LacyFaye

[crazylikethat]

These are artworks for the fanfiction “Fix You” by Zappytiel on Archive of our own.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/24167713/chapters/58202416

Chapter 27 Excerpt:

“Back away from the edge.”

It took all of Loki’s self-restraint not to startle at the distorted voice behind him. Stark was ensconced within the suit—he could tell because of the eerie resonance of his speech. The distinctive amplification of his words made the vitriol in his tone even more pronounced.

And, of course, Stark had been the one to locate him. The Norns had evidently decided to revoke all of their inexplicable blessings.

“You found me rather quickly,” Loki observed.

He would not look. Confirmation of Stark’s presence behind him would only cement the memory of the Iron Man suit from Stuttgart in his mind. When he remembered the suit, he wanted to recall the relief that he had felt when his Anthony had come for him those weeks ago.

So, rather than peek behind him, he focused on accelerating the surreptitious accumulation of his seiðr. He had never told Stark of blood magic, and he was not above capitalizing on the man’s inexperience with forbidden casting. Escape was still within his grasp if he could just summon his dagger.

There was a clattering sound, likely the suit docking on the roof behind him. “Yeah, well, JARVIS tracked Tommy’s bracelet.”

It was the most grievous of oversights. Loki should have shirked the bracelet the moment that Stark called his own suit, but he had been too caught up in the maelstrom of emotions that threatened even now to overwhelm him. Covertly, he began to run his fingers along the metal girding his wrist in search of a latch or seam. The only obvious deviation along the smooth surface appeared to be the button that would summon his supposed armor.

A whirring noise reached his ears, presumably as Stark strode closer. “Hey, are you listening to me? Step away from the edge. I mean it.”

If Loki hadn’t known better, he might have thought that Stark sounded worried. He considered his position, legs dangling over nothingness, an expanse of darkness and open air before him. From the outside, it might look like he was considering propelling himself into the Midgardian version of oblivion.

But why would Stark care?

Another jerky movement behind him, too close for comfort now. “Tommy, get away from there.”

Ah. It was sentiment then. Lingering sentiment for this husk that Stark had loved. In the past, Loki would not have been above manipulating such blatant weakness. More recently, Thomas might have outright sacrificed his only advantage to allay this man’s fears.

Here and now, Loki settled on something in between.

“Your plan was pathetically transparent, you know,” he taunted, back stiffening at the sound of another mechanical footstep in his direction.

“I don’t have a plan, Tommy,” Stark boomed from the speakers of his suit. “I just don’t want you to fucking fall.”

“I am not referring to now.” He tested the strength of the metal around his wrist and found it disappointingly resilient. Regular mortal force would not suffice in breaking it. “I am referencing your ploy three years ago when you offered me a drink. Your rambling was grating and so obviously an attempt at distraction.”

His Anthony would have been drolly grinding his teeth at this point, but this version of the man that he loved reacted with unmitigated irritation. “Not that I’m not enjoying the trip down memory lane,” Stark said in his patently flippant tone, “but maybe we can reminisce when you’re not hanging out on the edge of my building.

Meanwhile, even the barest traces of seiðr within his body were proving to be increasing sparse, but Loki could not succumb to panic. Not yet.

“Of course, I noticed the addition of the bracelets upon your wrists when you emerged from behind the bar,” Loki said, continuing his distraction attempt. “Admittedly, I knew little of your technology then, but I hoped that your blatant efforts at diversion were for a purpose.”

“I get it.” Stark sounded uncomfortably close now and distinctly unamused. “You’re the Big Bad. The puny mortal should kneel before your mighty mightiness. Now move your ass.”

“The Chitauri are not a patient species,” Loki persisted, desperate now for any semblance of interest. He needed more time. “I had delayed for hours in the hopes that Midgard’s warriors would arrive.” The god hid his hands in his lap and turned his eyes to the cloudy twilight sky. “The timing of your appearance was rather fortuitous. I was able to defer activation of the portal by another few minutes to recruit you.”

Stark was silent for a few moments, during which the prince located another wayward pearl of seiðr. Even so, there was barely enough to spark a flame, let alone open his pocket dimension.

“You wanted to enslave me,” Stark said at last. “You would have turned me against the Avengers.”

Loki’s risk had finally paid off. Even with the interference of the suit, the god could recognize the seeming ataraxy that concealed impending ferocity. He feigned sangfroid with everything that he had despite the anticipatory shudders traveling the length of his spine. Violence, though obviously undesirable, would buy him time.

“My intent had been to command you to protect me,” he revealed carefully, hunching in instinctive preparation. “It took you so long to reach the Tower. I thought your group hopelessly fractured.”

“Protect you from what?” Stark demanded, clearly incensed now. “From your brother? From justice for the people you killed?”

There was a buzzing sound behind him, and he understood enough about Stark’s technology to comprehend that something—likely a weapon of some sort—had begun to charge. The paltry seiðr that he had managed to gather was not nearly sufficient. He was trapped, penned between the most loathsome of ends and the most unbearable of betrayals.

“I thought you amongst the shrewdest of your realm,” Loki sneered even as teetered precariously between fight and flight. “Have you listened to nothing that I have said these last months?”

Silence. The buzzing did not cease, but neither did it appear to be intensifying.

“You are the god of lies,” Stark protested, but there was the barest hint of uncertainty in his tone. It was enough to convince Loki to ease his hostility. Although unexpected and likely momentary, dubiety was infinitely preferable to brutality.

“You have intuited every one of my untruths since I met you.” Loki bowed his back and ignored the garbled hiss behind him. “I understand that you have every reason to doubt me, but I cannot recall the last time that I lied to you.”

Stark said nothing for another excruciating moment. Then, “it was a few hours ago.” The sarcastic lilt in the man’s voice was painfully reminiscent of his Anthony. “You said that you were looking forward to watching the movie.”

“A blatant fabrication hardly counts,” Loki mumbled, mustering a veneer of irritation that mimicked their easy banter.

Whatever Stark had been charging appeared to be powering down now, but Loki could not relax. Regardless of the other’s current restraint, Loki was working with borrowed time. Several increasingly desperate scans of his body had revealed not a trace of seiðr left to pilfer. Every drop of his remaining resources was engaged in maintaining his glamour and preserving the shroud that concealed him from Asgard and the Mad Titan.

But he would not panic. He could not. He simply needed a new plan.

“Loki,” Stark said, and the god could not help but wince at the way the mortal said his true name. Dispassionately. Almost coldly. Like he was a stranger…or an adversary. “I want to see you.”

And Loki was many things, but as he had told Anthony mere moments ago, he was not stupid. He understood exactly what the man was implying, and he would not surrender it.

“You can see me well enough from there.”

If he timed his jump correctly, he could potentially alight on the landing pad below. He suspected that the drop was far enough to break the brittle legs of this mostly mortal form, but the resulting injuries could be enough for the blood price that he needed to pay. The option would inflict more damage to this body than was desirable, but it was more than tempting.

Whirring ignited behind him, this time seemingly signaling the expansion of the space between them. “I want to see you,” Stark insisted, even though they both knew that the god had intentionally misinterpreted his statement. “The real you.”

Fury, bleak and disconsolate, broiled in his gut, temporarily overtaking the despair that had maintained his caustic façade. “Why?” he hissed. “So that you can sneer at poor, homely Loki, the monster who fancied himself worthy of a king?”

A beat of quiet, then, seemingly incredulously, “What are you talking about?”

Loki’s hands balled into trembling fists in his lap. The persistence with which Stark pursued this humiliation was the ultimate cruelty. “We are both aware of the deficiencies of my Æsir form. I see no purpose in enduring your scrutiny,” he snapped in the intonations of his true voice.

When the inventor spoke next, the robotic reverberation of his speech had disappeared. It sounded as though he had removed his helmet. “Tommy—Loki, I just want to see you. I have a theory that I want to confirm.”

“What theory?” he asked bitterly.

“Just a theory. Indulge me, alright?” Stark appeared to be trying for nonchalance despite his forceful tone.

And in spite of his misgivings, Loki found that he was considering complying with the man’s demands. Rather than entertaining any true desire to invite scrutiny of his inferior inner skin, it was the dissolution of the constant drain on his resources that was appealing. Without his glamour, he might be able to accumulate enough energy to abscond without resorting to the forbidden arts. Successful flight and avoidance of paying the blood price could be worth his inevitable discomfort.  

Even so, he did not have to acquiesce gracefully. He had heard both the indiscreet whispers and the outright jeers regarding his appearance throughout the long centuries. His hair was too dark, his nose too sharp, his body too lean. Never had he been viewed as an object of desire. At best, he had been a fleeting challenge, a royal conquest to add as a notch to one’s bedpost. Loki had not thought Stark capable of this sort of callousness, especially not when the god was appearing in the skin of the man’s beloved.

But then there was the smallest part of him, a part nearly overshadowed by the accumulation of hurt and anguish and rage within, that longed to trust Stark even now. Anthony had accepted his every other defect. If any remnant of the mortal that he loved endured, it was remotely possible that Stark was speaking the truth. Perhaps requesting a glimpse of one of his greatest ignominies served a purpose besides abject humiliation and inevitable rejection.

He dared not believe it, but he hoped for it all the same.

“I see no reason to bare myself to Iron Man,” he said acrimoniously, tracing the lines and grooves in his palm with his thumb. His voice came out in a whisper more tremulous than he had intended when he next spoke. “But I would show Anthony.”

He listened to his heart pound in a clandestine duet with the whirring of the Iron Man suit. If Stark refused, if he insisted on scrutinizing his true face from behind the safety of physical armor, then this farce could end in no other outcome save flight. It would mean that Loki had broken every modicum of trust that he had so scrupulously earned these last few months. It would mean that there was no turning back from this widening rupture. It would mean the definitive end of his wonderous fantasy of a world where he wanted and was wanted, needed and was needed, loved and was loved in return.

“Alright,” Stark said, still striving to sound inflectionless. “Just don’t try anything. JARVIS will be operating the suit. He’ll stop you.”

Loki bowed his head. He had hoped that JARVIS, whom he had thought driven by concrete induction rather than emotional drivel, might at the very least reserve his judgment. Still, the A.I.’s display of loyalty made sense. JARVIS was Stark’s spawn, and Loki could not lose one without forfeiting the other.

It hurt no less.

Later, he reminded himself. He could grieve later.

Motorized noises commenced behind him, presumably as Stark emerged from his suit. Judging by the quieter and more efficient process, the whole production had been greatly streamlined.

Loki gained his feet and ignored Stark’s grunt when his pivot maintained his proximity to the edge of the roof. There were several layers to his glamour. The outermost layer preserved Thomas’ features—the softened face, the halo of auburn curls, the blue-green eyes. Below that was the cloak that concealed his true build. Thomas’ slender physique resembled his own from before his fall, but his real form teetered on the border of emaciation. The third and final layer obscured the innumerable blemishes on his flesh—the conglomerate of burns and slashes and scars that he would carry as eternal souvenirs of his captivity.

Of course, beneath all of that was a shroud not of his own making, an enduring gift from the Allfather that concealed his physically monstrous side even from himself.

The god allowed the outer layer of his glamour—the cloak that he had worn for nearly two years—to disintegrate until Loki the Conqueror materialized in his brazen, awful glory. He stood as he had during the Invasion, with his hair coifed into a halo of coiled spikes and his body corded with muscles that had atrophied beneath his veil. Try as he might, he could not summon the demented mask to his face, the wide smile that had concealed his torment.

Fingers found his forearm, latching on tentatively at first, and then more confidently when Loki flinched without retreating.

“Let me see you,” Stark whispered. “Come on, Loki.”

Loki allowed the gentle but relentless pressure to propel him around. It was dark now, too dark for Stark to discern anything beyond the outline of his willowy form. For once, ubiquitous blackness benefitted him.

Unfortunately, Stark seemed to reach the same conclusion. “JARVIS, a little help?”

The Iron Man suit was evidently equipped with floodlights that instantly elucidated every residual shadow. Loki fought against his instinctive cringe, acquiesced only to shielding his eyes from the sudden assault. The inventor’s fingers tightened around his arm until they were almost painfully tight.

“Turn it down a little, JARV,” Stark admonished. His free hand tangled with the fingers that Loki was using as a sort of visor and tugged until the god allowed his flimsy buffer to fall away.

Calloused fingertips, familiar and forbidden, bracketed his cheeks and persisted until he conceded to the pressure to tilt down his head. They traced his cheekbones (too sharp), his lips (too thin), his nose (too pointed). His every muscle tensed beneath the onslaught as he awaited the inevitable renunciation.

However, instead of immediate repudiation, Stark’s perusal continued, tracing along his jaw and then onto a meandering path to his throat. Loki could hardly bear the exposure that accompanied his capitulation, but he refused to open his eyes. Witnessing the revulsion would be worse than simply hearing the impending rebuff.

But after several more minutes during which Stark proved determined to chart the contours of his revealed flesh, Loki could tolerate it no longer. The man was touching Loki like he had Thomas—careful, tender, affectionate. It was a pretense that the god could not accept.

“I will not be a bauble for your amusement,” he spat through bared teeth. “Are you not satisfied?”

Stark’s hands fell away at last, and Loki turned his face to the ground, endeavored to draw long pulls of air surreptitiously into his clogged lungs. Unburdened from the strain of maintaining the outer layer of his glamour, he had already accumulated an additional bead or two of seiðr. Abscondence would be within his grasp in a matter of minutes.

“No, I’m not satisfied.”

The toes of Stark’s Iron Man socks were grazing the tips of his argyle-covered counterparts; the man’s every exhale caressed his left ear lobe; and Loki wavered on the edge of real flight. The knowledge that his Anthony was out of reach whilst so physically near was nearly more than he could bare.

“This isn’t you,” the mortal concluded.

Loki recoiled instinctively, only to find his wrist ensnared within Stark’s grasp. The force of the man’s grip might have caused actual damage had his hidden shackles not armored his skin. Stark’s back was turned toward the lights, facilitating the distorted shards of tenebrosity across his face.

“You wanted Loki,” the god protested, twisting halfheartedly within the surprisingly robust hold. He could not break away without risking toppling them both off the edge, and even now, he could not imperil Stark.

“No, I wanted you.” The engineer coerced him another reluctant step toward the center of the roof. “You don’t look like this.”

Loki could not catch his breath. His lungs felt cold even as his skin blazed. Everything from his insides to his vision was narrowing.

“There was a mark on your throat when I last saw you,” Stark explained. Another tug found Loki several paces away from the precipice of mortal oblivion. “It’s gone now.”

Careless. How could he be so fucking careless? He recalled now how Anthony’s lips had nibbled at his neck following the Pictionary game and the twinge of discomfort that he had promptly disregarded. The sloppiness was inexcusable.

But perhaps there was a way to salvage this even now.

“Such wounds are trivial to a Jötunn,” he ground out. “Your mark healed in seconds.”

“Liar,” came the immediate accusation, mild but firm. Stark gave him no time to deflect; he was already tugging his hand into the blinding light. “Weren’t your nails green, too? JARVIS told me that you were bonding with Romanoff while I was gone.”

Loki might have hated both JARVIS and Stark in that moment if he were not so busy missing their every intrusive idiosyncrasy.

Growling, he snatched his hand away and swiveled, retreating to the edge of the building in spite of Stark’s wordless protests. He knew that his shoulders were heaving in time to the wild gasps haphazardly filling his desperate lungs and that his blunt, outwardly unadorned nails were leaving crescent grooves in his palms. Even so, his every attempt at controlling his transparent weakness went unheeded. Loki could not calm.

The crunch of gravel alerted him to Stark’s increasing proximity once more. Somehow, Loki mustered the wherewithal to quiet his riotous attempts at drawing air before a gentle pressure settled between his shoulder blades.

“I want to see the real you,” Stark whispered into the agonizing quiet. “Please, Loki.”

He sounded like Anthony, like his Anthony, and Loki could deny his Anthony nothing, not even a glimpse at the true scope of his degradation.

Before his fall, Loki had been exceedingly mindful of his appearance. He had taken care to maintain a flawless presence, cognizant of every wayward strand of hair or ruffled bit of fabric. While he had never been vain, he had been exceedingly conscious of the many onlookers who scrutinized his every flaw. Preserving an immaculate façade meant that there was one less indignity for the scandalmongers to dissect.

But the extended period during which he had used a glamour to shield his true features had made him negligent. He had not thought to bother with any aspect of his appearance for years, especially when he could not affect the wealth of defects that he had obtained within the Void. His skin had turned increasingly sallow and his hair had grown outrageously long, but he had taken comfort in the fact that no one except he would witness his repugnance.

Until now.

Loki allowed the veil to fall entirely, first as a trickle, and then as a cascade. Gone were the greasy, coifed locks falling meticulously to his clavicle. His real hair consisted of tangled curls snaking past his shoulders. He wrenched his eyes shut to stave off the sight of the spiderwebs of scarring along his visible flesh, the spindly, skeletal quality of his limbs, the milky paleness of his skin.

Stark’s fingers found his hip, and Loki saw no point in delaying the inevitable. He allowed the man to propel him around, fought the urge to cower at the mortal’s sharp intake of breath. The touch at his waist retreated immediately, an understandable withdrawal. His patchworked flesh mirrored the grotesque ugliness that he had carried for so long on the inside—he could not fault Stark for recoiling.

“Is it everything that you expected?” he asked in his true voice, acrimony infusing every biting syllable.

Long seconds passed. He could hear nothing save for Stark’s increasingly haggard breathing mingling with his own tempered inhalations. His eyes burned from behind his eyelids, but he would not entertain the egregious sentiment that sought to escape. Instead, he focused inward on the dribbles of seiðr that had been extricated from feeding his glamour.

It was finally enough.

Loki gathered his magic into his disfigured palms. Perhaps he would seek refuge in Alfheim this time. He had previously associated with several malefactors there who might offer him sanctuary for the right price. At this point, he would pay anything if it meant that he never had to witness Stark regarding him as the monster that he had known himself to be all along.

Just as he was tensing to cast the spell, those overly gentle hands found the angular planes of his cheeks. Coarse thumbs smoothed across the delicate skin beneath his eyes as the body that he knew better than any of his own pressed close. He faltered for a single harrowing instant.  

“Look at me,” Stark whispered in a long exhale of air against Loki’s lips. “Please.”

He had never thought Stark truly malicious. Moral—sometimes. Vindicative—mostly. Impulsive—definitely. But to ask him to bear witness to the revulsion that Loki could so clearly hear in the man’s wavering voice was the ultimate callousness.

And yet, the pressure upon his skin was almost imperceptible. It was reminiscent of the many touches that Anthony had bequeathed Thomas—soft and caring, as though Loki might shatter with a single errant stroke. Somehow, it made him feel inviolable enough to comply.

When he opened his eyes, he might have acknowledged the dimming of the floodlights or the absence of weaponry pointed his way. He might have fretted at the nearness of the Iron Man suit, mere feet away with arms extended and legs bent as though prepared to restrain him.

Instead, Stark’s face flooded his vision. It was everything that Loki had feared. The man’s gaze was overwhelmingly intent, and the thumbs stroking beneath his eyes bizarrely insistent. From the deepening fissure between his brows to the empty frown weighing down his mouth, there was nothing familiar in the avid way that the inventor searched his expression.

Had it not been for Stark’s steely hold on his jaw, Loki might have fled right in that moment. The former prince could discern not a single remnant of the mortal that he loved in the rapt eyes that beheld him now. He would have preferred that Stark appraise him with abject malice than with this enigmatic fixation.

And then something changed. It was nothing particularly palpable. One of the furrows on the other’s forehead might have smoothed, or perhaps it was his lips that relaxed the tiniest fraction. If pressed, Loki might have ventured that a modicum of the warmth that he coveted reentered the inventor’s bearing.

“I have to ask you one more thing,” Stark said in a voice that was inexplicably hoarse. “And I need you to tell me the truth.”

Everything in Loki balked at such a blatant manipulation, but there was something fragile in the man’s expression that convinced him to persevere. “I will answer,” he allowed.

The arc of the mortal’s thumbs widened to include his eyebrows. They were a different shape from Thomas’ thick brows, thinner and more defined. Stark appeared to be determined to map their every deviation.

“Who did I fall in love with?” Stark whispered. “Thomas or Loki?”

Loki opened his mouth for the obvious answer. It was Thomas, of course. No one could ever love Loki. But then…Thomas had ceased to exist the moment that Stark spoke to him that day in the deli. From the antiquated state of his dress to the mellow tone of his voice, Thomas had been perfectly unremarkable. His Anthony had not fallen in love with Thomas.

But Loki was not the correct answer either. Loki had been broken and remade countless times until his taste for mischief had warped into outright ruthlessness. Loki was unwaveringly selfish because he’d had to be for his own survival. Loki could never have loved anyone, not even his Anthony.

“Tommy,” Loki said as he searched those beloved chocolate eyes. “You fell in love with Tommy.”

A beat. Two. And then the other’s face broke out into the beatific, gummy smile that he adored. “My Tommy,” Anthony breathed.

[crazylikethat]

For Peaceheather’s Ao3 Fic, “What you are in the dark (is beautiful)

[crazylikethat]

Photo Manipulation Artwork for the fan fiction "Fix You" by ZappyTiel on ArchiveOfOurOwn.

This is for chapter 25, "Homecoming"

The Avengers and Loki are playing pictionary. Loki and Tony just started a relationship, and Loki draws tony, jarvis and dumm-e to draw the word "Family".

All pictures used are from google searches and I own none of them.

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

[crazylikethat]

Scene from the fanfic on Archive of our Own, "Fix You" by ZappyTiel

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Excerpt from chapter 14 of "Fix You"

[Grunting, Stark released his hand so that he could twist fully and rummage around behind them. “There it is! Hey, what do you think?”

Stark had donned a floppy hat that shielded half of his face and reflective sunglasses that essentially obscured the rest. He looked utterly ridiculous, and completely unrecognizable, and, at that moment, Loki would have done anything for him.

Except look at him with a straight face.

That was impossible.

Loki threw back his head and laughed, wildly, boisterously, so forcibly that he clutched at his ribs. He couldn’t stop.

Until he heard a click.

When he managed to open his damp eyes, he spotted Stark’s phone pointed in his direction. The man was smiling, sentimental and affectionate, from behind the screen.

“I’ve never seen you laugh like that,” Stark said, voice hushed.

“I don’t often,” Loki said. He couldn’t seem to will away the wide smile that prevailed in the aftermath. It made his face feel too tight. “Did you take a picture of me?”

Stark tucked the phone into his pocket hurriedly. “Maybe?”]

[projectprotectloki]

A friend posted this on fb and I just had to share 😂

Fine by me! 😍

[crazylikethat]

Taking fan art requests

I want to do some drawings, but would like a promt, request or something as inspiration!

Prefer to do Marvel related, and no nudes.

[crazylikethat]

“Siren”

Drew this for my sister who may be writing a story with these sirens in it.

Disclaimer ,the background is a stock photo 

[crazylikethat]

(Found It!) Looking for a Loki fanfic!

I'm trying to find one of my favorite Loki fanfictions. It has an Amnesiac Loki, i believe he is in Norway. An old lady and mayber her daughter find him and let him stay with the old lady above the town library. He helps in the library, is good with the kids, and everyone thinks he's super sweet. Later he remembers his children being killed by his father, (odin, although he doesn't remember that part). One of the villagers figure out who he is, and tells the old lady to be careful, but they still like Loki. The whole town has a snowball fight at one point, which is a great scene. The Avengers eventually track him down, they see a photo in the local cafe (?) With everyone in the town after the snowball fight, and Loki is in the picture. The town protect Loki and lie to the avengers. Ib the end, i think his memories start to come back and he confronts Thor.

Anyway! It's awesome and I'd like to read it again and share it with a friend, but i can't find it! Help please!

[crazylikethat]

Lokitty and Thor’s Hammer #2

[crazylikethat]

Lokitty

Lokitty and Thor's Hammer

[crazylikethat]

Forgotten Marionette on a Shelf

Happy Halloween!

[campterodactyl]

오딘슨 듀오오 by @PIRANH_ on Twitter

Odinson Duo

[crazylikethat]

Just A digital drawing of a spider sewing a mouth shut for no reason. My sister requested a picture of a spider and this is the result.

[crazylikethat]

Art for fanfiction on AO3 "Cover Up The Sun" in "The Great Subconscious Club" by Mikkeneko

Events toward End of 9th Chapter.

Loki Takes out a Military Chopper that was kidnapping X-Men kids.

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

[crazylikethat]

hi! you commented on one of my edits about editing skin color. I attempted a tutorial on my blog lol. It's the first time I've made a tutorial and I hope it helps!

Can you send a link? I can't figure out how to find it once at your profile....

[gif87a-com]

[sirartwork]

reblog for noises

[fini-mun]

“I wonder how this baby sounds”

“Ah. Like a mix between an electronic device on the fritz and what I imagine a baby raptor sounds like. Got it!”

[the-thought-emporium-imperial]

I see, so it speaks fluent power drill.

[crazylikethat]

Inner Loki from the fanfiction “What you are in the dark, (is beautiful ). The story is by PeaceHeather on Archive of our own 

https://archiveofourown.org/works/4624467/chapters/10542450