Ginko

Hi! I'm Ginko. I write! 💚 Feel free to leave an ask. I will typically answer questions in the comments of the latest relavent post. 💚 I would love your ideas. I might write them. I will credit you. I would also love your art. I might use it, I will credit you. 💚 If you would like me to add TWs/CWs, accessablilty features, etc, don't hesitate to ask! 💚 I take asks for any fandom, but hold the right to ignore or deny any request. 💚 I am queer, neurdivergent, anti censorship. Against racism, sexism, hate in general. Adult (in age, not content). 💚 Currently not on AO3 💚

[ginko-ginkgo]

Ginko Fic Directory

(In chronological order, sorted by character and universe)

------

Loki:

Barefoot in the Grass (1)

"Did You See That?" (1)

Golden Dusk (1) (2) (3)

Catch and Release (1) < narrator: Thor

(appearance) Lantern Light (2) < narrator: Eve

Eve:

Lantern Light (1) (2)

Bucky/Winter Soldier:

First Firefly (1)

Tiny Miracles (1) (2)

------

V: (Cyberpunk 2077 protag.)

A Wish (1)

Summer Thunder (1)

------

Kosmos/Last Dragonborn: (The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim protag.)

Stargazing (1)

[ginko-ginkgo]

Firefly July Day 10: Catch and Release

The spear caught Thor in the shoulder, twisting his body sideways as it drove through him. Lightning followed the wood back to the svartálfr, who stumbled backwards, pulling on the spear. Loki flashed past him, green seiðr trailing like ribbons in her wake, and slid a dagger through the twitching elf's neck. His brother turned to him, eerie in the dim light of Svartálfheimr, and reached for the spear.

"Did it pass through?"

"Yes," Thor's voice was surprisingly ragged. He felt fine, truly - the wound was small, and his shoulder still swung Mjölnir well enough.

His sibling's fingers danced around the spear where it protruded from his shoulder, and it fell, cut cleanly through. They tucked his shirt back and began to trace runes into his skin, murmuring under his breath.

"Save your magic, brother, I am well."

"Truly?" His sister gave him an unimpressed smile. "Then you will offer no protest when I remove my dampening spell, I'm sure."

Loki's fingers circled once over the wound and Thor was hit with a wave of pain, stabbing through his shoulder, down his arm, and into his spine and chest. His core and face tingled with aftershocks of the wound.

Loki caught his wince, of course, and resumed his galdr, soft chants ringing through Thor's skin and mind. Soon, he finished his work, and with deft fingers removed the spearhead. Thor's skin rippled strangely as it grew over the hole, stretching from rune to rune like strings in a spider's web.

"Has anyone ever likened you to a spider?" As soon as the word passed his lips, Thor regretted it; his brother's face darkened, and she turned away, carelessly wiping off the runes. The motion scraped over his newly formed skin, and Thor flinched.

"No, nobody has every found that likeness in mine." Loki answered dismissively, and stalked away.

Thor gathered his hammer and followed.

------

The svartálfar had scattered, finding their numbers dwindling, and thus Loki and Thor set out across the surface of the dark planet. It was dreary, and although Loki seemed to be enjoying the murky green ambiance, Thor longed for the sunlight of Asgardr. The dusty soil shifted under each step of Thor's feet, although his sister seemed to glide over the ash without disturbing it, and great volcanic rocks jutted up around them. As they neared the next spire, Loki slowed their steps, slinking along the base. Thor followed him, readying his hammer.

It was thus that Loki's dagger was already raised when the svartálfr sprung around the corner, swinging a spear at them. His brother blocked the strike neatly, and raised her other hand to the rock, tracing something dark and glistening onto the black stone. ᛋᛒᛁᚴᛁᛚᛚ. Spegill. Thor read as Loki cast, and his shoulder, which had been smarting and burning, fell blessedly calm. The ink had been Thor's blood, and the spell was Mirror. Loki was reflecting Thor's injury onto the svartálfr.

The elf before them dropped their spear, clutching their shoulder with a whimper of pain. Around them, Thor could hear similar whimpers and cries - it seemed Loki's spell affected not only his current enemy, but the entire group. From behind a stone deeper in the ruins stumbled their leader.

"So, I suppose you will kill us all, then." The svartálf's voice was sharp with rage and pain, and he clutched a gleaming, dark dagger in his hand.

"It seems you intend to give me no choice," His sibling answered, casually summoning the spear from his fallen opponent. "Will you surrender, and face justice in Asgardr?"

The leader laughed, choked, and laughed again. "'Justice' - Ha! In the halls of Odin, the slaughterer? We will die in our home, and perhaps slay a son of Asgardr."

Thor bristled, but his brother smiled. "Odin slumbers, and Asgardr has a new king. Will you move forward, and survive, or will you die in the ashes of what you no longer have?"

The svartálfr tilted his head, regarding Loki. "Do you claim to be any different from your father, boy?"

Loki laughed, although Thor didn't find anything particularly funny. Perhaps she was being intimidating. "If I were my father, Mageth, you would be dead. You are not. I have no desire to see your peoples lost. You will submit, and we shall make a treaty between Asgardr and Svartálfheimr, and then we shall protect you, and perhaps help you rebuild. You shall lay down your weapons, and submit to Asgardr's rule and laws. Or, you may refuse, and force us to kill you."

The svartálfr, now identified as Mageth, snarled. "You would make demands, after the destruction your father wrought upon us?"

"I am responsible for the peace of Asgardr and her realms. You threaten those realms." Thor's brother spoke with a calm and steady cadence, watching the svartálfar around them attempt to regather their weapons. He itched to strike while their enemies were down, but his sibling had cursed him for his rash actions on many moments, and he held his tongue, gripping Mjölnir. The silence stretched.

"Fine," the dark elf spat. "I surrender to you, Loki, Prince of Asgardr."

Thor bristled at the insult, but Loki smiled. "I accept your surrender, and no harm will befall you in my halls until you stand trial for your actions. I look forward to seeing how your rebuild your home." The dim glow of Thor's blood faded, and the blood burned off into a sheen of ash, drifting down to mingle with the dirt.

A svartálfr off to the side laughed darkly. "Our home will never be rebuilt, Prince of Lies. The land is dead, the animals are dead. Our people are as good as dead. This speech of 'treaty' and 'protection' is worthless." The deep rasp of his voice belied his lingering pain, and Thor could see through his stoicism as well as his brother always could. The svartálfr was scared, and deeply mourning.

Loki twirled the spear still in his hands. "I am a seiðmaðr. You have seen what I am capable of." She smiled, and twisted her fingers around the spear, planting the tip into the earth.

The ground below them opened like a flower. Brown lichen sprawled over the dirt, climbing the rocks and digging into crevices. Green, spiky plants sprouted up, pushing through the ashy soil, budding with tiny pink flowers. Loki let the growth spread through the battleground, then released the spear. The svartálfar around them, still sprawled over the ground, seemed enchanted with the plants.

One stood on shaky legs, hands cupped to his chest, and staggered towards their leader. His knees gave out before them, and he held up his hands. Inside, a round bug scuttled over his fingers, gnawing on a slip of lichen. Mageth stared.

Loki smiled and turned to the field before them, fresh and green. The sun, which had been steadily sinking towards the horizon, finally touched, casting its green glow over the clouds. A second bug lifted from the plants, swaying in the gentle breeze, and began to glow.

\\

@monthlywritingchallenges

[ginko-ginkgo]

Firefly July Day 9: "Did You See That?"

"Did you see that?" The Jötunn in the clearing before Loki asks.

The Jötnar, four of them, were sitting around a small fire, roasting two of the white-coated moose Loki has seen in the forests. Loki had, of course, seen the fire, and had hoped to observe them while they were unaware. He had few opportunities to observe Jötnar, and none to interact with them, for as a prince of Asgardr, many Jötnar held ill will after the war.

The Jötnar wore light clothes; the one closest, who had noticed Loki's movement, wore a red tunic with short sleeves and a low, square keyhole neckline. Their legs were bare, and they wore short leather boots. A braided pattern lined their tunic, in what appeared to be metal thread. Their neighbor, who had been tending the fire, wore only a patterned loincloth. Wrapped around their hand and arm, perhaps to help with the heat of the fire, was what might have been a scarf, also embroidered and dangling apple-sized beads.

The two Jötnar on the other side of the fire were dressed differently as well. One, staring hard into the woods somewhere to his's left, wore full armor. It appeared Álfheimr in make, and its gleam was almost blinding in the firelight. At their side they carried a sword, which Loki thought might have been rare for a Jötunn. The last wore a long grey tunic, which almost brushed the ground, with long sleeves. The neckline was higher, but square like their companion's, with a buttoned keyhole. Over their head and shoulders, they wore a white scarf, fringed in long strings of what looked like pearls. Shell buttons were embroidered in swirling, knotted patterns over the surface of their scarf, and continued over their shoulders and around their waist, spilling down the sides of their tunic.

They were looking directly at Loki.

He tilted his head.

They tilted theirs.

He stepped further behind the tree.

"Come out, ᛒᚱᛅᚾᛏᛅ," They call.

'Branda!' 'Little trout!' How rude.

The rest of the Jötnar have turned to look at their companion, seemingly trusting them to deal with the disturbance themselves. The Jötunn in grey watches Loki steadily, patiently.

He watches back.

"ᛒᚱᛅᚾᛏᛅ," They call, again. This time, Loki can feel the weak seiðr they press into the call.

He could leave. The seiðkonur is weak, and likely reluctant to use force to gain his cooperation. The seiðr is likely only there to catch his attention.

It's working, though. Alongside the lack of opportunities to interact with Jötnar, Loki has not met a Jötnar seiðkonur. Each realm has their own techniques for using seiðr, runic magic, chanting and rituals, manipulating the forces and threads of reality. He has learnt much from the libraries of Álfheimr, and only lack of opportunity keeps him from the rest of the realms. He hums, considering. The armored one's head snaps to him.

He crouches, silently, and reaches into the fabric of the world. A thin portal shimmers into existence against the tree, and out of it he pulls a half-finished belt. The thick leather is braided in a fairly simple design, and along each strand, Loki is engraving a pattern of runes. He meant this to be a gift to a Vanir friend, and the runes are large and painted green. He half-curls it, and retrieves parchment and charcoal. The sketch of the fish is rough, but recognizable, and he joins it with a long-necked swan. Then the runes for each, ᛒᚱᛅᚾᛏᛅ and ᛅᛚᚠᛏ.

He leaves the paper atop the belt, and strides back into the woods aways, then climbs a tree.

From his new vantage point, he can see the camp of Jötnar, and with his seiðr, he can feel the belt and runed paper, and the seiðkonur. They're watching him, still; the other Jötnar have begun to serve the moose, but they seem to have tracked his movements away through the forest and up the tree. Then, finally, they look away, and rise, heading for the belt.

Loki watches the other Jötnar as they head away. They had seasoned the moose while cooking, and Loki presumed they had also seasoned while preparing the meat, but they are adding more seasoning. They each, it seems, have their own taste. The two closest pass small bags of herbs back and forth, garnishing their food with leaves and flowers. The one in the back, oddly, has what looks like kelp.

The seiðkonur has reached his offerings, hidden in the trees, and is crouched, inspecting them. Then, they rise, and the runes, still tangled in Loki's magic, rise with them. Soon, they return to the clearing, and Loki can see them again. They have abandoned their scarf.

Their group focuses on them again as they approach. The parchment is passed around, then the belt. In their hands, both are tiny; the armored Jötunn raises the parchment to their face to inspect the drawings. Finally, they return to the seiðkonur, and the Jötnar discuss in low tones as they begin to eat.

A few minutes later, they are done eating, and already breaking their camp. The fire is extinguished, quite thoroughly, and they bury the ashes. The seiðkonur whispers a spell, and a fresh falling of snow begins to dust the clearing, washing away their footprints. In a few more minutes, it will appear like they were never there.

The seiðkonur looks at Loki one last time, and waves. Then they turn, and lead the group away, quickly disappearing into the woods.

Scarf left behind.

------

Loki waits, until the feel of his own seiðr in the runes is distant and faint. Then he curls his seiðr around him, and shifts his form.

The body of a raven settles comfortably around him. He stretches his wings, catching the dark feathers in the corner of his eye, and leaps from the tree, gliding toward the clearing. As he expected, any traces of the Jötnar are long gone. The fresh snow gleams in the sunlight, and the towering pines sway in the wind.

Where he had left the belt, there is a small tablet of ice, deep blue, interlaced with branching cracks. Little seiðr clings to it; only that which was used in its creation. It's cold enough on the surface of the ice planet to keep water frozen without seiðr. Much more saturated is the object wrapped around the tree: the seiðkonur's scarf.

It's even more beautiful up close. Loki suddenly feels sorry for his offering; he had intended it more as a bribe, or distraction, and it had been half-finished and of less value. It had been a expensive gift, of course, seiðr was rare enough that any enchantment was, but it had taken nowhere near the time and effort that this scarf must have. What was a scarf on a Jötunn was the size of several Asgardian rooms, even in the palace. He returns to the tablet, stunned.

It bears an inscription of a swan, wings spread and head ducked below the water, surrounded by several trout. Over the swan's wings is draped the scarf, and around one trout is wrapped the belt. The carvings are fine, clearly aided by seiðr. The belt, though tiny, includes the runes carved into the original.

Loki laces his seiðr around the tablet, creating a bubble of cool air around it, and tucks it back into his space-between-spaces. Then, he goes about letting down the scarf, and stores it away as well. It smells of berries, campfire smoke, and ice.

It smells of home.

\\

@monthlywritingchallenges (last two are a couple days late, sorry)

[ginko-ginkgo]

Firefly July Day 8: Stargazing

Kyne's lights rippled through the sky, glinting purple light over the melting snow. In the distance, a dragon banked, wings lighting up blue for the barest second before it dove down below the treeline. The Jerall Mountains were silent and cold, and it would be another few days of trudging through the snow before they reached their destination, south of Falkreath.

Kosmos' heavy wool cloak caught, again, in the crack of her shoulder plate. The metal scraped against the fabric, and she raised the other arm, again, to lift it lose. She needed to find a way to keep that off, or else sew a piece of scrap leather onto her cloak; if it wore through, it would be the work of several weeks enchanting a new one. She sighed, and shifted, resettling the armor and various belts and bags around her.

Times like these left her sorely missing a pack. They were rare for adventurers to wear, for without one, her arms were free, and she could fight at a moment's notice, if need be. Instead, it was common to keep loot and potions in bags and holsters and pockets strapped around your waist, legs, and, if you could afford one, your horse. This trip, they had no horse, for horses struggled to face the cold and steep cliffs of the mountains. That meant, for now, that Kosmos was carrying her own gear and loot, and the weight was redistributed onto her hips, which pressed sorely after a few hours.

She raised her right hand, and behind her, Cicero and Jordis both perked up. Cicero spun his knives in his hands, trying to follow her line of sight, while Jordis trudged along slightly more alertly. They both relaxed when a healing spell swirled into life between them. Cicero giggled and stuck his fingers into the center of the glowing spiral. She could feel the growing bruises fading away again, for the eighth or ninth time that day. Jordis sighed.

"We could have taken a carriage to Falkreath, my Thane," she said, "and then horses to the fort."

"You could have met us there, if you didn't want to walk, Jordis."

The housecarl frowned. "I am sworn to protect you. If you chose to walk, I will follow you and keep you safe."

Kosmos shrugged. "If we had taken a carriage, or ridden straight to Falkreath, we would not have had the opportunity to take Fellglow Keep, and those vampires would have continued to harass innocent travelers. Nor would we have claimed the treasures we now carry. They may be a burden now, but one day they may pay for your home, and your children's homes."

Cicero laughed, "What should Cicero do with the treasure?"

Kosmos smiled at him, her sharp features leading to a menacing look. "Perhaps you could by your mother some lovely flowers."

Cicero giggled and danced away, breaking off into a tune.

Kosmos turned back to Jordis. "You know we face little danger on the road, Jordis, you don't have to be there to protect me. I would understand, and still appreciate it, if you stayed in Solitude, or only rode out to some of my missions."

Jordis sighed and shook her head. "I became a housecarl because I wanted to fight, not sit around all day at home. I am happy to be here, my Thane, I just wonder why you take such an inefficient route."

Kosmos laughed, the low rasp blending into Cicero's clamor. "I could run between fights, I would be faster, but I'm here to see the world, live in it, not chase action. Also, between you and me, it gets quite repetitive. I like quiet nights out here, in the trees, even if we spend all day walking."

Jordis nodded, and together they moved on, following Cicero's humming into the trees.

------

They made camp a few hours later, with Secunda high in the sky above them. The aurora had faded to a light green, and the snow reflected the grey light of the moons instead. Jordis had retreated to one corner of the small clearing, and climbed up into the lowest boughs of a tree, where she seemed to be already asleep, wrapped in her cloaks. Cicero had started a fire, and was whistling happily to himself while he roasted several plump rabbits.

Kosmos laid down his fur cloak, and began collecting sturdy branches to hang her cloak over. It was quick work, and soon she had constructed a small tent, warm and spacious inside by the enchantments on the cloaks. She could see, from inside, that her cloak was wearing through - one spot, near the neckline, was beginning to show light through, just faintly.

She joined Cicero outside with some dried herbs, and began to mix a seasoning oil. Cicero, smiling slyly at her over the fire, switched his tune, and began humming the first notes of an old Dunmeri lullaby.

Kosmos watched him for a second, then asked, "Where did you hear this song?"

Cicero laughed. "I always hear it when you're around."

She hummed, and stared into the fire as he resumed. The flames flickered and jumped, sparked, curled around each other, quailed in the icy air before leaping back up. They almost seemed to dance along to the music, swirling up with the rising beats and guttering as they fell.

Unbidden, the lyrics came to her, and she sang along, quiet and low.

"Kiirseyol daandrun Keizaalwah, kinzonhin tuz ahrk kinzonhin miin." (Child of fire, bring doom to Skyrim, sharp your blade and sharp your eye.)

"Qiilaanfent muz, qiilaanfent rah. Laatfent qiilaanhi Nilus." (Men shall bow, gods shall bow. Last you shall bow before Void.)

"Kiirseyol Jiidde koraavhi, ahrk aakhin ronaazze soswah." (Child of fire, the Moons see you, and guide your arrows to blood.)

"Saraan smoliin soruz Vokunruz vindahlheim vothfin Vulon." (First passion then sorrow then a Shadow forever with the Night.)

As the last note ended, Kosmos realized that she had not been singing in Dunmeri. When she grasped for her mother tongue, it came easily, but the lullaby was gone. Perhaps it had never had words, in Dunmeri. For she had been singing the lyrics in Draconic. And they had been about her.

Cicero was still humming quietly, allergic as ever to silence, and was watching her intently. She translated for him.

He whistled the notes again, considering. "Qiilaanhi Nilus, vothfin Vulon."

"You have scarily good recall," she told him, and translated: "Bow-you Void-before, with-the Night. You will bow before the Void, with the Night. Yes, it's our Dread Father."

"Hm." He smiled. "Kiirseyol."

She buried her face in her hands. "Yes, another epithet. Child-of-fire."

He pulled the rabbits from the fire and offered one to her, leaning dramatically into her side as he struck up another tune. She leaned back, pulling him along with her, and watched the Serpent slither across the sky. It drifted across the Apprentice, passed below Masser, and coiled up across the Shadow.

The snow crunched as Jordis joined them, taking the last rabbit for herself and crouching beside the fire. She looked up, and pointed to the far east, where the Warrior was creeping over the horizon. "The Warrior is my star sign. I never learned the others."

Kosmos smiled, slightly, and traced her finger across the sky. "It's late Second Seed, now, so only the spring and summer signs will be up," she explained. "The Warrior, just rising, the Apprentice, the Steed behind Masser, the Shadow, the Mage, and half of the Lord, setting. And the Serpent is up, now, just above the Shadow."

Jordis dutifully followed her gaze. "I can never tell how you see a snake in that triangle."

Kosmos laughed. "I think it's only the Serpent because it moves, otherwise it would be the caltrop, or something."

Cicero giggled at her side. "Only the Mage, the Steed, the Thief, and the Warrior make sense. The rest are just random shapes."

"And the Tower."

"That's just a line!"

"What are towers?"

Kosmos joined in their laughter and blew a small stream of flame into the fire, sending a wave of heat over the three of them. Jordis pointed out the Nordic constellations, and Cicero hummed a new tune for each of them as Kosmos leaned into him and watched the stars.

\\

@monthlywritingchallenges

[ginko-ginkgo]

Firefly July Day 7: Tiny Miracles (pt. 1/2)

It seemed, again, that things had changed while Bucky was away. John Alden, who ran a bakery on the first floor of their building, had been joined by a mix Deli-Grocery-Grill called "Delmar's III." Bailey was now attending elementary school, and there was half of a greenhouse in a corner of the rooftop. They had replaced the railings with modern, sleek glass panes, and brought up several new pieces of furniture.

The most surprising change was the new people. Some, of course, were normal. Delmar, the new Deli owner, was nice enough, running a triple business out of Queens. Evaline Clayton had a new boyfriend who adored her.

Some were strange. Earlier that week, Bucky had been caught by surprise entering the rooftop by a man in a red leather suit, crouching in the corner. He had introduced himself as "Daredevil" before jumping down to the fire escape, and then popping up on the next roof over. A similarly dressed teenager had come shooting up the stairwell a week before, on what may have been reinforced silly string. And Steve, of course, was moving in, to the apartment across the hall from Bucky's. He'd offered a little more space, but Bucky had turned him down; there had been enough distance between them.

With Steve came Captain America, and the Avengers. They each seemed at home in Steve's space, in their own ways. Bucky had seen the Black Widow sleeping in Steve's unused bed, Bruce Banner hunched over a laptop in the corner for what must have been several days, Iron Man in the kitchen at three AM, and once an abandoned cochlear implant on the coffee table. None of them had spoken to him, yet, though whether it was from fear or some form of respect, Bucky didn't know.

Steve was making an effort to spend time with him. It had been a strange transition; Steve was very much the man he had been eighty years ago, bright and bold and honorable. Bucky, by contrast, had lived those past eighty years. Lived, and changed, for all he sometimes felt he was being left behind. Very little of it had been good, but he was older, calmer, and had different ideas. He was often more jaded and pragmatic than the bright youth Steve expected.

Some of that, Bucky thought, was idolization on Steve's part. He had believed Bucky to be dead, and enshrined him within his mind. Steve forgot, for instance, that while he had volunteered, Bucky had been conscripted. He had never wanted to (never needed to) fight the big fight, or prove himself. Steve had. But for all they were changed, they were beginning to mold back into each other. Bucky had spent several hours reading, the other day, while Steve had sketched, warm and quiet in the afternoon sun. He was awoken with tea and toast, and sometimes Bucky joined Steve and Sam on their morning runs.

Sam, too, was a change. He was a social worker and PTSD councilor from Harlem, and had become Steve's friend at some point while they were still avoiding each other. He also had a cute "bird" drone, named Redwing, and matched the two super soldiers well in fights. Bucky was glad that Steve was making friends in this new, jarring world, and gladder that Steve had chosen to share that friendship with Bucky. It had been a long time since someone had trusted him, not that he didn't deserve it.

He had spent a long time learning to be dangerous and unsettling, surrounded by Hydra, the SS, the Stasi, and the OGPU. It had been difficult to reintegrate; it always was, for soldiers, doubly so for prisoners of war. He lived completely separately from the people around him. He thought differently, he had different worries and priorities. They felt alien to him, and he was sure he felt alien to them. He could watch them, of course. They made sense. He also made sense. But it was like trying to fit triangles to circles. They went to their jobs and talked to their coworkers, played in the grass of the courtyard with their children, cooked and gardened and ate together. Some of them left their curtains open, and he could see into their living rooms, late at night. They sat together on sofas, watched TV and talked and laughed. They went to sleep at night, and woke up in the morning.

Bucky had often woken in the afternoon. He broke into buildings, stole files, took photos, killed people. He sat alone in his apartment, or on the rooftop patio. He cooked, of course, and helped with the garden, but he did it alone. He didn't own a television, didn't watch shows. He didn't know how to talk to them, when he passed them in the stairs, or in the gardens, or in the laundry room. He never knew what to say.

Steve had begun to change that. He had an easy way of interacting with people, he kept track of sports and shows, talked about the weather and the garden and running, shared recipes and turned down people's daughters. He woke up early in the morning, and walked around Bucky's apartment, making tea and breakfast, and whatever else people did in the morning. Now, when his neighbors saw Bucky, they tried to talk to him instead of smiling and nodding.

Bucky was half suspicious Steve or Sam had put them up to it, to try to get him to socialize more. If so, they had been unsuccessful. Although they seemed a little more comfortable around him, conversations died awkwardly or skittered around him.

\\ (2)

@monthlywritingchallenges

[ginko-ginkgo]

Firefly July Day 7: Tiny Miracles (pt. 2/2)

Today, he was doing their laundry, and it seemed that, again, someone was trying to make conversation with him. It was Gracelyn, who he had not seen for a while, even before his latest "work trip," and the likely reason was easy to discover. In her load of laundry were several very small onesies, with little animal print on them. She was standing by the sink and pouring his hydrogen peroxide onto the neck of a zebra-print onesie, where a faintly pink stain was fizzing away.

She opened the conversation by sighing, leaning back and turning to face him a little. He turned fully to her in response, and she smiled at him, gesturing to her work.

"It's so hard to get this out of clothes, I don't know how you do it! The doctor says some blood is normal, but gosh, it's a little disturbing."

She was being a little dramatic to engage with him, so he laughed. "Hey, it could be worse, blood doesn't really smell. I have some stronger hydrogen peroxide if you want."

She waved him off. "This is doing fine, I don't want to get it in the baby clothes, you know, they're so sensitive to little things."

"Yeah," he agreed, "It should wash out fine, but it's better to be safe than sorry. Concentrated hydrogen peroxide can cause skin reactions."

She laughed. She was trying to get him to share a similar complaint about the difficulty of cleaning clothes or caring for children so that they had something in common, but Bucky didn't have much to say. He used stronger hydrogen peroxide when the normal strength didn't work, and he had never really interacted with children, except for his sisters. That had been a long time ago.

She soldiered on, admirably determined. "So, you have any kids, James? Or any little ones in the family? God knows I need tips."

He shook his head, giving what he hoped was the appropriate melancholic smile. "No, my sisters died a while ago, and I've never been one for a family myself."

She nodded consolingly, "I'm sorry for your loss." Then she smiled as if she was sharing a secret with him. "I'm glad to see that young man around. He's such a friendly lad, you know, everyone here loves him."

He smiled at her. She was trying to hint that they accepted Steve as his partner. "Thank you. I'm glad, he's an amazing person."

"If you'd like to swing by this evening, to meet little Maylee, we'd love to have you two for dinner."

He did not really want to go sit in her apartment and continue this awkward conversation, or eat their cooking. "Oh! Thank you, I'll let Steve know you invited us. If he's free this evening, we'll swing by."

She laughed again. "Lovely, see you at six, then!"

Then she started her wash and walked out. He gave a short waved at her back. She did not look back.

He finished putting the wet clothes in the dryer and started it, then placed his bin atop the machine and walked back to his apartment.

Steve was not there. His apartment was similarly empty, as was the courtyard out the stairwell window. Bucky found him lounging on the roof, reading.

He looked up and smiled at Bucky's approach. "Hey."

"Hey. Gracelyn Stanton wants us to come over for dinner with Josh and their new baby Maylee."

"Maylee," Steve repeated. "Some of these new naming conventions are a bit strange."

"Yep. It's the Mormons. They need to be unique but they can't be different. And they make all the baby name websites."

"Hm. I guess we'll go, then?"

Bucky shrugged. "Sure. She better not make meatloaf or casserole or creamy potato salad or fruit salad or-"

Steve laughed and waved him over. "I suppose we should bring dessert."

Bucky sat next to him. "Brownies?"

"Classic."

He smiled. "I try."

Steve returned to his book, and Bucky settled back for a nap.

------

Four hours later, they stood at the Stantons' door, brownies in hand. Bucky had also assembled a salad with fresh lettuce, spinach, and cherry tomatoes from their rooftop garden. They had dressed up nicely, Steve in a dress shirt and jeans, and Bucky in a turtleneck and slacks. Steve knocked, and Josh swung the door open, greeting them with a tired smile. He and Steve went through greetings and small talk while Bucky followed them in, then dropped by the kitchen to present the brownies and salad to Gracelyn. She greeted him with a laugh and a welcome, and waved him into the lounge, where Josh was introducing Steve to a very tiny Maylee.

Steve turned, and reached out, drawing Bucky to his side. Josh smiled at him and beckoned, carefully tucking the baby into his arms.

"She's adorable," he told him.

Josh smiled. "Our little May Miracle."

\\ (1)

@monthlywritingchallenges

[ginko-ginkgo]

Firefly July Day 6: Summer Thunder

Johnny's voice jittered mechanically as V's vision focused, a red haze surrounding the seven outcast nomads before them. It wasn't often they left the city, but Hellman, the scientist working on the chip, was flying through a dead zone nearby, and V needed to talk to him. And to do that, they needed Panam's help, which would apparently only come with this truck.

One raffen wandered off to the left, watching the road; three stayed among their cars, and the last three surrounded Panam's car on the far right. It was a job like any other, barely noteworthy for the dusty, dark setting, and they settled into the easy almost-autopilot of the hunt: flag all seven, ready quickhacks, plan the rout of attack . . .

"The show starts - now!" Panam's choppy voice broke through the haze, and V flipped the breaker.

The world lit up, and sped back to real time as V's eyes deactivated. As the town lit up, the raffen ran left, looking for cover, and V prepped a grenade, lobbing it at their heels. Grainy red filled their vision again as they short circuited the three strongest, the quickhack latching onto their systems in seconds. One began tracing the hack, while the others crouched behind various cars and blockades.

A second grenade dropped two of them, their red glow fading, and one last electric jolt followed before V darted across the gap, rolling behind the other side of a blockade. A second later, the furthest raffen popped up, sending a spray of gunfire across the street.

'Too little, too late, fuckers,' V thought, catching the nomad with a quickhack. Three down, four to go.

The raffen on the other side of the blockade stood, raising a heavy rifle, and V took the opportunity to slide a neurotoxin-coated knife between his ribs. He grunted, dropping the gun, and V rolled to the side to avoid it before sprinting forward.

"There!" One shouted, standing. Panam's cover fire downed him.

The last two had ducked into the road-side bar, and both rounded on V at their allies' shouts. Red bled around them again as V rebooted both their optics, shooting one in the chest and kicking the other's gun to the floor. Panam rounded the corner and finished the disarmed woman, and V spun, vision lighting up again to ensure they were alone.

In a younger year, the dry heat would've been broken by crickets or frogs, but the town around them was silent save the buzzing of the newly restored electricity and the drip of blood. Panam rifled through the pockets of the mohawked woman, retrieving her keys, and made for her car.

V began collecting the fallen guns.

"Should get a recording when you down Hellman's AV." Johnny materialized in a haze of glitches.

"Yeah?" Their pockets yielded little but ammo and some spare parts.

"You'd have all those suits shitting themselves silly."

"Maybe I will." Suddenly, V tilted their head up. The air had shifted, wind blowing in a new direction and bringing with it the smell of rain. They finished grabbing the parts and did a final sweep, jogging for the car.

The passenger side door was barely shut when it began to pour. Sheets of rain battered down on the truck as Panam pulled away from the gas station, rippling down the windshield and pattering on the roof. Behind the forest of windmills, the clouds flashed, once, twice, streaks of lightning splitting the rain.

The sky lit up, horizon to horizon, a wall of blinding white. For a second, the truck lit up, throwing Panam's profile and tight curls into sharp relief. Then the roar of the thunder struck, almost physically rolling through the car. The radio cut to static for a second, the windows rattling. Panam reached up and popped the roof.

They sped through the California desert, Johnny smoking scentlessly in the backseat, radio on low occasionally dropping back into static. Panam was going on about Nash and revenge, but V was more interested in the warm rain slanting through the popped roof and playing over their arms.

"Let's go run the goods first, huh? Deal with traitorboy after. We got the truck, finish biz while the night's young. 'Sides, this storm's lookin bad."

Panam cast them a look. "Are you even listening?"

Johnny chuckled in the back seat. "She got you there."

"Of course. Revenge, betrayal, revenge," V smiled winningly, "We've all been there. It's practically on the way."

Panam rolled her eyes and pulled out her phone. V checked out of the phone call, focus back on the rain-clouded sky beyond the windows.

She felt Johnny materialize behind her. "You know, you can roll the window down." The note of amusement in his voice did little to phase V.

"What, looking to get me wet?" Johnny huffed and disappeared. The low hum of the motor blended well with the drumming rain, and soon water cascaded into the car, pooling at their feet and dripping out the sides. Panam made an annoyed sound but made no move to stop V as they stuck their head out, watching the desert pass by.

\\

@monthlywritingchallenges

[ginko-ginkgo]

Firefly July Day 5: Lantern Light (pt. 1/2)

Waterfalls, as it turned out, got very dirty very quickly. Really, it made Eve concerned for the state of her lungs. If whatever was in the air could turn a self-feeding waterfall that grimy that quickly, how grey and disgusting must their lungs be?

It was disappointing, really. She'd been excited to set up a stream of clean water, which, on top of looking pretty and sounding nice, could splatter into little pools for people to wash their faces and drink from and stuff. They could have grown little plants, and got some lilypads, and added some greenery and nature and stuff to the place . . .

"I am Groot."

And Groot could've stuck his branches into the water and grown pretty flowers . . .

Groot stuck his head into the water.

"How many times do I have to tell you; don't drink fountain water, you idiot! That's disgusting." Rocket, never far from his friend except when he was, appeared predictably beside her.

"Yeah, put your feet in it and grow some sea grass. God, Groot." She sighed, theatrically.

"What are you trying to do here, anyway?" Rocket was doing that thing where he tried to pretend not to care but he secretly cared a lot. What a tsundere.

"I wanted to make a waterfallllllll," she whined, "And little pools and plants and a brook and trees and dappled sunlightttttt."

"There isn't even sunlight here, there's no star." Rocket pointed out.

"I read it, in a book. The sunlight dapples when you have trees." She stomped her foot, and flowers sprouted up around it. "And look how dusty and terrible the ground is. One erosion and the entire place will fall apart! In a landslide! And we'll all die!"

"I am Groot."

"Exactly!" She gasped and stomped her foot, turning to Rocket. "YOU can help me! Make a river!"

Rocket groaned, pretending to be put upon (she hoped).

"Pleeeeeeee-"

"I am Groot-"

"-eeeeeeeee-"

"Okay, alright, I'll do it! But only 'cause you need more fresh water!" He pointed an accusing finger at Groot.

They both cheered.

------

Eve was lucky she was no longer doing the project, because it turned out adding a river to a skull floating through space was kind of difficult.

Which was bullshit.

Rocket seemed to actually be enjoying the project, Groot faithfully at his side, and had recruited the help of Cosmo the space Laika. Drax kept dropping by to "help" (argue with Rocket) followed by an excited Mantis and a watchful Nebula. Eve was convincing her to draw different Earth plants, and while doing so, unstealthily playing different Earth music. It was no surprise she'd hated Peter's music, of course, because he only had stupid old music, but she had a broad and updated repertoire that would surely bring her over to the dark side.

Unfortunately it was looking like she liked classical music.

Peter, of course, was off smooching his girlfriend like some sort of disgusting loser.

She was already planning what projects to masterfully manipulate her friends into doing next. She wanted to have seasons, and lights that made heat, and snow, and butterflies, and birds, and some cats. . .

One of the things she missed most from Earth was birds. You never really saw them, except you did, constantly, and it was only when you didn't that you realized they were gone. There were always crows everywhere, and raptors and hawks of various kinds, and little house sparrows everywhere, and they made so much noise, especially in the morning. Ships, when their engines were off, could be dead silent. The air didn't hiss through any vents. The wiring was good enough not to buzz. The lights never whined, there were no fridges to hum, air conditioning never activated. Clocks didn't tick. There were no birds, and no bugs, and usually no other animals. When the ship was crowded enough, you could hear everyone else breathing, but that was muffled into nothingness in just a few walls. Her main hobby had been wiring more and more speakers into her walls, to play her pilfered CDs or her mp4.

Knowhere, of course, didn't have that issue. Not only were there people up 24/7, but the walls were thin and shitty, and let lots of noise through. No matter where you went, you could constantly hear talking and laughing and yelling, and usually some music. And NOTHING ELSE. It was better than silence, but GOD was it annoying!

However, with the completion of this project, there would be water noises. And after that, there would be birds. Or frogs. Croaaaaak.

------

Knowhere had much cleaner drinking water. New pipes had been laid after the discovery of some lead ones had freaked Eve out, they had constructed a singular, very short water tower, there were new filtration systems, they were chemically treating it . . .

They also had gradually cleaner air. Large fans pulled air through filters; sections of colony space were sealed in huge domes, made of glass panes, which looked like bug's eyes; they had begun dampening the mining areas and the transport drones to keep dust from floating everywhere . . .

They were even composting. They were collecting food scraps and then putting them in a pile in the dirt. Like hippies!

And they had NO RIVER. Eve wasn't one to complain, really (she was). But all that was coming of her sole hope and dream was that one, deary waterfall. And it didn't even have a small pond below it! It fell into a tank and then was cycled back up on the same system she'd made. The water had cleared up a bit, she would give them that, but it had mostly just settled at the bottom of the tank. Where there was a layer of black grit. It probably wasn't even clean enough to go swimming.

------

Drax was making fun of her again. Apparently, all of the renovation projects were actually for the river. The clean water meant that the water in the stream wouldn't poison the plants (or people). The air filters meant that the waterfall wouldn't instantly get polluted by pulling smog out of the air. The composting (which was not done on colony planets, usually) was making "nutrient rich" and "healthy" soil (could soil even be healthy?) which apparently wouldn't turn to dust the second you looked at it wrong.

Mantis was talking excitedly about alien tomatoes.

They were all following Rocket, Groot, and Nebula, who were excitedly (in their own ways) leading them through some back alleys into a construction zone that had been fenced off for like forever. Peter and Gamora were, again, snogging in the back.

Then Groot raised the last flap, and Eve beheld a wonder! Beautiful beyond compare, azure blue surrounded by black cascades, stunning, magestic . . .

\\ (2)

@monthlywritingchallenges

[ginko-ginkgo]

Firefly July Day 5: Lantern Light (pt. 2/2)

Loki of the Yiggdrisil was sitting on a rock on the other side of the flap. He was in his Joutun form, and his blue skin glowed in the fluorescent lighting. Their hair was braided up intricately, which must have taken him literal years, and it was covered in pearls or something white and glittery. He smiled down at them.

Rocket grumbled and led them around the rock.

On the other side, short, scraggly cliffs obscured the neighboring buildings. Significant amounts of moss and bushes covered the lower half, and in the back, a thin waterfall splashed water that was actually clean down into the pond below, which was also actually clean.

"Wow."

Rocket, who had turned to see their responses, threw his hands up in the air. "Wow?! C'mon! You know how long I spent on this? And a 'wow' is all I get?"

Peter laughed, pushing his way to the front of the group. "It's awesome, buddy. Really. Could do with a little mood lighting, but . . ."

"I am Groot!"

Rocket snarled. Loki, watching them amusedly, twirled her fingers. Green seidur swirled around his fingers, and the fluorescents backlighting her faded into darkness. It spread outwards, dimming headlights, bar signs, and probably other stuff. Then they dipped a finger in a nearby puddle, and wrote "MAIYIR" on the stone.

Around the lake, hanging from curved poles or the cliff face, little wrought iron lanterns appeared. They filled the clearing with a warm glow, light reflected off the rippling water and the spray glittered. It was very pretty.

Peter and Gamora were whispering together like losers.

Eve made eye contact with Rocket, and the raccoon grinned toothily. He leapt at Peter's face while Eve rushed at Gamora. Peter, very uncoordinatedly, immediately fell into the water. Groot snatched Rocket out of the air before the drops could land on his fur. Gamora, unfortunately, was somewhat competent, and Eve could not push her into the water. She smiled down at her, and then, while Eve fruitlessly pushed, pretended to slip and fall backwards.

Peter shouted in alarm and attempted to catch her. Unfortunately, his coordination had not magically improved, and he slipped on some algae or something, and only managed to get knocked back into the water below her. What a skill issue.

Rocket cackled from his perch on Groot, and Mantis laughed, hitting Drax's arm. "She fell into the water, and when he tried to catch her, he fell again!"

"Yes," Drax agreed, "He is very clumsy." He addressed Loki, "Is your brother here? I would like to see him again. He is a true man."

Loki made a disgusted face. "Not you too!"

Eve giggled and crouched down, huddling over a lantern. The shadows from the bars wavered and danced over the water, which ripped from where Gamora, Nebula, Groot, and Peter were splashing and throwing each other. The flames let off a soft heat, and she rested her cool fingers against the metal, soaking it in.

A swirl of magic behind her announced Loki's presence. They leaned over her, sheltering her in the shadow of his cloak. A gentle hand ran over her hair. "Happy Solstice, darling."

She smiled and leaned back into her, and together they watched the lantern slowly burn away.

\\ (1)

@monthlywritingchallenges

The runic spell Loki uses does not, in fact, say "MAIYIR," Eve just doesn't know what they are. It says "ᛚᚢᛋᛁ-ᚴᛁᚱ," which reads "Lýsi-ker," which is an Old Norse word for lantern.

[ginko-ginkgo]

Firefly July Day 4: Barefoot in the Grass

The June sun hung low over the Midgardian skyline. Odin and Frigg stood arm in arm, watching the slow descent into the mountains. Thor had claimed a stick, and was swinging it back and forth, making wooshing noises as he stumbled against its weight. Loki was laying on his stomach, watching a caterpillar eat a leaf.

"Brother!" Thor shouted, "Come fight with me!"

Loki dragged himself away from the bug with half a sigh. His fingers itched for the daggers mother had gifted him for his birthday, tucked safely away in his room, but Thor had yet to receive a weapon, and likely wouldn't for several summers yet. He favored, still, the long, heavy swords, or worse hammers and clubs, and had not mastered his balance to such a degree as to safely wield a sharpened sword of his own. Loki, of course, had promised mother not to tell Thor or father of the daggers, not until Thor had a weapon of his own.

Instead, he searched the grass for a suitable stick. The big, heavy ones were easy to find; the great ash trees lining the meadow came a dozen or more, and shed many a bough. Such a stick would pit him against his brother's strength, though, and Loki would be sure not to enjoy the ensuing tussle. Instead, he found the supple branch of a lilac, and whipped it through the air experimentally. It made a soft hissing noise - fwip, fwip.

Thor was waiting for him knee-high in the flowers. "Are you ready for defeat, brother?"

Loki grinned. "Know this, brother; it is you who will surrender today. And it is you who shall ultimately suffer the loss, for I am Loki, of Asgardr, and I shall always be victorious."

Thor giggled and dived forward, swinging his stick in a wide arc. Loki jumped back, and reached for the magic, pulling the world around him.

But the threads slipped under his fingers, woven too finely, too tight. He wished again for the daggers, like needles, as he whipped the stick forward, slashing across Thor's fingers.

His brother yelped and jumped back, raising his stick again. Loki's next strike caught him low, across the knee, before he was sliding past his brother, and this time the threads caught, and he shoved himself through the hole.

He quickly discovered the problem with this tactic: it was dark and he could not see, and the hole had closed behind him. He reached again for the threads, but they were gone, out of his reach or too fine for him to see. In this space in between spaces, he could see his magic, the thin lines wrapping around his fingers, his arms, tangled in his hair. He tried for several minutes longer to find a way back, twisting and pulling at the space around him, but it seemed his seiðr simply spooled into nothingness, floating aimlessly around him. Finally, he tired, and sat (on nothing, in nothing) to wait.

Presently, he grew bored, and began to weave his seiðr around the lilac stick. The strings took to the braid readily, and wove well around the branch, sinking into it almost eagerly. About halfway down he found, to his surprise, that the branch had begun to bud again, and the tip bore a sprig of lilac. Its sweet smell permeated the space, illuminated by the soft green glow of Loki's seiðr. He continued his weaving.

A petal fell from the lilac. The first sprig, which had smelt so sweet, had withered, and the flowers were limp and brown. Loki was surprised to see the petal landed not far below him - he let down a spool of seiðr and found that he sat hovered not two meters above a vast plane of bark, with great ridges and channels. As he saw it, he descended to it, and settled his bare feet on the wood. Balancing, he began to walk.

Soon, he came a nook in the bark, which had collected dew and had some manner of giant blackberry stashed inside. He drank of the water, and ate of the berry, and laid down to sleep, for it had been many hours and he was tired.

Some time later, he awoke to the chuffing of a very large squirrel. It nosed into the hollow, snatched a berry, and backed away, watching him. He watched back. It nosed forward, sniffing him, and was off, skittering along the bark. He watched it run a ways, then pause, looking back at him. He stood and followed it.

The squirrel led him along the wood and to a junction, where he realized he must be walking along a truly massive branch. He followed it up the next branch, but was forced to stop when the bark became too steep and rugged to traverse. It soon came back, though, chittering, and caught his shirt up in its teeth, carrying him above the steep terrain. After that, he hung helplessly and clung to his stick, for his seiðr was of no help to him, and he had nothing to clutch to preventing his falling.

He had been carried for what felt like hours when he saw a figure in the distance. The squirrel slowed as they neared, and Loki reached for his seiðr once more, attempting to close the space between them, if only for his vision. To Loki's shock, it worked, and he was graced by a large and clear image of his mother, windswept and shaking, with small cuts littering her face and hands.

"Mother!" He cried out.

She looked up sharply, and the squirrel dropped him at the outburst. "Loki!" She cried, and was at his side in an instant, hauling him up. "Are you well?"

"Yes, mother," he hugged her, "but I'm stuck here."

She hushed him and wove her golden seiðr around him, the threads braiding and knotting amongst themselves, his hair, the stick still in his hands, wrapped with his green seiðr. "Thor said you were playing and you vanished from view."

Loki ducked his head into her leg. She sighed and began to weave an opening. Unlike Loki's passage, the threads tore as she pulled at them, and the ragged ends were like brambles, tearing at her skin and clothes. Several times Loki saw her seiðr rip and break, and each time she winced in pain. He tucked guiltily into her side. Soon, though, she had finished, and she clutched Loki in her arms as she pressed through the opening. Where it passed him by, the threads smoothed and calmed, sliding over his skin like silk. Then they were through, spilling out onto the grass in the meadow.

Odin caught Loki's arm and lifted him, eye inspecting him with worry. "Be careful, my son; seiðr is dangerous, and much is beyond you." Then he turned to his wife, and Thor descended on his brother.

Loki caught Thor in his arms and held him, swords forgotten. The sun had long set, and his caterpillar was gone; new bugs filled the clearing.

Their mother soon appeared at their side, cuts healed. In her palms rested a small insect, and she lowered it for them to see. "Thor, Loki, this is called a firefly."

Loki pressed his bare soles into the grass and curled his fingers into his brother's as the bug began to glow.

\\

@monthlywritingchallenges

[ginko-ginkgo]

Firefly July Day 3: A Wish

>><Trigger/Content warnings for this one! Brief suicidal ideation, refusal of life-saving medical care (both near the end)><<

V's vision blurred. There was no damage to the implants - exhaustion and stress were just taking their toll. Jackie's head rested, steady, against their shoulder. Jackie's head rested, steady, against their shoulder. Jackie's head rested-

V tore their thoughts away. The city outside the window sped by, Delamain stared into V's soul, blood dripped onto the seats. Blood dripped-

The city. The city. V's vision bled red, the glitching of the fall gone, but there was nothing to target. The Arasaka drones had lost them, Adam and the Japanese police far behind, the Trauma Team had neglected to even chase them, focusing on attempting to recover their patient.

Delamain interrupted the attempt at distraction. "Mr. Welles has passed. Where shall I take his remains?"

The world glitched black around V, brain and implants surely lagging. "What?"

"The Excelsior package-"

"Shut up." Rage lanced through V like a headache. V had a headache. The implants burned. "Wait here."

They had arrived at the No-Tell Motel. V stepped out, slamming the door. The walk inside blurred past them. They would need to visit Vik after this, for the vision glitches and the chip. The chip. Jackie's blood over his hands the chip the-

DeShawn was in room 204. The knob crumpled under V's fingers, and the door followed easily. The hired muscle inside grunted in surprise, but a knife to the throat shut him up. Inside, DeShawn was watching the news.

"WNS . . . N54 . . . " V tuned him out.

"-the Jackster? He out in the car?" The rage was back. Like they were friends. Like he knew him, gave a damn, we were just PAWNS- V breathed, maybe for the first time since the car.

"Yeah, he's there. Dead." Despite the rage, their voice sounded only bitter. Defeated.

Defeated. Rage wouldn't bring him back. V could scream and shoot and stab - it wouldn't make a difference. His fingers were growing cold alone in a car and V was here-

The glitches were back, overwhelming, the pain, stabbing through V's eyes and skull. Something was running down their face, smudging Jackie's dried blood.

Suddenly V couldn't stand to be looked at, to see Dexter DeShawn watch them. The world blurred again and they were in the bathroom off to the left, looking into the mirror. Blood coated- Blood-

A gun went off.

------

[CRITICAL SYSTEM FAILURE] [ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR]

------

[SYSTEMS LOADED]

There was a metal sheet over V. Their arms wouldn't respond right. Blue lines blurred over their vision.

A wrecked car, trash. Up was forward.

Forward was up. V turned sideways and began to crawl.

Mud on their- Jackie's blood washed off V's face in the rain-

Dexter DeShawn, the emperor's bodyguard-

DeShawn was making a deal- the bodyguard raised his arm- a gunshot-

V was in a car. The bodyguard was driving.

Red and blue lines filled V's vision. They wanted to tear the implants out. They wanted-

Jackie-

The bodyguard pressed an airhypo into their hand.

V could've laughed, if they weren't glitching so badly. The thought of the hypodermic needle, the drugs, in their hands now, now as if they were useful, now as if they had not needed one hours? days? ago as Jackie had bled into their arms-

Their fingers stayed lax, hand dead on their thigh. Maybe they simply couldn't muster up the strength, now, glitching and dying-

Jackie's Blood dripped into V's eyes, obscuring their vision. Their head lolled back, the airhypo leaving their field of view. The sun was up. It should be dark.

The bodyguard's hand closed around V's, and yanked the airhypo up to their chest. They resisted, weakly, before he pushed the button and the jet stabbed into their chest.

V gasped, coughed. His hand dropped away as quickly as it had come.

"I hope you die." Rasped out, bitter.

"I think you wish to die," the man responded.

The blood swallowed V's vision again.

\\

@monthlywritingchallenges (4th is half done, 6th is prewritten; will be at family reunion, we'll see if I can write there)

[ginko-ginkgo]

Firefly July Day 2: Golden Dusk (pt. 1/3)

Paintover by @jazaesis, concept art by Wesley Burt

It was too hot - always too hot. Loki's long sleeves and cloak did much to protect him, both psychologically and physically, the minute runes covering every inch of the fabric reinforcing the plethora of spells woven around him, but it could never keep him cool enough. His only savior was the cool drink in his hand, glamoured to look like wine.

The Æsir around him were laughing and singing, fed by good mead and the roaring fire. The hour was late, and only growing later; soon he could disappear without questioning, under the guise of returning to his rooms. Thor, surely, would be up much later, drinking and laughing and telling much-exaggerated stories. The behavior was detestable to Loki, but it served his purposes well - Thor would entertain their guests and their people late into the night, and Loki was free to wander.

And wander he would. Asgardr and Jötunheimr were growing ever closer, and it was becoming easier to travel between them along the Yggdrasil. New passageways, he believed, were opening between the two worlds; not two weeks ago he had discovered a new opening, almost too small for him to fit through, behind a shelf in Frigg's library. It had been marked with the same world tree symbol he had found upon every passage, and this one, too, had been devoid of magic. He had passed that shelf a thousand times before, and never seen the mark, just as the new one in the kitchens from a month ago. He would have to explore the entire palace before the conjunction, and record the locations of every opening he found. Tonight, however, would be dedicated to exploring the other side of the passage in the library - without his mother's watchful eye, or Thor's insistence on companionship.

Across the room, his mother was stepping away from the seiðkonur she had spent the last hour conversing with, a weary smile upon her face. He watched her seek out his brother, then father, who met her eyes and nodded at her, then she panned the hall, seeking him. He reached for the threads of the world and stepped forward, reappearing on the other side of the room, beside her. She turned to face him, used to his magic, and her face brightened.

"Retiring, mother?" He asked, offering her his arm. She took it with a smile, and they strode from the hall. As soon as the door closed behind them, Loki was folding the space in front of them, and the tapestry-laden walls blurred as they arrived with a few steps before his mother's door.

She released his arm, turning to face him. "Good night, Loki."

He smiled, catching her hand and kissing her knuckles. "Good night, mother." She entered her chambers, and he was alone.

The walk to the library was similarly short, lengthened only by a stop at his room, where strengthened his magical protections, repainted the few short-lived spells, and left an illusion of himself slumbering in bed. Should anything happen in his absence, the protections and alarms on his room, and illusion in his bed would buy him time to return to the Yggdrasil and then his room, unnoticed. Technically, Loki was not permitted to leave Asgardr unaccompanied, and Thor was similarly planet-bound. It was simply not safe for the princes, or any child, to wander space unattended.

Loki, however, was much more magically adept than he had revealed. If he could hide his absence, he reasoned, it was safe for him to explore; he was unlikely to meet a seiðkonur more powerful than his mother. He could typically escape detection altogether, and when he couldn't, he could escape attacks, bindings, and recognition. Failing all else, he could talk his way out of danger. He was valuable as a prince of Asgardr, and though it was shameful to be caught, it was worse to be hurt or dead.

This ability to escape detection was valuable as ever on his way to the library, as he made the door intangible and passed, silently and invisibly, past the guards on the door. It was a short walk to the shelf, and he could feel his magic, securing and hiding the gateway, as he approached. It was the work of several minutes to tease the hole open, pressing and pulling at the space as the branches of the Yggdrasil shifted on the other side. At last, though, it slid open, and he carefully stepped through.

The Yggdrasil was as it always was. The tree should terrify Loki, as it would any man or god. The branch he stood on was as wide as the largest hall in Asgardr, and then some, and stretched down into the distance. So far was the trunk that it was barely visible, if that was the trunk, and not simply another great branch, stretching up into the sky. Fog and distance consumed the bottom of the tree and much of the leaves, leaving Loki in a grey-green limbo of unending, moss-covered branches. As always, he felt only safe and stable, the great swaying and creaking of the tree calming and centering him instead of leaving him unsteady or afeared. He could feel the pull of Jötunheimr off to his left, although he could not see it yet. He anchored the doorway, lacing his seiðr through Asgardr and into the tree, and set off along the branch, away from the trunk.

\\ (2) (3)

@monthlywritingchallenges (also late, still sorry lol)

[ginko-ginkgo]

Firefly July Day 2: Golden Dusk (pt. 2/3)

It took him near an hour to reach the edges of Jötunheimr's influence, although he had not hurried, and was sure he could traverse the expanse in half that time, with haste. The air had been cooling for much longer, the steady drop in temperature soothing his skin and reassuring him that he was traveling in the right direction. The moss had long since died off, lichen covering the branch in it's absence, and now that lichen was edged with frost, some ice spikes as long as his forearm. He ensured he was alone, then curled his fingers around one.

Blue spread up his arm, illusion melting away from the contact. It was always a strange felling, like adding a second layer of skin; no longer did the air feel pleasantly cool, nor the ice cold. The return of the oppressive heat in this skin never pleased him, but it was mitigated by the feeling of returning home, and soon he would be on the ice world, which would be cool to him now and almost unbearably frigid otherwise.

Travel slowed as he neared the connection to Jötunheimr. Thick fans of ice now coated the tree, and he was hard-pressed not to crush them as he passed through. He stopped, often, to inspect them; the ice formed veins, almost like a Midgardian fern. One day, he thought, he would make a lace cloak modeled after this ice, and a pair of matching daggers. Then he was upon the gateway, and he wove it open as he had the first. Frost was collecting now upon his Asgardian clothes, lining the metal in long, branching slates. He stepped through and stopped, awed.

He had been to Jötunheimr before, many times. The glacial world was often beautiful, in the way cold areas always were; the very air seemed cleaner, clearer. Today, though, he had stumbled upon something breathtaking. The gateway to the Yggdrasil had opened at the base of great cliffs, dark rock which towered on each side of Loki, lined with great columns of ice. Before him, a frozen waterfall cascaded down the center of the cliffs. It broke halfway down over a great rock, crowned in huge spikes of ice. The evening sun lit the intricate crystals inside the icicles, dazzling sparkles dancing over the dark frozen lake below.

There was something moving in the ice, whether a living creature or simply great tides, Loki knew not, but there was a slow moving glint below him, sliding away from the waterfall. Several meters down, at least, the water rippled and pressed up against the ice. Loki drew his hand across his soles and blades of ice materialized between his fingers, and he took off across the ice, enraptured by the dazzle of ice in the sun.

Eventually, he reached the dark maw of the waterfall, and his approach revealed a cave, hewn into the dark stone. Dark sand lined the entrance, but soon he stepped up onto a smooth, even floor, masterfully carved into the rock. As he left the sunlight, flames flickered to life in the palm of his hand, casting rippling shadows over the carved walls. Closer inspection proved bountiful: the blue flames illuminated deep carvings in the stone, continuing down the tunnel on each side. The section Loki was inspecting depicted several Jötnar weaving; one knelt by what might have been a sheep, another by a river and washbasket, another hung wool by a fire. Two more carded and spun the wool, an iconic drop spindle in one's hand. The last sat before a small loom, weaving thread along a shuttle.

As the flames danced over the stone, an icy blue light glowed in the lines of the last figure, and he shifted, looking up at Loki. Four runes illuminated in his frozen cloth: ᚢ, ᛒ, ᛁ, ᚾ, ᚾ. Opinn. Open. Loki brushed his fingers over the runes, and felt the magic within. It was ancient, cold and slow, like the dark waters below the ice. Then the magic reached back, and for a second Loki was suspended in the sea, frigid waters pressing down and into him, surrounding, cocooning. Then, with a gasp, he was back to himself, in the cave, with the guttering blue flame spreading down his arm, creeping over his shoulders.

A second of focus had it tamed, stable and bright in his palm. "Opinn", he spoke.

\\ (1) (3)

@monthlywritingchallenges

(Edited in post: I accidentally used the wrong area/era of runes oops)

[ginko-ginkgo]

Firefly July Day 2: Golden Dusk (pt. 3/3)

The wall before him, unfortunately, refused to move. Instead, the light in the wall slid sideways, following the thread to the spinner, the washers, the shearer, into the sparse grass at the sheep's feet, and further along the wall, past hunters, through some dancers, a family farming some sort of grain. Loki gave chase, cautious but quick as he followed the spark along.

Now that he knew what to look for, he could feel the ancient magic all around him. It felt like the deepest parts of Asgardr's palace, like the seiðr of the planet, Jötunheimr itself. Fitting that it would reach out in the pattern of the weaver - seiðr was weaving, tying, string-work. Loki was familiar with the process himself. The most powerful spells came from weaving, in which the seiðmaðr did every step himself. While Loki was yet to raise a sheep, he had a hidden stash of handmade thread and yarn, cleaned and woven himself. The most powerful spells in his cloak were sewn with his thread.

He followed the magic up, as the stairs split and wound and crossed, leveled, dipped, and climbed again ever higher. The magic messed with his sense of direction, and he was beginning to suspect that if he tried to retrace his steps, the magic he had left behind would be muddled beyond help, and he would become terribly lost. However, he had no intention of turning back, not until he had discovered what opened in these tunnels.

Suddenly, he slowed. The light still raced ahead, but the carvings it followed had changed in tune. Where before the scenes had been farming, working, building, even some seiðkonur here and there, now they were much grimmer. On his left, a Jötunn lay in what looked like full scale, hand as tall as Loki, bright blue blood pooling below them. On the right, a smaller Jötunn huddled in fear, clutching a child to her chest. Loki took a measured pace down this hall, taking in the fear, the blood, the destruction. Some of the places, he recognized; a set of great arches he had once found, surrounded by beautiful spindles of ice, like frozen spiderwebs; others, he didn't. The carvings showed a great forest of pillars, filled with singing and dancing Jötnar, strung with icy lights, before an army swept through, smashing down the columns, the Jötnar fleeing in terror.

Finally, he reached the end of the hall. The carvings had petered off some eight meters before, and the last stretch had been smooth and dark. The magical glow had arrived long before him, and illuminated the looming door as he reached it. The door's carvings were much older than the violence of the hall; in some places, the stone was even chipped and scraped, losing its gloss and definition. It showed a seiðkonur, a small one, sitting atop a glowing blue box. Black hair cascaded down her back, and around her sat other Jötunn, full-sized and small alike, leaning against massive columns, climbing through small tunnels.

Loki spun suddenly, eyes catching the Jötnar at the other end of the hall. Full-sized Jötunn wouldn't be able to fit in theses caves, only children and Æsir. And small Jötunn, like Loki.

He turned back to the door. It was faint, but he could see it, more in the seiðr than the carving: the world tree, roots spread below the seiðkonur, branches arching high above the tallest column.

"Opinn." He weaved his magic through the word, between his teeth, over his tongue, through his lips like smoke, and the door swung open, silently.

Before him stretched the field of columns, glowing golden in the dusky sunset. They were half rubble now, destroyed where the tunnels had been untouched. Still gray ash covered the black marble, muting the setting sun, covering the ice and snow drifting through the air. Only now that he left the tunnels did Loki register the silence, the rush of water and the thrum of magic quieted. Only his breathing broke the vast stillness.

Among the columns, a single, blue light flashed. Then another, and another. The ash began to stir.

A hundred, maybe more, little blue lights, swirling and blinking, dancing through the pillars. The amber sun made them purple before him, but in the shadows of the columns they glowed like stars, rising up into the twilight sky. One alighted on his outstretched hand: it was a little beetle, like the Midgardian lightning bugs. It blinked, blue against his skin.

He settled down and watched the moon rise, cast her icy light over the pillars, and watched the blue lightning bugs dance.

\\ (1) (2)

@monthlywritingchallenges

[ginko-ginkgo]

Firefly July Day 1: First Firefly

Bucky leaned against the railing on the edge of the rooftop, looking down at the children playing in the courtyard. A few, he recognized; Laura Hadley and her little sister Bailey, Caroline, the Alden boys; others he didn't. It seemed like every time he returned to the 10th street apartments, something had changed.

Everything had changed. He thought he had known where he was going, building his little community, the cycle of taking jobs and coming home, but it was running away from him. And now Steve was sleeping in his apartment, two floors down. Steve had broken the last of the fragile peace he had here, appearing in a whirlwind with his friends, with "nowhere else to go." Bucky wasn't sure whether he believed him, but it didn't matter. He let him in, of course.

There would be questions tomorrow, from his neighbors and from Steve's friends, if not Steve himself. Hell, he had questions. How had Steve found him? How had he even known he was alive? Bucky remembered the last time they had spoken like it was yesterday, falling and the desperation, horror in Steve's eyes. Had Steve known he was back, and stayed away? He must have, to turn up apologizing. But why?

Had something more happened, that Bucky still hadn't remembered?

The night warmed as the streetlights turned on, and the children's parents began calling them inside. John Alden, the man who ran the bakery on the first floor of their building, walked outside to join the lingering children in the dampening grass.

The door clicked open behind Bucky, and Steve eased onto the rooftop.

Bucky kept his eyes on the courtyard as Steve walked up and joined him, looking out over the courtyard and the Manhattan skyline surrounding them.

"Bucky." His voice was almost as Bucky remembered, calm and patient, the voice of justice, of a good soldier.

There was none of the teasing tone Bucky had known, loved.

"Steve," Questions lingered in his mind, but only one found it's way onto his tongue, sudden and urgent. "Why did you apologize, when you arrived? Why was here the last place you would come?"

They finally made eye contact, and Bucky knew he must have looked as disheveled as he had hours earlier, sweaty and filthy from his latest mission. Steve, by contrast, looked as clean and put together as always. Bucky reached up and ruffled his hair.

"Hey-" The minute tension dropped out of Steve's shoulders, and he leaned in, just a bit. "I heard what happened to you, Buck, I didn't know if you remembered me."

"'Course I remembered you," Steve looked away, "and even if I hadn't, I'd want to remember. You're my brother, Steve."

"It might've been better. You're happy here."

Bucky felt like he'd been pushed off the roof. "Who are you and where's Steve Rogers? The little guy from Brooklyn, who was too dumb not to run away from a fight?"

"Maybe he got smart enough not to drag everyone else into them." Steve was still refusing to look at him, staring blankly down at the grass disappearing into the night. The bitter note in his voice confirmed Bucky's fears.

"Well, he needs to get smart enough to see that I'm with him, always have been, always will be."

Steve turned, sharply. "You died, Bucky, you fell! You weren't with him!" He turned back to the railing just as suddenly, breathing out harshly.

Bucky swallowed, at a loss for words. It was true, he had fallen. He had left Steve. And for all he was questioning Steve for staying away, he had also abandoned his friend. Bucky had heard quickly when the famous Captain America was recovered, had seen viral videos of his first flight onto the streets, his first missions. He had stayed away to, "waiting," too scared of disrupting the fragile peace he had; the apartments, the bakery, the cats. Distantly the children were chattering and laughing, but silence had swallowed their rooftop, the distance between them apparent again. Bucky didn't dare speak, dare disturb his friend.

He could see what would happen already, Steve and his friends would get the sleep and resources they needed, and he would help them, of course, as best he could. They would leave, as hurriedly as they had arrived, pile into their car and race off, running or chasing. Bucky would stand, on the doorstep or at his window or on this roof, watching Steve leave. Leave him. They would avoid each other again, easily, with their work, with Steve's friends and Bucky's community, with their fear. With the silence between them that Bucky couldn't break.

He had to.

"I'm here now. So are you."

Steve looked at him. "Yeah."

"What's happening? What are you running from?" He held Steve's eyes, trying to convey with his face what words failed him. Let me join you. Let me come back.

Steve watched him for a moment, then looked down. A bug had landed on the railing between them, centimeters away from Steve's fingers. "We're running from Hydra. They've taken over SHIELD, killed the director."

Bucky's chest went cold, battling the summer heat around them. "They're back?" His arm was freezing in it's socket, he could almost feel the metal on his face.

"Yeah. Wanted to keep you away. I saw the files-"

Bucky grabbed Steve's hand, the bug lifting back into the air. "Steve." Steve looked at him, their hands, him again. "I want to help you with this. I need to help you."

Steve brought his other hand up to frame Bucky's, staring into his face. The bug landed on the tips of his fingers; in his peripherals Bucky saw a second one settle into his hair. "Okay. Come with us. We're heading to Russia, Zola put himself in a bank of computers."

The bug on Steve's fingers lit up, casting a warm glow over them. A second later Steve's face glowed, and up close Bucky could see the amber in his hair and warm grey in his eyes. The hope in his eyes.

Bucky tightened his fingers around Steve's. "Russia it is. I think those are the first fireflies of the summer."

\\

@monthlywritingchallenges (Late sorry)