King of the Apocalypse

Yggdrasil's Last Hope ❄ Independent RP blog for the post-apocalyptic ruler of the Nine Realms, Loki Hætta Farbautison. - Activity level: Semi-Hiatus - Threads: Selective > NSFW content present, tagged #amatorypursuits Please read the about page for more info! A divergent timeline muse, neither myth nor MCU.

[frostkingoftheapocalypse]

Hello hello! This is an indie, selective RP blog for a highly divergent, fandomless, NON-MARVEL NON-MYTH Loki. Rules and docs are below. Open to all muses (OC-friendly). Hætta is written and loved by Tasha ^^

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[frostkingoftheapocalypse]

//.

[frostkingoftheapocalypse]

[asgardianhammer]

[ ♌]— The faint frown upon his features lingered for only one heartbeat, before it cracked, amusement returning to spill as generously as the sunlight in their small abode was this very moment, poise helpless against the pointed curve of Haetta's expression.

The command was obeyed - barely - a dutiful much smaller bite taken, though attention was not given to it, rested firmly on the familiar weight beside him, on the careless sprawl of limb and presence that meant home in a way nothing else ever quite managed.

Nudge of oversized toe earned a soft, faux admonishing huff of laughter, ankle shifting instinctively into it, meeting the contact, answering it as he always had, as though their bodies had long since learned a language their mouths could not really shape.

' Before bed?' Thor echoed with mirth threading through the sentence as gold filigree, something softer lingering beneath it. Ceruleans lingered, tracing the shape of Haetta's posture, noting the unapologetic ruin of manners as he demolished the food.

' So cruelty before sleep, you're so kind.'

Taking another bite, slower this time, Thor chews with exaggerated patience, as if to prove he could focus, though his eyes flicked back, again and again.

' Y'know... I like it,' and the admittance comes almost shyly. ' Hearing you talk about it. The studies I mean, even the shitty and boring parts.'

Mouth curves into a grin, mess upon lips gleaming for a moment.

' Especially the shitty and boring parts. You make it sound like it's really, really important. Makes me think I'm missing out...'

[frostkingoftheapocalypse]

The taller cleaned his fingers, relishing in the chance to put aside his beloved fastidious pocket-cheifs for a moment and embrace what Thor had once dubbed 'picnic manners'. Tongue moving between the webs of his hand before the cheese-juice could escape down his sleeve. It contrasted his pretend-aristocratic reply,

"You are. Missing out. On me."

How collected he was. Deadpan delight. As if Haetta weren't glowing, heart-humming under his best friend's attentive humour. As if he wasn't unravelling faster than a pulled scarf-thread at being re-assured that he was utterly forgiven for his absence, missed a fraction even, outside their infrequent letters, by the one who would always walk the paths of life with him. He did not doubt the latter. Knew that to his bones. He did his best, knowing it, to still contain his focus to his sustenance, and not preen now in the most telling and unbecoming manner. He could feel the figurative grey cast leaving his skin by the minute. And it had nothing to do with the Idunn Orchard's summer tones: the ripe dry smells, the blinding daylight that would in weeks turn him as dark as bronze.

"I embellish it, you know. When I tell you about the conclusion I wish to write, rather than what they want to hear.""

[asgardianhammer]

[ ϟ ]—– It all transpired so fast.

The heir had known speed, had lived within it, had been it, yet the meaning of it struck heavy now, like thunder rolling violently long after the sky had already split. One moment there had been balm against his hand, and inhale shared, and the next-

Impact - no, not yet - but the promise of it, unmistakable.

Heavy arm caught, taken, iron clamping down with a force that sang sharp through bone and sinew, a strength he had known too well and that never, until this moment, been turned upon him. The world lurched, spun in a flurry of faint light and shadow, Haetta's body folding and uncoiling with that terrible, fluid efficiency. A few times he had witnessed it from afar, once up close, yet always at a distance, awed, untouched...

When Haetta had broken something, someone else.

The memory struck with brutal clarity; a body lifted, a wall made asunder, and the sounds, Norns, the sounds of force and bone meeting its end.

Breath seized.

One thin, stuttering heartbeat there was no reasoning, no diplomacy or careful weaving understanding between realms, only the animalistic certainty of it: this is how it ends. And how pitiful of an end it was, far from war and not some grand fight, but here in a quiet space, by a hand he had chosen to trust.

The drained yet massive body tried.

Instinct surged, late and fractured, muscle drawing to strike, to twist and live, yet it faltered against exhaustion, against the raw and hollowed aftermath of his earlier unmaking. Strength failed him, and command of elements unable to surge.

It was his own fault. Touching him in such a manner, knowing what connection without acceptance meant.

The yank came and then changed, and the world crashed sideways instead of ending, breath punched from his lungs as body slams and moves. Haetta's body folding over him, shielding rather than destroying? The violence curving at the last possible instant into something else entirely, something protective, something desperate.

Thor's hand had moved - he did not remember deciding it - pressed between Haetta's shoulders, bracing and then holding, as if he could anchor something large from coming apart.

Their faces, eyes, far too close...

“Vente—”

The word was felt in his being, curling through the mind where Allspeak settled its counterpart almost violently, comprehension a flicker of brightness amidst the terror.

The arms around him trembled, strength wavering at its edges and tightening now not to harm but to keep. Haetta's cheek pressed close and breath uneven, the repetition broken and faint against his ear...

“V-vente—”

Something inside the vast expanse of his chest, something tightly bound and long denied, gave way and unfurled further, already unknotted by spoken words moments ago, now released fully with a catastrophic softness.

Body folded into the hold, answering the pressure, arms dragging upward and around, fingers catching in damp tresses, then neck, then wherever they could anchor. Closer, with a sudden and utterly unguarded need that brought about a flare of surprise.

If this was all, and thought barely managed to form, if this was all he could have, he would take it.

' Apologies... I did not mean- '

Even as it was whispered the apology shifted from whisper to achingly soft, the words released freely and urgently, fingers curling with intent this time, anchoring himself in the reality of Haetta's body around his own. The murmurs are pressed into the sliver of space between them, into crook of colder neck, desperate to forge some understanding, no matter how fragile, in the wake of violence.

' I am sorry - I am here - '

[frostkingoftheapocalypse]

Against all belief the body in his arms came alive, and instead of fleeing as was warranted - as Thor should have done, as was deserved despite Haetta's shameful enfettering and begging - the smaller buried into him.

It took a stupefying amount of time to register it. Muscles pressing around his, gloriously vital and shockingly wanting. This radiant heat nearly climbing inside the Jotunn's skin under his jaw, that strong nose and soft exhalations fanning into the sweaty mess of their clammy bodies and sinking an awareness into Haetta terror-pained pulse that refused to calm, like a rhythmic stabbing under his ears. Only when those powerful golden hands and arms clung back around his abused spine, calloused fingers claiming his nape and tangling there did the quivering change into a single, airless shudder around beloved.

They struggled this way until there was a silent restart of Haetta's breathing, a close-mouthed gasp, felt only because Thor was plastered to the taller's vast ribs, slowing him down, pressuring him deep and consistent into someone capable of a speech. Nigh hysteria had stripped him of tongue and mind both. Who knew how long Thor had been holding him when the As had spoken an apology of all the Norns-fouled things to feel the need to say, to he who had almost killed, the wheezy refusal immediate, vehement and appalled---

"It was not you." constanants choked out as they were lashed into the slope of Thor's shoulder. The taller's airway felt desert-dry. Long azure fingers already gripped in mirror intensity, in wanting returned, into Thor's upper neck, cradling his nape and skull nigh in one go.

"You could never-- "his gnarled brow pressed harder into what felt like phantom crackling in the overheated shoulder skin of Companion, a swell of dark emotion closing his throat.

The burning in Haetta's eyes, unshed, perhaps plugged up and useless behind the pain in his sinuses, was audible, but dignity and decorum were long gone in the sickness overtaking belly and mind as the gravity of what his had almost done - as trained as a beast - rose. The horns that had nearly tasted brain and bone now touching Thor's hair, like an insult post-assault---

Yet against all reason, the taller was unwilling to move from here. Silently panting, a disturbed thing of instinct encased in flesh. His volume was the only thing he restrained. What selfish madness was this that had him strengthening the embrace on realising it? What mind-sickness was this? Absent ... ration. He could not bear to face Thor. Could not bear to release him.

Another inhale was made against revulsion Haetta couldn't even begin to untangle or parse or reflect or change, which emerged as a thin-throated madness after several more twitches of Thor's fingers in his hair. A bitter reflection, finally honest about the depth of what had been swirling around his head, needing to confess it, with a hint of despair,"---I have made such a mess of us."

[thebrazenandbold]

Nicole hands curled to fists against the rooftop, her gaze straight ahead. He'd earned some of her good will. And though Nicole would have liked to dismiss his prodding, the promise that he wouldn't ask again... gave her pause. Did she want to ignore it forever? Nicole had no doubt her nightmares would plague her for the rest of her life.

Did she want to talk about it?

So he could dismiss the anxieties she fought with?

"Oh... You know," Nicole answered, voice high and tight despite every attempt to sound flippant. "Just the usual, right? Head's full 'f memories an' warnings."

[frostkingoftheapocalypse]

There was a huff; a peaceful sound, oddly. As if this was a commonplace confession.

"Very specific." though Logan was listening, and his reply unchanged in its soft, deadpan drawl, his sunlit observation remained on the horizon with her. The pace of the ancient's thoughts entering that slow, thoughtful territory where listening with the simple immesion in patience lived.

[terrorignitis]

The soul, like the moon, is never lost—only shadowed.

Jakob Böhme | 1575-1624

[asgardianhammer]

[ ϟ ]—– The hammer's song had become something soft and almost chiming, the sound delicately expelled with every burst of spark-like flare over the Uru.

Time passed differently when preoccupied with this; it was the closest to meditative state restless being would ever come, one of the rarest moments when elements settled in a distinct, almost subservient state, in statis, simply... present.

She was supposed have stilled entirely some time ago, soothed by the care upon metallic surface with dollops of the onyx heavy polish, yet for some reason Mjolnir still hummed every now and then, a faint glow emerging in its markings.

It was almost amusing, as if she was more pleased than usual to be handled with care.

The oil upon leatherbound hilt was rubbed in with broad thumbs, and just as he considered a second layer workings were disrupted, the sound something that had become familiar.

Already beaming before gaze seeks out the visitor Asgard's son turned, the rise of lips and shape of it entirely beyond his control.

' My lord...'

Automated, instinctual, the words as ingrained in the prince as the flicker of light passing ceruleans, and rising comes with ease and rolling waves of gleaming muscle.

' You are looking well, and sounding well.'

[frostkingoftheapocalypse]

"Courteous boy. Worried about mine spirits, were you?"

Though it was difficult not to stare at the weaponized charmer's expression, this Asgard's legacy, Thor's mouth one made for grinning, shaped even in youth by it, muscle framing firmly into golden cheek and scruff - it would be rude to do so. Even though the eye couldn't help but linger a beat too long. Few were immune to this Prince on this realm, of that none here felt shame, from kitchens to court - and that was had the Wanderer any spare shame left to begin with. The ancient sloped his head aside just enough to see down and around, to Thor's favoured weapon glistening on the mat. A black brow inching north at the hum lingering on Mjolnir's surface. The sound made his bones itch. Like nails dragged agreeably up his spine.

"... I can return to you later, if your weapon remains soul-needy."

[thebrazenandbold]

@frostkingoftheapocalypse asked:

☂ = giving them their jumper to keep warm. (Nicole)

Nicole, shivering in the icy wind, still only stared at the knitted fabric piled in her arms. It was an obscene quantity, thick and wooly. Her glare shifted sideways, to the giant, his arms now bare to the cold that ate into her bones.

"Don't be a fucking hero. This shit won't fit me anyway."

[frostkingoftheapocalypse]

The offence she was searing at him - this had been expected, knowing well the mortal felt that giving meant a taking later, a favour that would be collected, and who knew what the unsafe cost of that might be - slid off the statued carving of Haetta's deep-set brow. If anything, the Vs scored there smoothed to faint marks as he considered the mullish, chapped set of her mouth. Assessing her down the arch of his nose. Head to toe. As if measuring her. Letting her small neck tremble a bit with the backward effort required to stare him down, comically vertically. After a moment the King made a contemplative noise, blinking slowly,

"You are right. It is too small."

He beckoned, "Give it back."

[unusual-suspects]

x

[fantastic-forest]

[frostkingoftheapocalypse]

// my brain is on mouldy tea dregs level of soggy and slow after going from a seminar last weekend to a work week, but I’m here attempting! More revivals! More replies 😂

Saw RF Kuang being interviewed by Shelley-Parker Chan last night though, which was PHENOMENAL - so have a happy munday pic, it’s been a while (for the mood and the pic HAH)

[mournfulroses]

Gabriela Mistral, from a poem titled "The Teacher's Prayer," featured in The Selected Poems of Gabriela Mistral

[allisondraste]

Acknowledging that “critical thinking” means “thinking about things in a thorough way from different perspectives” and not “finding every flaw in a thing and fixating on it until all the joy is gone” is so liberating.

It’s supposed to be about intellectual curiosity, not about finding ways to devalue things that aren’t perfect or that we personally dislike.

[thebrazenandbold]

The first time the song slowed she glanced sidelong at him, before ascertaining from his behavior that the tempo changes were purposeful. She was allowed, therefore, to be entertained, without needing to rib him over it. She even allowed her head to bob a little as her eyes returned to the milling birds.

When at last the music stopped, she leaned back, unsurprised now by the absence of any appearances. Shoe or no, if the harmonica was enough to incite action it would have been while there was a chance to stop it. Now that it ended, they were indeed alone at the edge of the world. And the sun had finally started to rise, casting golden light across the desert. Even without the chaos, it was perfect.

"You overestimated your own power," she said severely, frowning at him as if she were the elder. "I hope you've learned your lesson."

[frostkingoftheapocalypse]

"Aye, aye." he drawled, placating. The joke of it softened his features further.

The sun could not be stared into directly - unlike the last time he was here. Instead he propped himself back upon one massive arm, low sigh accompanying the closing of his eyes and uptilt of his face to it. They were quiet like that for a long while, until, regretfully, the warden-wired pulse of him re-centred on his tiny companion. Knew it was time, and his responsibility, to break the truce,

"Do you want to talk about it?" The King did not look at her, though her high-hollow child's pulse and breathing told him she had heard, "The reason that you cannot sleep. I will not ask again, if you say no."

[asgardianhammer]

[ ϟ ]—– A brief flare of concern washes over the heir's features, momentarily distorting the admiration present and shifting ceruleans into a widened stance.

Brows are allowed to bunch and knit only for a few moments, and then something brighter, wilder transpires, a boy's unguarded delight cracking clean through the careful shaping of prince's demeanor.

It lit his face from within, chased the shadows from his eyes, set the heir's whole being alight with a kind of reckless, impossible relief.

There was no doubt in his mind that he would kept, and the notion was more thrilling than any praise could have accomplished.

Stepping closer the prince smiles, the act as thoughtless as many others have been in the past, the distance sudden feeling... intolerable. Perhaps the elder's words had drawn a line through the world and Thor could not bear to stand on the far side of it. There was no mockery, nor poise for that matter, only that bright, eager thing flickering in searching eyes.

' Then I shall have to be worth remembering milord,' and the grin is audible in the voice, unabashed, carried on a breath that still mildly trembled. Gaze dipped ever so slightly, trying, and failing, to catch the hidden shape of the elder's expression beneath the fall of dark hair.

Softer come the words then, yet no less alive with curiosity.

' What else did you hear milord, here in the gardens?'

[frostkingoftheapocalypse]

Thor's eager steps sounded like mountain-crumbling hooved stomps to the ancient's un-adjusted ears, the low frequency reverberations both muted and carried by the earth below them - truly, though Haetta had tried, a lifetime having adjusted his senses upon a struggling whisper of an Yggdrasil had perhaps irrevocably changed his hearing, where the slightest sound could mean a life-or-death shift in terrain or company - but for once, he let it. Thor booming into the relic's over-sized, fraught personal sphere in a wave of salty body warmth - followed by a hackle-raising slipstream of air sweeping that curious ozone in with it. That unique scent. Language and sense both. Never before catalogued. The newness of it feeling like madness the way his starved brain latched onto it with interest. As if it were a problem to decipher. A tactic to unravel.

Though the relic-thing's skin was prickling, an alarm that ignored his frequent mental efforts to subdue the Norns-ruined skill, he took a languid, paced breath into his palm to wear the discomfort like a set of particularly rank furs cloaking his entire body, floating his senses far away from his skin as that vast mind focused, hard, outside of himself, forward of himself, onto the As peering down at him.

Sure enough, Thor was too close. Again. There was a grim glee in allowing this, the ancient's head easing back to rest against the bark behind. Crimsons, still glittering damp in his post-mirth, still burning slightly from the rusty laughter, softened into a lazy regard. One he knew to be disturbing; the last creature to be privvy to it had told him it looked like his face was wearing a skin that did not belong to it. Too staged. Too unused. The strokes of an expression that was half-forgotten, no matter how genuine the sentiment had been. And was, now.

The silver-framing of Haetta's mouth twitched, schooled itself, scalding gently, "I am like a tome, youngling. If you have curiosities about personages or events or your past, or these species around you, or cultures that you are not privvy to, languages that you cannot hear, can you not at least practice in being specific in asking what it is that you desire to know? 'Elsewise 'tis like striding into your archives and demanding of your keepers there that you wish to be told every detail housed within those walls. Today. With haste."

One long finger dryly tapped his temple. The gesture slow. If one didn't know better, the huffed continuation held a spark of wry humour, "I have thousands of years of memories up here. Kindly, a little mercy."

[yellingmetatron]

Part of Metatron always observes everything with a cool dispassion-- it's not an aspect of himself he's always happy with, but he accepts it as useful and necessary to his existential imperatives. And so while remaining sympathetic-- while desiring to help-- Metatron also notes with interest the manifestation of this stranger's pain, and the way he manages it.

On one hand, it's a good sign that across the curve of spacetime the stranger can force this level of discipline. On the other hand, that level of discipline is usually very... hard-won. This is someone very clearly accustomed to intense, prolonged pain-- and not just physical pain. The psychological agony of being spread across several dimensions unprepared would have broken many minds instantly.

"We are in my Outer Archives. I am in control here. And I want to help you, if you will allow it."

[frostkingoftheapocalypse]

The thin look doused into unreadable hardness.

Aside from death, of which, the ancient suspected, was denied to him by the pact he was held accountable by. The one he could, under layers of physical sufferances, feel anchoring his branches to every world under his backs, stitching his essences endlessly to the Great Tree - silver-tongued betrayers, this was Trees, plural and staggering in number, the Norns by omission had hid that malevolent loophole - he was bonded to. Fracturing Him apart in every folded ripple of time like shredded silk---

There were few choices the monarch's physical body had been given in history. The Being before him seemed willing, amicable even, to assist a stranger. But the King was no bairn. Galaxies rippled across the creature's face. Absent tell. As silver-tongued as the Nornir themselves.

At great effort, the Jotunn's damp face tilted more towards the stranger. His right horn knocked against the carpet, kicking his heartbeat up an almighty, neck-tightening throb - he had quite forgotten it was there - before his shouldeline shivered quietly in some relief. It helped to rest it there. Propping his heavy mind up.

Quietly the ancient's bass replied, as hard, distant and marble-temperatured as the rest of his withdrawral,

"Speak your-" the grip on his bodies stumbled, "-price."

Price rippled through space-time. Many mouths moving, out-of-sync in a way that felt as if his nerves were being drawn through a loom out of his every orafice.