stitches

i’m not dead ya’ll. just having shit writers block, but i’m trying to force my way through it. wrote this just real fast. warning for slight mentions of blood and sewing flesh together. ( ao3 link )

——-

There were many things Thor had seen and done in his lifetime. From the good—births, joyous parties, intimacy. To the bad—deaths, war, unspeakable things. But, this… this was something altogether new. Terrifying. Horrifying in ways that he never thought possible. Faced with this task was never something he wanted and he thinks that he would rather slay one thousand men than do this…

They are alone. It had been Thor’s request. Not only to keep his own shame hidden, but to spare his brother the shame of being watched. Though, he thinks, that perhaps Loki would not have minded. Or maybe he would have—he is terribly difficult to read. Though, Thor never could. Now he regrets never paying closer attention, he regrets not giving more love to his brother. If only he knew then what he knows now, he would give up everything to go back and fix it all.

But, it is too late for that.

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24 hour fic-a-thon

assguarding:

for the next 24 hours my ask box is open to any and all thor/loki or hiddlesworth prompts. leave a pairing, leave a prompt and a short fic will be written as fast as i can write them. 

a prompt can be anything from a word, a phrase, a quote, a picture, gif, anything, really. just trying something new to bust through some terrible writers block so i can finish the half-written fics on the table.

so! request away, reblog to spread the word if you’re feeling kind enough. thanks! ♥

ps: there is no limit on requests! so load me down if you feel like, but i will stop taking requests at 12pm EST on november 11!

pps: if you have a prompt that is a picture, just reblog the post and put it in there. i’ll see it. i forgot tumblr asks are butts about urls/html

24 hour fic-a-thon

for the next 24 hours my ask box is open to any and all thor/loki or hiddlesworth prompts. leave a pairing, leave a prompt and a short fic will be written as fast as i can write them. 

a prompt can be anything from a word, a phrase, a quote, a picture, gif, anything, really. just trying something new to bust through some terrible writers block so i can finish the half-written fics on the table.

so! request away, reblog to spread the word if you’re feeling kind enough. thanks! ♥

ps: there is no limit on requests! so load me down if you feel like, but i will stop taking requests at 12pm EST on november 11!

flagrates:

the avengers | cop drama au

A series of murders of influential people in different cities across the country is the reason why Colonel Nick Fury, a decorated ex-army man consulting for the FBI has assembled a team of skilled detectives to solve the murders and stop the killer before more deaths occur. The investigation takes a personal turn when the brother of one Detective Odinson is implicated in the murders.

A tense silence falls over the room, each man standing rigid for different reasons. The only sound heard is the clock ticking on the wall; menacing, oppressive. Counting down until the eventual blowup. It’s coming, they can all feel it.

For once Tony doesn’t toss out a careless, snarked comment—maybe he’s learning, or maybe he can tell how wound up tight Thor is and doesn’t feel like being punched in the face again like last time. Things are different this time. His eyes tear away from the various papers and threads pinned to the wall in front of them and he looks at Steve.

His gaze is already there, waiting for Tony as if he knew. It’s there in his eyes, the reprimand if Tony so much as dares says anything in the wrong direction.

Then they both shift to Thor. He looks like a wild tiger about to strike—everything about him speaks deadly except his eyes are wide with disbelief. This can’t be true. It just cannot be true.

“Odins—” Steve begins but immediately cuts himself off. It’s just the three of them, it’s after hours and they’re friends. This is something that requires a more delicate touch. “Thor,” he begins again, lifting a hand to place on his shoulder. “We have to—”

But he’s cut off, Thor’s hand coming up to smack him away. “No.”

“Don’t do this, Thor. It’s just going to be harder if you fight this. I know—”

“You don’t know. Neither of you do. He is my brother. He wouldn’t…” He doesn’t think he would, but he can’t say for certain. Thor doesn’t want to believe that Loki would, but…

“We have to turn this over to Fury, Thor.”

It’s not that Steve wants to do this, he can’t even begin to imagine what Thor must be thinking, feeling. But… he has a job to do. He pulls his cellphone out and begins to place a call to Fury. A hand covers his to stop him though.

“Twenty-four hours.”

This is insane, it’s wrong and he knows he shouldn’t do this. Steve starts to shake his head but he catches Tony’s eye. He just shrugs and gives him a look. “Why not? It’s not like Thoreal over here can hide from us.”

Steve looks back at Thor and sees it there in his eyes, the hurt, the upset and something bordering on pleading. He knows that somehow, someway he’s going to regret this. Detective work is no place for sentiment. But he already knows if he doesn’t allow this short window of time, Thor will do something brash all on his own and they can’t afford that. “Fine.” The phone is pocketed and he thrusts a finger at Thor. “Twenty-four hours and then I’m calling Fury.”

There’s no reply given but that pleading in Thor’s eyes is replaced by determination. He turns, grabs his jacket off the back of the chair and slams out the door, already knowing where he’s got to go.

“This was a mistake.”

“Nah.” Tony’s already at the computer, punching in things Steve can’t even begin to dream about and the picture on the screen flashes and changes to something all too familiar. “We’ll know right where Thor goes and can have agents waiting there. You know. Just in case he decides to do something stupid. Which he will.”

Steve slumps down into the seat beside Tony and rubs his eyes. “This was definitely a mistake.”

——

sorry this isn’t my writing tumblr but ahfaklsjdf i needed to get this out before i forgot. someone remind me to come back to this asap.

(Source: osgiliaths)

Thor/Loki fic recs, part 3

umakoo:

Even more of my favorite Thor/Loki fics :3 (part one is here, part two is here)

Yidrigar | PG

When Sunshine Turns to Rain | Teen (AU)

The Edge of Loathing | Explicit (WIP)

Zhashtar | PG

Validation | Explicit

Masked by Hate | Explicit

The Bitter Taste of Hope | Explicit

Like Rolling Thunder | Explicit

Sleeping Beauty | Explicit (contains somnophilia)

Between Your Whispers | Teen

Dreams of You Still Wash Ashore | Teen

Hello, Darkness, My Old Friend | Teen

Punishment | PG-13

For You | Explicit

Silence | Gen

Res Judicata | Explicit

Monstrosity | Mature (contains mpreg)

Bonus Hiddlesworth:

Digital Getdown | Mature

Debts and Payback | Teen

Late | Mature

Risky Business | Mature

definitely honored to be included on this list u///u 

Debts and Payback

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Jam

Hhhh okay. First time writing rpf but I couldn’t help it. Just as a sidenote, this fic was written before all the Hiddlesworth angst that hit the internet after the London premiere but I lost steam in finishing it up. Anyway I guess just keep that in mind? Otherwise just enjoy mindless blowjobs??? ( AO3 link )

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iwantmyburd:

I still don’t know what this AU is supposed to be oh god damn it
reposting since tumblr is a douche and I had to remake and stuff

i’ve been wanting to write some hipster au for them. this definitely inspired me in more ways than one. as per usual: no beta, sleepily proofread. LMFAO also first attempt at writing some rimming jfskldjfs [ AO3 link ]

—-

The air is cold. Stagnant. Laden with the acrid smell of stale cigarettes. Yellowed wallpaper is peeling in various places throughout the small apartment. Which, if Loki was honest (and he would be), he found it to be an improvement. A once bright floral pattern looked dead and decaying. Ugly vintage. Brown shag carpets the floors, crushed and matted from years of travel. Dark stains mottled the surface, here and there, like a pattern all its own. He definitely feels it is in his best interest to not question how or why or what. Old, dusty furniture lay scattered about. Tufts of stuffing or springs poking out through the warn fabrics. Nothing terribly inviting. And he likes it.

A steady drip of water falls every seven seconds. He had counted once.

Waiting.

It wasn’t yet time.

Loki sits on the counter, once a bright white, but now just a dingy gray. The flecks of gold no longer holding a shine. Dull and muted. Heavy boots knock against the cabinets below, the sound hollow and resonating. Vibrations shake his legs and all the way up to his chest. Rattles around like it’s hollow there, too. And it just may very well be.

The last rays of the sun shine through the slats of the blind. Yellow-orange lines decorate his body, striping his clothes to make it look like a prison uniform. Crossing over his eyes so brightly that it nearly blinds him. But, he doesn’t turn away. Doesn’t move. Instead, his eyes follow the flecks of dust dancing in the light.

The faucet merely drips as if to ask him why.

He’s lazy, moving slow. Lighting a new cigarette and taking his time on that first inhale. It’s bitter and burns; sucking the smoke down deep to smolder in his lungs. Breathing it down so far that he curls his toes inside his boots. A long exhale and his gaze shifts, watching as the smoke curls around him. Circling and closing in like a predator. Closer and closer. Just when he thinks may suffocate, it disappears, like smoke is wont to do.

Blinking against the sun, he decides it’s more like the shadow of a cage. He feels trapped. Blocked in. There’s a tightening in his chest and he feels like he can’t breathe. Or maybe that he may just burst. The question lingers; why his wings have been clipped and he’s still here. Still coming back to this fucking place. Distantly, the sound of heavy footsteps sound. Noise bouncing off the corridor moving ever closer. Loki can feel each one shake him to his core.

The faucet drips in acknowledgement.

Another stream of smoke is blown out—harsh, forceful—just as the front door bangs open. Thor had once said Loki resembled a dragon when he did that. Angry and full of fire. Now, standing in the doorway, Loki thinks Thor resembles a tiger. Wild and untamed. Nearly crouched and ready to spring. Pounce upon the enemy and consume him until there’s nothing left. Unafraid and set for the kill. Loki doesn’t flinch at the sudden intrusion—he never does. Thor is expected. Predicted. Predestined and it’s suffocating. So fucking suffocating, but he needs it. They need it. He anticipates what’s coming—Thor always being so easily readable—setting down the still burning cigarette in the ashtray by his thigh.

In an instant, the door is slammed shut and Thor is there. Omnipresent and more utterly fucking suffocating than the smoke. Except for as much as Loki despises being cornered, he also can’t seem to turn it away when it’s Thor. Their lips are crushed together in a kiss so encompassing that had he been standing, his knees would have gone weak. He hates this. He hates how invasive these kisses are. They take his breath away. Tongues clashing in a battle for control—that control neither is willing to relinquish. And what he hates most of all is how he craves it and how Thor seems to know that he does. So he gives it to him, unrelenting. Loki doesn’t know when Thor became so attune to his needs and wants, and for as much as he hates it, he wants it, too.

Clothing is shed, dropped carelessly to the floor. The ashtray pushed aside, the smoke from the still burning cigarette curling around Thor’s arm like a snake ready to sink it’s teeth into his arm. Fill him with venom until it kills him. Loki’s eyes watch, trained and then almost unconsciously, his fingers brush down the strong arm. Almost in a possessive streak down the skin, staking claim that if anyone is killing Thor from the inside out, it will be him.

The smoke dissipates.

All too soon, his face is resting against the cool laminate countertop, the bones of his hips pressing hard at the edge. His breathing sounds harsh to his own ears and he tries to reign himself in. But, he’s finding that harder to do with each stroke of Thor’s tongue that slips passed his entrance. This isn’t something that happens often; Loki can’t help but feel like Thor is up to something. A strike of heat fires through his body as Thor’s tongue delves deeper, over and over again, and Loki feels himself begin to come undone. He bites on his lip to stifle any sound, hold back the words that threaten to spill over. Knees begin to shake and he feels like he’s falling—physically and metaphorically. This has to stop, he can’t keep letting Thor do this. But then he feels strong hands grip his waist, fit around him so perfectly and tug him back and he can’t think of anything besides how good it feels. How feeling that gentle sucking and then another assault of the stroke of Thor’s tongue in such a sensitive place. It’s too much, and maybe he’s actually saying that aloud now, hands gripping so tight at the edge of the counter. Legs buckling as he feels a slightly calloused hand wrap around his cock, stroking him in time with each lick of his tongue.

It’s dangerous, but he doesn’t remember moving from the kitchen to the living room. His back is against that shitty wallpaper, legs wrapped so tight around Thor’s waist. He knows he won’t fall, trusts that idiot implicitly no matter how much he denies that fact. No, he’s wrapped so tight because he wants to feel Thor. Feel him so keenly and deeply that it’s almost like he’ll be split apart. And maybe that’s what he wants. Wants no one but Thor to split him wide and make him feel nothing but feel everything all at once. He wants the world and knows Thor is the only one that can give it to him. Just like this. He tries to hold himself there, Thor buried so deep inside that in those few precious seconds he can feel his cock throb inside him with impatience. But it doesn’t last as long as he’d like before Thor moves, fucking him so hard he can hardly breathe. He hates this, too. Hates presenting this face to Thor because he can’t hide how good it is. Hates seeing that confident grin on Thor’s lips as they move together. Perfectly. It’s always so fucking perfect and he doesn’t know why he can’t muster up the hatred for that, too.

And then they’re on the floor—any reservations Loki had about the carpet long since forgotten. He’s poised on top of Thor, looking regal enough that he could be sitting atop a throne rather than a cock. This time he dictates the pace. Moves slow and teasing, making Thor writhe beneath him. Contracting his muscles to create more stimulation to drive Thor mad. And it’s there in his eyes, electricity sparking in the depths that speak of the desire he has for Loki. He doesn’t hate this so much—he’s in control now.  For as much as he’d like to torture Thor for all the torturing his body endured (he does so enjoy retribution), he doesn’t. He wants the gratification, needs that release. The speed increases, hips moving faster, grinding a little harder. Coaxing them both to the edge and then shoving them off. Stars spark his vision, a multitude of colors that remind him of a distant past. It feels so good and so welcome that this time he doesn’t mind when Thor’s fingers slip between his own as he comes.

Loki sits perched on the arm of the dilapidated sofa. A piece of wood poking upward and making it slightly uncomfortable. But he doesn’t move. Not yet. Instead, he lights a cigarette absently. He doesn’t feel like smoking but he doesn’t feel like being idle either. It’s something to occupy his hands that still feel the press of warm, muscled skin and his mouth that still tastes of Thor. He thinks he shouldn’t still want to feel those things, tells himself he doesn’t—lies to himself to make it all okay.

The sun has long since set, the room illuminated by the neon lights of the bar next door. Shining in just enough so he can watch Thor sleep; unabashed in his nakedness. So foolish and trusting. And Loki thinks of all the things he could do to him, but he doesn’t. Instead he bends to put his boots on, teeth grinding on the butt of the cigarette. This is how it always ends and he thinks it should get easier, but it never does. But, that’s alright. He lies well enough that even he believes what he tells himself to believe. It’s all a game—it’s fun. Never mind that he’s made it easier for Thor the more time goes by.

He pulls Thor’s jacket on, inhaling the smell and all at once gets hit with a wave of a feeling he’s never, ever going to admit to anyone. Especially, himself. It’s a little too big, but he’s taking it anyway. Spoils of the war. The cigarette is put out on a broken end table and Loki jams the rest of the pack in the pocket. Feels something in there and pulls it out. A napkin with Thor’s scrawled, messy hand writing—the address of this apartment. Just from a quick glance there in the near dark room, he can sense the excitement he felt when he figured it out. His eyes flick over to him laying there on the floor and there might be the barest hint of a grin on his lips. But it’s gone before he can waste any time thinking about it further.

In the kitchen he finds a pen—amazed that it works—and writes one simple note on the back. His steps are quiet as he returns. Stealth and silent. It’s carefully laid on Thor’s chest so it will be the first thing he sees upon waking and then he’s leaning down, almost as if he’s going to leave one parting kiss. But he stops, hovering there above his lips; breathing softly and allowing their breaths to mingle. Entwining together as one. Again there’s a twitch of a smile and then he’s pulling away, rising and without another look back—he’s gone.

Later, Thor stands at the window. A black hoodie one size too small stretched over his body, smelling like ash and cloves. A crumpled napkin in his hands and a bright grin on his face.

Catch me if you can, brother.