#shieldagentnatasharomanoff

Send 🧵 to take my muse clothes shopping

Things had not been so great for Arch and his company in recent months, and they were losing agents left and right. So when the medic of his team suggested they "Do it like the old days", it seemed like it was at least an idea to try in the lack of any better ones.

"James Buchanan Barnes!" Natasha nearly bellowed as he just kept eating, disgusted by the smell and consistency of the spoilt meat. "God... Is that super soldier serum giving you an iron stomach as well, cause this is absolutely vile. I will keep my mouth far away from you for the forseeable future."

"Loke." Her voice didn't waver but it turned soft at his violent, hurt reaction towards her question. She'd seen the scars before, knew they were there but hadn't actually asked him about them yet. Seeing him now without the make up to hide them just let the words slip... and apparently she had hit a wound deep enough to fester over however many years he'd had them. "Norse Mythology and what happened in Asgard aren't exactly always the same, however I take it that story is true." He glared at her without ever truly meeting her eyes. There was no pity, he certainly didn't need or want it, people rarely ever did but she could understand scars and the marks they could leave far deeper then skin and tissue. "Does it still hurt?"

"Would it matter if they were the same? It was a befitting punishment for the Trickster. Sew their mouth shut so that they can spout no more lies whilst the whole of Asgard mocks them." To be fair, he had never read just how the story had been twisted in the mythology; each time he had started it brought too many memories swarming forward. Thor's large hands holding him down even as he flailed about, pleading in a broken voice to be let go. Brokkr's smarmy grin as he tugged and forced the thread through delicate flesh. The echo chamber of laughter that had spilled from the crowd who had come to watch, building and building until it deafened him.

It was always too much.

"...It has its moments. Not that it's any of your concern." Arms crossed tightly over his chest and he sniffed haughtily, frustrated that they were even talking about it. He did not want Natasha's understanding. He did not want to hear how soft her voice had become, treating him like a wounded animal.

“always seems to be something like this for both of us, huh?”

steve after making sure the wound was clean was currently stitching natasha up. he’s used to doing it on his own, used to all of the injuries he’s received over the years after all the battles and missions.

Spy Sentences, Vol. 20 || Accepting

Q didn't move from where his head was resting on her lap, eyes closed as he just tried to mirror her breathing before her words made his breaths stop for a few seconds. He looked up at her, hand reaching up to touch her cheek.

“Let’s get something straight, mom ami; one, I only borrowed your scissors twice…okay, four times. But once was because Logan’s cigars needed a little shaping, if you know what I mean. Two, like you said, I look good. No reason ta hide it if people enjoy lookin’ at it.”

One of those days it is.

One of those days that oftentimes end in some sort of bloodshed, simply because some demonic entities from different dimensions do not want to bargain with him. Some listen, then attack him, while others do not even have enough patience to give him a second to breathe after having stepped into their hell of a dimension.

Stephen had known that this thing, the one he'd just faced, wouldn't be easy on him. He'd expected it to happen, really, had prepared himself for the inevitable to come around - knowing that there was no way around a fight, not if he wanted earth to stay safe and free from a demonic onslaught - and yet, shit had hit the fan in the most worst ways he could have imagined to begin with.

In the end, he'd somehow managed to contain the beast to its own home, prevented it from breaking free and make its way straight toward their home planet. The result of having done that, however, is currently coloring his blue robes into shades of black, accompanied by the bright red that decorates his face, his hands, his everything, really. The poor Cloak around his shoulders is tattered, thankfully yet intact enough to continue existing - and when Stephen conjures a portal to escape from those tentacles, stumbling into another one's living room, said Cloak falls off of him before dragging itself along the floor toward the couch as well.

It is precisely then that he looses consciousness for a moment - the world going dark around him - but he comes back almost immediately so, when he feels someone catching him---

The sorcerer himself lands on the piece of furniture with a huff, a groan, a gasp - he coughs, his own hand pressing down onto his side, his front, as much as he can reach, really, while he blinks, trying to get his vision to work for him.

His bright eyes - one bloodshot - meet hers, Natasha's, and, despite the excruciating pain he's in, he offers her a somewhat lopsided, bloody smirk, accompanied by what can probably be taken as an apologetic expression.

"---Shit, sorry for... this.", he starts, needing to take a breath in between words. His gaze wanders a bit, unfocused, before he squeezes his eyes shut briefly and shudders, another groan escaping him. "...For bleeding all over... your home. Fuck. I just ... needed to---"

Needed to get away from the seventh dimension. The literal hell of... hell.

Eyes opening again, Strange's gaze catches the sight of his cloak dragging itself close to him, to his shoe, and he immediately tries to reach out for his garment with his other hand, something pained appearing in his irises at witnessing his friend being in the state it's in.