-tuilinn: One Day
maker-of-monsters: Some Kind Of Monster
I'll get to the serious threads tomorrow. Also, I'll be recording my meet the mun video before I head over to a 21st party. It's nothing all too special.
Requests for things to say in an apparent Aussie accent or questions are totally accepted.
Feel free to hit me up for a starter/starter discussion! I know that I need some discussing with:
avengerclintbarton
son-ofkrypton
If anyone (originalgrin) wants to chat on skype (originalgrin) they should totally hit me up with their username so chatting and things. Awwwwyeah.
The floor is cold, unforgiving against his knees. The rough fabric across his eyes scratches at his skin, allows the slightest pinpricks of bright light through dark material, brushes loud rustling across his ear when he turns his head.
Strong, cool fingers grasp his chin, pull his face around to face directly forward once more. In the artificial darkness, he is lost.
His breath plays in his chest like the tumbling, swirling dance of leaves caught in an impish autumn breeze, and then ceases altogether as those same fingers wrap around his throat with a light but dangerous pressure. He swallows, feels his throat press harder against those fingers.
"This is what you wanted, is it not?" comes the voice, closer than Clint had anticipated. "To be made a willing slave? To rest at the mercy of another entirely?"
The words sweep equal waves of dulled shame and sharpened arousal through his veins, lapping at his blood. There's silence for the longest of moments as he struggles with himself to grasp at his answer. Is he really going to do this? Let himself be controlled, entirely, by Loki of all people?
A trembling hand flutters close to the floor as the god's fingers tighten slightly around his throat, ready to tap out, to tear off the blindfold and twist away the hand on his windpipe and push himself to his feet.
"Yes," he breathes, voice strained, despite himself.
Cool, sweet air rushes into his lungs as the hand leaves his throat, trails through his hair.
"Good."
The word shoots a liquid thrill through him. Behind the blindfold, he closes his eyes, tips his head forward as he fights to keep his breathing steady.
"Because you are mine, archer. I have seen you, and heard you, and studied you as no other can, I have peered into your soul and I know what awaits me there; I have learned you. I have read you like the simplest of manuscripts, and I can recall each word by heart."
Loki's voice is behind him now, and the same fingers that were moments ago at his throat are across the back of his neck; tension ripples through Clint's muscles, pulls his spine into a straight, taut line as he recognises his vulnerability.
Loki's fingers dig into his flesh, and teeth scrape across his earlobe.
"You think yourself in danger from me?" Clint doesn't answer, doesn't move, just kneels and breathes and struggles against the two sides of himself, the want and the fear.
The second bite is not gentle, and a whimpering sound is drawn from Clint's throat in surprise at the sharpness of it.
"Do you think yourself in danger?" he repeats, coolly. Clint's not sure which answer he wants to hear.
"Always," he says, after a moment, ashamed of the hoarse lowness of his voice, of the desire lingering behind his words. A low chuckle behind him.
"Good." That one word, again, which seems to have some thrall over him. He wets his dry lips. "For I am always dangerous. Know this, though, my little hawk. If you do as I wish - if you give yourself to me - if you simply let yourself be in danger..."
A palm runs down Clint's back, and he understands, tries to loosen his muscles, to drop his shoulders, to let the tightness of his muscles slacken.
"...Then the danger fades, and you will not be hurt."
Clint's not sure how much of this is Loki and how much of this is what he asked for, haltingly, eyes downcast and the reddened tint of shame high on his cheeks. The lines are blurring.
"Do you understand?"
Clint nods once, voices his affirmation too, in a quiet, breathy voice.
Another sharp bite on his neck, followed by the warm sweep of a tongue over the same burning flesh, the soothing coolness of gentle breath against heated skin.
"Good."
The third time that word has reached inside him and twisted something, somewhere, and there's the briefest moment where he wonders if Loki's words are infused with some remnant of magic.
He wants nothing more than to hear it again. Wants to do anything he can to drag the single syllable from between those lips.
So he bows his head and lets the tension drain completely from his muscles, loosens clenched fists and lets himself be in danger - gives himself entirely to the man whose fingers still roam across his skin.
"Good," he whispers and Clint is unmade.
He swore the man would never take control of him again. But this time, he has given it.
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There was only one, brief moment where Clint considered that maybe this hadn't been such a good idea after all, and it was as he heard the hiss of the door sliding open echo around the large, empty room that SHIELD had assigned their detail to; the very second that it became too late to back out.
"The supervision detail. I want in," he'd said to Coulson, not bothering to knock as he strode into the man's office.
Coulson had looked up at him, and the look on his face had been easy enough to interpret: it practically screamed 'this is an awful idea'.
The look Clint had sent back in return had been hard and unreadable, and he'd folded his arms and planted his feet like a man preparing for his glorious last stand.
"Call it therapy," he'd suggested, offhandedly. "Call it whatever you like. I'm not leaving this office until you say yes."
And he had.
Now, as the door slid open and Clint laid his eyes on Loki for the first time since he'd been sent back to Asgard - now, as his pulse jack-rabbited under his skin and tension built in his muscles - it almost seemed like a bad idea.
Almost.
Because despite the lingering fear that wraps strong fingers around his bones and whispers that there's still a chance that Loki might somehow find a way to make him nothing more than a puppet once more; despite the rising tide of anger, once sharp but blunted now by time and despite the harsh, smug satisfaction at Loki's current state, much fallen-off from his once-proud attempts to subject an entire planet - there curls in his gut an almost predatory anticipation of the re-kindling of rusty remembrance, a twisted fascination fueled by night after night of half-recalled flashes of what the God's force of will felt like, struggling against his own, of almost tasting the shape of Loki's mind, of sensing who Loki was, entire.
He'd certainly never talked about it - that strange and corrupted allure that pulled at him - and did his best not to think about it, now, as familiar eyes rose to meet his.
This was for closure, he lied to himself, that's all.
"Laufeyson," he said coolly, the only greeting the Asgardian would receive.
A name that fell from his lips more easily than he should have liked.
After the Chitauri’s failed invasion, Tony had to rebuild large sections of the tower. It wasn’t really his cup of tea, but he learnt his lesson – reinforce everything with the strongest, most durable materials money could buy, and coming from a billionaire, he had more than enough options. But something happened that he both hadn’t anticipated, and had no idea about how to approach.
Whatever remnants of the incident, that residual energy from ripping through time and space, the realignment and alterations of atoms, molecules – things at quantum levels – there had been created something. Or at least, sparked something, and it was big, it was bad, and Jesus, it was angry.
“JARVIS, stay with me okay?” Tony asked, unable to keep the worry from his voice.
[Always, Sir.] The AI responded, voice slightly warped but still – there was a hint of reassurance and confidence in his voice.
Why the system had chosen to not tell him until now – months later – about the interferences and well, attack he was defending himself from he wasn’t exactly sure. He could see from one of his screens that things had hit a critical stage. Jarvis was still fighting, and thank fuck he wasn’t going down. He wasn’t going to lose him. No way. This wasn’t a losing battle. Things were shutting down around him, lights were flickering, sparks were flying – things were going haywire, but Tony stayed focused.
