Sharks Don't Complain About Monday

Sharks are about 420 million years old. All sharks are born swimming.

[shark-bite-fever]

Masterlist [Loki Series]

Welcome to the Masterlist for Loki Laufeyson! Thank you so much for interacting with these stories and I hope you'll see a different side of Loki with each one. Enjoy!

_ _ _

Loki, My Symbiote and Me [Series]

"World, I want to leave you better I want my life to matter. . . I am afraid to let you see the real me" - Sia, Courage to Change

Series Summary: It isn't easy living with a parasite but somehow you and your alien symbiote, Scream, make it work. After living apart from people for five years, you try to make a new start by joining the Avengers. That would be hard enough - considering that you haven't actually told anyone where you get your powers from - if you hadn't also fallen in love with Loki, who doesn't even know you exist.

Trope: Love at First Sight (for you), Enemies to Lovers (for Loki), Love Triangle (Eddie Brock).

Writing Note: Gender neutral. No mention of (Y/n) or reader.

PART 1: In Which Loki is Called A Snack (and a Symbiote Misunderstands)

PART 2: In Which Having a Symbiote is Nightmare (and Loki is His Charming Self)

PART 3: In Which There is Blood and Sweat (But No Tears Yet)

PART 4: In Which There May Have Been A Murder

PART 5 : Low in Iron and High in Sarcasm

[More parts will be added as I update. Stay tuned!]

The Cat and the Canary [Series]

"The cat that swallowed the canary" - idiom; to look extremely well-pleased, smug or self-satisfied often because one has secretly achieved something or has gotten away with a great act of mischief.

Series Summary: As the child of Tony Stark, your life could not be more perfect: you're set up to become the future CEO of Stark Industries, you're an acclaimed scientist and engineer, and your dad's a superhero. However, there is one dark cloud in your skies: Loki Laufeyson, charged to carry out his sentence for a time as an Avenger, has made it his sworn mission to bring your life to misery. What Loki doesn't know is you can give as much as you can take.

Trope: Enemies to Lovers. Forced Proximity. Fake Dating.

Writing Note: Gender neutral. No mention of (Y/n) or reader.

Part 1: The Cat

Part 2 : The Canary

Part 3: The Catastrophe

Part 4: Up In Flames

Part 5: I'm a Snark Stark

Part 6: Trial By Fire

Part 7: Burned

[More parts will be added as I update. Stay tuned!]

The Heart Thief Club [Series]

You stole my heart. . . now can we be partners in crime?

Series Summary: In a world where Loki Laufeyson is the crown Prince of Jotunheim and you are the criminal daughter of a certain mutant (no spoilers yet!). You meet on a no-humans dating app called Cloud 9. Loki doesn't know that you're a criminal mastermind and you don't know that he's 10 foot tall jotun prince. Internet dating. What could possibly go wrong?

Trope: Love at first sight (text?). Secret identity. Royalty.

Writing note: No mention of (Y/n) or reader. Female reader (as a plot point) but hardly mentioned.

"The Heart Thief Club" - SNEAK PEEK!!!

Part 1: There's an 'I' and 'Me' in Crime

[shark-bite-fever]

The Cat and the Canary [Loki Series]

"The cat that swallowed the canary" - idiom; to look extremely well-pleased, smug or self-satisfied often because one has secretly achieved something or has gotten away with a great act of mischief.

Part 6: Trial By Fire

Part 7: Burned

Summary: Now that the smoke has cleared and your life lies in ashes around you, you hardly know who you are anymore. While you push away everyone else, Loki is the one person who can push against you. He claims the words that he's wanted for so long - 'You win' - and then he claims you.

Warning: Language (mild swearing). SPICE. Minors do not interact.

Note: I'd like to say that this is a tasteful love scene, nothing graphic, but you can skip it and carry on to the next part if that's not for you.

There was a shaft of light on the furthest wall. It came from the slit in the heavy curtains, even when you’d unfastened them and drawn them closed to shut out the world. Soft crimson, the late afternoon light was a bloody smear on the white drywall. All you could see was red. Even the futon on which you had thrown yourself, despite the mushroom cloud of choking dust that had erupted from its surface, had a mottled, ominous red-brown colour when you knew it should have been a brighter, more relaxing shade. 

Fuck, your thoughts repeated on a loop. I really messed up. 

You really ought to have put a light on - there was a lamp not too far from where you were hunched, knees pulled into your chest and face smothered in a throw pillow - but you could not force yourself to move. There was another reason that you didn’t want the light. Strong and raw, the stench of vodka was everywhere. Somewhere in that half-dark was an empty bottle that you didn’t want to see. You had no will to venture to the minibar either even though your throat burned with craving. 

All you could do is stare at that little rectangle of blood-red light and try to not-think. Thinking was far too dangerous right now. Abandoned near your feet - which were cold and bare - your phone lit up. It was a dismal sight. 

Dad 1 min ago

Calls (32)

Messages (89)

Rosemarie Oliveria 2 min ago

Calls (4)

Pepper Potts 5 min ago

Calls (12) 

Messages (9)

Mom 7 min ago

Calls (2) 

Messages (8) 

Happy Hogan 10 min ago

Calls (3) 

Natasha 17 min ago

Missed Call

There was only so much space on that screen. By habit, you almost reached out a thumb to flick down but you stopped yourself mid-swipe. You knew that it would be no better: colleagues that still respected you (the few that remained), estranged friends, maybe a few Avengers who were checking up on you. They had all seen the conflagration: the child of Tony Stark was up in flame and the world appeared only too content to watch. Already, the press had brought out tabloid articles and unflattering pictures of you like marshmallows to roast over you to add to the smores of all-out mental breakdown that they would soon create. 

Without your attention, your phone screen darkened. 

Just like your mood. 

You put your head in your hands. Even your fingers smelled sharp and sour of vodka. The alcohol had been a mistake. How many times had you watched your father drink a single-malt scotch, filling up a tumbler of Macallan for the boredom, for the pain or for the simple desire of the tingling alcohol in the blood? Yet the moment that the vodka had slipped into your veins, all you had felt was gravity. Lead in your veins. 

Just another difference between you and your father, you supposed numbly. Once you had thought you were so similar. Now the differences were adding up faster than you’d ever thought possible. 

“Fuck,” You muttered again, feeling tears that prickled but would not fall. 

It was all over for you now. Just as Rose had said, she had never had a client who pushed too far off the edge of credibility. You would be her first utter failure. If your father’s stocks had been going down the drain before, what more could happen after this terrible conference? You would have to step down, you realised. You would have to step down before it got any worse. This inherent company - held in your family now for three generations - would not be run into the ground because of your mistake. 

Ignoring the pop-up notifications, you slid open the screen and clicked on the app. Twitter welcomed you with angry chaos, thousands of riotous people attacking your page, raising their words like pitchforks to send you hurling off the cliff of self despair. With a sharp breath, you typed out the message that almost destroyed you. 

Attention, angry mob. 

I’m giving up my shares in Stark Industries. 

The next CEO will be Pepper Potts. 

I’m done. 

Hope this is what you wanted, New York Times @ nytimes. You’re a bunch of bastards. 

The Tweet was barely up a second before the notifications began to roll in. There were memes, reaction videos, re-tweets and worse. It took three minutes for your father to start calling you again, barely any space between calls. Again and again, you watched his name flash up on your phone but you didn’t answer. 

“You warned me, Dad,” You muttered as you reached out, “You can’t save me this time. No one can.” 

With an extended hit of the power button, the phone turned off for good. No tracking this time. Too numb even for tears, you pressed your fingers over your eyelids and waited for the name ‘Tony Stark’ to not be embossed over the darkness. 

An untimed knock on the door disturbed you. At that first knock, you didn’t even glance up: on the door was hung a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign that would dispel any curious maids or room service attendants, no matter how determined the concierge was. Without a trace of your name, you’d paid in cash and written down ‘Alex Smith’. If anything, the receptionist had been disappointed to see that you weren’t a former quarterback. After that disappointed once-over, you’d been given the key and asked not to be disturbed for any reason whatsoever. No one would be able to track you. 

When the knock appeared again, you lifted your head from your knees and glared at the wooden surface. 

You knew that the inexplicable assailant would need to leave then - no press hound, maid, night manager or confused hotel guest could get past a locked door. The key card had sealed shut, making it impossible for anyone else to enter. 

That’s why it was shocking when you heard a voice, barely more than a mutter. The door seemed to shudder, the whole frame at a tilt as if it was being sucked forward or warping. In surprise, you leapt to your feet before the screech of the bending lock hit you. Seconds later, the door swung open and your assailant entered. 

The shadow hit the carpet at your feet before your startled mind could take it all in. Like before, the black material of his jacket and trousers was dark. Black like day-old grease. Black like midnight. There was a sheen to his hair as he stepped into that blood-red triangle from the half-shuttered window. That pale, pale skin was tainted by that ominous glow. There were no weapons in his hands, though his body was hard and tense as if walking into battle. Once his eyes met yours, you noticed that there was no blue left in his irises. They were darker now, silvered. Gun-metal grey. 

With a flick of his hand, the door shut behind you. What little light offered by the hallway was severed, leaving you in more darkness than before he had arrived. 

That was all it took. 

“Are you happy now?” 

Your eyes were shining. Broken, your voice was a harsh and sharp thing in the narrow confines of that hotel room. You watched the sound of it pierce him like the spray of broken glass from a cracked windshield. Barely a flinch on that callous, angular face as he continued to step toward you. As he approached, his footfall was measured and steady. There was no need for a chase here, for the thrill of the hunt: his prey was weary and would submit. The animal would mewl at death and succumb to claw and fang. 

“Are. You. Happy. Now,” Your voice grated your sore throat, “Or would you like me to humiliate myself some more?” 

It appeared to you like a vision. Like the dream of an oasis in a sand storm or the call of soft rain in a hurricane, it struck you as ironic, as hilarious, that even in your despair a high laugh broke from your throat. Swaying around you, your green dress billowed as you brought yourself low. Below the god of mischief, you bowed at the knee. 

“You promised me, Loki. You promised you’d bring me ruin,” Your breath fractured into a hot and painful thing at the back of your throat, “Looks like I’ve done a decent job of it myself.” 

You could see the way that his pupils expanded, drawing in light through his darkened eyes. They were blown and intense. Aware now of a chill in your bones, you didn’t know if it was the aching coldness of the late hour or if it was his presence that was making you tremble. When you tried to cross your arms around your chest, your touch couldn’t warm you. 

The only thing that could would be the hand that Loki placed on your throat. 

That burned you. 

“Go on,” Loki’s voice was smooth and thick. Compelling. As if you had been flirting with him instead, speaking of secret things as lovers do. As if you hadn’t been detailing the wreckage of your life. 

“I’m nothing now. No friends. No reputation. My career is over,” There was a sniffle in your voice which was starting to grow into real tears, “I’m a failure. I’m - I’m the laughing stock of the Avengers and the black sheep of Stark Industries. My dad -” 

Your voice broke. 

“- can’t even look me in the eyes.” 

The room had become a swirl in the blur of your tears: the amorphous shape of the futon, a door barely hanging on the hinges, the stark rectangle of an unused California king, a lump of a coat and wrap-around glasses that you had discarded. The dark silhouette of Loki who stood before you completely, his shoes polished and perfect even after the dirty New York journey. Above, you could feel the lash of his eyes cutting into you. Though you would not lift your head to see the satisfaction in that cold, cruel gaze. Not this time. 

“You win, Loki,” Your breath caught, “You win. I surrender.” 

There were several things that came to your mind as you knelt before him: you imagined the sound of that laugh, clear as crunching glass and melodious as the cry of a carrion bird. There may be harm that he wished to inflict on you: there were places he could kick you, hit you or wound you - and you might just let him. He might have left you there. Unlocked the door, stepped out into the hallway and left you to rot. 

The finger curling through your hair was a surprise. As was the way that it traipsed, soft and slow, around the shape of your head as if drawing a diadem in place. 

“I know, kjære.” 

The unfamiliar word pulled goosebumps from your flesh which only worsened as you felt his presence beside you. With the warmth in his grasp, he pulled you to your feet and put an arm around your waist to steady you. Searching, his eyes trained on yours as he brushed away each tear. 

Your breath tremored, “Please, Loki. Please leave me alone.” 

A tear curled down your cheek, which Loki followed with a brush of deft fingertips. The edge of your lip was a point of parting as his finger followed the line there. Your eyes had focused on him as he watched your mouth, seeing the slight changes as he moved his thumb over it.  There was still no expression there. 

“I can’t take it,” You whimpered, “I can’t take your torture anymore.” 

“And I you.” 

Loki kissed you. The first kiss was short - a moment, a spark, a taste of you that he could keep forever. Though the aftertaste was too much for him and he came back for another. There was no demand in your lips as he let his tongue trace the inner line of your mouth - inviting you, asking you to taste the fruit that had been too long forbidden. 

Like Persephone in wintertime, your kiss was cold. With a simple press, it thawed little by little until your kisses melted against his mouth. Loki’s eyes had dilated: flat and black, desire had marred them. From the waist of your dress, the flat line of his palm scraped across your stomach and curled into your back. The bones of his knuckles scarred you. 

“Now,” Loki inhaled, drawing you into him, “Come to me, kjære.” 

His kisses were everywhere. Like the branding of an iron, they marked the line of your throat, nestled at your jaw and landed, open-mouthed, across your lips when he was too overcome. While you trembled in his arms, you felt him consume you. The breath he pulled, sharp and selfish, to smell your hair.  Cool and velvety, the edge of his tongue tasted the salt of your skin. Somewhere, a hand toyed with the zipper on the back of your dress. At your pulse point, his teeth sink in.

Your nails scratched him. Hard and rigid, the plane of his back curled to an unapologetic shoulder. You gasped when the chill of the room hit you but you had no time to consider it until you are laid out flat on your back, spread and naked for the man who claimed he would ruin your life. 

With punishing kisses, he crawled up your body. There were bites that he left in sensitive places that will leave bruises to remind you of how he claimed you. They will last for weeks, you think, and you arch into his touch unfathomably. 

Why, your thoughts barely pierced you as you arched into his touch. You hate me. Though you can hear that he moaned as he kissed you.  I hate you. Though you gripped him as hard as he gripped you, pulling each other together as if no force in the universe could wrench you apart. 

“Loki,” You stammered.

Loki gazed at you. There was a look in his eye that you could not name. It may even have been pity as he set his elbows beside your head, reaching a hand down between you to where you needed him most. As he planted a final kiss to your lips, he swallowed all the gasps and little moans that he created in you. A voice in your head even whispered that it could be endearment, except that there was something hungry within that stare. Something feral. Something calculated.

He moved.

The pain was dagger-sharp. It pierced you. There was another cry - then it was crumpled, pained - but it was smothered by Loki’s lips. He murmured curses across your mouth, planted them in a line of soft kisses up your jaw and looked into your eyes before he moved. His hips began to snap - it was a slow rhythm, one that grew. Your breath stuttered. As your signs of discomfort faded, his thrusts deepened. 

“Loki,” You moaned, gasping, “Loki!” 

His groans were deep and ancient. Norse words that you had heard only from documentaries on the history channel. It feels like enchantment. Yet you felt his desire for you - his desire beat in every pulse of his hips, each kiss that he breathed over your face, in the way that he grunted when your arms wrapped around his neck. 

“Don’t stop. Don’t stop,” You cried when the warmth was splitting up inside, when something within you threatened to snap and your back arched against him. “Ooh.” 

Loki’s hands slammed against the wall. You cried out. When you were boneless and filled, he shouted. There was silence apart from that haggard breathing. His face was blank and his thrusts grew slow, controlled and liquid. He remained within you for a few minutes - your body seemed to wish to grow around him, willing to take his shape - and you whimpered when he was gone. Your tormentor laid down beside you, cupping your cheek. His breath was cold. His final kiss bitter.

There was not even a minute that passed before Loki stood from the bed. There was no need to delve through the hotel room to find mismatched clothing. A snap of his thumb restored his clothes - impeccable, sleek and expensive - but he does not do the same for you. Still breathing heavily, you sat up and reached for him. 

“Wait, Loki,” Your voice was almost pleading, “Where are you going?” 

The god of mischief stared at you again. It was truly magical to watch the transformation take place: the eyes, blown wide; the hands, trembling; the mouth, soft and sensuous - everything had grown cold. An entirely different man stood before you. 

 Then he shook his head. 

“Kjære,” He said, “What makes you think I’d stay?”

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Please comment to be added to the tag list!

@pennyl4n3 @dragonsoverall @geeky-politics-46

More Coming Soon!

[shark-bite-fever]

PLEASE WRITE MORE LABYRINTH FICS PLEASE I LOVE YOUR WRITING AND THE GOBLIN KING PLEASE-

(I’m so normal I promise)

Here's a

New Labyrinth Chapter Sneak Peek!

to thank you for your patience!

I am so swamped right now but Jareth is actively punishing me mentally for not writing, even though the chapter has been plotted out and just needs to be written already 😂

Hopefully the full chapter will be published soon, by the weekend latest. I won't leave you hanging another week! Enjoy the sneak peek!

Your mind shifted again. The gloved hand was gently moving through your hair, moving through each strand in a way that made goosebumps settle on the back of your neck. It was a nice feeling and you even lidded your eyes. In your thoughts, you pictured a strange sight: a small child with fair blonde hair and sad blue eyes. 

You opened your eyes again. 

“I feel like I’m forgetting something,” The words were sluggish from your lips, “I wish I could rememb -” 

Jareth laid a finger to your lips before you could finish the statement. His finger followed the arch of your mouth, through from the cupid’s bow to the edge, with the gentlest of brushes.

“Wishes have power in this land, my One,” Jareth said. “We must be careful what we wish for, mustn’t we?” 

There was a heaviness around your throat. Jareth noticed it as well as his finger now brushed along the edge of your jaw, down the line of your throat until he could pick up the pendant that was suddenly there. This struck you as strange - and frustrating - but you couldn’t remember why. You must have reflected those feelings in your face because the Goblin King chortled and let the pendant fall back against your neck. 

“I know it is frustrating for you, but you will learn in time,” Jareth’s voice was almost a coo, “After all, you are such a young queen. You will learn, my dear.” 

You glanced at the pendant but it didn’t disappear. Not this time. 

“ ‘M not a queen.” 

“You are,” Jareth’s voice was almost instructional as he told you, “You have the stirrings of a great queen - and you have all that marks you as one.” 

The Goblin King was still holding you in his arms. One of your hands was resting over his chest, your palm flat against the ruffles of his white poet blouse. It was loose over his torso, which felt trim and muscular against your hand. There was a part in the blouse where something used to hang - your pendant, you realised slowly - and the thought that you were now wearing it filled you with a dizzy warmth. 

“Like what?” You replied almost shyly, “My pendant?” 

“And my owl feathers,” Jareth flicked one of the pencil-thin braids so that you could see the deep golden colour of the feathers that he had hidden there, “As well as. . .” 

It was an abrupt movement. The way he angled his head. The tilt that placed him a mere inch from your mouth. 

Those dark, mismatched eyes watched you. 

“. . . the heart of the king.” 

A slow, easy blush filled your cheeks. You were strangely pleased at his words, each one assembled as if to bring you the most pleasure, but there was something nagging at you. 

“There’s something I have to do,” You repeated, your voice sounding far-away and dreamy when staring into the vortexes of those eyes, “I - I’m running out of time, Jareth.” 

The Goblin King seemed to fluff up like a bird with shifting feathers. There was a sharp pleasure in his dark eyes. He liked it when you said his name. 

“Well, every bride feels that way about her wedding. More so a queen her coronation.” 

There was a sympathetic note in Jareth’s voice. It was at this time that he finally let you go, not from his hold but from his embrace, so that he could link his arm in yours and start to lead you down the labyrinth passage. It was his stature that invited you to rest your head on his shoulder, but the glance that he gave you was almost greedy. 

“You can rest at the castle, my one,” Jareth murmured. 

“The Castle Beyond the Goblin City,” You yawned. 

“And when you’re rested, you can attend to the important matters. Why,” Jareth said, “You’ll need to be fitted for a gown - jewels must be sourced to create you a ring and a lovely diadem. I’ll want each goblin and fae, mortal and troll to know when they see you - to see how impeccably loved you are and how you belong to me.” 

“Sounds nice,” You hummed, feeling sleepier by the moment, “But I need - I need to get something before I come to your castle -” 

“Our castle.” 

“Our castle,” Without knowing why, you giggled at the correction, “And it’s an important thing. Maybe not even a thing at all - a person. Yes, a person. I need to find a person.” 

Jareth flinched. 

“Yes, a person,” You said perfunctorily, even giving a little nod, “The only problem is, I can’t remember who. I just wish I could -” 

The Goblin King turned you around so quickly that it startled you. All the breath was knocked from your lungs as you were pressed back into the wall of the labyrinth. His hands were solid and strong against your arms as you struggled. Glancing up at him did nothing but show you the darkness of his eyes: how cold and distant they had become, you thought, when they were an open universe for you to explore only seconds ago. 

“I told you, Precious,” The Goblin King commanded, “You must not wish.” 

“But why?” You frowned.

Actual footage of me waiting for my schedule to clear so that I can write.

Also, I'd like to send a

big thank-you

to the Labyrinth fandom/community for reading my story. I'm blown away that people are even reading it and I'm so excited for where the story will go next.

@freekyfangirl (thanks for starting the Jareth tag list 😁)

[shark-bite-fever]

The Heart Thief Club [Loki Series]

You stole my heart. . . now can we be partners in crime?

Part 1: There's an 'I' and 'Me' in Crime

Summary: In a cruel twist of fate, you find yourself undateable. With no other choice, you turn to Cloud9Realms - a dating app for non-human entities like yourself. Loki Laufeyson matches with you.

Warnings: A little light thievery - what were you expecting? You're a master criminal.

Note: Jotun Loki has a special place in my heart (he's so adorable when he's not brutally lied to) so please enjoy this rom-com of a Loki series.

The term ‘single’ felt weird. As a word, it lingered between a descriptor and an insult. Did it imply that you lacked something? That there was something missing until you could be whole? Incomplete, it seemed to say. Only one of a set. What was so great about being a part of a set, anyway? 

You know what else had a matching set? Handcuffs. Enough said. 

Instead of saying you were single, you liked the view that your relationship status was buffering. In that case, it had been buffering for over four years - with no sign that your WiFi connection would restabilise and, in all honestly, your router had probably been swallowed by a komodo dragon. Your Facebook relationship status read: 404 Page Not Found.

Your friends tried to point out so-called ‘obvious’ solutions. Though ‘obvious’ might have been a byword for ‘desperate’, if the most popular option was anything to go by. 

Internet dating. 

Internet dating was not an option. It was not something that you would ever consider doing. You did not see yourself as someone who would pick up a phone, make a profile on an app that overcharged you with service fees and get matched with losers without social skills. You were clearly above that. Just like you told yourself in the mirror each morning, you were a self-respecting person. You would not sign up for speed dating. You would not make a profile. Period. 

That's why you asked your best friend to do it.

"Don't lie too much," You grimaced as you passed your phone to your best friend.

Donny Blaze was not everyone’s choice as a friend. Like a shot of aged vinegar, he was an acquired taste. Even though he was a washed-out magician and a failed student of the mystic arts, who had once stolen a magic ring and gotten bashed in public by She-Hulk, you knew that he would take this seriously. For you, he’d do anything. With as much solemnity as if you had handed him a garrotte and told him to slice off the heads of your enemies, Donny took your phone. 

He already knew what dating app to use. 

"It's the best," Donny promised, fingering the heavy chains that hung over his bare chest with one hand while he downloaded the app with another, "It's the best dating app for non-humans in all of the multiverse."

You cringed. Non-humans. It wasn’t the most diplomatic way to say what you were. Even as your friend, you couldn't help but give Donny an irritated side-eye. Donny was a disgraced magician - a human with magical powers as a quirk - but not you. He could call himself a non-human all he wanted, but abilities didn’t change your DNA. In the words of Lady Gaga, you were born that way. 

You were the real deal. Not just a non-human entity, you were a mutant with a famous father. Infamous father.

"Okay, so I'm gonna tick daddy issues," Donny snickered.

You smacked the back of his head with a throw pillow.

"You said not to lie too much," Donny blinked innocent eyes at you.

"Sure, put that in my bio," You huffed as you pushed your hair out of your eyes, "Father tried to take over the government several times and was accused of murdering J.F.K. A real thirst trap."

Donny muttered, "Blood thirst trap."

You rolled your eyes.

"How'd you spell it again?" Donny squinted at the small keys on your phone, "I can never remember where to put the 'h'".

With a wave of your hand, a neon-green illumination appeared in midair. There, your name was spelled out (you had a weird sense of humour): Lehnsherr.

"Eww. Your name looks spiky," Donny crinkled his nose, "It looks too - bad guy. Can't we just use your mom's maiden name? Xavier is a hot name. It screams 'I'm sexy! Date me!'. 'Lehnsherr' screams - well, it screams. Possibly in terror."

Your stomach-deep sigh pulled you further into the leather couch. If you hadn't been wearing seven spiky metal rings on your fingers, you would've put your head into your hands and groaned. Instead, you templed your fingers out in front of you. Interlinked, your hands looked like a metal cage.

"If you think it'll help," Your voice was flat, "but it won't. The same people who aren't going to be impressed about my dad are going to be upset about my mom. They're both criminals or refugees or reformed criminals or whatever. My dad's infamous. My mom's an icon," You sighed, "I'm a goner."

Donny paused, reaching over to put a hand on your knee.

"You know," Donny's voice got a bit thicker, "if you ever give up on dating, there's someone right here who -"

"Ew, barf," Your eyebrows arched, "You know the deal. I only date people who are stronger than me or more magical than me. Besides, it would be awkward, you and I. You used to be my follower - well, kind of."

That was part of the predicament and half of the reason that you were in this mess.

As the daughter of Erik Lehnsherr and Mystique, you were raking in the big numbers when it came to rank, power and notoriety. Seeing as your dad had once been imprisoned as a Mutant Right's Activist (who didn't mind tiptoeing into illegality to get the job done) and your mom was an icon in Mutant Rights and the forerunner of the 'Mutant and Proud' Movement, you had grown up in a lot of their shadows as a child. So, it only made sense that you'd wanted to rebel.

"What are we going to do about the - " He hissed through his teeth, "You know?"

"Maybe I can attach my criminal record? Might be a nice background photo."

"Really?"

"Of course not! Just make something up. This is the internet. Everyone is lying!" You yelled.

Taking a short breath, you tried to calm yourself down. You instantly felt bad for snapping at Donny like that - which made the pit in your stomach deepen.

It wasn't Donny's fault that you were so lonely. Without him, you'd be totally alone.

The prickle was already floating through your fingertips before your mind realised what you were doing. Magic was coursing through your veins and with just a flex of your fingers, just as naturally and nimbly as a spider moves to join each fibre to her web, the object that you desired was in the palm of your hands.

The scent of sweetened caffeine was what drew Donny's attention. With a turn of his head, his eyes were trained on the Starbucks cup in your hand. With a sideways smile, you extended your offering.

"I'm a lonely jerk," You said as the closest way of apologising, "and I'm sorry you have to put up with me."

Donny's smile was just as crooked, "Yeah. I'm a saint."

In a record-breaking time, the ex-magician had filled out your bio quicker than generative AI. Peering at the screen over his shoulder, from where he sprawled (in the way that you'd asked him not to) with his thick army boots over your sofa, you bit your lip as you fact-checked.

"You diabolical little genius," You chuckled, "Investment Banking?"

"When people banked, it was an investment into your personal fortune," He shrugged his shoulders.

Investment Banking. The thought alone made you wild with a kindling joy that you hadn't felt in a long time. Of course, the truth was that you were a master criminal. To get back at your parents in the worst way possible, you used all of your acquired gifts (shapeshifting, magic use, metallurgy) to become the greatest master thief that Earth had ever known. In the span of your career, you had burgled all major banks across Europe, smuggled the Mona Lisa, nicked the Crown Jewels and even stolen one of Tony Stark's cars.

"Why did you put stamp collecting in my hobbies?" You furrowed your brows, "Does anyone even send letters anymore?"

"You're a dark horse," Donny said, "I had to give you something normal."

"Normal. Stamp collecting is normal," You repeated.

Donny ignored the stunned sound of your voice as he continued to scroll through your profile.

"Last thing are some hot pics," Donny's eyes raked your outfit - the metal rings, the leather, the fishnet - and his brow raised, "Anything not in leather?"

"Shut up and take the picture."

The app's name was Cloud9Realms. It was apparently made by a team of people who'd gone backpacking through the nine realms, aware of the very lonely non-Earth people in the universe.

Honestly, you weren't sure if it actually did all that - stretched through all the realms that it said it did - but you didn't care.

When you clicked on the icon, the sound was a swoosh. It was supposed to be the sound of Cupid's bow flying through the air, but it sounded to you like a royal flush in a motel toilet. Nervously, you clicked on your icon.

"No new matches.”

“It’s okay. Give it time,” Donny promised, “Three hours max. You’ll be hounded by guys. Just wait and see.” 

Three hours later, you checked. 

0 New Matches

Then again, twelve hours later. 

0 New Matches

The next day. 

0 New Matches

Three days. 

0 New Matches. 

A week.

0 New Matches

A month. 

O New Matches.

In your mind, that made it official. You were good at stealing so many things - priceless art, cars, identities, magical artifacts - but the one thing that you couldn’t steal was hearts. 

Like all women who were on the verge of romantic failure, you had decided to eat ice cream. Unlike all women on the verge of romantic failure, you broke into a restaurant to do it. An Italian restaurant.

It was called Gelateria, Santa Trinitia. An ice cream parlour that you had found during your younger days when you’d briefly been entangled with the Italian Mob (story for another time). Because unlike humans who had to pay to hire expensive private planes, charter helicopters and other forms of uninteresting vehicles, a mutant with magic was able to snap your fingers, open up a portal and waltz through Florence like you owned the place. 

It was just after midnight when you’d opened the portal. The parlour itself was just before you, on the corner of the road across from where a few bike stands had been placed as if to lure cyclists to the promise of sugar. Sticky and moist, you felt the breeze on your face and smelt the sharp musk of nearby canals. The door to the Gelateria was rounded at the top, almost like a hobbit door, which brought a crooked smile to your face as you used your magic to break the locks. You loved thinking of a personal experience in the middle of one of your heists. It made the thing a lot more personal, you know? The doors creaked open invitingly. 

Inside, you made your way to the compartments. All along the walls like a Roman mosaic or the tribal pattern of Middle Africa, containers of sweets were arranged into long tubes or curling coils which could release with just the crank of the valve or the twist of the tap. The colours of the candies were as bright as technicolour. You spotted something that looked invitingly sweet and positioned your palm beneath the opening. 

“Pull the lever, Kronk,” You muttered to cheer yourself up. 

You munched on the candy as you made your way to the jackpot of your breaking-and-entering mission. Even after midnight, the gelato window was illumed by a coil of pulsating blue lights. Helping yourself, you slipped behind it and pulled off the metal coverings. There was a paper menu propped up - all in Italian of course - and the way you waited, poised, was almost like a customer as your eyes skimmed the list: cono, cialda, coppetta, focaccina con gelato o panna. . . 

Like the true fiend you were, you picked up a single spoon (single like you, you remarked sarcastically to yourself) and started eating from each of them. 

“It’s not me,” You spoke to yourself, watching your reflection in the glass as you took another bite of stolen gelato, “It can’t be me, can it? It must be the app. Cloud9Realms? I mean, come on. The name itself sounds ridiculous.”

With a flick of your wrist, you enchanted your phone to hover in front of you (after all, one must handle gelato responsibly). It was the golden cloud with the 9 at its centre. The app that you were quickly beginning to hate. Again, that ridiculous fwoosh sound. It disgusted you. As always, 0 Matches. You considered how odd it sounded to have a dating app to connect people from across the nine realms when all you really wanted was a normal guy from Earth, though clearly none of them were interested in you. 

Then you became aware of a button. All the way at the bottom corner, written in a font as small as the ts and cs, was an option with a drop down arrow. It said: 

[E] Search Midgard/Earth

[E] Search Asgard

[E] Search Vanaheim

[E] Search Alfheim 

[D] Allow Cloud9 Roaming

“Roaming?” You frowned, licking the back of the spoon and double dipping (because romantic difficulty made you feel like pure evil). 

You had to squint to read the tiny letters, because even enlarging the screen did nothing to help you. 

Cloud9Realms uses its location tags and roaming functions to search your nearest realms to optimise compatibility within species, size and habitat. Enabling [E] search options allows the user to familiarise themselves with beings of similar morphology and anatomy. Any disabling [D] will prevent dramatic miscommunication between. . . 

At that point, you stopped reading. That may have been because you were bored and (possibly undiagnosed) kleptomanic or that you had been sampling the Mango Margherita gelato for a bit too long. 

“Screw it.” 

[E] Allow Cloud9 Roaming

The suspense of the moment made you pause in your ice cream pursuits. All you could focus on was the buffering screen in front of you and the tiny golden cloud logo, from which a plethora of golden hearts were flickering in and out of focus as the loading bar grew longer and longer. You also knew that there was a flickering red light in the corner of the shop, a silent alarm that had been humming for a good ten minutes, and that the authorities would be arriving soon. 

Crossing your fingers for good luck, you squeezed your eyes shut and forced yourself to wait for two minutes before refreshing the screen, screaming at the top of your lungs and jumping into one of the canals. 

There was a beep. 

You opened your eyes. 

Loki Laufeyson would like to chat.

Comment to be added to the tag list!

@pennyl4n3 @dragonsoverall @geeky-politics-46

[shark-bite-fever]

The Diogenes Club [Mycroft Holmes: One Shot]

You've got the world But baby, at what price? Something so strange Hard to define - Million Dollar Man, Lana Del Rey

Summary: Mycroft Holmes clearly knows the rules of the Diogenes Club: do not look at anyone, do not speak and do not socialise without the direst form of punishment being inflicted. . . So why does he risk it all for you?

Warnings: None.

Note: Just a cute, short feeler to fuel my creativity and hit you in the feels. If you haven't seen Young Sherlock yet, go do it. Like now.

It had been named after Diogenes the Scholar, a Greek philosopher who reputably scorned social norms and conventions. It was named such because of the conduct expected of all who entered the impressive, sweeping arches of that vaulted ceiling or set one step onto the mosaic floors. No member of this distinguished club was permitted to take notice of one another, to engage in conversation or even to utter the slightest ‘thank you’, ‘excuse me’ or ‘how do you do’. 

In fact, this rule was so severe that breaking it three times would result in irreversible expulsion.

Which was why, Mycroft Holmes could not help but consider, that it was rather strange that it had been designed with such a large doorway. The ornate pillars that held it in place and the marble columns seemed to want for attention, as if they craved the glitz of such elegant balls and social gatherings that was common to the upper class. Even the grand staircase that curved around the hall, soaring higher into the more restrictive parts of the building, seemed too beautiful for the people who used it. Instead of beautiful women dressed in champagne silks, taffeta and tulle, the only sort to haunt these halls were men just like Mycroft: serious, quiescent, appareled in suits that they wore for professions that they could not publicly discuss. That was why they came to the Diogenes Club. It was a place for quiet contemplation. 

Mycroft sat down in what was gradually becoming ‘his armchair’. It had been a place that he’d used for the past several weeks, within a good view of the doorway and those tall windows in which the light was as diffused as the tea that he’d be served within minutes of his being there. There was a newspaper pulled over one leg, which he crossed at the knee, and the silence would have been perfect for reading on such a calm, commonplace Wednesday morning. 

Would have been. Except that there was one sound that was bothering him. 

Thump, thump. It came. Thump, thump, thump. Thump, thumb. 

He could practically hear the blasted thing missing a beat. All because of the thing he knew must happen, within minutes of him occupying his seat, and because he could no longer draw his attention away to something different. His senses were heightened: his ears were sensitive to the trumps of heavy leather boots and the clunk-and-slide of books being withdrawn from the shelves in the library; from the interrupting sounds of Pall Mall that broke in from those tall, long-paned windows and the sniffle of a man who was sitting at the opposite booth. The man whose cloying, coffee scent quite got in the way of that light, delicate thing that he so sought that. . . 

Jasmine. 

The cup made a gentle sound as it was positioned on the saucer. Mycroft did not bother to count the beats of his heart, whether he skipped some or not, because all of his senses were in the timing of this moment. The moment for which he had longed since he had been here the month before (and every day since). After counting precisely six seconds, Mycroft let the newspaper fall. 

You were standing there in a uniform that, though of a lower station than his, seemed to suit you. The sleeves of your gown were black and plain, leaving the only decoration of your outfit to be the one large frill of the white apron that had been secured at your waist. Just as he suspected, your fingers were still gently positioning the cup on the saucer to make the least possible noise. 

When you noticed that he had put down his paper, you did the thing. That wild, mad, wonderful thing. 

You smiled at him. 

Mycroft could see the way that your pulse jumped at your throat that you knew what you were doing. That this was not just a stray beaming look, as comes so easily to the faces of cheery people, or the habit of a girl who had not yet remembered that the Diogenes Club was strict on leaving their members to their own business. From the way that your fingers lingered on the tea cup, the way that your eyes (never forward, always fleeting) sent their gaze from the newspaper to the floor to his eyes for just a moment - one sweet, tender, tantalizing moment - before both your gaze and your smile dropped. 

You were smiling at him for a reason. Only, he. . . could not understand it. 

They could have you fired if they knew what you were doing.

Yet, look at you. Awaiting something in return. 

Mycroft could be expelled for this, he is reminded. There is a stern expression that comes natural as his self-denigration. The expression is reflected in your face for a moment: there is disappointment, a pucker of the brows that could be his very ruin. He can almost see how you rebuke yourself: the little flicker of your lip, drawn inwardly as you bite it in contempt; the way that your eyelashes flutter down, remaining on the floor this time. Your knuckles are white, your grip hard as you lift the tray. You shall return to the kitchen with a silent soliloquy on why you could not disgrace a man of his stature with something so punitive and wrong. 

Though you are stopped by the sudden motion. Mycroft has darted out his hand, placed it over the pot of tea at its centre as if to stop you. Startled, you wonder at your next social blunder when your eyes meet his face. 

Thank you, Mycroft mouths to you. 

Your smile is radiant.

[shark-bite-fever]

Please, please update any of your three Loki series. I'm begging. They're sooooooooo good, you're one of the best authors I've read, and I need more. (Obviously, I understand if you have writer's block or are busy, I'm simply a fan who really wants to keep reading.) The Heart Thief Club looks so good, but I love the Venom symbiote troupe, I've wanted someone to write it in-depth for forever, and The Cat and The Canary has me hooked. Your angst is chef's kiss, and the plot is plotting. <3 <3 <3333333

Hello!

To say that I was delighted with this comment would be an absolute understatement. I haven't gotten that much interaction with my Loki stories at the moment, so I'm so pleased that you're enjoying them!

I try to give Loki some weird love interests with even weirder powers, so I'm so glad that you're enjoying them. I'll work on putting out some more soon, but here's something for you in the meantime.

The Cat and the Canary Part 6: Trial by Fire

THIS is for you!

[shark-bite-fever]

The Cat and the Canary [Loki Series]

"The cat that swallowed the canary" - idiom; to look extremely well-pleased, smug or self-satisfied often because one has secretly achieved something or has gotten away with a great act of mischief.

Part 5: I'm a Snark Stark

Part 6: Trial By Fire

Summary: The dreaded Press Conference, your own personal Trial by Fire, begins. The Avengers sit at your side like sentinels of justice. . . but Loki is sitting right next to you, smirking like your shoulder devil. Your whole life hangs in the balance.

Warnings: Semi-naked Loki. Angst with a side of more angst.

Notes: I adore Loki in this picture. Enjoy!

The press conference was due to start at four o'clock sharp. According to Rosemarie Oliveira, this meant that you had to be at the hotel by eleven o'clock, fed something stale and measly from the vending machine every few hours to make sure that you didn't starve or pass out, and then be completely monitored by an eagle-eyed team of stylists, hairdressers and make-up artists. The official reason for this was to make sure that they had enough time to complete the make-over and run through the script once more before the conference began. The unofficial reason was that Rosemarie thought that wealthy, famous or privileged people had no sense of time.

Seeing as you arrived forty minutes late, Rosemarie wasn't exactly wrong.

The hotel room was small and cramped. There were two beds, a small kitchen counter which served as the top of the mini-fridge, and a flatscreen television positioned in the centre of the room. The Portuguese woman sat you down on the end of the bed, snapped at you to fix your 'gorilla' posture, and then switched on a rom-com and ordered you not to move a muscle. Then Rosemarie clapped her hands and let her professionals go to work. Most of the time spent by the numerous health and beauty professionals was bickering, arguing back and forth, and discussing which fabrics or colours would highlight the your good features or expose flaws ('What flaws?," you had snorted while laughing at Kate Hudson and Matthew McConaughey). You were just into the best part of the movie, your stylists arguing about what kind of shoes you should wear, when the door opened and Rosemarie returned. With a guest. Loki.

"Oh, look," You remarked flatly, "It's the Wicked Witch of the West."

"Leave the man alone, Stark," Rosemarie's nostrils flared, "You are to be on your best behaviour. Both of you."

Your brows raised and your lips reshaped into something pert and dubious. The god of mischief returned a look with similar intensity as he stepped out from behind the Portuguese woman, his eyes scanning the room with distaste. He was wearing an all-black suit and his hair was slicked back, left loose around his shoulders. In all honesty, he could've given Brad Pitt's portrayal of the Grim Reaper in Meet Joe Black a run for his money.

"You're right, Rose. I should be polite," You smiled prettily, "So how was your commute, Kermit the Frog?"

Loki rolled his eyes.

"Rosemarie," Loki said, "Must I be forced to endure - "

"You are both my most problematic clients," Rosemarie interrupted curtly, "On most days, each of your reputations vie for the worst ranked out of S.H.I.E.L.D. and all of the Avengers. I need you to both understand that, as your PR Manager, it is my job to make sure you look and act your best in the public eye. My record in this is absolutely perfect and I haven't had one bad experience yet. Should you make me fail at this," She smiled, bright and terrifying, "I will go insane and take you both with me. Understand?"

You both nodded, disturbed.

"Wonderful. Give me but a moment," Rosemarie cleared her throat,"I need to take a call."

While the PR Manager left the room, taking the stylists and make-up artists with her, Loki sighed and took a seat beside you on the end of the bed. You glanced at him icily and reached for the remote on the end of the bed, putting up the volume to dissuade him from talking. Surprisingly, it didn't work.

"Sleeping well of late, Stark?" Loki replied.

"Like a baby," You remarked coldly.

"It appears that snakes are a startling cure for insomnia," Loki mused, "What a discovery. I wonder if all manner of reptiles do the same? Perhaps there will be a need for further investigation. A crocodile, perhaps, or a small alligator?"

"Oh, no. The secret is not being a sleazy dirtbag who tried - and failed - to take over the planet," You cocked a brow, "And high thread-count sheets."

When there was a beat of about two minutes where he hadn't replied, you felt bothered by his lack of a dry response. If it was true what they said about keeping silent in order to plan a murder, you didn't want to give him any further incentive to disrupt (or end) your life. Especially not when he'd recently decided that you were going to be his biggest target. You were surprised when you noticed that he had been looking at you the entire time, specifically your dress.

Shifting uncomfortably, thinking about how he could possibly ruin it by virtue of reptile, you glared at him.

"What?"

"Green."

"What?" You repeated.

"You're wearing green?" Loki's voice seemed unusually soft.

"Bravo for having a basic understanding of the colour wheel," You rolled your eyes, "What about it?"

"Nothing."

"Didn't sound like a nothing," You muttered with suspicion.

"It was merely a comment," Loki looked you dead in the eyes.

"Sure, sure."

"My two problem children," Rosemarie announced when she re-entered. "Let me take a look at you."

Rosemarie had a critical eye for detail. First she turned to the young heir and barked at you to stand up straight, shoulders back and face dipped down; then she began to circle her client in the way that a shark begins its circuit in an aquarium tank. There were a thousand little details that she concerned herself with: the PR Manager pressed her hands down on the your waist to reshape the tulle; the lightweight, textured material fell prettily under her guided hands. She muttered something under her breath as she bent down to inspect your black wedge heels before standing upright again and stepping close to the your face. At her guidance, you lifted your cheeks and shut your eyes. You jolted when you heard Rosemarie snap her fingers.

"You. Was this your idea?" Rosemarie berated the makeup artist, snapping her fingers again, "This eyeshadow is far too dark. Do you want this entire press conference to go to the dogs just because you make my client look bruised and tired by putting on an eyeshadow that's too dark?"

The makeup artist stammered an apology and brought out her kit. After Rosemarie glared and carefully instructed her to use warm, earthy colours - 'a soft bronze or taupe' were her exact words - she turned to Loki. You could only watch through one eyelid at a time as Rosemarie repeated her strange ritual. It appeared that Loki seemed rather confident - and his ego boosted more still as Rosemarie complimented him on his excellent posture and regal bearing - until she started to dig into his clothes. She clicked her tongue in disapproval as she took in his all-black suit.

"This is no good," Rosemarie reprimanded, now addressing one of the stylists who snapped to attention, "If we put him in all black, he's going to look too severe and serious. We don't need a reminder of what happened at Stuttgart," She hummed impatiently, clicking her fingers and making her assistants jump nervously, "I like the suit. It's a good touch, but it's too formal. Do you have anything that can - suavizar. We need it -"

"More casual?" The stylist was hesitant.

"Why are you here talking to me when I need action?"

The stylists ran around like headless chickens as they were directed by their Portuguese boss. Rosemarie hummed in approval as she saw the lighter shade of the eyeshadow and thanked the sweating makeup artists that were huddled around you. The next thing that Rosemarie turned to was the jewellery. Though you weren't necessarily a big fan of wearing jewellery, Rosemarie had come prepared: her assistants pulled out boxes of Swarovski necklaces that they held up against your throat to see a comparison.

"I don't like that one," Rosemarie remarked, "Too bridal. Something thinner and prettier. Remember, people, we're going for dainty. For innocence."

You heard the Norse idiot's chuckle from the other side of the room. You felt yourself flush in annoyance and you turned your head to throw a quick witticism at him, but the words never left your mouth. You weren't expecting to see him shirtless. Even paler than his normal complexion, the skin of his chest was a white like rich, creamy milk. He was toned, far more than you had expected, and each ridge of his stomach muscles formed abs that could've paved the Great Wall of China. It was only after you connected with his eyes that you realised that you'd been staring.

"Shut up, Loki," Your voice cracked embarrassingly.

The Swarovski that Rosemarie had settled on was exactly according to her desires. Even the name - the Angelic Necklace - seemed to fit the look of what she was trying to achieve. The crystals were white and gold-plated, curling like tiny haloes around your throat and falling just over your clavicles so that beams of light painted your skin. You went to touch one but were berated by Rosemarie in rapid-fire Portuguese. Although not bilingual, you knew that they were death threats.

"Perfeito!" Rosemarie praised.

Rosemarie had certainly been right about the suit. Where the god of mischief had seemed faintly ominous and brooding in the dark suit, now his features seemed softer and less severe. Though he still wore the jacket and trousers in the same shade of charcoal black, the high-necked shirt had been exchanged for a buttonless white t-shirt. Changed, too, were his loafers. Now he was wearing cloud-grey sneakers, which he was staring at distrustfully. You crossed your arms over your chest and looked over him.

"Just add a Black Sabbath t-shirt and you're the splitting image of my dad," You smirked.

Loki raised his brow archly, "Just add a pair of wings and you could be a grasshopper."

"You both look wonderful," Rosemarie chided. "Now, I trust that you've both memorised the scripts that I sent you from our last meetings. Obviously, Mr Laufeyson has had more time to learn what he's to say - and that he's most certainly not allowed to ad lib, no matter how many times he assures me that he possesses a silver tongue," She looked at you , "And the same can be said for you, Stark. I wouldn't -"

You interrupted, "Dr Stark."

"I've known you since you were fourteen years old," Rosemarie glared, "So your title means absolutely nothing to me. As I was saying, I don't want you to say anything that you haven't prepared. If the press asks you a question that you don't recognise, ask them to rephrase until it resembles something that you do. Even if you have to repeat yourself several times. Do not say 'no comment' unless you want them to think you've got something to hide. If you're really unsure of what to say, defect to your father or one of the other Avengers."

The time passed more quickly than you could say. Like a wineglass in the hand of a drunkard, there was soon nothing left.

Out the suite door. Across a hallway. Down a service elevator. Backstage blinked into existence without giving you time to process. You felt your stomach muscles tighten as you realised what you were about to do. Standing in the backstage room, you could hear the faint drone of voices rising together from the press that were already gathering in the conference hall. You pressed your hands together and squeezed them tightly as you half-listened to Rosemarie's last-second tips. Make sure that you're always smiling, even if it's a closed-mouth smile. If someone dresses a concern, make sure to look sympathetic. After shooing away your team of makeup artists and personal stylists, Rosemarie led the way to the outer courtyard where they would meet up with the other superheroes before they all walked on stage together. Your heart was pounding as the sounds of the press hounds grew louder. They came to the hallway where the other Avengers were lined up in pairs: first, Steve Rogers and Natasha Romanoff; Clint Barton and Thor Odinson; Nick Fury and Maria Hill; then it was you and Loki. You saw your father standing a little way away from the others, just behind Steve, but it appeared that he was alone.

You swallowed. The regrets of the past few days trickled through your mind as you realised that you were completely unprepared for this. You felt scared to have to go in front of the entire world and explain that you were a screw-up, but not an entirely dangerous screw–up. Just like you used to do when you were a little child, you longed to run up to your dad and hide behind his legs until the scary thing was over. As if he could feel the force of your thoughts, Tony Stark looked up. Then he smiled.

Your heart almost stopped. Could he have forgiven you so easily? After everything that you'd said to each other? It was only after the sound of stiletto heels strode across the tiles that you received your answer. You turned her head to see that Pepper Potts was starting to rejoin the formation. Before she passed, Pepper paused and pressed a kiss on her soon-to-be stepchild's cheek. She also reached out and squeezed your hand. That's when you really started to panic.

"I can't do this," You blurted. "I - I need to - there must be something - I can't - "

"You're going to be okay," Pepper promised.

"I set a building on fire," You breathed shakily, "They're going to make me out to be some kind of psycho. An arsonist. A pyromaniac - "

"It'll be okay, sweetheart," Pepper comforted. "It's only twenty minutes. There are nine other people here that they'll question. It's not just you. We'll be here to help you."

"You're the only person who isn't violently aggravated with me right now," You stammered, "Who's to say that they're not just going to let me go up in smoke?"

Pepper didn't say anything else but smiled at the person that she'd been protecting since you was young. She wiped away the slight trace of her lipstick from your cheek and then let go of your hand. When she rejoined Tony at the front of the line, the billionaire pressed a kiss to her lips and smiled to his fiancee as she fixed his hair or straightened his jacket. Your stomach plummeted when the line started to walk onto the stage. Just before you stepped out into the spotlight, you heard Loki's voice brush across the shell of her ear.

"Do you smell something burning?"

There were so many cameras in the conference room. They were not all fixed in place by tripods or mounted on stands but were manned by trained professionals, undoubtedly news teams who were eager to find the best coverage of the event while the press conference was being streamed. You counted at least twelve cameras fixed around the room, each one swivelling around in a split second to face the person to which the question had been addressed. The first journalist approached the podium and prepared his questions.

A man presented himself to address a question to Natasha. He introduced himself as one of the head journalists from the New York Daily News and he carried an iPad on which he took notes with his apple pen. The moment that he began to speak, several actions happened. Cameras clicked shots of the man. Tripods and stands were swivelled to face the stage, zooming in on the Black Widow's features. Lights were dimmed around the room.

"Natasha - may I call you Natasha?" The man asked, "It seems that you were taken by surprise when it was announced last week that you currently hold the title of the most beloved superhero. Clearly, you're a feminist icon to many young girls who are seeking non-traditional careers. What might you say to those girls, if given the opportunity?"

Natasha's smile was bright, made even brighter by the shade of her black cherry lipstick, as she pursed her lips to answer the question. Cameras clicked. Lights brightened. People held their breath in anticipation.

You felt as green as your dress. As more and more questions were asked and answered, you kept swallowing hard lumps in the back of your throat. You had already downed half of the bottle of water and you hadn't even answered any questions yet. It was difficult for you to remember a time when you'd ever felt so nerve-wracked, though you tried to assure yourself that there had been plenty of examples. The public eye was a place in which you'd been observed before, such as when you had been presented with an NSTF award for your contributions to the scientific community. There had been an awards assembly. There had been pictures and handshakes.

"Dr Banner," Questioned a woman from the Daily Bugle," Many of our audience cannot help but have their hearts go out to you to hear of your struggles as being both the Hulk and genius scientist. It's an inspiring journey. Could you tell us more about how you've managed to acclimate yourself into the Avengers team?"

Bruce Banner smiled nervously, "Sure. I suppose I could begin by saying. . . "

This wasn't even the first time you had to speak on television, you reminded herself as you tried to stop your hands from shaking. You had given a speech at CERN about the influence of artificial intelligence on modern engineering practices and it had over three billion hits on YouTube, which had been streamed nationwide when you had given it. People had given her a lot of critical acclaim for the way that you'd conducted yourself. There were over ten thousand comments, which were mostly positive.

"I am such a fan, Mr Rogers, for all that you do for this country," Declared a man from the Weekly World Enquiry, "It's such an honour to be able to stand here and interview you, sir."

Steve smiled, "It's such an honour to be able to fight for my country."

You tried not to roll your eyes at the way the journalist's breath caught. Fanboy, you muttered under your breath.

The biggest thing that you couldn't understand was what had changed so much in the last five years. What had changed you from that smooth, calm and collected young scientist into someone who was sweating under the artificial lights? That was flinching every time someone mentioned a name that sounded even vaguely familiar to your own ? But that was then, wasn't it? When the world made sense.

Then: when you had been an engineer with a spotless reputation, a renowned name in the scientific community and a strong relationship with your father. That was when the world was your oyster. That was when you thought that you were capable of anything, even beyond the normal realm of possibility. That was when -

Maria Hill nudged you with her boot. You jolted, ripped from your train of thought, and your eyes swivelled to the woman's face. Maria looked tense. Without being conspicuous, she indicated the audience with her eyes. Your brows raised and you mouthed What?. More forcefully this time, Maria did it again.

"Stark?"

Your heart spluttered when you heard your name being called. When you looked at the crowd of journalists and news personnel, you noticed that it was a different man who was standing now and he appeared to be addressing a question to you. This man was bald, wearing a clipped expression and a moustache that curled over his thin lip. He seemed impatient. Your throat closed as you tried to speak. You cleared your throat before you spoke into the microphone. The echo of your own voice ricocheted in the conference room.

"Can you repeat the question?" You said in a small voice.

The man narrowed his eyes, "I said, what do you have to say for yourself?"

You wiped your hand on the back of your neck. It came away damp with cold sweat. Cameras clicked and swivelled again, distracting you as the flash burned in your eyes, and you swallowed again. Lights dimmed down the contrast on your face and still more pictures were snapped.

"I understand that the fire was quite a shock to hear about," You felt yourselffalling back on the script, "But it was completely overblown and, I can assure you, it was only a short, controlled -"

"I was asking about what this means for Stark Enterprises," The journalist interrupted curtly, "With all due respect, Stark. The focus was on how your actions have affected your father's business."

Cameras snapped. Lights brightened. You felt like putting a hand up to cover your face against the glare. You felt your heart speeding in your chest, turning from a pump to a thin rattle. You exhaled sharply.

"Stark Enterprises?" You repeated, your words at a stammer, "I don't see how that would affect - "

"The Wall Street Journal has already identified a twelve percent drop in Stark Enterprise Sales," The journalist meted out sharply, "Just within a week, that is an astronomical drop in sales and interest. I'm sure you can agree, Stark, that the investors are worried."

You swallowed, "Um - "

Cameras snapped. Lights dimmed. Your breath was at a gasp now.

"You could even agree with why some of the investors want you to resign from your post," The journalist continued.

You froze, "Excuse me?"

"After all, if just one of your actions could cause such a decline, surely it would be preferable to have you removed altogether?" The journalist continued as if you hadn't spoken at all, " So will you be resigning, Stark? Will you take a step back to help your father's company improve their stocks?"

Something inside of you burned. Something snapped.

"No!" You raised your voice, "I'm not going anywhere! It was an accident! It's not like I planned for this to happen!"

"And an absence of planning is exactly what worries them, Stark. Exactly how much of a danger are you to the state of your father's conglomerate?" The journalist retorted, "And how much of a danger are you to society?"

People started to shift and stir at the sound of the argument escalating. Cameras were flickering quickly now, all of them trained on your face, and the snaps and flashes were hurting your eyes. You put a hand up to cover your face while the security team tried their best to calm down the situation.

Maria Hill stood up, putting her hands up, "As S.H.I.E.L.D. has already released to the media, the fire was not one of consequence and has caused little damage to the -"

"Danger to society?" You got to your feet, hitting your hands on the table with a thump, "It was one mistake! I don't know who you think you are or what bogus newspaper you represent, but I can tell you now that I am not some terrorist - "

"Don't say terrorist!" Fury snarled.

You raised your voice, "It was a stable experiment and there was an unforeseen problem - "

"It's refuted that you didn't have permission to be working on that experiment!" Another journalist jumped up, an apple pen in his hand already furiously scribbling notes.

"Who told you that, sir?" You shouted, "Exactly where did you get your information?"

You felt heat. Felt it pounding through your head and coming out through every pore like the dramatic build-up to the reveal of the creature in a monster movie. The lights were too bright. In your ears, a confusing ruckus of sound was making it difficult for you to think. You could hear Fury's low, furious shouts cutting through and ordering you to stop speaking. You could hear fragments of Natasha's voice or Steve's words trying to reason with the crowds. Even the low, contented chuckle of Loki could be heard faintly over the blood pounding through her ears. Your own voice was loud and shrill as it left you , but you weren't sure what you were saying. Weren't sure if you were saying anything at all or just making noise.

And the cameras were there to capture every moment of it. The distress in the superheroes's faces. The heat blistering your cheeks and throat and wrecking all of the makeup artist's hard work. There were news stations recording it, minute-by-minute, as you went up in flame.

You felt your throat close up. Finally, there were no other words to answer the questions or to respond and save yourself - even though the journalists kept barking and the news anchors continued to address their complaints and concerns about public safety. Though there was movement and sound and chaos - the world felt strangely silent to you. You felt like you were standing right at the centre of a bonfire - you could see the kindling burning, could taste the smoke in the air, could feel the ash gathering over you , and feel the burn as the flames ate you up alive. You were burning. Everything that Tony Stark's child was. . . was burning.

"Please," You whispered. But you weren't sure anyone could hear you .

You looked around desperately for something that wouldn't burn. Something that you could hold on to while everything was reduced to cinders. You glanced down the table: Fury had cornered Maria Hill and Pepper Potts as they discussed the situation tensely, making many gestures; Natasha was standing next to Steve and trying to feed him words to calm down a portion of the press; Bruce Banner's face was white as he strove to keep composure in such a stressful situation and Thor was sitting and looking at it all, not sure if this was a regular part of Midgardian politics. But it was the face right down at the end of the line that was the feather that broke the camel's back: Tony Stark had his head in his hands, face shielded by his palms from the cameras that targeted him, and his back stiffened as he sighed in disappointment.

You felt tears welling in your eyes.

No. . . Not here, please. . . please. . .

You tried not to blink and set them free. If there was one strand of dignity that you could preserve, it would be to not cry in front of billions of people. You knew that you had to say something but when you tried to speak, your throat clenched on a sob. There were no words. In the biggest conflagration of your life, not even your tears would dispel the flames.

And then there was a hand on your back. It found the opening in the back of your dress so that each finger brushed across your skin and curled on the small of your back. The hand was cold and rigid. It did something to you . All of a sudden, those turbulent thoughts and emotions that were about to be released in a torrent of tears were suddenly kept at bay. Your eyes didn't sting. They blinked back nothing else except for the excess flashes of the cameras. When you wanted to slide back down into your chair, you found that you were unable to move. Rooted completely in place as if by. . .

"Everyone, please. There is no need to be perturbed."

Magic. That was the only way to describe the effect that Loki's words had on the people gathered there. It settled over them like mist over a mountain, drenching everything in a haze of calm and quietness that spread to everyone. The journalists were so dazzled that they forgot the questions they had been, just seconds ago, so poised and prepared to ask; their hands went limp and slack on the pens they were using for notes.

Loki was standing beside you . Far taller than you were and a good deal more expressive, he took the attention off of you and redirected it onto himself. With just a charming smile, he distracted everyone that had been so predacious and ready to hungrily rip into you with their questions. While his one hand remained on the small of your back, probably looking to all the world to be a gesture of comfort - not one of exerting dominance, his other hand reached out to the audience as if seeking sympathy. Then he flexed his fingers to ask everyone to resume their seats. The corner of his mouth creased in a smirk as they all did as he asked.

"It might be difficult for members of the general public and the media to understand what Stark here has gone through in the last few weeks," Loki's voice was a temptation to the ear, a musical suggestion to invite his words into their hearts and minds as truth, "Yes, it was an unfortunate accident that took place last week. While it may seem to be on too large a scale for one to think that this accident can be easily forgiven, the public should know that S.H.I.E.L.D. has both forgiven and forgotten this incident completely."

Loki turned his head to look at you . There was satisfaction to the curl of his brows, something that probably only you could see, yet his other features could have been described as sympathetic. Were you able to move in that moment, you might've found your jaw hanging open incredulously. Why was he. . .? Then you remembered. The god of liars, you reminded yourself. That's all he is.

"Stark has lived in the limelight in each moment of life. The child of a very successful inventor and, now, also a mighty superhero," Loki's eyes narrowed imperceptibly at the mention of your father, but it did not last long, "This accident is on a much grander scale than the regular person may ever experience. So is it truly so difficult to comprehend that, just like the triumph is enlarged, so too is the consequence? So too is the level of the accident? Yet it can be easily forgiven. . . "

You watched, dazzled, as the god of lies began to weave his web. Each word was a thread that wound its way around a journalist's mind, making them think that perhaps they had been wrong about their treatment of you. The cameras were redirected from the Starks onto Loki, who spoke so eloquently and convincingly that they felt his face should be the one that was covered in the news. Each sticky tendril of a well-phrased argument pulled them deeper and deeper in until they even started to look ashamed of themselves, closing their iPads or recording devices and refusing to make any more notes about the matter. Just like that poised and hungry spider, Loki had trapped them all into a cobweb of his own desire and there was no way that they could escape. Now they thought what he thought. Now they sympathised with what he thought was sympathetic. Now they were his.

"So you really mustn't be too harsh on Stark here," Loki concluded with a smile at you, "After all, you're only human."

When Loki removed his hand from the small of your back, you sank into your chair with a quiet gasp. Your stomach churned. Just one touch and all of your energy had been drained: all of that anger and confusion had dwindled and smouldered, leaving nothing but a clench in your gut as you thought about what had to happen next.

Soon there came a nervous titter throughout the conference room as the journalists started to awaken from Loki's trance, wondering what should happen next. Fury stood before they could begin their questions again.

"That calls the end of the press conference," Fury declared, "Any further statements will be provided at a later time - in a month or until a new crisis rises to take its place," He cleared his throat sharply, "We thank you for your time."

You were immune to the director's glare. As the press conference came to an end, all of the cameras were shut off and various technicians went around to pack up the equipment. That was when you made your move. You stood up shakily from the chair and turned, not bothering to wait for an order or rank as you pushed past everyone in the line and fled backstage. The second that you got out of the spotlight, your eyes ached as you accustomed to the dark of the hall. Deep inside, your emotions started to awaken again. Your breath was pushed from your lungs as a pair of arms seized you , pinning you against the wall.

"Are you out of your mind! Caraças!" Rosemarie roared, "Do you know what you've just done? I tell you to do one simple thing and you can't even do that? You needed to read a script! This was not the time to be a smart-mouth, Stark! You had one chance to get this right! One chance! And you've wrecked everything!"

You wanted to swear. You wanted to curse. You wanted to scream every filthy word that you knew until it shattered the windows and broke the sound barrier. You wanted to say that you hadn't meant for things to go this horribly wrong, that you'd been doing the stupid experiment for your father - to make him proud of you - not to make him feel like his child was a failure. You wanted to scream and declare that it wasn't your fault - that things could've been handled so much better so that your life wasn't falling apart.

But all that you did was cry.

Rosemarie's face turned pale and her grip slackened enough to let you go. You felt bile rise in your throat as the tears ran down your face, slick over your cheeks and hot down your chin. You scrubbed at the tears with the back of your hands but still more came. And they could all see. Now coming from the stage, all of the superheroes were watching as you humiliated yourself in front of them. Worse still, you could hear your father's voice rising above them and asking them to move aside. Pepper's voice was among them, too. But you knew that they would only make you feel worse.

"Leave me alone!"

You pushed past Rosemarie and barrelled down the hallway. Your knuckles clenched into your side and you bit your lip to stop crying. You flung yourself into your coat and snapped on a pair of sunglasses when you reached the hotel room, knowing that the paparazzi would be no more kind than the news teams had been. There was only one person that you could turn to now. While you retreated down the hallway, led by the security teams that pointed the way to the car park, you took out your phone and dialled the one number you had memorised by heart. It connected to voicemail.

"Mom, it's me," Your voice stammered. "Please call back." 

TAG LIST

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More Coming Soon!

[shark-bite-fever]

To Whom the Labyrinth Calls [Jareth]

Series Masterlist

This will be edited frequently so that you can keep track of all of the new parts added to the story.

Series Summary: There are few to whom the Labyrinth calls. . . but the goblins have had their eye on you for a while. All it takes is the right words to send you falling into the Underground. . . suddenly engaged to the Goblin King.

Part 1: The Labyrinth Calls

Part 2: The Night Hunter

Part 3: The Heart of the Labyrinth

More Coming Soon!

[shark-bite-fever]

To Whom the Labyrinth Calls [Jareth]

Part 2: The Night Hunter

Part 3: The Heart of the Labyrinth

And even down looks up (down looks up) Bad luck!

Summary: The Goblin King has named his terms - unravel the mystery of the Labyrinth, reunite with the Labyrinth-runner and don't get caught by the legion of goblins he's sent after you. Piece of cake. . . right?

Notes: Not me hiding lyrics from Labyrinth songs before these chapters. . . Enjoy your reading!

The darkness was a spell merely over the part of the Labyrinth in which you were. Though you could not climb those walls without them stretching and you could not see how far the walls curled and curved in the distance, you could almost swear that there was a brightness on the fringes of that eternal dark. Somehow, you had to find a way to hide from it. That was difficult for a number of reasons.

Following the lichen had been your original plan, exactly as you had told the King of the Labyrinth. On closer inspection, you discovered that the lichen was not just mold or mildew at all but something else entirely. They were stalks of beady, watching eyes that moved with you. If you chose to walk to the left, you could hear the scratch of brambles as the eyes shifted to get a good look at you. If you chose the right, you could feel the press of their gaze like acupuncture points on your back and shoulders.

"Do you know the way?" You asked it hopefully.

Quite without words at all, the eyeballs continued to watch you.

"If I'm supposed to go left, blink once," You encouraged it, "If I'm supposed to go right, blink twice."

The eyeballs did not blink at all. Almost as if to spite you.

You refused to sit down and give up. In a moment of frustration, you reached out with your foot to stamp out the eyeballs. But by the way that they retreated, almost achingly, you couldn't harm even this most disgusting creature.

"Why is this place so weird?" You whimpered, "This place is like children's bad drawings come to life. Everything is too tall, too fat, too thin or too creepy for real life."

That left you with one choice. Not one that you really wanted to take: the goblins.

The goblins were not the brightest bunch, you were quick to realise. Though they had startled you as they had risen from the darkness on the edges of the bioluminescent water, you had hidden on the corner of the turn and waited with baited breath for them to find you. Instead, they clambered and shuffled past you as if they couldn't notice you in this darkness. During a particularly tense moment, one of the goblins even sat down on your foot for a rest.

"Oi, Grub!" Scowled a little goblin with the whiskers of a cat and the gills of a goldfish. You had to hold your breath not to laugh out loud when he smacked the goblin on your foot. The small creature yelped, fell over and had to drag itself to its feet carefully.

"D'you knows what the King wills do to us if he catches us?" The other goblin spared a moment to tremble, "I 'eard the Bog of Eternal Stench looks like an 'oliday."

" 'E don't know," The goblin put his hand on your sneaker to steady himself, " 'Ow could 'e know?"

The Fish-Gill Goblin tried to smack him again but missed, instead putting his hand on your calf to rest against the 'wall'. You fought the urge not to flinch, feeling its pointy claws dig into your soft flesh.

" 'E's ev'rywhere in the Labyrinth," The Fish-Gill Goblin lowered his voice, "The Goblin King can watch 'oo through his magic orbs."

Though this creature seemed to have no hair of itself except for the whiskers (indeed, it was covered in silky, amphibious skin like an axolotl), the expression it made on its little face made you believe it would've raised its brows if it was able.

Magic orbs, you mouthed the words. You were sure they weren't talking about him having beautiful eyes. While the goblins below you continued to be blissfully unaware of you (which was painful for two reasons; you could not move and you could not block your nose, for each smelled like the insides of an overheated pet shop), you tried to pull together what you knew about the Goblin King.

First, you knew that he was the King of this place (which you'd found out was a labyrinth). Your cheeks heated as you recognised that he wanted you for some reason, though you couldn't quite figure out for what. He was generous, or at least he tried to be generous to you, as he had given you a pendant.

Or was that also a trick? Perhaps he'd been lying about the nature of the pendant all along?

Then there were these magic orbs. Did that mean that he was watching you right now? That, somewhere in that Castle Beyond the Goblin City, his gaze was upon you?

Jareth the Goblin King luxuriated upon his throne. If 'luxuriating' could, in fact, be done upon a throne that consisted of the tusk of a long-extinct creature and the only upholstery was the dusty, foul-smelling linens that had been used for time immemorial?

The magic orbs swirled from one palm to the other. With the ease of a black market conman, they switched from one hand to the other in a way that the eye could not follow. The orbs looked as if they were made of glass, but Jareth knew that they were made of something far more precious.

Precious. Those dark eyes watched you from within the centre of the throne room. He could not help the frown of displeasure at the thought that those creatures - a pair of his foulest, ugliest goblins - were touching you. You.

You were so different from Sarah. The girl who had wished away her baby brother had been your junior, but there was something about Sarah Williams that glistened like costume jewellery: her personality had been sharp and expressive (in a way that clashed with Jareth's own, not so much ying and yang as fire and gasoline). The Goblin King could even remember the way that the girl had looked up at him, both when he first laid eyes on her (as a costumed girl playing pretend in a darkening meadow) and when he had made his introduction. Then, her eyes had been fierce and flinty as she demanded he give her back the child.

Still staring into the orb, Jareth felt a smile prickle his lip. But not you. When he had appeared to you as an owl, you had been dazed. Even then, he could recognise that you had had a terrible thirst and had worked yourself up far too much. It had pierced his heart as he'd glided down to you. Then he hadn't been sure what to do: he had never been offered a woman before, only children. His urgings had made his blood hot, but he wanted to be gentle with you. That's what made him reach out for your hair: carefully, he used beak and talon to create the ceremonial braids. Without your notice, he had even managed to entwine your hair with a few of his golden feathers. Like a fading spell, his body heard his desire for you until he sat behind you as a man and not a beast.

The way you'd smiled at him over your shoulder, expecting to see an owl, was different. No one had ever smiled at him like that before.

The orb shifted in his palm again. Even now, that smile wasn't completely lost in your features. He could see it creeping at the corners of your lips as you listened to the goblins, so ignorant below you. Jareth considered you. There were childish games that they played in the human world - hide-and-sneak or something of that ilk - and he wondered if his goblins brought back memories of times you played with your students.

You would look good with your own children, Jareth decided. He vowed he'd give you some.

At that moment, a disturbance flickered in the other orb.

Jareth's pupils constricted, sharpening like an owl's in mid-flight.

"You will not win this time, Labyrinth-runner," His voice was a growl of hatred, "She's mine."

He shook the orb in hand like one would disturb a snow globe, yet these were not fake globules but real chaos his magic was unleashing.

"You will not get too far this time. The Goblin City is impenetrable. I saw to it personally," Jareth's face was cold, "But perhaps it is time I set up a meeting."

The Goblin King set out to meet his Labyrinth-runner. With the curl of his cloak, only stardust was left in his wake.

The shaking of the orb had no effect on your part of the Labyrinth (how could it, seeing as you were so far from your salvation?). Though there was a stiff breeze that made you want to shudder.

Your goblin hunters had abandoned you about twenty minutes ago. In completely the wrong direction, they had spun around in search of you. As they left, they complained vocally about your smell.

"It's called personal hygiene," You couldn't help but feel stung by the comment.

Knowing that the goblins were now following the lichen like you had told their king, you were forced to go in the opposite direction. You didn't know whether you were playing into the Goblin King's hands by ignoring your own common sense - or if he had helped you in an unseeming way.

Taking a break from walking, you leant down and rested your palms on your knees. Letting your hair fall down, you closed your eyes and felt the blood pump into your head. You felt a headache coming on.

Blue-black eyes seemed imprinted on the back of your eyelids. Your feelings were confused. There was a strong part of you that made you think that there was something fiendish about the Goblin King - of course, his appearance was as strange and otherworldly as could be - but the way he looked at you.

Turning red, your cheeks were either filled with blood or embarrassment. No one had ever looked at you like that before. The touch of his hand, too, had been forceful - but in the way to catch you, to keep you, not to push you away.

Pushing yourself upright, you felt the blood drain again.

"You're supposed to solve a maze by putting your left hand on the wall and following it through every twist and turn," You rationalised, "But I don't know if that will work. Something tells me that this isn't a normal maze."

Without anything else to do, you pressed your palm to the wall and started to walk. Before long, you realised something eerie. There was a pulse beating there, just beyond your fingertips. It made the hair on your arms stand on end.

"I'm in the heart of the Labyrinth."

The words should've felt foolish to say but you couldn't help but think you were right.

The wall beneath your hand continued to curve around and around, so endlessly that you could imagine that you were following the curl of a snail's shell. The stone beneath your palm changed many times: sometimes grainy like sandstone, rough as limestone or as smooth as obsidian. The perplexing things it did only seemed to confirm your theories further: We're not in Kansas anymore, Toto. At the wry thought, your heart ached for someone to be able to be with you.

Absently, you realised that you had been reaching for a pendant around your throat. Without thinking about it, a heavy warmth had caught in your hand. You gasped and it fell from your fingertips, nestling securely on your throat. When you went to feel it again, it had disappeared. Only that single unbreakable thread, no pendant.

"Now it's gone!"

Stupidly, you felt like crying. It was the frustration of it all - knowing that there was mystery over this place and being unable to come to any answers. It's one thing to dream about magic, but to wake up and have it suddenly there was more disturbing than you could have imagined.

As you pinched the bridge of your nose, all you could think about was Alice in Wonderland. After being shrunk and grown and twisted into all non-Alice shapes, the little girl couldn't help herself but just cry and cry.

"It's this part of the Labyrinth," You realised, your voice a warble, "The Heart! It's making me too emotional. I'm - I'm stronger than this. I'm smart. I can find my way out of here."

You straightened. There was a little voice that repeated your words to you.

"And I'll be able to figure out the next part of the Labyrinth," Your confidence swelled, "And I'll learn more about the Goblin King."

Again, the words were repeated in a little voice to you that seemed to say as much. In confusion, you wondered why your self-confidence's voice sounded kind of British. The kind of British that sawed off h's and dropped consonants. It also told you to have a cup of tea.

"I am thirsty," You admitted.

"Well, why didn't you say so?" Said a chipper little voice, definitely not in your head this time, "Come inside for a quick cuppa, love. So many problems in life can be solved with tea."

You felt like a puppet with a lazy puppeteer with how shock made your jaw fall slack. Just below you, just gently brushing your hand as it climbed onto you (and you had to fight yourself from lunching back because he was as prickly as a car mat or an old cat's whiskers), was a worm.

"Come inside, 'luv," The Labyrinth Worm smiled, "The Missus will make you a lovely cup of tea."

All you could do was nod your head mutely. After all, you'd never met a talking worm before.

Jareth the Goblin King had returned from his introduction with the new Labyrinth runner. Needless to say, there was a smile askance on those thin lips as he relished in the realization that this time, truly this time, the prize would be his. In less than eleven hours, precisely.

Unlike earlier, the throne room was now rife with goblins. They had turned the miserable coldness of his palace into a place bristling with as much chaos as a barnyard. As snacks, some of the goblins had brought wild chickens that were now fluttering their wings, clucking in outrage and scratching his tile with their sharp claws. Jareth did not feel like being accosted with their beady, pleading eyes and their crooning and cooing as they begged him to be merciful about losing sight of the girl. Of course, he'd already known about that. His girl was smarter than these goblin oafs. His future queen was crafty, just as he was.

There was a balcony which overlooked his Labyrinth that he chose to go to instead. The burning hot colour of pollution, the skies were shifting from a sickly red to a delicate violet. It was peculiar to see a sunset when a day and night had not passed, but he knew the Labyrinth was all about metaphors. Especially the part where he'd placed you. The Heart of the Labyrinth was a deceitful place - as much as it could be a delightful one.

"She has passed the night," Jareth's smile felt wickedly sharp.

A goblin came to offer him some refreshments. Grabbing the pitcher of bubbling something, he dumped it out over the goblin's face as the thing let out a pig-like squeal. The sulphurous scent of rotten eggs, rather a lot like death warmed up, accosted him.

"I am not to be disturbed!" Jareth's voice shook in a snarl.

The creature - and those whom the castle housed - did not appear again.

When the orb twisted again through his slender fingers, the sight was not one he was expecting, but it was a place he recognized instantly: there was redbrick around you, something be doubted felt comfortable pressing into your spine, and your fingers were wrapped around something very curious indeed: a very small porcelain cup. Before you, the size of a doll's set, was a tea service. There was a tiny pot over a tiny candle, a tiny sugar bowl with tiny silver spoons, alongside a tiny milk jug and a tiny tray of biscuits, all resting upon a dainty doily. He watched you cautiously reach out and grab one of the biscuits, about as small as a matchstick, and pop it onto your tongue.

"I would like to find out more about the Goblin King," Your eyes were soft as you looked at the family of Labyrinth worms.

The blue worm, Jareth knew, was named Wriggleworth. Wriggleworth's wife was a little larger than he was, colored scarlet in all the places he was blue , and her fuzz was soft like peach fuzz instead of cat's whiskers. Between them, a little grub smiled cheerfully up at you. Jareth didn't know the grub's name. He didn't care.

" 'Course, love. His name is Jareth," Said Etta, Wriggleworth's wife, with her voice a little lowered, "And e's been our king for centuries now. Ever since the Owl King was dethroned, Jareth has been regent over the Labyrinth."

Even from afar, in the narrow view of glasslike substance in the magic orb, he could see your lips try to form his name. There was no sound, not even a whisper, of your voice but he could feel the summons as if your voice had been a roar carried on the backs of torrents and earthquakes and tempests.

"There was another Owl King?" Your voice was confused and, to match, your face was screwed up adorably. He'd rather have liked to kiss it.

"Jareth can take the form of an owl, but his natural form is humanoid. Our previous king - a cruel and forceful tyrant, who pulled the labyrinth into strict rules to change its nature - and the nature of those who lived in it - was actually an owl. That was the kind of Fae that 'e was. Jareth is different."

"Fae? Faerie, you mean?" If it hadn't been less than a sip's worth, Jareth was sure you would've choked on your tea, "I thought he was the Goblin King?"

"As in, he lords over goblins, luv," Wriggleworth pointed out, "He supervises them, cares for them."

" 'E is certainly more handsome than a goblin, wouldn't 'ou agree?" Etta said.

Jareth watched your face glow pink. You pretended to fix your hair to draw attention away from it.

"Jareth said that there's thirteen hours to solve the Labyrinth - thirteen to reach the Castle Beyond the Goblin City. He said I couldn't save myself," Your brows were furrowed, "That the Labyrinth-runner had to save me. Who is that?"

Etta refilled your cup, as she had done at least four times before without complaint, as she told you the story of Sarah and her little brother. Jareth's face was impassive throughout the story: he tried not to focus on the worm's words but on the expressions that your face captured. Your lips often fell open, sometimes in surprise and other times in horror. Now, focused on the cross-stitch on the worms' table cloth, your face was pensive.

"Sarah was able to reach the Labyrinth's end and save her brother. She learnt a great few truths. I'm sure it'll be the same for you and your Labyrinth runner too, m'dear. It always is if you survive it."

Then Etta looked deeply into her cup, as if regretting that there would be no one to chat with or to share a cup of tea.

"But who is my Labyrinth-runner?" You pressed.

"Why, it's the person who wished you away in the first place," Wriggleworth explained, "It's the one whose heart betrayed you to the Labyrinth who needs to face the shadows of their soul to get you back. That's the rule."

Your face blanched. The cup clattered from your fingers.

"N-no, that can't be right," You stammered, "The little girl who wished me - Please tell me there's another way."

Your hand stretched out flat on the wooden tabletop as if offering your hand in a contactless touch. The worms could sense your fear. Etta and Wriggleworth exchanged glances.

Jareth watched the realization dawn on your face.

"Those are the rules, m'dear," Etta frowned, "That's Underground Law. The one who wishes their heart away must journey to the Labyrinth in search of it - or else you belong to the Goblin King forever."

Your breath was coming too fast now. There was no time for them to calm you or even to ask what the matter was before you rocketed up so quickly that you banged your head on the low ceiling. Tears gathered in your eyes from the pain but you didn't acknowledge them. Scrubbing your hands over your eyes, you thanked Etta and Wriggleworth for their hospitality and ran. The worms called to you in concern, but they did not stop you as you ran through their small house, flung open their door and went out into the world Jareth had created.

There was only one cry on your lips. One name.

"Goblin King! Gobl - Jareth! Jareth, please!" You screamed yourself hoarse, "Jareth!"

The magic was singing through his blood again. Singing, answering - it was all the same. His one was calling to him.

Jareth would always answer to you.

#jareth x y/n#jareth x you#jareth the goblin king x reader#jim hensons labyrinth#jareth labyrinth#jareth the goblin king#the labyrinth#sarah williams#david bowie#david bowie x reader#labyrinth fan art#labyrinth#jareth x sarah#jareth x reader#jareth the goblin king x you#jareth

Visit my blog to see Jareth's Masterlist.

[shark-bite-fever]

The Cat and the Canary [Loki Series]

"The cat that swallowed the canary" - idiom; to look extremely well-pleased, smug or self-satisfied often because one has secretly achieved something or has gotten away with a great act of mischief.

Part 4: Up in Flames

Part 5: I'm a Snark Stark

Summary: Your Monday itinerary - 7:30 a.m. comeback battle with Jane Foster; 10:00 a.m. visit PR Manager to fix dumpster-fire of a reputation; 1:00 p.m. (forced) vegetarian lunch; 3:00 p.m. watch Monty Python; 9:30 pm Loki has his first taste of revenge.

Warning: Loki gives you a "special" present.

Notes: When I write your comebacks, I channel the spirit of Tony Stank Stark. I'm sure his kid would be just as witty as he is. Enjoy!

"You've made a mistake."

"Why am I not surprised," Jane Foster tented her fingers and brought them to her chin, "that it's you saying that."

You did your best not to roll your eyes. You also uncrossed your arms from around your chest, aware that it would only make you look even more confrontational, and then stepped into a wide-footed stance that hopefully made you look more at ease with the situation. You weren't. There were wasps of irritation picking apart your insides and building a hive in your chest and it was all because of the thing that you held in your hand. The thing that had been slipped under your door with a note saying that you were required to wear it to all future astrophysics meetings and lectures. You dropped the object with a clutter and a clash, sending it skidding to the end of the desk where it was saved from falling over only by the computer mouse. The astrophysicist picked it up and scrutinised it. Her brows raised.

"I don't see a problem," Jane replied.

"It says Snark," you specified, "not Stark."

"Ah. I see. Well, typos happen. I don't know what to tell you."

"Also, you spelt my name wrong," you bristled, "so there aren't just mistakes with the name tag. There is actually nothing correct at all about this."

"Oh dear."

The indifference on Jane Foster's face confirmed what you already knew: she'd done it on purpose. And she would do nothing to fix it. You clenched your hands into fists and dug them into your sides to prevent a possible astrophysicist assault charge. If she likes the solar system so much, you thought hotly, I'll gladly make her see stars! Instead, you changed tack and took a short detour to the minifridge in the corner of the room. It was still seven-thirty a.m., which meant that there were no other people in the astrophysics department at this time of the morning. It was becoming increasingly necessary for you to move around early in the morning—since your newfound infamy made it hard for you to leave your room without being viciously glared at or spoken about in hateful stage whispers—and you were almost grateful for the fact that there were no other people around. It would make it easier to reconcile things with Jane, who was now your warden for all intents and purposes, if you didn't have an audience.

You grabbed one of the cans of coconut water—painted in bright, tropical colours with "an added flavour of pineapple"—and took a sip to calm your nerves. You gagged.

"Ew!" you recoiled with disgust, "I know you're all astrophysicists, but that doesn't mean you need to hate yourselves."

"It's low-calorie, high in electrolytes and minerals, and a much better substitute than coffee," Jane explained drily.

"It tastes like I licked the underside of a beach-goer's foot," you wiped your mouth on your sleeve, "it's so—grainy."

"Darcy's fine too, by the way," Jane interrupted, "I mean, in case you were wondering. Since she was almost given the shock of her life because of something that you dragged her into—that you made her scared that she was about to lose her place in the programme. Or maybe I really have made a mistake about you," she said flatly. "Maybe I shouldn't give you credit and assume that you'd stop to think about someone other than yourself."

"Excuse me?"

"I don't think I stuttered," Jane's voice was hard.

Your cheeks had started to grow warm but they now blared scarlet. You almost couldn't hear the sound of your conscience's placating words over the pounding of your pulse in your ears. It was your emotions, pounding on the door of your mind with sledgehammers of anger and irritation, and they were charging in on your logical reason. You wanted to reach forward and dump the redhead's face into her keyboard. Jane picked up a ballpoint pen and noted something decisively.

"I care very much about Darcy. She's one of my best friends," you started.

"Really? Because Darcy actually is my best friend," Jane remarked, "and I would never sacrifice her because of a screw-up. I'd never put her feelings second because of my career. But I guess that's just the difference between you and me," she cocked her head to the side, "I actually give a damn."

"OK. I get it. I get it," you held up your hands. "You don't like me very much—"

"Correct."

"And we got off on the wrong foot yesterday. I might've been a touch melodramatic," you admitted.

"Bravo! How self-aware."

"But how would you feel if you were denied access to your work?"

That was the last straw for Jane Foster. Setting down her pen on her notepad with an air of finality, she rose to her feet and rounded the desk so that she could stand directly in front of you. Your heart skipped as you realised that the other woman was actually taller than you in her heels, and she had such a sharp, vulturous fierceness in her eyes that you wanted to take a step back towards the door. It was more than just anger in the astrophysicist's eyes. It was protectiveness. It was real, deep love that Jane had for her friend that was making her so furious. You swallowed hard. Then you almost gagged on coconut-water-aftertaste.

"That's where you're wrong, Stark. I know exactly what it feels like," Jane corrected sharply. "Unlike you, my access wasn't just denied to the system. I had S.H.I.E.L.D. confiscate all of my research, which I'd accumulated after years of hard work and equipment that Erik and I had been forced to make by hand. I had to rebuild a lab, start from scratch and go through hell and back to do what I love. So, the thing that I really don't like about you is that you think you can walk in here like some spoiled, entitled little nepo baby-"

You snarled, "Don't. You. Dare."

"- and disrespect everything that I've spent my life building from scratch," Jane spat.

"You don't think I've had to work to get where I am?" You retorted, "That's where you're wrong, Foster. I have a list of qualifications and recommendations that state otherwise. I have countless awards and bursaries and scholarships that will prove you wrong. But if you want to get personal, let's get personal. Are you here because the government actually recognised your talents or just because you're banging the god of thunder?"

Jane's face contorted with rage.

"I'm not saying that's what it was," You shouted, "I'm only pointing out how easy it is to discredit each other. I was actually trying to apologise but I don't see the point anymore. Just know this: if you're going to sit there and accuse me of being a nepo baby, then why not take a second to wonder if you're not here because of your boyfriend."

The woman had balled up her fists and you thought that the astrophysicist might actually try to hit you but then she took a deep breath, clenched and unclenched her jaw, and then she turned around and went behind her desk again. She put her hands on the back of her chair. After several deep breaths, Jane's face was a deadly calm again.

"Your dad told me that you'd try to pull something like this," Jane took another deep sigh and spoke evenly, not even looking at the engineer but instead picking at the strands of rose-gold hair on her black blazer, "Let me explain something to you, sweetie. I'm an astrophysicist. That means that I use the principles of physics to study the solar system, galaxies and the universe. So believe me when I say that I'm more than capable of handling you, because I'm used to watching hot balls of gas all day. What's one more?"

You were so furious that you didn't have a comeback. It was one thing that you prided yourself on above your engineering skills. Yet you found that you were unable to speak, that the words of the insult lodged in your throat and trembled on your lips in the form of an incoherent babble. Not a single word to defend yourself. Jane raised her brows and extended her arms to the side. What are you going to do?

"You're stuck with me," You spat at last.

"No, sweetheart," Jane leaned forwards in her office chair, "You're stuck with me. You're stuck with me until I sign the slip that tells Fury that you're fit to return to the engineering department. It would be a good idea for you not to find yourself on my bad side."

"Bad side?" You snapped, "You're a ginger! Do you even have a good side?"

Jane smiled prettily. It was the most offensive thing that you had ever seen.

"See you in the meeting later, sweetheart. Bye now. Buh-bye."

Two hours later in a high-rise building on the opposite side of the city, you were still fuming about the astrophysicist's words as you entered your PR manager's office. You hadn't been able to take the limo, so you now smelt lightly of damp sweat and old gas from the bus that you'd had to catch two blocks away from the Tower, and your mood hadn't improved from the rough start to your morning. In your large, wrap-around sunglasses, off-brand baseball cap and baggy grey sweats, you felt like an undercover Kardashian trying to escape the press.Even though you felt uncomfortable and ridiculous, it had worked for the most part. No one had so much as looked in your direction. Not until you’d walked into the PR agency. Then all the heads turned.

Maitland's PR Agency was a private, lucrative and successful business that promised only the best to their patrons in the area of public resources. The building itself had an expensive, open-planned design with modernistic touches. The monochromatic colour scheme was evident in each item placed within the large space: granite black floor tiles, arctic white walls, diamante curtain tie backs for the pearl-white curtains themselves. Even the cubicles were in a shade of light grey, though not even E.L. James could've told you which shade of grey it was. The design seemed to suggest that the work here was formal and routine. Here hid no crouching scandals.

It seemed that even the managers, office workers and assistants seemed to be dressed according to that grayscale concept: crisp white shirts, mid-length black pencil skirts, neat grey blazers. . .

People turned to gawp at you or paused in mid-sentence as you walked through the space, led by the no-nonsense Portuguese woman that made it clear she was not amused. When their boss crossed each of their cubicles, they swung around and remained rooted in their seats. The edge of that red-painted lip turned down in a scowl as she ushered you into a chair in her office, closing the door sharply and shutting the blinds, and then handed you a wide, flat cup full of filter coffee. You tried not to grimace as you took a sip.

"Let me be straight with you, Stark," Rose puckered her lips as if she'd caught wind of a foul odour, "It's not looking good."

You kept having to take sips of that terrible, tepid filter coffee. It was the only thing that could shock you back to real life, because the words coming out of the other woman's mouth made you feel like you’d been stuck in some sort of odd dream. Or some kind of nightmare. Rose told you everything. About how, after so long staying out of the limelight, the press hounds were delighting in ripping into Tony Stark's child. They wanted to blow everything out of proportion, make it seem like a scandal. Apparently, they would watch you like a dog to try to take even the tiniest detail and twist it.

"What are we gonna do?" Your voice was soft with despair.

"I'll tell you what we're going to do," Rose growled.

Press conferences. Public appearances. Philanthropic press-releases. Cover stories that showed you in the public eye. If the press wanted to fight dirty, they would do everything they could to clean up what the press tried to tarnish.

"You're your father's golden child," Rose explained. "And gold doesn't tarnish, love. If it gets a little dusty, take a rag and polish it up. Then it'll glisten."

"Love that plan," You remarked, "Except for the part where it involves me, the press and the newspapers."

You toyed with the empty cup. You ran your fingers around the lid and tried to listen to the manager's plan as she delivered it, curt and tongue-in-cheek, and enumerated the various ways in which you were not allowed to screw up. There was a very good reason for your aversion to cameras. Even though you hadn't always lived as Iron Man's child, you had always been the child of a genius, play boy billionaire who had lived on the front cover of magazines. Though his name often appeared in the headlines, Tony Stark had taken extensive measures to ensure that his child was not in the public eye. If things became too difficult, you would spend time with Pepper in her apartment until the drama died down or you would spend a few months wherever your mother was working on her environmental science experiments and conservation protests. You had spent most of your life on the fringes of fame and fortune, getting but brief bursts of attention when you’d followed in your father's footsteps and graduated university at sixteen or you’d apprenticed at CERN at age twenty. Unlike your father, you had evaded the spotlight.

"Which is why the press is going to devour you," Rose said. "If you don't fight back first."

"I guess I don't have much of a choice," You sighed. "Do I?"

"First press conference will be in a week's time. Skype me if you have any questions," Rose sighed, "Everything must be perfect. You need to make sure your responses are clear and apologetic, but you're taking it in your stride. We need to salvage your reputation. . . while it's still salvageable."

"And if we don't?" You asked hesitantly.

The PR Manager reached across the table and put her palm over your hand. Just like everything with her, it was more of a short 'pat' of affection than a real comfort, and the way that the woman's lip twisted showed a smile that felt too stiff and plastic to be real. Perhaps it was the face-lift.

"Let's not let it get that far, yes?"

You nodded, unconvinced.

That was how the day was passed. It was miserable. It was full of irate glares. It showed an increasing number of people who would avoid speaking to you or even acknowledging your existence at all. It was another set of meals in lonely, isolated locations where you were left with only your thoughts. You’d listened to Boulevard of Broken Dreams a few times on your headphones and accidentally lost your fork from your chickpea shakshuka over the side of the Avengers tower. You’d whistled through your teeth and hastily retreated inside, hoping that there were no impaled pedestrians on the other end of your fork. Almost falling into a boredom-induced coma, you had sat through an astrophysicist's lecture on binary stars.

"Don't let the non-binary stars hear about this," You had quipped, "They'd riot. I'd riot with them."

Jane had only glared.

You had let your pride get the better of you again as you blew off dinner with your dad. There was a message left on your phone from Pepper - while your father showed radio silence - but you abandoned your phone the second you entered your room and retreated into your ensuite bathroom. The only thing you felt like doing was downing several cups of strong coffee, listening to Monty Python and the Holy Grail as background music, and drowning your sorrows in the bath. Which you did for a few hours.

Smelling faintly of lavender, bath salts and coconut water, you fell flat on your bed and groaned. You stared up at the ceiling and watched the streaks of gold, purple and silver from the slumbering city streaking in from the floor-to-ceiling windows. The ceiling was plastered with these streaks as you stretched over to fetch the remote, pressing a button that activated to close them up. Expressionlessly, you watched the streaks fade away and bathe you in darkness. You shut your eyes and welcomed it in but the images of your long, annoying day wouldn't let you fall asleep. So, you pressed another button on the remote. Panels of light suddenly flared on near the wall panels of the room, which you tampered with until it was a soft, champagne-coloured glow.

It was humid. You turned on the air conditioner and tried to wait for it to cool you down but you were too frustrated to feel sleepy. Kicking off from the side of your bed, you walked over to the monitor on the desk and pulled up the interactive screens. With just a pinch of your finger, slide of your thumb or press of your fingertip, you could pull up schematics for different parts, change design counterparts and project success rates of different experiments. Just as you started to pull up a new whiteboard to start making ideas, a light flashed up:

WARNING! YOUR RESPONSES ARE BEING RECORDED.

You grumbled. Of course. Thanks to your lab access being denied, there were also certain servers that you couldn't access until you’d been given the green light by Jane Foster. Thinking about the C60 Arc Generator, you started to pull up diagrams. The second that it appeared there, hovering in mid-air thanks to the LED lights that projected a 3D schematic, your mind began whirring. Pinching in mid-air to enlarge that part, you started to focus on one part of the apparatus. Perhaps a different material, you considered. First, I’ll need to. . .

The screen flashed red. A picture of a lock flared up, along with the flashing lights of:

ACCESS DENIED.

You picked a different component.

ACCESS DENIED.

It happened ten times before you gave up. You jumped back on your bed, threw your face into a pillow and screamed at the top of your lungs. It was bad enough that all of your engineering 'toys' had been confiscated by your dad and you couldn't do anything that you wanted to, but now your entire line of academic privacy had been suspended. After rubbing your eyes in frustration, you got out of bed and shut off the monitors. Sighing, you climbed back into bed and tried to make yourself comfortable.

Your eyes were playing tricks on you . Rubbing them, you hoped that your tired eyes would stop – but the vision did not. Near the foot of your bed where your toes were splayed out, you watched a strange motion. It slinked. It even seemed to. . . slither. Slowly, you sat up in bed. When the motion only continued to creep closer to you , you slowly drew up your legs and pulled up the blanket.

You screamed. You stumbled out of bed so hard that your elbow hit the floor with a slam and you grimaced. Grabbing the throw pillows you had tossed onto the floor, you armed yourself with one and tossed it at the creature in your bed. The snake, thicker than your arm and hissing like a turbine, recoiled. There were diamond patterns on it and it looked deadly. The second throw-pillow hit it, making it strike out and sink its teeth into the material. You didn't try a third time.

You ran from your room screaming. In the heroes wing of the Tower, you heard the stumbles of awakening superheroes as you ran along to your father's room. You must've been louder than you’d anticipated because the door swung open before you got there, revealing a half-dressed Tony Stark. His eyes widened sleepily as you ran into his arms, shivering.

"Kid, what's wrong?" His voice was alert, "Why were you screaming?"

Your voice was coming so quickly that it was an incoherent babble. After hearing the most important key words – 'snake' and 'bed' – Tony touched the cuffs on his wrists, which activated the rest of his suit as he strode down the corridor. Your heart was thundering in your head as you followed your father, standing behind him as if he were a human shield. Your nerves were so shot that you almost didn't care about the swarms of sleepy superheroes emerging from their rooms, wondering what the screaming was about. When they got to your room, you felt flighty as you pointed to where the snake was.

"Be careful!"

"Don't shriek," Tony cringed. "Where was it, again?"

Yet when the superhero reached over to grapple with the snake, which he found under your wardrobe, he didn't make a sound. If anything, he looked irritable. You shrieked when he threw it at you. You stumbled away, swatting the creature off of you. When the green thing hit the floor, you stared at it in total confusion. Brushing your hair back with a sweaty palm, you panted.

"What?"

"I understand that you're upset with me," Tony clenched his jaw, "But to try to prank me at this time of night – are you absolutely insane? I know you find it difficult to believe, but I actually have important things to do every day."

"But Dad!"

Tony didn't listen as he walked from the room. Before he'd reached the end of the corridor, sounds reached you of your father's voice apologising to the other superheroes for waking them up at this time of the evening. A misunderstanding, he'd say to some. Acting out, he'd apologise to another. Because there was not a serpent on the floor - instead a black-and-green sock. But you knew that you weren’t crazy. It had been a long day, you anguished as you sat back down on the bed, but I wouldn't be so delusional as to imagine a freaking snake in my bed. You threw yourself onto the floor to check under the bed, kicked aside each pillow and displaced the blanket, but couldn't find even a sign of it existing. Before you gave up, you picked up a throw pillow. Twin holes were present in the fabric. Snake bites.

You ran back out into the corridor, "Dad! Wait!"

Tony Stark glared at his child from down the hallway.

"Go to bed!"

It was clear that that's what several of the other superheroes had done. Natasha rose her brows at you in puzzlement before disappearing into her own room and a few of the other superheroes did the same, but you just kept standing there as lights dimmed in the hallway. One by one, the lights faded and doors were shut. Until only one remained open.

You felt yourself walking as if in a trance. Still clutching the pillow with the snake bite to your chest, you felt your arms squeezing it tightly as you walked closer to the room near the end of the hall. With the light coming from behind him, his features were completely covered in the dark. You felt how bare your shoulders were as you heaved a breath. Goosebumps rippled over your skin.

"Not fond of reptiles, I see," Loki smirked.

"You could've actually killed me, you homicidal freak!" You whisper-shouted, "What the hell were you thinking?"

"I thought that you might have a fright. Perhaps a scream or two," Loki sounded contemplative, "But nothing so grand as what you actually did. Running screaming from your bedroom? That was absolute gold."

You felt the colour rise in your cheeks.

"You stay out of my space," You warned, "Because you might be off the hook now, Rumpelstiltskin, but if you ever go in there again, I promise you that you'll regret it. Sure, my dad might think I'm acting out – but don't believe for a second that he won't take me seriously if I tell him some globe-conquering alien wack job has been in my room."

Loki leaned closer until he could stare directly into your eyes.

"Don't threaten me."

"Don't push me," You hissed back. "I'm not the only one on thin ice. I don't know if you're aware of how things work on Earth, but I'm pretty smart myself. If you think you're going to make my life miserable, I can give just as well as I can take. And my reputation is much better than yours. Mess around and find out how quick they can haul your ass back to Asgard."

Loki continued to stare into your eyes. It was worse than glaring, this snake-like stare of such calculation that it felt as if he was trying to rend the flesh from your features, and his mouth twisted. Without saying another word, he went back into his room and shut the door in your face.

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[shark-bite-fever]

NEW LOKI SERIES - "The Heart Thief Club" - SNEAK PEEK!!!

" You stole my heart. . . now can we be partners in crime?"

You were in the middle of stealing the Mona Lisa when you heard a notification on your phone. Quite literally, your gloved fingers had just removed the anti-reflective bullet-proof glass with the help of a buoyancy spell, which helped the 600 lb protective case literally float into thin air. You could still see it floating near the winged cherubim on the ceiling. The surprise didn’t show in their pale faces of stone. 

At this time of night, the Salle des États was empty. There was no sign of the hundreds of people that crowded it in daylight hours. Only the stucco faces of statues were present with you. The blank, hollow eyes might have unnerved a person - especially considering that the only sound was the thump of your trained heartbeat and your whisper-thin breathing. 

There came a short groan from behind you that made you jump. 

“Seriously? You don’t even turn your phone on silent?”  

“Oh! It’s you,” You gripped your fast-beating heart, “I forgot about you. Je suis désolé, Monsieur L'agent de Sécurité.”

The impressionist paintings weren’t the only ones with the baleful glares. In your haste to remove the glass covering and secure your prize, you had almost forgotten that there was a slumped-over security guard that you’d leaned directly opposite. Paolo Veronese’s wedding guests looked down at the security guard as if wondering where his invitation was. Especially the man holding the stringed instrument, whose eyes had fixed a point on the security guard’s bald spot. 

“You’re the first master criminal I’ve ever met,” The security guard’s voice grated, “But it seems unprofessional. At least put it on vibrate.” 

“I don’t normally get texts,” You defended, “and my hostages aren’t normally as crabby as you, monsieur.” 

The Mona Lisa was not actually made of canvas at all, but from a wooden panel of white poplar. Unlike the protective covering, the painting itself only weighed 18 pounds. Once your fingers had curled around the sides of the palette, you grunted as you took its weight into your arms. Muscles groaning, you shifted it and positioned it on your hip like a clingy toddler. You switched on your screen. 

The fluffy golden cloud icon showed a notification. Your dating app was flashing. Cloud 9. You didn’t squeal, of course, because that definitely was an unprofessional thing to do in the middle of an active crime - and you definitely weren’t so excited that you almost dropped the priceless painting.

“Merde!” The security guard cursed.

“Oh, calm down.” 

With a roll of your eyes, you decided to lean on better judgement before the Frenchman had an aneurysm. Propping up the painting on the little wooden shelf at your knee-height, you scrolled to see what he’d sent you. Each time you saw his name flash up - Loki Laufeyson - you wished he’d chosen a better profile picture. A frozen forest with him in the distance really didn’t do him justice. 

You have 5 TEXTS from LOKI LAUFEYSON. 

While it might just have been the glow of your screen, you were almost sure that the Mona Lisa was sending you an encouraging smile. There were five texts from the last ten minutes. That must’ve confirmed he liked you, right? Your heart did summersaults. 

You’re on my mind, my darling.  I want you on other places too.  Is that too forward?  I didn’t mean to be too forward.  Unless you like it ;)

There was heat creeping up your throat. You did like it. If you blushed this much just from reading a couple of words, you doubted that you’d be able to speak or hold a simple conversation with the man that typed them. Not that you knew where in the nine realms he was - just that he was conveniently ‘Out of Reception Area’. 

Ignoring the painting for the moment, you made your way instead to the security guard. The gilt frames set off a dull sheen as you knelt before him, who looked up at you with unbridled disgust, as if you were two girls at a sleepover giving relationship advice. 

“I tell him that I like it, right?” You prompted, “Or do I say something else cute? If I ignore it, he might think that it was too much and that I’m friendzoning him. I mean, what would you say? French people are supposed to be romantic.” 

The man looked at you like you were insane. Maybe you were. 

“Come on, guy. I need some help here,” You pushed your hair over your forehead again, worrying your lip between your teeth, “I need to say something sexy. But not too sexy. I don’t want him to think that I’m too easy - but not hard-to-get either.” 

The security guard sighed. 

“D'accord,” He muttered, “But type it exactly as I say.” 

I’ve been missing you too, Loki. Your name means 'lock'. That's ironic, because I just wanna lock you in my arms and not let go.  

Was that too forward too? 

“Wow. You’re good,” You nodded in approval.

Loki Laufeyson is typing. . .

"And how is he going to reconcile with the fact that you're a master criminal?" The security guard's voice grated like the slid-back lid of a centuries-old tomb.

"Because, mon ami, he's not going to find out."

In a world where Loki Laufeyson was the crown Prince of Jotunheim, where the reader is the criminal daughter of a certain mutant (no spoilers yet) and they meet on a no-human dating app called Cloud 9. Loki doesn't know that she's a master criminal - and she doesn't know he's a jotun prince.

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Coming soon!

[shark-bite-fever]

To Whom the Labyrinth Calls [Jareth]

Part 1: The Labyrinth Calls

Part 2: The Night Hunter

Lost and lonely, that's Underground.

Summary: The Goblin King reveals himself to you. While he does not give you his name, he gives you his proclamation: in thirteen hours, you will belong to him if the Labyrinth runner does not take you to the Castle Beyond the Goblin City. He gives you a gift - and a kiss.

Notes: Describing Jareth should be a bona fide fix for writer's block - it's so much fun! Please enjoy!

The sound of your voice was a cry on ancient stone and broken chunks of courtyard. No one answered your call.

There was no escaping this place! Weaving in and out in a pattern that you could neither see nor understand were the stone walkways, dappled with strange mushrooms and mildews. Through and between this place of stone were limestone walls that curved left, right and straight. Those stone walls were mapped out in more directions than you originally thought possible, though nothing changed no matter what path you took. Everything that you saw was the same: grimy, yellow brick as if the Yellow Brick Road had been under construction for a thousand years.

You were starting to shiver. Not so much from the weather - the sun was directly overhead, baking you in its dry hotness. When you brushed your hands under your head, the sweat was slick on the back of your neck. You kept trying to tuck your hair behind your ears, but it continued to fall down and annoy you. Without a breeze, there was nothing to cool you down as you walked.

It was the shock of it all that made your fingers shake, held fast around your torso as if a foreboding had gripped you and refused to let you go.

"Anyone? Please help me!" You cried, "I don't know where I am. I'm lost."

You slid down with your back against the wall. Defeated, your shadow stretched out in front of you like the train of a long, dark gown.

"Hello?" Your voice was hoarse and speaking was a painful effort.

Putting your head in your hands, you felt your eyes burn. Although you felt completely helpless, you were too thirsty to cry. You couldn't imagine where you were: after walking around for what seemed like ages, you were no closer to discovering where you were or what had happened to you. The last thing you remembered was seeing the little girl's face, but when you tried to remember her words, all you could think of was the screech of hunting birds and the feeling of birds' wings brushing their feathers over you or their talons needling into your skin. Before you could try to save yourself, your stomach had dropped and you'd fallen into blackness.

It was clear that, wherever you were, was certainly not in any city. From what little you could see of the sky, it was a murky opalescent grey like an overturned bowl of cereal. There was just this dry, oppressive heat that made you think you were probably somewhere in the desert. There were no signs or signals (not that you'd brought your phone with you) and it didn't seem to have any people around.

Also, there was the sound - or the lack of it. From all the towns and cities, suburbs and subways that you'd ventured through in your lifetime, you'd never heard such absence of sound. It was as if half of the world's population had suddenly disappeared. Not even the countryside could sound so empty: there were no bleating of goats, no heavy machinery sounds of harvest from tractors or stubborn mules. Not even the cawing of crows.

The only thing you could hear was your heart in your chest. It skittered.

"Hello?" Your throat croaked painfully, "Please help!"

Though you thought it might have been hours, it could have been any measure of time since you'd started wandering in this place. Though you tried to turn left, all that it did was bring you back to where you started. When you thought right must have been the way to go, it also sent you back to where you had begun. When the direction seemed pointless, you turned to speed. You tried to rush through the pathways in hope that a new one would unfold before you. When that didn't work, you tried to creep upon it slowly as if to surprise it into leading you into a different direction. Scraping at the palms of your hands, the bricks did not move or change in any hidden levers or doorways. Even when you tried to climb up one of those towering walls, the wall would only grow taller and taller.

Wherever you were, something did not want you to leave.

No matter how much you screamed for help or called for anyone else to hear you, no one seemed to answer your calls. No one human, that was. At a point when you were about to start crying, turning yourself more agitated as the minutes went by, you heard a singular noise that made you start back and directed your eyes above you. There, gliding seamlessly through that sky of gray, was a creature made of gold and ivory. Its talons did not clash against nor cut the brick as it landed there, almost so regal that you expected it could have made the most wonderful garden statue, the bird looked down at you with bright eyes.

"Oh, it's an owl," You heard yourself say, as if your voice was coming from somewhere outside of you.

So stunned by the appearance of this new creature, you did not even flinch as it soared down on its mighty wings and stopped just in front of you. Your knees had been pulled back into your chest, leaving your legs sticking out in front of you rather lamely - which startled a small laugh out of you as the creature pecked at the rubber soles of your sneakers.

"I know, they're not very professional," You smiled sheepishly at your new companion, "but it's called casual Friday for a reason. Besides, those six-year-olds move quickly. You need a good sneaker for that kind of thing, you know."

The bird ruffled its feathers and began preening itself. Each time that it did, it would let drop the most beautiful golden feathers that it discarded like nothing. You could not help yourself as you stretched out to grab one, letting the softness brush over your hands. With a little pleased hum, you studied the feather carefully. It was speckled beautifully with these large, swirling designs. Ever since your Harry Potter stage a few years ago, you had loved the idea of nocturnal birds like owls. You thought that this was supposed to be a Barn Owl, with its golden crest patterned over its eyes - like a crown - and its white feathers at its breast. The owl didn't seem to mind the collection of feathers that was gradually growing - it only shot you baleful looks between its feathers as you reached out to grab a new one.

"Arctic Owls were always my favourite," You murmured.

At that, the owl shot forward and nipped your finger. You yelped and clutched your hand close to your chest. There was a single rivulet of blood circling your fingernail from where its sharp beak had pierced your skin. More hesitant now, you tried to shoo the bird away as it grew nearer and nearer to you.

You let out a small shriek when the bird flapped its wings, leaping up to your shoulder. Hand coming up to block your eyes from its sharp talon, you weren't sure whether to fight or to stay still as the creature started to move about your head. With a whimper, you felt it start to nuzzle your hair.

"Please don't hurt me," You muttered, your eyes still covered, "I'm lost and I'm scared - and I don't want to wear an eyepatch."

What the owl was doing was probably making your head into a rat's nest (or the approximation of the nest an owl would make if it found a willing human head upon which to nest), but you found it strangely pleasant. Unlike the feathers that had whipped your face as you'd been brought here or the talons that had scratched, paper-cut thin, over your skin, the bird was using its beak in a way that would have been strange to you, if you hadn't currently been in a strange place with labyrinthine walls and eyeballs growing on strands in bushels near your feet.

You released a breath of relief as the touch became softer and softer. Eventually, you could no longer even feel where the bird had its perch on you. Round and round, your hair twisted into braids in an almost endless tangle. You felt a laugh escape you as you considered the fact that it felt like the bird was braiding your hair when you felt the owl stall.

"All done, my little friend?" You beamed over your shoulder.

The smile evaporated.

The sun was no less scorching but, as it fell across hair as fair as the owl's feathers had been, the dry harshness became soft. There were high planes on the face that you saw: angles at the jaw, the nose and the cheekbones that you had never seen on a human face before. It was far too sharp.This smile did not curl sluggishly, nor start in a gentle curve; it was a smile that blinked, like a diamond, immediately on those lips. Rare and hard and cutting.

Stumbling back, you felt your spine strike the wall. Nowhere to run.

"Where's the owl?"

Your face burned as you realised there was a better question to ask.

"Who - who are you?" You stuttered.

Darting from side to side, you felt your survival insticts kick into high gear. You had come from the left side, you were sure - or was it the right side, with the brownish-red splotch on the lichen that you'd followed down the long corridor. In the back of your throat, a whimper escaped as you felt your heart lurch with adrenaline.

"Where am I? Did you bring me here?" Your breath faltered, "Am I stuck here forever? What am I supposed to be doing? I - "

"Are you actually going to allow me a chance to speak," Drawled the man's voice, "before you ask one hundred questions?"

Trying to suck in a deeper breath, you tried again. The man's eyes were blue or black or all pupil.

You told him your name, your voice careful and soft, "And who are you?"

"I'm the one who controls things around here."

There was a beat.

"Either that's a very long name," You swallowed, "or you're not being very forthcoming with your information, sir."

The man laughed. When he did so, the sound was powerful and strong like a brass instrument. Goosebumps rippled up your arms, which you tried to ignore.

"Don't call me sir," His sharp smile was back again, "Call me your king."

Tucking your hair back behind your ears, you wondered if turning your back to him would hide the heat creeping up your face. Yet when you turned to look down the hallway, you jumped when you noticed he was now standing very near to you.

"I can't call you the king," You reasoned, "if I don't even know where I am. If - if I called everyone who said he was the king by the name of the king, I'm sure an actual king wouldn't like that very much. That's an easy way to get accused of - of treason and things like that."

There was a pendant hanging from around his throat. Like a shark's tooth made from metal, it had one sharpened prong that pointed towards his neck and two curls at the bottom of the necklace. While that was made from silver, there was an inner circle of gold inside. Without you realising, you started leaning in to see what design was laid out in gold: a curlicue, perhaps, or the curl of a wave or a vine.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" The man's voice interrupted you from your reverie and your gaze shot up from his pale, white chest up to his eyes as dark a gold as molten honey, "It's the sign I wear of my sovereignity here: it marks me as the king. Take it."

The man's fingers had snapped it from his neck so that it dangled in front of you. When he offered it out to you, your fingers itched to reach out and grab it. Except. . .

"If you really are the king of this place," Your throat felt very tight when you looked into his eyes, "Then touching your pendant would be an insult. I - I couldn't do that."

"If I was the king of this place - as I am - then not listening to my command would anger me," His lovely smile was very sharp.

You bit your lip. Before, you hadn't thought about it like that but it was true. Without being too conspicious, you judged him in your peripheral vision: beyond the strange skin and eyes, his clothes did seem regal. From the gentlest of gestures as he extended his palm to you, the longline coat of his seemed to extend like the wingspan of a great bird of prey. High-waisted and slim, his trousers were dark and probably made of leather. That was the scent that most consumed your senses as he leaned closer and closer to you.

"Go on, precious thing," The man tempted, "Take it."

Your lip trembled on a remark about such an inappropriate nickname (from a man you'd just met, to boot), but it never left your mouth. With a short breath, you brushed your fingertips beneath the metal. It felt warm - the warmth of his skin or the scorch of the sun - and smooth.

It had hardly touched your palm for a moment before you moved away. Losing patience, the man seized your wrist with his strong fingers and cupped his hand around yours. The pendant was so heavy that your hand closed over it automatically.

"Unlike me," The man said, "the pendant does not bite, my dear."

"If you are," Your glanced at him skeptically, "You're a very strange king. If I was a master thief, I could simply steal your pendant."

The man's lips fell into a line. Instead of a broad and powerful grin, the little curl at the end of his lip looked almost as if he found you adorable.

Leaning in closer, eyes exactly on yours, he whispered, "And just where would you run?"

Eyes leaving his for the moment, you looked to your right. With your free hand, you pointed to the lichen.

"I would go that way," You told him, "because lichen grows on the northern side of trees. So if I head that way, I'll be able to find North."

The way that the man looked at you encouraged you to go on. You almost couldn't stop yourself from speaking.

"I also read somewhere that lichen grows there because it favours light and moisture," You said, "If it's so impossibly hot here, maybe that way is a way to water. That's an important thing to find if you get lost."

The man's chortle was as refreshing as a sip of cool wine and just as intoxicating.

"I suppose that's how you would do it in your world," His voice sounded like a secret as he said, "But it is so much simpler here."

Warm and present, his hand still cupped one of yours. With his fingers now brushing over the top of your hand, you felt the pendant respond within. Like a living thing, a pulse began to beat there. Like a spark or a lightning rod of energy, you felt fixed in place as something swirled within you.

"You tell it what to be," His voice was suddenly a breath over the shell of your ear, "and it will become."

In your mind's eye, you saw an oasis: a place in the middle of the most barren desert, with sand that threatened to swallow you with just the barest gust of wind. In the midst of those dunes were trees, knitted tightly together like a herringbone pattern of vibrant green and oaky brown, each blur was lost in what truly mattered: the rich flowing river in the middle.

"I wish for water," The words were a whisper.

In fright, you baulked backward as the stone barriers of the labyrinth started to roll back like screen doors. Almost as if it was the tail of some enormous creature, like a sphinx or another creature made of stone, everything was rolled back. The ground beneath you shook, shifting and reforming.

"Oh! It's there!" Your voice almost broke, "It's so beautiful!"

The oasis was there before you - and it was no dream. Brushing across your face were the grains of desert sand and the distant thrum of flowing water made your heart go faster.

Then a hand curled around your waist. In surprise, your head flipped around to look at the man whose chest you had retreated into. There was something more glinting in his eyes now, though you could not name it.

"Destiny can be reshaped by desire. What seems to be ancient stone can be crumbled to sand," His breath warmed your cheek, "If you have the idea and the means, you have the potential to create something beautiful. We shall create such beauty, you and I."

You weren't sure if the man was complimenting you or not so you stayed silent. Though your breath faltered when you felt the pendant rest against your breast bone. Surprised, you spun around on your ankle to face him.

"This is your pendant," Your fingers couldn't find the clasp to undo it and you looked up at him desperately, "I can't take this from you."

"It will be yours soon enough."

The man reached out a hand. Without flinching from him, his fingertips could brush your cheek and rest gently at your chin.

"It is only thirteen hours that separates me from you," It seemed his voice was far away, as if he was speaking to himself rather than to you, "This time, the labyrinth runner is less prepared. This time, I will keep my prize."

"Labyrinth?" You panted, "Is that where I am? I'm in a labyrinth? But I can't stay in a labyrinth. The school won't be able to find a temp before Monday, except that one weird guy from his Wisconsin who-"

The man's face had darkened.

"You have no choice. You were wished away, precious one," The man's voice had changed again, hard and full of discipline, "The one who wished you away may not have had the care I have for you - but I will keep you, my one. I will treasure you."

Fear was deep in your stomach. It hit all your organs like you'd swallowed a sea urchin. When he reached out to touch you again, you moved out of his hold. There was silence in his fury.

"Who are you?" You forced your voice to be harder, "And where have you taken me?"

There were shadows on his face when he looked at you then. Instead of that hot scorching sun, the world around you seemed to dim. The only heat came from the brickwork at your feet and the sands in the oasis beyond you.

"You are not the labyrinth runner, my dear, but the prize. You do not have a claim over yourself anymore. The wisher has given you over to me," His nostrils flared, "You cannot hope to save yourself, even if you are stronger than the babes that are normally given to me. I cannot change you into one of them - but I can make you mine."

With a wave of his hand, the pendant around your neck disappeared. Instead of the heavy metal trinket, only a cord wrapped itself around your neck. When you tried to pull on it, it would not come off like his had.

"Unless the labyrinth runner saves you and brings you to the castle beyond the Goblin City, you will be mine," He said, "With each hour that passes, the pendant will grow heavier and heavier as you come into your power - my power."

"If I can't save myself, what am I supposed to do?" You cried, "I didn't ask for any of this. I was only asked to supervise playgroup, for Pete's sake!"

"Find out who I am," The man declared, "Unravel the mystery of the Labyrinth. Try - and fail - as you may to meet your labyrinth runner."

It was pitch darkness now. With just a wave of his hand, it had become night in the middle of the day. The surface of your oasis was changing, shimmering like a puddle of bioluminescent algae, and all of these creatures started to appear from the water. They were short and stocky, almost as if they were the things malformed from children's claywork. Some had the ears of bats and the snout of a boar; the fuzz of a guinea pig and the tail of an iguana; the squinty eyes of a mole or the gangly legs of a violin spider.

You flinched when you felt his hand on your shoulder.

"Follow your lichen, my dear," His words were soft as a threat, "Find the labyrinth runner. Journey to the castle beyond the Goblin City. . . "

His lips brushed the corner of your jaw. Hot and sweet.

"But return to me. "

His voice lingered even as his form drifted away. In the darkness, you felt your fear as you watched the goblins crawl from the quagmires. Though you weren't certain how you knew, you had the feeling that the creatures were searching for you. Somehow they had scented the smell of your shampoo, your perfume, your deodorant - they were watching carefully for your silhouette. The King of the Goblins - whoever he may be - had sent them to look for you.

The hunt was on.

I'm still putting together a tag list for Jareth. If you'd like to be included, let me know!

[shark-bite-fever]

The Cat and the Canary [Loki Series]

"The cat that swallowed the canary" - idiom; to look extremely well-pleased, smug or self-satisfied often because one has secretly achieved something or has gotten away with a great act of mischief.

Part 3: The Catastrophe

Part 4: Up In Flames

Summary: With just one small accident, your life goes up in flames. Banned from engineering, forced to join Jane Foster's (snore) astrophysics department and practically alienated from everyone, you can't imagine how it could get any worse. Until a certain trickster god comes to take his vengeance.

Warning: Slight (blink-and-you'll-miss-it) swearing. Loki gets into your personal space.

Notes: Thank you so much for reading the next part! Let me know if you'd like to be added to the tag list or if you'd like to request something. Enjoy!

There was a rattling sound coming from the air conditioner. Your mind instantly pinpointed the problem. The fan hadn’t been secured, perhaps, or there was a slight displacement in the dust filter that was causing the rattle each time the air moved through the expansion valve and the coils. With your understanding of machines and mechanisms, it would take you maybe four minutes to fix it. But you weren't going to lift a finger. It was difficult enough to look unimpressed and pissed off with the entire world and all of its occupants without going around fixing AC units like Bob the Builder. 

The astrophysics lab was ridiculous. Grey linoleum flooring squeaked underfoot. Motivational posters were duct-taped over the open spaces above doors and windows. Notice boards had been stationed around each of the desks. It reminded you of the labs in a middle school science classroom.  Built into the stone-blue desks - which were all bulky, connected and shaped like a beginner’s first attempt at Tetris - there were compact drawers and shelves in which lab equipment was stored. It was about as exciting as a root canal. 

Jane Foster obviously felt very different. From the moment that the woman with the reddish-brown hair strode into the room in her block heels, she took a deep breath as her lungs expanded eagerly to suck it all in. The scent of the 1940s-style corkboard, the dust that came in from the half-opened windows and the sea breeze air-freshener was obviously something that the astrophysicist liked. You couldn’t have been more horrified. You thought it smelled like a retirement home. Once Jane had opened yet another window, which made the room so intensely cold that you shuddered into your parka, she then turned to the two people clustered in the opposite end of the room. Her smile was radiant. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you again, Mr Stark,” Jane went to shake the billionaire’s hand, “After so long, I’m not sure if you remember who I am. It’s Jane. Jane Foster.”

“Point Break’s girlfriend,” Tony Stark answered and returned the handshake, “I remember.” 

“On behalf of the Astrophysics Department, I’d just like to thank you again for offering us a space in your facilities,” Jane said, “It’s a hell of a lot easier than having to come here every other weekend from Mexico City. It’s very generous of you.” 

That’s when you spoke. 

“Oh, yes. Very generous,” You muttered. 

Tony turned to glare at you. It was an affirmative way to tell you to shut up, which you did with immaculate precision, and then he crossed his arms over his chest. The engineer’s words caught the attention of the head of the astrophysics department, who turned to offer her hand to you politely. Under duress, you accepted it. 

“It’s nice to meet you,” Jane greeted. “Darcy’s told us all about you.” 

You fake-smiled, “I sure hope not.” 

Jane’s brow quivered for a moment, as if she were about to frown but decided to take the comment in her stride. After the handshake, the astrophysicist excused herself politely - as there were things that she needed to do before their meeting started in ten minutes - and then she would answer any questions that they had. Jane even asked you if you needed anything. 

“A cup of coffee?” You asked hopefully. 

“Sorry, we don’t drink coffee here. Lab procedure,” Jane apologised, “But you’ll find bottles of coconut water in the cooler over there. Much more refreshing,” She winked, “I’ll be back soon.” 

Jane went to order some papers on the main presentation table. As soon as her back was turned and she was out of earshot, you turned around and whimpered. Yet you could tell that the tried-and-true puppy eyes weren’t going to work on your father this time. 

“No coffee?” You whined, “Am I in the astrophysics wing or purgatory?” 

“Kid, you got yourself into this mess,” Tony’s voice was curt, “I’m sure you don’t need me to remind you that it’s your fault that you’re sitting here. You tampered with machinery that started a fire in a multi-billion dollar building and gridlocked operations for about three hours.” 

“But it was an accident, Dad!” 

Tony Stark sighed and touched the bridge of his nose. It could’ve been an expression that one gets when a migraine was starting to burn at the temples or the rush of blood to the head that signaled the annoyance of an upcoming disagreement, but you knew your father well enough to know that it was none of those things. You knew that you were right when he eventually put down his hands, combed one through his hair carefully so as not to bump out his sunglasses, and then stared at you with deep, strained chocolate brown eyes. He was worried. 

“Look,” Said your father softly, “Maybe I haven’t set the best example for you. So maybe you need me to put this into words for you so that you can really understand. You’re not invincible, sweetheart. I’m not invincible. Just because I am who I am, that I’ve done the things I’ve done, it doesn’t mean that nothing can touch me. You know how many times I’ve only just escaped with my life. You know the operations, the months of healing, the therapy, the scars - It isn’t easy being Iron Man.” 

“I know, Dad. Believe me, I know,” You pushed your hair from your forehead and sighed, “That’s why I was working on that machine in the first place. I was only trying to help you!” 

“You were trying to get yourself killed,” Tony Stark’s voice hardened again, “How can you not seem to understand that your actions have consequences? Darcy told me what happened with the thermal rig. If that blast of air had been any hotter, you could’ve ended up with second-degree burns. Do you think I want that for you?” 

“What about what I want?”  You shot back, “Don’t you think I deserve a chance to step out of my comfort zone? Even though you seem hell-bent on keeping me under your shadow?” 

Tony sighed, “Kid - “ 

“Why don’t you trust me with this?” 

“Why won’t you ask me for help?” 

Father and child locked eyes. It was clear that your stubbornness was inherent. There was more beneath the surface to be said, but neither of you would dare to say it. You were the first one to glance away. In the mirrors at the edges of the room, you could see yourself outlined in a reflection. Mouth set downward. Brows furrowed hotly. Swallowing emotion at the back of your uncomfortably tight throat. 

You replied, “Because I don’t need your help. I can do it by myself.” 

You heard your father clear his throat. Bothered. Irritated. 

“Then you don’t need my help to get out of this mess,” Tony Stark remarked coldly, “Enjoy astrophysics, because you’re not going to see the inside of an engineering lab until you’ve learnt some respect.” 

You snapped your head back, “Fury didn’t say - “ 

“Fury will agree that you need to learn your boundaries,” Tony spoke bluntly, “Until I’m sure that your pride isn’t going to kill you, I’m officially banning you from all of the other engineering and science labs. I’m revoking your access codes and reversing your accessibility into the Stark Enterprises mainframe. You’re officially cold turkey.” 

You laughed. It was a curt, bitter sound. 

“You call these labs?” You exclaimed, “Please. My ensuite bathroom is more tricked out.” 

“You can also count your privileges as being revoked,” Tony lifted his brows, daring you to say something stupid, “So you can say goodbye to the memory of your equipment, because it’ll all be gone by the time you’re out of this meeting.” 

“I am not six years old!” You said slowly, enunciating your words cuttingly, “You cannot ground me like some idiot teen who got busted for burning a cigarette hole into the rug!” 

“You’re not a kid anymore,” Tony Stark repeated, “Which means that if you don’t take this seriously, you’ll be liable for a criminal charge.” 

Your mouth almost fell open. Pushing yourself out of one of the hideous blue lab stools, you came to your feet with your hands still resting on the surface of the counters. Staring at your father incredulously, you felt like your entire life was coming to an end. With each word, you hit your fist on the surface of the desk. 

“You. Have. Got. To. Be. Joking,” You grit your teeth, “You’re going to arrest me?” 

“And it won’t be the plush and cuddly Avenger’s holding cell either,” Tony remarked, “It’ll be a federal prison. But don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll come visit.” 

You were starting to hyperventilate. Not in a worried way but in a problematic way that meant you wanted to throw a chair either out of the window or at your father. Groaning in frustration, you bunched the fabric of your parka between your fingers and tried not to hit anything. Flimsy and poorly-restrained, your hair fell over your face. You combed it back, almost hissing at how hard you tugged on your roots. 

“Are you purposefully trying to ruin my life?” 

“I’m trying to save your life,” Tony explained. 

The billionaire tried to reach out to embrace his child but you resisted him. Trapping you in a one-sided bear hug, which you wriggled out of as quickly as you could, Tony looked at you and shook his head. Huffing, you glared at him. 

“I honestly can’t believe you.” 

“I’ll see you at dinner. Then you can tell Pepper and I all about your first day,” Tony suggested, “We’ll have sushi. That way you won’t feel tempted to stab me.” 

You glared, “Chopsticks won’t save you.” 

“Love you, sweetheart,” Tony said as he kissed your cheek, “Have fun.” 

You watched your father walk away with a rising level of - something. There were too many emotions trapped in your ribcage for you to really understand how you were feeling. You were humiliated at the fact that your professional life was going up in smoke (both an apt description and an unfortunate pun), that your latest engineering project was going to be monitored by someone else, and that everyone you'd once worked with now disliked you . You were angry at your father for not understanding what your plans had been. Honestly, you would’ve been angry at Fury for his harsh punishment if you didn’t find him as intimidating as a school principal. Before your father could leave the room, you shouted after him. 

“See you in Hell!” You yelled, “Oh, wait! I’m already here!” 

You weren't sure if your father had heard your response but, when you kicked out the chair and threw yourself into it moodily, you were pretty damn sure that the astrophysicists had been listening. All fifteen of them, now seated at their stools and trying to pretend that they hadn’t heard your comment. The only one that met her eyes was Jane Foster. She did not look happy. 

It seemed like the odds were stacked against you because the day had the audacity to get worse. As if spending two agonising hours forced to listen to a lecture on neutron stars and pulsars, which you were sure would be of less use to you than the ‘ueue’ in the word ‘queue’, you got a beep on your phone to let you know that someone had sent you a message. At first, you had hoped it was a text from your father telling you that he’d been a stubborn idiot and you were actually free to leave and never return to this boring waste of time. It wasn’t your father. It was your PR Manager. Seventeen missed calls. 

The second that you were striding through the hallways, you dialled the number and waited for it to ring. Rosemarie Oliveira picked up on the first dial. 

“Hey, Rose,” You said, “What’s - “

“Haven’t you gotten my messages?” Rosemarie demanded. 

You explained that you'd just been forced to attend a lecture on the world’s most boring thing since the invention of the colour beige and the lab-dictator, Jane Foster, had confiscated your phone after the astrophysicist asked you what you were doing and you'd replied that you were ordering funeral arrangements online, since you were about to die of boredom. Foster hadn’t appreciated that comment, apparently, because she’d glared at the engineer for the entire time after that. 

“I’ll need you to come in tomorrow morning - Actually,” Rosemarie hesitated, “Maybe I should come to you. I’m not sure the public eye is the best place for you right now.” 

So surprised by that comment, you stopped dead in your tracks. You tried to ask your PR Manager what she was talking about but drew up short, having the only response be that you needed to ‘go to the news’ and ‘watch the media’. After promising to have an appointment with you tomorrow, you ended the call and instantly went online. You tried to type but your fingers were numb and uncoordinated. 

“Jarvis,” You said eventually, “Please pull up a recent article for me.” 

It took only a second for the super-computer to respond in his clipped, professional accent. 

“Certainly, Dr Stark,” The android was surprisingly abhorrent about nicknames, “Are there any particular key words or subject matter that I should be focusing on?” 

You hesitated. 

“Anything about. . . me?” 

Faster than most search engines, there was a beep and a blue light over the surface of your phone that showed that the search had been completed. Yet when you tried to enter it, you found the screen completely frozen. 

“Jarvis, what’s going on?” You demanded. 

“I’m not sure that you want to see the articles, Dr Stark,” Jarvis replied, “They may cause you a rising level of distress. Perhaps it would be best if - “ 

“I don’t need personal advice from you right now, WALL-E,” You pinched the bridge of your nose, “I need to know what’s on there, okay?” 

“My name is Jarvis,” said Jarvis. 

“Stop stalling!” 

The screen immediately stopped being frozen. Clicking on the first link that popped up, you waited anxiously while the search engine loaded the website. What you saw next almost made your heart stop beating. It must’ve been taken from the day before, when you were still sopping wet and toting around a muddied parka, and your hair was frizzy and wiry. Tony Stark and Nick Fury were leading you through the front doors of the tower and it was clear by the way that their faces were all set, captured in freeze-frame, that they were in the middle of an enormous argument. There was even a flustered blush clawing its way up your neck. It was the headlines that struck you in the heart. 

ARSON AT STARK TOWER. . . YOUNG STARK'S REPUTATION GONE UP IN FLAMES OF FATHER’S LAB. . . STARK’S BRIGHT FUTURE - UNTIL YESTERDAY. . . 

You pushed your back into the edge of the wall and slid down, feeling the strength fading from you as each word hit you like a knife to the heart. It must’ve gotten to the press somehow, even though Fury had promised to keep it out of the media and far from the vulturous tabloids. Hissing at the pain inside, you clicked on a random story and started to read. To your dismay, there were more unflattering pictures. 

CHILD OF TONY STARK HAS BEEN SUSPENDED FROM ACTIVE DUTY AS THE RESULT OF A FIRE INVESTIGATION. THIS TOOK PLACE ON THE AFTERNOON OF JANUARY 12TH, WHICH ASSEMBLED THE ENTIRE TEAM IN FRONT OF STARK TOWER AND STOPPED ALL WORK FOR NEARLY FIVE HOURS. THERE HASN’T BEEN COMMENT YET ON WHAT CAUSED THE FIRE, EXCEPT THAT YOUNG STARK WAS AT FAULT FOR IT. IT IS UNCLEAR IF ANY CRIMINAL ACTION WILL BE TAKEN AGAINST THE YOUNG HEIR, ALTHOUGH IT’S OBVIOUS THAT THINGS ARE VERY SERIOUS AND WE ARE UNLIKELY TO HEAR MUCH MORE ABOUT THIS INCIDENT. 

You were trembling. With just one stupid mistake, it felt like you'd just detonated a nuclear bomb on your life. Now you were forced to sift through the wreckage and hope that you wouldn’t get radiation poisoning from what remained. There were also several missed calls from your mother, an environmental scientist currently working in Geneva, which you studiously ignored. Banging the back of your head lightly against the wall, you wondered how things were possibly going to get worse. 

You got your answer when you stepped into the canteen. Separate from the other eating areas in the Tower, which were ‘supers-only’ zones so that the security could be a little tighter and they could have team meetings without interference from fans, this canteen was filled to the brim with lab technicians, engineers and other pedigrees of scientists. Some of the other engineers glared at you as you moved down the line, filling your tray with foods that the cooks offered you , and you felt the press of hard, accusing eyes from the other scientists that had their work ruined and papers dampened by your little stunt the day before. You turned to look where you could sit and found only a hostile battlefield, each open seat a landmine which you could detonate if you tried to take even one of them. 

So you decided to go to your safe haven. 

The Crow’s Nest. That was what you called it since it had been built, when you felt much younger and a little less disciplined than you were now. The cantilevered helipad - which was the part of the tower which jutted out and rounded near the very top of the tower, near where the solar panels were built - was always empty. There were no unauthorised landings here, which meant that you could go and enjoy your lunch in peace without anyone glaring at you hatefully or hoping to snap a picture of you which they could sell to the tabloids. Sitting cross-legged at the end of the helipad, just far enough that the sun warmed your face but not too far that you risked slipping off of it and dying tragically and stupidly, you looked down at the world below. After you cracked open the plastic tub of mush, which you later found out was a surprisingly tasty tofu and potato soup, you stared down at the little people down below that crawled in the streets almost like ants in concrete. You wondered what they were doing down there, lives not perpetually ruined, and felt a little jealous of them. You pretended to use your boot to squish them. 

“Is it vegetarian day?” You commiserated as you opened up the sandwich box, seeing that it was made from roasted beetroot hummus and had elements of crunchy chickpeas, which you were too miserable to admit tasted delicious, “I’m sure Steve had something to do with this. Screw you, Steve!” 

It felt good to shout a little. You heard the reverberations of your voice echoing around you and you suddenly felt very lonely. 

The oatmeal raisin cookie you'd gotten for dessert was a sacrifice to the city below. Preferring red velvet, you'd never liked the clumpy, healthy cookie and instead sighed and crumbled it between your palms. You watched the crumbs disappear into nothing. Pigeons would’ve been nice, you thought. Then you could at least have something with a pulse to spend some time with. Somehow, you'd managed to piss off, disappoint or upset every person in your life that was important. You'd said so many stupid things to your dad, who you loved the most, who you didn’t want to talk to until you had a way to get through your current situation without sulking. Pepper, who would try to understand, would be put between them both. The other Avengers would think you were a screw-up. The other scientists hated your guts. Darcy had taken the rest of the week off from stress. And you were avoiding calling your mom, who would say ‘I told you so’ and remind you of what she’d said when you told her you were going to work with the Avengers. 

You stood from the edge of the helipad and rubbed your numb legs. The pins-and-needles in your right foot made you hiss and hit it against the floor several times, which reverberated metallically in the overhang. You bent over to pick up your tray and turned around to go back inside. 

You heart stopped. 

“Ah,” You sighed in ‘why me?’ and glared at the sky’, “I suppose you’re here to shit on me, too?” 

It might’ve been the fact that it felt like your entire life was on the rocks and you'd been on the defensive since you'd gone to sleep that previous night, but the combined effect made you feel a little reckless. Just like the synthesis of vinegar and baking soda, it was the effect of seeing his face that made you fizz up on the inside. Slamming down the tray on one of the solar panels and stomping to meet him there in the shadows of the overhang, you felt the warmth fade from your face. Suddenly, you felt cold. 

Loki Odinson was wearing denim jeans. They were black, ripped and tight over his waist. The crewneck t-shirt was also black and looked slightly damp, though you weren't sure why that was. Shaking your head, you rolled her eyes. There was a gold chain hanging around his neck. 

“For Pete’s sake,” You snorted, “Would you get yourself a stylist? You look ridiculous.” 

“I am only mimicking humanity,” Loki replied in a superior tone, “And I couldn’t agree more. You all look ridiculous.” 

Before the engineer’s eyes, the clothes started to change. Fibres of cotton and polyester became stronger and thicker, threading and re-weaving itself into a material of a much higher viscosity that shone. It brought with it the musky scent of leather, which you realised it had become, and you took a step back to see that he was wearing plated armour. With gold rings. 

“Much better,” You said sarcastically. “About as intimidating as a gangster from Whoville.” 

Loki arched his brow, “I don’t know what you mean.” 

“I’m calling you the Grinch,” You scoffed, “Look it up, Reindeer Games.” 

You gasped when the man grabbed you . It took only a second for him to step out, wrap his arms around your shoulder, and then press you up against the wall. Pressing the edge of his knuckle into your shoulder, he put his hands on your throat to keep you in place. Wide and disbelieving, your eyes snapped to his face. 

“That’s enough,” Loki’s voice was a growl. 

Your heart was beating in your neck, at exactly the point where his hands were wrapped around it, and you had to swallow against the placement of his thumb. Maybe your father had been right, after all. Perhaps you had been walking around, thinking that you were virtually untouchable because of who you were , what you'd achieved and who your father was, and you'd forgotten her place. There was hardly any pupil in his eyes, contracted and sharp like a snake’s glassy eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” You gasped, “Look, I’m sorry. Just - just let me - “ 

“Go?” Finished Loki dangerously, “Just like you were going to let me go back to Asgard, for a crime that I didn’t commit?” 

So that’s what this is about, you realised. 

“I don’t know what - “ 

You choked at the way that his finger tightened. It was clear that he hadn’t meant to squeeze harder because he instantly slackened the pressure in his fingertips, making it less hard against your windpipe so you could breathe normally. Yet your chest felt tight when you had to meet his furious stare. 

“Don’t insult my intelligence,” Loki enunciated clearly. “Before I lose my temper, Stark, you best tell me what I want to know.” 

You spat, “Fine. Fine. I didn’t set you up, okay? I was just trying to blame it on the machines and an equipment failure, but then everyone had to get hysterical and start blaming people. It’s not my fault that your name popped up. I wouldn’t have let you take the fall.” 

Loki shook his head. There was a small, bitter smile twisting his lip. 

“Is that right? Because I don’t remember you falling over yourself to correct the error.” 

“I didn’t have the time,” You said, “Darcy beat me to it.” 

“Unwise of you to go into business with the Lewis woman,” Loki’s stare was calculating as he took in your features, “I wouldn’t have expected you to make such a childish mistake.” 

Your cheeks burned. 

“Says the guy that tried to take over the planet,” You shot back, “which I somehow think is worse than just a small, controlled fire. Now tell me what you want.” 

Loki answered, “I want to let you know that I’m going to repay the favour.” 

You repeated with a frown, “Favour?” 

It was at this point that the man released you from his hold. Once his fingers weren’t wrapped around your throat, you realised that he’d hardly been exerting any pressure on you at all. Yet your skin ached and you wondered what mosaic of blue, purple and yellow bruises would be present tomorrow. 

“Oh, yes,” The god of mischief explained, “Your favour, Stark. By trying to send me back to Asgard, you would be ruining what precious little I have left of a life. So now I’m returning the favour.” 

You crossed your arms over your chest, “Sure. Give it your best shot, dude. Honestly. I fail to see how there’s any conceivable way that you could make my life any worse, but I invite you to try.” 

Loki did something then that surprised you. Instead of declaring something witty or biting and then disappearing into a cloud of smoke, instead of climbing back onto his broom and returning to Oz, instead of slithering off to wait until nightfall to strike at his prey, the man dipped in a bow. Both arms outstretched to the sides, he elegantly inclined his head to you. His smile was sharper than a mirror-shard and just as dangerously beautiful. 

“As you insist,” He said. 

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[shark-bite-fever]

To Whom the Labyrinth Calls [Jareth]

Part 1: The Labyrinth Calls

"Say your right words," the goblins said.

Summary: There are few to whom the Labyrinth calls. . . but the goblins have had their eye on you for a while. All it takes is the right words to send you, a tired playgroup teacher, falling into the Underground. . . suddenly engaged to the Goblin King.

Warnings: No warnings.

Note: I know perfectly well that Labyrinth has hit its 40th year as a fandom and that I'll be writing this mostly for myself, but it really has been an earworm for too long to ignore for much longer. If you're with me on this journey, I'd love to know in the comments. Enjoy!

The creatures were watching. 

They were always watching. It was their eternal purpose. Their squinty, beady eyes were everywhere: from beneath the beds of children, within the shadow that jumps down the hallway, from the handle-slit in the overturned box in the attic or beneath the creaking floorboard in the basement. Even from their highest perch, atop the branch that scraped talon-like against your window at midnight, their gaze intruded.

It was their mandate to watch. To observe the human race, whom so long ago had scraped their way up from the miry clay. To observe all those unlucky mortals to whom the Labyrinth called.

Though there were times, such as this, when their attention was drawn more so than others.

“How many times have I told you to stop doing that?” Moaned a voice. 

The voice was hoarse; a little rough from the long time since it'd been replenished with the sip of complementary tea or coffee (which normally tasted of dishwater anyway, no matter how much sugar you added). It had a little shake to the words, too, in the way that only voices do who knew that there were still twenty three minutes to go until the torture would finally end.

The owner of that voice: you.

The chosen torture: after school playgroup.

Happy Times Tutoring Centre was, contrary to how it was described in the pamphlet that was often passed about at Parents' Meetings, not equipped to handle the high number of little persons currently running rampant in it. They were as endless as ants: crawling over the hopscotch square, shrieking and squealing on the swings, tossing beanbags at a pigeon perched on the chain-link fence, whipping themselves onto a frenzy on the monkey bars or crowding the jungle gym to slip down the slide. It was pure chaos.

Touching a hand to your temple, you took a deep sigh. Twenty more minutes, you murmured to yourself. Although you had plenty of practice with taking care of children and, normally, you enjoyed shaping little minds and taking part in their creative games, there was something about the last thirty minutes on a Friday afternoon. Something diabolical. It really ought to have been made illegal.

You heard another shriek.

"I told you no!" You groaned again, more like a whimper this time, "How many times do I have to tell you no?"

There wasn't a particular child that you were scolding, but a whole legion of insubordinate school children that replicated like wet gremlins. Every time you would tell them what do you, your voice would grow that much more desperate.

“Clare, the chairs are not your obstacle course!” 

“Don’t pull her hair, Reuben!” 

“Shane, honey, please please please don’t pick your nose.”

The children would always giggle when you told them what to do. Even when you tried to do it as gently and kindly as possible, even placing your hands warmly on their little shoulders and smiling as you explained to them the error of their ways. There would be a window of two minutes when you thought you'd gotten through to them. Those preschool faces would nod solemnly, swear in their cutest voice that they would never do it again and then they would run to the farthest side of the playground to try it again immediately.

Annoying as that was, you could almost accept it. They were just kids after all. Most of the children at least tried to seem contrite: except for one. 

Said little girl had stationed herself at the top of the slide. There were lines of children standing behind her, crowding at the bottom of the slide or calling out her name pleadingly, but nothing would move her. Nobody dared to lay their hands on her, either, for fear of death or something far worse. The little girl's blue eyes were watching you.

You sighed. Throwing your hands in the deep pockets of your jeans, you walked over to the jungle gym like a marine heading to the front lines. 

“Aurora,” You called out her name, too tired to fake a smile, “Don’t you think you should let the other children go down the slide?” 

Aurora Williams did not budge. Aurora might have been the name of a princess - she did have crystal blonde hair, the bluest eyes and a skin a gentle pale like the purest beach sand - but that was were the comparison ended. Even the little smile that she curled on such delicate pink lips didn't quite reach her eyes.

Your gaze hardened. You little devil.

The creatures were watching again. None spoke a word as they heard the child speak.

"Teacher," The six-year-old giggled.

Though you hadn't known if a six-year-old was capable of being condescending, you figured that that little voice had managed pretty well. Aurora blinked her lashes prettily, feigning innocence.

You blinked back, probably saying something unflattering in morse code.

"There are only - " You glanced at your watch, “eighteen minutes left. Don’t you think you’ve had enough time up there? If you come down now, then everyone gets a chance to get a ride - maybe even two rides - before the mommies and daddies come to pick you up. Doesn’t that sound swell?” 

Like a queen toasting champagne to her regiment, the little girl sipped on her juice box. The cranberry was staining her mouth red.

The little children clustered around - some waiting behind Aurora, some staring at your feet or clinging to your jeans - were watching to see what would happen next. The creatures were watching too. They could see the colour creeping into your face - either anger that she was trying to defy you or embarrassment that not even a little six year old could follow your instructions - and the way that your eye jumped in a twitch. 

The creatures waited. They were patient.

"Aurora," You forced your voice low, "We have to be kind to our friends."

“But I like the slide,” Aurora beamed. 

"So do the other kids," You cleared your throat, "I'm giving you until the count of three."

Aurora didn't think much of your threat. Once you started counting, she threw up her hands and started to count out each number on her fingers. When three was finished, she counted higher and higher until you had to cut her off before she reached twenty.

Jaw screaming, your teeth were clenched hard.

You didn't like it. You really didn’t like playing this card. Something told you that you had to do it.

You raised your brow, “Do I have to call Daddy?” 

The little girl’s face - all sunshine, fair winds, rainbows - immediately darkened. Whimpering around you, the little kids weren’t sure if they should be excited at the chance to play or worried that the terrible threat of calling their parents was up in the air. 

The creatures were getting riled up now. All in unison, their voices started to rise up together. No louder than the sound of springtime rain at first, then building up gradually louder and louder to the crash of a tempest. Say it. They uttered repeatedly. Say it. Say it. Say. . . 

To let the threat sink in further, you took out your phone and started swiping through contacts. Since his name was all the way at the bottom, ordered under ‘W’, you had to scroll a long time to get to the contact. The picture was very cute: showing a ruggedly handsome dad hoisting up Aurora, but not quite excluding the arm of his (recently remarried) ex-wife from the bottom corner. Eyes flickering up to meet Aurora's, your finger was poised over the dial button for the contact: 

Toby Williams (Aurora’s Dad)

“Now,” You took a short breath, realising you’d been holding it, “I think it’s about time you come off the slide. Maybe you can play on the swings,” You suggested, “That’ll be fun, won’t it? We don’t need to -” 

“Teacher,” Aurora interrupted, “Did - did you know that when you get married you have to go and live - and there’s a different place you have to go? With the man that you marry?” 

You had to pause in sympathy. After her mom being recently remarried - and moving halfway across the company to live in a bigger, brighter city with her new husband - you couldn’t help but feel a pang as you imagined Toby explaining this to his very young daughter. You could imagine Aurora, probably sat down on some ultra-plush bed playing with a stuffed unicorn as her dad patted her tenderly on the knee and began the difficult conversation. 

“Yes, I do - I mean, I know,” You corrected, watching her carefully, “But Aurora, honey, we’re not talking about -” 

“And then you have to go all the way there and you can’t come back.” 

As you frowned, trying to think of a way to be gentle about the divorce and forceful about the slide, you couldn’t seem to hear the voices now. But the children could. The ones gathered around your knees were looking around, craning their little necks to look through the chainlink fence to see where that beating, drumming sound of voices were coming from. Was it a party? Was it an ice cream truck with a broken speaker? Like lightning or violins or locusts buzzing, they could hear the words: I wish. I wish. I wish. I wish. . . 

“Look, sweetheart,” You walked closer to her and lent out your hand, “It’s okay to feel upset about that stuff with Mommy. We can talk about it, but let’s go do it on the bench. I’ll give you a juice box,” You winked with a whisper, “It can be our secret.” 

But there was something in the little girl’s face that you didn’t like. There was fire in those blue, blue eyes and - in that moment - you felt a chill ride its way down your spine. It felt like something else was watching you in that child’s eyes - something predatory and birdlike. You couldn’t help but step back. 

She’s going to say it! The creatures chimed and roared and shrieked and cried in wolfish delight. She’s going to say it! I wish I wish I wish I wish. . . 

Mentioning her mother had been a mistake. Aurora’s eyes burned.  

“No!” Aurora cried, “You’re just a big meanie!”

Tears pooled from the child’s eyes. 

Your eyes widened, reaching out a hand , “Aurora -” 

“I don’t want to talk to you! Never again!” The girl hiccuped in tears, “I - I wish -” 

Your finger had already pressed the dial button. You heard the clicking of the dial tone, pressing closer and closer to the moment he would answer. Already, you were preparing what words you were going to say: Hello, Mr Williams. I know it’s still a little early, but Aurora is having a meltdown. I’m trying to soothe her, but I think it would be best if. . . 

Aurora stood up on the slide, making herself a towering figure above you. There was something otherworldly about it - about the gale that pushed her blonde hair around her face, about the screeching of nighttime birds suddenly in your ears or the way that your heart was thundering. Around you, the children were ducking and hiding in every place they could find. Aurora’s tiny finger pointed at you and you felt it reach its point right at your very heart. 

The creatures were screaming now. 

“I wish that you would marry the Goblin King,” Aurora yelled, “and that he’ll come take you away right now!” 

It stopped. The whole world had a hush. Gone was the wind, the shouts, the whimpers of children, the thrashing of an anxious heart. There was just the sound of a small girl sucking on the straw of a cranberry juice box, kicking her legs off the side of the slide.

“Hello? Hello?” Came the voice of Toby Williams, “Can you hear me? Hello?” 

But there was no one to answer him. Just a phone on concrete.

[shark-bite-fever]

The Cat and the Canary [Loki Series]

"The cat that swallowed the canary" - idiom; to look extremely well-pleased, smug or self-satisfied often because one has secretly achieved something or has gotten away with a great act of mischief.

Part 2: The Canary

Part 3: The Catastrophe

Summary: The fire that you started isn't the only thing going down in flames. Someone needs to be blamed for it: you think you'll blame it on mechanical failure until people start pointing to Loki. Do you let him go down for your mistake?

Warnings: Mentions of a fire (no casualties).

Note: Thank you for reading and interacting with these stories. Comment below to be added to the tag list.

___

This is not a drill. Those were the words that blared in your mind as you contemplated your current situation. Wringing water out of the tangling locks of your hair, you could only thank your love of pointlessly wearing your waterproof parka indoors for the reason that you weren't completely sodden. Ultra-sensitive, the deluge sprinklers had come on automatically after the fire started - which meant that every other lab technician, engineer, mathematician and scientist were all completely sopping wet. Shaking out your parka from the excess moisture, you felt at least partly comforted by the fluffy grey material of your Nirvana t-shirt - even if the rips in your jeans meant that your socks and boots were flirting with more moisture than the Titanic currently was. 

The Avengers themselves were also standing in a rough formation. It was clear that their combined presence was causing quite a stir in the surrounding area as news crews, journalists, tabloids and bystanders vied for a look at the superheroes. From where the once-busy Manhattan street had been roped off by policemen, multitudes of people were beginning to queue and cluster. There were even several news vans. You smiled at your dad when you saw him waving to you in his metallic blue sunglasses. 

Nick Fury looked as if someone had swapped out his usual black coffee for an espresso-shot of battery acid. Standing in front of all of the personnel, he faced each person and met their stare dead-on. He was even more pinched and aggressive than usual, he scowled at all of the personnel assembled outside of the building - he looked as if someone had swapped out his normal black coffee for an espresso-shot of battery acid. 

“Can someone explain to me,” Fury’s voice roared, “Why all of my operations have been shut down because someone decided to play with matches?” 

Darcy was standing with her friend, an astrophysicist named Jane. When the political science major heard Fury’s words, she cringed and her eyes snapped desperately to you . You hoped that no one saw her, and indeed saw that everyone was looking at the furious S.H.I.E.L.D. Director and had missed it. With a subtle wave of your hand to tell your friend to calm down, you tried your best reassuring smile. 

Don’t panic, you mouthed. Equipment failure. Remember? 

Darcy looked away nervously. 

“The fire started in one of the left-wing engineering labs, 12 B,” Agent Maria Hill read out from a tablet, “There were no authorised personnel in there at the time and, at the last point of entry, we can see that the security codes haven’t been overridden. All of the equipment was noted as being turned off by the last engineers to be in the room.” 

“Then why in the Sam Hill was there a fire?” Fury barked. 

The tall, dark-haired agent looked stymied for a moment. She paused for a moment to read the digital print-outs on her iPad, scanning through the possible causes and the reasons that might have led to the fire. It was clear from the way that her jaw clenched that the information wasn’t good. You felt your heart thumping hard in your throat. Come on, Jarvis, you begged. Tell me you deleted that info. Otherwise I’m in deep - 

“We don’t know, sir,” Maria Hill huffed in frustration, “The stats from the room before the fire started seem to be fine. All of the equipment and chemical compounds were in equilibrium. None of the machinery was even turned on at the time of the fire, so we don’t have any dangerous readings.” 

“So it is as if the fire started by itself,” Steve Rogers said. 

It was clear that the super soldier had been training at the time of the fire because he was one of the only heroes that wasn’t soaking wet - and he was also wearing a spandex tank top, shorts that demonstrated what many of the personnel had jokingly called America’s Ass™, and a dour expression that made him look like a frustrated schoolmarm. 

“You have an idea who did it?” Tony Stark said. He almost sounded impressed. 

You could see that your friend was starting to crack from the pressure. No longer wearing the tight red beanie, Darcy was wringing the wet material in her hands and was whimpering nervously. Her hair also stood on end like fixtures in a Tesla coil. The rate of her breath had started to make her glasses steam, so she kept needing to remove them and wipe them off on her marginally-less-wet sleeve. Unable to move or reassure your friend because of the eyes that were roaming around from face to face accusingly, you had to stand there coolly and hope that no one could see the sweat gathering on the back of your neck. 

Captain America took a few steps forward, closer to the director, and shouted, “Where’s Loki?” 

Your face flushed at the mention of that name. Well, this is an interesting development, you considered. You joined in with the suspicious crowd who were scanning each face to find the dark-haired troublemaker. Even now, you could hear the whispers of suspicion which were gradually heightening as the time passed. He can use magic, someone accused. Who’s to say he didn’t do it? Another operative growled: He’s certainly got probable cause! While you couldn’t find where the god of mischief was lurking like a storm cloud on the banks of a sunny day, your eyes did land on Thor’s face: his features were tense and pale, as if this wasn’t such a surprise to him that his younger brother could do something like this. Jane Foster leaned over and grabbed his hand supportively. 

“I don’t suppose I could provide a litany well-phrased enough to convince you all that it wasn’t me?” 

Loki was among the few that weren’t drenched from the sprinklers, although you couldn’t figure out if it was because he’d been elsewhere at the time or if he’d used his magic to dry himself. It was strange to see him in something other than his Asgardian armour, which he wore religiously to all of the meetings that the Avengers had; but now he was wearing an unbuttoned, emerald green overcoat over a black button-up shirt and a pair of black pants which were held in place with a large gold buckle. 

Ha, you snorted. Leprechaun. 

“Oh, really? Because it seems to me that it would be only too easy for a magic-wielding maniac to slip through into an unoccupied room,” Steve crossed his arms over his chest, “and then set it on fire. That way, none of the machines had to be active and there is no traceable way back to you.” 

“Now that is just another way of saying that you have no evidence,” Loki pointed out with an arched brow. 

“Well we don’t exactly need much evidence,” Tony Stark pointed out, “Do we, Reindeer Games?” 

Loki’s jaw tensed at the use of the nickname. There were even a few chuckles and giggles at the title that had been given to man, due to the large antler-like horns that he wore on his battle helmet. Even though he hadn’t worn them since the Battle of New York in 2012, Iron Man made every use of the opportunity to remind him. Even you laughed at your father, finding him hilarious even in such a serious moment, and realised that there was another reason for your giddiness. I could get away with it. This whole thing was going to blow over. Yet when you looked back at Darcy, she was still nervous and pale. 

“I thought you heroes were supposed to be supportive of justice,” Loki answered wryly. “I didn’t realise that it was within your staunch moral codes to go around accusing innocent people of crimes that they didn’t commit.” 

“You? Innocent?” Tony Stark snorted a laugh, “Please, buddy. You’re about as innocent as a murder of crows.” 

Yet something obviously wasn’t sitting right with Steve. 

“Maybe he’s right. He’s certainly got probable cause,” He hesitated, “But we don’t know for sure. Did anyone see Loki near the labs?” 

“I’ve never even been near those labs,” Loki defended. “So you certainly won’t find any positive witnesses, Rogers.” 

You felt something rise up inside of you like a shout of accusation, which you had to swallow back with a cough as if you'd been clearing your throat. That little liar! He’d obviously been up to something that first night when you'd been walking to the elevator; either that he was waiting for you or he wanted to familiarise himself with the other parts of the Avengers Tower. You were about to accuse him verbally when you realised that you couldn’t say anything. You weren't supposed to be in that part of the Tower either and that would make your father instantly suspicious. Crossing your arms over your shoulders, you glared at his back. His lying, green, leprechaun back. 

“No one saw Loki near the labs,” Steve verbalised. 

“And no one saw Loki in any other part of the Tower, including PointBreak over there,” Tony said, “Which means that there’s just as good a chance that he’s guilty as he’s innocent. I’m saying that we return Reindeer Games back to the North Pole and stop another incident like this from happening again.” 

There were bursts of agreement from around the clustered personnel, some more loud than others, who were ready to send the disgraced prince back to Asgard. It was at that moment that Thor stepped forward, dropping his legendary hammer to the ground with such strength that a large crack split the pavement at his feet. Light from the smog-smeared skies fell on Mjolnir, the hammer of Thor, and its power seemed to cause vibrations and undercurrents that made goosebumps crawl up their skin. Everyone instantly fell silent. 

“Friends, let’s not be hasty,” Thor said, “I know that my brother does not have the best reputation among you all, but I believe him when he says that he’s had no hand in this. Is there no other chance of something else happening to cause this fire?” 

People respected the blonde-haired god of thunder and so they listened to him patiently as he spoke, yet it was clear that they still sided with Tony Stark and wanted to send Loki back to Asgard. The personnel were tired of feeling unsafe and uncertain when the god of mischief walked into the room or roamed the halls. They were tired of his petty tricks and his pranks which had so many times disturbed their work. As with everything else, you were with your dad. Send the Prince of the Leprechauns back to his Fairytale Kingdom. 

“There’s a very slim chance of mechanical failure on the machines,” Maria Hill admitted, “But it’s even slimmer knowing that the other machines in the room weren’t active at the time. Most of that equipment is brand new, so there shouldn’t be any wear or faults in it - and none of the engineers have picked up any problems with it.” 

“Why you Midgardians trust those damned machines is beyond me,” Loki spat, “You trust your lives to these brainless, heartless creations of steel and metal and yet you’re surprised when something goes wrong? Why, I’d hardly trust a bow-and-arrow to dispense hunting advice or an axe to point my direction home. You’re all fools.” 

“Brother,” Thor warned. 

It was true that most of the scientists, technicians and lab techies were sufficiently annoyed and were glaring at him sharply. 

“Perhaps we should ship Laufeyson back to Asgard,” Fury considered deeply, “I can’t have incidents like this getting in the way of my operation.” 

You had to fight back a grimace. Out of all of the many reasons that you wanted to get out of causing this fire and having your lab permit pulled out from under you , you weren't sure if you wanted to do it by blaming someone else. It was one thing to blame it on a faulty connection or a damaged wire, but to pin it to one person and let them take the heat didn’t seem like the right thing to do. When you looked at Loki, you could see that he was more tense than a Newton’s metre at full readings - he stood rigid and you could see the thick chords of muscles flexing in his calves as he stepped from one person to the next to defend himself. 

It wasn’t right, but you were going to bite your tongue about it. The entire Tower would be a much happier work and home environment if the god of mischief wasn’t in it. Trying to recall some of the past memories of how he’d treated you , how he’d grabbed you and tried to intimidate you in the elevator, you quelled some of your unease. Sure, he wasn’t guilty for this misdemeanour - but the guy had literally tried to take over Earth a few years ago and had received no more than a short time in Asgard’s prison and a slap on the wrist. The guy deserved it. 

You watched expressionlessly as some of the operatives started to surround him. The guilt will go away eventually, you assured yourself, and instead tried to focus on beating the excess water out of the parka. Once I get that new C60 Reactor Core thrumming, the ends will justify the means. 

And then the worst happened. 

“Wait! It wasn’t Loki,” Darcy Lewis cried, “It was me!” 

You were so startled that you dropped you parka. Now all muddy and strewn with bits of wet leaves and debris, you wondered if that was all the mud-dragging that would happen that day. Heart thrashing, you wanted to scream and cry and sob in unfairness. Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit. 

“Darcy?” Thor’s jaw dropped. 

“You better start explaining, Lewis,” Fury glared. 

“There was a thermo-something microwave something and a sonic screwdriver or other and I had coffee,” Darcy blurted, “And I tripped so it shocked something and it triggered an electrical fire and then the fire-thingies went off and I never meant for anyone to get in trouble and I just - “

“Wait a second,” It was Jane’s strong, clear voice, “A thermal-cyclic test rig? Darce, you haven’t even started your physics course yet. You wouldn’t even know how to turn on a thermal-cyclic test rig, never mind use the electric probe to fiddle with it enough to cause a fire.” 

And when you heard your father’s voice, you knew it was all over. This is not a drill. 

“That lab isn’t equipped for a test rig big enough to cause a fire like that,” Tony remarked sharply, “Not unless some happy-go-lucky engineer wanted to conduct an unauthorised experiment for something that would cause an absurd amount of heat.” 

You could feel the sharpness of your father’s eyes digging into your face. Trying not to wince at the sound of the footsteps from the man that approached you and the sudden turn of everyone as they watched the next level of madness unfold, you wished hard for spontaneous combustion. 

“Please,” Tony Stark was furious, “Tell me that it wasn’t you.” 

The 'you' hit you like a gunshot in the chest. You were winded.

Your eyes met your father’s and you wanted to grimace at how angry he was. You knew that there were good reasons for his anger - none of them because you'd worked on a design improvement or because you'd used an unauthorised lab, but because you were doing something that he thought was on too high a scale for your skill set. He still sees me as a baby, you mulled in embarrassment. His child. 

“I mean, I could,” You said. 

“The question isn’t if you are capable of doing it, but if you were the one who was trying to modify a test rig.” 

You bit your bottom lip and sucked it between your teeth. 

“Uhm,” You piped up nervously, “Mechanical failure?”

_ _ _

Tag List: [Comment to be added] @pennyl4n3 @dragonsoverall

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Loki, My Symbiote and Me [Series]

PART 4: In Which There May Have Been A Murder

PART 5 : Low in Iron and High in Sarcasm

Summary: Before the relief of not killing Loki can set in, you have to deal with a new hurdle - Eddie Brock. Having his own symbiote, Eddie understands you in a way that no one else has in the last five years. Though this throws a spanner into the works when Loki makes a (poorly-timed) appearance.

Warnings: Angst. Loki being a prick. Death of cappuccinos. Eddie Brock's stubble.

Notes: If you'd like to be added to my taglist, let me know. Thank you very much for anyone who is reading and interacting with the stories. Enjoy!

_ _ _

You had put on the clothes that the stranger had given you, all the while said stranger stared at the wall and tried not to picture how naked you were. Though you were grateful that you didn't have to make your Avengers debut in your birthday suit, you couldn't help but crinkle your nose. Clearly salvaged from the bottom of a duffel bag, all of them smelled strange to you: damp, a little sweaty and some smelling bizarrely of Cool Ranch Doritos. It was also incredibly clear that Eddie Brock was much larger than you: his vest slipped down your stomach, the sweatpants had to be tied forcefully around your waist to prevent them from falling and his much-bigger shoe size meant that you had to go bare. The cold tiles sent shocks through the soles of your feet.

“Eddie Brock,” You repeated the name, still in a daze. 

The man glanced up automatically when he heard his name. Although he looked well-meaning, your instincts told you not to be too trusting. Tightening your arms around your torso, you couldn’t help but feel suspicious as you met his eyes: they were blue green, sort of murky and bloodshot. At the thought of blue eyes, you couldn’t help the picture of frost-blue that instantly came to mind.

Your cheeks flushed as you remembered your hopes about Loki finding you. In your head, you could almost hear the sound of tiny violins.

“You never actually mentioned your name,” Eddie said. 

You sucked in a deep breath, so deep that the cold air hurt your lungs, and you sat on the end of the bed. In the layout of the spare room, one that you pieced together was actually a temporary room (of course, which Loki had been the last one to use), you were positioned facing both the door and this stranger who had saved you. There was a dresser, armchair and an out-of-place potted plant in the small vestibule; Eddie was positioned on the armchair, one long leg slung over the other in a forced gesture of comfort. His fingers danced over his knee, tapping each finger at a time, in what you thought must’ve been subconscious. 

“What are you doing here?” Your voice was hoarse, “How did you find me?” 

Eddie inhaled sharply, his hand coming up to brush through his messy brown hair. It brought with it a scent of sharp, unidentifiable liquor and something gentler, like cheap soap. 

“I got a call from Maria Hill about two weeks ago,” Eddie explained, “They’ve had me on file for some time now, but I was never interested in being a part of them. Venom and I -” 

Your ears perked, “Venom?” 

It happened like some sort of spell. Over strong cheek bones came a black, viscous fibre that covered every inch of skin like a spider web. Long teeth sprouted as far as the curve of his jaw, running row by row in a smile that would’ve terrified a Great White Shark. Instantly, the man’s stature doubled as his symbiote took his place. 

White, pupiless eyes stared at you. From that gaping mouth of splintery teeth, a long tongue curled and lolled. 

Your breath caught.

“I am Venom,” said the symbiote.

“How’d’you do?” You breathed. 

In a word, the medical ward was sterile. The rubber flooring reminded you that the Avengers Compound had originally been a disused Stark Industries warehouse. Once the thought had hooked your brain, stacks of boxes and packaging equipment were all you could see where you should have seen the sparkling, brand-new covers on the equipment or the sparkling new ECG machine that was currently taking your heart rate. The lines were spiking in a way that you thought might be troubling. I hope Scream's okay, you worried.

Appearing in steel blue scrubs (which seemed dramatic), the doctor entered the room. Dr Sturgis was the name printed in copperplate writing on his nametag: the name belonged to a man in his mid-thirties, tall and with a Colgate smile that could've been in a commercial.

That smile lasted thirty seconds. Exactly long enough to give you a once-over and realise that you weren't one of the important superheroes. You could’ve sworn you heard the sound of the smile strike the rubber floors, skitter under the narrow bed they’d put you on and disappear from view. The ECG machine skittered in response.

“Oh,” The doctor cleared his throat, disappointed, “I thought -” 

From the way that his eyes roamed over your charts, barely stopping to ask what was wrong as he pulled off the wires of the ECG machine, he nodded his head perfunctorily.

“Right. Pretty straightforward,” He nodded.

It was at that point that your patience shattered. 

“Pretty straightforward?” You repeated flintily, “What about giving a check-up to an alien symbiote is ‘pretty straightforward’?” 

The doctor made a vague hand gesture, “Well, you - erhm - seem pretty humanoid.” 

Oh, brother.

"I'm not the symbiote," You barely resisted the urge not to add 'you idiot', "Did you even graduate medical school? Let me give you the run down in case you didn't, hmm? A symbiote is an organism that lives, long-term, inside of another organism. A.K.A. - Me. Despite being what I’m sure is probably low in iron and high in sarcasm, I know I’m perfectly fine. What I’m concerned about is that my best friend got a very powerful electric shock and - and hasn’t been -” 

Your voice cracked. 

“Why didn’t you mention that?” Sturgis straightened up, “Electric shock is certainly a serious condition. Where is the patient?"

"My symbiote is the patient!"

His eyes widened, “You call the parasite that lives in you your best friend? That's weird."

“She’s not a parasite!” 

The door swung open a moment later. Despite yourself, you felt relieved to see Eddie's three-day stubble and his baggy black jacket. In his hands was a pair of cappuccinos that you could smell from across the room. It calmed you.

“Uh,” Sturgis cleared his throat, “You can’t bring those in here.” 

You glared at him. Calm gone.

“What’s going on?” Eddie asked as he made his way into the room. Placing the cappuccinos on the end of the hospital bed, he made his way over to you. Something fizzed inside of you at the way that his eyes glanced over you, as if calculating your well-being, but you couldn’t put a name to the feeling. 

"I'll tell you what's happening," You shot Sturgis another glare, "I'm quite sure that the only qualification Dr Starstruck has here is to be an extra on Gray's Anatomy."

Sturgis puffed himself up in irritation, but he immediately deflated again when he saw the sharp look in your eyes. Trying to be more doctorly, he tented his hands together and spoke deferentially.

"I'm sorry to tell you this but no one else will have any better understanding of the situation," Sturgis exhaled, "As I see it, your symbiont -"

“Symbiont. Now we use the big words,” You rolled your eyes, looking at Eddie, “Do you believe this guy?” 

“ Needs urgent medical attention. So, unless you want to keep biting my head off - "

Three more fatal words could not have been spoken. In a liquid movement like an explosion of a vat of pitch black ink, Eddie changed. A towering alien symbiote now stood beside you. Flicking a tongue like a viper scenting the air, Venom stared at the doctor.

“Don’t mind if I do!” 

With a shrill, the doctor slammed back into the wall. Clutching at the clipboard like a weapon (which seemed stupid considering that there were surely scalpels and other cutting instruments somewhere in the room), Sturgis made it out of the room in record-breaking time. Until the door slammed shut, you didn’t realise that you were laughing. 

“Aw,” You giggled, “Scream would’ve loved that.” 

You perched on the end of the bed.

“Will love that,” You repeated to yourself fiercely, “Because she’s not gone,” You looked up at Venom’s face, “Right?” 

That sounded dangerously like a voice crack. 

Symbiotes couldn't show expression or emotion. The lack of eyebrows and eyelids made it very difficult to tell what one of them was thinking, so you knew that it was a gesture of kindness when Venom sat beside you on the hospital bed. What wasn't a gesture of kindness was the way that the bed frame snapped, unable to support the weight, and collapsed inwardly. With a little shriek, you were thrown right into Venom’s lap. The cappuccinos spiraled through the air and smacked into the ground with harsh finality. The coffee smell was fantastic, though.

"You smell of the Klyntar," Venom's voice was gravelling in a way that felt familiar and comforting, even if it made you miss Scream more, "She is still within you. Only healing."

You smiled, “Thank you, Venom.” 

Eddie's return wasn't as elegant or as liquid as Venom's. Receding like the sharp pull of wax, the black fibres caught on his skin almost painfully. He grimaced as he changed, which quickly turned into an expression of surprise when he saw you were in his lap. His ears reddened. 

“Thanks for the cappuccinos,” You smiled, your eyes seeing the collecting puddle of caffeine on the rubber floors, “I think we should probably get out of here. I’m super low-clearance on the Avengers scale, so I’d probably have to clean all of this up.” 

Eddie’s lip tugged up in the corner, “Symbiotes, huh?” 

“Please, this is nothing,” You grinned, “I should tell you about that time I went to Disneyland. I’d never seen Mickey Mouse so traumatised.” 

Extracting yourself from Eddie’s lap was less awkward than you expected it to be, especially considering you had to half-slide off of his crotch to get on your own two feet. You could feel his eyes on you as you brushed off your cable-knit sweater and your jeans, which you felt were much more flattering than the clothes he loaned you that morning. 

“I could still use a coffee,” Eddie admitted, “If you’d like to grab one with me?” 

“Sure,” You beamed, “I’ll show you to the commissary. Avengers are supposed to get a discount or get their meals comped - though be prepared to pay full price for everything, since I’m still a nobody.” 

“You’re definitely not a nobody.” 

Eddie held the door open for you, so he didn’t see the way that you blushed as you led him down the hall. 

It was 2 p.m. already, so the both of you decided to get something to eat that you could wash down with coffee. True to your word, there were no discounts when you paid for the coffee or made your way to stand in line for the cafeteria-like line-up. You tried not to feel annoyed as Wanda Maximoff moved to the front of the line, was handed something that looked like a Michelin-star meal or something French at the very least, and then skipped away in an aureole of shimmering red hair. 

Eddie stopped mid-sentence, seeing your frustration. 

“You okay?” 

“I’m probably just hungry,” You smiled, a little too forced. 

Somehow, Eddie could see it again. It was surprising how good he was at reading you.

“Being an Avenger is a pretty big deal for you,” Eddie guessed, grabbing a plastic tray and handing one to you, "Isn't it?"

“Well, yeah. Who doesn’t want to be a superhero?” 

“Mmm. I can't help but feel it's a little flashy for you.” 

You glanced up at him, wondering what he meant. You were about to ask when a stone-faced commissary worker interrupted to hand you the cutlery and put plates on your trays. With a muttered thank-you, you fell into line again. By now, the scent of warmed-up food had drifted over. You felt your stomach turn, not sure if it was in hunger or disgust.

“What I wouldn’t give for McDonalds fries right now,” You day-dreamed, “Smeared in salt - and dipped in a vanilla milkshake.” 

Eddie laughed, “You dip your fries in a milkshake?” 

“You don’t?” You arched a brow, “Wow. You’re such a freak, Eddie.” 

The two of you were laughing so much that you had almost zero choice in the food that you were dished: you had a bowl of steamed vegetables, a separate bowl of lumpy mushroom soup and something that could’ve either been chicken or fish smothered in lemon sauce. Eddie had a side salad, spicy biryani and the same unfortunate soup. You led him to where you’d often eaten your lunches in the last couple of days: a table at an uncomfortable distance to the bathroom but far enough away from the centre of the room so the other personnel didn’t shoot you strange, enquiring looks as they wondered who you were. 

That made you think again.

Swallowing a piece of maybe-chicken-maybe-fish, you asked him, “About earlier - why’d you say that? About me being an Avenger?” 

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” Eddie’s voice was strained, “It’s just - from my own experience, with Venom - it’s easier for someone with a symbiote to go at it alone. It’s hard to find people who accept the fact that you have an alien living rent-free in your nervous system.” 

With a wry smile, you said, “I guess you’re right. I’m not sure about Venom - who is very charming, in his own sort of way - but Scream is different. She’s -” You struggled for the words, “She’s fierce. She told me that she used to be one of the Klyntar’s greatest warriors, that she came to this planet in an effort to determine if the people here were worthy of habitation.” 

There was a sudden lump in your throat as you realised what you were about to do - you'd never been able to do it before. There was just something in his eyes - in the way he looked at you - that made you feel safe. Like you might just have another friend in the world after all.

“Scream found me at a college party. It’s - kind of embarrassing, actually,” You heaved a sigh, “It was a frat party that my dormmates were invited to. I tagged along, not wanting to be dorky and friendless forever. No one was interested in talking to me, so I tried to leave early.” 

You shut your eyes, “It all went downhill from there.” 

In frat row, there was a myriad of sounds as each house competed for the loudest music, the hottest people and the highest number of strobing lights that could turn an epileptic in a minute. After forty-five minutes of trying to make conversation with anyone (or at least end up with a reasonably attractive person to put their tongue in your mouth), you realised that coming to the party had been an enormous mistake. The dorm-mates you arrived with had already been invited to various shady parts of the house and the only offer you’d been given was by a guy that stank of so much booze it didn’t even surprise you when he started flirting with the lampshade. 

It was late when you had to swallow your pride and walk across the street. It wasn’t too far from the dorms, though you felt more uncomfortable now knowing that you had to make the walk by yourself this time. You remembered a hundred-thousand lectures by your protective parents to not do exactly this - but what else could you do? Spend the night with the guy who was sexually attracted to the furniture? Hard pass. 

As you turned down the corner of the street, you told yourself that the prickly feeling on the back of your neck was just anxiety. Even though you reminded yourself that you were just five minutes from safety, you couldn’t help but speed-walk through the darkened parts of the street between the glow of the streetlights. 

Then you heard it. Tap-tap. The sound of feet.

You didn’t want to turn around. As you pressed your feet to go harder against the concrete, you could hear that the feet were speeding up with you. Heart pounding, you waited until you were under the glow of the light before you spun around. 

“Oh. Crystal,” You sighed in relief, “It’s just you. I thought I was getting stalked by a serial killer or something.” 

Your roommate walked quickly through the darkness. Each long-legged stride made her move powerfully, especially since you noticed that she was no longer wearing shoes. Her face was pale and quiet. Her eyes fixed ahead. 

“What happened to Chris Hemsworth?” You joked, remembering the nickname she’d given the guy she was flirting with at the party. The last time you’d seen her, she was cuddled up on the front porch, red paper cup in hand and drunk college guy halfway down her shirt. 

There was that tingle on the back of your neck again. It pricked up, like an electric current that ran through your jaw and spiked through your heart. You laughed nervously. 

Crystal said your name, just once, and looked you up and down. The way she did was - you hated yourself for being so neurotic - almost predatory. 

“Look, you’re acting kinda weird,” Your throat felt tight as you reached for your phone, “I think I should call you an ambulance. Did you take anything at the party? Did that guy do anything weird to you?” 

Crystal smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile. 

“You don’t have to worry about him,” Crystal sucked her teeth, making a strange slurping noise, “I’m pleased that I caught up with you. I’ve been waiting for you all night.” 

The emphasis was on the word ‘you’. 

Crystal continued to step closer and closer. For some reason, you felt tears in the back of your eyes as you moved backward.

“I’m going back to the dorm,” There was a sob in the back of your throat, “Crys - Crystal, I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

Crystal smiled again, “My name isn’t Crystal. It’s Scream. So, please do.” 

The thing launched itself at you.

Your hands were shaking so much that you had to put down your spoon. Eddie seemed to have forgotten that he had his own spoon of rice halfway up to his mouth, he was watching you so intently. He remembered it only long enough to set it down and reach for your hand. You stopped yourself from flinching. 

“Scream had been searching for someone that fit her criteria. Someone of a reasonable height, build and intelligence - but she mainly wanted someone who wasn’t noticed,” You cringed at the memory of the harsh words, spoken by a symbiote who hadn’t cared about you yet, “Someone who didn’t attract a lot of attention.” 

“You don’t have to tell me any more,” Eddie’s voice was soft, “If it’s too painful for you -” 

“It’s okay. I’ve never been able to tell anyone else before,” Your smile was fragile, “I think - it’s difficult for people to understand. Unless you’re battling your own inner demons,” You had a short laugh, “Oh, she’d kill me if she’d heard me say that. Or maybe she might like it? She’s kind of twisted.” 

Eddie smiled, but his heart wasn’t in it, “So, what changed?” 

You took a breath, “It was about four weeks after that. I’d just been kicked out of college and -” 

“Am I interrupting something?” 

The words died on your lips. You knew to whom that voice belonged - it was like acupuncture needles that lodged in your brain with every word. 

Loki was standing beside the table, though his attention was not on Eddie. His eyes had been on your face for just a second, enough to burn you with the intensity of the glower, but it was something on the table that had captured his interest. Forgotten, a plastic tray warped under his white-knuckled hold. 

He was looking at your hand. The one that was currently in Eddie’s. 

“Hi, Loki.” 

You instantly died inside at such a dumbass thing to say. 

Like a falcon deciding which creature to spear between its claws, Loki turned his focus to the man opposite you. Eddie didn’t puff up or tense at the threat that was clear in every muscle of the trickster’s body, but you could see the thin threads of control in the way he clenched his jaw. 

“Eddie Brock,” He introduced, not bothering to extend a hand. 

“Congratulations,” Loki gristled. 

The effect of having two men square themselves in front of you made your head dizzy. The taste of adrenaline was sharp in the air, souring your senses like jet fumes or smoke. There was something else there, too . Full-bodied and overpowering, testosterone cracked in the air like an electric fence. 

“Are you having a good day?” You fumbled, unsure of what to say. 

The way that Loki regarded you was mechanical. There could have been more humanity in a mechanical assembly line than in the way those cold blue eyes examined you.

Loki arched his brow, “Oh, yes. You’re here.”

Your throat tightened. 

“I’d almost forgotten,” His voice cut, “You tend to blend into the shadows, don’t you? That’s what you’re good at.” 

The words hit a part of you that cracked.

In front of everyone in the commissary who had stopped to watch - the cooks, the servers, the cleaners who had paused in disinfecting the metal tabletops, the security personnel, the military forces, Eddie Brock and the man that had speared your heart with one cruel word and one sharp glance - you started to cry.

_ _ _

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@pennyl4n3

[shark-bite-fever]

The Cat and the Canary [Loki Series]

"The cat that swallowed the canary" - idiom; to look extremely well-pleased, smug or self-satisfied often because one has secretly achieved something or has gotten away with a great act of mischief.

Part 1: The Cat

Part 2 : The Canary

Summary: Darcy Lewis becomes your accomplice when your 'secret mission' to work on your dad's C60 Arc Generator turns into a flaming mess. Now you have to pin the blame on someone before they figure out it's you. . .

_ _ _

“Are you sure this is legal?” 

You sighed. Leaning so far back into the office chair that only a percentile more would have meant a spinal fusion and a pissed-off chiropractor, you cocked your head to the side and rested it on your knuckle. You tried not to let your eyes fall into a glare as you looked at the only other scientist who would be dumb enough or loyal enough to you to be able to lie to Tony Stark. 

“Darcy,” You said, “I’m shocked at you.” 

“Shocked. I’m glad you used that word,” The woman whimpered, “Because I’m not an engineer. I’m a political science major and I’m scared to death that you’re going to electrocute yourself. And then what? Does that make me an accessory to murder - or an unwitting bystander - or just a complete idiot!” 

You thought about it, “Well, if we look at the criteria -” 

“You little shit!” 

You laughed. Getting up from the thermal-cyclic test rig, which you had ‘borrowed’ from one of S.H.I.E.L.D’s drones, you tried to make light of the situation before your friend had a panic attack. Luckily, you had come prepared for any such cold feet and went over to the coffee machine that you'd installed for precisely this moment. Making sure to let the aroma drift throughout the space, you took your time adding the foamed milk and spewing out a wonky design that looked more like a burnt Christmas tree than a feather, but you shrugged and handed it to the political science major anyway. Darcy Lewis took a sip. 

“Damn,” Darcy appraised the coffee, “That’s a good cuppa joe.” 

“In another life, I’d be a barista,” You smiled, “You know, if I wasn’t a multi-billion-dollar trust fund baby with a Master’s Degree in Robotics and Engineering and a superhero as a dad.” 

Darcy raised a brow, “Screw you.” 

You tossed your head back and laughed. You took another few minutes to make yourself a strong espresso, which you downed at a too-hot temperature and made you hiss like you'd just inhaled tequila, and then you turned back to the machine. It was true that there was a strange burning smell coming from the amplifiers and the switches on the controllers were acting up, but there was nothing actively on fire. That was a huge bonus. 

Just as you suspected, the coffee helped to calm down Darcy’s nerves. After the political science major had made herself a second cup of coffee, she stepped closer to inspect the machine. Hands wrapped around the coffee like it was some secret anime weapon of power, she glanced at it dubiously. 

“It’s not going to melt your face off,” You deadpanned, “Now pass me the thing.” 

“What thing?” 

“The spiky, electroprobe thing.” 

“The thing that looks like Dr Who’s sonic screwdriver?” 

“That’s the one,” You took a moment to turn around and look at your friend skeptically, “You are such a nerd.” 

“And yet you knew what I was talking about.” 

You tried not to smirk as you took the electroprobe and started poking around at the inner machinery. While Darcy watched nervously over your shoulder and tried to take mental notes that would help with the physics course she’d be taking next semester, you explained the function of the thermal-cyclic test equipment. You pointed out each part of the machinery and patiently explained what they were used for: the aluminium oxide rod, fitted with an AE sensor, which was connected to a specimen and then into an electric furnace. Using the electroprobe, you indicated the different readings on the amplifiers and explained the purpose of the air cylinder that connected it all. 

“So it’s all pretty simple,” You concluded. 

“If you’re Einstein,” Darcy scoffed. 

“More of a Nikola Tesla sort of thing,” You winked, “So, what I’m trying to do is run a test to see the extent of the thermal fatigue properties on the C60 Arc Generator. If I can get this right, it’ll improve the residual interfacial strength of the unit and allow it to process more -” 

Darcy made a loud, sarcastic snore noise. 

Your eyes shifted flintily into a glare, “Basically, if we stop the overheating, more power in the generator, and a stronger Iron Man.” 

“Ah. I see.”

You doubted it. 

You had loved Darcy from the first moment that you'd met. You'd been automatic best friends. It was through another meeting of scientists, lab technicians, theoretical physicists and interns that Fury had hired and thrown together. It had still been in the early days of the Avengers, after the world domination crisis of 2012, and the director had assumed that throwing together a bunch of eggheads would make science happen. Instead, it raged an intense debate between each scientific sector about how to handle each of the problems that the Avengers faced. The mathematicians wanted to make graphs and plan success ratios based on each superhero’s performance. The engineers wanted to test things out and run the specks for the mechanical failures versus ‘pilot’ errors. In the midst of arguing scholars, Darcy Lewis had cracked out a taser and shot a line of electrical power into a leather chair, stopping all of the noise and chaos around her. You had instantly cracked a grin and offered her friendship. The only person ballsy enough to pull off a stunt like that was. . . well, you. 

“Why don’t you want to tell your dad?” Darcy asked for what felt like the umpteenth time. 

You scoffed, “Because I don’t need him Iron-Man-handling this project. Look, I love my dad and I respect him more than anyone else in the world, but this suit is kind of like his baby. When he’s not working with the other Avenger’s armour or saving the freakin’ world, he’s thinking about this suit. And the crème de la crème of the suit is the Arc Generator. If he knew I was working on it, he’d never give me a moment’s peace.” 

“You mean,” Darcy took a sip, “He’d, like, want to help you?” 

“He’d micromanage,” You translated, “Sure, he’d let me work on it by myself at first. Then he’d start to offer suggestions, then he’d offer to do things to improve it, then he’d make the modifications without telling me ‘to be helpful’ and then, before you know it, it’s a Tony Stark project. You know what I mean, Darce.” 

“Is that supposed to be beeping?” 

Your head snapped up from the part that you'd been rewiring and your eyes darted to the screen. Pushing yourself on the wheeled office chair to the front of the monitor, you looked at the information on the x-axis (which you explained to Darcy was the amount of work per second) and the corresponding data on the y-axis (which was the heat generated). Using a fingernail, you traced the line up the monitor and pressed down at an untraced point. 

“That’s where my dad’s suit is at right now,” You murmured seriously, “It’s a heck of a lot of power - far beyond other heat signatures in modern weaponry - but engineering’s all about improving things. Making them better, faster, stronger.” 

“And how are ‘we’,” Darcy used air quotes, “supposed to do that?” 

You weren't exactly sure but you would’ve rather died than admit that out loud. Instead of admitting that your plan was to see how much power could be generated and ‘pinch’ it with the electroprobe to see if you got any differences in the reading, you grinned at your friend and swivelled around in the chair like a lunatic. After you got a good few readings, you punched the button on the machine that started to print out the findings on paper. 

“A paper trail isn’t usually a good thing when one’s doing something like this,” You said philosophically, “But I reckon the boys back at the Royal Swedish Academy of Sciences will probably want some proof before they send me a Nobel prize.”

“You’re so full of yourself,” Darcy smiled. 

“I’m not arrogant. Only confident,” You pouted. “It’s way cuter.” 

While the coffee machine began to convert their rich-blend coffee beans into something more drinkable, you asked your friend to help you open the windows while you monitored the screens on the amplifiers. The noise levels in the room had risen to a threatening clangor as the machinery started to rumble deeply. This made Darcy quite frantic as she rushed back from opening the shutters, wondering what she could do. 

“Just don’t panic,” Your voice was slightly too high-pitched to soothe, ”It sounds like we’re thrashing around in a wind turbine, but it’s only the heat that’s being gen -” 

It had grown too loud for either of you to hear each other. Turning to face each other, Darcy explained with a mixture of hand gestures, mouth movements and ‘flipping the bird’ signals just what she thought of the latest project. Clutching a new cup of coffee, Darcy’s knuckles were white. Using the electroprobe to pry open the side of the amplifier, your hair was blown back as you unlatched the mechanism. A wave of intense heat escaped and knocked into you. The mechanisms screeched to a grinding halt. All of the sound in the room returned at once. You fainted. 

Darcy cried your name and rushed forward to help.

She threw down her cup and went to help her friend, who was already starting to wake up. Darcy checked your pulse and looked over you for any injuries but couldn’t find any, as you assured her that you were all right. Other than the fact that the your face was redder than a suntan-gone-wrong, you were okay. 

“Can you admit to me now,” Darcy pleaded, “that this maybe isn’t the best idea?” 

You sniffed, “Do you smell something burning?” 

Both of you turned around to see the blast of fire escape from the testing rig. Darcy helped you from the floor, pulling you up by your arm, and you ran forward together. There were puddles of coffee everywhere from where Darcy had dropped the cup and now the electricity was sparking and hissing like a caged animal. Still whirling from the blast of hot air, you drew in deep breaths of the charred, smoky air and tried to think of what to do. Papers were burning on the surfaces of the desks. Darcy was yelling in terror about what she was supposed to do. Alarms were blaring in your ears - whether from panic or from the fire, you weren't sure. 

“We need to get out of here!” Darcy coughed, “Before it gets too bad! The smoke alarms -” 

You writhed out of her hold, “But my experiments - “ 

“Damn your experiments, Stark!” Darcy shouted above the roar of the growing fire, “If you don’t get your ass out of this door in three seconds, I’m tasering you and shoving you down the fire escape!” 

That made up your mind quite nicely.