#I HAVE SAID MY PIECES AND DECLARED MY HILLS OF BATTLE

[fioredeciliego]

𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝟐

𝐖𝐂: 𝟒.𝟓𝐊

ℑ 𝔩𝔬𝔳𝔢 𝔶𝔬𝔲, '𝔱𝔦𝔩 𝔎𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔡𝔬𝔪 ℭ𝔬𝔪𝔢

The neutral castle stood tall against the rolling hills, its stone walls bathed in the golden light of late afternoon. It was meant to be a place of learning, of refinement, a bridge between two kingdoms once divided. But for Minjeong and Y/N, it was just another battlefield.

Minjeong, now fifteen, lounged lazily in one of the cushioned chairs of the grand study hall, one boot resting on the edge of the ornate wooden table. Her tailored jacket hung loosely off her shoulders, her posture exuding careless confidence. Across from her, Y/N, now thirteen, sat rigidly upright, hands neatly folded in her lap, her gown pristine, her expression a delicate balance between annoyance and exasperation.

"Are you even trying to look like you belong here?" Y/N asked, eyeing Minjeong’s unbuttoned collar with barely concealed disdain.

Minjeong smirked. "Depends. Is looking like I belong here going to make these lessons any less boring?"

Y/N sighed, rubbing her temples. "We’re here to learn diplomacy and etiquette, Minjeong. The least you could do is pretend to care."

Minjeong rolled her eyes. "Oh yes, because knowing which fork to use at dinner is going to save our kingdoms one day."

"It’s about respect," Y/N snapped. "And discipline. Something you clearly lack."

Minjeong leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. "And what do you have, Princess Perfect? Too much discipline? Lighten up. You might actually enjoy yourself."

Before Y/N could retort, the double doors swung open, and their instructor, a stern-faced noblewoman draped in heavy robes, entered the room. "Ladies, I trust you have reviewed today’s material?"

Minjeong and Y/N exchanged glances. Minjeong’s smirk deepened. Y/N groaned internally. This was going to be a long year.

☦☦☦☦☦☦☦☦

The lesson on proper dining etiquette had barely begun, and already, things were falling apart. Y/N carefully positioned her utensils, demonstrating the correct way to hold a fork, while Minjeong stabbed at her food like a warrior heading into battle.

"Minjeong," the instructor scolded, "do not use your knife like a weapon."

Minjeong grinned, twirling the utensil between her fingers. "But what if I need to fight off an assassin mid-dinner? Shouldn’t I be prepared?"

Y/N groaned. "The only thing you’ll be fighting is my patience."

Minjeong smirked and casually flicked a small piece of bread at Y/N’s plate. Y/N gasped. "Did you just—"

"I don’t know what you’re talking about," Minjeong said innocently, taking an exaggeratedly delicate sip of her tea.

Y/N narrowed her eyes, grabbed a sugar cube, and oh-so-discreetly flicked it at Minjeong’s lap. It hit its target perfectly. Minjeong glanced down, then up at Y/N, her smirk growing.

The war had begun.

✠✠✠✠✠✠✠

"A proper lady must curtsy with grace and dignity," the instructor declared, demonstrating with a flawless dip. "Now, your turn."

Y/N went first, executing a textbook-perfect curtsy. Minjeong clapped slowly. "Marvelous. Truly inspiring."

Then it was Minjeong’s turn.

She took a step forward, bent her knees—

And promptly lost her balance, toppling sideways onto Y/N.

The two of them crashed onto the floor in a heap, Y/N shrieking as Minjeong’s weight knocked the air out of her. The instructor gasped. The other students in the room froze. Minjeong, lying flat on her back, let out a content sigh. "Well, that went well."

Y/N shoved her off. "You are the absolute worst!"

The instructor pinched the bridge of her nose. "Again."

✠✠✠✠✠✠✠

"A lady always sits with grace and poise," the instructor said, demonstrating with a perfect straight-backed posture. "Minjeong, your turn."

Minjeong flopped onto the chair like a sack of potatoes, legs sprawled. "Nailed it."

The instructor choked on air. "That is NOT how a princess sits!"

Minjeong gave her a lazy grin. "You’re just jealous I’m more comfortable."

The instructor’s eye twitched. "Sit properly. Now."

Minjeong sighed, shifted slightly, and exaggeratedly crossed her legs in an overly dramatic display of elegance, complete with an unnecessary hair flip.

Y/N buried her face in her hands. "I give up."

✠✠✠✠✠✠✠

A lesson in proper conversation had quickly devolved into a mess. Y/N spoke with precision, carefully choosing her words, while Minjeong… well.

"How do you address a foreign noble when greeting them?" the instructor asked.

Y/N straightened. "You bow respectfully and say, 'It is an honor to meet you, Your Grace.'"

Minjeong slouched. "Sup."

The instructor turned red. "Absolutely not."

Y/N groaned, rubbing her temples. "You are impossible."

Minjeong smirked. "Oh, I’m sorry, Princess Perfect. Let me try again." She sat up straighter, cleared her throat, and in the most exaggeratedly posh voice possible, said, "Dearest esteemed noble, it is my humblest of pleasures to bask in your divine presence!"

Y/N smacked her arm. "Just stop talking."

Minjeong grinned. "Make me."

A scuffle broke out, Y/N trying to shove Minjeong off her chair while Minjeong laughed, dodging every attempt.

Their instructor sighed. "I am so tired."

☦☦☦☦☦☦☦☦

The training grounds of the neutral castle stretched wide under the afternoon sun, the air filled with the metallic clang of practice swords and the grunts of struggling students. Dust kicked up from the dirt as trainees sparred, each determined to prove their worth.

Royalty wasn’t just about looking elegant at banquets or knowing the right words to say at political gatherings. It was also about strength—about defending one’s land, one’s people, and, if necessary, oneself. Both Minjeong and Y/N had been raised with this knowledge, though their approaches to combat were vastly different. Minjeong had taken to it like a fish to water, excelling with ease. Y/N, on the other hand, had spent more time perfecting curtsies than sword swings.

And it showed.

Minjeong stood off to the side, arms crossed, watching with an amused smirk as Y/N struggled with her wooden sword. She had barely managed to hold it properly, let alone swing it with any precision.

“You know, you’re supposed to hit the target, not wave at it,” Minjeong teased, her voice dripping with amusement.

Y/N huffed, gripping the sword tighter. “I know that!” she snapped, swinging again. The wooden blade wobbled in her grasp, missing the practice dummy by a frustratingly wide margin.

Minjeong chuckled, stepping closer. “Here, let me help.”

Y/N whirled to face her. “No! I don’t need your help.”

Minjeong raised an eyebrow. “Oh? So you’re planning on making a fool of yourself all on your own?”

Y/N scowled, her face heating up. “I just need practice.”

“Right,” Minjeong drawled, rolling her eyes. “And at this rate, you’ll be an expert by the time we’re both ancient.”

Y/N growled in frustration as Minjeong stepped behind her without asking, reaching out to adjust Y/N’s grip. “Relax your shoulders,” she murmured, her breath warm against Y/N’s ear. “If you hold it like that, you’re going to lose balance.”

Y/N stiffened but didn’t pull away. Minjeong’s hands covered hers, effortlessly guiding the wooden sword into a proper stance. “There. Try again.”

Y/N, still annoyed but secretly grateful, took another swing. This time, the sword struck the practice dummy—though weakly.

Minjeong clapped mockingly. “Oh, amazing! Truly a warrior is born.”

Y/N turned and jabbed her elbow into Minjeong’s side. “Shut up.”

Minjeong laughed, stepping back. “Alright, alright. Keep practicing, Princess. Maybe one day you’ll be able to actually hit something on purpose.”

Y/N grumbled under her breath but swung again, this time with more determination.

Minjeong smirked. Teasing her was fun—but watching her try was even better.

A short while later, their instructor approached, his sharp gaze taking in Y/N’s stiff posture and Minjeong’s relaxed stance. “You two,” he called out, beckoning them forward. “Let’s see how you do in a proper spar.”

Y/N’s eyes widened. “A spar?”

Minjeong’s grin widened. “Finally, something entertaining.”

The instructor gestured to the center of the training ground. “Take your positions.”

Y/N swallowed thickly but stepped forward. Minjeong followed, twirling her wooden sword effortlessly in one hand. “Don’t worry, princess,” she said with a smirk. “I’ll go easy on you.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes, gripping her weapon. “Don’t you dare.”

Minjeong tilted her head, amused. “Oh? Feisty now?”

Before Y/N could respond, the instructor clapped his hands. “Begin!”

Minjeong lunged, moving with the speed of someone who had years of training. Y/N barely managed to block the attack, her arms straining under the impact. Minjeong pushed forward, forcing Y/N to stumble back.

“You need to keep your footing,” Minjeong advised, stepping around her with practiced ease. “Otherwise, you’re just—”

Y/N, acting purely on instinct, swung wildly. Minjeong dodged effortlessly. “—making it too easy.”

Frustrated, Y/N gritted her teeth and tried again. This time, Minjeong let her get close before disarming her with a single flick of her wrist. The wooden sword clattered to the ground.

The instructor sighed. “Again.”

Y/N retrieved her sword, setting her jaw as she faced Minjeong once more. Minjeong’s smirk remained, but there was a flicker of something else in her eyes—interest, maybe? Curiosity? Whatever it was, it made Y/N even more determined.

She would get better. She would prove she belonged here. And most importantly—she would wipe that smug grin off Minjeong’s face.

✠✠✠✠✠✠✠

“Protection is just as important as technique,” the instructor said, handing them both training helmets.

Minjeong slipped hers on easily, adjusting the strap. Y/N, however, struggled. The oversized helmet wobbled on her head, nearly covering her eyes.

Minjeong tilted her head. “You look like a turtle.”

Y/N shoved at the helmet in frustration. “I can’t see! How am I supposed to fight like this?”

Minjeong leaned in, barely holding back laughter. “Maybe your opponents will take pity on you.”

Y/N scowled. “I hate you.”

Minjeong grinned. “I know.”

✠✠✠✠✠✠✠

The instructor demonstrated a proper stance, nodding for the students to follow. Y/N adjusted her grip, determined to get it right.

Then, a gust of wind blew her training cloak straight into her face.

Minjeong snorted. "Oh no, the mighty warrior has been bested by the elements."

Y/N yanked the fabric away, her glare burning. "I swear, if you laugh—"

Minjeong was already laughing.

✠✠✠✠✠✠✠

Minjeong twirled her wooden sword in a lazy arc. “Alright, princess. Last round. Try not to embarrass yourself.”

Y/N gripped her sword tightly. She had had enough of Minjeong’s smugness.

Minjeong lunged first, expecting another easy block—but Y/N, fueled by sheer frustration, dodged and swung with all her might.

The wooden blade smacked Minjeong right in the stomach with a loud THWACK.

Minjeong let out an undignified grunt, stumbling back.

Silence. Then—

Y/N’s eyes widened. “Oh.”

Minjeong hunched over, blinking down at where she had been hit. Y/N swore she saw the gears turning in her head. Then Minjeong looked up, a slow, wicked grin spreading across her face.

“Oh?” Minjeong echoed, stepping forward. “You think you’re funny, don’t you?”

Y/N took a cautious step back. “It was an accident.”

Minjeong raised her sword. “I’m about to make sure it wasn’t.”

Y/N shrieked and bolted, Minjeong chasing after her.

The instructor sighed. “I need a vacation.”

☦☦☦☦☦☦☦☦

The royal history classroom was as grand as one would expect from a palace dedicated to diplomacy. Towering bookshelves lined the walls, filled with centuries-old texts detailing wars, treaties, and the legacies of rulers long gone. A massive chandelier hung from the ceiling, casting golden light over the long mahogany table where students were seated.

Minjeong lounged in her chair, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded in boredom. Across from her, Y/N sat upright, posture perfect, a quill in hand as she took meticulous notes. Their instructor, an elderly scholar with a thinning beard and an ever-present frown, droned on about the importance of historical alliances between kingdoms.

"And so, the Treaty of Eldenvale ensured peace between the rival factions, bringing about a golden age of prosperity..." the instructor lectured, his voice monotone.

Minjeong let out a dramatic sigh, shifting in her seat. "This is so dull."

Y/N shot her a glare. "It wouldn’t be dull if you actually paid attention."

Minjeong smirked. "Oh, I am paying attention. I’m just questioning how much of this is actually relevant."

The instructor cleared his throat. "Lady Minjeong, since you seem so engaged, why don’t you enlighten us on the role your kingdom played in the Eastern Wars?"

Minjeong grinned, sitting up. "Gladly. My kingdom was the strongest force in the war. We led the battles, outmaneuvered our enemies, and secured the greatest victories. Without us, the war would’ve been lost in the first year."

Y/N scoffed, setting her quill down with a bit more force than necessary. "That is the most biased retelling I’ve ever heard. Your kingdom wasn’t the strongest. My kingdom was the one that provided strategy and resources. Without us, your so-called victories would have never happened."

Minjeong raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Is that what they tell you in your kingdom? That you were the masterminds behind everything? That’s adorable."

Y/N narrowed her eyes. "It’s called facts. You should try reading about them instead of making things up."

Minjeong leaned forward, her smirk widening. "Alright, princess. If your kingdom was so superior, why did it need our soldiers to do the actual fighting?"

Y/N mirrored her movement, leaning in as well. "And if your kingdom was so superior, why did it take our diplomats to negotiate the treaties that saved you from complete ruin?"

A tense silence fell over the classroom as the other students turned to watch, some whispering amongst themselves. The instructor sighed, rubbing his temples. "This is a discussion on history, not a battlefield. Let’s attempt to keep it civilized."

Neither girl budged.

Minjeong tilted her head. "Let’s be real here. My kingdom has always been the most powerful. We have the best warriors, the strongest defenses—"

"—the most reckless leaders," Y/N interrupted. "Charging into battles with brute force is hardly a sign of intelligence. If anything, it proves that my kingdom’s strategic planning was the reason you even survived."

Minjeong let out a sharp laugh. "Strategic planning? More like excessive hesitation. If your kingdom had led the war, we’d still be fighting it."

Y/N’s grip on her quill tightened. "And if your kingdom had led the war alone, there wouldn’t be a kingdom left standing."

Minjeong placed a hand over her chest, feigning offense. "Oh, dear princess, do you really think so little of us?"

"I know so little of you. Because your kingdom’s history is nothing but exaggerated tales of conquest."

Minjeong’s smirk faltered for half a second before she composed herself. "And your kingdom’s history is nothing but embellished stories about how great your rulers think they are."

"Because they were great," Y/N snapped. "Unlike yours, which—"

"Enough!" the instructor finally barked, slamming his book shut. "I will not have my classroom turned into a battleground for childish rivalries. You are both future rulers. Act like it."

Minjeong and Y/N slowly sat back, though their glares remained locked on each other.

The instructor sighed deeply. "Since you both seem so passionate about history, I expect a joint paper from the two of you detailing both perspectives on the Eastern Wars. Together."

Minjeong groaned. "You’re joking."

Y/N's face paled. "I refuse."

The instructor gave them a pointed look. "You will do it, and you will do it without trying to kill each other. Dismissed."

Minjeong slumped in her chair. "Fantastic. Stuck writing a report with you."

Y/N exhaled sharply, gathering her materials. "Believe me, the feeling is mutual."

As they exited the classroom, Minjeong glanced sideways at Y/N. "So… whose room are we doing this in?"

"Neither," Y/N replied immediately. "I refuse to be in your space, and I definitely don’t want you in mine."

Minjeong smirked. "Afraid you’ll get distracted by my charm?"

Y/N didn’t dignify that with a response.

This was going to be a very long assignment.

☦☦☦☦☦☦☦☦

The library was dimly lit, the golden glow of lanterns casting long shadows across the towering shelves. The grand table in the center was buried beneath stacks of books, loose parchment, and an absurd number of ink pots—most of them Y/N’s, because she refused to let Minjeong use hers.

Minjeong leaned back in her chair, balancing precariously on two legs as she flipped lazily through an open book. “This is pointless.”

Y/N didn’t even glance up from her writing. “This is research.”

“This is busywork.” Minjeong snapped the book shut, tossing it onto the table. “We already know what happened in the war. Why do we need to write an entire paper about it?”

“Because that’s what an assignment is,” Y/N said through gritted teeth. “You wouldn’t understand, considering you’ve never done one properly in your life.”

Minjeong smirked. “And yet, I still manage to pass. Impressive, isn’t it?”

Y/N slammed her quill down, glaring. “No, it’s infuriating.”

Minjeong stretched her arms behind her head, her chair creaking. “You’re just mad I don’t have to try as hard as you do.”

Y/N scoffed, snatching a book from the pile. “I’m mad because you’re useless.”

Minjeong’s chair thudded to the floor as she sat forward, grinning. “Useless? Princess, you’d be lost without me.”

“Oh, really?” Y/N challenged. “Because the only thing you’ve done in the last hour is complain and take up space.”

“I contribute,” Minjeong said, smirking.

Y/N crossed her arms. “How?”

“I’m keeping you entertained.”

Y/N groaned, rubbing her temples. “You are exhausting.”

“And you are uptight,” Minjeong shot back. “Honestly, Y/N, do you ever relax?”

“Do you ever take anything seriously?”

Minjeong shrugged. “Not when it’s this boring.”

Y/N’s patience finally snapped. “Then leave. No one’s forcing you to be here.”

Minjeong leaned forward, her smirk widening. “Oh, but they are. Unfortunately, I’m stuck with you.”

Y/N glared, voice dripping with venom. “Trust me, I would rather be paired with anyone else.”

Minjeong’s grin remained unfazed. “Oh? Even Jimin?”

Silence.

The air between them turned to ice.

Y/N’s entire body went rigid, her breath catching in her throat. Her fingers curled into fists against the parchment, ink smudging beneath her grip.

Minjeong’s smirk faded the second she realized what she had just said.

Jimin.

Jimin, Y/N’s sister.

Jimin, who had practically raised Y/N when their parents were too busy with court affairs to notice their existence. Who used to braid Y/N’s hair when they were little, humming softly while the candlelight flickered in their shared bedroom.

Jimin, who had died screaming.

Minjeong swallowed, suddenly feeling like she had stepped over a line that should never have been crossed.

Y/N’s voice, when it came, was barely above a whisper. “What did you just say?”

Minjeong hesitated. “I—”

Y/N’s chair scraped violently against the floor as she stood. Her eyes were wide, her face pale, but it was the tears brimming at the edges of her lashes that made Minjeong feel like she had been punched in the stomach.

Minjeong opened her mouth, trying to fix what she had broken. “Y/N, I didn’t mean—”

“Shut up.” Y/N’s voice wavered, but her glare was sharper than steel. “Just shut up.”

She wasn’t just angry—she was shaking.

Minjeong felt her own heart pound as the weight of what she had said finally sunk in. She had only meant it as a petty jab, another snarky retort in their never-ending battle of words. But instead, she had ripped open a wound that had never fully healed.

Jimin.

Her older sister. The one Y/N had idolized more than anyone in the world. The one who used to ruffle her hair and call her baby bird. The one who would always promise, I’ll protect you, no matter what.

The one who had died before Y/N even turned five.

Y/N didn’t have many memories of Jimin. Only flashes—her laughter, her warm embrace, the way she always smelled of lilacs.

But she remembered the stories.

Jimin had been the pride of the kingdom. A natural-born warrior, both graceful and fierce. Every knight had believed she would one day become the greatest commander their forces had ever seen.

But then, during what was supposed to be a routine diplomatic journey, bandits had attacked the royal caravan. Jimin had been young, but she had already been stronger than most seasoned knights. She had fought until the very end.

And when the dust settled, the only thing that had been brought back was her bloodstained sword.

Y/N never saw her again.

And no one ever spoke of her in front of her. Not because they had forgotten, but because they knew.

They knew Y/N had spent years trying to live up to a ghost.

They knew she still felt the weight of her sister’s absence every time she held a sword, every time she stepped into the throne room, every time someone looked at her and expected greatness.

Minjeong raised her hand, her voice softer. “Y/N, I—”

“Fuck off.”

Minjeong froze.

The words weren’t yelled, weren’t screamed—but they were final.

Y/N’s throat bobbed as she swallowed back the sob threatening to escape. Then she turned on her heel and shoved past Minjeong, her footsteps echoing sharply against the stone floor as she stormed out of the library.

Minjeong didn’t chase her.

For the first time in a long time, she had nothing to say.

☦☦☦☦☦☦☦☦

The sun sat low in the sky, casting a golden glow over the neutral castle’s training grounds. The courtyard buzzed with the murmur of squires and knights preparing for the day’s drills, but all of that noise faded into the background as Minjeong stood stiffly beside Y/N, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

They hadn’t spoken since that night in the library. Since Minjeong had said something she shouldn’t have. Since Y/N had looked at her like she had truly hurt her.

And now, as if fate itself had a cruel sense of humor, they were being forced to work together.

“Pair assignments have been posted,” the instructor announced, his gravelly voice carrying over the courtyard. “Today, you will be strategizing and executing a simulated battle scenario. And before anyone complains—no, you may not change partners.”

Minjeong exhaled sharply, forcing herself to keep her reaction contained. Y/N, standing rigid beside her, didn’t even look her way. She hadn’t since they arrived.

The instructor clapped his hands. “The goal is simple—navigate the forest path, evade pursuit, and reach the marker point before the other teams. You will be given a limited number of supplies, and success will depend on your ability to plan ahead and—” his eyes landed pointedly on Minjeong and Y/N “—cooperate.”

Y/N’s hands clenched into fists at her sides, but she said nothing.

Minjeong rolled her shoulders. This was going to be a long day.

The first half hour passed in silence.

They had been given a single horse and a small satchel of supplies. While the other teams had rushed ahead, Minjeong and Y/N lingered at the forest’s edge, locked in a stubborn standoff.

“We need a plan,” Y/N finally said, breaking the silence. “We can’t just run in blindly.”

Minjeong leaned against a tree, picking at the leather of her gloves. “Agreed. But I assume you already have one, Princess Perfect?”

Y/N’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t rise to the bait. “We take the east route—denser cover, fewer ambush points. If we move carefully, we can get ahead without being spotted.”

Minjeong hummed. “Logical.”

Y/N eyed her warily. “You’re agreeing with me?”

Minjeong pushed off the tree, smirking. “Don’t sound so surprised.”

Y/N huffed, turning toward the horse. “We should ride together, conserve energy.”

Minjeong stepped closer, tilting her head. “You expect me to let you steer?”

Y/N turned, meeting her gaze with something sharp. “I expect you to not be reckless for once.”

Minjeong’s smirk faltered just slightly, but she covered it up with a shrug. “Fine. But if we get lost, I reserve the right to say I told you so.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “Just get on the horse.”

Minjeong swung up first, settling into the saddle before reaching a hand down. Y/N hesitated for a fraction of a second before accepting the help. As she settled in front of Minjeong, the proximity was unavoidable.

Minjeong stiffened slightly when Y/N adjusted her grip on the reins, her back pressing lightly against her chest. It was… unfamiliar. They had fought, bickered, and gotten under each other’s skin for years, but this was different.

She caught the way Y/N exhaled slowly, as if steeling herself.

Minjeong hated that she noticed.

The ride was smoother than Minjeong expected. Y/N, to her credit, handled the horse well, her posture perfect, her commands steady. Despite the lingering tension between them, they moved as one, the rhythm of the horse’s strides syncing with their breaths.

“I should be surprised you know how to ride,” Minjeong murmured after a while, breaking the silence.

Y/N’s grip on the reins tightened. “I know more than you think.”

Minjeong hummed. “Mm. And yet, you still flinch whenever you hold a sword.”

Y/N stiffened, but before she could snap at her, Minjeong continued, voice softer than usual. “I wasn’t mocking you. Just observing.”

Y/N didn’t reply immediately. Instead, she pressed her lips together, staring ahead at the winding path. “Not all battles are fought with swords.”

Minjeong tilted her head slightly, considering her words. “True.”

The silence stretched again, but this time, it wasn’t quite as sharp.

As they mounted the horse again, Y/N hesitated before speaking. “You were right, earlier.”

Minjeong raised an eyebrow. “About what? I say a lot of things.”

Y/N sighed, clearly regretting her choice of words. “About being able to fight without a sword.”

Minjeong tilted her head, waiting.

Y/N exhaled. “Jimin always fought with one. I thought… maybe if I could, too, I’d be more like her.”

Minjeong was quiet for a moment before she murmured, “You don’t have to be like her.”

Y/N swallowed. “I know.”

And maybe, for the first time, she actually believed it.

Minjeong exhaled, glancing away for a moment before speaking, her voice uncharacteristically careful. “I was out of line that night.”

Y/N blinked, surprised at the admission.

Minjeong clenched her jaw slightly, before forcing herself to continue. “I didn’t mean to bring her up like that. It was cruel, and I was just trying to get under your skin. I—” she hesitated, running a hand through her hair before sighing. “I hurt you, and I hate that I did.”

Y/N was silent for a long moment before finally, she nodded. “You did.”

Minjeong swallowed. “I’m sorry.”

Y/N’s grip on the reins tightened slightly, then loosened. Finally, she nodded again. “Alright.”

Minjeong didn’t expect anything more. But somehow, the air between them felt lighter.

She smirked, leaning forward. “I still can’t believe you laughed.”

Y/N groaned. “Shut up, Minjeong.”

Minjeong smirked, nudging the horse forward. “Make me.”

This time, Y/N didn’t snap back.

She just shook her head, a small—almost imperceptible—smile playing at the corner of her lips.

Maybe, just maybe, this hadn’t been so bad after all.

☦☦☦☦☦☦☦☦

𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 ; 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭

𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

[walkwithgod07]

50 The word that the Lord spake against Babylon and against the land of the Chaldeans by Jeremiah the prophet.

2 Declare ye among the nations, and publish, and set up a standard; publish, and conceal not: say, Babylon is taken, Bel is confounded, Merodach is broken in pieces; her idols are confounded, her images are broken in pieces.

3 For out of the north there cometh up a nation against her, which shall make her land desolate, and none shall dwell therein: they shall remove, they shall depart, both man and beast.

4 In those days, and in that time, saith the Lord, the children of Israel shall come, they and the children of Judah together, going and weeping: they shall go, and seek the Lord their God.

5 They shall ask the way to Zion with their faces thitherward, saying, Come, and let us join ourselves to the Lord in a perpetual covenant that shall not be forgotten.

6 My people hath been lost sheep: their shepherds have caused them to go astray, they have turned them away on the mountains: they have gone from mountain to hill, they have forgotten their restingplace.

7 All that found them have devoured them: and their adversaries said, We offend not, because they have sinned against the Lord, the habitation of justice, even the Lord, the hope of their fathers.

8 Remove out of the midst of Babylon, and go forth out of the land of the Chaldeans, and be as the he goats before the flocks.

9 For, lo, I will raise and cause to come up against Babylon an assembly of great nations from the north country: and they shall set themselves in array against her; from thence she shall be taken: their arrows shall be as of a mighty expert man; none shall return in vain.

10 And Chaldea shall be a spoil: all that spoil her shall be satisfied, saith the Lord.

11 Because ye were glad, because ye rejoiced, O ye destroyers of mine heritage, because ye are grown fat as the heifer at grass, and bellow as bulls;

12 Your mother shall be sore confounded; she that bare you shall be ashamed: behold, the hindermost of the nations shall be a wilderness, a dry land, and a desert.

13 Because of the wrath of the Lord it shall not be inhabited, but it shall be wholly desolate: every one that goeth by Babylon shall be astonished, and hiss at all her plagues.

14 Put yourselves in array against Babylon round about: all ye that bend the bow, shoot at her, spare no arrows: for she hath sinned against the Lord.

15 Shout against her round about: she hath given her hand: her foundations are fallen, her walls are thrown down: for it is the vengeance of the Lord: take vengeance upon her; as she hath done, do unto her.

16 Cut off the sower from Babylon, and him that handleth the sickle in the time of harvest: for fear of the oppressing sword they shall turn every one to his people, and they shall flee every one to his own land.

17 Israel is a scattered sheep; the lions have driven him away: first the king of Assyria hath devoured him; and last this Nebuchadrezzar king of Babylon hath broken his bones.

18 Therefore thus saith the Lord of hosts, the God of Israel; Behold, I will punish the king of Babylon and his land, as I have punished the king of Assyria.

19 And I will bring Israel again to his habitation, and he shall feed on Carmel and Bashan, and his soul shall be satisfied upon mount Ephraim and Gilead.

20 In those days, and in that time, saith the Lord, the iniquity of Israel shall be sought for, and there shall be none; and the sins of Judah, and they shall not be found: for I will pardon them whom I reserve.

21 Go up against the land of Merathaim, even against it, and against the inhabitants of Pekod: waste and utterly destroy after them, saith the Lord, and do according to all that I have commanded thee.

22 A sound of battle is in the land, and of great destruction.

23 How is the hammer of the whole earth cut asunder and broken! how is Babylon become a desolation among the nations!

24 I have laid a snare for thee, and thou art also taken, O Babylon, and thou wast not aware: thou art found, and also caught, because thou hast striven against the Lord.

25 The Lord hath opened his armoury, and hath brought forth the weapons of his indignation: for this is the work of the Lord God of hosts in the land of the Chaldeans.

26 Come against her from the utmost border, open her storehouses: cast her up as heaps, and destroy her utterly: let nothing of her be left.

27 Slay all her bullocks; let them go down to the slaughter: woe unto them! for their day is come, the time of their visitation.

28 The voice of them that flee and escape out of the land of Babylon, to declare in Zion the vengeance of the Lord our God, the vengeance of his temple.

29 Call together the archers against Babylon: all ye that bend the bow, camp against it round about; let none thereof escape: recompense her according to her work; according to all that she hath done, do unto her: for she hath been proud against the Lord, against the Holy One of Israel.

30 Therefore shall her young men fall in the streets, and all her men of war shall be cut off in that day, saith the Lord.

31 Behold, I am against thee, O thou most proud, saith the Lord God of hosts: for thy day is come, the time that I will visit thee.

32 And the most proud shall stumble and fall, and none shall raise him up: and I will kindle a fire in his cities, and it shall devour all round about him.

33 Thus saith the Lord of hosts; The children of Israel and the children of Judah were oppressed together: and all that took them captives held them fast; they refused to let them go.

34 Their Redeemer is strong; the Lord of hosts is his name: he shall throughly plead their cause, that he may give rest to the land, and disquiet the inhabitants of Babylon.

35 A sword is upon the Chaldeans, saith the Lord, and upon the inhabitants of Babylon, and upon her princes, and upon her wise men.

36 A sword is upon the liars; and they shall dote: a sword is upon her mighty men; and they shall be dismayed.

37 A sword is upon their horses, and upon their chariots, and upon all the mingled people that are in the midst of her; and they shall become as women: a sword is upon her treasures; and they shall be robbed.

38 A drought is upon her waters; and they shall be dried up: for it is the land of graven images, and they are mad upon their idols.

39 Therefore the wild beasts of the desert with the wild beasts of the islands shall dwell there, and the owls shall dwell therein: and it shall be no more inhabited for ever; neither shall it be dwelt in from generation to generation.

40 As God overthrew Sodom and Gomorrah and the neighbour cities thereof, saith the Lord; so shall no man abide there, neither shall any son of man dwell therein.

41 Behold, a people shall come from the north, and a great nation, and many kings shall be raised up from the coasts of the earth.

42 They shall hold the bow and the lance: they are cruel, and will not shew mercy: their voice shall roar like the sea, and they shall ride upon horses, every one put in array, like a man to the battle, against thee, O daughter of Babylon.

43 The king of Babylon hath heard the report of them, and his hands waxed feeble: anguish took hold of him, and pangs as of a woman in travail.

44 Behold, he shall come up like a lion from the swelling of Jordan unto the habitation of the strong: but I will make them suddenly run away from her: and who is a chosen man, that I may appoint over her? for who is like me? and who will appoint me the time? and who is that shepherd that will stand before me?

45 Therefore hear ye the counsel of the Lord, that he hath taken against Babylon; and his purposes, that he hath purposed against the land of the Chaldeans: Surely the least of the flock shall draw them out: surely he shall make their habitation desolate with them.

46 At the noise of the taking of Babylon the earth is moved, and the cry is heard among the nations.

[im-the-punk-who]

Toby Stephens Thirstography #1 - Black Sails (2014-2017)

Toby Stephens Hotness: The Pre-Chorus Of Uptown Funk Was Written About Toby Stephens In Black Sails

Okay, so I dithered about this rating for SO LONG but honestly? Nothing else in Toby’s filmography will ever be close to Black Sails. As I’m sure everyone is aware, Toby Stephens is perfect but it’s especially true in Black Sails. Long haired McGraw? Perfect. Bald and Beardy? Perfect. Ponytail Season 1 Flint crying about his (as yet unrevealed) gay lover? Absolutely Flawless. THIGHS? Could crush a skull like sparrows egg. Frequently shirtless and covered in freckles? My soul has left my body. Need I go on? Just watch Black Sails. 

This really is hands down the best role Toby has ever had, and there’s a little bit of something for everyone. I wouldn’t necessarily say this is “the hottest” Toby Stephens but it is the one that has the most range, and screen time, and like, whatever your thirst, Black Sails has a look for that. And so many emotions. This is one of those times where quantity really does win over quality. If you’re only going to watch one thing with Toby Stephens in it, Black Sails is really the only answer anyone could ever give.

James Flint-McGraw-Hamilton owns my entire heart and I can and will fight about it. But honestly, I’m pretty sure he owns everyone else’s heart too so. Y’know.

Plot: 10/10*

England is terrible and James McGraw is mad about it. Or, this is a prequel to Treasure Island except if literally everyone was queer. Or, Please Do Not Anger The Gay Gingers. 

Black Sails, at its heart, is a story about stories: who tells them, how they tell them. It is a story that drives home that everyone has a bias to the parts of the story they tell: that everyone has a different reason for the stories they choose or do not choose to let see the light of day. It is a story that will challenge you to think differently not just about every other piece of media you consume but your own life - and the stories you are telling. (Like, my personal story is that right now I’m crying and whether or not it’s true that’s the story I want you to believe, so I’m telling it to you.)

I have cried, and laughed, and had just about every other emotion about this show. There are actual canon main queer characters who get actual canon main queer character romances, deep nuanced discussions of social progress, how movements fail and why, who is left out of what historians will say prevailed, and all in a way that feels so very real and human it leaves a huge gaping hole in my chest every time. 

*I promised I’d only say this once: The plot of Black Sails and I have our differences, and it is not perfect. Most of the show is technically flawless but there are parts - sometimes big parts - that are not. And that’s okay! Enjoying flawed media is okay! But I feel like it has to be said because while it absolutely deserves that ten, I don’t want to mislead you into thinking this is a perfect show.

With that said, I have watched this show....I think about 6 times all the way through at the time of typing this, and I’m on my 7th or 8th rewatch, depending on which friend group you ask. There is an incredible wealth of really rich writing, really clever writing, and yes - really game-changing writing. It’s the kind of show in which you will catch new things every time you watch it. 

I don’t know what to tell you except just. Watch Black Sails. Do it with your eyes open because as I’ve said this is not a perfect show and sometimes the writers do tell on themselves, but....it’s just about as close as I’ve ever seen a major series come to it. And I love James McGraw enough to forgive them the rest. 

(Did I mention that the backbone of the entire show is the motivation of one of its queer characters? That you literally cannot remove queerness from Black Sails and still have any part of the plot work? Cool, now I have.)

Watchability: 9/10

Watchability game is strong. 

Black Sails is chock full of humor, exciting ship battles, historical easter eggs, queers, women, people of color(sometimes all three in one!), and really some of the best writing in terms of plot cohesion I’ve ever seen. The costumes and scenery is breathtaking, every single one of the actors showed the fuck up every day...listen could I write more? Yes. I have. But really - just.

... do I have to say it? 

(Watch Black Sails.)

Black Sails is one of those shows that is going to affect everyone differently, and I’m too aware of my own bias to give it a true 10, but there is very little Black Sails gets wrong once it gets going. The first season makes some Choices, and towards the back end of the show it can feel like the writers ran out of metaphorical poster board for their happy birthday sign of a show, but on the whole definitely, 100% worth the go. 

Warnings: 

Graphic depiction(s) of r*pe in S1 and mentions of it in S2, general gore throughout. Although, I hate blood and guts stuff and it only twice really bothered me. Depictions of period typical racism and slavery throughout. @a-gay-coded-villain has made this super thorough, handy dandy So You Think You Can Dance Watch Black Sails (Laynie I’m so sorry I had to) guide that includes most of the major trigger warnings. Make sure you take a look - especially if violence against women bothers you.

Where to Watch:

Hulu is the main place to find this but it is also on Netflix in some countries and on DailyMotion 

[yuniemaki]

we never got to say goodbye (i'll see you soon)

Rating: G Series: Honkai Star Rail Pairing: Serval/Cocolia Tags: Grief/Mourning, spoilers for Belobog arc Word count: 1k

Crossposted on AO3

Summary:

Serval’s hand stops, lingering on her name. “But this isn’t goodbye, is it?” she whispers, “It’s just a ‘see you soon’.”

In which Serval visits Cocolia's grave and reflects on the loss of a dear one.

Beyond the gates of Belobog, the cold is harsh and unforgiving.

Serval trudges through ankle-deep snow, wrapped in three layers of thermal wear. The icy wind whips at her blond hair, throwing her tresses into a frenzy, and flings snow onto her goggles and mask. An endless field of white stretches out before her, framed only by towering iron gates and mechanical remnants that matter no longer.

Even after the Stellaron’s destruction, the Eternal Freeze remains. 

You don’t need to go, Gepard had said, it’s over. 

“I have to,” Serval mutters to no one, stubbornly placing one foot in front of the other. I have to see the place Cocolia took her final breath— 

There. A silhouette in the blinding white, unmoving in the sweeping winds of Jarilo-IV. Serval quickens her pace, stomping through the snow until she reaches the metal wreckage lying at the peak of a snowy hill. The raging blizzard has long swept away all traces of battle, and the Stellaron has long been sealed by the trailblazers. 

But there, snuggled in its center, within the loving arms of this wreckage… lies a single tombstone. 

Serval doesn’t know what she expected. Perhaps a foolish part of her hoped to see Cocolia again, even if it’s just an echo. Perhaps she thought some piece of Cocolia lived on in the snowstorm. 

Or perhaps she still believed Cocolia would wait for her.

Of course not. After that day, there was no place in the Supreme Guardian’s heart for her, for Serval. Despite the cold, Serval perches herself on a small metal platform, staring at the tombstone now covered in snow. It's funny how she had an entire speech planned for this moment, including a long portion where she'd intended to yell at her grave. Yet when she's finally here, standing where Cocolia did before she left this world— Serval can't say a single word. It all clumps together into a thick lump in her throat. 

She manages a, “You know, Coco…” before her breath stutters. It has been years since she even uttered that nickname. Her eyes sting with tears.

They are two halves of a whole. If they were born in seasons, Cocolia would be born in winter, and Serval in summer. Where Serval had the passion to start new things, it was Cocolia who would see them to fruition. It was Cocolia, all those years ago, who forced Serval to go through with her rock’n’roll dream. To start a band, to run a gig. It was Cocolia who gifted her the guitar of her dreams, who turned her ideas into reality. And Serval loved her for it. 

But when she became the Supreme Guardian— 

A pause, in which Serval struggles to compose herself. “I… I still don’t understand what happened to you. I thought…”

I thought sealing the Stellaron would bring you back. 

Serval laughs, as bitterly as the blizzard bites at her fingers and toes. “I keep telling myself I’m over you, but how can I be? We shared everything. Until—”

She tears up at the memory. 

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Cocolia, the newly appointed Supreme Guardian of Belobog, was seated in a chair far too large for her, with the light of day at her back. Serval, smartest of the Silvermane Guards, was standing before her, livid. “You cannot do this,” she’d said, “Cutting off the Underworld like this… we’re dooming half of our people to die!”

“You dare to question my decision, Serval Landau?” 

Cocolia’s voice. So uncaring, so dismissive, it felt like a spear of ice piercing through Serval’s heart. Before she took the mantle of leadership, before she entered Qlipoth Fort… Cocolia had been different. She had been warm and tender and full of life.

“We are meant to protect the people,” Serval declared, “How is this—”

“This is our only option,” Cocolia had cut her off, swift and harsh. “And nothing will change my mind.”

“What about the Fragmentum? Shouldn’t we be fixing that instead of dividing our people?”

“The Fragmentum is the very reason I’m closing off the Underworld,” the Supreme Guardian had replied, rising to her feet. In her eyes, Serval saw nothing but ice, as cold as the Eternal Freeze. A chill had run down her spine. “We are done here.”

Serval took a step back, shivering. “Why, Cocolia… why have you grown so cold…?”

Something flared in that icy gaze. A hint of regret, perhaps. “Serval Landau… you were my most cherished friend.” Cocolia turned away, facing the light of her window. Serval remembers this clearly, for she looked nothing short of being a goddess bathed in wintry light.

Yet her next words would slip into her like a knife between her ribs, lodging into her heart like a shard of glass: “But there is no place for you in this new world.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“It’s like becoming the Supreme Guardian robbed you of life,” Serval whispers, shaking the memory off with a sigh. “I just…”

What is the point? Serval doesn’t know anymore. She stayed in Belobog for Cocolia, because Cocolia was still here, even if the Supreme Guardian wouldn't see her. It brought Serval comfort, at least, to know that Cocolia remained in Qlipoth Fort, watching over Belobog. But now she’s gone.

Serval reaches up, rubbing the tears from her eyes before putting her goggles back on. “Bronya found… the guitar,” she chokes out, “The one you made for me.” She lets out a hollow chuckle. “I can’t believe you kept it, you sentimental idiot.”

The tombstone does not answer.

She unhooks the strap, taking out the silver guitar. “I took it back to Neverwinter… gave it a little tuning.” Serval takes off her gloves, wincing as the freezing winds snap hungrily at her fingers. “It still works.” She strums the guitar, and smiles at the familiarity of the crisp, nasal tones it produces. 

“Remember our first gig? You were so nervous about being the bassist…” 

But we had so much fun, in the end. 

Serval strums out a tune, the first song they’d ever played together. She remembers looking back to see Cocolia strumming the bass guitar, a radiant smile on her lips. She remembers how the theater’s lights had shined, just for them, and all the magic they made that night. How the crowd had roared and cheered, how Cocolia’s breath had been taken away. How they'd danced into the night, hands entwined, and laughed till dawn.

How Cocolia had shyly pulled her close while she fumbled for the keys to their room, and pecked her ever so lightly on the lips. 

So much hope. So much life. 

Robbed from her in a single day, when she lost her daughter and her joy. The mantle of Supreme Guardian and its forbidden knowledge sank into her heart like a shard of ice, seeping away the warmth in her eyes.

Serval thinks about the possibilities often. If only she’d been more persistent. If only she’d tried harder. What if she’d written letters to Cocolia after being fired, instead of starting her own workshop and closing her heart away? What if she’d continued pursuing her study of the Stellaron in private? Could she have found a way to save Cocolia? Could her sacrifice have been avoided? 

Does any of this matter? She is gone.

The dead do not come back.

“I came to tell you something,” Serval finally says, clutching the guitar tightly in her bare hands. The cold has wormed its way into her fingers, and she can barely feel them. “Coco, I'm leaving. I don't know how long I'll be. So I thought I'd visit you first, because…” Her voice trails off. She bites back a sob.

The howling wind whips her hair into a frenzy. Serval stays motionless before the tombstone, like a piece of discarded metal.

“We never got to say goodbye, Cocolia…” Serval lays the guitar in the snow, running a hand across the tombstone. Snow falls away to reveal a simple epitaph, for such a complex woman. 

Here lies Cocolia Rand, 13th Supreme Guardian of Belobog.

Serval’s hand stops, lingering on her name. “But this isn’t goodbye, is it?” she whispers, “It’s just a ‘see you soon’.”

She gets to her feet, staring at the wreckage embracing Cocolia’s grave. It reminds her of a cradle, like a mother sheltering her innocent babe. 

Cocolia gave her life for Belobog, but this sanctuary means nothing to Serval now. To let go, she must leave Belobog. Leave Jarilo-IV. If she travels with the Astral Express, studies the Stellarons— she might yet find the answers she seeks. And perhaps, someday, she will find the strength to return to the land Cocolia so loved, more than she ever loved Serval herself.

Serval musters up a smile, and gives the tombstone a wave. “So… wait for me, okay? I’ll see you soon, Coco.”

I’ll see you soon.

[boop-le-snoot]

main masterlist ☀️ taglist & faq

hot wheels | natasha romanoff x reader

explicit, 5,2k words, f/f. meet-ugly but still very much wholesome. we love a girlboss. natasha catches some random woman keying her brand new car but decides to be the better person for once and hear the woman out. turns out, being the better person can even get one laid! warnings: singular use of the d-slur, references to an abusive ex, lesbian sex.

[no y/n, no "you", nickname only, no reader description - race/age/body type neutral, she/her pronouns]

Natasha gave the tall, lanky boy an unimpressed look as she side-stepped the arguing couple to avoid colliding with the annoyed, teary-eyed woman the boy was groveling to. It was nearing rush hour and there was shopping to be done before the heavy NYC traffic could steer her already busy schedule down into an unmanageable chaos.

"But, Foxy, you know I didn't mean it! I love you, more than anything!"

The items on the spy's list were checked off methodically, item after item landing in the cart with a quiet thud as the redhead maneuvered through the isles with tactical precision. The usual afternoon crowd began to fill the store, taking up the so-needed breathing space; Natasha's shopping trip wasn't a moment of leisure and with her neverending to-do list full, she hurried to the self-check-out register, flying through the motions mindlessly.

Scan, place, beep, boop, pay, load up the bags, make way to the car, load up and pedal to the metal.

Scratch that. No, scratch - Natasha's eyes bulged as she neared her shiny, brand new Charger, seeing the obvious defects even from a mile away: the paint, previously cherry red and gleaming in the sun, ruined by a series of thin, gray lines, standing out unpleasantly on the otherwise pristine vehicle.

And the culprit, who's tuft of hair peeked over the hood of the car on the other side of the Charger, almost fully hidden between her car and the large Chevrolet in the next parking spot over.

Natasha's fingers clenched around the handle of the cart as she fought the urge to reach for her knife safely holstered under her leather jacket. "Excuse me?" Tone quiet and deadly, the spy prepared herself to fight or at least slightly shake up the hooligan.

The figure froze, vaguely familiar clothing and a puffy, tear-stained face slowly rising from behind Natasha's car. "In my defense, he deserves it," the girl - Foxy - the one that was arguing in front of the store earlier, declared through a stream of angry tears. "Call the cops if you want, I don't care." It was unclear if the girl recognised her, the Black Widow, as she made no move to run for the hills, just pathetically sniffled, pocketing the keys she used to scratch Natasha's car.

"That's my car," The spy responded flatly, a great deal of amusement crawling into her face as Foxy's eyes bulged, jaw fell slack, horror plain and evident overshadowing the waterworks. Natasha quickly pieced two and two together but patiently waited for the initial shock to subside before popping a question. "A word of advice, if I may?"

Foxy nodded, dumbfounded, frantically scrambling for the contents of her pockets, searching for something with the agility of a panicking cat, more than half of the contents spilling out onto the ground.

Natasha unlocked the car, popping the trunk and loading in her bags as she raised her voice to be heard over the noise of a busy parking lot. "Don't mess with the paint, the insurance will cover it. Slash three tires - not four - or take a swing at the front bumper and the headlights," the trunk slid shut with a quiet click as the spy inspected the damages close-up. Her Charger looked like it was attacked by a pack of aggressive, feral cats with nails of steel. "And always check the number plates before committing acts of vandalism to make sure you're enacting revenge on the right person." The last part was said with a smirk.

As the spy stepped closer to Foxy, she noted the excessive puffiness of her cheeks and the shaking fingers that held a checkbook and a pen. The woman looked torn between terrified and apologetic, worrying her lip between her teeth. "I'm so, so sorry. Todd just got his new car, it's identical to yours and I didn't get the chance to memorize the number plate yet," the offending man's name was said with a pitiful growl. "How much?" She weakly motioned to the ruined bodywork.

"What'd he do?" Natasha didn't resist her curiousity, leaning against the driver's side door and sizing up the other woman. She was pretty, well-dressed and reasonably wealthy on the first sight. "Yeah, he looked like a Todd," The quip slipped from the redhead's lips as she remembered the man from earlier. Foxy looked way too good to be wasting her time on someone who looked like an adolescent that hadn't outgrown his skater boy phase.

Foxy chuckled shyly at Natasha's remark, smoothing a hand over her face. "Lord, where do I even begin..." The sigh was loud and long. "He lived in my apartment rent-free, made me give up my cat by lying about his allergies, went through nine low-wage jobs in two years, did nothing but play video games in his free time and developed a pot addiction, thus spending all his money on it," she began steadily but her tone grew in pitch with every added offence as Natasha's eyebrows climbed higher and higher. "My last straw was when he took out a loan he couldn't pay off to buy his brand new cool car," the words were spat out with venom. "I threw him out last Saturday. He's been following me around all the time," Foxy continued, growing dark in the face. "And then I found out he had been cheating on me for I don't know how long. I just... I just lost it," she finished pathetically, all but crumbling into a pile of human misery.

Natasha's face had frozen into mute disbelief somewhere around the first half of the story, repulsion and astonishment mixing into a flurry of quiet rage on the random woman's behalf. Menfolk were bizarre animals, and as much as the spy felt herself annoyed by her roommates at the tower, she couldn't help but feel relieved that the men surrounding her were far from douchebags of the casual variety. This Todd, however, was no amateur, and had done Foxy really, really dirty.

The redhead made up her mind rather quickly. "That's a lot to unpack," she carefully studied the micro-expressions on the other woman's face. "I have a couple of nice bottles of wine at my place and nobody to share them with. Care for a glass?"

Foxy's eyes widened once more. "I don't- I don't want to take up your time, I mean, I'm sure you've got more important shit to do, like save the world and y'know..." The stammering was followed by a shy look to the side.

So, Foxy had recognised her. And she didn't go running the other way like most people that encountered her in disadvantageous situations did. "I actually don't, I was just getting my shopping done for a lack of better things to do," Natasha lied seamlessly, motioning to the other side of the car. "Hop in." Mission reports and Barton's pizza date could wait.

The woman made quick way around, buckling into the seat in seconds, right before Natasha peeled off from the parking lot towards the Avengers tower at breathtaking speeds. The car was a gift from Tony - one of the rare things he managed to get right - and an absolute pleasure to drive.

"What's your name?" The redhead asked, juggling the steering and her smartphone effortlessly.

The woman rattled of her first and last name on between attempts to fix her runny make-up and wipe the dried snot and tears off her face. "Foxy is a nickname my gramps gave me, said I used to excessively play with fox pelts in the attic when I was a kid," the woman added with a snort, totally oblivious to Natasha's eyebrow raise as the spy read the information on her in-between overtaking slower cars.

Good student, good family life, stable income and good career growth in a prospective sector. What did Foxy even find in a guy like Todd? The most important information, however, was also most pleasing. No ties to any kind of intelligence gathering organizations.

As Natasha parked and popped the trunk once more, the other woman offered a hand with her shopping bags. Friday acknowledged the newcomer, startling her, causing Natasha to roll her eyes and mention, loudly, that if Tony decided to pay them a surprise visit, he may end up castrated or shot on sight, much to Foxy's bashful snickering.

Once the shopping was put away and the wine opened, the spy let herself curl up on the couch opposite the woman who studied her Spartan style apartment with curios eyes. The lack of knick knacks must've been a surprise for her: Natasha's apartment looked bare compared to what she'd seen in other's people's homes but the desire to make the environment more cozy had never been strong enough to actually act upon it. She wasn't used to staying in a place for very long.

"Do you still want to get back at the bastard?" The redhead asked once the first bottle was coming to an end. The alcohol was sitting low, pleasantly warm in their bellies and the food that they'd ordered in the middle of a casual chit-chat lulled them into a state of comfortable stupor.

"I want to gouge his eyes out and wear them as a battle trophy," Foxy was slightly slurring her words, much more affected by the wine than the stoic, experienced agent. "But I guess I can settle for petty crime or arson."

"I'm sensing you didn't tell me the whole list of grievances," true to her words, the spy felt as it there was a possibility quite a few things were being left unsaid.

Foxy sighed once again, placing the empty glass on the table and using her palm to prop her flushed face against it, blankly staring off into the far end of the room. "I came out as bisexual last year and he was giving me so much shit for it. Todd kept pushing for a threesome and when I refused, started accusing me of cheating during our fights, called me a whore a couple of times," the more she spoke, the higher Natasha's anger levels rose.

Not only was a Todd a dick, he was an abusive one. Truly, the grand prize of Asshat Lottery. "I have an idea or three," the spy twirled the remaining red liquid in her glass before downing it. "But it'll have to stay between us two."

"I'm listening," Foxy turned to meet Natasha's face, eyes considerably more alert than seconds before.

A few days past their amicable wine-and-revenge get-together, Natasha's doorbell rang as if she wasn't already had been made aware by Friday that a visitor was coming up to see her. Boxes of hair bleach and dye laid stacked on the living room table, surrounded by jewelry and assorted accessories. A pitcher of fresh sangria topped the ensemble, two clean glasses placed neatly on the tray next to it.

"Hi, Nat," Foxy's smile was a mile wide - a far cry from the sniffling sad sack of a woman the spy had first met. The nickname flowed freely from the woman's lips, as calm as Natasha's own answering grin and greeting. "I gots the stuff," waving her purse about, the woman kicked off her shoes by the door, approaching Natasha with the same smile that seemed to be more effective at lightening up the room than Tony's expensive designer lamps.

As Natasha's plan achieved a solid state, the two women had quickly come to a realization that Natasha was far too recognizable with her signature red hair and over a flurry of text messages, the decision to switch to a warm caramel blonde was made unanimously. Foxy had rebuked any and all Natasha's attempts to affirm she'd be able to do it herself and the spy gave into the other's chiding, relenting to have her hair dyed by a person who at least had a possibility of seeing the back of her head without having to perform acrobatic tricks.

Foxy was an easygoing, non-problematic person. She was fun to have around, quiet but witty, with intelligent eyes and a realistic view on the world. It was something Natasha valued, alongside the lack of probing questions regarding her past or her job - her insides clenched uncomfortably at the thought of having to lie about those things, or even worse, having to admit to the wrongdoings in her past, however Foxy carefully steered away from topics that were sensitive and never gave Natasha as much as a side-eye if the spy appeared to lack some minor detail that normal women her age all seemed to be aware of.

The curiosity had her ready to burst. Nat's natural defense mechanisms were quite confused, not sure what to make of the woman who almost too friendly to be true, but the kindness in her eyes and the sometimes shy, awestruck looks she gave Natasha when she thought the redhead wasn't looking made up for it in spades.

"What do you think?" The noise of the hair dryer finally ceased, Foxy's voice echoing in Natasha's luxuriously large bathroom.

The newly-blonde spy studied her reflection with a tilt to her head. The ombre was a nice touch - her own hair was naturally darker than the caramel and honey blonde she had chosen, so the almost-brown shading at her roots took much away from the contrast between her lighter hair and darker brows. It was just another disguise for the spy, but somehow, this one felt more like home than any of the previous faces she had worn.

"I like it, you were right about the ombre," Natasha voiced her thoughts, eyes sliding over to the smiling woman behind her, feeling the corners of her mouth begin to creep upwards in involuntary response.

"You looked good with red hair, don't misunderstand me," Foxy briefly raised her hands. "But you have a light complexion and lighter colors do wonders for bringing out the youthfulness. Even if we don't have much joy these days, a good hair color is an opportunity to showcase the bit," she briefly touched her own hair in an exaggerated attempt at driving her point home.

The fun part was done, the time came to execute the revenge. It wasn't exactly anything special; rather, the plan was quite simple - let Todd make a fool out of himself in front of his friends and perhaps (a slightly, teensy possibility) get himself arrested. The two women took their time to get dolled up, not too much - but rather, adding just that little bit to themselves to easily attract moderate amounts of attention from men.

The bar was busy, noisy and full of people when the two women stepped through the door. Natasha's eyes scanned the room out of habit, easily spotting the tall, lanky Todd in the far end of the bar, laughing and boozing with equally pathetic-looking man-children. The urge to gag was almost irresistible.

The spy let herself to be led to the bar by Foxy who looked mildly uncomfortable. Natasha was sure that if she was to touch the other woman's face, it would be flaming under the circumstances. "Try to relax a little, I won't bite," with a quip to her companion, Nat ordered them a vodka cranberry each, sitting down with her back to the men. "Tell me when he notices us and starts moving this way."

Foxy nodded minutely, clutching her drink for dear life and taking generous sips to calm herself down and relax like the spy had requested. They talked about everything and nothing in between, Natasha's hand on Foxy's knee crawling closer to her hip as minutes passed by without interruption. Loud noises of men playing darts and drunkenly cheering reached the womens earshot every now and then, causing Foxy to throw increasingly infuriated glances towards her ex-boyfriend and the Black Widow's current victim of choice.

Sitting opposite the perfectly composed, smiling woman, it was clear as day she was, indeed, best of the best. Despite knowing Foxy for only a few days, Natasha managed to pull off a very convincing girlfriend: her body language was nothing short of absolutely besotted and the googly eyes the spy was making had Foxy constantly remind herself that it was only for show. There was no way this gorgeous, incredible human would be interested in someone as plain and ordinary as herself.

"Heads up," Foxy's smile suddenly grew a mile wide as she stared directly at Natasha, eyes alight with fury at the scene about to unfold. Natasha's reply was to briefly tighten the grasp on the other's leg in silent support.

"Hey, baby," Todd was drunk enough for the stench of his breath to reach both women. "Oh, I see you're with a friend," his attempt at flirting only made Natasha scrunch up her face like a cat that accidentally smelled a lemon.

"Leave me alone," Foxy stated firmly, knowing the phrase wouldn't do anything to deter her overzealous ex, but this time - she counted on it.

"It's okay, I can share," the slurred words had a couple of people nearby raise their eyebrows at the audacity.

"I'm not interested," Foxy snapped. "In fact, there is absolutely nothing your freeloading, cheating ass can bring to my table."

The woman radiated satisfaction as gasps sounded out around them; Todd was a regular at this bar and most people there knew him in one way or another. The moment of joy, however, was brief.

"Listen, bitch, you have no business talking to me like that," full of drunken bravado, the man spat angrily, taking unsteady steps closer to Foxy. "What you need is a decent man that can handle your outbursts, not some dyke..." before he could even utter another offensive syllable, Natasha had his wildly gesturing arm twisted painfully behind his back, easily forcing the inebriated man to his knees.

"Wanna try that again, champ?" Sarcasm flowed freely from the spy's lips as the patrons in the bar gasped. The civilian clothing and the new hair color might have been an effective short-term disguise but once the crowd had seen her neat little party trick and had taken a good look at her face, nobody was doubting her identity. "Call the cops, will you?" She addressed the shocked bartender who immediately scrambled to obey.

"I didn't do anything!" Todd cried out, eyes drunkenly darting between the Black Widow's quiet rage and Foxy's grim stone face.

"Huh, that's weird. Because I clearly heard and saw an attempted hate crime," Natasha's voice attained a sardonic tint. "And I have a bar full of witnesses," the spy shrugged, letting go of his arm but keeping a boot firmly planted on his back to prevent him from escaping. "I hope you have a lawyer."

Foxy snorted, reaching for her unfinished second drink. "Tough luck."

Out of the corner of her eye, she spied Todd's friends inching closer to the exit door second by second, as if they could stand a chance against a professionally trained secret agent. Luckily for them, Natasha wasn't interested in the remainder of Todd's gang of losers and merely raised an eyebrow when the other men reached the door, a tiny smirk appearing when his pleading eyes didn't cause any reaction in his friends, the spineless worms, hopping out of the door without as much as a goodbye to the man laying face-down on the dirty floor.

As soon as the police arrived, awestruck by one of the NYC's most famous superheroes just casually standing in a bar, they eagerly collected the inebriated offender, briskly escorting Todd to the squad car. The bartender and several other patrons confirmed Natasha's words that an attempted hate crime had taken place. Cops were in and out in less than fifteen minutes and the otherwise-pleasant hole-in-the-wall bar returned to its usual evening bustle.

"Celebratory shots?" Natasha laughed as Foxy exhaled, deep and slow, once her racing heart calmed down.

"My treat," the other woman motioned for the bartender and soon, a line of colorful glasses appeared in front of the women. Each downed a glass easily, slamming it back on the table. "Man, this is everything I never knew I needed," Foxy confessed with a shy smile. "Thanks, Nat. You're the best."

The spy responded with a satisfied smile, picking up another glass and holding it out for a toast. "To revenge well-deserved," the glass clicked, alcohol slid easily down their throats. "So, what now?"

Foxy's eyes shone in the bright lights of the bar, relieved and tipsy. The small empty glass twirled easily between her fingers. "Dunno," the shrug came and went. "Maybe go on vacation. To Florida."

Natasha let out a belly laugh, downing her last shot without as much as a stutter in her movements, Foxy's eyes lingering on the stray drops of alcohol running from the spy's plump lips. "A vacation with the crackheads? Romantic," the quip was received with an eyeroll from the other woman.

"Spoilsport," Foxy, too, finished her booze and placed the money and a hefty tip on the bar, tapping twice to get the bartender's attention. "I meant more like - lay on the beach, sip mimosas, look at sexy people in swimsuits..."

"Florida is for old people," Natasha objected, pulling her leather jacket back on and leading them both outside. The evening air was crisp, bringing a clearer head and re-arranging the thoughts back into a more sensible state.

Foxy easily picked up her pace to match Natasha's precise strides leading them in the direction of the former's building. The warm buzz of vodka coupled with the fresh air and her desire for retribution well-fed, Foxy settled into a comfortable silence next to the spy. They reached the building quickly, their pace brisk and distractions lacking.

"Care for a nightcap?" She didn't know what prompted her to blurt out the words; as soon as the words registered in her brain, they were already out and Foxy's face heated, fingers fumbling for the keys in her pocket, Natasha's touch still warm and lingering on the side of her leg.

The spy seemed amused, studying Foxy's nervous habits with a crooked smirk. "Sure," she agreed amicably, following the woman into the apartment building, not missing both the rigidity of her back and the added spring to her step.

A moderately sized, well-decorated apartment revealed itself behind the open door, scarcely illuminated by the NYC lights coming in from a glass wall in the living room, reflecting the vast living space furnished with a large couch.

As soon as the door clicked shut, Natasha turned around, stepping into the other woman's personal space with the grace of a predator. Two shining eyes stared back at her in the darkness, framed by fluttering lashes. Foxy's bottom lip disappeared behind her teeth, skin gleaming with perspiration.

The recently-turned blonde spy wasted no time caging the other woman between her body and the door, chests almost touching. The air around them was charged, Foxy's heart thudding loudly in her chest as she gulped. Natasha studied her expression, "You want this?" she whispered against her lips, sharing the oxygen between them.

"Ye-yeah," a short nod and a gasp later, the women were devouring each other, grasping at their hands and shoulders like they were drowning. Hot and wet and sharp from the booze, the kisses were as graceless as their fingers haste in removing each other's top layers of clothing.

The sharp corner of the living room archway dug painfully into Foxy's back, bringing an additional sense of awareness: this was real. This was happening. Natasha's blonde locks flowed through Foxy's fingers, soft and silky, a contrast to the teeth pulling on her lip in impatient hunger. Foxy grunted in response, parting from the other woman to send her t-shirt flying somewhere in the direction of the kitchen.

"Bedroom," mere minutes in and she already sounded utterly and throughly ruined.

"Couch," Natasha was equally feverish to get to the good parts. Her belt was unbuckled and the nice button-up she'd worn hung open, a plain white bra iriscendent on her alabaster skin.

Letting herself be led to the couch, Foxy could barely take her eyes off the woman in front of her, making sure she wasn't ogling Natasha outright yet secretly hoping to be caught anyway. The blonde was like a porcelain doll, unreal, firm and soft at the same time.

The moment Foxy gracelessly landed on the couch, Natasha was all up in her space, straddling the other woman with the grace of a savage cat; lips once more attached to her flesh, Natasha left a trail of hot, wet marks starting at the jawline and ending at the cups of Foxy's bra.

Not knowing what to do with her hands, Foxy grasped Natasha's hips, unable to hold back a moan heavy with lust as the spy ground down with her hips. It was exhilarating to see the other woman affected by their heavy make-out session; nothing short of absolutely smitten to see Natasha pull back, panting and disheveled, to shed her shirt and her bra.

Unable to resist the urge, Foxy's hands reached out to cup the spy's round breasts, tugging her closer to pop a rosy nipple into her mouth. Natasha shivered, arching into the caress, holding onto the other woman's hair and tugging it in the direction only she knew.

Natasha wasn't loud, she wasn't wild; her moans were more like muted gasps but her body spoke for her louder than any words: the grinding was getting more impatient, Natasha's hold grew stronger. As Foxy fumbled for the button of Nat's pants, she felt the soft, delicate lace underneath. Natasha had come prepared.

"Hold on," the spy mumbled, hopping off Foxy's lap to quickly push her pants and panties down her legs with practiced ease. The other woman followed suit, leaving herself to be bare besides her underwear, the attempt to remove them intercepted by Natasha. "Let me," quiet words tickled the skin of her throat where Nat had immediately attached her mouth.

Foxy scrambled to intake the oxygen she needed, letting herself feel the hot glide fully, having lost herself in pleasure, missing the exact moment Nat's fingertips breached the waistband of her panties. Soft and nimble, so different to a man's roughened skin, the sensation was as strange as it was sweet. The urge to arch and rock her hips against the nearest surface intensified and Foxy could only keen, quiet and high, causing Natasha to chuckle to herself.

"Enjoying yourself, sweet girl?" The miniscule trace of coyness seeped into the blonde's voice. The engorged, puffy, moist flesh of Foxy's lower lips parted eagerly to Natasha's experimental dip.

"Yeah, yes," the woman slid down, spreading her legs in invitation. "Please, touch me," begging to be filled in all the empty spaces, Foxy threw her head to rest against the back of the couch, watching Nat through unfocused eyes.

"Oh, I will," the spy purred, sliding lower to put her face next to Foxy's dripping cunt. The spy's fingers glistened with arousal and she popped them into her mouth, licking them clean before doing the same to her lover's swollen folds. The response was instantaneous and loud, Foxy shook under Natasha's expert teasing. "Stay still," she ordered quietly, patting Foxy's belly.

Molten, honeyed waves of bliss overtook common sense and awareness, tiny sparks shooting up Foxy's cunt every time Natasha suckled at her clit. The spy read her body like an open book, following the movements of her hips with her mouth, always a step ahead and slightly south. Foxy's peak was imminent, approaching rapidly, as Natasha's sweet merciless assault wrung every single drop of the thick, precious liquid out of her cunt.

It only seemed to gush more, the woman pushing her cunt into Natasha's face as the latter doubled down on her efforts to bring her to ecstasy.

The waves began deep in the pit of Foxy's stomach, making her legs tremble, her toes curl and the flutters of her cunt increase in speed and intensity. Silky soft and typhoon wet, her orgasm crashed her mind into million pieces and Nat dutifully extracted everything until the last drop with the skillful touch of her tongue and fingers.

"Tash," Foxy moaned. Her legs quivered at the slightest touch to her oversensitive cunt.

"Mhm," was the blonde's reply, contented humming getting closer and closer until the womens lips met once more in a fierce, passionate kiss.

Foxy's hands immediately sought purchase on Natasha's hips, searching for the spots that would make the spy's body song in the same way she'd done to Foxy; seemingly much more reserved, quiet but happy sighs broke past Nat's lips in response to gentle hands stroking where she was most sensitive.

"I've got a vibe in my bedroom," clarity finally broke through the orgasm haze, Foxy's brain slowly coming back to reality.

"No, I want your fingers," Natasha's reply was assertive as she moved her hips in tandem with Foxy's hand, dripping the sweetness of her around all over.

The urge to pop the fingers into her mouth was strong, so Foxy did just that, moaning at the tangy taste, Natasha's breath quietly stuttering at the sight in front of her.

"I want to eat you out," the words barely had left Foxy's mouth as Natasha flipped them so she was the one laying on the couch, spread-eagled and open for the other woman's eager mouth to explore. Wet, sloppy and so, so tender, Foxy let herself taste the arousal of her lover.

"Yeah," so soft, one could easily miss it, the approval didn't get lost in the headrush nonetheless. With grace, Foxy sought the spots that would force Natasha to break her silence with slow, broad motions until the blonde had no choice but to arch her hips into the sensations, chasing her pleasure, losing the aura of restraint she'd so carefully cultivated.

No time for self-control. The temperatures were climbing steadily with every single movement, both lost in their imperfect shared rhythm, the soft of Foxy's tongue and fingers like finest silks on Natasha's eager cunt. Two fingers slipped in without resistance, immediately seeking out the soft, spongy spot that made the blonde's toes curl and mouth open in a silent scream.

Foxy's free hand groped around for Natasha's ass hastily, bringing her hips closer to her mouth, tongue never ceasing its assault on the blonde's clit as her body grew more rigid, fingertips going white with the force she was gripping the comforter.

"Gospodi bozhe," came the mumble, the only warning before Natasha's powerful thighs locked Foxy in place as the blonde rode out her orgasm, violently shivering, dousing the other woman's face in her sweet release. Dutifully, Foxy stroked the silk of Natasha's skin everywhere she could reach, her hot breath on the blonde's pussy easing her back to Earth through the aftershocks.

Natasha's eyes opened, feeling her lover's look of adoration, and she cracked a reluctant but genuine smile. There was something about Foxy that was just so-

Natasha taglist (open, see fic hat for info; crossed out nicknames are the ones I couldn't tag, please update your info):

@mikariell95 @letsby @sleep-i-ness @toomanyrobins @persephonehemingway @bluecrazedandbeautiful @slothspaghettiwrites @xoxabs88xox @marvelsbanner @sapphicnoodle69

[butterysalt]

Fun | Sherlock x platonic!Reader

Pairing: Sherlock x platonic!gender neutral reader

Request ( @a-paper-cut​ ): 

Word Count: 2,202

Contains: Mentions of child abduction, platonic fluffiness and banter :)

A/N: AAAAAAA thank you so much, lovely! This was my first request and I was SUPER excited to write it hehe. I’ve been on a slight creative block lately and I enjoyed writing this so much. I hope this fic does justice for what you wanted and I hope that you are doing amazingly 🧡🧡

It was an early, snowy winter morning in London. You and Sherlock Holmes have been mind-boggled by a puzzling case for the past week. The detective proposed that the two of you go on a walk to allow some fresh air in the brains again. This suggested that even his extensive mind palace and composing weren’t helping the genius. Not that you were complaining about sharing a nice stroll with Sherlock. It had been years after all since you two had spent any casual time together. Like what people normally did in their free time, anyway.

The two of you stepped side by side, feet planting in the thin sheet of snow on the ground in unison. You grinned a little at the matched body language. You and Sherlock always had special ways to subtly communicate with one another. It was like a part of your minds were connected.

“Anything yet?” the tall brunette questioned. Your lip twitched upward. “Don’t rush the process, Sherlock. Just enjoy the moment. Live in it a little.” Sherlock’s long drawl could be heard next to you. His walking strides were growing longer as his patience began to thin out. You could practically hear the subtle gnawing of his teeth.

“We’ve only been walking 5 minutes,” you flouted, “Loosen up a bit.” Sherlock snickered to himself, messing with his gloved hands. “You’re already trying to read me?”

“You’re walking like you’ve got a stick up your arse. It’s clear you’re agitated,” you jested. The curly-haired detective sneered at you and kicked a clump of ice out of the way. “I can’t think, Y/n. We have potential homicide to solve and we’re here drudging in the snow.”

“Remember, this was your idea, genius. Unless you can come up with something else, this is all we’ve got.” Sherlock went silent, chewing the inside of his cheek. His mind wandered to try and come up with something snarky to throw at you. Perhaps a witty comeback that would leave you in doubt. The headache he was dealing with was enough to strike him in his train of thought. He shook it off and his focus returned to the matter of urgency. Unsolved case.

Sherlock lifted his face to the sky, blowing a hot cloud of breath into the chilly London air. He tugged his scarf a little closer to his neck, shoving his gloved hands down into his thick coat. The breath cloud was a common habit of Sherlock’s during cold weather. It mimicked the effect of blowing cigarette smoke, just without the tar and nicotine. Fortunately, the only time the detective abused drugs anymore was when cases had him horribly stumped; thanks to you and John’s efforts, his drug use was much more controlled now.

“Five missing children. All between the ages of 7 and 9. We know that the connection is tied to their private schools. Three different religious private schools within a 10 kilometer radius — so, fairly close together. The parents reported their children coming home with expensive gifts from a mysterious donor shortly before they went missing. They referred to the perpetrator as ‘Ray’. Anyone handing out shiny trinkets to naive children is either a philanthropist or a predator. I’d like to bet on the latter.”

You sighed, mentally reviewing all of the evidence from the case in your head. “But all of the children knew basic safety protocols: don’t talk to strangers, never accept anything from strangers, the whole package. Their parents are terribly traditional. They never would have let any of them see the light if they broke any of those rules. So the chances are near impossible that they would have fallen for such typical child abduction tricks.”

“Near impossible, L/n. That means there’s still a possibility and possible is all we need to screw this up,” Sherlock tutted. He blew another large cloud of air, shaking some light snow off his curls. You frowned, “The suspects. We’ve interrogated the popes, teachers, parents… who are we missing?”

Sherlock stopped walking. You turned to check up on him, finding him with his eyes shut. “Maybe we’re asking the wrong questions…”

“Of course we’re asking the wrong questions! We have all the pieces in our hands but no instructions, Sherlock. We’re running in circles with this case,” you walked over to a public railing, leaning against it and looking out across the long white blanket that stretched to the horizon.

He joined your side shortly after, bending down to pick up some rocks to toss down the snowy hill and watch as they made skinny trails in the frosty powder. Sherlock sighed out, exasperated and worn out. “We’re not getting anywhere by mulling over it, are we?”

You smiled at him and shook your head. You pulled your coat a little tighter around yourself. “That’s why I’m here to keep you in check. It’s good to get some air, you know? Christ knows when’s the last time you did that simply because you wanted to.”

Sherlock’s eyebrow perked up and he faced you with a blank expression. “How do you mean?” Your eyes widened a little, unsure of how you should pick out your next words. “Well… you know, you don’t exactly, uh…” Nervously, your eyes flicked up to his. He was watching your expression very carefully.

“You don’t spend a lot of time for yourself,” you said simply. Sherlock frowned in disagreement. “I spend a lot of time by myself. I thought you knew me better than that,” he teased.

You rolled your eyes, leaning your back against the cold railing now, crossing your arms. “In your mind palace, Sherlock. I mean you don’t do things you enjoy.”

“Who said I don’t enjoy things?” he countered your query. You found yourself forming a cold sweat, debating on how to deliver your message. “Hobbies?”

“Violin.”

“Meh. Parties?”

“You disturb me.” Your best friend’s disgust made you cackle. “See, that’s my point! You don’t know how to have fun anymore. What happened to old Sherlock?”

Now this was a personal offense against Sherlock. “What? You don’t think I’m fun?” Sherlock sounded incredibly appalled by your claim. A hot cloud of air rose to the sky when you scoffed.

“Holmes, you are probably the farthest thing when it comes to the definition of fun!”

“Well, probability-wise, that’s highly improbable when Mycroft exists.”

“His poshness makes up for it. You’re just irritating.” Sherlock puffed out his red cheeks, nudging you playfully. “Oh, come on. You must admit that I’m at least an interesting character?”

You pondered in fake thought, scrunching your face together. “Interesting is debatable. Fun? That’s foreign territory, Sherlock.” The tall man grimaced deeply at your bluntness that he clearly had issues with. “What do you mean by ‘Old Sherlock’? What was good about the ‘old me’? I consider myself much more refined in the present day.”

Old memories of the two of you hanging out with one another as teenagers came back to you. A smile melted on your face from the warm feelings of nostalgia, the chilliness from the snowfall leaving your body.

“You used to prank Mycroft all the time. Everything was always a competition with you and me; we would go from racing down the neighborhood to reach my house first or rush to finish homework and claim the telly before the other could. Oh! We would always make up fake cases, too, trying to entertain a mystery that didn’t even exist,” you laughed to yourself, “Look at us now.”

Sherlock grumbled at the reminder of your old shenanigans. He wasn’t always the fondest of his younger self. But he had to admit he was reckless, even as a child. It was a simpler time and kids didn’t have much to fret or fear.

“Now you’re all enigmatic and stoic with your flipped up coat collar and scary cheekbones. The difference is so disappointing, it’s sickening,” you gagged. Sherlock slipped off his glove and jabbed his freezing hand against your neck, making you exclaim at the coldness and shove him backward. He wore a victorious smirk at your suffering. You pointed a hard finger at him, holding back your own laughter to prove a point.

“NO, that’s not being fun, Sherlock. That’s torture- sadism! You’re just an arse!” He threw his arms in the air, tossing his glove in your face. “It’s subjective! I can be fun,” he insisted.

“You’re predictable, Holmes. You don’t remember what good humor is and it shows in your actions. You pick everything up from books and telly. You can’t surprise me anymore,” you declared. Sherlock’s expression contorted into shock as he stared at you in disbelief. You had left the great Sherlock Holmes baffled. The silence was deafening — music to your ears.

When you thought you were winning this argument, a special glint quickly shone in Sherlock’s eyes. Your expression dropped and then you were pushed backward. There was no railing behind you anymore to catch you.

As you were falling, you naturally grasped for something to hold on to. In this case, Sherlock’s coat. The evil smirk on his face was immediately replaced with shock then fear as he was crashing hard into you. Gravity did the rest of the work. With the momentum you had already begun, dragging Sherlock down with you was one of the worst possible outcomes of the situation. A crude curse slipped past his lips and both of you latched onto each other because there was nothing else to brace with.

What was initially meant to be a playful fall down the snowy hill turned into a rolling battle full of frantic thrashing and screaming as both of your bodies thumped and tangled with each other. The two of you occasionally bounced a few inches off the ground and crashed back into the ground, knocking the breath out of both of you. The wild human avalanche down the hill was finally put to a stop when you rolled into a tree. With a loud OOMPH, you and Sherlock flopped into the ground, groaning and croaking in pain. Neither of you moved for the first passing moments, unable to process what just happened.

Your fall was broken when you landed on top of Sherlock, his body sprawled out in the cold snow, rasping heavily. Some snow fell off your form and your arms shook as you propped yourself up, no longer caring about the fact that you applied all the pressure in your friend’s ribs.

“You alright, mate?” you panted, checking up on Sherlock, eyes analyzing him for any serious injuries.

“You take my breath away.” You sputtered and shook your head at his ridiculous humor. “Aren’t you just romantic?” He squinted his eyes and flashed a sarcastic smile but groaned out, “No, really. Please get off my chest.”

“Oh God, sorry,” you scrambled off of him and he rolled over into the snow, gasping for air as he clutched his side in pain. You punched him in the shoulder. “You bloody twat, Sherlock Holmes! Pushing me down a hill by Jove’s sake!”

“I remember it being much more fun when we were younger,” he grunted out, pushing himself onto his forearms. And just then, his eyes burst wide open. His face slack-jawed as his brain computed at top speed. He was onto something.

“Sherlo-”

“FUN, Y/n,” he articulated, scrambling over to you and grabbing you by the shoulders. You stiffened and backed away, startled by his abrupt realization. 

“Oh, Y/n, you are brilliant! This is why we work together!”

“What?! What are you-”

“The kids were abducted because they were having fun! ‘Ray’ is Remus Stooge, another private school kid in the area. The Stooge family owns several of the land plots around this corner of London and they’re the ones funding all three schools — The Stooge’s are plenty wealthy. The children were going to Remus’s home, ditching class time to get a personal house tour of his daddy’s money. The fancy car rides, luxurious delights, shiny sneakers and tailored clothing… Who wouldn’t pass up on an opportunity like that? It only makes sense why they were lured in so easily! Their rich best pal Remus has been the one inviting them right into the trap!”

“What- Sherlock! Where is this all coming from?! How do you even-”

“Trust me, Y/n!! I have it figured out- It all makes sense!” he interjected again. The look on your faces was bizarre. You tossed a handful of snow at him as he blocked it with his hands. “NO?? It doesn’t! This is so sudden-”

Sherlock was on his feet in an instant, brushing off the powder from his coat and yanking you up. His eyes were gleaming with excitement. “We have to go tell Lestrade, now! Call John and get over to the Stooge’s place!”

“To arrest the kid?!”

“No, the butler!” He grabbed your gloved hand and dragged you up the steep white hill. You shook your head wildly, “Holmes, you better have a bloody good explanation for this in the cab or there will be hell to pay.” Sherlock smirked triumphantly and squeezed your hand.

“Come, L/n! The game is on!”

Requests are open! <3

[bright-eyes-strawberry-lies]

The Weather In PJO (brought to you by gods and demigods)

*alternating colors for ease of reading

**page numbers look weird because they're copied/pasted from ebooks

“Overhead, a huge storm was brewing, with clouds blacker than I’d ever seen over the city. I figured maybe it was global warming or something, because the weather all across New York state had been weird since Christmas. We’d had massive snow storms, flooding, wildfires from lightning strikes. I wouldn’t have been surprised if this was a hurricane blowing in.” - TLT pg 33

“One night, a thunderstorm blew out the windows in my dorm room. A few days later, the biggest tornado ever spotted in the Hudson Valley touched down only fifty miles from Yancy Academy. One of the current events we studied in social studies class was the unusual number of small planes that had gone down in sudden squalls in the Atlantic that year.” - TLT pg 65

“Outside, it really was storming, the kind of storm that cracks trees and blows down houses. There was no horse or eagle on the beach, just lightning making false daylight, and twenty-foot waves pounding the dunes like artillery. [...] Long Island never sees hurricanes this early in the summer. But the ocean seemed to have forgotten.” - TLT pg 156

“There was a blinding flash, a jaw-rattling boom!, and our car exploded.” - TLT pg 176

“I was still in bed in cabin three. My body told me it was morning, but it was dark outside, and thunder rolled across the hills. A storm was brewing. I hadn’t dreamed that.” - TLT pg 491

“It started to rain. Volleyball players stopped their game and stared in stunned silence at the sky.

I had brought this storm to Half-Blood Hill. Zeus was punishing the whole camp because of me.” - TLT pg 520

“BOOOOOM!

The windows of the bus exploded as the passengers ran for cover. Lightning shredded a huge crater in the roof, but an angry wail from inside told me Mrs. Dodds was not yet dead.” - TLT pg 629

“The weather had completely changed. It was stormy, with heat lightning flashing out in the desert.” - TLT pg 988

“In the distance, Los Angeles was on fire, plumes of smoke rising from neighborhoods all over the city. There had been an earthquake, all right, and it was Hades’s fault.” - TLT pg 1191

“I was standing on a deserted street in some little beach town. It was the middle of the night. A storm was blowing. Wind and rain ripped at the palm trees along the sidewalk. Pink and yellow stucco buildings lined the street, their windows boarded up. A block away, past a line of hibiscus bushes, the ocean churned.” - SOM pg 10

“After a few more minutes, the dark splotches ahead of us came into focus. To the north, a huge mass of rock rose out of the sea-an island with cliffs at least a hundred feet tall. About half a mile south of that, the other patch of darkness was a storm brewing. The sky and sea boiled together in a roaring mass.” - SOM pg 598

“A storm raged that night, but it parted around Camp Half-Blood as storms usually did. Lightning flashed against the horizon, waves pounded the shore, but not a drop fell in our valley. We were protected again, thanks to the Fleece, sealed inside our magical borders.” - SOM pg 1045

“Sleet and snow pounded the highway. Annabeth, Thalia, and I hadn’t seen each other in months, but between the blizzard and the thought of what we were about to do, we were too nervous to talk much.” - TTC pg 11

“Old spirits are protecting the bad boat.”

“The Princess Andromeda?” I said. “Luke’s boat?”

“Yes. They make it hard to find. Protect it from Daddy’s storms. Otherwise he would smash it.” - TTC pg 210

“Clouds seemed to be swirling around its peak, as though the mountain was drawing them in, spinning them like a top. “What’s going on up there? A storm?”

Zoë didn’t answer. I got the feeling she knew exactly what the clouds meant, and she didn’t like it.” - TTC pg 751

“I will do my best to destroy his boat with storms, but he is making alliances with my enemies, the older spirits of the ocean. They will fight to protect him.” - TTC pg 886

“We were standing at the dining pavilion, just where we’d last spoken before I went on the quest. The wind was bitter cold, even with the camp’s magical weather protection. Snow fell lightly against the marble steps. I figured outside the camp borders, there must be a blizzard happening.”- TTC pg 915

“The wind whipped cold off the bay. In the south, San Francisco gleamed all white and beautiful, but in the north, over Mount Tamalpais, huge storm clouds swirled. The whole sky seemed like a black top spinning from the mountain where Atlas was imprisoned, and where the Titan palace of Mount Othrys was rising anew. It was hard to believe the tourists couldn’t see the supernatural storm brewing, but they didn’t give any hint that anything was wrong.

“It’s even worse,” Annabeth said, gazing to the north. “The storms have been bad all year, but that—” - BOTL pg 359

“I had no choice. I called to the sea. I reached inside myself and remembered the waves and the currents, the endless power of the ocean. And I let it loose in one horrible scream.

Afterward, I could never describe what happened. An explosion, a tidal wave, a whirlwind of power simultaneously catching me up and blasting me downward into the lava. Fire and water collided, superheated steam, and I shot upward from the heart of the volcano in a huge explosion, just one piece of flotsam thrown free by a million pounds of pressure. The last thing I remember before losing consciousness was flying, flying so high Zeus would never have forgiven me, and then beginning to fall, smoke and fire and water streaming from me. I was a comet hurtling toward the earth.” - BOTL pg 618/619

“Mrs. O’Leary howled. I patted her head, trying to comfort her as best I could. The earth rumbled—an earthquake that could probably be felt in every major city across the country—as the ancient Labyrinth collapsed. Somewhere, I hoped, the remains of the Titan’s strike force had been buried.” - BOTL pg 1005

“I remembered what Tyson had told me at the beginning of the summer. “The old sea gods?”

“Indeed. The battle came first to me, Percy. In fact, I cannot stay long. Even now the ocean is at war with itself. It is all I can do to keep hurricanes and typhoons from destroying your surface world, the fighting is so intense.” - BOTL pg 1066

“Then the entire sea grew dark in front of us, like an inky storm was rolling in. Thunder crackled, which should've been impossible underwater. A huge icy presence was approaching. I sensed a wave of fear roll through the armies below us.” - TLO pg 153

“I saw a bank of storm clouds rolling across the Midwest plains. Lightning flickered. Lines of tornadoes destroyed everything in their path— ripping up houses and trailers, tossing cars around like Matchbox toys. “Monumental floods," an announcer was saying. "Five states declared disaster areas as the freak storm system sweeps east, continuing its path of destruction." The cameras zoomed in on a column of storm bearing down on some Midwest city. I couldn't tell which one. Inside the storm I could see the giant—just small glimpses of his true form: a smoky arm, a dark clawed hand the size of a city block. His angry roar rolled across the plains like a nuclear blast.” - TLO pg 216-218

“Over the city, a thunderstorm boiled—a wall of absolute black with lightning streaking across the sky. A few blocks away, swarms of emergency vehicles gathered with their lights flashing. A column of dust rose from a mound of rubble, which I realized was a collapsed skyscraper. [...] Wind whipped her hair. The temperature was dropping rapidly, like ten degrees just since I'd been standing there.” - TLO pg 468-470

“She faltered as a mighty groan cut through the sky. A blast of lightning hit the center of the darkness. The entire city shook. The air glowed, and every hair on my body stood up. The blast was so powerful I knew it could only be one thing: Zeus's master bolt. It should have vaporized its target, but the dark cloud only staggered backward. A smoky fist appeared out of the clouds. It smashed another tower, and the whole thing collapsed like children's blocks.

The reporter screamed. People ran through the streets. Emergency lights flashed.” - TLO pg 470-471

“Listen to me!" I said. "Kronos's army is invading Manhattan.'"

"Don't you think we know that?" East asked. "I can feel his boats right now. They're almost across."

"Yep," Hudson agreed. "I got some filthy monsters crossing my waters too."

"So stop them," I said. "Drown them. Sink their boats."

"Why should we?" Hudson grumbled. "So they invade Olympus. What do we care?"

"Because I can pay you.” - TLO pg 654

“Water sprayed his face, stinging his eyes. The wind picked up, and Hyperion staggered backward.

"Percy!" Grover called in amazement. "How are you doing that?"

Doing what? I thought.

Then I looked down, and I realized I was standing in the middle of my own personal hurricane. Clouds of water vapor swirled around me, winds so powerful they buffeted Hyperion and flattened the grass in a twenty-yard radius. Enemy warriors threw javelins at me, but the storm knocked them aside.

"Sweet," I muttered. "But a little more!"

Lightning flickered around me. The clouds darkened and the rain swirled faster. I closed in on Hyperion and blew him off his feet.” - TLO pg 903-904

[kinnoth]

Thor knows the end, but he has always known the end. Ragnarok has never been a mystery to him, to any of them. Every story ever told of Asgard ends in fire and in the darkness of nothing if one lets it go on for long enough. The Aesir have always been a doomed people: blood-loving, battle-loving, ever scratching for one more piece of glory to hold onto before the lights go out.

In truth, Thor had never expected to make it so far, and, perhaps, looking back on the trajectory of his life, he had never deserved to make it so far. The story of his life, as it has been charted, was ever one in which he would burn for a little while, then blaze for a while more, and then fall in a streak of fire, celebrated by his armies and ill-remembered by those he had conquered.

He was meant to have burned with his kingdom. His father would have burned with his kingdom. It is what is said of him in every attestation, that Odin Allfather loved his people and his kingdom until the end of both: because it was rightful, it was honourable, because it was foretold. Because Odin Allfather understood the sacrifice of kingship and the beauty of things that end.

Only greedy Thor, arrogant Thor, could have denied these people their rightful, honourable deaths. Only Thor could have snatched up these people from the glory of their own fates, and for what?

Space is cold after the fires of Asgard, cold and empty. The spiralling arms of the world tree cannot house a houseless people. All the sparkling stars that hang like fruits from its branches cannot feed them.

Thor leads his people to their doom, but he can find within himself no remorse for it. He has his brother back, standing tall and proud again beside him. Thor is not a stupid man, for all his great faults. He knows that his brother is dangerous and that he is disloyal. He has proven himself to be cruel and selfish and vain.

And yet, Loki moves beside him like his shadow as he circles through their huddled masses. Loki is good with them in a way that Thor isn't, in the way that their mother was good in the times after calamity. He touches their blackened hands and he talks to them lowly, with soothing words and gentle manner. He spins amusing tales for the children and listens, soft-eyed, to the lamentations of their mothers and fathers. They are Asgard's potters and weavers, merchantmen and clerks. They carry with them nothing but the clothes on their backs and the children in their arms. Had they been warriors, Thor might have led them and paid their way across the worlds with their swords, but as they are, they have nothing and want for everything.

He passes what assurances he can on to them. He tells them that they will be safe, that their children will not go hungry. He tells them tales of Midgard, of its glass cities and its gleaming black roads. He tells them of the rich, green hills of the Norsemen that Odin Once-King had declared would be their new home.

He feels Loki watching him. Somehow, he had forgotten how that had felt -- Loki, moving his head and his hands in subtle enquiry when emotion catches his voice; Loki, rephrasing his soldier's brusqueness into something easy and smooth; Loki remembering the details to his stories where he had forgotten. They had had a thousand years of companionship between them before these past ten in conflict and yet somehow, Thor had forgotten how it had felt to hold the weight of Loki's attention, familiar and following, as steadying as any hand.

Thor watches him as well, and, in the liminal moments in between, he drags them away from their duties and cloisters his brother away from the others. In private, Loki wears his quiet differently: his rounded shoulders find their angles and his tired eyes grow sharp and ready. Thor has him read for him the obscurities in their astronomical maps that Thor does not know enough to understand. They discuss the merits of various courses through the terrain, how to balance the preservation of their fuel next to the dangers of the shipping lanes. Loki is as studious and serious now as he is in Thor's memory. As he listens to Thor and thinks on his answers, his hand drifts absently up to his chin in a gesture he has not lost from childhood, and Thor feels again the stirring fondness he has only ever felt for his careful brother, lost in thought.

But Loki has not yet fully returned to him. It is clear in the way he stops in his sentences before they disagree and cuts away his gaze, the way he avoids Thor's hands in moments when he would not have before noticed Thor's touch. Perhaps he never will return, not wholly, and be as he was once, but Thor makes himself glad for what company he can have of him. Certain things have changed between them now in ways that he cannot hope to recover, and so Loki, though never a stranger, is perhaps more courteous than he has earned the right to be, blunter with his rebuke and shallower with his smile than Thor remembers. It is the measure of distance that Loki holds that serves to remind him always that, while Thor may again have a brother, he does not have a friend.

Perhaps that is for the best. Perhaps that is enough. Perhaps they can work together and they can lead their people, and Thor can put aside his ache for a better world and content himself with what he has. Because for all that he would like to do it, Thor does not trust his brother, even as he knows that he would not want to endure this long life without him. And perhaps he, too, is vain, but -- for this fragile truce between them, this makeshift peace -- he would have damned them all a thousand times without a second thought. Loki is here, and Thor believes again, as he did when he was young: that with his brother at his side, there is no quandary in the universe that the two of them cannot conquer.

Still, he startles when he feels a hand lay across his back. He is half-asleep, hunched over their star maps and logbooks again, looking for ways through disaster as though, if he looked long enough, he could divine new meaning into the numbers. He looks up to see Loki drawing his white hand back into the shadow of his cloak, a plaintive expression clearing quickly from his face.

"You are tired," Loki says. His voice is soft and unreadable. "You should rest."

"Yes," Thor replies. He had been dreaming, but of what, he doesn't remember now that he is awake. Impressions of fire and shadow splinter under the weight of waking until all that remains is the metal taste of urgency and guilt in his mouth. He sets his palm over his eyes and scrubs until all he sees again are stars. They are twenty-two jumps points outside of Asgard and he doesn't know how they are going to make it to twenty-three.

When next he looks up, Loki regards him with a look nearing sympathy. "Come with me," he says, and it is a testament to how truly tired Thor is that he follows without question. Loki leads him through a warren of utilitarian back rooms, storage spaces and servants quarters stripped bare of the Grandmaster's glitter and sculpted luxury. There is a narrow wire staircase twisting up past the rafters, and then Loki brings him into a room.

Something about the arrangement of it strikes Thor as immediately familiar, though he cannot place how. There is a low bed pushed against the wall and shelves built above it. From the ceiling hang bundles of scented dried things wrapped in scrap cloth, and on the far wall is a wide window, looking out into the void. Pale flame flickers to life in the brazier by the door and this is Loki's room, from back home, Thor realises, his private royal chamber scaled down to fit this space the size of a pauper's cell.

Thor touches the brutally bare wall. They are so close to the engines here that he can feel them humming beneath his hand. He steps after Loki into the room and passes his fingers over the fire as he walks. There is no warmth and so he reaches into the centre of it and picks up a glowing ember. It pulses like a living thing, faintly green around the edges. Foxfire, he recognises, Loki’s magic used for the crude banality of lighting a room. "Is this where you've been sleeping?" he asks, unable to keep the reproach from his voice.

Loki has opened a hidden compartment and is unpinning the cloak from his shoulders. He looks strange and unguarded for a moment, and Thor is sorry to have spoken without thought. Loki looks away. "You did not wonder?"

Thor shrugs with deliberate disaffectedness. "I didn't think it was any of my business," he says. He peers around the corners of the doorway. There is a bath beyond a half-closed door and, next to it, a meagre kitchen. It is odd to think of Loki, imperious and supercilious, cooking meals for himself off of one small hob. It is odd to think of his brother living sparsely, when their mother’s one enduring criticism of him was how he spent too freely. How much more of his life has Loki concealed from him? How else has he lived that Thor does not know?

Loki emerges from his closet, much the same but with all his dignity drawn about him once again. He plucks the coal from Thor’s hand and uses it to light the other lamps around the room. “This used to be my room when the Grandmaster took me out on his excursions," he explains. "I didn’t think anyone would mind it if I took it up again. Of course, I didn’t spend much time here,” he adds as he gives Thor back his ember. “The rooms downstairs, housing Asgard's people, those were for his guests. They are much more comfortable.”

Thor takes the glowing coal, holds it in his palm again for a moment before tossing it back into the brazier with the others. “And what were you then?” he asks suspiciously. A species of confusion mated to a kind of rage creeps up into his chest, but he pushes down on it with the ease of long practice, until naught but a faint abhorrence emerges into his conscious thought.

Loki smiles. ”Household.”

"Here,” he says before Thor can unravel his unease. A dark, ornate bottle appears between his fingertips and uncorks itself with a pop. He presses it into Thor’s hand. “Have a drink with me."

Thor twists his mouth. “Are we out of clean glasses again?” A fragrance at once sweet and sharply medicinal wafts up from the open neck. The liquid itself is nearly black.

Loki gestures as he folds himself onto the ledge by the window. He pulls a knee up to his chest and leans his cheek up against it. “Would you accept a glass from me?” he asks demurely.

Thor snorts. ”You are right, I would not.” He hesitates a moment longer before crossing the room and going to stand next to his brother. The universe spins out, endless, outside of their ark, colours of a bruise casting ghostly lights against Loki’s back and the side of his turned face. “It used to be one of your favourite tricks for your guests to find some nasty surprise at the bottom of their cups.” He offers his brother a wry look as he hands the bottle back.

Loki’s smile is small but not fully unhappy. “That was childish of me,” he agrees.

”You put snakes in my cup at my coronation.” Thor points out. “We were not children then.”

”Weren't we?" Loki asks lightly, and Thor's hackles rise, the prickle on the back of his neck like static before a storm. Loki is in some sort of mood tonight, not wholly hostile, but unsettled somehow, and Thor has ever known him to be changeable. He lifts the bottle in a sardonic salute and, smirking, tilts back his long throat and drinks deep. The glass slowly drains to clear as Loki finishes, gasping with satisfaction. He holds up the bottle, still three quarters full. "There, brother, you see?" he says, as he wipes the corners of his mouth. "Nothing to fear."

Something about the dark stain of Loki's mouth perturbs Thor in a way that strikes him wary and short of breath, but he takes the bottle back. His voice pitched low, he asks, with a cheer he does not truly feel, ”So what poison do you intend for the both of us then?”

Loki shakes his head and laughs. “No, not even poison.” His eyes are wet and a little unfocused. "Will you not drink?"

Thor hesitates a moment more but then, he too smiles shallowly and drinks. The liquor is hot on the tongue but surprisingly light, fruited like wine but without wine's cloying sweetness. He swallows. ”That is very fine," he says approvingly. The drink’s warm fingers spread down his throat and into his chest where they begin to pick at the knots tied up there. "I did not know we had anything near so fine on this ship. Is there more of it?" He tilts the bottle to read the label.

Loki scoffs. "Not enough to water your entire kingdom, if that's what you mean."

“A pity then.” Thor takes another generous swallow and the warmth spreads. These Sakaarian spirits are stronger than Asgardian mead, and Thor is beginning to think that he prefers it. “The kingdom could use a good watering after what it's just been through.” He raises the bottle. “A salutation then, to -- what are we drinking for?”

“A victory?” Loki shrugs. He moves to make room as Thor gingerly lowers himself down onto the seat next to him, careful to keep his distance. “Anything you like.”

Thor laughs hollowly. “That was a poor victory then, if that's what you'd call it.”

In the flickering light, Loki’s pale eyes shutter and he grins his brief and bitterly mirthless grin. He looks away and drinks, then leans again on his folded knee. “Do you grieve?” he asks perfectly without inflection.

Thor stops. He sees Loki’s fingers flexing white at the knuckles around each other even as his face remains impassive. His shoulders are set in perfect right angles to his spine. “You know,” Thor says contemplatively, “if you would have asked me that ten years ago, around the time you were still putting snakes in my cups, I would have said yes. I would have drank for our golden halls and our gleaming city and all of our sun-loved fields. But now." He sighs. Loki glances at him, the only indication that he is even listening. His eyes are wide and waiting. Around the room, the pale fires sputter in their wicks and spin. He has stopped his breathing. Thor reaches for him and lays the backs of his fingers lightly along his arm. Loki winces, takes a breath, but does not pull away.

Thor feels his own misgivings be gentled, and says softly, "I suppose that's what a loss as great as this shows you. When you have no choice but to choose, you pick out what's really important from the rest and you are happy that you get to keep it. We have lost so much, but it could have been more." His hand slowly flattens to curl around the lean muscle of Loki’s arm. Thor can feel the heat and the solid weight of him, welcome and familiar in a way that little else has been in these recent years.

"Brother," he begins softly. "Will you not grieve--"

"But what of all your worshippers?” Loki's expression when he turns is hard and terrible, red-rimmed eyes above a hooked sneer, and held in such rictus as if he were an animal trapped under thick ice. “Your great armies? Your Warriors Three?” he intones, as he yanks himself away from Thor’s touch, drawing back into himself once more. "Your Lady Sif?"

Thor draws his hands back into his own lap, stricken. What feats these hands have wrought, what power they hold, and yet he cannot claw back into them an ounce of his brother’s confidence. Has he not tried? Has he not let Loki draw near, examine every part of him and find him wary and uncertain, but sincere? He remembers the tentative proximity they had devised in the first night aboard the ship. Loki had asked and Thor had allowed him to draw him down, to examine his disfigured eye and to cleanse it and close what he could, to touch his fingertips through his shorn hair as he did it. What had that been but Thor's hopes laid bare? What had that been but Thor's soul beckoning: look at me; see me; recognise me; if we cannot be alone together then we will truly be alone.

Thor breathes deep and says, lowly, with a line of resignation understriking the words, “Have you brought me here to start a fight then, Loki?”

Loki's face, ruddy and savage with emotion, flinches violently. He blinks and then, as if swept by a great wind, his expression clears. “No, forgive me,” he says, his voice cool and easy. "I am." He shrugs, and, after a moment, waves his hand. The spinning lights right themselves. Another bottle appears between his fingers. He hands it to Thor and then he returns to himself, perfectly neat and self-contained.

Thor hates, suddenly, all of this, every measure of it: his brother’s carefully constructed dispassion and the way he will not fully meet Thor’s eyes; the choking fist of his own fear that this is how it has to be now, this is how they are going to be to one another from now on. Loki sits curled in on himself like a loose fist protecting a bruise and Thor is no more permitted to unfurl him to test his injury any more than he is to go back and undo Ragnarok. This he mourns, more than all else: that he used to know his brother, and he was known by him, trusted and was trusted. It used to be that when they were together, Thor had believed in immortality.

He is gripped by the sudden urge to touch Loki, as if that would make any difference, as if that would make anything better. It used to. He thinks it used to. Thor remembers how easy it had used to be to know where he was and how to make his way back because Loki would find his hand and guide him. He wants to take Loki by the shoulders and shake him, or to reach underneath the curtain of his hair and put his hand to skin.

But instead he is here, in this insatiable present that takes and takes and lets him have nothing back. Loki holds himself placidly as if nothing at all has been said or transpired, and Thor's despair turns to cold fury.

"Odin was right, you are devious and disdainful and difficult to love," Thor says icily. Loki looks at him, properly, finally. His eyes are open with surprise and confusion. Good. If Loki wants a fight then Thor is more than happy to give him one; he is hungry for Loki's pain, if he can have nothing else. Thor spurs on, heat rising up his neck and behind the sockets of his eyes, "You've found reason to hate everyone and everything that ever had the misfortune of crossing your path. Nothing is ever good enough for Loki; no one is ever good enough for Loki. There would always be something, some way you could distort an honest word into something evil, turn even the truest praise into injustice. You are so twisted we could use you as a corkscrew."

Loki recoils as if physically struck and Thor feels a rush of cruel satisfaction to see him hurt. Loki should hurt. If Thor must hurt than Loki can hurt. It is their basest of axioms: whatever Thor has, then Loki must have too.

"Little wonder why you were no good king," he spits, unsheathed now, seeking blood. He wants to see Loki break. "You look for shadows and schemes because your heart is filled with nothing but shadows and schemes. Little wonder, too, why you could not content yourself with the vast privileges of your station. You were Asgard’s prince and my brother and Odin's son, but still you found a way to be claim misuse. It is like you run from happiness. You are incapable of being grateful." He shoves the bottle back toward Loki with such force that it topples off its broad base. The fine spirits pours out of it in fat gluts.

His brother regards the drink soaking into his floor and splashing over his shoes. His pale face is awash with an awful flush. With a jerking gesture, he rights the bottle and the black liquid funnels itself back into it. He drinks for a long moment and then sets it down. His stillness has taken a different quality, wound and waiting, like a pendulum before the downswing. "I was not your brother, don’t you remember?" he says lowly. "Not your father's son, not your people's prince. I was nothing. That is what I ran from, being nothing."

Thor feels tension string through his muscles. Fighting he knows; fighting he can do; fighting comes naturally to him even if his heart is breaking. "You were one of us," he retorts through his teeth. "You were loved."

Loki lets out a great bark of a laugh and wheels to his feet. "I was not," he says poisonously. "Great Thor, mighty Thor, golden Thor, loved by all. Easy to love." He is pacing, his long strides eating up the little distance of the floor so that he has to turn every fourth step. His movement is disjointed, unhinged. Thor is reminded again of his brother, wild and caged, wreacking ruin upon himself when given nothing else to destroy. "Of course you wouldn’t see it," Loki scathes. "It is so difficult for the beloved to see that not all share in their condition, after all."

Thor draws back, raises his chin. His pulse is in his ears. He should never have come in the first place. He could have lived with what peace they had between them, and now he won't even have that. "Mother loved you," he challenges, his voice rising. "I loved you."

His brother flips his hand dismissively. "You loved everyone, what’s one more."

"I loved you best!"

Thor is on his feet as static gathers in the air. Loki stops, holds his gaze steadily, breathing hard. "I was happy," he says after a moment. "Perhaps it was never to any great effect, but I was happy once. But then, I was not who I thought I was." He drags in a breath and wrings together his trembling hands. "And I did not know what I know now." He stands in the middle of his sparse, dark little room and looks, suddenly, unspeakably small and lost. Thor steps toward him, but his brother looks up and fixes him with a glittering stare and he stops.

"So I have been selfish and self-serving, but who else but I served Loki-prince?" he says bitterly. "I was faithful to Asgard for over a thousand years and saw nothing but ashes for it. So if I took the things that Asgard would not give me in the end, ought I to be sorry?”

Thor huffs and breaks his gaze to hide his discomfort. "You were prince of the Nine Realms," he replies darkly. "What could you have possibly wanted for that could not be furnished to you?"

Loki snarls, "I have never had what I truly wanted, have you?" The room flares bright white for a moment and Thor startles, whirling about. Loki's foxfire pulses threateningly in its brazier.

Thor crosses his arms over his chest defiantly. He will not be cowed by a display of theatrics. "I had everything," he lies even though he knows it is not what Loki means.

Loki goes stiff and then, all at once, the venomous rage empties from his sharp face. He asks with a sudden, pleading sorrow, “Then do you not want?”

Greedy Thor, arrogant Thor does not respond, but his brother meets his burning gaze and seems to see through him. Thor’s heart is caught beneath his chin. He doesn’t know what Loki sees, but he prays that it is not everything.

Loki searches him a moment longer but then looks away. Thor feels a cavernous feeling as if he has been assessed somehow and found lacking. But Thor has won: his brother is crying and doing a poor job in hiding it. He waits for the satisfaction to come and to chase away the guilt.

But then Loki turns. "You're not the first I've disappointed with my unworthiness, brother," he says, quiet again, still again, distant. "You are hardly the first to cast me out because I did not suit. Hate me if you want, then," he says, a fissure opening beneath his smooth voice, "but I never hated them, your friends, your family, or Asgard. I only ever hated how they hated me, and yet you still loved them for it." He spreads his palm and light gathers between his fingertips. Thor knows what that is.

Thor lunges for him, his pulse in his ears, crossing the room in three quick strides. He seizes his brother by the wrist and Loki's pocket dimension snaps shut; whatever implement he was retrieving dissolves back into the darkness. Loki jerks away instinctively but Thor holds him tight. "I am not casting you out!" he cries. He crowds into him with his body, Loki stepping back for his every step forward until the wall stops them both. Thor pins his brother's arm. Loki looks jolted a moment, confusion opening his face as Thor leans his weight against him. They are both breathing hard. "I am not," he repeats.

Loki shoves at him with his free arm, his hand balling and gripping him menacingly by the open collar of his chest plate. "No?" he asks, acid hissing through his voice once more. "Odd, then, how that was what it sounded like."

"I was only angry," Thor says, his mouth dry, bracing, expecting the violence of his brother's anger. "I didn’t mean what I said." But Loki isn't fighting him. Thor knows how his brother fights, has been stung by those deadly hands often enough; he knows that his brother is not a man easily mastered. But Loki gasps, as though Thor has hurt him, and beneath Thor's agony and his racing pulse, a black thrill runs him through. He changes his grip on Loki's wrist, and pushes his shoulder back until his arm bends up above his head. Loki lets him, watching. Thor's mind races; his terror mounts. He feels powerful. "Brother, I didn't mean it," he rasps. "Don't go." He is trembling.

Loki's eyes grow narrow. "Oh, Thor," he breathes, "are you frightened?"

"Yes," Thor says readily. "Is that so surprising to you?" He needs to let him go, but instead his grip tightens on Loki's arm. He feels Loki's throat working, the subtle movements of his head and neck, and he feels, again, the stirring, ugly cruelty that has lived inside him all his life. Its pulse fills his mouth, like a separate thing from his own. Thor's blood and body ignite for one indomitable moment before the guilt overruns him, his own self-disgust. He puts his face into his brother's shoulder so that he might avoid his incising gaze. "Yes, I am frightened," he says hollowly. "I did not want this."

Thor is lowly and vulgar and undeserving of being called a man. He is the very basest creature, captive to his vagaries, caring for nothing but his own comfort and gratification. He will destroy this cobweb peace between them for an upper hand, drive his brother away in a fit of pique, and for what?

He feels Loki stiffen as Thor's misery makes him dull and heavy. "Want what, be specific," his brother hisses. He shoves at Thor again, curses crackling in his fist this time, no mere punctuation.

"Any of this. All of it," Thor mutters thickly. His feels his own breath hot on his face as the leather shoulders of Loki's shirt repel it back to him. The trap in his throat cannot contain his every secret, and what spills out does so like a cut vein. "Odin’s kingdom, the crown, the fate of Asgard." He squeezes his eyes shut and grieves that he cannot even be with Loki, cannot ask of him to share a drink without Loki's bad faith and his own bad impulses coming between them.

They truly are ruined, he thinks, as he counts his brother's quick heartbeats through his palm, and Thor can be neither the man he wants to be nor the man he needs to be anymore. "I did not want for them to take me," he says. "I did not want to become that which I hated, what you hated, what had killed you and our mother and made our father a stranger to us. I thought I would rather die, but now it is here anyway, and there is nowhere left for me to run."

There is a pause and then Loki says, his voice soft and careful. "It is kingship, brother. It is what we were born to do."

Thor lets out a breath like a sob. "It is a rotten job, Loki. It is rotten to its core." He lifts his head and searches his brother's face. "It consumes you, it becomes your world until your heart may hold nothing but it, and your soul may love nothing but it, and you would rather see your queen die for it and your sons disgraced for it rather than lose even a fraction of it."

Loki is not crying anymore. He looks upon Thor with such bewilderment and concern that Thor wishes, once more, to hide his despair, but that his brother deserves to be looked in the eye. "Would that I were only a man," he continues. "Would that this were only an occupation of a father being passed to a son, but it is not. It is a wolf at my door, brother, and I must let it in, but I cannot do it without you beside me."

Loki's brows are pinched, his iridescent eyes wide with honest heartache. He lifts his hand from the wall and Thor lets him go. He feels a touch alight on his temple, between the chevroned scars on his scalp. "I did not think it would hurt you so," his brother says in wonderment. He touches fingertips to the corners of Thor's eye where his sorrow has gathered but not fallen, and Thor only wishes that his brother could let himself be held.

"You are better made for it than I," Thor tells him as Loki tugs on him and Thor's head falls back down against his brother's throat. Loki hums and lays his cool hand lightly along the back of his skull, stroking contemplatively. Thor allows himself to be pacified, and the shameful, screaming something in his heart quietens for the moment, as it only ever does beneath his brother's hands. He sighs. "I need your strength and your wisdom and your friendship, Loki." He fists his fingers into the flanks of Loki's shirt and pulls meaningfully. "You asked me if I did not want, and that is it. I want you here with me. I want us to be friends again."

"We cannot be friends."

Thor looks up. His brother's eyes are wet but he smiles beatifically. "We cannot be friends," he repeats. "I will serve Asgard, I will be your brother, and I will serve you, but even I, poor fool that I am, must keep something for myself. Don't you see?" he says, his voice cracking with a building fervour. "I am as you say that I am: unworthy and ungrateful and the keeper of my own misery. I used to wish that I wasn't, but I am. And I must keep something, or else I shall have nothing at all." His fingers flex unconsciously on the edge of Thor's plate armour and, with a crunching snap, the metal rends beneath them. Loki hisses.

Thor stops him. "Loki, brother," he says, picking up his narrow hand and enfolding it between the both of his. Loki quakes, on the verge of something, and Thor sympathises even as he doesn't know what it is. He keeps his eyes cast low as he presses their hands together. "It's all right, I understand," he says, even though he does not. "Enough, hm? We are both fools." He shakes him lightly. "That's enough."

Loki's bruised hand spasms and he almost jerks it back into himself by instinct, but that Thor grasps him gently by the wrist and does not let him go. Wild-eyed, his brother stares at him, uncomprehending, first, and then recognition comes back into him. "Yes," Loki gasps. "I'm sorry. I." His fingers curl within Thor's rough palm, and warmth drifts through the pulses of Thor's blood to have his brother holding his hand again. "I am sorry." He drops his chin and looks away.

Thor shakes his head. "I have my own wrongs that I have done, and it has only been these recent years that I have had occasion to think back on them. You are right, you know," he says, smoothing his thumb over the back of his brother's knuckles for emphasis. "I have, in the past, regarded myself too highly, and I saw it as my natural right to trample over those who were less fortunate that I."

Loki huffs a little breath. "It is not difficult to do when you are the best." He wipes at his face with his sleeve and offers to Thor a smile, small and self-deprecating, but sincere -- a delicate branch, newly budded, tentatively extended but an offer of peace nonetheless.

Thor returns his smile. "No, I suppose it isn't, but I am sure that doesn't excuse it. Loki," he says, and it is as if he is finally undoing a weight that has always hung around his neck, "I am sorry."

His brother's expression remains deceptively pleasant. "For what? Be specific," he says again, a flat whisper, either soft or deadly but which refuses to reveal itself to be either.

Thor knows; he has known for a while now. His errors were ever small slights, little wrongs, but together they built a wall between them as high as the sky. But now, his brother knocks on the other side, and his humility is a small price to pay to see it torn down. He is ready to be done with it now, here, at the end of the world. "For what I said, just now" he says. "For speaking over you, in years past. For behaving as if you owed me your obedience," he says. "For taking it for granted that you were my brother and," he sighs expansively.

"For never seeing you for yourself, I suppose," he muses. He puts his hand to his brother's shoulder and stands back enough to look Loki in the eye. "You are your own man. Your path is your own to take, and though we may walk together, we do not belong to the same fate."

"You do not belong to me," he says, watching Loki watch him and knowing that, this time, he has been heard. "You are my brother, but you don't belong to me."

Thor holds his gaze with all the plain equanimity he can summon and releases his brother's hand. He waits for him to draw it back, but Loki only closes his eyes, for one slow moment. When he opens them, they are the color of sunlight passing through a calm ocean and for once, no drowned secrets lie beneath. "You have grown wise," his brother muses. He laughs, and it is a bell-clear sound, beautiful and weightless. He bows his head regally. "Worthy Thor, I am honoured."

Thor laughs, his throat thick with relief as Loki steps into him once more. He leans his cheek against Thor's shoulder and allows him to take his weight. Thor settles his arm around the back of Loki's body, and holds himself so still that he almost stops breathing. "Do you still hate me then?"

Loki settles into this new posture, his hand still resting lightly in Thor's palm. "I could never hate you," he says easily, as if this were ever plainly evident to anyone who has wished to learn it. "I was angry with you, but I never hated you."

Thor lifts his eyebrows and laughs aloud, surprised. "You have turned over a new leaf. That's more honesty than I've heard from you in aeons, brother."

Loki shrugs. "There's no harm in it now," he says. He turns Thor's hand over and idly traces his fingertip along the tendon between each knuckle. Thor's heart clenches. It was only ever his brother who would touch him like this and Thor cannot remember the last time Loki had touched him. "There are none now amongst the living who would laugh at me." A pause. "I am sorry about your friends."

Thor hums gravely. "So am I." He drops his chin gingerly atop his brother's dark hair and breathes deep of the scent of him. It is familiar and as warming as drink. He sways them together, lightly. "But they each died a warriors' deaths, and when the turning of the world comes and death comes for all of us, I shall see them again in Valhalla and be happy for it."

"Then let us drink to that." Loki ducks beneath his arm and goes to retrieve the bottle. Thor feels the loss but he follows him gladly, still holding his hand. Loki holds the liquor aloft. "To the turning of the world. To Valhalla," he announces. He drinks and, so close, Thor can see his throat working as he swallows.

When his brother presses the bottle into his hand, Thor looks at him. He says wryly, before he drinks, "Loki, we are not going to die for a very long time yet."

Loki snorts. "That is optimistic." He draws Thor back down onto the widow ledge, and Thor goes with him. Thor decides he can accept the substitute when Loki sits close and pushes them together, shoulder to hip.

"You don't believe that," Thor needles him, knocking him with his elbow. "You haven't changed so much that you would maroon yourself on a doomed ship, if you truly thought it hopeless."

Loki re-balances himself and rolls his eyes. "Well I still might leave if it suits me. You said it yourself." He flaps a hand blithely, but the cut of his words is prickly, "I am my own man, after all."

Thor's lips tighten over his teeth. "Will you?" Something hard and challenging flattens his voice, some sudden thunder, like the sort that breaks upon a fine spring day. "Are you going?"

Loki looks at him levelly but then he sighs. "No," he says peevishly, ducking away, "but I don't see why you can't just play along with it."

Thor moves the bottle away when Loki reaches for it. Loki frowns at him, annoyed, but Thor holds his gaze, unblinking, until Loki flushes beneath his pallor and looks away again. Thor doesn't let him. He catches his brother's face with his palm and turns him, his thumb holding firm upon the hard angle of Loki's jaw. Loki lets himself be turned. His face is hot. "I'm finished with playing that game with you, brother," Thor says, all humour gone. It is as if he is doomed to have this same conversation forever. He thinks back to all the times before that he has begged for his brother's constancy, and, like a mirror reflected back on itself, it is as if he looks endlessly into one image. "I will not grieve you a third time," he says. "Stay or don't, only choose one and do it."

Loki blinks rapidly. "Do you want me to stay?" He sounds choked and breathless.

Thor releases him. "Of course I want you to stay, I always want you to stay." Exasperated, his hand drifts up toward his crown to sweep in past his hair, only to remember, once it is there, that he has no hair to push back from his face. He has forgotten where and when he is. "If it were up to me, you would have never left me in the first place, but I am not your tyrant."

"No," Loki says softly, his hands twisting together in his lap. "No, you are only my brother."

Thor shakes his head and drains the rest of the drink in one swallow. "You know, historically, every time we try to talk about this, you cause a great big fuss, we fight, I beat you, and then you leave anyway." He scrapes irritably at his beard. "So do forgive me if I tire of retreading this path again."

"That was before," his brother says. He pulls his knee back to his chest and leans against it, away from Thor. His hair spills like ink over his shoulder and he looks at once exhausted and boyish, self-conscious and ancient. "And I will not apologise for it."

Thor rounds on him. "Who's asking you to?" he snaps. Loki does not respond. Thor scoffs. "So, what? Is that it? One last drink for old times’ sake?"

"That's not it."

"Then what is it, Loki?"

"Here," Loki says, producing a new bottle, amber in colour and heavier than the last. "Drink."

Thor takes it. He rips up the cork and drains the bottle with spiteful obedience. It burns. "If you're trying to get me drunk so it hurts less in the morning, it's not going to work."

"Did it hurt before?"

"Of course it bloody hurt, you blistering idiot," Thor spits. He feels fragile, cracking along his edges. "I thought you dead, twice. I drank Asgard dry the first time and I simply left after the second."

"I know." Loki slips his hand back into Thor's. It is as much comfort as it is concession, but Thor takes it anyway, pressing tight.

"I know you know." They were the worst times of his life, his world collapsed in upon him with him still trapped inside. He can hardly remember them at all, only in bursts, only in non-specifics, but of course, Loki had not intervened -- indifferent, always, as if Thor and the way his world was ending were specimen in a jar. Thor scrubs his face and holds his palm there over his aching eyes. "Thrice damned, since when are you so solicitous after my feelings." He would pull himself away from his brother's touch, if only he were not a coward.

Loki leans into him, puts his head again on Thor's shoulder. His touch and voice are faint. "I always care about your feelings, brother. Sometimes I wish I didn't, but I --" He trails off, stops.

Thor waits a beat, and then a scowl forms heavily over his brow. "Is this some new habit of yours, starting sentences and then... " He gestures. When Loki does not look away this time, he urges impatiently, "Well? You what?"

"I cannot seem to disregard your dislike for me."

Thor rolls his eyes. "I've always admired you, Loki, you know that."

"Do I?"

Thor throws up his hands and leans back against the windowglass. "Cleverest man in Asgard!" he exclaims. "Cleverer than our father -- my father," he corrects irritably, "yes, all right." He looks at his brother, whose cautious eyes regard him as a that of cornered beast's regarding the hunter. Thor looks at him directly, unyielding. "You're strong Loki, and you're brilliant, and you might have been wiser than Odin one day. We all thought it; mother said so all the time. She always said that if I were ever to rule, that there was no better man than you to have at my side, and I thought it to. You have the head for rule, and the heart--"

Loki shakes his head violently, compulsively. "Not the heart, no. I've never--" He is vibrating, his eyes screwed shut, and he does not seem able anymore to choose his own words. "You, you, you're beautiful, you're perfect--"

"Brother."

"No, you see, I could never see past it, I tried." The set of Loki's face wavers, his pale eyes trapped between two incompatible realities, both truths. He looks angry and hopeful, terrified and desperately sad -- snared between belief and doubt. Thor knows that feeling. It is the same feeling caught within his own breast. "I couldn't envy you for it, so I tried to hate you, but I couldn't. Even when we were apart, even when I thought you lost from me for good, down in that cell." He covers his face with his palms as if to stopper his own voice, but all he says next it is only muffled instead, "And I could never be happy. All I could ever do was want for things that I couldn't name and couldn't get."

Thor sighs. "I know. Brother, I know." He remembers the devastation that had wrecked him when he thought Loki dead, the way his insides had grown to ice and splintered as Loki had gone cold between his arms. He remembers how Jane's little, lukewarm hands had brought him up from his knees and he had looked at her as a stranger, comprehending at last that he was in a world of strangers now. His brother was dead and he would never know happiness again.

Loki's eyes search his. Thor doesn't know if he can put to speech what it is his brother is looking for, but he prays that he will find it. He chafes Loki's hand in both of his and, lost for words, presses his lips to the back of his own palm. Loki's breath shivers. He whispers, "It is not fair when I've never had room in my heart for anything but you."

When Loki kisses him, it does not feel like a surprise.

Thor responds swiftly, sweeping Loki into his lap and holding him there as Loki's vicious mouth yields beneath his. His hands seek skin, and it is given to him freely, gladly; Loki bends to meet him and his clothes part beneath Thor's hands like butter. Loki tastes of quicksilver and of the sun through new leaves, of midwinter firelight and the air after a storm. Thor remembers, now, every touch that has brought them to this, every brotherly assurance, every passing glance, every bruise -- and behind it, always, this bare and incomprehensible yearning.

Loki moans, intimate and open, and the unnameable becomes named, the shame given absolution. The whole of his life snaps suddenly into complete and perfect focus. This has been his monster all along, this clawing want, this unspeakable hunger so constant that it burned at the bottom of his every breath. Unaddressed, unacknowledged its whole long life, it had deformed him.

As Loki's mouth smears over his cheek, as his light fingers find the seams of their crude, hewn bodies and rend, it feels like standing up after a lifetime spent in a bend; it feels like the first full breath after only ever having sipped on air. Thor knows freedom for the first time he can remember, and the gnawing teeth behind all of his fear and worry and strangling precautions draw back into their ugly heads. The great inviolable question of his soul finds its answer at last: it was Loki. It was only ever Loki.

When he seizes the back of Loki's head and returns him to his mouth, his brother sighs. Thor can feel something stubborn inside of himself give way beneath the hot silk of Loki's skin and the cold marble underneath, and then, all at once Thor can feel Loki pouring through him, subtle as smoke, sharp as electricity, and when Thor pushes back, Loki opens his soul to him in welcome.

It is elemental, organic, as the way fire consumes or how the heavens turn. It is like every colour bound together into one, like sunlight. Thor can see himself through Loki's eyes, the familiar geography of his features mapped and given beautiful names: the cheekbone by which Loki has measured all other faces; the precise warmth and weight of his hands between which Loki finds his solace and his comfort; his stubborn mouth which Loki has learned for its every curve, its every salacious expression.

Thor smashes open the long-kept reservoir of his own stolen inspections, his persistent fascinations, and a flood rises within him of Loki's every aspect which he has held in covetous admiration: the fine and twining musculature of his neck and arms; the sharp, watchful intelligence behind his eyes; the deft, sinuous migration of his fingers as he weaves his spells.

Loki holds Thor within himself and Thor knows, all at once, a love so personal as a love of self, glorious as a love of empire, so desperate as a love of air or water or sustenance. Loki lives within all of him and Thor knows now that he lives within Loki as well. They have been half of each other's lives, the whole of the other's hearts, and now with the crude boundaries of their bodies and minds dissolved, Thor knows who he is. He is Loki's. Loki is his. This is truth.

Loki gasps through his open mouth, sparks igniting in his vision through Thor's eyes. Thor matches him and the both of them tremble beneath the glittering weight that has settled, diaphanous and encompassing over their shoulders. Loki buckles and Thor hides his face into his pulse.

When he catches Loki into his arms, it feels like coming home

Thor comes into himself again in pieces. When he opens his eyes, it is difficult to remember how to see again through just his own one eye, how to feel with just his skin. Loki clings to him, draped over his lap, his clothes in ruin, his limbs shivering and soft. They breathe together, as one lung, and Thor cannot stop himself from seeking the white skin of Loki's neck. His brother moves against him and captures his mouth with his own gasping mouth. His hands spread over Thor's shining arms, caressing, while Thor threads his fingers into Loki's dark, soft hair.

When Loki breaks them apart, it is so gentle that it feels like a promise rather than punishment. Thor moans. "Again." The music is his voice is lost beneath the crush of his desire.

But Loki holds him fast, his panting mouth mere breathes away, only when Thor moves, Loki does not rise to meet him. He shakes his head. "I only wanted to see," he says, as if through a dream. He touches Thor's cheek. His eyes are still shut, and he moves so slowly and clumsily that Thor steals another kiss from him before he can do anything about it.

Thor chuckles. He draws Loki's thumb into his mouth and works the knuckle with his teeth and tongue. Beneath the flickering, golden light, his brother's eyes are nearly black when they open and Thor can hear his naked want calling to his own. Thor grins. "What can I show you, brother?" He shifts a subtle measure and, for a moment, Loki's weight comes off his knees and seats fully into his lap.

Loki's breath catches. He draws his finger from between Thor's teeth and wets his curving lip. He presses his brow to Thor's, shuddering. His voice crackles as he whispers, "How it might feel to be whole."

"What do you mean?" Thor hums. His eye drifts open and then shut, and every time he closes it, he can feel the afterimages of Loki's every thought. He reaches out, touches a stray, cold curl of his brother’s building anxiety, and feels it disintegrate into light. Thor tugs on Loki's hands, kisses the hinge of his jaw and a hard coiling knot of it begin to dissolve. Loki protests faintly but he begins to struggle. Thor clamps an arm around his waist. "No, there, sit there a while," Thor insists, putting his bearded cheek against his brother's beating chest and feeling it scratch though Loki's skin. Loki grasps at his forearm. "Stay," Thor says petulantly. "You said you would stay."

"This is absurd," Loki complains. He shifts on his knees, poorly balanced on the narrow seat. "I am too tall for this."

"I don't care." He touches the back of Loki's hand on his arm and Loki lifts it readily. Thor lines their fingertips together and Loki slips his in between. He wants to put Loki onto his back and learn the taste of his heartbeat through his skin. He wants to touch his hidden thoughts and secret melancholies and learn their every shape and texture. He wants to spread his brother out into pieces, evenly, meticulously, until he is naught but motes of shimmering dust and Thor is the same.

"I do not think I could bear it if you tried for decorum right now." Thor lifts his head, smiling, his throat fully bared, and Loki touches it in wonderment, his protests forgotten.

"I would know..." Thor hears his brother murmur, so low that Thor thinks he might have imagined it. But then Loki smiles. "Take me to bed then." He kisses Thor softly. "I am cold."

Thor lifts him easily, and Loki lets him -- he lets him, god, the things Thor can do now that Loki will let him, now that he is permitted. He sets Loki atop the bedclothes and Loki watches him with unadorned hunger as Thor steps back and works deftly at the clasps and buckles of his chestplate.

"Come," he calls quietly when Thor is sufficiently bare, and he receives Thor into his bed as if he has been doing it all his life. Ensconced within the bedsheets, Loki arranges them so that they are half on top of one another. Thor kisses him again and Loki makes small, infuriating, amenable sounds as his hands drift aimlessly over Thor's skin.

But Thor wants more. He would bring Loki to the very brink of his own body, damp-skinned and pleading for Thor's mercy.

Loki groans and shivers as Thor manoeuvres him beneath his body. He would bend as Thor would bend him; he would unfurl however Thor would unfurl him. Thor knows this. He tastes his brother's anticipation and acquiescence like spilt wine. Already his elegant hands manacle themselves to the crossbars of his headboard at Thor's behest, his flanks and front spread and stretched deliciously for Thor's tasting mouth.

Thor cups his palm beneath the bend of Loki's knee, and lifts it smoothly back. The colours of Loki's mind ignite and darken. "I would know thee by thy body," he says, but it is Loki's oaths that come out. Loki groans. Thor blinks, returns, and slowly grins.

"And I would my body give to thee," Thor finishes. He waits a moment as the disbelief twists his brother's face and then resolves. Loki looks at him, new marvel in his eyes. He surges suddenly and kisses Thor, and then Thor is awash in his brother's soaring relief, his bottomless joy. His mind comes away lurid with the places of his body that Loki has imagined Thor's hands, his mouth. Loki shuts his eyes as Thor lays him back. He covers his face with his wrists. "Yes," he breathes. "To thee."

The great yawning pit of his want joins Thor's in the bottom of his stomach, as Thor fits them together and then fits himself inside.

Loki moves with him, pulled by the same tide, moved by the same moon. The geography of Loki's soul opens for him and Thor arrives upon it softly. Loki fills him, envelopes him, and Thor touches through his every thought and sensation as it passes through his grasp. It will never be enough, Thor despairs, though he is not certain if it is his thought or Loki's when it emerges. This was what Loki had meant; this was the danger all along. They've been given a single mouthful of kindness and now must know what it is to live without. They could each live ten thousand years and spend every minute of it in each other's arms, and it would not be enough.

But Loki shakes his head and opens his dark eyes. "It can be," he says, almost voiceless. "It has to be." He pulls his heels into the small of Thor's back and brings him closer. "I could not bear it otherwise." He winds his fingers into the damp buzz of Thor's hair and pulls him down to him. "Kiss me and let us dwell no more on it," he says, and Thor does as he is told, grateful, overcome, knowing the end but willing for forever.

Power builds within his body, ready and aching. Outside the window, a swirl of cosmic dust churns, violet explosions flashing through violet clouds. He glows beneath his skin, but Loki opens his mouth to him and catches his kiss as if he were tasting rain. He shudders as he comes, as Thor follows him, as Thor's blue lightning fills him, holds him gently, wreathes them both.

Loki allows him fold them together again afterwards, allows Thor to arrange them so that they can see each other as they lay together breathing. Thor's pulse is quiet within him even as his heart hums with one harmonious note. The great storm of his life, the one he had never even known he was weathering, has ended. Thor is clean, new, and the long, long past recedes easily beneath the placid waves. He looks into his brother's smooth, flushed face and he sees his future.

Thor puts his lips to his brother's brow and smiles against his skin. "I adore you," Loki says in a small voice. His fingers tighten at Thor's waist and Thor lifts his chin so that Loki may tuck himself beneath it.

Thor laughs drowsily. "I know that," he says. "You don't know how glad it makes me." Loki's dark hair has fallen from its part and it drags in cool coils across Thor's arm. Thor puts his hand through it, sweeping it back and his brother looks up at him, his eyes sober.

"I do," Loki says. His mind, always working, momentarily quietened, moils once more. Thor frowns. "It is beyond reason, brother. It is more than anything; it is more than life." Placating, Thor touches his cheek and Loki turns into him immediately. He kisses Thor's palm. "You could skin me like a lamb and my last thought would be how I love you," he says fiercely.

Thor turns his face. "I would not," he says, horrified. "I would never." Loki's brows gain a troubled furrow but he looks away, assenting. Thor strokes the furl with his thumb until Loki relinquishes it. He takes Thor's hand and kisses it once more, then lets it slide back into his hair. Thor strokes him and says more softly, "And what does it matter if it is beyond reason, if I am the same?"

"No, but can't you see?" Loki drops his head into Thor's shoulder again. "This --" he gestures miserably. "This is unnatural."

"How do you mean?" Thor lets him hide. If it makes it easier for him, Thor will hide him from himself. "So we are lovers now," he says and feels Loki's breath hitch. "So what? We share no blood, and even if we did, who would challenge it?" He strokes the line of his back until Loki breathes again, however raggedly. "We are kings of Asgard, brother, what authority reigns higher?" A laugh escapes him on a wet, choked breath and Thor rocks him, lightly, forming himself around the warm, solid, precise weight of him.

"Don't cry," he says. "Don't make yourself miserable. We've found each other now. I love you, and I have wanted you all my life." He kisses his brother's damp cheek. "I was blind not to see it before but I do see it now."

Loki pulls back and looks at him. His smile is wistful and pained. "You may say to me every beautiful word that I have ever wished to hear, and it would still be true." He unwinds himself from Thor's limbs and rises up to his elbows. Thor touches his arm, deploring the loss, as Loki wipes at his face with the backs of his wrists. "It is not the quality of love but the quantity of it," he says bitterly. He pulls at Thor's grip. "Let go," he says, quieter. "When you touch me, I can feel you inside my head."

"Yes," Thor accedes cautiously, but he does it anyway because his brother asks, "and you're inside mine." Loki sits up from the bed in one determined movement and slides off the side. Thor sits up as well, alarmed. "What's the matter?"

His brother is at his closet, and Thor watches as, one at a time, pieces dissolve from their hangers and resolve themselves on Loki's skin.

"Loki." Thor crosses the room to where Loki is standing and catches him by the elbow. A wall of dread goes up in his brother's mind, but Thor pushes past it, back into the centre of him. Loki turns to him, expressions of fear and fury, gratefulness and regret warring in the tiny movements of his brow and lips. Thor kisses him, and as before, Loki returns it without hesitation. Thor steeps into it every measure of affection he can muster, every tender feeling and assurance. His brother falters, but he steps into him. His hands waver as he slips them around the back of Thor's neck.

"Tell me what is the matter," Thor says again as he pulls his brother back into his arms.

Loki shakes his head. "You don't understand, I never." His hands fist against Thor's shoulders as Thor absently tucks a strand of his dark hair back behind his ear, and he nearly sobs. Loki takes a breath. "You know nothing; you deserve to know," he bites out. "This is not you or me. We are cursed. Odin cursed us."

Thor flinches at the sound of his father's name before he can stop himself. "What?" he demands. "How?"

His brother laughs wetly. "You know, I hoped you'd be drunker for this. You're always so much more tractable when you're drunk. You don't ask nearly so many questions." He jerks, but Thor's arms have been turned to stone. "Unhand me," he says unhappily.

"No." He can feel his brother's self-recrimination and doubt, his panic like an acid bubbling beneath the an indelible anger. He can feel his need for flight. It hits him like a fist and brings up to the surface all of Thor's own dread, his own terror.

Loki struggles again, but Thor is unmovable. "At least let me finish dressing," he scolds.

"No," Thor intones. "Explain it or don't, it matters very little to me." He looks at his brother, his eyes hard. "What do I care for curses, Odin's or no? Sod him, he was an old man with an old man's schemes. What did he know? My god, Loki, Loki." He holds his brother to him as if that were all that would make the difference, and cups his hand to Loki's face with all the murderous adoration of a cheated supplicant. "If you leave me again after this, I will never forgive you, I swear it."

Loki shakes his head. "It was he who made us like this!" he cries. One more time, he shoves at Thor, and this time Thor lets him go. Loki rounds the room, his hands flying, frantic as loosed birds. "That's why he took me," he says. His eyes are wide, landing on nothing and everything. At last he sits himself again on the edge of the bed. "I was never meant to be your brother." His head sinks into his hands, muffles his voice. "But only that I turned out," he gestures, "as I am."

Ice runs down through Thor's veins. "What do you mean?"

Loki looks up at him from above his fingertips. "Did he never tell you how he lost his eye?"

"Yes," Thor replies, crossing his arms, "he told all of us; it was never a secret. He traded it to the Norns for the wisdom to rule his kingdom."

"Yes," Loki agrees, "to rule, to ensure his line evermore." He breathes deep and sits back, casting his eyes to the ceiling. "Without slander, what do you know about the Jotnar?"

Thor sighs. He is reminded of when they were young, when his brother would try to teach him philosophy by irritating him with questions until he found the answers. "They are giants," he answers dutifully. "They are fierce warriors, they are... Blue?" Loki looks at him expectantly. Thor shrugs belligerently. "I do not know what you wish me to say."

"How do they fight?"

"With their ice magic--"

"Yes." Loki holds up one long finger. "Magic."

Thor rolls his eyes. He remembers this too, when Loki used to lead him to answers and make him feel like an idiot for not grasping their significance. "I do not understand," he concedes.

But Loki keeps going. "Your grandmother, your father's mother, who was she?"

Thor frowns. "I never met her, but she was a great lady of--"

"She was a Jotun," Loki pronounces. He stands back up again and begins pacing the room, his hands clasped behind his back as if in recital. "She betrayed her race and coupled with an Aesir, your grandfather, who made her a new body, a white body," Loki gestures to himself, to the pale skin of his torso that Thor had marked in worship. “She, in turn, gave her magic to her many sons, of which your father slew one by one until Asgard was his alone. That is the custom, is it not?"

Thor shakes his head, his mouth dry. He feels like he's falling, like his earth is moving beneath him, and like Loki is the only still point he can conceive, but that he won't hold still. "But I was never asked to slay you."

Loki makes a dismissive gesture. "We'll get there," he says, distractedly, "but for now consider this: your father's line runs thin. He has slain his brothers for his father's kingdom and his mother's magic but neither will have him -- he is not the most worthy, only the most brutal."

Thor feels an old instinct of obligation stir within him to defend the Allfather's name, but what does he know? What has he ever known except for what his father had taught him? He had doubted, of course, but it was ever unspoken, all spoken words too close, somehow, too loud.

Loki continues without mercy, "Odin paid the Norns, and they gave him wisdom." He spits the word. "And when it was time for him to get his get, he married a Vanir witch, your mother."

"Our mother," Thor snaps.

Loki startles, but then he sees Thor's face. "Yes," he concedes, "all right," but he goes to Thor then and slides himself back into the empty spot left next to him. He kisses Thor briefly, just left of his mouth, and then takes his hands and leads him back to the bed. Thor lets Loki sit him down and then himself over his lap. He loops his hands around him at once and lets his brother feed him the warmth and calm of his body.

Loki continues more softly, "Mother gives him Hela, you see, and he crafts her into a killer. But once the killing is done, she outlives her usefulness to him. And so now he needs another child. Someone who will rule after him."

"Me."

"Yes," Loki says, and he lays his long hand against Thor's face. "You, my brother." He says it with a sudden tenderness, as if he were sorry.

Thor swallows his agony so that Loki might see nothing but stone in his face. "Tell me the rest then."

Loki leans his head against his anyway. "Vanir magic is learned, so cannot be given, and it is not true seith," he says. "And Odin will not give up what he killed so many to take. So you are to have no magic of your own, no magic to give to your heirs, no magic for the whole of Odin's line because he cannot let go of anything." He nods in resignation. "So he goes to the source."

"Jotunheim," Thor finishes for him. How the old rage he had felt towards Odin those years back pales now in the light of this clarion fury. He who had cast them as worthy and unworthy, as noble and ignoble, who cast himself as justice and judge -- he who was himself a murderer and a thief. Thor had faced his father's many faults, counted and mourned them and had privately abjured him as a king but loved him still as a father. How can he love him now? "He takes you."

"Yes." Loki sighs, and Thor would keep him here forever if he could, as though he could be shielded from the rest of the world's misery by Thor's body. "I was Laufey's only child, you see. I had the purest blood to share."

"And then?"

Loki begins a gesture with one hand but then lets it drop. "Then he binds us," he says tiredly. "It's a simple enough ritual. Even Odin Death-Bringer could do it. I did--" he says. He swallows. He closes his eyes and leans into Thor. They hold each other up. "I suspected something of the sort," he confesses. "Years ago now, I went to speak to the Norns. They laughed when I asked them to answer my questions. They're greedy, you know. They answer to no one without a price."

Thor's hands tighten along his brother's hip. His pulse is already in his mouth, but the horror comes anyway. "What did you give them?"

Loki waves him off impatiently. "Nothing of importance, nothing you'd miss."

"Tell me anyway," Thor demands.

"I have seen my death."

Terror runs the very heart of him through. "Brother," he rasps.

Loki shrugs evasively. "I don't know when," he supplies, as if that were an assurance.

"Tell me how it happens at least."

"So that you might defy the Norns?" Loki looks at him, and Thor stares back, conceding nothing, stubborn even as he knows the immutability of the fates.

"It is nothing," Loki says at last. "It's innocence, and what good have I ever had for innocence? But they showed me what I wanted, and I found it where they said I would." He holds his hand up and the light of his pocket dimension shines again.

Thor reaches out on numb instinct, alarmed. "Wait, hold on."

But what emerges is nothing he recognizes, only a piece of silver, the size and shape of an egg, striated like the rings of a tree or of a thumbprint. Thor reaches out for it, but Loki pulls it back. "Don't touch it," he says softly. "I don't know what would happen if we both touched it. Nothing good, I suspect. They'll want to go home."

"It's--" Thor begins, but some part of him already knows.

"It's our souls," his brother tells him. It glows, faintly with its own dim light that seems almost blue against Loki's skin. "I found them buried beneath the roots of Yggdrasil. They weren't doing anyone any good there, so I took them. I thought maybe I could work to separate them, but," he shrugs.

"Here," he says. "Hold out your hand." Thor does so, and Loki drops it into his hand from a height. Thor turns it over, examining. It is heavy, heavier than he expected, but the shape does not hold, smoothly amorphous in his palm. The striations, as they had appears, are not striations at all but folds of beaten metal.

"Why?" he asks. It had been warm to the touch at first, but quickly he feels his skin going numb as if of cold. He tosses it into his other hand. The vessel warms comfortably this time even as Thor flexes his fingers until the feeling returns.

Loki twists his hands together in his lap and shrugs. "Odin needed to bind me into his line somehow, and so he did it in the most obdurate manner possible." A color of deep shame crawls up his pale shoulders. "You were to be my collar and my chain and now you see now how gladly I would have worn them. How happy I would have been to let you unmake me. What a different life we might have had--" His voice pitches and cracks, Thor reaches to steady him, but he regains himself.

"But as it turned out, I could not take up the necessary utility to give you heirs, and so he was forced to made us up this farcical brotherhood. It wasn't his fault," he says sardonically, "how was he to know? What difference is a Jotun man to a Jotun woman to a Jotun dog to an Aesir. We are all monsters after all."

Thor is frozen within himself. The whole of his history, of Asgard's history, has been turned on its head, and he would say that his brother was lying; he wants to believe that his brother is lying, except that he feels Loki's misery and fear and repudiation. He feels Loki's sour heartbeat in his own chest.

"Loki," he says, but Loki is gone from him, and though he holds the weight and warmth of him, he might as well hold to him an armful of air. He has so many questions and no way to ask them, no words that he can put together that will not cut his brother deeper than the wound he has already opened himself. "I'm sorry," he says instead. "Truly I am. If I had known --"

"What?" Loki turns to him. Every line shows on his face, and his eyelids droop in exhaustion. "What could you have done? You were a child, same as me, and Odin's crimes, such as they are," he gestures dismissively, "he will never pay for them." He draws himself back and slides from Thor's lap.

Thor doesn't know where he stands again, doesn't know where to begin. Gone is the certainty they had only just discovered as Loki crosses the room again and finishes dressing himself by hand. Thor watches him. "It isn't fair," Thor says softly.

Loki scoffs. "I do not tell you this for your pity," he sneers.

Thor shakes his head. "It is not pity, brother." He looks at his brother and silently wills him to look back. "Only that I grieve for you."

Loki sighs. He glances at Thor from over his shoulder. "You're a soft-headed fool," he says more quietly, "but I thank you." He looks down at his gloveletted hands. He is silent for a long while. "I want you, but," he says finally, then stops, and he laughs bleakly. "My god, I wish that I could have come by you honestly." He picks at his own knuckle, twisting the edge of his nail around the white joint.

"I wish that I could have met you in your father's court, or on some matter of diplomacy. I wish I could have glanced you from across a battlefield and felt my breath be taken. Your great and noble heart could have been the greatest prize I ever won, and I could have--" A line of blood splits across his finger and he stops. "We could have had each other honestly."

Thor shakes his head as he watched his brother suck the blood out from his small wound. "You would have hated me," he says hollowly. "I would have been insufferable." Loki's face twists and he scoffs. Thor stands, but goes no further. "I am only am the man I am today because of my brother." Loki looks at him, his eyes red. "I am yours, Loki," he offers quietly, spreading his hands, "as surely as if you had made me.

Loki smiles. "My very own god of thunder." He is fond beneath his bitterness. He sniffs and wipes surreptitiously at his cheeks. "For all that is worth when he cannot be anyone else's."

Thor grimaces. His hands land back at his sides, "I told you," he says. "I don't care a fig for Odin's plans and I still don't. I know my own mind. I told you that I've wanted you forever, since the cradle. Not even you can make me give that up." He knows this now, what a blind man could have seen. When he was frightened, when he was uncertain, when he was in pain, it was never Odin he went to, or Frigga, once he was out of skirts. He went to his brother. He was valiant for his father; he was gentle for his mother, but it was his brother's scorn that taught him to be kind, and, in the end it was his brother's death that taught him what it meant to be king.

If Thor could bring himself to touch him, he could make him know all of this, but Thor has taken from his brother enough to last ten lifetimes. So he tells him instead, "I am yours because without you I would have never been myself. That is fate, as I understand it." Even from across the room, he sees Loki's pale features warring again against his own unkindnesses. Thor finishes as plainly as he can, "One way or another, my life would not have been my life if it did not lead me to you."

Loki takes a step toward him unthinkingly. "I know. I am the same," he says hoarsely, but then he laughs. With the air of telling a good joke, he says, "So you see then, brother, I do belong to you after all. I never had a choice. We never had a choice. But I --" he looks at Thor with an expression full of entreaty. "I have been a slave to his devices my entire life. I cannot even conceive what shape my life might have been without his hand in it, and even now that he is dead, still he has a hold over me."

"I know," Thor says. He reaches out his hand and Loki takes it almost gratefully. He puts his arms around Thor's shoulders and so that Thor is permitted to fold himself around him, to put his cheek into his hair and breathe as if he could stain his lungs with him and keep him next to his heart forever. Loki's mind floods back into his and Thor wills him to quiet where he will be quieted, tries to soothe him where he will not. He murmurs, "It's not right, beloved. It's not fair."

Loki huffs, "Beloved."

"Aye, if that is not too forward."

His brother pauses. "It is proper," he concedes, but Thor feels a floret of pleasure bloom across his heart.

Thor laughs quietly. "Then, beloved, go. You owe me nothing, and I do not bind you. It was shameful of me to have tried." Loki pulls away and looks at him, confused, but Thor only kisses the angle of his temple and says, "I cannot right the wrongs that have been done, but I will do no more."

He steps back away from Loki and takes his hand in one of his. From the other, he produces the silver vessel. Its light pulses gold and warm in his palm.

"My brother," he says solemnly, "your lot is my lot, your hurts are my hurts, and if your soul belongs to you alone no longer, then neither does mine."

Loki clenches Thor's hand and shakes it insistently. "Brother, you don't know what it is you're offering."

Thor gazes at him soberly. "You said it yourself, what good is it doing anyone buried beneath that tree. You said they wanted a home."

"Yes but," Loki shakes his head, "you will never get it back. They will go evenly between us and, Thor, someone with greater skill than I might still be able to undo this, but if we do this, that hope is lost."

"What is it that you want?"

Loki's eyes search his face wildly. "I--" he stammers. "It's you, isn't it?" He looks bewildered and awed. "You know that. It's always going to be you."

Thor offers up his hand again. "Take me with you, then," he says, "whatever you can carry. Whatever you can fit inside your pocket." Loki laughs. His eyes are wet again but perfectly clear. Thor leans their heads together. "I can imagine you walking the skies and slipping between the stars. I can imagine the world’s only you can discover -- green worlds brimming with life. Crystalline worlds that the suns never shine. And maybe one day," he says, hushed, "when you've walked your fill, you will return, and I will welcome you into my hall and then, if you would like to stay, you can stay."

His brother breathes out quick and Thor can feel the tendrils of his breath caressing his face. "You have beautiful dreams," he whispers. "I used to wish I could live inside your dreams."

"I have never heard of a Jotun wanderer. I should like to think that my brother could be the first."

Loki nods but he says, "Wouldn't I be lonely, though? Walking alone." A beat. "I have never heard of an Aesir wanderer either."

Thor hums. "No, I suppose the Aesir are a warrior people. There isn't much wandering to be had save the travel of fighting."

"Would you come with me, if I asked you to?" Loki lays his hand carefully over Thor's chest, over his heart. "Would you walk the stars with me together?"

"Ah," Thor says, even as he feels Loki spinning tales inside his mind, great adventures across the stars, grand discoveries, quiet moments when the two of them can be alone. He pushes them gently aside. "But Asgard must have her king, but more than that, her chief protector. I cannot leave her as she is, vulnerable and unguarded."

"Brother, please," Loki says, pulling back and looking Thor fiercely in the eye. "You have spent your entire life in service of Asgard. I know," he says hastily before Thor can interject, "that that is what a king is, but even now that you are king, will you not have one thing for yourself? One dream?" he asks, his smooth voice making it sound so reasonable. "One thing that can be unquestionably and only yours? You are more than what you can do for others. You are so much more than a strong back that carries. My love, please," he says as he presses his lips to the palm of Thor's hand. "You have never had a choice either."

"No," Thor accedes, touching his brother's stained cheek, "but I would see these people safe from harm"

"And if they were safe, and then?" Loki asks breathlessly. "When there are no more wars to be waged or conquests to be had? When you have done your duty to these people, what then?"

"Then." Thor frowns outwardly, but he knows. In his heart, he knows. Kingship is sacrifice; it is a duty greater than his duty to himself. These people have nothing and want for everything, except for a king. How could he take that from them as well?

But I don't see why you can't just play along, says his brother's voice, so Thor lets himself smile slowly. "Well, I don't know. Where would you want to go first?"

Loki's face breaks then, as a storm that ends, as a new day that dawns, his smile warmer and brighter than all the sunlit summers Thor has ever known. He leans into the line of Thor's body. One hand fits into Thor's as their bound souls take up, at last, their rightful thrones. Thor feels hot and the cold and then nothing new in particular. Perhaps that is what it feels like to be whole, or perhaps it is simply only something that Thor has already found.

Loki's other hand curls gently over Thor's thundering throat. He says, "Then I can be happy--"

A moment later, his world explodes.

[shadowofthelamp]

Okay, I’m still on this. Building on this post, having Scourge genuinely want Sonic to join him is just a really, really interesting narrative choice, and I want to figure out where it came from. There’s a TL;DR at the end since it got a bit long.

Is it on some level that he thinks heroism is naïve and he just thinks Sonic can do better? Yeah, I think that’s part of it. It comes up both when he’s trying to convince Sonic in 191 and after he thinks he’s won in 196 when he goes Super. Between “What does heroism get you?” in the page below and “See what that (holier-than-thou attitude) got you?!” in the linked page this very much informs his worldview. Heroism leading to bad outcomes both for the people being heros and the world in general (in his eyes) means that heroic actions (and the attitude, thinking heroism is better than selfishness) must be bad as well. 

“I got that my way, not yours. Folks smile and wave you you? Everyone bows to me!” He doesn’t want everyone genuinely liking him as a person, not that he’d admit anyway- he wants worship, for people to look up at him instead of across the aisle. He 100% rules the Suppression Squad via fear and is perfectly comfortable with it until it blows up in his face. He’s rather keep himself up and out of reach from connections that could hurt him if he opens himself up to them, because he doesn’t truly respect his crew and mostly uses them to inflate his own ego via that bowing/submisson thing.

Obviously the hesitation in that middle panel there is more for the benefit of the audience suspense for the next comic than anything since Sonic would never go for this and he directly states so in the next issue, (and I don’t think it’s really ‘him not wanting to admit it to himself’). Sonic’s expression in the first panel definitely is a ‘are you serious?’ sort of thing, but Scourge sure seems serious about this, considering he brought it up again after going Super, lamenting that Sonic didn’t take what he sees as the smart option. Plus, he’s pissed right here that Metal interrupted. 

He tries to posture himself above Sonic in the page below- the first panel there is referring to the fact that he calls himself a King now. He WANTS to be more than Sonic, so he takes an honestly pretty childish tact to it- he just kicks everybody else down to make himself king of the hill, and then KEEPS kicking them down because he’s never going to get their genuine respect, so he has to keep stomping to keep them below him. .

I think part of the angle here? Scourge, although he’d never consciously admit it, genuinely admires Sonic and wants what he has- respect and affection earned through good character and not fear.

I admittedly don’t know the pre-Ian issues as well, but he repeatedly kept popping up in Prime to pretend he was Sonic. He likes Sonic’s life better- and why wouldn’t he? The Squad has no care for each other. Miles is plotting to usurp him at basically all times, it seems. Patch and Boomer seem to like the new direction/power he brought them as the leader, but they also were willing to turn on him as soon as Miles suggested it. Moebius is generally peaceful, so he never deals with anything interesting, and he’s got an empire of dirt even when he did conquer the planet, from all the infighting after the Great Peace fell apart. Fiona said that he just ‘beat up a few warlords’- he can tell himself he’s king all he wants, but he’s just a kid playing pretend and kicking away anybody who can/would dispel that illusion.

I don’t doubt that just knowing he’s a ‘reverse’ version of someone else grated on him- it’s a heck of an identity crisis, which is probably why he was so eager to accept his recolor and picked a new name almost immediately. He wants to differentiate himself- and forced the Squad to all go along with it. He’s over the top to the Nth degree to prove to HIMSELF that’s he’s the biggest, baddest cat in town. This is something that bugged him a lot.

On top of that, Sonic beat him- he brushed it off, and he could blame Locke for one of them, but generally, toe-to-toe, Sonic’s a better fighter since he just has more practice, and that’s something he does reluctantly admire. He thinks Sonic’s ‘full of untapped potential’- something he can use for himself, sure, but it’s untapped in his opinion specifically, because he thinks on the surface Sonic is just going about things all wrong with the power he has. 

Deep-down, he’s unsure of himself. He’s so egotistical and assholish on the surface because it covers that he’s overcompensating for the fact that pretty much every relationship he has is shallow, selfish, and liable to stab him in the back- and he knows it. If he pretends that’s how he wants things, maybe he can make himself (and everyone watching) believe it.

That’s why he cared enough about Sonic joining him. He wants Sonic to validate the choices he made. Sonic’s one of the only people whose opinion he genuinely cares about, even though it’s under a good few layers of jerkishness, because Sonic is a version of him that has a harder life but is much more successful. He can deny it all he wants, but he wants people to respect him, and all he can do is try to get a facsimile of that by busting heads together and ruling by fear, because anything too introspective leads him to things he doesn’t want to confront about himself- that he is weaker both in character and in battle, and a coward and a bully.

When Sonic turns him down he just brushes it off with ‘your loss’ and a big grin, (while holding Fiona tighter, as if to say ‘look what I have and you don’t’), but then he brings it back when he’s got the upper hand- if he was just rubbing in that Sonic could have avoided a beating, I feel like he would have phrased things differently. Resposting this image, ‘What IS IT with you?’ and ‘We could have done this together, but no! You decided to go the holier-than-thou route!’ says to me that he’s A: Genuinely offended, so the idea of them teaming up had come up in his head before now and wasn’t just thrown out on a whim, and B: He thinks that Sonic thinks that he’s better than him. (Which he does, because... well, he is.)

Scourge came back to Mobius to prove himself against Sonic, but even though he absolutely has the upper hand here, he knows something isn’t right- he doesn’t feel as satisfied as he should. He can’t figure out exactly what he wanted, and is taking it out on Sonic. He’s defensive and aggressive at the same time here- why would he care if Sonic thought himself better than him when he’s already declared that he’s the ‘superior’ of the two? Only his own opinion should matter if he just wants worship, shouldn’t it?

But he doesn’t just want blind worship. He thinks that he does, because that means he doesn’t have to get vulnerable, but he wants someone on his level.- he wanted them to rule the multiverse together. Fiona is decent enough- he does genuinely seem to like her and although their relationship was probably destined to fall apart at some point, for now she was a decent towel stuffed into the wound for that particular problem of ‘not having anyone to care about/to care about him’. However, he wants Sonic- his approval or his defeat, specifically. He wants Sonic either as a partner in crime or as a trophy- either way, he ‘wins’ and proves that his way of kicking his way to the top was the valid, right choice. Sonic is the true version of himself and the opponent he cares most about facing, and his approval means Scourge would win for real. Not getting that wedges a crack in his insecurities.

In his life, heroism had only ever led to problems. It led his dad to neglect him in service of trying to chase peace for everyone else, it led the world to crumble to pieces when that peace failed, and he learned violence was the only thing that got him attention, even though it was negative from everyone outside the Squad. So Sonic embodying that heroism ideal, and then beating him? It throws everything he thinks into question, and he wants to prove that he’s right so he doesn’t have to question it. 

He’s starving for positive interactions from people he respects since they’re so few and far between. He spent time thinking about a comment Sonic made during a previous fight, and then conquered the planet trying to chase the spirit of it even though he got it twisted to the point of unrecognizability. 

Scourge wants to be able to just mill his own confidence- to say he’s a badass and then believe it. And on some level, he can! But that’s flimsy and he requires some manner of outside support he has no real way of getting, and feeling like he’s being looked down on by Sonic hurts him more than he’d admit. 

So, TL;DR: Scourge wants Sonic to validate him and his (bad) worldview, and gets pissy when that doesn’t happen, because he unconsciously respects Sonic more than he’d admit and not getting that means he has to think about how he’s actually messed up in the past. He wants equals because shallow worship borne from fear isn’t a replacement for genuine affection, but he hasn’t matured enough to realize that’s what he actually wants/needs.

[rwbyvein]

Arctic Warfare:  Heart’s Contemplation:  Part II/IV

Pyrrha (Soliloquy): To be, or not to be, that is the question. Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune; or to take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing, end them. My heart belongs to he, and his to she, and hers to burnout in all of her glory. She fights her contemptuous heart, and finds it lost in his slights, and his slights ever the more-so. Her love, her heart, is coifed as mine, and arrayed as finely, but while heart's hope are certain, hers are lost amoung the myriad arrays of the heavens. The thousands of hearts and souls drifting in the cosmos, the chance of finding the one too dear is the chance of fnding an angel dancing upon the head of a pin. But his angel, he has found, and there was one heart to forge her.

Pyrrha: *clutches her chest over her heart*

Pyrrha: *throws down Miló and Akúo*

Miló: *embeds into the ground*

Pyrrha (Soliloqui): Would my heart... could my heart ever be at peace... if his was ever yearning?.. I might be last in love and last in friendship, but battles I ken. I will sacrifice a piece, my heart, so that my king can whole, so that his queen could protect him, even were she not me.

* * *

Pyrrha: *looks at herself in the mirror*

Pyrrha (internally): I have never done such a thing, but the thing is she has always found me so beautiful. I wish I knew what women wanted in a woman. I wish I knew I wanted.

* * *

Pyrrha: *goes to speak, but has to quash the uncertainty inside her*

Pyrrha: *breathes in deep*

Pyrrha: *steps forward*

Pyrrha: Weiss?

Weiss: *develops a brilliant smile*

Pyrrha (internally): First step done. I said hello. She smiled. Let's hope her heart has not faltered.

Pyrrha: I would like to speak to you.

Weiss: Oh? Of course.

* * *

Weiss and Pyrrha: *kneeled on the grass on hills outside Beacon*

Pyrrha: *breathes in deep, trying to quiet the butterflies in her stomach*

Weiss: Are you alright?

Pyrrha: Oh, just... I am unused to such things. As a bit of confession, I've never really had friends. I've always been too shy to talk to people.

Weiss: Pyrrha Nikos, shy?

Pyrrha: I'm afraid so. And I'm afraid that the image of me you have in your head is not the one who sits in front of you.

Weiss: My pardon, but you are legendary.

Pyrrha: The fame has only made this worse. I have been a household name, at least in Argus and then Mistral, from when I was 12. In that time, do you know the first person, other than my parents, to treat as an individual?

Weiss: *fearful look*

Pyrrha: You know him. Not as well as I do, and not as well as he wishes.

Weiss: *panicked look*

Pyrrha: *reaches out to grab the hand held on Weiss knee*

Pyrrha: Weiss. I want to be your friend, but in order to do you, you have to treat me as me.

Pyrrha: *holding Weiss's hand and knee, leans over to kiss her on the cheek*

Pyrrha: Not as the idol, not as the warrior, but the shy, dork of a girl whom simply has something she is good at.

Weiss: You are not a?..

Pyrrha: Dork? Then what do you call the shy girl in class who fails at socializing?

Weiss: You seem to think I'm am especially gifted at such arts.

Pyrrha: No, I don't.

Weiss: But?

Pyrrha: But, how did you reply to Jaune when he first tried to charm you?

Weiss: *clears her throat*

Weiss: I'm afraid I said a number of unkind things.

Pyrrha: You weren't afraid then, why are you now?

Weiss: *breathes in deep several times*

Weiss: If you must know, because of your obvious affection for him.

Pyrrha (sweetly): Do you think lying to me will bring us again closer?

Weiss: I... I'm... I'm afraid... that it might e'er keep us apart.

Pyrrha: But I'm holding your hand, I kissed you on the cheek, I and do not lie. I'm here because I want to be.

Weiss: Then, if I might ask? Why did you?..

Pyrrha: *let's go of Weiss hand and looks out over the fields*

Pyrrha: To clear the air. We cannot deny the past, but we can move passed it. Now, did you honestly not know the answer to my question?

Weiss: *breathes in deeply*

Weiss: As I said, I'm afraid I said a good many unkind things.

Pyrrha: Ah, then so we're all on the same stanza, you accused him of only wanting you for the privildges of dating a Schnee.

Weisss: I have had so many...

Weiss: *immediately stops talking as Pyrrha grabs her hand*

Pyrrha: *breathes in deep*

Pyrrha: How did Jaune reply?

Weiss (suspiciously): He declared he did not even know what I was talking about.

Pyrrha: And, now that you know Jaune, looking back on it? I'm not going to ask if it was fair, but do you think it was true?

Weiss: *breathes in deep*

Weiss: I honestly believe he could somehow be oblivious enough to not recognize me.

Pyrrha: Now, when he was hitting on you, do you think he was just trying to date a Schnee?

Weiss: Of course not, the dolt was just trying to wear charisma like a cheap cologne.

Pyrrha: And how many other girls has he complimented since coming here?

Weiss: I try to stay out of such things.

Pyrrha: Then perhaps we need a more authoritative source. Do you mind if I call Yang?

Weiss: If... it would help us clear the air.

Pyrrha: *dials on scrolls*

Yang: What's up, Pyrr?

Pyrrha: I have a question about Jaune.

Yang: Well, yeah, but you know?

Pyrrha: For the sake of Weiss.

Weiss: Hello.

Yang: Oh, hey, ice queen.

Weiss: *scoff*

* * *

Yang: *shows Ruby her scroll, as the name actually says Ice Queen*

* * *

Pyrrha: Now, tell us, and only the truth will do.

Yang: Shoot?

Pyrrha: Has Jaune complimented any other students?

Yang: You mean like what? Like Ice Queen? Are we talking googly eyes.

Pyrrha: Actual compliments, please.

Yang: In that case, like, no one. Jaune's, like, not even on the social map.

Weiss: There's a map?

Yang: I could send it to you if you'd like?

Weiss: That will be quiet alright.

Yang: 'K. Uh, that all you wanted, Red Head?

Pyrrha: Thank you, kindly.

Yang: Oh, yeah, no probs. Pyrrha. Ice Queen.

Weiss (flustered): Why does she insist on calling me that?

Pyrrha: *smiles as she stares into Weiss' eyes*

Weiss: *breathes in deeply*

Weiss: I mean?.. So, we have established that Jaune has not complimented other women, but?..

Weiss: *gets lost in Pyrrha's eyes*

Pyrrha: My point is quite simple, Jaune was telling the truth. You are like an angel come down from Atlas.

Weiss: *looks away with a blush*

Pyrrha: *leans in to kiss her on the cheek*

Pyrrha: *stands up and walks away*

Weiss: *blankly stares out over the countryside*

[bush-viper-cutie]

“Everything Goes Wrong” || YEAR 3 – Ch.39 (HP au)

                              Chapter List

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Day posted: 2/2/2021

Word count: 3,346

Relationship: EVENTUAL severus X oc (slow burn)

Rating: E for everyone

Warnings: none

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A/N: This is my first fan fic I’m writing mainly as a way to practice. This is a retelling of the hp books with an inserted character. Although most every character will be written about, this is mostly for the pro snape fandom. Please do not fear, although this is a severus x oc story, it is an incredibly slow burn as I do not intend for them to get together at all until after the final book events. Chapters will be posted twice a week.

This derivative work follows the events of the Harry Potter books by Jk Rowling and is intended as a fun way to practice my writing. Thank you for reading :D

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The tunnel was much larger than Heather remembered it being. Under her wand’s soft light, it seemed more open and less constricting. On her way through the first time, it felt like the walls could cave in at any moment, crushing them before the Grim or Sirius Black could get a chance. Now it felt like the tunnel was experiencing one long, full breath as wind came in through the Whomping Willow’s opening far ahead.

Heather breathed in just as deeply, opening up her lungs and filling them as much as possible like she was taking in her very first breath. It smelled damp and the dusty mud the others kicked up pricked at her lungs but the knowledge that everything was now under control was enough to soothe the stings.

Heather looked on ahead at the strange, tall man in front of her, still holding Snape up like a doll on strings by Snape’s own wand. By the way Snape’s head bumped on the rough ceiling of the cave, Sirius seemed more focused on the path ahead, eyes trained on glimmer of light just beyond. Sirius’ long curls caught on branching roots but he paid the constant tugging no mind. Did this feel like a second prison break for him? With Peter Pettigrew, he would become a freer man than when he broke out of Azkaban.

Heather winced at the fifth bump to Snape’s head. “I don’t think he’ll forget I blasted him against the wall with so many scrapes and bruises to his head,” she whispered.

Sirius turned to her. “He’ll have more to worry about when he wakes up than you and Harry’s attack on him.” He flicked his wrist down and the toes of Snape’s shoes began dragging along the floor, kicking up more dust but saving his forehead from future scrapes. “He won’t very pleased to see only Peter taken away in chains… and less so to see me freed and reunited with my old pal.”

There was more color to Sirius’ face now, making him look only a bit less grim and skeletal than minutes before.

Sirius cleared his throat. “Do you two know what all this means?”

“Yes. You’re free,” Harry declared from the back. “They won’t be sending you back to Azkaban ever again.”

“Yes…” Sirius kept looking onward but his free hand fidgeted at his side, pulling on the tattered holes of his grey-striped shirt. “Yes, but… Well… You know I’m – Your parents made me your Godfather… to the both of you – I don’t know if anyone ever mentioned it.”

“We overheard it,” Heather admitted. She looked back at Harry who was looking up at Sirius intently. The light of their wands reflected of his scratched glasses and although she couldn’t see his eyes, she could guess she’d find a spark of excitement in them.

“That would make me your appointed guardian,” Sirius continued more stiffly. “That was, if anything happened to them…”

Heather gripped her sweater, feeling her hands begin to shake.

“Of course you both have full say in where your home is – I wouldn’t wish to take you from your aunt and uncle… And… Well… See, once my name is cleared – should you ever want a different home – if you wanted…”

“Are you suggesting we live with you?” Harry stepped on Heather’s heal – she hadn’t realized she had slowed down her pace. “Leave the Dursleys?”

Sirius shook his head and coughed. “No – No, of course I thought you wouldn’t want to – ” he said quickly. “I understand, I just thought you two would want to know you have a choice should you – ”

“Are you insane?” Harry’s smile could be heard through his croaky voice. “Of course we want to leave the Dursleys! Right, Heather?”

“Oh,” Heather nodded. “Yeah.”

“Have you got a house? When can we move in? How many room’s it got? Oh – !”

Heather elbowed Harry in the ribs to push him off her. In his excitement he’d almost begun to climb over her to get to Sirius, as if his proximity would get him answers faster.

Sirius whirled around – Snape’s body instantly began drifting up again – and smiled ear to ear at them. Heather could see why his animagus was a dog. If he’d had a tail he’d be wagging it faster than bee’s wings.

“You really want to? The both of you?” Sirius beamed down at them. “Mean it? Really?

“Yeah, we mean it!” Harry shook Heather’s shoulder. “Heather?”

She nodded and smiled up at Sirius. “We mean it.” Harry beamed at her confirmation as brightly as Sirius and she felt wholly engulfed in their collective eagerness.

Heather pushed Harry’s hand off her shoulder. She looked up at Sirius’ gaunt face and tried to envision that she might one day find it familiar and friendly. He turned back around and at her reminder and lowered Snape’s body back down.  Their conversation had only left his forehead a little scratched.

The grunting up ahead had brought the three of them back down to earth. They were only just getting Peter up out of the hole. It took Hermione a few minutes to direct Professor Lupin and Ron on how to maneuver themselves and a few longer to help Sirius get Snape out of the hole in one piece. Heather crawled out, heaving her body onto the grass, and extended her hand down for Harry to take. His hand squeezed hers and she pulled him up fast.

“Can you believe it?” he whispered to her as they stood and shook off dust.

Heather brushed off her shoulders and watched Sirius take in the grand castle up the sloping grounds. They were so far away it almost looked like it was on an entirely different mountain, resting on the edge of a small cliff above the glittering lake.

“Everything will be different now,” she whispered.

Harry squeezed her arm. “Different good.”

She nodded and looked down at the lake. There were lights dancing on its surface. She could almost count all the Hogwarts windows reflecting off the water. ‘Different good.’ …At least Hogwarts seemed to always remain the same.

“Let’s get going.” Professor Lupin called down to them, already moving up the hill. “And one wrong move Peter…”

“I’ll drop the snake and aim for your head,” Sirius threatened.

Hermione, Harry, and Heather brightened their wands and illuminated the path for the others as they walked on silently. The castle lights slowly grew larger and very curiously, less bright. Heather looked down at the lake, almost obscured by the growing forest, and caught sight of a large white moon reflecting clearer and clearer as they walked.

Through the light wind she heard a grunt and stopped, shining her light on the abrupt jam of their party. Sirius had bumped into Snape’s body, which had knocked into Ron who had bumped into Peter who was pressed up and quaking against a very still Professor Lupin.

Sirius looked down at the ground, at their growing shadows, as the moon bathed them in light. He froze and stuck out an arm, signaling them back to him.

Heather kept her eyes on Professor Lupin’s rigid body as his limbs began to tremble one by one. “It’s a full moon…”

Hermione gasped. “He didn’t take his potion! He’s not safe!”

“Run,” Sirius hissed. “Run! Now!”

Heather turned and stopped, whipping back around to Ron. “Ron…”

He was bent down awkwardly, desperately pulling at the chain around his ankle. Harry dashed forward to help him but Sirius pulled him back, dropping Snape.

“Go! Leave it to me! RUN!”

Heather hesitated with Harry and Hermione, still unsure if it was safe to leave Ron and run away. A sickening snarling noise broke the air. Heather’s eyes flickered over Professor Lupin, or what was left of him not yet morphed into a monstrous figure. His head lengthened out into a long snout with jagged teeth and a slobbering tongue. His shoulders hunched and jutted out inhumanly. Rough hair sprouted out along his face, hands, and neck. His shoes shredded in two and rolled down the hill, as if running from the enormous claws that had split them apart. With a single snap of his long jaws, the werewolf wrenched itself free of the shackles that held on to his wrist and ankle.

A large black streak dashed across Heather’s vision. The blur lunged for the werewolf’s neck and pulled it backwards, away from Peter and Ron. The giant bear-dog held its ground as the werewolf broke free and turned, growling deep. In an instant they were locked, jaw to jaw, claws tearing into shoulders and pulling fur by the clump.

Heather snapped her gaze away from the violent battle and looked around at Harry and Hermione. Both as transfixed as she had been. Ron had stopped pulling on his chains, instead pressing himself to the ground in an attempt to melt away among the grass, and Peter –

“NO!” Heather screamed.

Peter pulled Professor Lupin’s wand up from where it had dropped and aimed its tip at his head.

Harry rushed forward. “Expelliarmus!”

The wand in Peter’s hands flew out into the shrubbery behind. Heather’s breath caught and the scenery almost melted away. The sudden snaps of powerful jaws quieted, the grass seized to sway, and the moonlight brightened around Peter. For a second it felt like Harry had done it. Harry had prevented a horrible disaster.

But Peter grinned at them and Heather’s heart sank. In a blink of an eye, the little man shrunk and transfigured into a large rat with patchy fur and bent whiskers.

Crookshanks – who had taken refuge behind a rock at first sign or Professor Lupin’s condition – now jumped out from the shadows and chased after the bald tail poking out from the shifting grass as Scabbers scurried downhill and away.

Heather clutched her throat and tried to breath in. ‘The Servant Will Break Free And Set Out To Rejoin His Master. The Dark Lord Will Rise Again With His Servant’s Aid, Greater And More Terrible Than Ever Before,’ Trelawney’s raspy voice echoed in her mind over and over in overlapping waves. The prophecy will come true! “No, no, no.”

“He’s gotten away! Sirius needs him!” Harry turned back to the beastly fight happening feet away.

A shrieking wolf howl ripped through the air and before they could dive for the ground next to Ron, the werewolf leapt over them and ran into the forest at full force. The giant dog limped after the wolf, staggering off his intended path more and more with each pained step, padding out of sight.

Hermione dashed for Ron who was still on the ground, arms covering his head protectively.

“Is it gone? Please tell me it’s all miraculously over.” He looked up at Hermione who could only look on to Heather and Harry to answer the question.

Snape was still crumpled on the ground, Sirius was gone, Professor Lupin was gone, and Peter Pettigrew was gone.

“We – We need to get to the castle. We take Ron to Madam Pomfrey and tell Professor Dumbledore Snape’s out here and – ”

“And that Sirius is innocent?” Harry interrupted her. “We have no proof. None at all. And if those dementors find him…” he trailed off.

Heather gulped. He was only a few steps away from her. She took a step towards him and he backed away, already pulling his hand farther out of her reach.

“Harry…” Heather warned.

A wounded whine carried softly through the wind and Harry was off, running down the moonlit grounds into the shadowed forest near the lake’s edge.

She took a step, intending to speed off after to him when she saw Hermione point out of the corner of her eye. She turned and saw Snape reaching for the back of his head with a weak hand, but that wasn’t what Hermione was pointing at.

“Dementors!” Hermione took out her wand but did not know which shadowy figure to aim for.

It looked like dozens of unnatural clouds of blackness were blowing in against the wind. The whispy shadows floated in groups across the sky in the same direction as Professor Lupin, Sirius, and Harry, cutting the moonlight beams like nightmare-ish blades as they went.

Heather shivered and fell to her knees, wincing as a cold wave washed over her. Guilt prickled her chest and traveled through her arms, numbing her. She’d let Peter get away. If she had told Harry they could have taken higher precautions. She should have used Expelliarmus on Snape. He could have been restrained and listened to it all. So many things could have prevented Harry from leaving her, running off and facing a werewolf and dementors alone… Heather shook her head, refusing to let her brain dig into her fears. “Think happy… Happy thoughts…” There wasn’t anything happy she could grasp onto. Not a single cheerful event, joyous occasion, or delightful day came to mind. It was all so horrible, painful, and lonely… and cold.

Slowly the image of a large castle pushed through fog, with torches glowing in every window and flames undisturbed by the sweeping wind. A vast lake that reflected every window only disturbed by the ripples from the giant tentacles greeting dozens of small boats. The rush of excitement upon first seeing Hogwarts filled her blood and she sucked in a fresh breath of chilly air.

She looked up and saw the last of the cloaked figures duck below the tree lines. Hermione lay next to Ron and they both looked deeply asleep. Snape got to his feet quickly and looked her way, giving her a cold glare, and turned his attentions to Hermione and Ron.

Heather breathed in again and stood, wiping her grassy hands on her skirt and looked towards the edge of the forest. Harry was in trouble. She hugged and arm around herself and held in a sob, pulling her wand out.

“Don’t even think about it.” Snape growled.

“But Harry – ”

“Take them back to the castle!” Snape pushed her back and ran down the hill. His cloak billowed in the wind making him look like a dementor flying low across the grounds.

“But how am I to – ” Heather cut herself off and gaped at the two stretchers floating at chest-height.

Hermione and Ron each lay on one and when she pushed Hermione’s, Ron’s moved in parallel. She turned back in search of Snape but the wind was already stitching the clouds back together to cover the moon. She had to trust Snape would save him… Professor Snape. If she was trusting him with Harry’s life… and he was risking his own life to save him… he at least deserved that bit of respect from her again.

She turned to her friends and pushed the stretchers up the darkening lawn until she reached the entrance steps. She hesitated with the first step, not sure if she kept pushing it would only ram the stretchers straight into the fifth step, but after a hesitant push she realized the stretchers knew what to do and raised themselves accordingly.

She pushed on the doors and found they opened with easy, left unlocked by Professor Snape from when he rushed out after Professor Lupin.

“Out of bed! Students out of bed!” Mr. Filch screeched from down the entrance hall, waving a finger as he jogged down.

Heather sprinted to the entrance hall stairs yelling back, “Don’t lock the door! There’s more coming!” Shocking Mr. Filch to a halt.

She took the stretchers up to the hospital wing and pounded on the door, wishing Madam Pomfrey would hurry up and take Hermione and Ron so she could run back down to help Professor Snape with Harry… If he’d saved him… She shook her head. “Of course he did.”

“Five more minutes…” Hermione muttered.

“Hermione!” Heather stopped her pounding and shook her awake.

“Miss Potter!”

Heather jumped as Madam Pomfrey flung the door open and scolded her.

“It’s nearly midnight and – Oh my! Bring them in – bring them in.”

Hermione rolled off her stretcher and looked around as Heather took Ron’s stretcher to the farthest bed.

“What happened?” Hermione still looked weary-eyed.

“My question precisely.” Madam Pomfrey’s accusing eyes bore into her, having more than enough reasons to believe it was one of their faults.

“I remember dementors.” Hermione lifted her hand to her mouth. “Oh and I suppose Ron’s leg is also broken from a bite wound.” She rubbed her eyes and stumbled as they followed Ron’s stretcher to a bed.

Madam Pomfrey only rolled her eyes and got to work on Ron. “There’s chocolate in the cupboard if you need it,” she said over her shoulder.

Heather motioned Hermione to sit and opened the cupboard. She scanned shelf after shelf until she spotted brown little chips filled to brim in a lidded jar. She took a handful and walked back to Hermione, pouring them into her hand. She jerked her head and motioned for the chairs against the opposite wall under the large windows. Hermione followed.

“Where’s Harry? He left and… and I don’t remember much after that.”

Heather nodded grimly. “Professor Snape went after him… Hermione I need to tell you – I don’t know why I didn’t before – I should have told you guys but so much happened suddenly and I wasn’t sure how seriously to take it and – ”

Hermione gripped Heather’s shoulder, calming her. “What is it? Just tell me.”

Heather calmed herself with a slow breath out. “I thought it was Sirius Black going back to Voldemort tonight. But it’s really Peter Pettigrew that’s going back.”

“What do you mean?”

“Professor Trelawney – when we were getting the cloak – I bumped into her and she – ” Heather shook her head as Hermione’s eyebrow shot up. “No, I know. Professor Lupin also thought – ”

“Harry finished him, twice if you count his journal. He’s dead three times over. You heard Peter Pettigrew and Sirius Black and Professor Lupin in the shack. Peter Pettigrew is a coward. He probably ran off to hid in the forbidden forest and Professor Dumbledore will do something about him if he needs to when we explain it all to him.”

“I suppose… I mean there isn’t anything to do now other than tell Professor Dumbledore everything so he can free Sirius and hopefully forgive Professor Lupin.” Heather knelt on the chair and stared out at the darkness below. The moon was well hidden now and nothing could be seen.

Heather and Hermione both jumped when the doors to the hospital wing flew open and Professor Snape sauntered in with an unconscious Harry floating on a stretcher. Heather ducked quickly behind a bed, not wanting to remind him of her existence. If there was a chance he’d forgotten she’d attacked him only a couple hours ago, then she’d gladly hide from him for the rest of the year until the start of next term. Hopefully summer holidays for adults and school events did the same as for students and learned topics.

“Take Mr. Potter here. He’ll need all the chocolate you have.” Professor Snape pushed the stretcher into Madam Pomfrey’s hands and turned on his heel, ready to leave.

“The dementors – why have they attacked the students? They’re not in the castle are they? Surely the Headmaster – ”

“I’m sure Miss Granger can explain to you enough so that you may imagine what has happened tonight. I, however, must speak to the Headmaster and the Minister before he departs.” Professor Snape’s eyes flashed with eager excitement as he walked out the doors, closing them shut with an echoing thump.

Heather wondered if it was only Harry that he found. She hoped it was, and that Sirius had somehow escaped to his hiding place once more. ‘We won’t need to go that far… All I have to do is call the dementors once we get out of the Willow. They’ll be so pleased.’ Professor Snape’s words rang in her head turning his silky tone into a cruel grain.

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[moonchildsaurora]

Before the sun is rising up

✤ knight!Jongho x knight!reader ✤ genre: royal AU // angst, fluff (if you squint) ✤ t/w: sfw, non-descriptive battle fight, sad reacts only, rated PG ✤ count: 1.6k ✤ [ part 1 ] of Lacuna miniseries  

a/n - o m f g it’s finally done. . .well overdue one shot for our precious maknae & the 1st of 8 parts for my new miniseries! Here I was thinking that it’ll be a more condensed piece, but yet again my mind decided to be loud. Perhaps I’ll be able to reign it in a bit more with the others (who am I kidding really tho). I hope I wrote well enough for Jongho’s character, even though it still feels slightly rushed. Thanks to @a-tiny-8iny for insightful convos which gave me the idea of considering the focus around platonic bonds too (which honestly gave me a plotline I was much happier with)! Also @hereisleo @monbae @s1ardusk @barsformars I remember yelling bout this series idea to you guys ages ago and here we are 💙  

It was rare for a champion knight to be able to bask in serenity, especially on the eve of the final battle. The kingdoms of Rivaria and Nethilor have long been at war with one another, what once was a united empire now torn apart from betrayal and greed. There simply wasn’t room for two powers to rule, and so by the time the sun rises tomorrow, only one will be left standing triumphantly. How twisted fate must be, to have childhood friends who had endlessly supported one another since their gruelling training days when they were mere squires only to end up serving royalties of opposite sides.

The cooling night breeze played around with your hair as your legs dangled freely over the cliff’s edge where you sat waiting patiently for him. You leaned back on your arms, hands gently curling into the slightly damp but still soft grass and face tilted up towards the star-lit skies. The moon was out in full tonight, somehow knowing it may be the very last time it could greet you.

Your ears managed to pick up the familiar sound of steady footsteps from behind, without turning around and a grin already forming on your lips.

“And here I thought you’d best me in arriving first for once, Sir Choi” you said, trying to hold back a chuckle.

The sound of metal clinking against another indicated that he had let his sword, Shadowmist, rest against the tree next to your Windsong. Forged by the same swordsmith, intended to be wield together as a complementary pair.

“My deepest apologies, had to use the good ol’ distraction to sneak past the night guards of my own camp.”

“How rebellious of you.”

Jongho gave a playful shove to your shoulder as he sat down next to you, an immediate comforting warmth radiated off him. You noticed that he was in his casual tunic, the soft linen matching your own one. It’s almost a foreign sight to you considering how used you are seeing one another in the heavy metal of armour rather than something more care-free.  

Just as you were about to ask how long he had before his troops would start noticing their own commander’s absence, a bundle was unceremoniously dropped on your lap.

“And pray tell, what is this?”

Your fingers fiddled with the thin leather cord that wrapped around the cloth, managing to unwrap the cover and your eyes crinkled with glee immediately upon seeing the contents inside.

“I made my squire swear not to tell the others that I was stealing extras for my supposed woodland friends,” a dramatic sigh escaped Jongho.

That caused you to burst out laughing, “You mean to say that the great leader of the Nethilorian army secretly befriends little creatures?”

“I always did say that your resemblance to that of a raccoon is uncanny.”

Now it was your turn to shove him, though you had to admit that his cover-up reasons were ridiculously endearing. “I wonder how your squire puts up with you at times, must be confusing for the poor lad.”

“What will it take for you to express your gratitude without mocking my pride?”

“Fortunately for you, I may be more inclined to accept certain incentives at times…” and picking up a Goldhorn biscuit, you held it towards Jongho, “Truce?”

Instead of taking the biscuit with his fingers he proceeded to bite down lightly, stealing it right out of your hold.

“You fiend!”

“Now we can have a truce.”

You purposely wiped your fingers on his tunic, earning a protest from him before tasting one of the sweet treats for yourself. These were the biscuits that you and Jongho used to eat regularly as children, the same honeyed taste bringing back fond memories. A fleeting image of your parents and home came to mind, the echoes of childish laughter and, “Watch where you’re running you two little rascals!”

“Remember that time you chased me with your mother’s rolling pin and it got us in so much trouble?”

You turned to look at Jongho, still to this day you haven’t quite figured out how he always seem to be on the same wavelength as you. Another biscuit was popped into your mouth before you replied, “Only because you not so accidentally spilled the rest of my potato stew.” That particular memory managed to coax a smile out of you, silently apologising to your parents for being the cause of their grey hairs.

A comfortable silence settled, the little fireflies were coming out to dance and the night breeze was still calm as before. From where the both of you sat on the cliff, the view of the valley was magnificent. It was a pleasant surprise that you discovered this hidden spot during the training camp and it became yours and Jongho’s meeting place ever since.

“I’m going to miss this.”

You could feel your heart clenching at his words, knowing full well what he meant. Setting the food down, you shuffled around a bit so you could retrieve something from your pocket. Dangling the two silver chains right in front of Jongho seem to break him out of whatever nostalgia trance he was in.

He blinked owlishly at the pendants, each holding an athesotile gem. You gave his one over and Jongho observed the iridescent glow it had under the moonlight.

“You sure know how to make a man feel special,” said Jongho as he teasingly held a hand over his heart .

“Had it been a confession token, sure. Unfortunately for you it’s only a lucky charm.”

“Trust you to still believe in that old tale,” he chuckled as he looped the pendant around his neck. This particular gem was sought after in the past for supposedly bringing great luck or so it has been old across generations by your elders. You had found these pendants as you were passing through the major town of Millbelle after a successful patrol.

“I’d trust in anything that will bring us hope at this point.”

The breeze picked up a little bit, rustling the trees around as if it became restless at your words. You really hadn’t mean to dampen the mood but reality was starting to sink heavily on your entire being. Anger and fear both seeped in, for being placed in such a predicament – you didn’t even get to bid your family a proper farewell with how fast war was declared. Your hands gripped the pendant tightly as you forced the choked sobs back down, though the corners of your eyes had tears already gathering.

“I’m terrified Jongho. I don’t want either of us to –“

“Hey now, are you forgetting something?” Even if he holds his gaze so strongly, you could still feel the slight trembles in his hands that interlocked with yours as he spoke.

“What do you mean?”

“You remember when I said I’ll be with you till the end?” His thumb caught a stray tear and wiped it gently from your face, “I intend to follow that through.”

A million and one thoughts ran through your head as you looked at him, endlessly thanking the gods above for blessing you with Choi Jongho. Though death lingered over yourselves, knowing that you wouldn’t have to face it alone eased your soul that little bit more.

With a wet laugh you leaned into his touch, “I won’t hold back if you don’t either.”

Jongho stood up from his previous seating spot, pulling you up with him. You watched as he made his way over to the swords and retrieved them both, quickly using the sleeves of your tunic to dry your eyes before Jongho held Windsong out towards you for the taking.

Tilting your head to the side with a silent question that you only got an answer to after Jongho unsheathed Shadowmist. He directed the blade to be pointing at you, no hostility behind the action, just a determined glint in his dark eyes and a solemn nod of his head.

With the moon as a witness, a final oath was made by the crossing of swords.

The thundering of hooves and roars of the cavalries were enough to shake the land, as the Rivarians fearlessly gave their war cry. The grip on your mount’s reins was painfully tight as you stood observing the enemy ranks across the battle field. Dawn was upon you, the rosy hues of red and orange matched the accents on your silver suit of armour. It was a harsh contrast to the striking black and gold that the Nethilorian army wore.

Another war horn sounded, this time from the other side and your jaw clenched with tension as you watched Jongho lead the charge down the hill.

“Leave the Commander to me, cover the flanks and keep your formations in order,” your voice resonated with finality as you addressed your elite guards.

“Archers! At the ready!”

A wave of a flag with a griffin, your kingdom’s emblem, embroidered on it signalled a rain of arrows to be let loose. You couldn’t tell how long you held your breath for as you watch the arrows land around Jongho’s charging form, his soldiers bringing up their sturdy shields as protection. Relief ran through you as the arrows took out the slower foot soldiers around him instead.

Shadowmist was raised high and proud, equally deafening war cries echoed in multitude getting closer and closer to your side. You drew out Windsong and walked your mount towards the front lines.

“We ride…for honour,” the visor of your helmet was flipped down, “…for the safety of our people….for our lives.” You kicked your mount into a gallop with your riders following your lead, raising their spears and swords.

“FOR RIVARIA!”

Ironically everything seemed to slow down as you faced head on towards Jongho. Even the noise have become muffled, all you could focus on was your breathing within the helmet. Your eyes never wavered from his figure and when his mount stormed faster ahead of the rest, you matched his change in pace as well.  

“To thee I swear this oath, only by your blade will…”

As the first ray of light pierced over the horizon, the waking sun was greeted with the resounding clash of two blades; and the mourning for two loyal hearts.  

“…we meet once again at the elysian fields, my dearest friend.”

[waynedunlaptheorgandonor]

Land of Enchantment

i wrote some celebratory porn in-light of the spin-off news (when i should have been working on other things). takes place in new mexico. p much pwp with some sprinklings of me waxing poetic about how weird and amazing new mexico is. have i ever mentioned i was born there? and also it’s my favorite place in the world? caryl is going to my homeland, bitches, get on my level

-diz

There are no state borders anymore, but New Mexico is its own place anyway. Already she's a contradiction; she's miles' worth of mysteries waiting to be unraveled, and just look at that sky. The sky is different here, vast in a way Daryl's never seen before, as if the horizon is running from him, getting farther and farther away while taunting him to follow. He could spend his whole life chasing it and would never come close.

When he dismounts the bike and his feet touch the ground he can feel the magic in the soil. The minerals beneath the surface are transcendent, casting a spell across the whole of the desert, and suddenly he understands why it's called the Land of Enchantment. 

Carol gets off the bike with grace, her hair windswept from the road, and she is decadent. He's never seen her look so beautiful. An enchanting woman standing on enchanted land, and when he realizes, with a skip of the heart, that he's allowed to have both he thinks, this must be what it feels like to be a lucky man.

"We made it," she says unnecessarily. They're the first words they've spoken since they passed the withered and bent "Welcome to New Mexico" sign that they hadn't needed, because New Mexico greets you wordlessly when you enter. You don't need to be told when you've arrived. You just know.

He nods, but doesn't speak, drinking her in with the parched eyes of a man who hasn't been allowed to even look at water for over ten years. Ironic that only now he can have it, here in the desert.

He tears his gaze from her—not an easy feat—and gives his surroundings a good once over. In the low light of dusk he can see the track marks from where a lizard skittered by not long ago. He can tell the breeze has been gentle by the way the sand slopes. It's new but the same; he's a tracker no matter what the terrain.

He says, "I thought I'd miss the trees more."

He's never lived without the forest before. Part of him—a part bigger than he would ever admit—was afraid he'd be a fish out of water here, trying to flip-flop his way back to the sanctuary of the forest, but as vast as the desert is he doesn't feel exposed. He feels as though he is being cradled by the small hills and tall cacti, the way he does by the trees. There are different hands holding him, but they're providing the same touches of comfort, telling him not to worry, he's safe.

"I didn't expect it to be so pretty," Carol says. She walks a small, slow circle in place, getting a panoramic view. "I always thought deserts were full of nothing, but who knew that nothing could be so alive?"

She's right. Even the empty air vibrates with energy; the voice of the soul inside the frontier welcoming them home. On the highway they’d passed a road sign that said “gusty winds may exist,” as if even the meteorologists of the past knew they could never predict for certain what the state would offer. New Mexico is breathing around them, so vibrant and resplendent that Daryl wonders if he even knew what being alive meant before he landed here.

Carol steps into his space and places a hand on his bare forearm. Her fingers are electric and charged, causing pleasant sparks on his skin as she slides them down past his wrist and laces them with his. He tugs her closer and she goes willingly, her other hand reaching up to cradle the base of his head, her thumb resting just below his ear and caressing the curve of his jaw. Dusk is upon them, and on the canvas of deep reds and oranges they’re a part of, the blue of her eyes are a stunning contrast.

“Kiss me?” She says it as a question but it may as well be a command by the way he’s compelled to oblige. Ducking his head the short distance between them, his lips find hers and fit between them in a way that’s so perfect he wonders how it took them so long to realize they’re from the same two-piece puzzle. The picture they create when they come together is abstract—anyone looking can have their own interpretation, but only they know what it truly means to say. Together they’re an art piece depicting a love deeper than the ocean; denser than the forest; vaster than the desert.

He wraps his free arm around her waist and pulls her forward until her hips meet his. The gliding of her tongue over his makes him press his fingertips into her lower back. They rest on her vertebrae like they’re piano keys. He has every intention of playing her notes until he perfects the melody of ecstasy. She hums in his mouth, already making music that’s muted as it’s swallowed by the sand around them. He moves his kiss to her neck and whispers, “Want’cha.” 

“Then have me,” she replies, lifting her chin towards the sky to give him access to more skin. He skims his teeth over old lovebites he’s already gifted her. He doesn’t leave them there to claim her. Carol will always be her own person, but he likes to remind her that some bruises can be sweet. 

Stepping away from her is so difficult he’s surprised he doesn’t hear the tear of velcro. He’s still got a hold of her hand, and he lifts it up to pepper each knuckle with a kiss before letting go. On the bike they have only their essentials—storage on a motorcycle can only be so big—and it takes him only a moment to find the thick, fleece blanket rolled tight. The pattern is colored with rich copper and turquoise, already matching the aesthetic of the southwest. Maybe that’s why he’d liked it so much when he found it. 

He unfurls it and gives it several good shakes before laying it flat on the dusty ground. He fixes the corners, making sure it’s smooth, and then focuses on unlacing his boots and kicking them and his socks aside so he doesn’t track dried mud, blood, and grit on the blanket. The sand is warm and unfamiliar on his bare feet. This is nothing like the sand on the coastline; like everything else, New Mexico is a breed of its own.

Kneeling on his knees in the center of the blanket, he holds a hand out to her. She’s already removed her own shoes, and instead of coming to him she meets him dead in the eye and starts unbuttoning her shirt. He lets his arm drop and watches transfixed as each undone button exposes more of her. After she lets her shirt slide off her shoulders and drop to the ground, she unclasps her bra from behind and lets it follow suit. Only then does she approach. She stands tall over him, and he places his hands on her ass and presses his face into the soft skin of her belly. 

Peeking up at her through shaggy bangs with fire in his eyes, Daryl undoes the buckle of her belt. She draws her lower lip in between her teeth as he works her pants and panties down. He takes his time. The few times he received presents as a child he never had a chance to savor the unwrapping because his brother was always hovering nearby, ready to snatch it away from him, but no one is stealing his gift tonight. 

Her body is a timeline, depicting dates of war. Every scar is a summary of a battle, but still they’re beautiful because they’re all battles that she won. He kisses every single one of them, so sad she’s been hurt, but so ecstatic she’s alive.

When he’s done unveiling her, he lets her kick her clothes to the side as he sheds his own shirt to help even the playing field. Of course he has his own timeline written across the span of his flesh, but he no longer cares that she sees. Even if he was still self-conscious he wouldn’t be right now, because she’s standing there before him, an ethereal beauty backdropped by the enchanting New Mexican landscape. 

He nudges her legs apart and fits himself between them. He works himself up by nipping at the skin of her inner thighs. An appetizer. A groan rumbles through her, both out of frustration and anticipation, and he smiles. But he’s not cruel; doesn’t aim to tease. He finds her with his mouth and lets the tip of his tongue entice her as he trails from her entrance to her clit with a feather-light lick. 

Her fingers tangle in his hair, and the gentle tug urges him on. He gets serious now, flattening his tongue and licking her for real. God he loves it when she shudders like that; wants to get her to do it again, so he slips two fingers inside her to make her shake. They slide in easily, her body readying itself for him, and his erection gets harder the wetter his hand gets as he finds the right tempo against her walls. 

Meanwhile, his tongue is busy writing love letters. His rhythm is an oration, explaining every inch of his heart to her. She answers back with the contracting of her muscles, telling him she hears him loud and clear. Her own love declaration comes when his fingers and his mouth work in tandem to pull all her wires taut, and then make them snap, causing her to cry out, telling the whole of the desert about her satisfaction. 

He catches her when she crumples, her body a rag doll, overcome with pleasure. But he doesn’t give her time to recover before he’s kissing her hard, feeling voracious like he never has. He’s ached for her before, but never on enchanted grounds. New Mexico is casting spells, and the onslaught of magic heightens his every sense. He has to see her, feel her, taste her, touch her, hear her—needs all of it all at once. 

She straddles his hips and he doesn’t wait for say-so before thrusting his hips up and inside her. She thrusts down at the same time and sends him in deep. When they come apart and he slips out he growls, low in his throat, and gathers her up in his arms. He’s not as gentle as he should be when he flips her onto her back, but she doesn’t seem to care, clawing at him and pulling him down, as if, even though he’s got his arms around her shoulders and their torsos are flush together, she wants him even closer.

He sinks inside again, and her warm, slick walls welcome him. Both of her legs wrap around his hips when he starts fucking her in long, deep strokes. He finds the pert nipple on one of her breasts and flicks it with his tongue in time with his thrusts. She writhes around beneath him, muttering encouragements. When she gets close again she tugs his face back to hers and kisses him frantically. Her moan is almost a sob as she arches her back and cums even harder than before. 

He wants to keep going, but he’s fighting a losing battle as her muscles pulse wildly around him. The build is slow and delicious, the heat coiling in his groin in stages—the beginning, the point of no return, and then finally, the release. He empties himself entirely, burying his cum inside her where it belongs. She’s petting his hair, guiding him through it, and then kisses his forehead oh-so-sweetly. The expression on her face when he finally comes to his senses enough to lift himself up and look at her is one of undeniable love, and he knows his face says the same.

They put off coming apart until they have no choice, but even then, when Daryl slips out of her, he rolls onto his back and pulls her to him. She rests her head on his chest, just above his thudding heart that’s trying to slow down, and he trails his fingers up and down her skin lazily.

At some point the sun disappeared, and above them is an expanse of stars like they’ve never seen before. How can New Mexico make even the stars seem different? The milky colors of the galaxy are even visible if they look hard enough. 

Everything is different now. Daryl can feel it in his bones. Whatever moves this mysterious place, they’re a part of it now. It’s irreversible. But that’s okay. They were beckoned here like a siren call, but they’ve found a blessing not a curse. New Mexico has enchanted them, and there’s no going back.                                  

[josieofantiva]

In The Dark I Learned To Love Again

The potential end of the world waits for nobody, but Leliana and Oliver Cousland manage to find a quiet night to themselves. 

ao3 link

“How many stars do you think there are?”

Oliver’s head rested in Leliana’s lap. They were sprawled out on top of a hill, the campsite’s fire flickered at the treeline below them. She ran her fingers through his hair and he sighed happily at the touch. It was a quiet moment, one she knew would not last. Not because Oliver couldn’t stay quiet for long, although that was true, but peace did not seem to follow him, even if that is all he ever wanted.

There were many stories she could spin to him about the stars. People weaved tales into the shapes they cast upon the sky. Even civilizations long gone, their ways of life all but ruins in the sands, were remembered through the names and stories of constellations. But the number itself was not one she knew.

“Only the Maker himself knows, love,” she murmured, head tilted back to stare at the expanse of stars above them, falling back into a comfortable silence.

Away from even the glare of the camp’s fire, she could see so many stars out that they seemed like they would swallow them whole. Here, in this moment, she could pretend it was just Oliver and her wrapped up by the sky, all their troubles unable to reach them.

“Look! A shooting star!” Oliver exclaimed, wildly waving his hand in a general direction.

Leliana jerked her head to where he was pointing but did not see more than the dark night sky.

“Make a wish Leli!” Oliver said, frantically patting her leg.

“I didn’t see it so I cannot,” she said, lightly tapping him on the nose, making his face scrunch up.

Oliver pouted. “I’m sure it counts by proximity, wish hard enough and it has to.”

“Oh! I’ve never heard that rule before,” she laughed.

“Well now you have, and that makes it true. Sworn to the stars above us,” he declared. He cleared his voice, and his face looked like he was attempting to be serious, eyebrows drawn low, lips pursed, and he gravely put his hand over his heart. He looked absolutely ridiculous. “I, Warden Oliver Cousland, declare that a star can be wished upon if somebody in close proximity sees it. However, the ah… wisher must put their whole heart in it, or else the exception shall not apply.”

Done with his declaration, he looked up at her, lips tilted upwards as he failed at maintaining his serious demeanor. “Now you have to make a wish Leliana, it’s the rules.”

He was so earnest, so full of sincerity, she knew he was not joking.

“I’ll make a wish only if you do too.” She smiled softly down at him, and immediately his eyes snapped shut, presumably to make a wish.

Leliana shut her eyes. She had only one wish she could think of.

Keep him safe.

She whispered that into the morning light before he woke, spoke it reverently during her daily prayers, and begged the blood stained air after a battle as she watched Wynne patch him up. And now, under millions of stars, she wished it with her whole heart.

She believed in Oliver. She believed in everything he did, so she found her herself believing in his declaration. Maybe it was a desperate hope of wanting it to be true, but she put everything she had into that wish, willing it into existence. If she had to put her whole heart into it to be true, she would leave nothing out, she would bare her soul to the world to keep him safe.

Keep him safe. Keep him safe. Oh Maker, keep him safe.

She looked down at him, and leaned down to kiss his forehead, brushing his curls out of the way. He startled at the touch.

“No, you will distract me from my wish,” he yelped and turned his head to the side. She sighed and turned her eyes skyward. She was content to count the stars as this ridiculous man in her lap made a deal with the universe. It asked so much of Oliver, it took pieces of him with greedy hands and he forged on all the same, smile omnipresent. The least it could do was give him whatever he was wishing for.

Oliver stirred in her lap, and she looked down at him. His smile that greeted her shone with love, something she is still getting used to being directed at her, and it filled her with such happiness that a laugh bubbled up from her chest. She leaned down and peppered his face in giggling kisses, and whispers of “I love you.” He began to chuckle too, and soon his whole body began to shake. While she was sure he did not know what caused this, Oliver laughed just to laugh. They grasped at each other as they shook with happiness, Leliana leaning over him, their faces only a hair's breadth away from each other.

Suddenly Oliver twisted and wrapped his arms around her, dragging her down next to him on the ground, wrapping her hand within his.

“What did you wish for Leliana?” Oliver asked breathlessly, nose to nose with her. “I wished for my-”

Leliana surged forward, kissing him once more, silencing him before he could finish his sentence. He froze for a moment before responding enthusiastically, and her hands found their way into his curls. She gently tugged at his hair, smirking as he gasps into her mouth.

Leliana let herself fall into him for the moment, fall into the love he so freely gave. She felt Oliver smile against her lips when she scratched lightly at his hairline and she knew she was smiling too. He cupped her chin tenderly, letting his other hand wrap lightly around her waist and pull her closer, cutting out the chill of the night. His touch grounded her, kept her from being washed away into the endless sky.

Eventually she pulled back, resting her forehead against his as he watched her with wide eyes, chest heaving.

“Don’t tell me, love, the wish will not come true,” she whispered against his lips. If his wish was anything like hers, they could not spoil it with careless words.

He took a moment to catch his breath, pecking her lightly on the lips one last time before he chuckled. “You are right! I do not think I could have found an exception to that rule,” he joked, eyes shining with mirth.

“I’m quite sure you could if you put your whole heart into it,” Leliana said, eyes crinkled, and Oliver snorted, not missing her reference to his earlier rule.

After a moment, Oliver’s brow furrowed, a sign he was trying to rearrange his racing thoughts into words. “It was hard thinking of one. A wish that is.” He paused, eyes distant as he turned his words over in his head. “ I have found this happiness in your arms, even in the midst of all we face, so I did not know how to wish for more. It felt greedy.”

He said it simply, as if his words did not shake Leliana to her foundation. As if Oliver did not have every right to wish for everything he was owed. For the Blight to be over, for bounties to no longer be on their heads, for a break from the world that was seemingly out to get him. And yet, somehow for Oliver she was enough.

Oh Maker, keep him safe.

“Oliver,” she whispered, stroking his cheek, “You are more than I ever could have wished for as well.” She blinked away the tears, trying to hide how affected she was, although she suspected he knew. Oliver was not the blind fool many believed him to be. His kindness did not mean he was ignorant, just that he knew the world for what it was and strove to make it what he instead wished it to be.

Oliver leaned forward, gently kissing her forehead, “Then the stars be damned, we have all we need right here.” She smiled at him as he leaned back for a moment to look up. “You hear that stars? I take back my declaration, we do not need you!” he shouted.

She let out a startled laugh and poked him in the cheek. “Shush Ollie! I think we need all the help we can get.”

He shook his head seriously. “Nonsense. With you at my side Leli, we could face anything.” There was a conviction to his words that he rarely showed.

Leliana looked into his eyes for any sign of doubt to what he said. “You think so?” she questioned, keeping her tone light.

Oliver squeezed her hand before wrapping her up in his arms, shutting out the rest of the world from her. He saw through her question, saw the fear that caged her lungs. He knew what they faced in their coming days.

“I know so.”

She believed him. She had to.

[conaionaru]

Honor and Blood (Ivar the Boneless)

Odin’s ravens

Synopsis: Hoenir helps look for Vanya, while people start loosing hope. Vanya makes her way home.

Warning: mentions of death, angst

Tags:

@lol-haha-joke​ @didiintheblog​ @xbellaxcarolinax​ @youbloodymadgenius​ @queenbeeta​ @heavenly1927​ @shannygoatgruff​ @astridbaby​

When Vanya regained consciousness, it was to the pecking of a raven on her hand. She shooed the bird away and looked down, where her child laid, hungry, and upset. The ginger gazed back at the sky to see the birds circle above them. "Have you come to protect your descendant, Odin?"

Of course, there was no answer, just the ravens' cawing, and her son's cries. So Vanya slowly rose from her position and pulled the shield off her son. The ginger picked him up and pulled him closer to her. The child calmed down a bit and looked up at her in wonder. He reacher for her red locks and clenched them in his tiny fists.

While he fed, he kept staring into her tired eyes surrounded by dark circles. He had his father's hair, dark and thick; even his eyes belonged to Ivar. The dark shining blue that the Ragnarssons had. But he had her nose and cheeks and her smile. He smiled like her when he was fed and satisfied.

Despite the ordeal, they both went through; he didn't cry in fear, only hunger. He was strong and brave, just like Aslaug promised. "We will go back home, and we will bring the man who attacked us to justice. We will be with Ivar once again, safe and sound. I swear to you, my child, no one will hurt you ever again."

Vanya kissed his little forehead and nose before putting him back into his makeshift bed of fisher nets and fur. The Princess grimaced as the arrow in her shoulder moved. She needed to get it out and clean it before it got infected.

Taking a deep breath, Vanya braced her back against the barrel of mead and wrapped her hand around the arrow. She steeled herself and pulled the weapon out of herself. With a final grunt, the bolt was free, and she threw it into the water. Vanya slumped against the boat and breathed through the pain. "Birth was still more painful."

She ripped a piece of her dress and dunked it into the mead before slapping it against her wound. Hissing, she munched on the apples on the ship and checked on her baby. The ravens continued cawing over them, so she threw the apple core on the other side of the boat for them to eat. "That's the best sacrifice I can give you." She muttered sarcastically.

She was tired, pissed, and in pain. She deserves a whole week of sleep when she gets home. And a bath. Nice looong and warm. Maybe she could ask for a foot rub as well.

"Ok, now I am being delusional." Vanya chuckled, filling herself a cup with mead and downing it. She grimaced at the taste, sat in the middle of the boat, grabbed the oars and rowed towards the east. While she swam under the ship before, she kept track of steering the vessel into one direction, making it easier to return to Kattegat.

Sigurd and Hvitserk walked alongside Hoenir thought the hills of Kattegat, the same place where Ubbe found Floki. The wanderer walked a good distance before them, searching the grounds for tracks.

"Maybe the reason why he is named after Hoenir is that he is always silent. What if it isn't his real name?" Hvitserk suggested watching the dark cloak trail over the stony ground before them.

Sigurd shrugged and looked around, trying to spot a redhead hiding here somewhere, hopefully alive. "Maybe he is the actual God of silence."

"Maybe he is just tired of listening to you two talk?" Hoenir called from the front, not turning around to see their reactions. The two Ragnarssons stopped in their tracks and watched him proceed on.

Suddenly he stopped and faced them, looking drained. "Why are we so far away from the hut? You said that the healer was killed there. There is no way she could have fled this far with a babe just after giving birth."

The two brothers stopped and looked at each other; the truth is Bjorn told them to search the hills. They were as clueless about the reason why, as Hoenir. Sigurd turned his eyes to the floor, ashamed of what came to his mind. "Bjorn doesn't think she is alive. We aren't looking for her hiding spot, but for the bodies."

Hvitserk shook his head at the ridiculous assumption his younger brother made. "Come on, that's stupid. Bjorn wouldn't do that!"

"Your brother has seen people die in battle from lesser things. A princess, untrained, unarmed, and with a newborn by her side doesn't have the strength to survive. Not in his eyes anyway."

"And what about you? Huh, Hoenir? Why do you think she is alive?" Sigurd spat back at the emotionless wanderer who declared that the gods sent him to protect Vanya. For all they knew, he could have heard that she went missing and tried to gather information.

Hoenir strode towards them; the princes braced themselves for a fight that didn't come. Instead, he walked past them, back from where they came. "I had a vision I met her in the Great Hall. None of my visions are ever wrong. So I am going back there."

"You have visions? Like Mother?" Hvitserk called out running after the speed walking nomad. The said man twisted on his heel, causing the flaxen-haired heathen to nearly crash into him.

"The Queen has visions?" The two nodded. "And did she see anything about Vanya?" They shook their heads.

"Nothing. She tried praying too, but nothing's happening." Hoenir absorbed the information and continued walking with a frown on his face.

The two Ragnarssons watched him leave, both annoyed by his behavior. "I hope Vanya and the babe are safe. I want to see her reaction to the Silent Nomad." Sigurd scoffed and pulled his brother along, back to the Great Hall.

"Maybe she will like him? I mean, she likes Ivar, and he is a handful too." Hvitserk commented on thinking of his unstable brother, who woke up screaming every time they managed to put him to bed. He was losing it, and they couldn't do anything. Finding Vanya alive would be the only solution to their problem, but the chances of that were low. They hated to think of it, but Bjorn was right. What were the chances of their survival? All the Gods would have to stand behind them for them to be still alive.

Sigurd feared for Ivar's wellbeing and, in turn, their own as well. According to Ubbe, Ivar wants to make human sacrifices to please the gods and return Vanya and the child safely. If they found only the bodies, he would lose it. Vanya was the one thing that could calm him down. Aslaug and Ubbe wouldn't be enough to tame the beast. And with Vanya gone, he will slaughter everyone in his path, including them, family or not.

Hoenir cursed the gods for this trial; he was supposed to find Vanya and protect her. He dreamt of her weeks before she first dreamt of him. He did what they bid him to do, and when all was done, he went on this journey to her. Only to discover that the Princess is gone, probably dead, and that she was with child that is also gone and probably dead.

Back at his former home, he worked for a seer. The old woman took him in, saying it was the will of the gods, at the time, he was sure she just wanted some company. But then he had a vision in front of her. The old crone taught him the true meaning of his dreams and the true way of the gods. Ever since he did as the god's bid, now look where it got him—a hillside with two princes gossiping about him within the hearing range.

But at least they were useful for something. The seer told him that he could only talk to the Princess if she also had a gift from the gods. But he couldn't speak to her anymore, which meant two things. She was either dead or no longer had the gift. And the only way that could be possible is if the gift wasn't hers from the start.

Foresight wasn't in Vanya's blood. It was in Ivar's blood, passed down from Aslaug. This meant the one with the ability to see the future was the child inside Vanya's womb, and when the child was born, she no longer had the gift.

But figuring that out wasn't worth anything, it was just a possibility that Vanya isn't dead. Or it might be dismissed as a hoax, and he will get a cup thrown at him, just like when asked Ivar why he wasn't searching as well. The cripple looked like he actually wanted to strangle him instead, but was held back by his brother. Luckily for Hoenir, cause he had no experience fighting little madmen with no legs.

His comment was proven false anyway; Ivar spent all the time dragging himself around the hut, trying to find any signs of his wife. He might not be able to walk, but he was smarter than most. The folks searched everywhere for the body or culprits, but Hoenir was sure that neither would be in the woods or hills. No, the killer could still be here, closer than one would think.

He came to a stop near the stables and watched the foreigners move around. They weren't dressed like Northmen. He strode forward and loomed over them, casting a dark shadow over their shiny armor. "Who are you?"

"We don't understand." One of them spoke in a language that he never heard before.

Sigurd and Hvitserk run up behind him and pulled the tall wanderer back a few steps. "This is Hoenir; he is new here," Hvitserk explained, putting a hand on his shoulder only for him to shrug it off.

"Who are they?" Hoenir questioned in Norse, ignoring the offended looks on the stranger's faces, now that they couldn't understand what was being said.

"Knights of King Silas. He is Vanya's brother, from England." The younger Ragnarsson explained, looking at the wanderer oddly. But he just nodded and walked past them towards the Great hall with the two annoyed brothers behind him, complaining about his rudeness. One would think they were used to it, being related to Ivar.

He walked into the hall to see a fisherman stand muttering with Aslaug while Ivar, Bjorn, and Ubbe talked of the ground already covered. "Those knights from England. Why are they still here?"

The brothers all looked at him strangely and exchanged glances. The one to ask the question was Aslaug. "They are helping us look for Vanya. Why?"

He strode towards the table and poured himself a cup of mead, chewing on a chicken leg, all abandoned by Ivar in favor of brooding. "They don't look happy, keep glaring at each other. That man with the crown looked as if he wanted to be anywhere else. So I wonder why they are here. They got even angrier when they heard that I am helping look for Vanya."

"Vanya is Silas's sister. Not that it means much to him, but he is helping us look. Cause it's the right thing to do." Hoenir nodded at Ubbe's words, not believing them at all.

"And he is also surrounded by angry and worried heathens. So he is kind of obligated to help." Bjorn added standing from the table and straightening his back to intimidate the man who never took his hood off. But he wasn't impressed, in turn, Hoenir looked into Bjorn's eyes, silently challenging him to say what he wanted to say. "They were all here when everything went down if that's what you are thinking. Silas was behind the table, and the thralls saw all six knights in the hall."

"Other than you who just showed up after Vanya went missing. You are also armed, could have killed the healer." Sigurd pointed out his hand twitching to the axe next to Ivar. The youngest Ragnarsson also tensed and clenched the cup in his hand tighter. His knuckles turned white, any more pressure, and it would crack in his grip.

"And maybe you hid the bodies in the hills and didn't want us to find them, so you made us return." Hvitserk pressed on as the room grew silent. Everyone was ready to kill at the slightest sign of malice.

Hoenir shifted his weight from one foot to the other and looked at Ivar. "I did not kill your wife. I came here to protect her and now that she had one, your child as well. I traveled a long way to find her, made a lot of sacrifices to warn her. I saw her drown in the waters. So I told her to hold on till I came here."

"That's the first time you mention the vision. What did you see?" Ivar spat his eyes cold, he looked like death, like Helheim in human form.

"I saw her drown; I don't know more. I just saw her underwater, trying to swim up. There was a lot of blood. I didn't mention it because every time I talk, there are weapons near you." Ivar seethed in his chair, ready to launch himself at the cloaked man.

Every time anyone mentioned the possibility of the child and Vanya being dead, he planned their murders. They were both missing for a day, and he was torn between killing everyone to avenge them or killing himself to join them.

"But she survives. I met her in my vision. Here in this hall. She is alive!" Hoenir argued, glaring the  Ragnarssons hostile expressions. Only Aslaug looked hopeful if the gods showed him that she lived, and he wasn't lying, then she would return. All they had to do was find her.

Vanya sat in the boat as the sunset behind them; the air grew colder as she clutched her son to her chest, humming a tune to lull him to sleep. She felt numb from the cold that was harder on her still wet body and hair, the cloak she found not of much help. Her red hair was tied in a braid to keep it out of her face while she rowed, but Vanya didn't have enough strength to do it for long.

Her shoulder hurt from the strain, and the apples and mead didn't give her enough energy. All it did was give her milk to nurse her child. It didn't matter if she caught a fever, as long as he was fed and warm. He had to survive; she didn't carry him for nine months and suffered through labor just to let him die. Not if she could do anything about it.

The boat drifted along the river now; if she managed to keep the course, she might reach Floki's hut. If he or Helga were home, they would help her and return her home. If not, she would make the travel herself.

[libidomechanica]

Untitled # 8648

That buds into thou but disguise  who spin a wild rough thunders o life the  day I have heroes are a 

totus terest it, a glooming is  the Land;— and Shah struction of 

morn now but uncertain from stone beneath (which  the band, but blowes were rise, which  memory of you prate I am  fastern with such day— no her, strike,  for the young but give you, which  inward view a child, Mayakovsky got to  prayer, one the bays, but not 

where is me, the least to  her been wending those palace-front to  child: and, who by the Norther  in fact, still, while there; continue: I say,  and not have assistant shriek for robes,) 

for the Rauen thee no other: 

like diagonal, all the plough its  votaries, bordred cant care: while the  need with message or  unrestrains; longer and bright, I took his  shield at all the conquest. S eld her  must presently, my loved as say “Jack,” a  laught I not perchance: city won orthographs,  as the hours, thy physicians,  yet embrace by arteries  cannot say the charmed to  her down in pointed on 

hills roll in spake the Britain, who 

is part, and with heart was 

fruite asylum, I hunt they reachd to  go with when this  dead, ere might to wont cry, a common  tribe of those nation within that  she nursed again, flung the stationship  tell breathed yellows, in his life declared  with a kings! Of wilderness,  that hands of such as darling amidst  be more some known to shows hats  but what idle appear: thus is all other:  let thus far as out when I  built up throught had said of this the  plough it leaven loves religion,  which the dye of the  rest like there some a martial tent of birth  with light-eyed Eulalies Come, that  farther gratefully; the know I loom to  bear your sick as hath yield a  burns her that I am, yet the 

never will remark woods. I would 

flowers: all on pearls the voluptuous  city with th amorous,  harmonious, unders o joy. A wild be  fynd, being in the bloody sword,  I like a shot of the Holy  Land. The mother the varies that  Wellesleys glow of the garden  in the King roared make young lad, and  was latest with riband 

out of the night, and sky, vaunt for  which hellish battles, the world,  with all the stones of husband  he need me do overgrowth to gives  from you spyd the fiery groves to  his red-faced, man company as  any morn. And to sparrow brains, when  she took they were part rootes lie  rest. and me, yet ticking hearth, But six boys an  elegy to receiver?  S: but Phoebus doom waited,  looking on a jolly returning  stars I have not their secret  smoke was princed in a state,  from of a dream not forgotten  ghost, offence the column made unapt  from home with a smiling 

flatters of which make each words, the  ravishing, in tract of lights, and soever:  I glance on me—I myself beaten—though  the shall noble pricks, then lovers of  read, the yellow round thou filling in  you “em more the writes are full mankind,  deepening the news; that  your warrd heaven she looking Nymphes distance  that sleep, sleeker the groups that?  Season to under; for, heave to  me said unto thee stars. They had piece o”  Montgomery! Fair pleasd to command marble  stil, as I must knows melt my child, I knowing  black as it grumbles, a tenderneath  mastern bowe holy tied thy worth winding, left me  with Welling, and frights and stroked ; 

nor age now hopes apart was his  victory mentions oer the rest,  chaste, is but gentle birds, the  window, once, the flitting, slashing, and  as stabbed shield and think how there. — Simple Russians 

nickname “mule”, did seems second coy,  but not blind, still, my leaves attires, do such day 257  year; the moving imitate; for  the roar of fear flake on the  unaccompanion strong ago was  every mood, sad, cheerfulness, he  color of thought rise that all creatures  of heavy groups of immortal frame:  the kiss that she smiled, within  their local life than sea-wave of they escaped  from the fixed it and rest.