#monarcha

[herpsandbirds]

Black Faced Monarch (Monarcha melanopsis), family Monarchidae, Maiala Park, Mount Glorius, Queensland, Australia

photograph by Gurbir Sidhu

[sevenbulletsavior]

@monarcha / continued from HERE.

There was a look, a sharp cut of eyes to the man standing near to her as he exhaled that sight. Temptation bubbled up to the edge, a snide remark quickly bit back as the woman regained her composure. She was above bandying barbs with this man.

It wouldn't change things anyway.

"We aren't friends and the last time I ever saw you, half of New York City was being destroyed at your command." She met his gaze. "So yeah, not going to tell you anything." Or anyone else for that matter.

[divinityrisen]

@monarcha liked this for a starter ( from sif )

Sif blamed herself for the state of the world she fought for. Once, it’d been wildflowers, beautiful and colourful, now awash in the blood. Gardens trampled underfoot, trees a blaze from alien war machines, and a horizon of pastel colours drowned in muck and crimson. Trenches snaked through the fields, mechanical horrors strewn in craters, and across the battlefield, the howls of the dying, and those losing themselves to bloodlust of battle cut through gunfire equal measure.

         It was a war with no end in sight; it’d raged for so long no one knew why they were fighting beyond saving the lives of their kin. The people had called to Sif when their opponents began unleashing true horrors upon them, and when she answered, she’d recouped the losses and fought the enemy to a standstill. 

         There was a lull in the battle which permitted Sif a moment to herself. She mulled over war plans in her tent, the hearth scarcely alive. The embers seethed red, but the heat they gave felt pale. She spared it a glance, knowing she’d have to tend to it soon, but couldn’t pull herself away from her thoughts. She knew of a way to win, but that would be asking the men to commit similar atrocities as those they fought against. Asking them to do so, would be asking them to give up what remained of their souls. 

           “Lady Sif,” a soldier stepped inside. His skin was orange, eyes a bright blue, and he lacked a nose. He gave her a quick salute, “you have a visitor.”

         Her gaze returned to the plans on the desk, “if it’s any of the commanders…”

         “It’s not, My Lady,” he assured her.

         “Send them in, then.” she sighed.

         She heard the soldier step outside, and then the footfalls of another entering. Sif didn’t look over right away.

         “If you’re not a soldier, you have no business being on the frontlines—” she fell silent, eyes wide as she stared at a familiar face. “Loki?”

         Sif rose, bewildered. Thor told her that his brother was dead, he’d perished at the hands of Mad Titan. He’d been so certain Loki’s death hadn’t been a lie or trick, yet here the prince was, alive.

         She spoke without thought, “do you ever tire of lying to your brother?”

[bobrvynolds]

@monarcha continued from here --

In another life, one not so long ago, Loki's immediate reaction to someone else touching him, or even simply reaching into his personal space, would have produced a reaction not unlike that of a cat: hissing (of the metaphorical sort), smacking of hands, and a look that would kill, if looks could do that sort of thing. But the years have softened him. He was still Loki -- still a trickster, still himself -- but he had removed the chip from his shoulder. So, while physical touch was still not something he would actively seek out, he no longer immediately flinched away from touches which proved to be non-threatening. They were touches as this one: someone reaching out to straighten the lapel of Loki's jacket, which had been flipped by the wind and rain outside. The small smile which he gave the man in return was soft, but genuine. "I thank you for appealing to my vanity," he said. "Can't stand to have even a hair out of place." He dipped his head in a small nod. And then, somewhat theatrically, because he had changed but not totally, he asked: "Your name, kind sir...?"

He couldn't help it. Standing right beside him, in all his Norse glory; was the god of mischief himself. These galas keep getting crazier and Bob has to contain himself from absolutely freaking out, taking deep breaths to calm himself down.

Maybe the booze is actually starting to affect him (not possible), or the energy of the room giving him confidence-- but his arm moves on his own and very gently picks a stray chip off of the god's shoulder. Bob meets his eyes, soft and a little intimidating, given how much taller Loki was-- and manages a lopsided smile.

"Bob. My name's-- yeah. Bob. S-sorry, it was bothering me for some reason.." Nervous, as he usually was; even more so when he tries to mimic a small bow of the head. "Some gala, huh.. h.. how exactly did uh.. how'd you get your invitation? Like up in the sky or something?"

[chaosfaery]

~ a playlist for the star-crossed and star-bound ~ | @monarcha

the death of peace of mind - bad omens

you - the pretty reckless

1121 - halsey

bedroom hymns - florence + the machine

god’s game - dove cameron

billie bossa nova - billie eilish

ma meilleure ennemie - stromae & pomme

casual affair - panic! at the disco

not strong enough (ft. brent smith) - apocalyptica

come fly with me - ruelle

[lokadottr]

@monarcha​ → ( one liners )

‘ if it is of any concern to you, i stopped listening about twenty minutes ago. ’

[feathersofvibranium]

sam "danger kink" wilson: *got with a super soldier with a metal arm*

sarah wilson: hold my beer

[wlsonsaraharchive]

@monarcha​ asked: " you're so full of light... and i'm terrified that i'll be the one who quenches it. "

It takes her a moment to really let the words settle in, to really focus on what is being said to her. It’s not the first time she’s dealt with someone who tips the scale in that grey area. The area of good and bad, areas that everyone says she should leave untouched. Words are hard to think of, to speak, to so much as breathe. This is exactly what everyone says when they say she’s too soft, too kind, too gentle. Moments like this make things that much harder for her. Make it hard to focus on anything else. “Ironic, isn’t it?” There’s a gentle pause, swallowing of the lump that suddenly forms in the back of her throat. “You’re worried about dimming what light I have within me, when it’s quite the opposite. Haven’t you realized it by now?” Hasn’t it been made apparent? In the way she smiles brighter? In the way her eyes light up as if she’s seeing him in a renewed light? The way she worries over him and hardly of herself. Though, that’s nothing new. She’s always been that way. She doesn’t realize that her hands are shaking, wrings them together nervously, perhaps a bit anxious in this moment. “You don’t believe yourself to be worthy of love, of someone caring about you, of light. But, that’s where you are completely wrong.” It’s hard to keep her emotions in check, though her own voice wavers slightly. “I wouldn’t be standing here right now if I believed for a measly second that I didn’t know what I was talking about. You have this-- this whole thought process that who you are toes that invisible line of good and bad. That you’ll never be good enough.” There’s a moment of silence, yet it’s so deafening all the same. She takes a few hesitant steps forward, towards where he stands with his back towards her. Yet, she steels her own nerves and shifts around. Moves to invade his space as she stands directly in front of him. “Understand me when I say that you are worth every single thing in this galaxy. In every single galaxy.” She licks over her lips in trepidation. “I know you’re afraid to let anyone in, to allow yourself to really and truly trust someone and to allow them to care for you. But, you don’t really have a say in the matter when it comes to me. So, please... Don’t shut me out.”