#and she gets HOLLOWED OUT and TWISTED and held under the sway of the Indifference

[felarx]

did too much thinking about viktor vodyanoi. i think he's very persnickety and particular and precise about intimacy. he's got just as many hangups and invisible stumbling blocks as arthur does. i think he takes pleasure in knowing that people want him (or hate him) while not being able to have him. viktor, above all, craves being forbidden fruit, and if he is to allow somebody the privilege of his touch, it will be all on his say-so.

[chroniclackofselfpreservation]

Creatures of the Night

Chapter 31 - running in every direction devoted

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AO3

Masterlist

(TW: arguing/yelling, mild violence, blood)

(The title of the chapter comes from "The Pardoning Hour" by Khaty Xiong)

Logan woke softly, his eyes fluttering open. He was curled in on himself, facing the wall. He stretched, an enormous yawn taking him over for several seconds. Coming out of it, he shook his head, blinking away the sleep. The dull, full-body ache that had appeared after his first night sleeping on a floor of branches tied together with vines and insulated with clay still hadn’t disappeared. Logan wondered if it would ever lessen, or if he’d simply get used to it. Looking to his right, he found himself alone in the hut, Daveigh’s woven sleeping mat empty on the opposite side.

They’re probably out training, he figured, getting to his feet and stepping out into camp. Mikhail sat amidst an enormous pile of stripped palm fronds and blank rolls of barkpaper. His long brown hair was tied up into a bun with some twine.

“Good morning,” Mikhail said, offering a small smile.

“What are you making?” Logan asked, running his fingers through his hair in an attempt to regain the semblance of an orderly appearance. His worn—and frankly filthy—clothes certainly weren’t helping. He hadn’t showered in days and probably smelled horrid.

“Sleeping mats for you and Patton,” he said, grabbing a piece of barkpaper and twisting it until it came apart in a clump of soft fibers. “I weave two mats together and stuff them with this.”

Logan blinked, surprised by the thoughtfulness of it. “Thank you,” he said. “Did you make your clothes as well?”

Mikhail shook his head, rubbing more bark apart in his hands and stuffing it inside the green makeshift mattress. “Eudora’s a very skilled seamstress as well as healer.” He eyed Logan’s attire. “I’m sure she could make you something similar.”

Logan snorted, approaching the fire and taking a seat. “I doubt she’d be very eager to help me, but I appreciate the suggestion. How long have Patton and Daveigh been gone?”

“An hour or so,” Mikhail said, returning to his task. He jerked his head toward a flat stone a few paces away, laden with fruit. “You may have some if you want.”

“Thank you,” Logan said, grabbing a mango and returning to his seat. Mikhail leaned across his work and grabbed his knife, holding it out to him.

“For peeling it,” he said when Logan simply stared at him, confused.

“Right,” Logan said, flushing. He took the blade carefully, as if handling a loaded gun. It was a beautiful work of craftsmanship, with a smooth wooden handle fitted over an opaque, milky stone blade that Logan guessed was probably a variation of quartz, secured with brown twine. The blade was one-sided, four or five inches long, with a serrated edge, most likely a result of the method of sharpening. A list of runes ran down the length of it. Logan recognized a few: a number four, an X, a few Greek letters. The rest were mysteries to him.

You’re an adult. You should be able to peel a fruit without losing a finger, he thought stubbornly.

“Don’t cut toward yourself,” Mikhail said before Logan had even pierced the mango’s skin. Logan felt his ears grow hot with embarrassment as he changed his grip on the blade.

“Apologies. I don’t have much experience with… weapons.”

Mikhail put his work aside and got to his feet, brushing loose fibers from his skirt. Logan felt like a child again, bringing a broken toy to his father’s desk with tear-filled eyes. He held out the fruit and the knife to Mikhail as he approached, but the man simply squatted down next to him, pushing the objects back into his lap.

“I’ll teach you. Here, hold it like this, with your fingers against the bolster and your thumb across the top,” he instructed, guiding Logan’s hand farther up the handle until his index finger rested against the dull, curved part behind the edge of the blade. Placing his thumb across the dull backside of the knife, he found he had much more control of the knife and where it was going.

“Sit forward and hold it in front of you—yes, like that. You don’t want to cut your leg if it slips,” Mikhail said. “Now, start peeling. Don’t use too much pressure, the blade’s sharp enough to do most of the work for you. Keep the angle shallow. You want to preserve as much of the fruit as possible.”

It went slowly, and the mango was ending up far more mangled than Logan would have liked, Mikhail occasionally cautioning him to watch his fingers or use less pressure. Logan’s hands were sticky from handling the sections he’d already peeled, and he found himself wishing he’d washed his hands beforehand. Sugary juice dripped down his hands onto the ground below.

“Where do you get fresh water?” he asked, brow furrowed in concentration as he worked the knife around the bottom of the fruit.

“There’s a spring not too far up the mountain. I can show you later if you like. You can bathe there as well.”

Logan’s tongue stuck out a bit between his teeth as he worked. “Wouldn’t that contaminate your drinking water?”

Mikhail shook his head. “There are two pools, one flowing into the other. We drink from the top and wash in the bottom.”

“Smart,” Logan said, finishing the last of the skin and holding it up for inspection. It looked horrendous, smudged in the dirt from his hands and torn up like a cat had batted it around like a ball of yarn, but he couldn’t help feeling a small sense of pride over doing it all himself. Mikhail took the knife back and walked over to the lean-to where he kept all of his tools. He picked up a clay pitcher and poured out a stream of water over the knife, rinsing the juice away. “Come wash your breakfast off,” he said, nodding toward the mango in Logan’s hands. Logan brought it over and scrubbed it clean under the water.

“What are those symbols on the blade?” he asked.

“What? Oh, Killian did that for me a long time ago. Some sort of alchemy, I think. Makes the stone not as brittle and prone to shattering,” he said. “That man’s a genius. It’s a shame what Ursula did to him.”

“Yes, it is,” Logan said, sobering.

Mikhail set the pitcher down, sheathing the knife at his waist.

“You know,” Logan said, taking a bite of his mango as Mikhail replaced the pitcher on the ground, “I think this is the most I’ve heard you talk since we’ve arrived.”

Mikhail chuckled, wiping a finger over the wet stone blade. “I’m very passionate about tools like these,” he said, gesturing to the array of wood and stone appliances. “I tend to ramble on about them if given the opportunity.”

Logan felt a smile creep up his face. “I know the feeling.”

* * * * * * * * * *

He watched Mikhail work on the mats while he finished his breakfast, then excused himself, making his way to the beach to see Killian. He’d been hoping to learn more from the arcanist. Hopefully something that could help them get off the island. However, neither Eudora nor Killian were out on the beach. Entering the cave, he found the firepit empty.

“Hello?” he called, but there was no reply. Rounding the corner a bit farther within, he found Killian’s room empty aside from three floating orbs of light near the ceiling, illuminating the space. Scrolls of barkpaper were stacked in the corners. One lay open on the floor, the corners weighted down with stones to keep from rolling up again. Something twanged from deeper inside the cave and Logan jumped, whirling.

He was still alone, the three orbs circling each other lazily above his head. Opposing and attracting forces? Like magnets? he wondered absently as the twanging continued. The pitch went up a few notches before settling on a steady note, as if someone were tuning an instrument. Torn two ways by curiosity, Logan took a quick glance at the open scroll on the ground, pleased to find numbers and mathematical symbols he recognized. Just like Mikhail’s knife. There were, of course, unknown variables and symbols, but for the most part, the text looked decipherable given time.

Several other notes began plucking out a soft tune, the stony tunnel walls distorting it into a hollow, almost haunted sound. Logan peeked out of Killian’s room and into the darkness of the cave. He’d never wandered past this point, as the light from the cave’s entrance ran out not much father ahead. Still, the lilting tune floated through the air, enticing him forward.

Ignoring his trepidation, Logan rushed back into Killian’s room looking for another folded sheet of barkpaper to create his own orb of light to bring with him. He couldn’t see any laying around, and didn’t want to dig through Killian’s stuff without permission.

Logan looked up at the orbs above his head. He could take one of those, right? It would only be a matter of reaching one. Logan jumped, his fingers just barely brushing one. It bobbed away from him indifferently, its two siblings swaying out of rhythm for a moment before giving up and orbiting each other. After several more embarrassing attempts to capture the third lone orb, Logan stopped, panting and glaring up at it. If only Patton were here. He was tall enough he’d probably only have to rise up on his toes to reach it.

“Okay,” he breathed, readying for another jump. “Come on!” he grunted, lifting his arms above his head and aiming to cage the thing between his fingers.

He missed.

Straining, Logan twisted, extending one arm just a little farther. Before the little sun could float away, he clamped a fist around it and fell back to the ground. Logan stumbled to a stop, hissing in pain as it seared his fingers and flung it away from himself reflexively. The orb slowed to a stop a few feet away from him as if nothing had happened.

Logan muttered under his breath angrily, inspecting the burn on his hand. It wasn’t more than first degree, the skin red and stinging.

Thankfully, the strange music hadn’t stopped. Guiding the light alongside him with his uninjured hand, Logan began his descent into the deeper recesses of the cave.

It didn’t take long to locate the source with both light and sound to guide him. The cave sloped at a gentle downward angle, not too steep to make things difficult, but enough that Logan could tell he was going deeper. As he neared his destination, another sound pervaded the music. A rhythmic clacking, though it didn’t match up to the music very well. Curiosity spiking, Logan increased his pace.

Turning a bend, Logan found his light no longer necessary. A much stronger, undulating amber light shone down the earthen corridor from a cavern up ahead, the floor of the cave turning instead into rough-hewn stairs leading up into it and blocking his view of what lay inside. Pure excitement overpowered any sort of caution Logan probably should have had as he loped up the stairs, the tiny orb cradled in his hand.

Logan entered the cavern and nearly forgot to breathe.

Dozens—no, hundreds of tiny suns swirled above him, occupying the upper third of a cavern easily the size of a high school gymnasium. They didn’t simply orbit each other like the three back in Killian’s room had, rather they reminded him of those large flocks of starlings that occasionally flew over Wakeby, swirling in perfect time with each other and creating the illusion of one enormous, undulating organism. They made no sound as they swirled through the air, moving at a constant, steady pace.

Logan could have stood there for hours, just watching, but he eventually tore his eyes away to inspect the rest of the room. The source of the music turned out to be Killian, sitting on the ground and plucking at a foreign instrument—some kind of lute, with a neck that bent back at a sharp right angle at the top and a curved, teardrop-shaped body resting between Killian’s arm and thigh. It was about the size of a guitar. He looked up at Logan, smiling at his wonderstruck expression.

The clacking came from the enormous wooden, four-poster loom in the middle of the room, the rocky floor rising up as if presenting it on a stage. Eudora sat at its forefront, feet working long pedals, hands flying as she manipulated the threads and sent a small wooden object back and forth between the strings. The threads themselves were a plain off-white color, several spools the size of Logan’s head piled in the corner.

Killian stopped playing and waved him over, patting the ground next to him. Eudora hadn’t seemed to notice his arrival, machine rattling in a steady rhythm.

“How… I don’t—I have so many questions,” Logan breathed, nestling his own orb of light in his lap.

Killian pointed at it, cocking an eyebrow. Logan flushed. “Oh, I stole it from your room to find my way down here,” he said. “Sorry.”

Killian waved a dismissive hand and shook his head, returning his attention to his instrument. Now that he was closer, Logan counted ten strings in total running down the neck and over the beautifully carved sound-hole.

“That’s a beautiful instrument,” he said quietly, not wanting to distract him from his playing.

Killian smiled and hummed agreeably, calloused fingers flying up the neck of the instrument with remarkable dexterity as his other hand picked out a fast-paced tune on the strings. “Mmmm,” he began, fingers hesitating for a split second as his mind worked to form the word. “Muhlte,” he said, nodding toward the instrument.

“Muhlte?” Logan repeated, testing the word out. “That’s what it’s called?”

Killian nodded.

“How did you get one on the island?” Logan pressed, mind reeling. “Unless you made it here, but that would necessitate some very advanced tools, and where did you get the string? They look metal—though perhaps wound around a synthetic material? What if a string breaks? Humidity affects instruments to varying degrees, so it’s a miracle it’s in such good shape and…” Logan trailed off, realizing Killian had stopped playing and he’d been rambling. His ears flushed, and he glanced up at Killian, about to apologize, but was caught off guard by the man’s expression.

He didn’t look annoyed, as Logan had expected, but rather he looked… touched, almost—watching Logan with what he could only decipher as overwhelming gratitude.

Killian laughed, deep and from his chest, setting a hand on Logan’s shoulder. Eudora glanced over at them, but said nothing.

“Tha–thank you,” he said genuinely. Before Logan could wrack his mind for something to say, Killian clapped him on the back and lifted his instrument. “Dora hhh–had it wh–when wi–whi–wi…” he paused, taking a breath.

“Witch?” Logan supplemented. It seemed to be one of the words he had the hardest time saying. “She had it when Ursula sent her here?”

Killian nodded. “After,” he said, pointing at himself.

“She arrived after you?”

He nodded again, then turned the instrument so Logan could see the back. “Llll…look, look.” All along the neck and body of the muhlte were carvings similar to the ones he’d seen on Mikhail’s knife. Logan reached out to inspect it closer, hesitating for a second before Killian nodded his consent and handed the instrument to him. Logan ran a finger across the smooth wood, once again finding several symbols and numbers he recognized. Even the pegs at the top of the neck where the ends of the strings were wound had small, identical equations carved into both sides of the knobs.

“I can understand some of these,” Logan said, “but what are those?” He indicated a few of the symbols he didn’t recognize.

Killian grabbed a bag from his opposite side that Logan hadn’t noticed before and rummaged around in it, pulling out a roll of barkpaper and a rough stick of charcoal. He drew the symbols in a column down the page, writing their meanings next to them in scratchy capitals. One was made of two overlapping circles—like a Venn diagram—denoted as the combining of two elements. A circle with a dot in the middle indicated the repelling of something, and conversely a circle with a cross through it represented attraction.

Logan scanned the list with growing fascination. “And what’s that one?” he asked, pointing to one of the symbols Killian had drawn: a crescent with a circle nestled inside. Next to it, he’d written arcana.

Killian thought for a moment. “Sss….source of–of–of pow–ower. Ihhhht’s a con–conduit.”

Logan’s insides wilted. “I don’t mean to disappoint you, Killian, but a conduit won’t do someone like me much good. I don’t have any power to start with.”

Killian shook his head, confused, and reached back into his bag. He pulled out a small folded piece of barkpaper Logan recognized as the material needed to create an orb of light like the one he held in his lap. Killian held the closed flap of paper up for him to see, pointing to the charcoal symbols drawn on it. Flipping it over, Logan found the opposite side contained the symbol arcana.

Logan’s heart skipped a beat. It had been too dark to see the first time he’d used the papers, but sure enough…

“You aa….already ha–have,” Killian said with an ecstatic smile.

“How is this possible?” Logan breathed, taking the paper and inspecting it. “I… I thought—”

“Come here,” Eudora commanded, and Logan looked up. She’d gotten up from her loom, staring down at the two of them. Logan hadn’t even noticed the clacking had ceased. Killian smiled at her and her eyes softened somewhat.

Logan stood. “Can I help you?”

Eudora’s expression returned to its hardened state as she met his eye. “I need to take your measurements,” she said, pulling a thin length of fabric from a pocket within her dress. The dress was made of similar material to the skirts she’d made Mikhail and Daveigh, though it was stained a deep purplish red. The same one she’d worn the night they’d arrived. Logan had figured she’d simply conjured it for herself—she was a witch after all, and as far as Logan had seen, magic had little limitation on what it could or could not perform. Now, having seen the loom, he thought it was more likely she was simply a very skilled seamstress. “Unless you want to remain in your filthy noke clothes for the rest of eternity.”

“Where did you acquire such a machine?” he asked, approaching the loom. He noticed more symbols like the ones Killian had on his muhlte carved into the beams.

“Arms up,” she said, wrapping the narrow fabric around his waist. “Killian made it for me.”

“He made it? By himself?”

She glanced up at him. “Yes. You’ve forgotten how long we’ve been here, child. He had several centuries to get it right. Besides, he used to be a carpenter.”

“Really?” Logan looked back at Killian, who had resumed playing the muhlte.

“Killian was a man of many professions,” she said, pinching the fabric where it overlapped.

She held out a hand and Killian tossed her a piece of charcoal. “His father was a blacksmith and trained him until he apprenticed with a carpenter instead.” She marked the cloth where her fingers were pinched.

Killian chuckled. “Ha–ay–ated that.”

“Yes,” Eudora said, a small smile playing at her lips. “His father didn’t approve of the profession, much less marrying said carpenter’s daughter a few years later. A skirt will be faster, but I could fashion you pants if you wish,” she said, stepping off the stone dais and walking to a corner of the room lined with at least a dozen wooden crates. She lifted a hand and motioned for him to follow.

“A skirt will be more than sufficient,” Logan said, trotting after her.

Opening one of the crates, Eudora revealed rolls and rolls of that same whitish fabric. She unwound a length of it, referencing her measuring tape and looking Logan up and down a few times.

“How much cloth have you made? This is quite impressive,” Logan said, running a finger over one of the rolls. The weave was perfectly even and tightly spaced.

“Far too much, I think,” she muttered, pulling the fabric away from the crate, closing the lid, and folding the remaining cloth over the top. Eudora reached up and plucked a thin blade from where it rested on a small stone shelf. Like Mikhail’s knife, it was a pale quartz with a wooden handle, though the body was significantly thinner and the blade curved up at the end. More mysterious equations ran down its length, though these seemed different.

Eudora pulled the knife along the lines she’d drawn, barely applying any pressure and yet the fabric split cleanly, as if cut by the sharpest of scissors. “Are you and Patton similar enough I could use the same measurements?” she asked absently.

“He’s five inches taller than me,” Logan said. “I’m not sure how our waists compare.”

“I’ll just make it adjustable,” she muttered, more to herself than to Logan. Once the rectangle of cloth was cut free, she gave him a look and Logan immediately lifted his arms as she wrapped it around his hips.

“Where do you get all this thread?”

“Your questions never end, do they?”

Logan swallowed. “Sorry.”

Eudora sighed. “There’s a plant that grows near the freshwater springs that has threads of fiber inside of the stalk,” she explained, making a few more marks around the waist of the skirt. “There isn’t a lot, so I have to harvest it slowly to make sure it grows back.”

“I see,” Logan said, biting back the flurry of questions running through his mind. For a plant-based fiber, the cloth was extremely soft. Surely there was some processing involved, or perhaps magic. Satisfied, she pulled it away and returned to the top of the crate, using it as a tabletop and grabbing her knife again.

“Thank you,” Eudora said so softly, Logan almost didn’t hear it.

“For what?”

“Talking to Killian,” she said, trimming a miniscule strip from the bottom hem.

Logan bit his lip. It wasn’t his place. He had no right to weigh in… but it seemed so obvious to him. Eudora glanced over at him.

“What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t lie,” she snapped, shoving the fabric into his arms and turning her back. “Put it on. See if it fits right and tell me what you’re thinking.”

A little self-consciously, Logan stripped and kicked his old clothes to the side, wrapping the skirt around his waist. He tied the corners in a knot and tucked the ends into the waistband.

“Why do you and Killian stay in this cave?” he asked, and Eudora turned back around, inspecting her work.

“He can’t handle too much stimulation in the state he’s in,” she said, motioning for him to turn in a circle with a finger. “The last time we ventured past the beach, he had an episode.”

“How long ago was that? How can you be sure what caused it?” Logan pressed.

Eudora pressed her lips into a thin line. “I am keeping him safe.”

“From what? You just thanked me for talking to him,” Logan said incredulously. “I hope you know that’s something he shouldn’t have to be craving.”

Eudora looked away. “He’s fragile.”

“No, he’s not. Your faith in him is,” Logan spat, anger growing. He pointed over at Killian, who had stopped playing, watching them with growing concern. “He’s a certifiable genius that you’ve kept locked up because you’re too obsessed with what you perceive as a failure!”

Now it was Eudora’s turn to get angry. “How dare you,” she hissed. “You have no idea what he’s been through.”

“What about what he's going through right now? Do you really think you’re helping by keeping him here? Have you even talked to him enough to know how he feels about it?” Logan demanded. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re the fragile one.”

She gripped her thin knife in her hand. "You're wrong!"

“When are you going to realize that he doesn’t blame you?!” Logan bellowed back.

Eudora’s nostrils flared “You insolent child, you know nothing!” she screamed, Logan flinching as her voice sent shivers through him. Eudora stepped toward him, knife raised. Logan felt a hand on his shoulder, throwing him backward, and suddenly Killian was there, arm up defensively as Eudora’s knife slashed downward. Blood spattered on the rocky ground, a long gash running down Killian’s forearm. Logan stumbled back, barely keeping his footing.

Eudora immediately paled, looking as if she might faint. “What have I done?” she breathed, dropping the knife. "What am I doing?"

“Stop, Dora,” Killian said forcefully, and she flinched.

“I… I didn’t mean—” she stammered, reaching toward Killian’s wound tentatively as if to heal it, but hesitated. “I sounded just like her, didn’t I?” she whispered miserably, covering her mouth with her hands.

Logan noticed Killian’s hands just barely trembling. “The bo…boy is rrrri–hight, Dora. I d–don–don’t blame… –ame you for thi–this,” he said, gesturing to his mouth.

“You were suffering and I... I could have done so much better,” she lamented. “With the right tools, I could have—”

“No,” Killian cut her off. “You di–did–did–did,” he stuttered, stuck on the word. Logan opened his mouth, but Killian raised a hand to stop him. Logan refrained, understanding. She had to hear this from him.

“You di–did yyyyour best, Dora,” he said, blood dripping from his elbow. “I’m okay.”

"I can't believe I actually..." Eudora said, beginning to back away. She looked like she might bolt. Killian stepped forward and wrapped her in a hug instead. She dissolved into tears. “I’m sorry,” she cried into his chest. “I’m so sorry. I should have asked. I should have known, but I–I didn’t even think—and you were so unhappy this entire time…”

“T–Tahti said w–we–we learn ffrrrrom the pas…–ast,” he said, stroking her hair.

She laughed wetly. “To correct the future. I remember.”

Logan gathered his new skirt into his arms and cleared his throat. Eudora stiffened, though more with shame than anger. “Thank you for the skirt,” he said. “I’ll leave you two alone.” He hadn't exactly gotten the idea for getting of the island he'd been hoping for, but he figured sticking around wasn't the best course of action.

Eudora gently pushed away from Killian to look at him. “I… I apologize for attacking you… and arguing when you only meant well,” she said, genuine despite how hard it looked for her to say those words.

Logan nodded. “I accept your apology.”

She gave a small smile. “Thank you. Please tell Patton I’ll have his skirt ready soon.”

“I’ll let you give it to him yourself,” he said encouragingly, nodding goodbye to Killian and exiting the cave.

[winterheart17]

How To Break A Writer’s Heart

TITLE OF STORY: How To Break A Writer’s Heart

CHAPTER NUMBER/TITLE/ONE SHOT: A series of one-shots

AUTHOR: winterheart17

WHICH TOM/CHARACTER: Loki

STORY GENRE: Romance, Drama, Erotica

STORY SUMMARY: I think we can all just agree this has turned into a proper series even though it started off as a compilation of one shots for my story ‘How To Love A Writer’! What happens when a struggling virginal historical romance writer and the God of Mischief are thrown together, locked in a mansion and agree to a game of love and seduction?

STORY RATING: M

STORY WARNINGS/TRIGGERS/AUTHORS NOTES: The confrontation that was bound to happen once they got to his chambers ;) And we’re back to the feelsy business!

FEEDBACK/COMMENTS: Thank you for always being so kind with comments! Feedback would be amazing and appreciated to the moon and back <3 Tagging @devikafernando​ @ureyesonly21​ @nuggsmum​ @queen-sands​ @ihatespoilers​ @say-my-name-assbut​ @hsvbabe​ @jrubalcaba​ @ilhadabruxa​ @dandelionlady96​  @ashleyloveslots​ @kiera-auroraborealis @alexakeyloveloki

Masterpost of How To Love A Writer

Wow.

There was no doubt about it – his chambers reflected his personality to a tee. Dripping in shades of burnished gold and luxurious green accents in the form of silk cushions and drapes, it screamed of sleek, chic hedonism.

And in the centre of it all – the crowning jewel: a magnificent polished gold-framed four poster bed.

I winced.

Was it in this very bed he had made love to her over and over again?

Didn’t this room echo with all the memories of their laughter and pleasure.

I knew it wasn’t his intent – so swept away by his own reverie upon his return – but pain seemed to grab at my throat, chipping away at whatever little courage I had left in me.

“Should there be further requests, I shall be your lady in attendant throughout your time in Asgard,” the handmaiden who had shown us the way politely addressed me.

I managed a weak smile as I nodded my head.

With that, she bowed ever so slightly, acknowledging the both of us as she made her retreat.

I think I managed a whole five seconds of reminding myself to rein in my temper from the moment the door clicked shut, before I gave in – whipping around to face Loki.

But it was all lost on him as he turned around, slowly, his eyes drinking in every nook and cranny of his familiar surroundings – as if they were washed anew. The corners of his lips turned up slightly in a smug grin I wanted to wipe the floor with.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” I snapped.

He paused.

And I saw it. I saw his expression turn in front of my very own eyes. What little caught off guard sympathy that had lingered on his face was swiftly replaced by glazed over indifference.

“I might ask the same of you,” he replied, coolly.

I stared at him – really, really stared at him as my fingers twitched.

“The last I checked, I was returning you to your home,” I said through gritted teeth.

“… when I had made it specifically clear that it wasn’t the right time,” he shot back, indignantly.

And just like that – whatever softness I had thought he had once held for me, vanished under the glittering gleam of Asgard.

Pain knifed through me.

He held my gaze, jaw raised, as if daring me to defy him on his own territory.

I felt the first tremor of anger take hold of me – take root deep inside a place that had lain dormant for far too long, masked by the feelings he had awakened in me.

“Are you fucking serious right now?” I echoed, my voice straddling the shrill line between laughing in disbelief and shaking in rage.

Was he so blinded by his power and ego that he couldn't even begin to comprehend how screwed up the entire situation as right now?

Did he think of nobody but himself?

Did it not strike him what I had gone through – willing myself to give him up only to end up being transported far, far from anything I had ever known as he put me on a path that would end in nothing but heartache?

He raised a brow.

Nonchalantly.

And that was it.

I snapped.

Rage took over the driver’s seat as whatever modicum of rational thought I had been clawing to keep fled.

I lunched forward, a guttural cry escaping from my lips as my hands balled into fists and battered at his chest.

“How dare you? How fucking dare you?” I screeched.

He swayed, taken aback by surprise at the sudden display od hysterics.

“Stop it,” he bit out, grappling at my wrists.

But I was far beyond gone.

“How fucking long did you ask me to send your sorry ass back to Agard? What lengths did you go to while we were on Earth for you to regain your powers?” I screamed, not caring that I looked like a harried woman.

Finally getting hold of my fists, he held them fiercely against his chest.

“Urgh,” I let out a cry of frustration as I struggle to break free, feeling my skin crawl wherever he touched me.

But he held on fast, refusing to budge.

I glared up at him, eyes bright with anger as emotions bubbled up in my chest, threatening to spill over.

“You took me away, locked me up God knows where to threaten me to do precisely what I’d just done for you and you… you… dare accuse me of not following some sort of twisted timeline you have?” I spat.

His eyes held mine and I felt that stupid familiar pinch at the back of my throat.

“Stop it,” he repeated, but the hard edges of his voice seemed to soften.

“You… you… standing there as you look at me as if I were nothing more than something you’d like to flick off your sleeve,” I hissed, tried as I might, there was no stopping the words that seemed to gush out of the wound he had left deep in my chest.

“And just…just when I had finally decided to let every… every---“ I sputtered, but my throat seemed to close up as the corners of my eyes started to burn.

All it took was one look into those eyes… those green eyes that now softened with everything I thought I had lost.

And I burst into tears.

I hung my head in shame, refusing to let him see the tears roll down my cheeks even as sobs racked my body.

“Pet…” he breathed.

He closed the gap between us, allowing me to rest the crown of my head against his chest as incoherent words slipped from my lips.

“I begged you…” I whispered, words coming in broken chunks.

I couldn’t help it – everything came flooding in at once. Unwanted images of them kissing, of him taking her as he murmured sweet nothings into her ear.

Did he kiss her shoulder like he did mine each time he had finished making love to her?

Did he wrap his fingers around her throat as he took her mouth, crushing her against the wall?

Had he held her close and made her feel special?

“I begged you not to let me watch you love her,” I sobbed, squeezing my eyes shut as I envisioned the both of them lost in the rapture of pleasures.

When was it when he realised he was first falling in love with her?

He let out a weary sigh.

“Pet, you were there in that very hall. I hold no love towards tha—“ he cooed, but his denial only twisted that knife in my chest further.

I wrenched myself from his grasp, stumbling backwards as I looked at him – his silhouette blurry and unfocused as my eyes swam in tears.

“You are hurt, it doesn’t mean you don’t love her,” I said, my voice cracking.

Another sob bubbled at the back of my throat.

How cruel it was of him.

He clenched his jaw, turning away from me – almost as if he found it impossible in him to tell me another lie.

To refute my claims.

To reject what it truly was my words sought – reassurance.

I looked at him with tired eyes, shoulders worn down by all the hurt it had been carrying about.

“You loved her once, you’ll love her again,” I whispered.

I felt hollow.

Empty.

But my words must have touched a nerve in him as he whipped around, eyes spitting fiery rage and in that moment, I found my answer.

“No,” he snarled.

A little too quickly.

A little too vehemently.

It made me sad.

I looked at him, forlornly.

His body tensed.

“Do you even realise how you speak of her?” I asked, quietly.

It was a strange thing, heartbreak.

Strange that a heart could shatter inside of you – so quietly, so tenderly.

There was no thunder.

No fanfare.

No putting up of a fight.

Just the gentle flooding of pain.

Seeping into all the cracks he had left behind.

“Then why? Why did you even bring me here?” I cried out, the words ripped from my throat as tears welled up in my eyes again.

My hand went to my chest, as if it could seemingly stop all the hurt that was flowing out.

He took a step forward but I held up my hand, shaking my head.

The very thought of him touching me made me sick to my stomach.

Not here.

Not in this bed.

Not in this room.

I wanted to go back – go back to the space that had belonged only to the both of us. Far away from madness and this reality that threatened to swallow me whole.

“Don't,” I breathed, my chest hurt.

He paused.

His hand that had been reaching out for me, fell to his side as he looked on at me, wordless.

Not quite knowing what to do.  

The silence seemed to stretch on endlessly even as my sobs grew silent and the air grew stiller.

When the tears became nothing else but the taste of salt on my lips.

He sighed, wearily.

“Little writer, come to bed,” he said, softly, finally breaking the silence.

I sniffed, wrapping my arms around my body.

“It’s been a long day and we can revisit this conversation come morning,” he said, gently.

I eyed him warily as he neared his bed.

“No,” the single syllable slipped out effortlessly.

He tensed once more, turning around, slowly.

As if preparing for another breakdown.

Another fight.

But I was tired.

Exhausted.

And it didn’t matter if I tore my heart out on the floor for him to see.

He wouldn’t understand.

Why would he?

He didn’t want it.

I moved towards something that resembled a dark green chaise longue a little to the bed’s right.

I bent down to move the cushion, my back turned towards him.

“What are you doing?” he asked, tersely.

I closed my eyes, praying for whatever little ounce of strength I had left in me to get me through the night.

Just tonight.

Heartbreak seemed easier to manage in the warmth of daylight.

Seemed easier to swallow and pretend it wasn’t there.

“I’m too tired to fight, Loki,” I sighed.

He immediately moved for an answer but I ignored it.

“And since you’ve made it clear that I must share your chambers, I will,” I pressed on.

I could almost see it – the way his shoulders relaxed when he realised I wasn’t spoiling for a fight.

I heard his quiet exhale of relief.

“But I would rather freeze to death than share that bed with you,” I bit out, acid filling my voice, bitterly.

“I—“ he started to protest, but it was too late.

I was already lying down on the chaise longue, bending my knees just a little so that I could fit perfectly.

I winced, pulling the cushion under my head.

I squeezed my eyes shut, willing everything away.

Willing myself to fall into exhaustion.

Where everything was pitch black.

And nothing else existed.

I waited.

I waited for him to put up a fight.

I waited for him the empty threats and promises.

But they didn’t come.

Nothing.

There was only the gentle weight of a blanket pulled across my body.

Warmth that embraced my skin.

I squeezed my eyes shut tighter and curled my knees up higher.

The tenderness hurt.

Everything hurt.

Except the soft, hesitant, feathering pressing of lips to the top of my head.

So soft I could have imagined it.

“Sleep well, little writer.”