there are wolves in the walls

justarrows:

Frap Time for the Hawk

(Source: minty-burps)

(Source: nosyefualikol)

(Source: insomniaticthoughts, via sammywhatammy)

widowmaker:

He comes back into himself, like a 50 pound rebar being dropped two stories, like three days in a van with a hood over his head, the world overly, sharply bright as the blue-tint leaked out from the periphery of his vision. The first thing he noted: pain, in his leg (a fracture?), in his side (cracked rib?). The second thing he noted: blood, he was a lying in a shallow pool of it, sticky and red. The third thing he noted: not his.

“No,” he said.

Somewhere behind his ear Loki laughed, low and deep. “Oh yes.”

“And this Agent Romanoff? Do you love her?”

Love is for children, is Clint’s automatic reaction, years of coaching to say it with such sincerity there is no doubt. But the lie catches like a lead ball in his throat, scrapping against the bone. He swallows shallowly and says, “Yes, sir.”

A spark of glee lights up the god’s face, the angles and plains of his cheek. “Oh this is just too delicious,” he says. “And does she love you?”

There’s a tick, right at the top corner of his mouth, a muscle spasm, the smallest protest, the single nerve trying to fight back. But there’s a hand, cold and blue, wrapped tight around the jumping veins of his heart and it tightens. “Yes.”

“I must admit, I was afraid you’d lose. Love didn’t seem to stop Agent Romanoff from trying to rip your heart out.” Clint manages to turn his head, and just over his shoulder Loki lifts his staff and taps the brilliant blue gem crowned at the top against the golden horns of his helmet. “I merely tipped the scales a bit in your favor. It was her own fault—coming here to collect you on her own.”

His leg won’t carry his own weight—Natasha’s work, and he can almost remember now, the determination in her eyes, that she wouldn’t let Loki have him, keep him, even if she knew it meant killing him—and he has no choice but to crawl on his hands to where she lays. Her chest moves, slowly, rattles with each breath. Her hair rests in the puddle of blood, shades lighter.

She blinks blearily up at him when he manages to lift himself over her. Natasha’s greatest fear, he knows, is dying cold—back into that frozen chamber that held her for almost fifty years, not dead but not alive, oh god oh god ohgodohgodohgod—and her lips are blue, straining to form words that only come out a weak, wet gurgle.

When she sees him, she sees him—eyes clear, blinking, the Loki-blue gone as if it had never been—and her hand reaches, maybe for him, maybe to point, maybe to say get your shit together, Baton, and kick his ass now but it falls midway, and lays flat against the dark grating.

“Tasha,” he says, and the memories are fuzzy, like being watched from a grainy old 40s projector, like a silent film. He just remembers her hands around his neck, her heel digging into his leg, nearly breaking, and remembers the sudden chill in the air, her stiffness, the easy way his knife had slid through leather and flesh. “Tash. Nat.”

He grapples for her, and she flops like a ragdoll against him. No. Natasha Romanoff had always been the best of them, impenetrable, uncompromising, the sole survivor of a nuclear blast.

“You do such good work, Agent Barton.” Loki’s voice is like silk, like a snake coiling to bite. “No wonder you’re on the best SHIELD has to offer.”

If their roles had been reversed, if it had been Natasha coming back into herself, her body nearly creaking under the weight of her, she would already be up, already carving her initials onto this god’s smirking face, taking out her revenge along with his eyes. But he’s not Natasha, and beneath the leather her chest is still, and her eyes stare up unblinking at the ceiling, and the sunlight beginning to pour in from the stained glass above them.

Clint’s not Natasha, so he just starts screaming.

your good work
  » loki makes good on his threat to natasha

I love everything about this. Makes me want to read some Frank Millar and Sin City.

(Source: frenzied-femme-fetale, via keen-incisions)

bad-guy-confessions:

“I am obsessed with Mark Hoffman from the Saw series. He’s just so damn sexy.”