#getting the hang of drawing sif i think.. and their hat

[applejuicehq]

fuck u. pokemons ur timelooper. furrys ur timelooper. leaves

extra lil thang

[sixpossumsinatrenchcoat]

Natural Satellite [ch 13]

An In Stars and Time AU. In ch 13, Loop deflects. Siffrin spirals. Isabeau tries to keep up. You can start from chapter one here.

Isabeau nearly jumps out of his skin. “W-Woah!!! Sif!!!” “Yes?” “You’re—wow, you’re like, really quiet!!” “Yes.” Sif flops down in the grass, patting around vaguely till they find a thick-ish branch. They snap it in half with a startling crack, eye it thoughtfully, and then halve it again before unsheathing their dagger. ...Huh. They’re whittling again, even though they know their work won’t outlast the loop. Which means they want to talk about something. “What’s up, Sif?” “The canopy.” “Annnd…?” Sif’s blade digs into the wood, scraping off a long, curling shaving. “And I thought we should talk about Wish Craft.”

[isat spoilers / 2 hats spoilers / spoilers thru act 6]

Isabeau has, like, at least a million questions.

If Loop—(Sif???) (No, they chose the name Loop; that has to matter)—is really some alternate version of Siffrin, then… what? What? What??? What would that even mean??? And why would they keep it a secret from Sif? What’s the point in keeping secrets from yourself?

Of course Isa isn’t going to rat them out. It’s not his place. And he’s definitely not gonna confront them about their past. What kind of a crab could look at someone who Changed that much and try to talk to the person they used to be? Loop is Loop now. Isabeau is totally cool with that.

…He’s just a little confused about why there are two of them.

Isabeau knows how it feels to Change. But it’s not like he walked out of the House holding hands with the kid he used to be. One person can’t become two people. That’s not how it works. (That’s not how anything works.)

He needs to talk to Loop. Luckily, he’s in the right place. There should be at least a few minutes before Siffrin catches up. Longer, if Sif stops to talk to Mira. It’s not ideal, but it should be enough to get at least a few answers.

“Loop!” he gasps, when he spots them.

“What do you want,” Loop asks sourly.

“N-Nothing!! I’m just a little confused, is all!”

“Okay.”

“And… I guess I was hoping you could help with that?”

Loop gives him a close-eyed smile. “Optimistic!”

“I’m just, um. I… guess I’m having a hard time getting my head around it?”

Loop’s eyes snap open. “Why? Because I don’t hang on your every word? Because I’m not some cute little puppy, like your Siffrin?”

“What? No! Because why are there two of you???”

He watches Loop draw themself up to snap at him and then just—settle back into their seat. “Oh.”

Yeah, oh. “So. You know. Why are there two of you?”

“Does it matter?”

“And how do you look so different? Body Craft is, I mean, it’s pretty advanced, but I don’t think it’s possible to—I mean—I’m pretty sure you’re made of light?”

Loop examines their hands, the white shining from under their nails. “It certainly seems that way, doesn’t it?”

“And—” This one is embarrassing, but he can’t help it. “W-Why wouldn’t you tell me?”

“…Why would I?”

Yeah, Isabeau probably could’ve seen that coming. “Are you seriously not going to answer any of my questions?”

“I’d have thought that would be obvious.” Loop narrows their eyes at him. “Don’t you have any manners? This is Vaugarde. It’s rude to ask someone about who they used to be.”

Wow, they are really not making this easy! “I’m not— I don’t care that you Changed. Or, I mean, it’s great! If you’re happy, I’m happy! I just… I mean… It kinda seems like you aren’t, though?”

Loop’s face hardens. “I don’t want to talk about this with you.”

“Well, who do you wanna talk to?”

“No one! Ever!!! Till the end of time!!!!”

Isabeau groans. “Look, I didn’t wanna play this card, but you just really don’t seem like you’re doing very well…”

“What impressive powers of perception! Your parents must be proud.”

“…and I guess it seems like you’re cool with that, but I’m not, so I think you probably have to talk to someone, so… i-if you really won’t talk to me, then—” He grimaces, bracing for the worst. “I… think I might have to tell Sif.”

To his surprise, Loop just rolls their eyes. “Knock yourself out. I’m sure he’ll be soooo~ surprised.”

“Wh— Huh???”

“Why are you acting like that?” Loop asks grumpily. “You just said it just last loop. That they guessed who I was, and he thought I was probably him.”

“B-But that’s just a theory!”

“Oh, grow up. How long did it take you to clock me? Three loops? Maybe four? He’s been here for hundreds.”

(“Hund—????”)

“They have all the pieces. He’s just deluding himself because he doesn’t like the implication.”

He almost doesn’t want to ask, but… “What implication?”

Loop smiles nastily. “That—”

“Oh, good,” Siffrin says, from immediately behind him. “You’re already here.”

Isabeau nearly jumps out of his skin. “W-Woah!!! Sif!!!”

“Yes?”

“You’re—wow, you’re like, really quiet!!”

“Yes.” Sif flops down in the grass, patting around vaguely till they find a thick-ish branch. They snap it in half with a startling crack, eye it thoughtfully, and then halve it again before unsheathing their dagger.

Huh. They’re whittling again, even though they know their work won’t outlast the loop. Which means they want to talk about something. “What’s up, Sif?”

“The canopy.”

“Annnd…?”

Sif’s blade digs into the wood, scraping off a long, curling shaving. “And I thought we should talk about Wish Craft.”

“It sounds like you should talk about Wish Craft,” Loop sniffs. “You are the only one who knows the rituals.”

Isabeau gives them a look, but doesn’t argue.

“I don’t think that’s right, though,” Sif mutters. “My wish wasn’t even related. And, I mean… do I know the rituals?”

“You knew the right numbers,” Isa points out. “And the chanting and stuff.”

“Right, but it can’t be that simple. If repeating was all it took, then I’d still have that toilet paper.”

Isabeau stares.

Unexpectedly, Loop stares, too. “Come again?”

“The toilet paper,” Sif says again. “Didn’t you see? In the bathroom on the third floor.”

“I don’t watch you pee, stardust. Gross.”

“Wait,” Isabeau interjects, “I’m sorry, I just… You can do Wish Craft by peeing?”

“Piss Craft,” Sif says, apparently on reflex, and then glares. “I mean, no. Obviously not. Will you just listen?”

Isabeau shuts his mouth obligingly. He’s listening.

* * *

You don’t like that Isabeau is talking to Loop now. You can feel that something’s shifted between them, and you don’t like that, either. But at least Isa still mostly does what you tell him.

“I’m saying I didn’t do Wish Craft,” you explain. “I did the wanting, and the repeating, and it didn’t do anything. I didn’t get what I…”

. . . Wait.

What did you repeat, exactly? It definitely wasn’t “toilet paper, toilet paper, toilet paper.” What were your exact words? You asked it to come with you. No. To loop back with you. And you said—

You said you didn’t want to be alone.

(“S-Sif?” Isa says nervously. “You’re, um. You should probably be careful?”

You follow his gaze toward your hands. You’ve reduced the whole branch to sawdust. You flip your knife shut and brush off your knees in disgust.)

You said you didn’t want to be alone. And you’re not alone anymore, are you? Someone’s looping back with you, but it’s not the blinding toilet paper.

“Oh, Stars,” you mumble. “I did it.”

Loop wheezes. “What, really? Piss Craft?”

“No!! Shut up!! Will you both just shut up and listen? I’m saying that I—” Stars, but it hurts to admit. “It’s— Isa, he’s… It was my fault. I’m the reason he remembers.”

Isabeau’s eyes widen. “Wait, but… are you saying, um. D-Does that mean you wished for me?”

Right. Of course he’d ask that. You squeeze your eyes shut, cringing. “Not… exactly?”

“Toilet paper??????”

“I just wanted something I could hold!!” you say defensively. “I was losing my mind!! I was tired and alone and tired of being alone and I couldn’t make anyone touch me and I was just—so blinding tired of dying that I… yes. Yes. Toilet paper.”

For some reason, Isabeau looks even more confused. “W-Wait, what?”

“I said I wanted something I could hold.”

Loop stops laughing for just long enough to choke out, “Wrong sentence, stardust.”

You frown at them, running over your lines in your mind. It all seems pretty self-explanatory. “What?”

“You—” Isabeau’s face is quickly changing color. “You, um. You… wanted us to touch you?”

Oh. Oh, no.

You can read the rest of ch 13 here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/53412649/chapters/139473697 Or start from the beginning here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/53412649/chapters/135189547

[dictionarywrites]

The Faerie Ring: Chapter 1

Loki, the third child of Odin Borson, is trying to find his way in this strange, modern world: sickly since he was a child and struggling to get a hold of what strands of career he approaches, he happens upon a book of magic that seems to call to him, that seems to be imbued with the strangest of magnetic powers.

In exploring this book, it appears he has opened himself up to outside interference: a strange being, known as the Grandmaster, begins to play upon his ailing mind as he sleeps, and Loki soon discovers this Faerie King is more dangerous than he had ever imagined.

Rated E. WIP. 7k. Frostmaster. Warnings for surrealism, horror, and extremely dubious consent. Extremely. This is a really dark fic that I’m super excited to play with, but uh, is, as I said, really dark, and only gonna get darker. 

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“Loki! Stop!” Loki’s heels click as he hurriedly descends the stairs, his back straight, his chin high, the very image of masculine grace despite the speed with which he moves. He takes his coat swiftly from its hook in the entrance hall, sliding it onto his shoulders, and he places his hat upon his head: his gloves are pulled on as he exits the house, and it is only when Loki is crossing over the threshold that he hears Thor thunder down the stairs behind him. With such speed he moves, and yet with such heft behind his feet! Loki’s brother might as well be an elephant, for the speed with which he moves. “Loki!” Thor comes to fall into step beside Loki, still in his shirt sleeves, not even wearing his coat, and Loki wonders, briefly, what the neighbours must think, to see his brother in such a state of undress, yelling at Loki in the street.

“Good afternoon, brother,” Loki says, making to turn away, but Thor’s hand grasps tightly at Loki’s wrist, so tightly the skin smarts, and Loki hisses out a sound, looking at his brother. Thor’s rage has affected colour to rise in his cheeks, and his long hair has come out of its careful ties, meaning that it hangs around his face in weathered strands.

“You would to Norway?” Thor asks, his lips parted, his eyes searching – and oh, how the weight of his gaze settles on Loki’s face, makes him draw back.

“Or America. I know not yet.”

“Loki,” Thor says, his tone wounded. “You would leave us? Leave Father and Mother?”

“You would have me as I am now?” Loki replies, his tone arch. He twists his wrist away from his brother’s grasp, staring him in the eyes and resisting the urge to curl his lip. “What would you have me do, Thor? Remain within the house, perform no labour of my own? I have not the soul to live a life of leisure, never earning my keep.”

“Then just take work, Loki,” Thor says.

“What work, pray? What work is left to me, now? What work might you suggest, Thor, that our father should permit? I am not to be a journalist, nor a poet; I am not to be an artist, nor musician; teaching is beneath me; tutoring undignified; engineering too low for me, and management too high!” Loki’s voice has raised, his tone becoming slightly shrill, and swiftly does he take his tongue in check, bidding it be silent in his mouth. Thor is staring at him, still the picture of hurt, and Loki takes another step back from him. “Thor, I merely seek peace – life without our father’s single eye keeping watch of me, examining me! I feel ever as an insect beneath a microscope, pinned prone upon a sheet of glass! What am I to do under such exacting scrutiny? Every breath I take is tight in my chest, lest he find some fault with the set of my lungs, the dilation of my nostrils – every step I take, I must be as graceful, yet manly, light-footed and yet strong! You don’t know what it’s like.”

“Father only wishes for you to be content, Loki.”

“Then he shall forever be disappointed, so long as I liv beneath his roof. Good afternoon, Thor,” Loki replies, and he turns elegantly upon his heel, walking more leisurely now away from his brother. The autumn air is cool against his skin, and he takes fast upon the path, making his way quickly from the edge of the town and onto the country lanes, making his way toward the wood.

“Mr Borson, sir, good afternoon!” says a kindly voice, and Loki turns, offering a polite smile and a tip of his hat to Vesta Jameson, who cooks for the Gold family some doors away.

“Good afternoon, Vesta,” Loki says, nodding his head. “Picking apples for Fandral?”

“Young Mr Wright does love his apples, sir,” Vesta says, and yet she reaches into her basket and holds one out to him, its skin shining red in the light.

“Oh, Vesta, I couldn’t possibly—”

“Go on, sir. An apple a day keeps the doctor away,” she says, and Loki cannot help the warmth in his own smile. He had been a sickly child, often confined to bedrest, and when he and Thor had begun to spend more time with the Wrights – Fandral and Sif both – Vesta had often pushed a diet of more fruits upon Loki.

“My thanks, Vesta,” Loki murmurs, taking the kindness as it is offered, and he touches his hat once more as the two of them pass each other by. Loki holds the apple over his heart, polishing it against the dark blue of his suit jacket, and he welcomes the boughs of the forest trees over his head. His feet crunch softly on the carpet of yellow and red stretching out beneath his feet, and as he walks, he slips the apple into his pocket, sighing softly. The sound itself is taken up by the western wind, and the wind seems to echo his own exhalations, rustling through the leaves above his head and making them dance over the path.

It is the second time in as many weeks that Loki has left the dining table early, his and his father’s tempers catching like two matchsticks against one another, and Loki feels the heavy ache of guilt in his chest. His mother’s face had been as much pained as it had been shocked, and Loki sighs, momentarily removing his hat in order to run his hand through his hair.

“What have you been doing today, my son?” his mother had asked, her voice quiet across the table, and Loki had glanced up cautiously from his stew. Seeing Thor and Father so engaged in conversation, he had seen fit to respond.

“I sent an inquiry to Mr Dalish, at the docks on the Thames. I thought perhaps, come November, I might take travel to Oslo.”

“Oslo?” had come Father’s voice from the head of the table, and once more he and Loki had come to verbal blows. What is to be said for one’s life when one’s greatest enemy is one own’s father? The wind softly brushes through Loki’s hair, and he feels its cool touch upon his skin, feels the kiss of the western wind upon his brow.

“What is to be done?” he asks the forest at large, looking out into his depths. Oh, to be as a tree! Standing still, and yet to be satisfied, changing colours with the seasons… Loki inhales, smelling the scents of autumn fill his nostrils – mushrooms grow thick upon the forest’s floor, and nuts and berries are beginning to grow plump in the hedgerows. Taking up a blackberry from a thick bush, glad for the leather of his gloves, Loki slips it into his mouth, feeling its bloody burst upon his tongue, and he steps from the path.

Loki has always well-known these woods, better than his brother has – Loki has a way amongst the trees that Thor has never possessed, an ability to move silently through the underbrush and gone unseen that none of Thor’s friends have ever been able to match him with. At games of hide and seek, Loki was always an adept as a child… But what does that matter? He cannot simply hide in the woods until his life is done. Setting his jaw, Loki continues his movement over the forest floor, feeling the leaves of wild garlic kiss the hems of his trousers as he passes through, and then he comes upon a great log.

Slipping his hand into his pocket, he draws out a small knife, and files it along the groove of a crevice in the wood, flicking it outward and pulling out the treasure within: wrapped in brown paper, a book. Taking his seat upon the old trunk, he lays the book in his lap.

“I bring you here, to England, with factories, libraries, cities, at your fingertips, and you would go back to Norway!”

“Why shouldn’t I? You plainly aren’t content with whatever I might do here! What would you expect of me, Father, to remain as furniture within this house?”

“By all means, find work, but something befitting your station!”

“My station? And what of Thor’s station?”

Loki gently unfolds the paper that coils protectively about the book’s heavy leather binding, and he draws his fingers over the title, which had once been written in paint of gilt, and is now lost to the sands of time, rubbed away between the other books that must have once been shelved beside it. The tome is heavy, and its musty scent comes well to Loki’s sensitive nose, making Loki remember every library he has ever stepped inside – of which there have been many.

Loki looks at the old book’s cover page, tracing its decadent designs of deepest black ink with his gloved fingers: ſpell work. There is no date to be found anywhere in the old tome, but Loki knows it must be one hundred years old at least – he had found it in the back of an old shop in the bowels of London Town, and had been delighted by its aesthetic alone, but its content! Every page contains the ingredients, the recipe, for some bewitchment or enchantment – Loki had thought it to be a piece of parody, at first, some curiosity intended for the avid occultist, but with every page he reads, it is plainly intended as a genuine guide for any student of witchcraft.

To think that such ridiculous fantasies might be entertained, in 1896! With the turn of the new century so close! And yet Loki had hidden it here in the woods. Thor would find it a curiosity, undoubtedly, but Mother so hates even the thought of spells (she abhors even English fairy tales), and Loki had not wanted to upset her by having her stumble upon it.

“What do you say?” Loki asks, whispering the words. “Shall I give one a try?” The forest whispers its encouragement, leaves rustling in the wide-reaching boughs over Loki’s head and bringing the scent of sweet berries to his nose.

“You would rather have Thor instead of me at any venture, and you know it! I can take apart any one of your machines and put it back together again; I know every worker in that factory by name; I can recite the books from memory, and still you would favour him over me! Just admit it!”

“I will admit to nothing except foolishness, thinking my youngest son might amount to anything at all!”

“Spell to reveal a changeling,” Loki murmurs, settling on a page at random. The wind rises suddenly, coming in such a burst that it knocks Loki’s hat from his head, and he lets out a short, surprised sound, setting the book aside and leaning over the trunk to reach for it… Here, he stops.

There is a curve of mushrooms, starkly white compared to the carpet of yellows, reds and greens, about the one side of the trunk. Loki frowns, tilting his head slightly to the side – he had been here but two days before, and there had been no such fungal sprout. Turning his head, he sees there are more mushrooms curving around the old log he takes for his seat, and Loki quickly comes to his feet.

White mushrooms surround his log, his sanctum, in a clean, well-established ring. Loki feels his blood run cold in his veins, chilling him from within, and he presses his lips tightly together. A silly superstition, to be sure, and yet since he was a very young boy his mother had warned him against stepping into faerie rings, whether they were formed of mushroom or grass, lest he be whisked away!

A stupid thought, a silly thought… Had he not just been decrying witchcraft? And yet here he is, fearing of faeries and monsters at his heels? Steeling himself, Loki sits upon the old log once more, taking the book up. The wind has turned the pages, and Loki’s gaze settles upon the new page.

“An offering to a Faerie,” he reads aloud, his voice low. “ought be made with the greatest diffidence. The Faeries are fickle beings, notoriously Hot of blood, and they might take Offence at any Slight.” Loki half-expects the laughter of the trees once again, but it doesn’t come, and he looks up. He looks about the wood, seeing it as unchanging as before, sees the wind rustling the leaves softly, and yet…

He realises now what has changed.

There is no sound at all. He hears not the rustle of the leaves; he hears not the song of the birds; he hears not even his own heartbeat, his own breaths! What eerie silence this is, what uncanny quiet!

“Hello?” he calls, but although he feels the weight of the word upon his tongue, although he feels even its vibration in his mouth, he hears nothing, nothing, nothing! Breathing somewhat faster, Loki leans over, taking up his book and clasping it tightly to his chest. Whatever force it is – be it fate, or divinity, or even faerie-magic – he feels his gaze drawn downward, and he looks to the mushrooms over which he had (so foolishly! So unknowingly!) crossed to reach his wooden seat, and there, there, shooting up from the ground like so many infernal geysers are bursts of blood! It spatters in thick red upon his dark shoes, upon the hems of his blue trousers, and Loki feels fear strike terror into his heart: clutching his book tight to himself as a shield, he begins to run, his feet pounding on the ground.

He is not so far into the woods, and he knows them as well as anything, and he runs until the path toward the orchard is within sight, and yet he feels, he feels without looking, without knowing, that something is in his pursuit. The very hairs on the back of his neck, thin and light and often unnoticed, stand on their end, and he cannot bear to imagine what he might see if he turns his head to look!

Loki imagines what is following him, some slavering beast whose breath is hot upon the nape of his neck, its snapping jaws so very close, and then he feels his foot hook about some unexpected root as he takes a step, and he cries out in fear and shock alike as he loses his footing, landing hard upon the ground. Closing his eyes tightly and feeling himself tremble with his sudden fright, he presses his face into the clay-rich dirt, its scent filling his nose, and yet—

There is no snapping jaw upon him, wrenching his throat from his neck. There is no monster’s claw upon him, ripping him from belly to chest. There is nothing. Loki sits up, looking with staring eyes about himself, and yet he spies nothing out of the ordinary – the trees rustle above his head, the birds sing, and close by he can even hear the soft babble of the stream that runs between the forest and the orchard.

Sighing, Loki puts his dirty face into his hands, feeling sweat shine well upon his skin, and then he takes up his book and his hat both. If he is shocking himself within these simple woods, it is a sign he ought soon home, and to bed…

And then what? To argue with Father? To console Mother? To make way to Oslo, or else New York?

“If only magic were real,” Loki mutters to himself, wiping dust and dirt away from the cover of his book and wrapping its paper around it again. “Father could hardly fault me then, could he, Wood? Just snap my fingers, and there—” Loki snaps his fingers, and his eyes are stunned by a sudden flash. Loki stares at his own gloved hand, tightening his grip on the book against his left hip. “Be fire,” he continues, in a whisper. It is the worst of habits to talk to oneself, he knows, but this… Loki snaps his fingers again.

Nothing happens. Even the sound is dulled by the leather.

Removing the glove, Loki puts his hand to his forehead, feeling for a temperature – undoubtedly, he is a little more warm than he ought be. And yet this strange turn: moments of deafness, and now seeing sparks where there are none!

Sighing, he puts his glove on once more, and begins the walk home.

❁ ❀ ❁ ❀ ❁

Loki sleeps ill that night. He tosses and turns in his bed, his skin hot to the touch and his flesh feverish, and drink as he might from the jug of water beside his bed, twice he must call for his footman to refill it. By morning, Loki is laid out within his bed, his skin chalky in colour, and Mother sits beside him, soothing his hot brow with cool cloths and fussing over him.

“Oh, Loki,” she murmurs. “You ought not have walked in the woods, in such inclement weather—”

“It was a fine day,” Loki replies, his voice hoarse.

In the open door of Loki’s bedroom, he sees the shadow of his father, hovering in the doorway. Will he enter, Loki wonders? Will he face his son even as he lays abed, sick as a dog?

The shadow passes away: Loki thought so.

“Sleep, my child,” Frigga murmurs, and Loki lets his eyes close, doing his best to sleep some more.

❁ ❀ ❁ ❀ ❁

Loki, the east winds whisper. Loki, Loki! Play with us! Dance among the leaves! Loki dances not. Standing in a clearing, his bare feet settled in the blossoms that come up around his soles, he surveys the wood about him, from the crystal-clear waters of the spring to the tall trees. How tall are they? Their trunks are as wide as water wheels, and when Loki looks up he finds they are as all as the great sequoias of America, ending far, far above his head.

Loki feels he is staring into the depths of the very sky.

Loki, the west winds murmur, gentler than the east winds, Won’t you come and swim with us? Won’t you cool your feet in the waters?

Loki moves not. His feet, pale white and shining in the wan, spring sun, are cool enough as they are.

My friend, says a low voice, resonant and deep, Won’t you come to our festivities when September reaches its end? Loki frowns. A party? At the end of September?

I haven’t the time, he says. I will soon back to school… No, wait. Loki has not been a schoolboy in a decade at least.

My friend, replies the voice. Loki feels a hand brush his shoulder, but when he looks, no such hand is there. Your reticence wounds me. Are we not amiable? Do you disdain my company?

Not at all, sir, Loki replies, and yet he is only being polite: he knows this fellow not at all from another, and he knows not enough of him to disdain or seek out his company. Merely that I am busy.

Let me give you a wager.

A wager?

A wager.

I am not a betting man, Loki says, politely: he tries to turn away, to walk away from this strange fellow, but though forests often give Loki the way of them with ease, this forest is not to be charmed by Loki’s soft voice or careful tread. It turns itself around and around, and Loki is lost within its bounds. Please, sir, I would not stoop to such digrace.

A game, then? Just a game?

And the stakes?

No stakes! The man, voiced and yet faceless, laughs softly. You do not trust me.

I do not put my faith in strangers, sir, Loki replies, even bowing to assuage his impoliteness, and he attempts to turn again, but founds himself grabbed at the shoulders, pinned up against one of these mighty red trees by his very throat: an invisible hand so grasps him!

I cannot breathe, Loki whispers. And yet speak I must.

Pray, my friend, only play with me. No one has such magic as you. Loki feels his skin flush hot, hot— the fever! Where is he? Is he as yet feverish? If he has a fever, he ought not be wandering in this strange forest, let alone without his shoes – oh, he shall catch his death!

I have no magic, sir.

You have everything, the voice replies, and Loki moans quietly, feeling the forest bleed from his vision as he turns in his bed.

“Lady Frigga, I beg of you, keep back,” says a deep, honeyed voice Loki knows all too well. “Your son is delirious with fever.”

“Heimdall,” Loki says in a low voice, and when his hand reaches, a large hand clasps upon his own. Heimdall’s palm is cool to the touch, and Loki coughs, quietly. “Am I dying?”

“No, my prince,” the doctor whispers. What a strange thing to call him. Is this Heimdall, or the fever speaking?

“Do you know, Heimdall,” Loki whispers back, feeling his delirium loosen his tongue, feeling his hair cling sweat-slick to his scalp. What must he look like? “I had a dream where you could see all… Can you?”

“I can see you, Loki,” the doctor whispers. His golden eyes become honey-coloured for a moment, and for a second his dark skin seems much lighter, painted with blue. Loki snatches back his hand.

“You are not my doctor,” he says harshly, and then darkness encompasses his vision once again, his head tipping back upon the sheets.

❁ ❀ ❁ ❀ ❁

Loki is out amongst the fjords, sitting alone on a snowy peak, and he looks at the sky above him. The air is clean and cold against his skin, and yet Loki shies not away from it, instead feeling its embrace as one might take a kiss from a relative, feeling the warmth of its feeling if not of its touch. The sky is an array of colours, spread out like so much dye in water, and Loki sighs as he looks up at it.

Aurora Borealis, his books call it, and oh, what pinks, what greens, what blues and reds!

It’s not as beautiful as you, says a voice, and Loki acts without thinking – imperiously waving his hand, the voice chokes, gasping for air.

“Disturb me not,” he says. For the first time in a long time, his words leave his mouth instead of bursting upon the air half-formed, made only of thought and with little breath behind them.

Ooh, you’re, ah, a feisty one. Ha. Loki frowns, turning his head, but there is no figure where the voice had come from. Slowly, Loki raises his hand again, but the voice, so strange as it is, does not return.

Loki is permitted the silence of the fjords, the skies opening above his head, and he might sit back and bask in their majesty.

❁ ❀ ❁ ❀ ❁

“Drink this,” Heimdall says softly, pressing a bowl to his mouth, and Loki parts his lips, letting the steeped tea settle on his tongue. Swallowing, Loki feels the bitterness of the strange tea settle on his lips and slide easily down his throat, and he feels a little energy come to him, feels his eyes open.

“Heimdall?” he says. “Did Mother call for you?”

“Yes,” Heimdall answers. Loki watches his dark, steady hands as Heimdall pours forth another bowl of the bitter tea, and he allows the doctor to bring it to his lips, drinking down the stuff. It is a medicinal drink he had oft-consumed in his youth, so prone as Loki had been to strange turns and illnesses – he knows not what the ingredients may be, but he enjoys the bitter taste of it somewhat, and he wonders vaguely if this tea is ever drunk for its taste alone.

“I don’t know what it was,” Loki says mildly. “Yesterday, I just took a walk in the woods… I don’t know, Heimdall. I must have been somewhat unwell even as I left – I took a strange turn upon my promenade.”

“What do you mean?” Heimdall asks, setting the cup aside. His voice is quiet, but not judgemental – as ever, Heimdall speaks with a voice that is low and steeped in honey, and yet feels not falser for it.

“I found I had stepped in a faerie ring – you know, of mushrooms? – and it gave me an awful shock. Not that I really believe in such things, but it sent my very mind awhirl. The sounds seemed to stop and start about me, and I felt myself growing feverish as I came toward the path…” Loki frowns, furrowing his brow as he tries to remember. “I was running, I think. Running from something in the wood. A wolf, I thought at the time.”

“Another cup of tea, Loki,” Heimdall says gravely, and Loki raises his chin, his eyebrows raising slightly.

“Oh? Really? Alright.” Loki’s jaw is slack, and a little of the tea spills upon his chin as he sips from the cup, but once more he drains it to its base, and Heimdall looks down at him, his golden eyes serious. “Do you believe in magic, Heimdall?” Heimdall’s eyes widen slightly, his dark lips parting.

“Magic?” he repeats, slowly.

“I was reading,” Loki murmurs softly, aware of the dream-like quality his voice is taking on. “Spells, magic, enchantment…” Loki feels his eyes droop closed, feeling sleep take careful hold of him again, and he is adrift on a sea of blackness.

❁ ❀ ❁ ❀ ❁

Loki is sitting up in his bed, a book in his lap. Outside, the sun is dim, but even that light had seen fit to make his sensitive head ache, and thus he has carefully shut the curtains. His back against the cushioning of his headboard, he sips leisurely from a mug of tea, a tray of uneaten porridge upon his lap, and he is doing his best to assuage the room from spinning.

The door opens, and Loki glances up, expecting his footman to take away his breakfast tray, but he sees only Thor. “May I?” he asks, softly, and Loki nods his head, gesturing to the end of his bed. Thor closes the door carefully behind him, slowly sitting down on the foot of Loki’s bed. His hand settles on Loki’s ankle through the sheets, patting the flesh, and Loki gives his brother a wan smile.

“I’m fine, Thor,” Loki says. “You needn’t worry so.”

“You’ve not been this ill since we were very young indeed,” Thor murmurs, gravely. “Nearly a month you have been abed, now! The very month of September has passed you by like a speeding train.” At the end of September, echoes a sing-song voice in the back of Loki’s throat, but Loki ignores it, and he reaches for his brother’s hand, taking it and squeezing it in his own. “How do you feel?”

“Well enough,” Loki answers.

“Can you walk?”

“Not without swiftly meeting the floor,” Loki admits, and Thor’s concern shows on his face like a wave upon a shore, passing swiftly over his eyes, his brows, his mouth, before being washed away again as he hides it. “It is only what I deserved. Leaving the dining table with such a tantrum as the wind beneath my sails… Never have I been so lacking in decorum.”

“I wish you were less concerned with decorum,” Thor mutters, releasing his hand. His hands come to settle in his lap, and Loki’s own hands cup the warmth of his tea, feeling its pleasant heat radiating out against his chest, his palms. “They found an apple in your coat pocket. It was near rotted.”

“The apple,” Loki says softly. “Vesta gave it to me – I passed her as I walked toward the wood,” he explains. “I ought have mentioned it.”

“You have been in a state of fever and delirium for near two weeks,” Thor says, his thin nerves fraying to break. “How could you have mentioned it!?” Loki stares at his brother, surprised at the sudden burst of temper, and Thor rubs one hand over his mouth, slowly. “I merely wake in the night, brother, with visions of you on a ship to Oslo, or to New York – what if you had boarded one, and became ill upon the seas? You might have died!”

“Thor,” Loki says softly, but Thor’s ruddy cheeks are ever ruddier.

“Or if you had fallen in the wood! We might not have found you until it was too late, and I—”

“It does you no good to torment yourself with such thoughts,” Loki says, doing his best not to chide as much as he might wish to. “I am here, Thor, and I will soon be to health once more.” Standing from the bed, Thor comes closer, and Loki is surprised – touched, even – when Thor drags him into a desperate embrace, his strong arms tight about Loki’s back, clutching at him as if he believes Loki is to die on the morrow. “Thor,” Loki whispers.

“It would have been my fault,” Thor murmurs. “You said it yourself at dinner that night: I am too accepting of Father’s treatment of you, too willing to allow it to pass over my head, I—”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Loki mutters. “Many times you have defended me to Father, and besides, he’s right. It has naught to do with you, Thor, I merely said that in a fit of temper. How could a man like me be the head of a factory? What if I fainted amidst the machines? Has scarcely ever a year passed, Thor, where I was not struck down by my invalidity? My weak lungs, my ailing heart?” Thor grips Loki all the harder, and Loki sighs, softly, pressing his forehead to the warm crook of his brother’s shoulder.

“Shall I read to you?” Thor asks.

“You need not waste away your days at my bedside,” Loki murmurs as Thor draws away. “Pray, go to the Wrights – young Sif—”

“Perhaps from Thomas Hobbes?” Thor suggests, taking up a book at random from Loki’s desk. “You’ve always found his philosophy comfortable for bedtime reading.”

“You’re thinking of Kant,” Loki murmurs, and yet warm indulgence settles in his chest. “Take this tray from me, would you?”

“You’ve scarcely eaten anything,” Thor says, staring down at the bowl.

“The thought of eating any of it turns my stomach, I’m afraid,” Loki murmurs, his tone apologetic, and Thor takes up the tray, setting it upon the desk. Loki watches him in the dim light, and he says, “Have you been having dreams as of late, Thor?”

“Dreams? Yes, brother: I often have dreams of this or that.” Thor’s curiosity shines in his eyes as he looks down at Loki, and Loki opens his mouth, but then closes it again. He finds he has little to say. Dreams? Why had he brought that up? “Have you been dreaming?”

“I think so,” Loki says. He tastes his own uncertainty on his tongue. “Pray, do leave me, brother. I would sleep a little longer.”

“Shall I call for Doctor Heimdall?” Thor asks, reaching out: the backs of his knuckles touch Loki’s forehead, but Loki’s own flesh is cool to the touch, and the clammy damp of his fever has long-since gone away.

“No, no,” Loki murmurs, shaking his head. “I shall just sleep another few hours…” Thor takes Loki’s cup from him, setting it onto the desk, and Loki lies down on his side, hearing the soft creak as the door opens and then clicks shut once again. Loki lies down in the dim light his bedroom, and beneath his bed, he feels the magnetic power of that book of spells, that he had so secreted in the woods…

He ought not have brought it into the house. If his mother happens upon it, oh! How upset she will be. And yet! And yet… Loki lets his arm come down from the bed, reaching beneath his bed, and he traces the leather beneath his fingers, feeling for that illegible gilt writing he so loves upon the cover.

Sleep comes to him all at once, assailing his weak body, and he curls his arms about his pillow, gripping it tightly.

❁ ❀ ❁ ❀ ❁

Loki stands in a clearing. His feet are bare, and he is still clad in his bedclothes, but the air is warm, and the weakness he had been feeling not long ago seems to have left him entirely. The scent of the air is all wrong for September: there are summer fruits thick upon the air, and there is a heat to the wind that runs itself through his hair.

“Are you there?” he asks.

“Uh huh,” the voice answers. Loki recognises that voice, and yet when he attempts to match a face to it, nothing comes.

“I don’t believe you,” Loki says. His voice is not unkind: he speaks politely, but simply, and he hears the frown in the silence between him and the voice.

“What? What do you mean, you don’t believe me?”

“I don’t see you,” Loki says. “Therefore, I refuse to believe you are there. Perhaps you are projecting your voice through some manner of stagecraft I am unfamiliar with – perhaps you are using some sort of machinery, but either way, you are not here.”

“I am,” the voice insists, and when Loki turns to meet it, he sees a figure. He is taller than Loki had expected, with silver hair combed back from his head and somehow affected to spike up in a strange shape; he wears kohl at his eyes and blue pigment, too, even paint upon his shaven chin. Wearing the golden robes of some priest of old, he seems at odds with the normality of this simple, English countryside. “There. You can, ah, you can see me now. What do you think?”

“Taller than I expected,” Loki answers. “What ought I call you?”

“The Grandmaster,” says the voice, immediately. Although Loki sees the face it is attached to, and even sees the face’s lips move, the two seem unconnected, somehow. This thought makes Loki smile.

“I see,” he says. “I am dreaming.” The Grandmaster frowns.

“May I have your name?” he asks: Loki laughs. The sound is low and resonant, echoing in the emptiness of the clearing and sounding off into the forest around them, and when the Grandmaster takes a step to the left, Loki mirrors him, stepping right. The two of them take careful, stealthy steps upon the forest floor, circling one another. If Loki were to give this man his name, why, undoubtedly he would take it – and Loki needs his name for other things, as yet.

“You may not,” Loki replies. “But I will tell you what I should like to be called, if you wish.” The Grandmaster grins, showing all his teeth. They are very white, and not so sharp as they should be. Not so sharp as they truly are, Loki bets. “Call me Loki.”

“Loki,” the Grandmaster repeats, and the sound of his name seems to thrum through Loki’s very heart, affecting a tingling sensation within him. Here, in this deserted clearing, barefoot and still in his nightclothes, Loki feels the first twinge of fear. “You crossed the faerie ring.”

“I did,” Loki agrees. Fear blooms in his chest like so many wildflowers, and Loki stumbles slightly in his circling of the Grandmaster: for Loki’s foibles, the Grandmaster takes a step closer. He smells of the stars themselves – whatever they smell like. “But you put it there. And you hid it before I crossed it, didn’t you? That seems a rather nasty trick.”

“Why won’t you come to my party?” the Grandmaster asks, his lips pressing out comically into a pout. “You should, you know. You’ll just, ah, you’ll just love it.”

“I’ve never cared for parties,” Loki replies, stopping in his circling, and the Grandmaster closes the gap between them. He really is tall, looking slightly down at Loki, and the lack of distance between them seems most improper. Loki is not dressed at all, after all, and… and the Grandmaster’s hand…

Loki stares down at his hip. The Grandmaster’s hand is splayed across it, the fingers spread wide as if the Grandmaster wishes to touch all the flesh he can in one movement, the grip of his thumb against Loki’s hipbone positively possessive, and Loki feels all the breath leave his lungs at once. Such heat, such wondrous heat, oh – has Loki always been as cold as he feels right now? Has he always been so desperate for such a wonderful warmth of touch? The Grandmaster leans so close, now, so close, that his lips ghost Loki’s own.

“I can’t,” Loki whispers. “I won’t. Two men oughtn’t stand so close, sir: you forget yourself.”

“I’m not exactly Oscar Wilde,” replies the Grandmaster, and Loki claps his hand over his mouth, his eyes wide. Mr Wilde’s trial had just concluded the year before, and his name is spoken in hushed voices in the Borson home, when Thor is amongst his friends and they might speak freely – as freely as one might, within the lines of propriety.

“Sir!” he says, indignant, and the Grandmaster steps even closer, so that their chests are together, and Loki feels he might well melt – oh, oh! What warmth comes from the Grandmaster, what splendid energy that crackles on Loki’s skin and makes him feel so beautifully full, so healthy!

“Ask me to kiss you,” the Grandmaster whispers. “I, uh, I won’t. If you don’t ask.”

“I couldn’t ask for such a thing,” Loki whispers.

“Why not? You’ve asked before.” Loki feels his cheeks flush red with shame – he remembers his school days, letting other boys, older boys, lay soft attentions on his cheeks, let them admire his prettiness – for a boy. And then, just once, Loki recalls the way he had stepped through some gambling den in search of Thor, attempting to find his brother before the constabulary happened upon them both (for Loki had tipped them off), and a man had pressed Loki against the wall, his thigh pressed hard between Loki’s legs and making him gasp. “Oh, you think I wouldn’t know? Haha, everything’s, ah, up for grabs in dreams, Loki.” And there is the Grandmaster’s thigh, hard and unwavering between Loki’s own, and Loki lets out a shuddering little noise.

“I beg of you sir, don’t—”

“Don’t what?” the Grandmaster asks, and his thigh presses ever higher: Loki’s length is erect within his trousers, and he whimpers as he feels himself become slightly wet at his head, oh, oh! He flinches away as best he can, but he is trapped in place by some magic unknown, and the warmth of the Grandmaster’s body – Loki can hardly bare to pull away from him. “I just, ah, I just really like you, Loki. Won’t you let me show you?”

“You oughtn’t,” Loki whispers. “It’s… It’s sinful, sir, and I—” Loki moans, and Lord help him, the sound is not as pained as it ought sound. The Grandmaster’s hands grip both of Loki’s hips now, and all he had done was pull Loki’s hips flush against him, serving to grind Loki’s shame against his leg ever harder, ever more so! “Grandmaster, please.”

“Please what?” the Grandmaster asks, and again he pulls upon Loki’s hips, and Loki feels his movements stutter: his knees growing weak, Loki is forced to grasp at the front of the Grandmaster’s strange and splendid robes. “Ask me to kiss you, Loki. Ask me to kiss you, and I’ll stop.” The Grandmaster’s hands are slipping beneath his bed clothes now, his fingers seeking out the twin curves of Loki’s buttocks, and then his thumbs dip between—

“Kiss me!” Loki exhales, desperately, fear and arousal twisting themselves like a Celtic knot within him. “Please, sir, I beg of you, stop: kiss me, kiss me if you must, please, and don’t—” The Grandmaster’s lips are on his own, his lips electrifyingly hot, his tongue sweeping against Loki’s own in long, easy strokes. When the Grandmaster’s mouth finally leaves his own, Loki hears himself sob, feels the tears slide down his cheeks as hot streaks, and Loki knows not if he cries for relief or loss.

❁ ❀ ❁ ❀ ❁

Waking in his bed, soaked with sweat, Loki gasps to himself. He feels his hardness within his legs, feels it turning soft, and with shame (oh, Lord, oh Lord), he realises there is a stickiness, a slickness, between his thighs, upon his belly.

Loki touches his cheeks, but there are no tears there – that had been reserved for his dream-self.

And there. There! On his pillow, what?

Come to the wood on September 30th. Wear as little as you dare.

Loki reaches for the parchment, which has been written upon with ink as blue as the beach-near sea, and it is real. It is real, and not a mere figment of some fever-dream – it is as real as anything. It is as real as the stickiness on his thighs.

Loki feels sick, and he crumbles the parchment in his hand, ringing the bell to summon his footman. He must to a bath, immediately, must scrub himself of these thoughts, and yet, and yet… Loki thinks of the Grandmaster’s mouth on his, their tongues together. And Loki had asked for it – how could he do such a thing?

But what if he had continued? asks the voice in Loki’s head. What if he had tainted you any further?

What if you had liked it? whispers a voice that is not his own, and Loki feels the want to cry all again, fear running through his veins like so much blood. September 30th – that is scarcely two days away!

He must prepare.

[uru-viel]

Honey Badgers Eat Snakes Alive

A birthday gift for @neverending-shenanigans written by myself and @lucid-dreamer-dreams

The first time Darcy Lewis sees Steve Rogers is during the sorting ceremony. She doesn’t recall seeing him on the Hogwart’s train but then again she spent most of the time searching for Jane.

But there they were. New firsties anxiously awaiting to see what House they are to be in for the next 7 years. All hundred of them were neatly separated into two lines with two House tables on each side.

“What House you reckon you’ll be in?” Darcy clearly remembers hearing a smirking brunette ask.

Though she doesn’t recall to who.

“I’ll be in the hero’s house Gryffindor!”

The exchange in front of her goes silent after that declaration and the rest of the time is clapping and cheering for the newly sorted firsties.

Darcy anxiously looks for her cousin Jane whose Ravenclaw colors shine brightly. As she moves closer to the sorting hat, the panic rises in her. What if she isn’t smart enough to be in Ravenclaw like Jane? She’s definitely not brave enough to be in Gryffindor and definitely not sneaky for Slytherin.

“LEWIS, DARCY!”

Jane cheers the loudest when Darcy’s name is called and she stumbles up to the chair.

She gulps and ducks her head when the stern Professor Mcgonagall drops the sorting hat on her head.

Her glasses slide down her nose when the Sorting Hat speaks to her.

Well, well, well another Foster in Hogwarts.

“Actually, my dad’s a Lewis so I’m a Lewis.” Darcy says out loud.

You’re your own person I can see. You wish to be in the same house as your Jane correct?

“Duh.”

No. That wouldn’t do at all. You have intelligence but you don’t possess that drive to seek out knowledge regardless of any circumstance.

Darcy had to reluctantly agree with the Hat’s thought. She’s heard stories from Jane about the crazy antics in House Ravenclaw.

Apparently Tony Stark was infamous even amongst the muggles.

Nor do you have that need to prove yourself as a courageous hero. While being in the Gryffindor house would push you out of your comfort zone, you would be unhappy.

Yeah, no. She could only recall Thor’s crazy stories about the adventures he and Sif got into…when he wasn’t snogging her cousin.

Laughter bubbled inside her when she pictured herself with Thor’s body.

Perhaps Slytherin. The hat mused in her head.

Darcy looks at the snot nosed, sneering lot. They seemed happy enough to be with each other.

There is much you wish to accomplish. A career in politics? In that house you’d make all the connections needed for your goal. Although you lack the cunning ability that is nourished in that house.

“Doesn’t matter. I’ll work hard to achieve my goal. You better believe it!” Darcy clenches her fist as she proclaimed her declaration.

Unbeknownst to her, a blond boy looked up at her in admiration.

Hm, no. You do not have the cunning trait. Silvertongues and Lyesmiths dwell in Slytherin, while you are mostly blunt and honest.

Darcy thinks of Loki, the brother of Jane’s boyfriend Thor. He was a Slytherin. She shivers. No. She wasn’t a Silvertongue.

It’s possible with your work ethic to obtain these skills but unless you already have a kernel you’ll be left behind. In that house it is dangerous to do so. You are blunt and honest, caring when others are scathing. Maybe…. yes. It is definitely where you belong.

“Where?” Darcy asks. “Slytherin?”

The Sorting Hat chuckles. Then he shouts, “Hufflepuff.”

The fuck?

She can see Jane’s own surprise from her table. The student across from her is scowling from the water that was spat in his direction.

The Hufflepuff table cheers loudly. She smiles hesitantly when one of the older students walks close to her.

“C’mon lass Hufflepuff is waiting for you.” Darcy struggles not to blush at the handsome boy.

“Oi! Cedric stop flirting with the firstie!” One of the other Hufflepuff hollers out.

Cedric rolls his eyes but offers his hand to help Darcy down. “Ignore them. They get excited whenever we get a newbie.”

“So you do this for every first year?” Darcy asks.

Cedric raised a brow. “Another American? What are the odds of that. As for your question it’s tradition for the second years to bring the first years down to our tables. We know how frightening it can be to be in front of hundreds of people.”

Darcy almost runs off the stage with the Sorting hat were it not for Cedric’s quick thinking that tossed the hat back on the stool. She tosses a hesitant smile at her cousin as they pass by.

Jane smiles back at her.

Some of the Hufflepuff girls embrace her-which wow that wasn’t a thing she expected but what she totally needed- and a few of the guys squeeze her in half hugs. The warmth at being accepted had to be unique because she doesn’t remember her classmates being this kind in America. In fact, they could be downright cruel, labeling her as “other” without her even doing magic in front of people.

Darcy gasps in surprise when her robes and the rest of her uniform is bespelled to match the colors of her house, yellow and black with a badger on the crest.

“A proper badger.” Darcy nearly goes cross eyed when her nose is poked.

“Huh, didn’t exactly expect them to be so friendly.” The smirking brunet from earlier says.

Darcy was sort of embarrassed that she couldn’t recall his name. That was like Jane level of absentmindedness.

The boy raises a brow and offers a hand. “Name’s James Buchanan Barnes. Nice to meet ya.”

Darcy gratefully takes the hand. “Darcy Lewis.”

“I know, I think the whole table knows your name from the way they screeched out ‘We got Foster’s cousin!’.”

How embarrassing.

Awkward silence descends on them forcing Darcy to pay close attention to the last students to be sorted.

“ROGERS, STEVE!” The professor calls out from her scroll.

A skinny, worryingly so, blond boy clumsily goes up the stage.

Less than a minute goes by before the Sorting Hat bellows out

“SLYTHERIN!”

Beside her James pales rapidly. And Rogers looks in their direction with piercing blue eyes. ****** The years are kind to Hufflepuff house or at least that is what Darcy likes to think as they draw near to their seventh year.

In her not so humble opinion, most of her house grew up to be very attractive. Poor Cedric’s back was almost ramrod straight for two whole years as he drew more and more appreciative gazes upon his form.

The prefect always had volunteered partners for late night patrols from all houses. Astounding that all it took to unite the Hogwarts female and male population was bronze tousled hair and a pretty smile.

His death took such a toll on their house. The random students who came up to express their sorrows at his loss.

Cho Chang couldn’t even look at their house colors without bursting into tears.

Darcy prays to Morgana that the boy who helped her settle into Hogwarts found peace. She knows James feels the same.

Ah James.

James- Bucky as he was referred to by the blond snake- was a devil in wizard flesh. Thank Merlin contraceptive spells existed.

Darcy grew out of her awkward phase and turned into a very attractive girl. Her long dark hair tumbled from her shoulders and her body was quite curvaceous.

She stares in the mirror and twists herself side to side. And nearly pouts when she sees how her skirt lifts up. Darcy knew she should have taken Jane’s old uniform instead of keeping the one from fifth year.

“Yes you’re beautiful hurry up, Darcy.” A voice says from across the hall.

Most of the dormitory ignores it, the phrase commonplace since the beginning of their first year.

Darcy does hurry up as she detects an impatient lit in her best friend’s tone. One she’s very familiar with and she ducks out of the way from a tickling hex.

“You’re so impatient, James.” She huffs. James rolls his eyes and tugs her along outside the dorm. They both automatically bid their housemates a goodbye as the door closes behind them.

“Can ya blame me, doll? You’ve never given me a chance to introduce you to Stevie. I’m gonna milk it for all it’s worth.” A crooked grin and twinkling eyes are thrown her way.

“How Slytherin of you.” Darcy wrinkles her nose.

Darcy still doesn’t understand how she got roped into this meeting.

James’ birthday.

Her unplanned visit to the Infirmary.

Oh yeah.

“Don’t be like that, doll. Professor Sprout is always telling us to believe in the best of others.” James chides.

Which is very true.

Still doesn’t mean Darcy will. She’s heard all about the reputation of Steve Rogers.

How he attacked Gryffindors unprovoked and got away with it. Not to mention he was found on the floor, fists in that Dumstrang student Rumslow’s face. Why should she be willing to extend her friendship bubble to him?

Roger must have hexed James because she could not fathom how he’d be able to stand being around such a bully.

So focused on her inner musings, Darcy’s nose met a very firm, muscular chest. Strong hands softly gripped her upper arm and moved her to the side.

Darcy nearly reaches for her wand when her eyes meet a pair of bright blue eyes. Her mouth nearly drops.

“No introductions yet and you’re already injuring people, you menace.” James laughs as he lunges for a hug from the hulking blond.

Said menace sheepishly laughs and hugs James back. There’s pure enjoyment in the way they greet each other that it shocks Darcy.

“Is this Darce?” Steve looks over Darcy, holding out a hand. He looks a bit flustered. “Sorry about walkin’ right into you.”

“A Slytherin who can apologize? That’s a first.”

She wants to punch herself as the words come out. James is giving her a Look™ and Steve is suddenly the definition of Kicked Puppy. She didn’t even realize someone so big and buff could looked like a kicked puppy. Thor doesn’t count. But Rogers was definitely golden retriever edition.

“And yeah,” she takes the hand left hanging in the air like a dead rat, shaking even as she wants to bolt, “I’m Darcy. ‘Darce’ to this weirdo obsessed with nicknames.”

“You know you love it, doll.” James gives her a lascivious smirk. “Admit it.”

“Never.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Quite the charmer, Buck.”

“Yeah a snake charmer!”

The twin groans that followed his statement made Bucky grin. Nice to see his best friends agree on something.

“I appreciate a good pun like any good Hufflepuff but that sucked.” Darcy says.

“I agree.” Steve shakes his head at James. “We know you can do better than that.”

Darcy glances at him, surprised to be included. She distracted by her younger cousin Luna, however. She comes down the hallway, as soft and sweet and glassy-eyed as always. She pauses when she sees Darcy and her company, smile growing.

“Darcy!” She calls joyfully. “James. Steve.”

“Luna.” Darcy shifts her stance a little, protective of her younger cousin. She was picked on alot since Jane had graduated and Darcy was a Hufflepuff, usually for her peculiarities. Knowing Steve was a bully had Darcy ready to rip him apart at the slightest moment’s notice if he even glanced at Luna rudely. “Don’t you have class right now?”

“I’m on the way to the bathroom.” Luna replies, before turning to Steve. She pulls from a pocket a radish, a Quibbler, and a gold coin, offering them to him. “Thank you for helping me find my shoes and sweater yesterday.”

Steve blushes, rubbing the back of his neck. “Wasn’t a problem.” He responds, taking the gifts. “Thank you, Luna.”

Luna gives a closed-eyed smile. “The radish is the right size for a necklace, it’ll keep away the nargles. And the gold coin is for any leprechauns you meet. They’re quite mean if you don’t have gold to offer.”

“And the Daily Quibbler?”

Luna hums a little. “I dog-eared the articles you might like.” She goes around them. “Have a rainy day.”

Darcy watches her cousin go, surprised. She looks at Steve who’s careful to pocket the coin and slips the radish into the folds of his robes. He flips through the Quibbler after, handing each article Luna had dog-eared.

“What was that,” she demands after a moment.

“Oh.” Steve blushed again. “Luna’s shoes and sweater were stolen and strung up around the school again.” He shrugged. “I helped her find them and get them back.”

James tosses a sympathetic look towards Luna’s back. Some of the stories he heard weren’t pretty.

Darcy frowns. “Are you serious? She’s still being bullied?” She shoves her sleeves up, murder in her eyes.

One of the sure ways to piss off a Hufflepuff is to attack their close people. Darcy’s already planning to attack.

James anticipates her moving and neatly steps aside while holding up an arm to stop her.

“James I will take you down with the asses who hurt her.”

“You don’t know who hurt her.” James says in a gentle, firm tone. “Or if she was hurt.”

Darcy huffs. “Once they see me coming I’ll know. And just taking her things is hurting her, James. Just because they didn’t touch her doesn’t mean she wasn’t emotionally wounded.”

James drops his arm with a sigh. Steve stops them both when he speaks, “It was Crabbe. He was boasting about taking the “Looney”s things last week. I didn’t catch him in the act so I couldn’t do anything. But I hexed him anyway.”

Darcy narrowed her eyes. “Crabbe? Who the hell is Crabbe?”

“One of Malfoy’s followers. Steve, I thought you got him sorted out?” Bucky groaned.

He wants to face palm himself when Steve shakes his head. Oh man. James knew by looking at Darcy it wasn’t going to end well for any Slytherin.

“Yeah Steve,” Darcy’s teeth gnash together, “why haven’t you sorted that little twat?”

Steve’s brow furrows. “Don’t call him that. Draco was doing okay right up until that imposter turned him into a ferret.”

Oh man. Darcy should have known. Snakes only protect other snakes.

“I’ll call him whatever I want. That snake is getting out of hand with his attitude. Fix it or I will.” Darcy has no fear about getting in the giant blond’s face. Her finger hurts from the way she poked at his chest.

Had James not lifted her wand during this exchange she would have hexed Steve right then and there. Thank Merlin for small miracles.

“The term’s almost done. Draco won’t cause any problems for Luna or anyone else. And if you would refrain from touching me, I’d be grateful.” Steve does not move and waits for the badger girl to lift her hand. He feared he’d see finger nail indents in his skin once he heads to the shower.

Steve does not miss the dark glower sent his way as Darcy suddenly spins and stalks away. His eyes shift to James who is stiff and still.

“AND DON’T THINK I DIDN’T NOTICE YOU STANDING THERE PLAYING DEAD JAMES.” James flinched.

“Some doll you have, Bucky.” Steve crosses his arms in irritation.

What an aggressive girl. He could understand protecting Luna. The Ravenclaw girl had always been friendly and polite if somewhat odd to anyone who came across her. The silver haired girl had taken one look at Steve in all of his angered glory and offered him some radishes after he had beaten off her bullies.

But she did not know Draco the way Steve knew him. Steve could see how lost that boy was. Constantly craving the attention from a father that was not there. Steve remembered that first year when Draco would boast about his father throughout the day. How he struggled to emulate his father’s smug drawl and swagger.

Steve knows what it’s like to follow a father’s example. The only problem was that Draco’s father was wrong as hell.

He might not have been the most cunning of his classmates but he knew how to research well enough. Lucius Malfoy was a dangerous man and if Draco followed in his footsteps…it did not bear thinking. Sara Rogers had always taught him to do the right thing if it was in his power. And it was in his power to make sure Draco didn’t follow the steps of those came before him.

Covered in green and silver, with an imposing scowl on his face, James could see why most people avoided this Slytherin student. Steve had righteous indignation on his face and James could practically feel the thunder clouds brewing over his head.

“I did tell you she’s a spitfire.” James retorts.

He starts walking only slowing enough for Steve to sigh and follow him.

“Like a Chinese Fireball. I thought she was going to hex me.” Steve replies.

James raises his hand and twirls the cherry oak, 10 inch wand in his hand. He couldn’t help the laughter that escapes him at Steve’s face.

“I figured it was best to level the battlefield in case the two of you came to blows.”

Steve always had such unfortunate luck with women.

— The nerve of him, Jane. I swear that this is the last time James drags me anywhere. He always gets me in trouble or mad with the antics he pulls. Really he should have been sorted in Gryffindor with all those other adrenaline-riddled idiots. How do you stand it? And oooooh don’t even get me started on that snake friend of his. And by snake I mean Slytherin so wipe that confused look off your face. Seriously! A snake! After the way those bastards used to treat you and Thor on Loki’s command. He defended, DEFENDED, that pale haired little swot that picks on Luna. Can you believe it? James has to be enchanted. Anyways, please write back as soon as you can. James hates it that I complain about his friend and I need to vent before I explode.

Darcy sighs by the fire as she eagerly rips open the letter that Jane sent back after Darcy, fuming, wrote to her about her woes.

Jane talks about her work in the world of meshing science and magic to make her Einstein-Rosen Bridge. Darcy enjoys the jargon thrown at her because it was the same jargon her Muggle mother spouted over summer holiday, excited about the summer stars far more than Darcy and just as much as Jane.

But it does nothing to help Darcy control her rage over the Slytherin so she places the letter in her trunk. Other letters are lovingly stacked up and nearly spilling over the rest of her papers. Like her cousin, Darcy had taken to keeping all her written works.

The trunk, golden vines etched into the dark wood and a large golden tree in the middle, is stationed at the end of the bed. She hits her toes on the edges every morning when she rushes to get ready.

She huffs as she stares at the ceiling. Woodland animals dance about uncaring of her troubles.

“Darcy?” Her roommate Aislin Summers calls out hesitantly.

Of all the girls in her year, Darcy found Aislin to be the sweetest. Hair as red as firewhiskey, she could fit in with the Weasley clan. Once Fred and George Weasley tried poaching the girl only to back off when James and her came at them.

“Yeah?” She sits up and yawns. Darcy frowns at the sour taste in her mouth.

“You’re going to miss supper if you don’t get up.” A quick glance shows that Aislin was closer to the door than Darcy had assumed.

Her hair is neatly braided and set to the side, with her robes perfectly pressed. It was clear that the redhead was ready to leave. It was only her friendliness with her roommate and a possible guilty conscious that makes her stay.

A loud rumbling of her stomach is the only sound in the room.

“I’m coming.” Darcy says as she bolts off the bed.

Uncaring of the disheveled appearance she gave off, Darcy grabs her wand and heads out with Aislin.

“Normally I wouldn’t bother you since James is always around to walk with you, but I saw him head out to go write to that pretty girl from Dumstrang. You know? The one who looks like she could hit you with a Bulger without even looking?” Aislin says.

Darcy only nods. Yeah, she definitely knows the girl. Natasha Romanova was one of the few female Quidditch players from Dumstrang. James had been knocked in the head by her during a late night forbidden game.

Instead of getting mad or pretending like she didn’t exist, James only stood up and gave her a confused grin. Natasha had haughtily sniffed in his direction before dragging her sniggering teammate Clint Barton away.

Now all three exchange letters when they can.

Really she had to talk to that boy about his terrible taste in people.

The mouth watering scents from the kitchens cling to the girls as they leave Hufflepuff territory. They pass by the barrels of pumpkin juice and are a bit farther from the basement area when Aislin stops.

“Something wrong?” Darcy asks when she notices the red head sigh in frustration.

“I forgot my wand. I’m going to go back and get it.”

“It’s dinner. Just leave it, I have mine in case something happens.” Darcy says.

Aislin waves her off telling her, “Just go ahead and I’ll catch up later.” And turns back to their cosy common room.

Leaving Darcy alone in the halls.

Darcy sighs and shakes her head at the absentmindedness of her classmate. It wasn’t unusual for the girl to forget things so she really shouldn’t be too surprised when it happens at the most inconvenient times.

The journey to reach the Great Hall is quiet with only the sounds of her footsteps to keep her company.

The sniffling sounds of a child and the quiet murmurs of someone reaches her ears forcing her to walk towards the sound. The people in the paintings are gone. No doubt to feast with the other paintings in the Hall. Really the flames of the torches were the sole living thing there.

Well, not including Darcy and, apparently, two other people.

Darcy comes around the corner and finds Steve crouched down, looking uncomfortable and tiny. He’s smiling gently, talking to a crying first year. The first year is curled into the wall, clutching a book from the library.

The kid in question is a boy from Ravenclaw- a glance showed the bronze and blue colors- and he’s nodding to whatever Steve is saying, rubbing at his eyes. His glasses are fogged up from the heat of his tears.

Steve reaches out, petting his hair, an unruly brown that could be in better shape. “Peter, want me to escort you back to the Ravenclaw commons?”

“What’s going on?” Darcy asks, eyes narrowing on the situation.

The boy– Peter, according to Steve– curls into Steve and trembles.

Steve picks the boy up like it’s nothing.

“None of your concern, Lewis.”

“It is my concern seeing as he’s crying and near my dormitory.” Darcy crosses her arms, scowling at him.

“Last I checked, he’s actually closer to mine.” Steve tilts his head left as he carefully shifts Peter, and Darcy refuses to look the few meters ahead that it would take to see the entrance to the dungeons. “And the Bloody Baron went to let the headmasters know Nott tried to hex a first year, so it’s all taken care of, Lewis.”

Darcy scowls again. “Quit calling me that.”

“What? Lewis?” Steve raises an eyebrow.

Darcy wants to do something about that half smirk sent her way.

“It’s your name.”

“My name is Darcy, so use it.” She corrects. She feels like stomping her foot but isn’t five anymore.

“Be a little nicer and I will.”

Peter says something that’s mumbled into Steve’s collar, and Steve’s attention is completely diverted again. He looks so… Darcy hates to say it, but attractive when helping someone or a protective figure.

Steve talks quietly but Darcy still makes out some of what he says. “Yeah, I’ll take you to MJ. She’s a Gryffindor, right?”

Steve glances at Darcy briefly, then looks away. “I’ve gotta go.” He tells her. “See you later.”

Darcy takes a half-aborted step forward, unsure of what she’s going to do but knowing it’ll happen anyway. Then she doesn’t, watching Steve carry Peter away.

“Dammit it all.” She huffs right as Aislin comes back and the two boys are gone around another corner.

“You didn’t have to wait.” Aislin pouts a little and Darcy turns. Her roommate frowns. “Are you okay? You look a little upset.”

“I’m fine.” Darcy shakes her head. “Just… some things were, uh, pointed out to me.”

Aislin gives her a curious look all night when Darcy keeps sneaking glances at the Slytherin table and wistfully sighing.

[thisnerdblog]

@thassalia asked for the Fanfic Meme:

1. Things that Inspire you?

Music, almost 100% music, art and other authors. Actually honestly nearly anything and everything is inspiring, the littlest thing can can produce an idea at the drop of a hat.

3. Name three favorite writers.

. @thassalia and @handypolymath , when you two get together you make magic, also super fantastic on your own. @ireallyhopethismakesuseven is fantastic and I love all her stuff ❤️

24. Favorite scene you’ve ever written?

From one of my first fics, the Avengers are hanging post battle waiting for the suits to give them the green light to leave. It’s snowing and cold and Hulk wraps one giant meaty hand around Nat’s shoulder keeping her warm. It’s terrible and silly and OOC but it was the first real thing I wrote since middle school and i have a soft spot for it. I suppose it wants me to post the scene here, but it’s more the entire damn fic, and I don’t need to bring that much attention to it 😬

46. Share a scene from a story you haven’t published yet?

I’ve been playing around with a Monster Hunter/ Steam Punk AU for the longest time, it’s something I would love to get off the ground.

Natasha Romanoff, leaned back in her chair, bringing the glass to her lips. The frothy head of the dark sweet beer tickled her lips as she took a long draw. The brew was thick and malty with a hint of honey, more of a meal than an actual drink. Setting the pint glass down she pulled the earthenware bowl of stew closer. The dark gravy was thick with barley and mutton. Peas, carrots, pearl onions, mushrooms, and cubes of potatoes hung suspended in the dark broth waiting her spoon. To the side was a loaf of soft soda bread studded with little raisins, soaked in butter.

To her left her partner sat hunched over his bowl, like a dog guarding a bone, shoveling spoonful after spoonful of stew into his mouth. Clint Barton was a stout man, broad shouldered and thick armed. He wore his blonde hair close cropped, and his heavy brows permanently drawn together. But despite the man’s permanent outward scowl, he was was lighthearted and forever a child.

They sat at a well worn and pock marked table, pushed snugly into the corner farthest from the bar. Despite being in the lonely gray village of Starks Hollow little less than a month, they had quickly claimed the little table as their own. Not only was it located in a prime spot by the ever roaring fire (the cold seemed a permanent thing in Starks Hollow), but it also provided an unobstructed view of the entire establishment. Being in their line of work required establishing certain habits if you wanted to live. It was the particular reason She and her partner where holed up in this little god forsaken Hollow.

There was something in the hills that spooked farmers and fouled their crops and animals. It was Natasha and Clint’s job to find out what. Natasha was fairly certain it was a lone wolf and a whole heaping pile of superstition, but Commander Fury had been adamant they go out and perform a full investigation. So far the duo had come across nothing but old wives tales and school house ghost stories.

Clint was enjoying himself, he considered it his first official on the job vacation, and intended to use Fury’s purse to fund it. Most days found her partner sleeping in until noon, interviewing the prettiest girls the village had to offer, putting on impromptu trick shot shows, and drinking the tavern dry. He was having the time of his life.

Natasha on the other hand felt her talents were being wasted in such a tiny village as Starks Hollow. She much preferred the work that made a difference. Natasha had a very specific skill set, she could blend in anywhere and everywhere using her short stature and fine features to fool just about anyone. She could lull men and women both into her web of false security, letting her prey believe they had the advantage before she would strike. Or on some occasions, place the target just so for her partner to take out with an arrow or two to the back.

A frigid sweep of cool late afternoon air ushered a patron through the door, briefly illuminating the dark bar with the low orange light of the setting sun. The newcomer closed the door quickly and headed straight for the bar. Even with his head low, nose buried into a ragged scarf, she could tell she hadn’t met this fellow before. She had managed to interview just about every citizen of the Hollow, even those secluded farmers, but she didn’t recall this man.

He wasn’t particularly tall, though he did have a full head of dark curling hair that just touched the collar of his coat. He had a scraggly mess of a beard, flecked with hints of silver. Under the beard his cheeks were hallow, the bags under his eyes were dark smudges on pale skin. His coat looked to large and hung off thin shoulders. His clothes were frayed, patched, and travel worn.

She watched as he sat on a stool and flagged down the tavern keepers wife. Frigga was a grand and stately woman, beautiful silver and blond curls elegantly piled atop her head while thin bits of silver dripped from her ears. Her Husband, Odin owned the Raven’s Jig, but Frigga was the woman in charge keeping her husband, two sons and a whole slew of patrons in line. There was none that Frigga didn’t know.

She approached the newcomer and stared him down, from where Natasha sat she couldn’t read the new comers lips, but he must of said something to Frigga. The woman gasped, hand flying to her mouth, a pleased smile slowly crawled across her face. She reached out and gripped the mans thin wrist.

She said something threw her fingers Natasha couldn’t read, reaching out to tweak the whiskers at his chin. He ducked his head hiding his chin back into his scarf.

“Sit tight, Dear. Let me fetch you something warm to eat.” She patted the mans wrist and turned toward the kitchens.

The man slumped back into the stool, hunching his shoulders and wringing one of Friggas cloth napkins.

A fresh pint was sat down in front of she and Clint, frothy head spilling down the side of the glass. Odin and Frigga eldest son smiled down at Natasha as he gathered up the spent pint glasses. With long golden hair and matching beard, Thor was easily the best looking man for miles around. Wide shoulders and even wider grin, the man was as strong as an ox and kind to boot. If he wasn’t already so besotted with Miss Jane Foster the baker, Natasha was inclined to take a page out of Clint’s book.

She reached out and grabbed at his sleeve. Motioning toward the newcomer she asked who he was.

Thor scratched his beard, left hand easily holding all their discarded dishes.

“I’m unsure, though mother seems to know him.” Frigga had returned from the kitchen, heaping bowl of stew in one hand and an over flowing glass of golden cider in the other. She sat down the meal before him and started chatting. Thor threw Natasha a cheeky grin “want me to find out for you?”

“If you don’t mind.” Natasha ducked her own head, tugging at her red braid. Let him think she was interested in the guy, things usually went smoother that way.

Thor’s laugh was like a clap of thunder, his big hand patted her slim shoulder. “Consider it done!”

Clint nudged her elbow, coming up for air. He quirked a heavy brow reaching for his new glass. Natasha jerked her chin in the direction of the man at the bar.

“New guy.”

He nodded, humming. They both watched as Thor sauntered up to the bar, golden braids swinging. He passed off his load of dishes to his dark haired younger brother, who scowled sourly. He swung his tree trunk like arm around his Mother kissing her temple. Frigga laughed, and swatted at her Son. She gestured to the Other man, than back to her Son. Thor stared at the other man, smile slipping and brows pulling together in thought. He studied the man for a moment more, before another exited and slightly disbelieving laugh and grabbing the the man and pulling him into as much an embrace as he could with the bar in the way.

The other man laughed a bit nervously, patting Thor awkwardly on his massive shoulder. Pulling backed Thor set about pelting the dark haired man with a rapid string of questions, which he answered, fingers fiddling with his spoon. The questions would have gone on all night if Frigga hadn’t shooed her Son off.

Thor went about some of his duties, though a giddy energy kept his usual swagger tight. Thor was not a subtle man. He returned to the table, pulling out a chair and settling down with his own pint. He looked like a school girl ready to share a bit of juicy gossip.

He jerked his whiskered chin over his shoulder. “That is Bruce Banner.” He said the name as if of course they should know who that was and be just as excited as he. Clint and Natasha flicked a quick sideways glance at each other.

“ I grew up with him, well we weren’t really close. He and Stark were inseparable, though. I wouldn’t doubt to see Stark storming through those doors in the next few minutes. Close as brothers he and Banner.” His younger brother, Loki passed their table with a disgusted snort. “Well most brothers.” His grin only widened.

“ His Father was Brian Banner and his Mother was Rebecca. I remember her, sweetest lady you would have ever met. Used to keeps sweets in her apron pockets.” He laughed brightly again “ Loki got the lot of us believing she was a Swan Maiden and Mr. Banner was hiding her skin. Stark, Banner, Volstagg, Hogun, Fandral, Sif, Jane, and Pepper, all of us searched those hills high and low for hours. Ohh our clothes got so muddy, we all would have gotten a turn with the paddle if Mrs. Banner hadn’t found us first. “ he took a swig “ cleaned us up and stuffed us with bread and molasses. We told her the whole story, cried that we didn’t want her to stay captured, but that we didn’t want her to leave. She laughed and sang to us, her voice was like silver bells. She told us the even if she was a Swan Maiden she would never leave.” Suddenly Thor’s smile dimmed “She died a few short years later.” He played with the edge of his glass.

“What happens to her?” Clint asked around a mouthful of buttery soda bread.

“Mauled, by some wild beast. No one knows why she was out on the moors so late. But they found her the next morning along the side of the road with her throat ripped and her entire chest pulled apart. Gutted like a fish, not an organ in sight. Most believe she was the first human victim of the Hound.” Here Thor dropped his voice a bit.

Natasha nodded her head, she knew The Hound, it was the reason why she and Clint where stuck here. Supposedly there was a great black Hound, with eyes as red as hell, claws as long as pitchforks, and a howl that froze you to the spot. It was said he slept under the hills until the moon was full, then he would gallop across the moors dragging death in his wake.

Pure poppy-cock in Natasha’s opinion. There is no such creature in any guide book or grimoire she was aware off. At best it was a sick wolf, at worst some faery hound, but nothing she and Clint couldn’t handle.

“Any way, she died, Bruce didn’t take it well. Started quarreling with Brian Banner. It got so bad that one day Bruce had just up and left. We don’t know if Old Brian gave him the boot or Bruce left on his own. But he has been gone now a good fifteen years.”

“Brian Banner, that’s the name of the fellow who went missing?” Natasha leaned forward.

“Aye, he did. Hound came back for him, some think.”

“You don’t sound to sorry about Mr. Banner?”

Thor blushed lightly and look a mite ashamed. “ Ah, well he was” he scratched at his beard, thinking hard. Natasha knew these types, superstition ran deep in their blood. Best not say anything ill toward the dead, else they will rise from their graves and haunt you.

“He was particular.” Thor nodded sagely, proud of his diplomatic descriptor.

So Brian Banner was an unpopular ass hole.

“Was he always particular?” Asked Clint.

Thor nodded and drained the rest of his pint. “Ever since I could remember. Old Brian didn’t much care for children, he would run us off the moment he stepped in from his fields. Makes you wonder just why he would have a child in the first place.”

Clint nodded as well, draining his own glass. Then for the second time the inn door pitched open wide bringing in with it the chill of the night. Thor chuckled and rose from his seat.

“I told you.” He gathered up the rest of their glasses and bowls and headed for the kitchen, back to work.

Tony Stark entered the inn with an extravagant flourish of his long cherry red coat. He made a show of placing his fists on his hips and scanning the crowded tables and bar before landing on Bruce Banner.

“Odin, old man, since when do you serve mangy old dogs!” Odin rolled his one good eye and chewed on his pipe stem. Banner turned in his seat, a small grin painted his lips, dimming the shadows of his face and bringing back a little bit of boyish charm.

Stark gave a whoop and charged Banner, knocking his silk hat from his head as he crashed into the other man, pulling him tight into a brotherly bear hug.

Yo, if anyone want to talk Avengers Monster Hunter/Steam Punk AU, I need all the workshopping I can get!