#like he's about to sentence a buncha people to death just to make himself feel a little bit better

[brawngp2009]

hell hath no fury like a boytoy distraught

[honestsycrets]

A Scarlet Dream II

Masterlist

Gif credit: whenimaunicorn

A/N: No warnings other than batshit crazy bitch margrethe.

When you awoke the next morning, it was to the glare of sunshine in your quarters. The french doors that led out to the balcony were pulled apart against the chirping of free forest dwelling birds. All of Commander Ubbe’s land was surrounded by the sprawl of the forest. Rows of hedge and high arching black iron gates kept larger animals out-- but also were intended to keep you inside as well. You heard more than one story about a rogue omega trying to escape into the woods where creatures of far darker intent lay.

“Miss lady, it’s time to get up. Mistress Margrethe wants you up before long.” A warm, humble voice that sounded like a fresh slice of apple pie soothed your heart. You met this girl yesterday, Ane. She was of an older age than you, approaching her later forties. Her skin was deep ochre, tinted like that of ruddy clay.

“Isn’t it a bit early Miss Ane?” You shiver as you sit up in a the crimson nightdress that graces your shoulders. She smelled of a beta. That meant she likely was one as well, considering all unbreedable omegas were cast either to death or sex trafficking rings. She was gorgeous-- you could see way the Commander kept her.

“Nope!” She chaps her plush lips at you. “It’s time for you to get set so you can see the commander off to work. It’s how he likes his women.”

His women? You’re hardly that. You’re nothing but a toy to settle in his children. Still, you nod as you slide out of bed. The floor is like the snow of a winter morning. You convince yourself to get up and wander to your dresser. A simple thing with no afforded luxuries. The drawer squeaks as you pull it out, looking over your many gowns for the right one. You slip off your smock and slip on a skirt that would be worn for the day.

Ane saunters over to you, pulling a crimson corset across your breasts. She begins to figure with the laces when there is a loud cracking knock at the door. Ane looks to the door apprehensively as you hold the corset on your breast.

“Good morning.” Came a thick, deep voice.

“She ain’t decent.” Ane says fearlessly. On the other side of the door, there is a contended grunt.

“May I come in?” He asks. You scramble to cover your self as Ane pulls the laces tight. Don’t let him, she tells you. Who told an Alpha no? They were known to have temper tantrums! You hold the corset against your breast when you finally answer.

“Come in.” You turn away from him toward your modest doors that streamed in a bounty of light. The door would squeal apart. His boots clack upon your cool floors. Ane fidgers her nimble fingers against the laces of your corset, pulling each and every piece of ribbon through their individual holes before pulling them tight.

“Good morning commander.” You attempt to cut through this awkwardness. It’s untypical for him to be here, improper to be around a fertile woman when his did not know of such interactions. Ane’s presence here lessens the blow some, but you know much better than to melt like those sweet butter cookies that you had the other night.

Ane pulls the ribbon tight. Tight enough that you stumble back against the muscular chest that stands behind you. You quickly realize that no-- it’s not Ane whose firm, deliciously calloused hands has pulled your corset in tight. It’s the Commander, dipping his lips across the shell of your ear. Your chest felt weighed down by ice, hardly breathing at all when he leans in, nose crooking in the waves of your hair uncombed from your sleep.

“Very good morning to you, my little rose.” Ubbe husks. His hands are shifting, tying the back of your corset in a forceful bow. Saliva seems to have clogged your throat like a solid because all you can do is gasp as he turns you around to face him. Your hands are tight on your skirts as Ubbe looks behind himself to Ane, who has busied herself with making your bed, then back to you.

“Commander, sir… shouldn’t you not be here?” You chalk out the words with stumbling fingers at your heavy skirts. Ubbe’s arms fold firmly over his slender chest in his tight black suit, a red tie kissing the beginning of his ruddy beard.

“This is my house, isn’t it?” Ubbe sways, raising his eyebrows slightly as he looks down upon you. You have to look away. Those brilliant blue eyes are feeding you lies, lies that you swear upon your bible will land you straight into bed. For better-- or for worse.

“Yes s-sir, commander. I did not mean it in such a way.” You choke out.

The curt straight line of his lips pulls into a smile. “Of course you didn’t. I came to help push along your heat.”

“Sir?”

His back stiffens up straight as he stands upright, coaxing you to look into his eyes. With such a look, your knees are suddenly feeling weak. If he hadn’t been amused before, he was now. He snickers in a decadent hum. “I want your heat, you know.” He says, pausing before continuing. “You’re throwing me into an early rut.”

Your mind flew out the window with that. It wasn’t uncommon-- alphas could be thrown into insanity just as omegas could. That was why it was so important for Omegas to stick to one alpha. Breeding races, bets in which alphas chased and bred omegas for sport, had been outlawed. Now, like civilized people Omegas were bred to one Alpha. They would carry out their duties within fertile years and either be kept or disposed of. Most often by their mistresses.

Ubbe jerks in front of you, his firm frame towering over yours. Fly aways from his hair tickle your face. You convince yourself that it is better to look at that nasty scar above his eyebrow than melt. Anything to curb the ache that begins to burn in your core. Yesterday had began the onset of your heat. But now… now, you feel it radiating deep within your warm channel.

“Oh…” You stammer, finding that the clock in your room trills with the coming of a new hour. Ubbe snaps back, head shaking as if he had been far too taken with you. You clear your throat as you look to finish dressing.

“I’m late.” Ubbe murmurs, slipping out of the room with no more than a passing goodbye to Ane. As soon as the door slid shut, you heard her humming behind you.

“He is a buncha bad news.” She warns you, fluffing your pillows. “All his brothers are too.”

Brothers? You wince as you slide on your bodice. You weren’t aware that he had brothers. Then again, for an alpha, no one needed to know about other alphas. They were incredibly territorial. Then again--

“Ane!” Margrethe was hollering through the home and you were shuddering, rushing to dress as if Margrethe didn’t know where Ubbe had come down from. A short huffed out breath escapes her lips, and she would scrunch her button of a nose at you.

“If you want my advice, you listen to Mistress Margrethe and remember why you here. He might own this house but she owns that cute little ass of yours. And if she don’t like what you’re doing, you’re ass is grass.” Ane slips out behind the tall arching door. Your bones went stiff-- how would you ever manage that?

She invited you to knit with her.

“Drink some tea.” Margrethe sat upon a deep red velvety couch. The weight of her costly starry blue skirts took up much of the skirts, glistening like stars with the gemstones. She was knitting Ubbe a new blanket to take on his trips throughout the country. She had been quick to tell you all about that as you sat-- just as she liked, quiet.

“I can’t.” You look to the gold edged teacup.

“What do you mean you can’t?” Margrethe flashes you a smile that carries a double meaning. On one hand, she’s softly imploring you to drink. On another, you have a feeling that the way her teeth grind together means it is a threat. That isn’t suspicious at all-- you’re inclined not to drink it even more.

“I know you won’t understand but-- my heats are intense. I’ll throw it up.” You whisper. The ache had been steadily growing between your legs. For hours you felt the need brimming, the dignity of being a lady stripping away into something more primal. Something that would nag you to care for it day after day until the remnants of such eagerness is taken care of. Even now, you feel eager perspiration soaking layers of your heavy dress.

“So intense that you can’t handle tea?” She snorts.

Your fingers stop upon the needles, moist by the sweating of your palms. “It is difficult to understand if you’ve never had one.”

Ane, who had been shifting behind you, bit back a grimace at those words. Margrethe’s eyes ever sharpen at those words. Her knitting needles drop altogether on her lap and instead her hands fold as if to begin a prayer.

“I know he might make you feel special. For some time--”  She begins to rise. “But remember, I am his wife. He comes to me for pleasure, not duty. You should remember that and remember your place. You’re not the first one to come through here, you know.”

Inevitably Margrethe came behind your shoulders, hands pressing with equal force down upon you. You hid behind the red lacen edges of your veil incapable of replying to what she was saying. It was not out of spite that you said such things to her but nonetheless, she feels threatened.

“Omegas make babies. Betas make wives. Can you say it with me?” Margrethe leans down deep into your ear, the words carrying on the rouge of her lips.

“I make a wife. And you… --make his sons.” You finish the remainder of her sentence, looking to the tea that has garnered a strange film over the top. Your heart pulses when you look back up to her.

“I’m glad we have a mutual understanding. It would have been just so unfortunate had we not.” Margrethe takes your cup of tea, spilling it over your dress and the hardwood floors.

“You’re excused to your room and that only. Ane pick this up.” Margrethe flicks the cup of her fingers, smashing into a million bitty pieces for poor Ane to clean. Much like your confidence that has burst apart, you slide up, soaked in this strange sticky tea and the beating need that courses through your legs. Your heart is strumming harshly, clothes scratchy as if they were fire on your very skin. The warmth flooding over your body tells you that its’ time-- that Ubbe needs to hurry home from work. Because with every step up the stairs to the second floor, slick excitement pours over your legs. The rich pheromones would be enough to drive even Margrethe insane.

It was time.

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[bookworm555]

I honestly have no idea why I wrote this

**BEWARE, CONTAINS MAJOR INFINITY WAR SPOILERS**

But the plot bunny wouldn’t leave my head. It’s basically the aftermath of the end of Infinity War, except from the perspective of Hildegarde Salz, the Grim Reaper/goddess of death in ‘Ghost Story’. Yeeeah. Co-starring her bff Ljotur, and featuring a certain Marvel character. (Hopefully said character isn’t horribly OOC, I’ve never written him before. But considering the events of the film and what happened to him, he’s bound to be a little jumbled up.)

I doubt I will continue this; it was just a fun little oneshot, but the ending is left open, XD.

...Ljotur is like the Agent Coulson of this fic (like when he fanboy’d over Captain America). It’s actually kind of surreal to see her geeking out over this, but she totally would if she was in this situation, XD.

-

Hildegarde stared perplexedly at the man who suddenly appeared in her office. Nothing about him looked any different than the newly deceased she had seen in Morte—the finger-shaped marks around his neck making it very obvious what happened—save the fact that he didn’t have a skin tone somewhere on the grayscale; his original coloring was still intact. But Hildegarde could look past that, since pigment anomalies were possible here, but rare. No. What puzzled her was that his soul…just didn’t seem to fit. It felt wrong, like it didn’t belong in Morte. He was definitely dead (Hildegarde winced at the severeness of the bruising; deeefinitely not a pleasant way to go), but he was in the wrong place.

Before their little staredown could get even more awkward than it already was, Hildegarde spoke first, thought later (as usual), by cracking her neck and stating, “You’re in the wrong fuckin’ afterlife.”

The man’s face remained impassive, though the raised eyebrow and short exhale gave away his annoyance.

Not sure if he wasn’t able to speak due to his cause of death, or just because he didn’t want to, Hildegarde continued. “Seriously. Usually when people die, they end up on the Afterlife Bridge to be processed, not just showin’ up in my office. You know how weird that is? Not to mention your soul feels really wonky to me, like it shouldn’t be here.”

“Are you saying I should be alive?” The man’s voice sounded strained, but Hildegarde could hear the accent in it: British, from Earth.

Whoo boy, Zen would be all over this one. Definitely her type.

“Sorry to disappoint you, but you’re as dead as a doornail; have you seen your neck? No one could survive that.” Realizing how blunt she sounded, she tried to soften the blow. “What I meant by ‘you shouldn’t be here’ is that your soul doesn’t feel like it’s from Earth or Scaladigrigi, though you look human to me.”

“How can you possibly feel my soul?” Tall, brooding, and strangled tensed his muscles, obviously on the defensive. “Who the hell are you?”

“Ahh, I was hoping you’d ask. Hildegarde Salz, at your service. The one and only Grim Reaper, Goddess of Death to Scaladigrigi. Though my services are also provided to the good people of Earth, too, though they’re a buncha squares who don’t believe in my existence. And who might you be?”

Before he could speak, Hildegarde held up a hand. “No wait, don’t tell me. Let me guess. I’m good at this shit.” Resisting the urge to facepalm over the fact that she didn’t use her abilities to glean the man’s name and origin sooner, she closed her eyes and focused.

Oh. Hildegarde’s eyes snapped open, taking a step closer to her conversation partner.

“It’s nice to meet a fellow god, Loki Laufeyson of Asgard; too bad it’s under these circumstances.” Hildegarde dropped her casual drawl for a more serious tone. “I had my suspicions that there are more worlds than just the three that I know—especially given Earth’s penchant for mythology; the stories had to come from somewhere, right, though of course they’d be altered over the years.” She took a breath, realizing now was not the time for academic discussion. “But never mind that; of course you’re in the wrong afterlife.  You should have appeared in your world’s, not mine. I wonder why…”

Before either of them could continue speaking, the door slammed open, and in strode Hildegarde’s temporary assistant Ljótur, her best friend and colleague during her days in the Defenders.

“Really, Deindóttir? Don’t be a dumbass and knock first! Seriously, what if I was havin’ sex in here?”

Both Ljótur and Loki looked positively disgusted, though the former rolled her eyes. Before she could come up with a snarky response, she strode over to their mysterious guest.

“Hey, wait a second, I know you. Holy shit, you fought the Avengers in New York back in 2012! I was supposed to have a show in Chicago that weekend, but it was cancelled because they were worried you’d hit there next. Asshole.” However, Ljótur smiled, the tone in her voice all jest. “Actually, I got, like, one weekend to relax in years because of that, so thanks. And now that I’m dead, er, and I guess you too, I can finally say it: I’m a fan. Back when I was alive, it was only your fashion—you’re a freaking icon, man—wasn’t into the deaths then. But ever since I died and was pulled into an insurgent organization—it’s a long story—I’ve killed people too. I mean, they deserved it, but yeah. Anyway, I think I totally made a fool of myself so I’m just gonna shut up now.”

Hildegarde turned to Loki, who looked equal parts amused and annoyed. She had the perfect quip for him, but before she could open her mouth, she was hit with a splitting headache.

“Fuck!” She stumbled to the floor, holding her head. Suddenly flashes of light filled her head, each one of them she understood was a soul. “Shit shit shit! This can’t be happening. How is it even possible?”

Her eyes watered and spilled over, tears slipping down her face.

“What’s going on?” Ljótur was at her side in an instant, helping her up.

“They’re gone. So, so many are gone. I don’t understand… When a soul leaves Earth or Scaladigrigi, they’re given incarnations of their living selves here in Morte. But none are making it. And too many are disappearing too fast.”

She gasped as another wave of pain hit her. “FUCK, these people are already dead; how are they disintegrating here in Morte as well?”

Hildegarde waited til the pain became manageable before she spoke again. “Oh…oh man.  Ljótur…oh shit. We’re the last Defenders left. The others are…” The look on her best friend’s face made her end the sentence there. “I don’t understand what’s causing this; no disaster would ever be big enough. And to hit all three worlds at once?”

Hildegarde stumbled to her feet, and her eyes met Loki’s.

“He’s actually done it.” For once, the man sounded afraid.

“Who? Who’s done what?” Hildegarde demanded, slamming her fist on her desk.

“Thanos. His plan once he got all the Stones was to wipe out half the universe. I thought…” Loki drummed his fingers on the desk, muscles tenser than before.

“Oh shit,” he muttered, though it was more to himself than the others. He turned to Hildegarde, a look of intensity in his eyes. “Can you see if someone is alive?”

“If they’re on Earth or Scaladigrigi, yeah.” The pain from before faded, and Hildegarde assumed that half the universe’s populations were almost finished being decimated. Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes, channeling her power. “Who do you want me to find, and where.”

Loki looked away. “Thor,” he finally said. “Thor Odinson, of Asgard. Check Earth. Have a feeling he’d be there.”

Hildegarde said the name in her mind, hoping she’d find some energy signature related to his soul; she could tell that this person was important to her companion.

After some searching around, she found him. Not bad looking, if I do say so myself.

“Found him,” she stated, rubbing her sore head. “He’s somewhere called ‘Wakanda’.”

“At least there’s that.” Hildegarde could sense that Loki wasn’t talking to her and Ljótur. “So this wasn’t for nothing.” He rested his hand against his throat.

Hildegarde sank into her chair, exhausted by everything that had just occurred.

Ljótur, whose eyes were red, stood next to her. “So what do we do now?” Her voice held none of the warmth it had before.

“You said this was all caused by some dude named Thanos?” Hildegarde’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t know what you two can do, but I can jump between here and Earth.” She turned to Loki. “I assume this Thor you wanted me to find is on our side?”

Loki nodded.

“Good. I think I’m gonna go pay him a visit. Because I need to know what the hell just happened.”