“You don’t. Hhh. Have a choice,” He’s coughing up too much ichor now, green-black and sickly as his grip weakens on his brother’s collar, red eyes dulling. Losing too much, slipping too fast–he’s not going to make it. It’s scary. It’s terrifying. He doesn’t really understand how it’s happening so fast, but finally–he’s going to die.

He knows that, at least.

“I won’t survive this, but you can–and you should. You h-have to. Tell the others.” Ma’al will know who. The league. Bruce. Everyone who J’onn holds dear. “Tell them. I Love.” 

He paws at Ma’als shirt, frustrated now that his words are failing him, leaving stains of ichor behind. “I love.” He doesn’t need to say anything else, does he? Words are so difficult to form now. H’ronmeer is calling him, he can hear K’hym’s laughter, M’yri’ah’s voice…

kurt seyit ve şura | not accepting | @maalekar

“Ain’t gotta tell me twice.”

Loki doesn’t know what kind of mood Ma’al is in or why he’s in it, but maybe it’s like hers. She’s been tucked against his side for a solid couple of hours, three blankets on her, and she’s so hot below them she could smother but the alternative isn’t worth it. It’s below zero outside, now, and things come to her with the cold that give her nightmares.

Maybe age weighs on Ma’ale’kar the way eternity weighs on Loki; maybe he gets them confused. She has her naked thigh wrapped snugly over his waist anyway.

You’re fucking disgusting.

You’re fucking disgusting.

Silver mounted Turkish yatagan, 19th century.