Phase 1: Perception
The sounds of footsteps are rushed and noisy as shoes—boots to be exact—rush across the floor boards above. You don't like it. The noises are pounding in your skull and all the new scents are abusing your nostrils. You don't know where Father has gone; You haven't seen him since he left this morning. With his untimely absence, you huddle in the darkest corner of the room, folded to make your figure as small as possible. Things shuffle above and you can tell 'they're' looking for something. As you silently pray for Father to return home the door rushes open, light flooding into the darkened basement lab. You hear them—mostly men—move to spread out and continue searching, picking up things and discussing them as they'd go.
Imbeciles. One should never touch Father's things. One could never be too sure as to what each concoc
But not always,
Like the way your kisses takes my breath away every day.
And every night I would hold you like something I may accidentally lose,
Just like that longing I see in your eyes,
The warmth between our hands,
The love I feel in my heart ringing almost excruciatingly strong,
And maybe by tomorrow,
Another day happily spent with no one else but you.
Nico di Angelo x Reader
Say something, I’m giving up on you
I’ll be the one if you want me to
Anywhere I would have followed you
Say something, I’m giving up on you.
It had happened all so fast. One stupid phrase was all it took to ruin the moment. Six Words;
“Who cares, this is about us.” I said with a laugh not knowing.
And I am feeling so small
It was over my head
I know nothing at all
Nico and me had been sitting in his cabin. We had been chatting about music that we enjoy. He was normally quiet and not sharing anything personal about himself, but right now he was acting like an open book. But I didn’t know enough; I didn’t listen closely enough, to not make the mistake I did.
And I will stumble and fall
I’m still learning love
Just starting to crawl
“My sister used to love this song. She listened to it day and night.” Nico said.
“Who cares, this is about us.&
Not the color of the sky.
It's the length of silk.
Not the size of material.
It's the sorrow of death.
Not the sadness of the dead.
It's the thrill of pain.
Not the happiness of destruction.
It is poetry.
A freak show. You feel like a walking, talking freak show. It seems as though all eyes are you as you wonder down the winding and seemingly endless halls with Natasha and Clint. You linger close to them both, subconsciously having invited them into your mental wolf pack.
“Calm down, kid. No one knows if that’s what you’re freaking out about.”
“They don’t know?” Your eyes are Natasha when you ask your questions, as though you half believed Clint’s words to be but a joke.
The redhead nods, never taking her eyes from the front, “None of these agents at least.”
“So they do know?” you whisper desperately just as you unconsciously reach out to take up Natasha’s sleeve.
“Yes, but only a select few,” She explains as gently as she can.
“Trust me, they’re all pretty awesome,” Clint chimes in.
“Them,” Clint says simply as you enter a room a