Never liked the number three, but that’s how she found her way here. Once by accident. Twice for a look around. Third time for a portrait. 

And she sat like a queen sat. Courtly and uncrossed at the knees and wrists. 

Ben blotted his brush on torn paper towel.

The way he laughs, black-hole-mouth, swallows and swallows. All static, the taste of contempt. He likes her. Likes that she cuts for the jugular, even if he's the meat.

Licks his lips, shrugs for the puppetry of it, leans in.

“Can’t both be true?”

Human|B to Bucky

INBOX PROMPTS ╱ 𝑎𝑙𝑤𝑎𝑦𝑠 𝑎𝑐𝑐𝑒𝑝𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔.

𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐒 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐒 𝐓𝐎 𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄. As soon as everything was settled and sorted. It doesn't feel right to stick around. Not when more deserving people were gone. Not with someone like Bucky got left behind for reasons outside of his own understanding. As if the universe had a sense of humor.

he spots her through the flames when the drink has already dazed his mind. siegfried blinks a few times before he registers that it is indeed a woman, not an angel. and it must be the mead because for just a heartbeat it looks as if the sparks of the fire draw wings into the air on either side of her. he swallows, blinks again until her image becomes clearer. she stands closer suddenly. and it isn't just his imagination — she is truly looking back at him.

all siegfried manages to give her is a nod and an unsure smile, his cup raised into the air in greeting. maybe she has heard of the stranger from the christian kingdoms of the south, come here with a story of a great serpent. perhaps she's seen him demonstrate the durability of his skin to the children earlier this day . . . and is curious. or perhaps this woman is a guest here too. there is something about her that is different. he can not forget the illusion of those wings.

( @valkxrie pressed the <3 for a connection )

[ ϟ ]—– There are countless places where the veil at times grows thin, between worlds, between life and death, places where memory settles into the ground and the very air.

The valley below stretched out as a vast expanse of pale green, the sky above it washed silver by approaching dusk. Its grass bowing in restless waves, unsettled by the wind, was beautiful from a distance, and thunderer now stood upon the ridge overlooking it, blood stained hands hanging idly by his sides.

Here the veil was lifted still, ghostly slivers of mist and residue of souls still thick as syrup upon ground and leaf alike.

Warriors had died here; wildflowers already pushed through soil enriched by crimson, and time, that tireless and silent sculptor, had softened the blotches of blood ever so slightly, silence now draped over a place that had sung with war-cries.

The wind carried scent of distant rain and the faint metallic tang of iron, petrichor weaving through it ever so slightly as distress returns to the god's mind and physique.

A night and a day had passed since the war here had ended, yet he had not moved, tethered to the place and the mortal realm by the heavy chain of duty, rage still simmering beneath the languidly heaving chest. Ever-present flame of it was momentarily doused, by something moving in his peripheral, a subtle shift in the rhythm of things, like a current altering its course beneath calm waters.

' Have you come to mock me, or bring me to justice?'

Their ways were shaped around Odin's will and Odin's law, and whenever thunderer moved beyond them, called upon by Men, answering their prayers and cries for blood, the inevitable would come to pass. Answers were sought out, by Allfather or those who were bound to do his bidding, whomever deemed it necessary to act.

Brunnhilde was different now, since the marrow-rotting shock of it all. Since Yggdrasil burned into an open wound. Did she know that her world would soon be Ren? Pernix peered up at her scuffed cheekbones, the singy purls that brushed her shoulders, the eyes that stormed beneath them.

No. She still thought Snoke would scavenge the ashes. The Valkyrie's Ren could never have brought Ragnarok, even though it had once walked right up to his material body and stepped inside.

Pernix's Ren was terribly different.

"Aren't you a sharp one?" Pernix whirred, her obsidian mouthpiece weltered upward, a spill in reverse, revealing a spiny smile. "That's right. I am your babysitter." And she flourished Zela's voice, working the vocalizer into her speech patterns, "-I will take such good care of you.-"

Marrow and teeth and all. The sharper ones that barbed her wings and her words.

Brunnhilde was angry now, of course, but when she cooled she would know how it felt to be an unkept weapon. How it felt to be a broken handle covered in ash.

"Oh, I doubt you will ever be rid of it," Pernix replied cheerfully to Brunnhilde's request. And she began to lead her deeper into The Finalizer's belly. "But I can most certainly take you to the place where you will try. Would you like some privacy? I wouldn't want to be seen by the underscum if I were you."

She rippled through the corridors, looping through passing troopers with swift, though droid-like motions, her hands cupped, gently stirring the sterile airwaves around her and warping the comm panels. Looping and looping until all passersby thinned:

Will all 'officers' please clear the halls?

Clear the halls.

C̵̺͍̻͇̋̈́L̶̙̪̋̑́̃͝E̶͙͐Ǎ̵̮̞̥͎͊̐̕̕R̴̨̥̬̘̈̎͘̕͝ ̸̧̛̟͋̒́͒T̵̹̙̮͂́̂̉̚Ḫ̶̩͉̼͚́Ē̵̢̡̫̞̮̆̚ ̵̥̆͠H̷̝̙̪͋̈́͗̎̈́Ȃ̸͇̿̽͜͠L̷͔̪̻̇̈͒̕͘Ļ̴̱͆S̷͎̮̓́̔̎.̴̾̑̋͜ ̸̭̮̅̂S̶̼͚̥͊͆T̸̘͔̈́͊̀Á̵̞N̸̘͉͍̚ͅD̴̘̬̭̙͊͛͘ ̸̜̼̀̍C̴̨̨̯̩̆̓́͆̽L̵͇̦̙̟̼̈́̈́͠E̴̱̽̊Ȧ̵͇͓̣̬͑͌̽͐R̷͔̲͐́̃̎!̴͔̟͉̒̉ ̷͙͌

One could just perceive the shuffling of feet, blast doors hissing shut. Then they were in the fresher. A spartan organism not unlike Pernix in bedside manner.

"This is yours now," she hummed, turning to Brunnhilde. "Provided to you by The First Order."

She’d been quick to follow, even in the echo of a thousand souls, and Pernix was pleased. Her helm made a black pearl.

"Strip."

She could be nebulae. A wish.

But he has held no thought nor reconciliation thus since that speck of a moment he, too, was birthed anew. A dust cloud in the dark, a new shape of the wind.

Ren is knelt before her. A breath away, oblivion away. Her stark prints pad the locks and sinews of his battered face, metal and phrik and bone. There are places where the material would give to her fingers, if only she asked. If only he allowed her the tongue to ask.

Would he? He would. Perhaps.

Skadi was hunting an animal on Alfheim when Heimdall spoke in her mind, telling her that Asgard was being invaded. She immediately responded & he used the Bifrost to summon her. Once she was in the realm, it wasn't hard to see the attackers; they had flown their ships directly into the palace walls, leaving smoke & rubble in their wake.

Frigga.

She sprinted down the length of the rainbow bridge, running like she was chasing her usual prey. Not long after entering the palace, Skadi was attacked by two Dark Elves. She recognized them from the murals in Alfheim, which depicted their battles with the good-natured Light Elves. Their energy-based weapons surprised her, but she managed to dispatch them with the aid of her strength & speed. She continued on, only stopping to help others when their own battles seemed grim. Unfortunately, by the time she reached the queen's chamber, Frigga had died.

At the queen's funeral, Skadi stood apart from the others. She'd given Thor her condolences & done the same with Loki. Even Odin received a kind word, despite their mutual dislike of each other. Then Skadi took a walk alone, through the palace grounds. She'd always been an outdoorsy person, since she'd spent most of her life on the move. & it was easier to cry when there was no one to make fun of her. She rarely cried. But Frigga was the mother she'd never had.