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And Still, I Chose You

Loki Laufeyson 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 – nsfw (18+), sexual themes, explicit sexual content MDNI, Praise kink, light degradation, hair pulling, mild dominance/submission themes, arranged marriage, political manipulation, heavy yearning, angst

word count: 14k

Summary: You were Earth’s finest diplomat—sharp, composed, loyal to the cause of peace. When war threatened the realms, the Council asked the unthinkable: marry one of Asgard’s princes to solidify the alliance.

Thor is everything a ruler should be—honorable, loyal, safe.

Loki is none of those things. And yet, he sees you. He undoes you.

Duty demands you choose the golden son. But desire, ache, and love—the dangerous kind—pull you toward the prince raised in shadow.

notes – not proofread. Lowkey inspired by one too many watches of Bridgerton season 2

— reblogs comments & likes are appreciated

You’d forgotten how cold Asgardian air could be. Not in temperature, but in weight.

The kind that settled in your bones—not from climate, but from presence. From expectation. From legacy. The golden spires still caught the light just so, gleaming like myth made solid, and the air was crisp with early spring—floral, clean, laced with something metallic that always reminded you of power. Of magic. Of danger, if you were honest.

But beneath all that shimmer, there was stillness. Too much of it.

You stepped through the bifrost portal alone, shoulders squared in your diplomatic cloak, boots steady on the polished stone landing. The delegation waiting for you was a clean line of symmetry—Asgardian guards in ceremonial armor, shining like carved statues. They didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Asgard was always excellent at pretending it wasn’t watching.

From behind them emerged Thor.

He was already smiling, broad and open. Familiar. The golden warmth of him cracked through the formal tension, just enough to let you exhale.

“Still dramatic, I see,” you called out, unable to stop the smirk tugging at your mouth.

He laughed, deep and honest. “Only for you.”

He reached you in a few strides, pulling you into a firm, bracing hug. You let him. He was always solid. Always anchoring. Thor smelled faintly of cedar and mead and sun-warmed stone—like something enduring. Something safe.

When he pulled back, his eyes swept over you, checking. Not for threat, but wear. It was a habit of his—quiet concern.

“You look well,” he said. “Tired. But well.”

You gave him a look. “Don’t insult me in the first minute, Odinson.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, grinning wider. “Come. The council has postponed their meeting until tomorrow.”

“How generous of them.”

“I insisted,” he said lightly. “Today, you breathe.”

You arched a brow. “Breathing. In Asgard. Is that allowed?”

Thor’s smile dimmed, just slightly. “We try.”

He didn’t offer his arm, but walked beside you with casual ease, guiding you toward the palace. You both knew the way. This wasn’t your first time crossing these polished halls, though it felt different now. Heavier.

The rebuilding was almost complete, you noticed. New towers soared where ash once settled. The courtyards were pristine, the banners freshly woven. Everything gleamed.

It was beautiful. And it felt wrong. Too perfect. Too untouched. Like the real scars had been buried beneath gold leaf and light.

And still, you felt it—that ripple under your skin. Not nerves. Not fear. Something more primal. The hairs at the nape of your neck lifted, and your breath came just a little too shallow.

You didn’t see him. But you felt him. Not yet. Not fully. But something inside you whispered he was near.

Thor brought you to your quarters himself. High ceilinged. Opulent. The kind of place designed to impress royalty and diplomats alike. Your luggage had already been delivered, arranged with eerie precision. The fire was lit. The windows were open.

You nodded your thanks, declining the wine he offered. He left with a squeeze to your shoulder and a soft “I’m glad you’re here.” You didn’t answer. You weren’t sure what you would have said.

You were unstrapping your boots when it happened.

A prickle. A shift. The subtle, unnatural silence of someone watching. The kind of silence that doesn’t belong in a room you thought was empty.

You didn’t hear the door. But you knew. You straightened slowly, pulse already ticking upward, and turned before he could speak.

“You didn’t announce yourself,” you said.

Loki stood framed in your doorway, one shoulder leaning lazily against the wood, arms crossed over his chest like a bored cat. His coat was a rich, dark green over black; his hair was longer than you remembered, falling just past his jaw. Neatly swept back but loose at the edges, like he hadn’t bothered to restrain it completely.

His gaze was sharp. Not cruel. Just… direct. Unforgiving. “I didn’t think I needed to,” he said.

You held his stare. Neither of you blinked. “I didn’t expect to see you so soon,” you finally said.

Loki arched one dark brow. “And yet here you are.”

You didn’t reply. You didn’t need to. The weight of his gaze was enough to keep your pulse high, your spine taut. He looked you over once—not with hunger, not even with disdain. Just… attentively. Thoroughly.

And it made your mouth go dry.

He looked composed, but it was the brittle kind. The kind of calm you knew from earthquakes—moments before they cracked the world open.

“You’re not going to pretend to be civil, are you?” you asked, arms folding defensively.

“Why would I waste your time?” he replied, stepping just far enough into the room to shift the air between you.

You hated how aware you were of him. Of the way he moved like he owned silence. Like he was never where he was by accident. “Some would call that a courtesy.”

“And you would see through it,” he said smoothly. “You always have.”

The words landed softer than they should have. Less accusation. More observation.

Still, you bristled. “Is there something you need?” you asked, sharper than intended.

Loki tilted his head, expression unreadable. “I was curious.”

“About?”

He crossed the threshold then. Just one step, but it was enough to change the atmosphere entirely. “Why you came back.”

You didn’t flinch. “Because Earth still values diplomacy.”

“Is that what they’re calling it?” His mouth curled at one corner. Not a smile. Something smaller. Meaner. “I thought perhaps you returned for Thor.”

The name landed heavier than expected. “Thor is my friend,” you said coolly.

“Of course he is.” There was something weighty in his voice now. Not mocking. Just heavy.

You didn’t like it. You didn’t like how he saw you. Not the you you presented, polished and perfect. But the you beneath. The part you buried.

“I’m not here to spar with you,” you said, voice taut.

“No,” he said. “You’re here to play pretend.”

That one hit. And worse—you didn’t argue.

He turned to leave without waiting for a reply. But just before the door clicked shut behind him, his voice reached you again.

Soft. Almost casual. “I didn’t expect you to return.”

Then he was gone.

And you were left alone—with your pulse still pounding, and the air in your lungs suddenly too warm.

-

Council meetings were always a performance. Scripted lines. Measured voices. Controlled smiles. Everyone playing their part in the theater of diplomacy. You’d perfected it—sharp and clear, steady in tone, never too emotional, never too withholding. You were what Earth needed you to be. That was the job.

Today was no different. The high table of the Asgardian Council was polished to a blinding sheen, the carved edges of it etched with rune patterns older than your entire world’s written history. Your notes were stacked neatly before you, translated into both languages, just in case someone felt inclined to test your preparedness.

You didn’t falter once. Not when the High Strategist misquoted a term you’d coined. Not when someone questioned the necessity of Midgard’s technology sharing protocols.

Not even when Loki entered the room. He didn’t announce himself. Of course he didn’t. He never needed to. He walked in like he belonged there, which technically—politically—he didn’t. But no one stopped him. No one even addressed his presence.

He didn’t sit. He leaned against one of the gilded columns near the far wall, arms crossed, ankle slung lazily over the other. Watching. Not the council.

You.

At first, you thought you were imagining it. But every time you glanced up, every time you turned your head or made a point, your eyes found his. And his were already on you. Sharp. Steady. Borderline insolent.

You returned your focus to the table, refusing to give him the reaction he so clearly wanted. You could feel heat crawling up the back of your neck. It wasn’t embarrassment. Not exactly. It was… exposure. Like he could see what no one else did.

You were fine with the scrutiny of politicians. You thrived in it. But Loki’s stare didn’t feel political. It felt personal.

You kept your gaze forward as you passed a marked treaty across the table. Thor took it, offered a smile, and began flipping through the translated sections.

“I still don’t understand why Earth insists on calling them ‘hybrid innovations,’” he muttered, brows furrowing.

“Because they are,” you said, tapping the document with your pen. “Technology integrated from two realms—Midgardian theory, Asgardian energy structures.”

Thor tilted his head. “But they’re mostly yours.”

“Which is why I get to name them.” He chuckled and passed the document back. Your fingers brushed. It was brief. Light. Friendly.

Then Loki moved. You didn’t look. You didn’t have to. Peripheral awareness of him had become a survival skill. He shifted his stance against the column, just enough for the long hem of his coat to catch the light. Then he strode to where you sat, and dropped himself into the empty seat next to you with a refined grace that only he could manage.

The council continued debating as you leaned to pass another folder across the table, and this time, you felt it: the weight of Loki’s attention narrowing from where he sat beside you, his thigh brushing yours under the table.

You reached for a data pad beside your stack of notes—one Thor had gently nudged your way—and as your fingers curled around it, another hand brushed yours.

Loki.

You didn’t jerk back. You didn’t flinch. But you stopped breathing. Just for a second. He hadn’t meant to touch you—probably. It was too light. Too clean. But the moment your skin met his, something electric jumped between you.

And then it was gone. He let the datapad go and leaned back. You didn’t look up. But you saw it. The flex of his fingers as they fell back to his side.

Subtle. Thoughtless. Like he was trying to shake something off. Like touching you had… unsettled him.

Good, you thought. Let him be unsettled.

You adjusted the datapad, smoothing your hand over the top of it a little too long. Your palms were warm. You didn’t trust your voice.

The meeting resumed. You answered questions. Smiled at Thor’s dry humor. Declined mead with grace. But Loki didn’t leave the room. And he didn’t stop watching you. Not once. And for the first time in years, you were afraid your mask was slipping—just enough for him to see the woman underneath it.

-

The library wasn’t listed on your itinerary, which was precisely why you chose it. You’d been cornered by enough nobles over breakfast, suffocated by the stiffness of diplomatic greetings and well-meaning courtiers who asked nothing of value and offered even less. You needed quiet. Pages instead of politics. Somewhere the walls didn’t echo with obligation.

The Asgardian royal library was a long-forgotten marvel in its unused west wing—its vaulted ceilings ribbed with golden filigree, the scent of ancient ink and pressed leather lingering like incense. Few used it these days. Even fewer read the texts in their original language.

You traced your fingers along a nearby spine, one you recognized from years back during your first visit. The scrolls near the east alcove hadn’t moved. Not for centuries, you suspected. Which is why you heard him before you saw him.

A breath. A shift. Not in the air, but in energy. You turned slowly. Loki stood between two towering bookcases, arms folded, mouth already curled into something sharp.

“If I didn’t know better,” he said, “I’d think you were hiding.”

You didn’t flinch. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you followed me.”

He clicked his tongue once, softly, like scolding a child. “So paranoid. Have you always assumed your presence demanded pursuit?”

“I don’t assume anything with you,” you said, lifting a brow. “I learn.”

“Mm.” His eyes slid down, then back up, like he was taking your measure—calculating something, or maybe just toying with you. “Still sharp. I’ll give you that.”

“Forgive me if I don’t take that as a compliment. Coming from you, it sounds like a warning.”

“A compliment,” he said, stepping forward slowly, “and a warning can be the same thing. Depends on how dangerous you plan to be.”

“I don’t plan to be anything,” you said, voice clipped. “I just am.”

He stopped a few paces from you, tilted his head, smile deepening. “There’s that Earth pride again.”

“No,” you corrected, “just honesty.”

Loki tsked softly. “Do you always twitch when you lie?”

The air snapped. You narrowed your eyes. “Excuse me?”

He shrugged, casual and infuriating. “That muscle. Just beneath your jaw. Tenses when you say something you don’t quite believe.”

Your teeth clenched. You hoped he noticed. “And what is it,” you asked coolly, “that you think I lied about?”

He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret. “That you’re not planning anything.”

The air felt warmer suddenly, though the library remained as draftless as ever. Your pulse ticked up—not because he was wrong. But because he was close.

“I’m a diplomat, not a schemer.”

Loki’s smile was all teeth. “Those roles are not mutually exclusive.”

You turned, annoyed with yourself for allowing this much of your time—your energy—to be drawn toward him like a tether. You reached for a volume from the shelf without looking, pretending to search for something important. He moved beside you anyway, like a shadow made of silk and smoke.

“You know,” he murmured, “most people either fear me, or flatter me.”

You ran your finger down the book’s spine. “And I do neither. Is that what bothers you?”

His voice lowered, quiet as sin. “No. That’s what has always interested me.”

You turned your head just slightly, meeting his gaze over your shoulder. It was the closest you’d ever stood. “What do you want from me, Loki?”

He studied you for a beat. One long, pulsing silence. Then, casually—almost flippantly— he said, “Just a little honesty.”

You snorted softly, turning back toward the books. “Then ask better questions.”

The moment stretched, charged but motionless. And then he laughed. Quiet. Surprised. Genuinely amused.

“Careful,” he said. “If you keep this up, I may start enjoying your company.”

“Gods forbid,” you muttered.

He hummed. “Oh, don’t worry. I’m sure we’ll hate each other again by dinner.”

You didn’t reply. You were too aware of his nearness. Of the way he lingered, not quite touching, yet commanding your entire awareness.

When he finally moved away—footsteps silent despite his boots—you let your breath go.

But not before catching the faintest smile tugging at your lips.

-

Night came slowly in Asgard. The city glowed beneath twin moons, the sky streaked in soft rose-gold clouds, shadows stretching long and regal across the polished stone walkways. You watched the sun dip behind the mountains from the balcony just off the strategy chamber, the day’s final light glinting off your datapad as you tucked it beneath your arm.

Thor was still inside, reviewing trade balances with an eagerness that was almost endearing. You doubted he enjoyed paperwork, but he was trying. He always did. You re-entered the chamber just as he let out a sigh and raked a hand through his hair.

“This,” he muttered, tapping the holographic projection of a disputed border zone, “is not how I imagined diplomacy.”

“You imagined it with more weapons, didn’t you?”

Thor glanced up and grinned. “Fewer reports. More mead.”

You chuckled and set your pad on the table. “You’re doing fine, you know.”

He gave a half-shrug, stepping back from the projection. “It’s not just about doing it. It’s about doing it right. The realm needs more than a strong arm. It needs a spine.”

You tilted your head, studying him. “And you think that’s not you?”

“I think,” he said slowly, “that being a good king means listening to those who tell you the truth. Even when it’s difficult.”

You softened. “You’ve always listened, Thor. That’s your strength. Even when you don’t like what you hear, you hear it.”

He smiled—gentle, grateful. The kind of smile that made you feel at ease without asking for anything in return. It was easy with him. Comfortable. You could breathe around Thor. Always had.

You sat down beside him, the two of you reviewing another trade suggestion from Vanaheim. He hummed thoughtfully, asking the kind of questions that showed he cared. He listened to your responses with attention, offering none of the dismissiveness you so often got from other leaders.

And yet— it didn’t burn. Thor was a hearth. Steady. Warm. But you knew the difference between warmth and fire.

The door opened behind you with a quiet push. You didn’t turn. Didn’t need to. You felt that thrum beneath your skin. Loki always moved like a rumor, like a secret that wanted to be caught. He never entered loud—but somehow always owned the room. You looked up—and stopped breathing.

He was drenched. Not soaked through, but close. A sudden downpour, maybe, or a training mishap. His tunic clung to him like second skin, black fabric turned near-sheer where it stretched across his chest and shoulders. His coat hung open, water glinting from the hem.

He looked infuriated. And unfairly beautiful. You dragged your gaze back to the table. He strode past without a word, heading for a cabinet across the room to retrieve something—towels, maybe, or dry gloves. You didn’t care. You weren’t watching.

But Thor was. He looked at you, then at his brother, then back to you again—and smirked, just faintly.

“What?” you asked, not looking up.

Thor’s voice was far too casual. “Nothing.”

You narrowed your eyes. “He’s not looking at me, is he?”

Thor’s smile grew. “Do you want the truth, or the polite lie?”

You sighed, rubbing the bridge of your nose. “Don’t answer that.”

But Thor didn’t laugh. He watched you carefully now, his expression softening. “He likes you,” he said quietly.

You shook your head. “He doesn’t even like himself.”

“That may be true,” Thor admitted. “But I know my brother. And I know what he looks like when something has his attention.”

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. Loki walked past again—barely glancing at you—and disappeared down the hall. The air felt cooler when he was gone. You and Thor sat in silence for a long moment. Then you stood.

“I should rest,” you said.

Thor nodded, but his eyes held something heavy. Not judgment. Not jealousy. Just… understanding. “Sleep well,” he said.

You turned to leave. But you felt the words clinging to you like rainwater: He’s not looking at me, is he?

He had been. He was. And gods help you— you wanted him to do it again.

-

The library was empty when you arrived. Not just quiet—truly empty. Even the scribes had left early, a rare solar flare drawing most of the palace’s attention toward the observatory towers. You should have gone too, should have pretended you cared about celestial anomalies and readings and charts.

But the truth was simpler. You needed to think. Alone.

You were running your finger along the spine of a weathered volume—Diplomacy Between Realms: Founding of the Ninefold Accord—when you felt it.

That pull. You didn’t hear footsteps. Loki never offered you such grace. But you knew the shape of his presence by now—like a shadow that anticipated your movement. A trick of light you couldn’t unsee.

“I imagine there’s a less tedious way to fall asleep,” he said, voice warm and venomous behind you.

You didn’t turn. “I imagine there’s a more productive way to stalk people,” you replied, flipping open the book.

He circled slowly into view. Leaned against the pillar across from you, arms crossed, green sleeves pushed up to the forearms. He was annoyingly relaxed. The kind of posture that said he had all the time in the world—and none of it belonged to you.

“I wasn’t stalking,” he said. “I was browsing.”

“In the restricted wing?”

His mouth twitched. You hated that you noticed. “I was curious what Earth’s most celebrated diplomat does when she’s not charming councilmen and kneeling to protocol.”

You closed the book. “And what did you discover?”

“That you’re even more obsessively thorough than I imagined.”

You exhaled through your nose. “Charmed, as always.”

He moved closer—slow, deliberate, until there was only the low reading table between you. His gaze skimmed over the stacks you’d already pulled, a mixture of ancient history and modern case law.

“Midgardian doctrine.” He picked up a volume, flipping idly through it. “Thor once told me humans had short attention spans. I see you’ve made it your personal mission to prove him wrong.”

You ignored him and returned to your seat. Your hands itched to busy themselves, so you sorted the stack of books in front of you. One volume teetered near the edge of the table. Loki caught it before you did.

He held it by the spine, index finger tracing the gold filigree. He didn’t hand it back right away.

Instead, he glanced at the cover and murmured the title under his breath, lips barely moving. Then he met your eyes.

“Studying negotiations between warring realms?” he asked. “Planning something?”

You reached out to take the book. He didn’t pull away. His fingers brushed yours. You froze. So did he. The contact was brief—bare skin on skin, the slope of his knuckle catching the edge of your palm—but it might as well have been a live current. Your pulse jumped. His eyes flicked down, just for a breath, to where your hands touched. Then up. His mouth curled, but the smile didn’t quite settle.

“You’re staring,” you said.

“So are you.”

You snatched the book back—not roughly, but firm. Too firm. He watched you a moment longer, something unreadable flickering across his face. And then, quieter than before, he spoke. “You know, if you keep stealing glances at me like that, people might start talking.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Let them.” You leaned in, just slightly. “But if they’re going to misinterpret diplomacy as desire, that’s their problem, not mine.”

“Touché.”

“Good. Now maybe you’ll stop mistaking discipline for disinterest.”

He grinned, slow and dangerous. “That sounds like an invitation,” he said.

Your breath hitched. “That was a warning.”

He leaned forward, elbows braced on the edge of the table, voice low and coaxing. “They’re often the same thing. Depends on what you do with them.”

The space between you tightened like a drawstring. Too intimate for the setting. Too charged for your comfort. You closed the book again—firmly—and stood. “I’ll let you get back to… loitering.”

Loki didn’t move as you brushed past. But his voice followed you. “Next time, pick a better hiding spot,” he murmured. “I might not be feeling as generous.”

You didn’t look back. Not even when you felt his eyes on you as you left the room. But later, in the privacy of your quarters, you’d open that book again—and your fingers would still remember the warmth of his touch.

-

The council chamber was too warm. Not in temperature—Asgard never allowed discomfort to mar appearances—but in pressure. In scrutiny. In expectation.

You sat straight-backed in your chair, hands clasped loosely in your lap. Beside you: Thor, poised and solemn. Across from you: the High Envoy and six advisors, each cloaked in ceremonial gold. To your left, near the archway, stood Loki—silent, unreadable, a shadow pressed into polished marble.

He hadn’t spoken since you arrived. You kept your eyes forward. The High Envoy cleared his throat. “Asgard finds itself in a moment of delicate transition,” he began, every word smooth as polished stone. “Following the realignment of realms after the Rift, tensions remain. Fragile alliances. Suspicious neighbors. The question of succession—unresolved.”

You nodded once. You’d read the same analysis a dozen times in half a dozen languages. It was why you’d buried yourself in treaties and war chronologies these past weeks. Why your dreams bled with maps and military supply chains.

“The people seek reassurance,” he continued. “Stability. A symbol.” There it was. A symbol. Not strategy. Not strength. Just optics.

The envoy turned his gaze to you fully now. “Your presence here has not gone unnoticed. Earth’s ambassador. Its most trusted envoy. A leader in your own right. You command respect across the Nine Realms.” You didn’t flinch. You didn’t smile. You waited. “That is why we believe,” he said, folding his hands, “a union between our peoples would be both powerful and prudent.”

“And who exactly am I meant to unite with?” you asked.

The envoy gestured lightly to either side. “With the royal family, of course. One of the princes.”

Your jaw tensed. Loki didn’t move. Thor exhaled softly. “We do not presume to dictate the match,” the envoy added smoothly. “Both are members of the royal family. Both offer strength in different forms.”

Another councilor spoke next—older, with a pinched expression. “Prince Thor, of course, has long proven his loyalty and commitment to the realm. His leadership is… steadfast.”

“Prince Loki,” the envoy continued with care, “has also returned to serve with admirable discretion.” He smiled thinly. “His talents are undeniable. And his insight, while unconventional, has been… illuminating.” You didn’t miss the flicker of hesitation in the man’s voice. The faint tension in the room. They were trying. But no one said trusted. No one said beloved.

You didn’t laugh. But you wanted to. “So I am to choose,” you said. “Between brothers.” A ripple of discomfort passed over the table, though none of them contradicted you.

“It is a request, not a requirement,” one of the advisors said smoothly. “But the marriage would be… strategically significant. Especially given the growing unrest on Vanaheim and the border disputes near Nidavellir. A united front is essential.”

Thor turned his head slightly toward you, but didn’t speak. Loki stood motionless. You thought back to every book you’d read in the last week. Every dusty volume on pre-war alliances, on diplomatic marriages used to stave off bloodshed. The histories all said the same thing: kingdoms didn’t survive on sentiment. They survived on sacrifice.

The envoy leaned forward. “We want peace. You want peace. This would secure it.”

You could feel Loki watching you now. No words. No reaction. But his gaze was razor-sharp—slicing through your composed expression, reading the shape of your silence like it was written in ink. Of course he understood now. Why you’d hidden in the library. Why you’d read the things you did. Why you couldn’t sleep.

Because you were being turned into a treaty— something in your gut had been preparing you for this moment since before you had returned to Asgard. And more than that— they wanted you to pick Thor. They didn’t say it outright but they didn’t need to. It was in every deferential glance, every knowing nod. Thor was stability. Honor. Predictable. Loki was… not.

“I will consider it,” you said.

The words dropped like a stone in water. The envoy smiled, relieved. The other advisors murmured their approval. Thor inclined his head in quiet acknowledgment. Loki? Nothing. No change in expression. No shift in weight. Not even the flicker of his jaw. He didn’t even flinch.

You stood as the council rose. “Thank you for your candor,” you said, the diplomat’s armor clicking into place. “When I have reached a decision, I will inform you.”

The envoy smiled again. “We are grateful for your wisdom.”

You turned to go. Your heart thudded against your ribs. Not with fear. With fury. Loki followed no one as you and Thor left the chamber. You didn’t look back. But you felt it in your spine— his silence was not surrender. It was restraint.

-

You’d survived war negotiations, assassination threats, and two weeks in the Kree Neutral Zone with a shattered translator and a diplomat who referred to himself in the third person. And yet nothing had prepared you for how exhausting it was to smile this long.

The Great Hall glittered in gold and indigo, draped in banners stitched with All-Realms sigils. A thousand candles hovered above the crowd, each flame dancing to a silent rhythm. Diplomats swirled in ceremonial robes. Asgardian nobles sipped aged wine and whispered beneath heavy chandeliers. You wore a deep-cut gown laced in silver thread—an Earth design, but tailored in Asgard’s celestial fabric. Respectable. Regal. Just transparent enough to remind the room you were something new. Something they hadn’t decided how to categorize yet.

On your arm, Thor moved like a man born to be watched. He had offered to keep you company, knowing your distaste for events like these. Especially when you were still raw from the council's “request”.

He greeted every noble with a quiet smile. Nodded politely through endless praise. He held your hand with practiced ease, the kind of gallant warmth that made everything feel steady. Predictable. Safe.

And yet—your body was humming. Not with nerves. With awareness. You could feel him watching. You hadn’t seen Loki since the council meeting. He’d vanished from court for days. You swore you weren’t counting. He’d left no messages, nor sent any while away. No snide remarks in the hall. Just silence.

But now? Now you felt the pull of him before you even found his face in the crowd. He stood just beyond the curve of the ballroom, dressed in deep black with emerald accents sharp enough to catch candlelight. He wasn’t mingling. He wasn’t drinking. He was watching— for you.

And the moment your eyes met—everything else disappeared. His gaze dragged over you, slow and unapologetic. From your mouth to your neck to the hand Thor held at your waist. You held his stare anyway. Let it brand you. He smiled.

The band shifted. A waltz began.

“You look beautiful tonight,” Thor murmured beside you.

You blinked, returning to the moment. “Thank you,” you said, genuinely. “So do you.”

He held out his hand. “Shall we?”

You nodded. Let him guide you to the center of the floor. The dance was elegant, practiced. You and Thor moved in clean circles, polished and poised. You laughed when he made a rare joke about courtly shoes. You spun when the tempo rose. From the outside, you imagined you looked like the perfect picture of alliance.

But from the inside? You could feel eyes burning holes into your spine. You knew Loki hadn’t looked away. And then—he was there.

As the song slowed and Thor stepped back, Loki cut in smoothly, his gloved hand sliding over yours like he’d been waiting for permission to touch you again.

“Brother,” he said, nodding. “May I?”

Thor glanced at you, but you said nothing. Just allowed it.

Loki’s hand pressed to the small of your back, the other clasping yours. His touch was not hesitant. It was possessive.

And when you met his eyes, you knew this wasn’t just a dance. It was a confrontation. “You two make such a lovely couple,” Loki purred, voice too low for anyone else to hear.

“We do,” you replied, voice steady. “Thank you.”

He tilted his head. Smiled. “It’s such a shame you’re not attracted to him.”

Your heart slammed. You opened your mouth to snap back—but the truth beat you to it. “I know it—” You stopped. Froze mid-sentence. Because the look in his eyes told you he’d caught it. The admission. The thread you hadn’t meant to unravel. Loki’s smile curled, not cruel—but knowing. Your next step faltered and he steadied you wordlessly, eyes locked on yours.

“You’ve been playing the part well darling,” he murmured, his breath brushing your cheek. “But you forget—I know what you look like when you want something.”

You swallowed hard. “And what do I look like now?”

Loki’s eyes didn’t waver. He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Like you’re trying not to beg me.” His voice was soft. Velvet wrapped around a blade. “Like you want me more than you want to breathe. And you hate that I know it.”

Your breath hitched. You turned your head—slow, almost helpless—and met his eyes. And then it happened. A flicker. A fracture. Your brows drew ever so slightly together. Not in confusion. Not in anger. But in ache. That sharp, silent look of someone holding back a truth too big for the space between two people. Your lips parted—not to speak, not to argue—but because they wanted to touch his. Your nose twitched, just once, as if your body had betrayed you with the weight of its own longing.

It wasn’t a smile. It wasn’t even a reaction. It was a flash of need so raw and so repressed it hurt to wear. The look—the look—was the kind poets spend their lives trying to describe. And Loki saw it all. His grip on your waist tightened—barely. His jaw tightened as he drew in a breath. A silent plea. But he didn’t speak. He didn’t smirk. He just looked at you like a man drowning in the one person who could save him.

You looked away first. Because if you didn’t, the entire room would vanish, and you’d be left with only him—and the truth. His hand flexed at your back, drawing you infinitesimally closer. The space between your bodies all but vanished. Your bodies moved, but your minds didn’t follow. It wasn’t dancing anymore. It was warning. It was tension. It was want. And you breathed him in. Spiced leather. Smoke. Thunder.

“I thought you weren’t speaking to me,” you whispered, attempting to change the subject to anything less dangerous than this.

“I was trying to be decent.” He hummed.

“And now?”

He smiled rougishly against your cheek. “I’ve remembered I’m not.”

Then, the dance ended. Applause rippled politely as you stared at him while stepping away. He didn’t try to hold you. Didn’t need to. He’d already made his point. And you—you would carry it for the rest of the night.

-

You didn’t go back to the banquet. Not right away. You slipped through the side corridors of the palace, past hushed guards and silent statues, until the music was just a murmur behind stone and velvet. You weren’t sure where you were going—only that if you stayed another moment in that glittering, suffocating hall, you’d shatter.

Eventually, your feet brought you to a small alcove lined with old mirrors. Ornamental. Forgotten. A place the architects had carved into the wall for beauty’s sake alone. You stepped in, shoulders stiff. Back rigid. Chest tight. The firelight from the sconces caught your reflection.

You stared. The gown was still perfect. The hair untouched. But your face… your face was a different thing entirely. Eyes too bright. Mouth parted like you’d just surfaced from underwater. That look—Gods, that look. You saw it now. The ache you’d tried to conceal. The desire. The want. It wasn’t subtle anymore. Not even close. You closed your eyes. Breathed in.

“You’re unraveling,” came a voice behind you. Low. Smooth. Familiar enough now that it lived in your marrow.

You didn’t turn around. “You should leave.”

“And miss the afterglow of that performance?” His footsteps were slow, unhurried. “I’ve never seen such convincing diplomacy.”

You opened your eyes again. Watched his reflection materialize behind yours. Loki stood just inside the archway, sleeves rolled, jacket gone. His collar was open, hair looser now than it had been on the floor. He looked… less composed. Less like a prince and more like the man who’d nearly undone you with a whisper.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you murmured.

“I know.”

“And yet.”

“I saw you leave.” His eyes flicked over your shoulder in the mirror. “You looked like you were going to be sick. Or cry.”

You said nothing. He stepped forward then—close enough now that you could feel the heat of him at your back. The reflection showed your shoulders tense, his gaze locked not on your body but your face. “I was going to let you go,” he said. “After the dance. I told myself it was enough to know you wanted me.”

You swallowed. “But then I saw you tugging at the clasp.”

You blinked. “What?”

He reached up. His gloved hand brushed your hair aside. His bare fingers—just his fingertips—found the small clasp at the nape of your gown. It had come undone during the dance, the silver hook crooked and digging slightly into your skin. “I saw it shift,” he murmured. “And I thought—what a shame, if no one fixed it.”

He adjusted it carefully. You could feel the heat of his hand against your skin. One finger lingered just a moment too long—pressed flat against the exposed line of your spine. It wasn’t accidental. It wasn’t innocent. Your breath hitched.

“There,” he said, voice lower now. “Fixed.” You turned around slowly. He was closer than you expected. His hand dropped to his side. Neither of you stepped back.

“I don’t know what to do with you,” you said, voice quiet. “I never have.”

Loki looked at you like he wanted to say a hundred things—and couldn’t choose which one would be the least destructive. “I know exactly what I want to do with you,” he said. “Which is why I’m not kissing you right now.”

Your heart stuttered. “You think that’s noble?”

“No,” he replied. “I think it’s survival.”

You wanted to hit him. You wanted to kiss him. You wanted to scream until the gods themselves came down and fixed it all. Instead, you looked away.

“The council is watching,” you said.

“So let them watch,” he whispered. “They’ve never seen someone choose fire before.”

You looked back at him. And this time, it wasn’t restraint that held you still. It was fear. Not of him—but of yourself. Because you were dangerously close to saying yes. Because for one trembling second, you almost didn’t care about the cost. But you still weren’t ready to pay it. You turned away again, a final stitch pulling your mask back into place.

“Thank you,” you said, voice flat. “For the clasp.”

Loki lingered behind you a moment longer. Then, he said, “Any time, darling.” You didn’t turn around. And when he left—you didn’t breathe. Not until the sound of his boots faded. And even then, you weren’t sure you knew how.

-

The Council Chamber smelled like sanctimony. It always had. Too much velvet, not enough air. You sat at the long circular table, flanked by advisors from both Earth and Asgard, the ceiling arching high above like a cathedral meant to consecrate deals rather than deities. The crown prince—Thor—sat at your right. Odin’s former steward to your left. And behind them, the remaining council members: scholars, generals, diplomats. Judges of history in real time.

Across the room, half-shrouded in shadow, Loki leaned against one of the marble pillars. Not at the table. Not in the discussion. Just watching. Of course he was watching.

“Your role has always been one of bridge-building,” one of the Earth delegates said. “This engagement—should it move forward—would only strengthen the bond between our worlds.”

“Asgard has always welcomed you,” an elder added. “This would only make your presence here… permanent.”

You did not flinch. You did not show them the chill crawling down your spine. They’d wrapped it in silk and diplomacy, of course. A proposal in principle. Your freedom to choose. The importance of representation, unity, balance. But make no mistake: this was war prevention. Dressed in brocade.

“We aren’t here to assign you a suitor,” the head steward said smoothly, “merely to support whatever union you deem most—strategically viable.”

A lie. They didn’t want a choice. They wanted a name. And you knew which one they preferred. All eyes turned to you. You took a breath. Raised your chin. “I accept the premise,” you said, voice even. “For the good of both realms, I will consider a formal alliance. Through marriage.”

Thor didn’t move. But beside the pillar, Loki’s frame tensed. You could feel it. Even without looking. You didn’t need to see his face to know what it looked like. You’d memorized every one of his tells. His stillness was louder than their applause. You did not name either brother. Not yet. But still—the council exhaled like it had won.

-

The attack came exactly seven days later. It wasn’t grand. No fireworks, no battlefield. Just a knife. Simple. Brutal. Nearly effective.

You had taken a shortcut through the outer gardens after a late session in the west tower library—an area near the palace walls, seldom traveled after dusk. You’d done it a hundred times. Maybe more.

You didn’t expect the figure in the dark. Didn’t expect the glint of the blade. You’d fought—of course you had. You weren’t helpless. But it had been close.

Your side burned. Your dress was soaked in blood. You stumbled through the foliage, vision swimming, hand pressed tight against your ribs. You didn’t know if the blade had nicked a lung. You weren’t sure how far you’d made it before your knees gave out. And then—you heard footsteps. Faster than guards. Quieter than a soldier.

Loki.

You didn’t even look up before you said his name. “Loki—”

He dropped beside you in an instant, arms catching you before you could fully collapse into the garden floor. “Who did this to you?” he hissed, voice a sharp, vicious thing. Not panic—fury.

“I—I didn’t see.”

“Shh.” He pressed his palm to your wound, hard. You cried out, and he nearly lost it.

“Keep pressure on it,” you gritted, light-headed now.

“You are bleeding,” he said, voice low and wild. “Do you not think I know that?”

His magic flared against your skin, a burst of cool green light fusing into the cut. You winced. He flinched at the sound. “I swear,” he whispered, “if this is because of the council—”

“We don’t know that,” you said.

He looked at you then, eyes blazing. “Then tell me who. Tell me who touched you.”

You stared back, dazed. And for a moment, the garden disappeared. There was no court. No council. No politics. Just his hands on you—fierce and gentle. Just the tremble in his jaw as he steadied your body against his. Just the fury he wore like armor, not for himself, but for you. He looked like he might tear the realms apart with his bare hands. “I’m fine,” you whispered. It was a lie. But it was all you had.

“No,” he said. “You’re not.”

You didn’t argue. His hands were stained red now. He didn’t seem to care. He gathered you up into his arms like you were the only thing that had ever mattered. “Don’t close your eyes,” he said, quietly. “Not yet.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Liar.”

Your lips curved—just barely. He held you tighter. And this time, you let him.

-

They laid you out on a silver healing table just before dawn. The medical wing of the palace was quiet at this hour, lined in veined marble and lit only by soft alchemical light. Healers moved around you like shadows—checking readings, administering salves—but you barely registered them.

All you could feel was the tremor in Loki’s hands. He hadn’t left your side. Even now, as the head healer made her final pass, he stood at the edge of the room like a storm held back by sheer force of will. His jaw was clenched. His shoulders rigid. He hadn’t spoken since he’d carried you in—only glared. At the medics. At the guards. At anyone who looked at you too long. He wasn’t wearing his usual armor anymore. His tunic was still streaked with blood.

Yours.

Thor arrived moments later, his expression thunderous. He took one look at the wound dressing, the smear of crimson down your ribs, and then turned to his brother.“What happened?”

“I found her bleeding in the outer garden,” Loki said, voice like broken glass.

Thor’s gaze slid to you. “Do we know who did it?”

“No,” you murmured. “I didn’t see them. Fast. Trained.”

Thor exhaled, his jaw ticking. “I’ll deploy internal security. Double your protection.”

Loki scoffed under his breath. “How noble. Where was that foresight before she was nearly killed?”

Thor’s eyes narrowed. “Now is not the time—”

“No,” Loki snapped, “now is exactly the time.”

You sat up slowly, pain spiking beneath your ribs. “Stop.” Both brothers fell silent. You looked between them, tired and angry. “This was a warning.”

“To whom?” Thor asked.

“To me. To anyone who thinks this arrangement is mine to control.”

The door opened. The council envoy stepped in. And Loki went still. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But the temperature in the room shifted. The envoy approached your bedside with a too-solemn expression. “We’re deeply troubled by this attack,” he said. “Security is being thoroughly reviewed.”

You stared at him. “Reviewed?”

“Certainly. There’s no indication the attempt was internal.”

“You don’t think someone inside these walls is capable of this?” Loki said, voice calm. Deadly. “Then you are either blind or complicit.”

“Prince Loki,” the envoy warned.

You raised a hand. “Don’t.”

He turned to you. “Of course. We simply want to ensure that this event doesn’t delay your decision regarding the alliance. It’s more important than ever that the realms see unity.” Your breath caught. There it was again. Not concern. Not fear. Pressure. Even now. Even after blood.

You sat up straighter, ignoring the pain. Your voice was ice. “Let me be clear. I will not be bullied into a crown while still bleeding.” The envoy faltered. “I said I would consider the proposal. I didn’t say I would rush into it because someone tried to make a point with a blade.” Your gaze sharpened. “If anything, this makes me question which realm I’m actually safer in.”

Loki’s hand clenched at his side. The envoy opened his mouth—but Thor beat him to it. “She’s right,” Thor said. Quiet. Steady. “This conversation can wait.”

That surprised you. So did the way Loki looked at him. Not with rivalry. With something closer to respect.

The envoy bowed stiffly. “We’ll… reconvene another time.” When they were gone, the room fell quiet again. You let your shoulders sag.

Thor was the first to speak. “You didn’t need to defend me, you know.”

You blinked. “I didn’t.”

He nodded once, understanding more than you expected. “You’re not going to pick me, are you?”

You didn’t answer. He nodded again. “That’s what I thought.”

And then, quietly: “He’s impossible. But he sees you.”

You looked at him, startled.

“I don’t love you like that,” Thor added. “But I do love you. As my friend. As the person who’s held this alliance together longer than any of us could’ve.”

You felt the sting behind your eyes. “I’m sorry,” you said.

He shook his head. “Don’t be. I always knew.”

He turned to go—then stopped at the doorway. “When you tell him… be kind.”

-

When Thor left, Loki stayed behind. You looked at him in the silence. “You’re still angry.”

“No,” he said, stepping forward. “I’m furious.”

“Loki—”

“Whoever did this, whoever let it happen—I will find them.”

You searched his face. “You scare them, you know,” you said.

“I should.”

“But you don’t scare me.”

His gaze softened. “I know.” He moved closer. Not touching. Not yet. “But you should tell me,” he said quietly, “when you’re afraid. Because I’ll never let you bleed alone again.”

-

You weren’t supposed to be walking. Certainly not alone. But if one more healer touched you with soothing hands and reassuring tones, you were going to break something expensive.

The formal corridors of the west wing were quiet at night—your footsteps ghosted over marble, echoing like a secret. You wore only a thin shift and your robe, loosely belted at the waist, the faint healing seal still pulsing warm beneath the fabric over your ribs. The candles flickered low in the sconces. Your breath, however, came high and tight.

Because you weren’t the only one in the hall. You sensed him before you saw him. The weight of gravity tilting. Your whole body went alert in the same way it had when blades had been pressed to your throat in negotiations—only this was worse. Not fear. Anticipation. You turned the corner and—

Loki was already there. Leaning against the wall opposite your chambers. Waiting. No armor. No crown. Just black silk and green shadows. Bare forearms crossed over his chest, rings glinting. Eyes fixed on the marble at his feet. Brooding like it was a full-time occupation. Until he saw you.

And then he was moving. “Are you insane?” he hissed, crossing to you in three long strides. “You were nearly killed and now you’re—what—wandering unguarded like prey?”

“I needed air,” you snapped, clutching your robe tighter.

“You needed rest.”

“Don’t—”

“Don’t what?” he bit out. “Don’t speak to you like I give a damn whether you bleed out in the hall?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

The words hung between you, sharp and ugly. And then— “I can’t do this right now,” you muttered, trying to pass him.

But he didn’t move. “Then tell me what you are doing.”

“I don’t owe you that.”

“You’re right,” he said. “You don’t.” And still—he stepped closer. Close enough to feel the heat between your bodies. Close enough that his voice dropped, low and dark and dangerous. “But if you lie to me again,” he said, “I will kiss you. Just to watch the truth fall out of your mouth.”

Your pulse slammed into your throat. “I’m not lying,” you said quietly.

He tilted his head. “No?”

You swallowed. “I just—I don’t know what you want from me.”

“Everything.”

The word hit harder than it should have. But before you could look away— your voice cracked. “I nearly died.” He stilled. You pushed forward before you could lose the nerve. “And I still didn’t want him. I didn’t call for Thor. I didn’t think of Thor. What does that say about me?”

He didn’t smirk. Didn’t gloat. Just looked at you like the truth had cost him more than it ever would you. “That you’re not ready to lie to yourself yet,” Loki said quietly. The breath left your lungs. You stepped back. He followed.

“Don’t do this,” you whispered.

“Don’t what?” His voice was low, dangerous now. “Don’t touch you? Don’t want you?”

“I never said that.”

“You never had to.” His hand rose, brushing the side of your face with a gentleness that broke you wide open. “You look at me like you want to ruin something,” he murmured. “And still you pretend to be made of steel.”

“I am steel.”

“You’re fire, darling,” he whispered. “And you’re running out of places to burn without setting the whole realm ablaze.” His fingers brushed your cheek—barely—and you exhaled like you’d been holding your breath for hours. Then his hand dropped. He turned. And you—gods help you—you grabbed his wrist.

He froze. You didn’t speak. Just pulled him toward you, backed yourself against the wall, and kissed him like it had already happened a thousand times in dreams. He groaned—low and guttural—and it was on. His mouth crushed to yours, lips hot, tongue insistent. His hands braced beside your head one second, then they were tangled in your hair, down your waist, dragging your robe open and cursing against your neck.

Your fingers fisted in his shirt, yanking him closer. You were starving. And he fed you like he’d been waiting to do it since time began. “Loki—” you gasped, when his mouth found your throat.

He growled. “Say it again.”

“Loki—” He kissed you harder. You moaned. His knee pressed between your thighs. Your body arched. You felt the friction of his hips against you—his cock thick and hard through his trousers, grinding just enough to make you see stars. You whimpered—and his mouth faltered.

“You’re shaking,” he breathed.

“Don’t stop.”

“Gods,” he whispered. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“I do.” You clutched the back of his neck, panting. “I know exactly what I’m asking.” He pulled back just enough to look at you. And then—his hand slid between your legs. Over your underwear. Not inside. He rubbed once—slow and devastating. You jerked against him, gasping. His breath caught.

“You’re soaked.” He bit out the word like a curse. “You’ve been like this all night? Aching for me?” You couldn’t answer. Your head fell back. His fingers moved again. You came apart with a cry against his shoulder, shattering so fast it left you boneless in his arms.

He caught you. Held you while you trembled. But he didn’t go further. Didn’t take. Because somewhere, in the distance— a sound. Footsteps. Too close. Too real.

Your eyes widened. He pressed his forehead to yours, cursing under his breath. “Go,” you whispered. He stared at you, eyes wild. “We can’t—”

“I know.” He stepped back. Recomposed. You cinched your robe. Your legs still shook. When you looked at him again, his mouth was parted like he couldn’t breathe. Neither could you. “Which,” he said, voice wrecked, “is why I’m not kissing you right now.” Then he vanished. And you stood alone in the hallway—Still trembling. Still burning. And still unable to lie to yourself.

-

You avoided court the next day. And the next. Meetings were rescheduled. Duties reassigned. You feigned illness—though it wasn’t entirely a lie. There was something sick in your blood now. Something volatile. Loki hadn’t come. Not to your door. Not to your thoughts. But he was everywhere. You could feel the ghost of his hands. His mouth. The heat between your legs still echoed with the memory of how he’d touched you—barely, completely, ruinously. You were no longer pretending you didn’t want him.

Now, you were pretending you could survive wanting him.

-

Thor came to see you. He didn’t knock. He never had to. He’d always been able to read your silences the way others read reports. He stepped inside your chambers, closed the door gently behind him, and said nothing for a long time. You watched him from the balcony. The view stretched over Asgard’s outer spires, sunlight cascading in soft blues and golds over distant peaks.

“You’re not well,” he said finally.

You turned slightly, arms folded. “I’m healing.”

“I don’t mean your body.”

You didn’t answer. Thor approached with quiet reverence. Not pressing. Just present. “You know,” he said, “you don’t have to say yes.”

Your throat tightened. “To what?”

“To any of this,” he said simply. “To them. To me.” You looked at him then. Really looked. Kind eyes. Loyal heart. Steady hand. Everything you should want. But not everything you did. He smiled, small and knowing. “I would make a good husband. A good king. I believe we’d do a great deal of good together.” You nodded. Because it was true. “But…” he said softly, “I’m not the one who makes you forget how to breathe.”

Your chest cracked open. He stepped closer, rested a hand on your shoulder. “You don’t have to say it. I already know.”

“I never meant to—”

“I know,” he said. “You were trying to be brave.”

You let out a strangled sound. “Then why does it feel like cowardice?” Thor didn’t answer. He just pulled you into a hug. Solid. Fierce. Forgiving. When he left, you sat alone in silence for hours. And then—after dark—you went looking for him.

-

The tower wing was nearly empty at this hour. You found him in the observatory: alone, facing the stars, long limbs curled in a high-backed chair like he belonged to the shadows. You paused in the doorway. Loki didn’t turn.

“I thought you’d come eventually,” he said. You stepped inside, closing the door with a soft click.

“I don’t want to fight,” you said.

“That’s fortunate,” he murmured. “I don’t have the strength.” You crossed to him. Slowly. He still didn’t look at you.

“I can’t make sense of it,” you said. “You. This. The way it pulls at me. The way you undo me.”

“You think I can make sense of it?” he said, finally turning. His face was sharp with restraint. Fury and ache living behind the glint in his eyes. He hadn’t touched you, but you felt him in your skin. In your breath.

You didn’t sit. Just stood there, trembling slightly. “I thought I could control it. I thought… if I just ignored it long enough, it would pass.” He rose to his feet—slow, measured.

You swallowed. “But it’s not going anywhere, is it?”

“No,” he said. “It’s not.”

You breathed out. “Then what do we do?”

Loki stepped forward, close enough to touch. Close enough to feel. “We stop pretending,” he said. “We stop lying.”

“I don’t know how.”

“I do.” His hand reached up—cupped your cheek gently. “Then let me show you.”

And gods help you, you let him. He kissed you like there was no tomorrow. No kingdom. No brother. No expectations. Just you. It was hungrier this time. No pretense. No control. His hands roamed with purpose—over your waist, your back, your thighs. You gasped when he lifted you onto the stone table behind you, the edge digging into your skin. He kissed down your neck, sucked a mark into your collarbone, bit your lower lip until you moaned into his mouth.

You tugged at his tunic. He stripped it off. You followed, your robe pooling at your hips, shift slipping from your shoulders. He stared at you—ravished and reverent.

“Look at me,” you whispered.

“I never stopped.” His hand slid between your legs—this time, inside. Skin on skin. You cried out. He swallowed it. His fingers worked you open, slow but filthy. He whispered things in your ear that made your hips jerk. He told you what he wanted. What he dreamed of. What you sounded like in his sleep. And when you came, clenching around his fingers, he cursed like a man on fire.

You pulled at his trousers, desperate to feel him. But he caught your wrist. “Not yet,” he said, voice rough. “Not like this.”

“Why not?”

“Because if I fuck you here,” he growled, “I won’t be able to stop.” You blinked. Breathless. “I’ll take you like you’re already mine,” he said. “And I won’t let you go.”

Your eyes fluttered shut. “Maybe I want that.”

“No,” he said, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Not like this.” He helped you down. Steadied you. “I’ll wait,” he said. “But not forever.”

You kissed him once more—soft, lingering. Then you slipped from the room, body aching. And for the first time in days—you felt real.

-

The summons came at dawn. You hadn’t slept. Not really. You’d closed your eyes, but your mind stayed knotted—wrapped around heat and hunger and the way his voice still echoed in your chest. You had let him touch you. Too much. Not enough. And now… now you were expected to walk back into a room and decide the future like it was just another diplomatic formality.

But you were Earth’s representative. You didn’t get the luxury of hesitation. The Council chamber pulsed with low voices and scented oil. The All-Realms banners had been redraped—gold for peace, navy for law, crimson for unity. A performance, all of it. As if fabric could bind together what centuries of bloodshed could not.

Thor was already there when you arrived. His presence grounded the space like it always did. He stood tall, broad-shouldered in ceremonial armor that gleamed like dawn. He offered you a nod—something warm behind it. Not expectant. Not possessive. Just… patient. Loki arrived late. He walked in like he hadn’t just touched you like a secret days ago. Like he hadn’t whispered things into your skin that left you shaking. He didn’t meet your eyes. You hated him for that. But you hated yourself more.

The Earth diplomat spoke first. Her voice was gentle. But final. “There has been unrest,” she said, placing a data scroll on the table. “A rebel faction in Lagos intercepted an aid convoy. Twelve dead. Dozens wounded. The talks we scheduled for next week have been… suspended.”

Your hands curled into fists beneath the table. Another envoy cleared their throat. “This was always the fear. That Earth would fracture without a solid alliance.”

“A marriage,” the Wakandan ambassador said calmly. “Was proposed for this reason.” You didn’t speak.

“We do not wish to dictate your heart,” someone added from Vanaheim. “But the Council needs assurance. The realms do.”

“And you believe a marriage would give that?” you asked, voice measured.

“It would give stability,” Thor said. “A symbol.”

The table looked at you. Waited. And somewhere down the table’s curve, Loki sat. Still. Cold. Remote. Your eyes flicked to him just once. He didn’t look up. Didn’t offer you anything. Not a glance. Not a plea. He was giving you an out. And gods, you took it.

“I will accept the arrangement,” you said, voice clear. A beat of silence.

“Then it’s settled?” asked the Xandarian delegate. “You’ll marry Prince Thor?”

Your chest felt too tight to breathe. But your voice didn’t shake. “Yes,” you said. “I will.”

-

Thor found you afterward in the corridor. You didn’t speak. You just stood there, facing opposite walls, like two statues commemorating a war not yet won.

“You didn’t have to,” he said.

“I know.”

He waited. “Then why?”

You didn’t look at him. “Because I can control this,” you said. “And because I’m afraid of what I can’t.”

Thor was silent for a long time. Then he placed a hand gently on your shoulder. “For what it’s worth,” he said, “I think you’ll be a remarkable queen.” You didn’t respond. You didn’t cry. You just nodded. And walked away.

-

That night, you sat alone in your quarters, still dressed in council robes. Your reflection in the mirror looked regal. Powerful. Lies on top of lies. You stared at yourself for a long time. And whispered, almost too softly to hear— “You chose this.”

But it didn’t feel like a victory. It felt like surrender. And when the silence deepened, when the candles burned lower, you imagined what Loki might’ve said if he’d been there. If he’d fought for you. If you’d asked him to. But he hadn’t. And you hadn’t. And now? Now there was only silence.

-

You didn’t mean to end up in the west wing again. But your feet took you there before your mind could catch up—past the court’s soft congratulations, the diplomats’ knowing nods, the distant sounds of celebration that felt like they belonged to someone else. To her. The version of you they all now saw. Asgard’s chosen bride. Thor’s future queen.

And yet here—where the stone walls were bare and cold and nothing glittered—you could finally breathe. Almost. You stood in the stillness, half-sick with the weight of the ceremonial robes you hadn’t removed. They hung heavy on your frame. Silk and gold that felt less like glory and more like manacles. A gilded sentence. The cold seeped into your skin, but you didn’t move. Not until—

“You’re running again.” His voice. Low. Close. Unforgiving. You turned slowly. Loki stood in the archway. No armor. No crown. Just shadows curling at the hem of his tunic and a look in his eyes like he’d been cleaved in two. He didn’t smile. Didn’t sneer. And you didn’t pretend not to know why he was here.

You said nothing. He stepped forward—measured, composed. Rage tucked neatly behind his teeth. “Tell me, was it worth it?”

You swallowed. “I did what was expected.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

You looked away, jaw tight. “Earth is fracturing. The alliance is fragile. This gives them what they want.”

“And what do you want?” He said it like a blade sliding beneath your ribs.

Your voice faltered. “It doesn’t matter what I want.”

“Of course it does.”

You snapped back, eyes bright. “No, Loki. It doesn’t. Not this time.”

The silence that followed cracked like frost. He studied you—not with judgment, but with something far more dangerous. “You said yes,” he said, barely above a whisper. “And you didn’t even look at me.”

You took a breath that didn’t help. “Because I knew I couldn’t survive it if I did.”

He moved closer—slow, deliberate, a storm kept barely in check. “You told the Council what they wanted to hear. Told Thor what he needed to believe. But you haven’t told me anything.” He was in front of you now. No inches left to spare. “So tell me the truth.”

Your breath trembled. “What truth?”

“That you didn’t choose Thor.” His voice was razor-thin. “You chose fear.” You broke then. Not outwardly. Not with sobs. But inside—deep, deep inside—something gave out. But you didn’t deny it. You just stood there. Trembling.

“Distance.” Your voice broke. “I chose distance. From this. From you. It’s like I can’t breathe whenever you look at me. You make it hard for me to do what I have to. To be who the world needs me to be.”

He stared at you like he was watching a battlefield he couldn’t turn away from. “Do you truly think distance would ever dull this?” His voice was low. Frayed. Dangerous in its honesty. “That if I stood on some other world long enough, I might stop aching for you?”

He stepped closer, slow and steady, as if closing the gap might hurt you both. “I’ve lied for a lifetime. Manipulated gods, torn kingdoms apart—and still, I can’t lie to myself about this.”

His gaze was scorching. No theatrics. No grin. Just truth. “Around you, I forget every lesson I was ever taught about control. About caution. I come undone.”

You could barely breathe. “You are the sharpest thorn in my side,” he said, voice tightening. “And somehow, the only peace I’ve ever craved.”

His hand hovered near your jaw, reverent but trembling. “Do you even realize what you do to me?” He exhaled. “The things I’ve imagined—”

His throat bobbed. “The things I’d teach you, if I ever let myself go that far…”

Your eyes fluttered shut. “Loki—”

“If I allow this farce of a marriage to go forward, it will bind me to you in the worst way imaginable. I will stand beside my brother. Day after day. And drown in the weight of all I cannot have.” His voice was shaking now. Desperate. Quietly undone.

“You chose a kingdom that never trusted me. A council that wants a symbol, not a woman. You chose a man who doesn’t love you—because it made more sense than choosing one who does.” He growled.

Your hands clenched into the silk of your robes. “Don’t make me choose you,” you whispered. “Not now.”

“Why not?”

“Because I will.”

The silence exploded between you. Loki’s breath caught. His hand finally touched your face, gentle as snowfall. “Then do.”

You closed your eyes. Leaned into his palm like it was the only thing tethering you to the moment. “I can’t,” you breathed. “They need this. The realms need this.”

“They need a lie.” You opened your eyes. His were burning.

“And I—” your voice cracked. “I need something I can survive.”

Loki’s thumb brushed your cheek. “Then survive me,” he said, “and let the world burn.”

You kissed him. There was no warning this time. Your mouth crashed to his with a force that stole breath and reason both. His hands were in your hair, at your hips, pulling you in like he could take the decision back with every desperate movement. You gasped against him—needing more, needing less, needing anything but this pain. And yet—

It wasn’t enough. Not when he pulled back, chest heaving, eyes blazing. “You are the most brilliant coward I’ve ever known,” he said.

“And you,” you whispered, “are the thing I want most and fear the worst.” You stepped back before you could fall again. He didn’t stop you. But he didn’t look away either. You left him in the dark. Shaking. Furious. And for the first time, you understood what it meant to break something beautiful.

Not by accident. But by choice.

-

The days passed in velvet silence. Not actual silence—Asgard never slept—but a hush beneath the bustle. You moved through preparations like a ghost draped in gold, letting the attendants dress you, letting the advisors rehearse the steps, letting the crownmaker take your final measurements without ever asking what you wanted it to look like.

Because it didn’t matter. Not when the ache had settled in your chest like rot. Loki did not disappear. He was still in meetings. Still at council. Still visible in the halls. But he never spoke to you. Never looked too long. Never stayed close enough to reach. He was there, and yet he wasn’t. And it killed you more than absence ever could.

At night, you’d lie awake in your chambers, the ceremonial ring still untouched in its velvet box, and wonder what he was doing. If he still thought of the west wing. If he hated you now, or worse—understood you. You were never sure which you feared more.

-

The morning of the ceremony came like an execution.

The bells tolled soft and slow. The sky was too clear. Your dress shimmered like a verdict. And still, you walked. You followed the handmaidens. You let them veil your hair in white woven with light. You let them tuck petals into your sleeves. You let them lead you to the marble room where Thor stood, regal and waiting.

He turned to face you when you entered, his expression unreadable. “Thor—” you started, but he raised a hand.

He stepped forward, voice low, meant only for you. “Before you say anything… I know.”

You froze. He looked at you then—not as a king. Not as a groom. As a friend. “You’ve been walking like your heart is breaking,” he said softly. “And he’s been pretending he doesn’t watch you every time you breathe.”

Your throat tightened. “You don’t have to say it,” he added. “But before you do anything in front of the court… I want to be sure.” He hesitated. Then, said firmly, but not unkindly, “Make sure this is your choice.”

The room around you faded. The guards. The nobles. The whispers. Just his words. And your answer. You looked up at him, and the sorrow on his face—the quiet understanding—was enough to make your knees weaken.

-

The doors to the ceremonial hall loomed ahead like the jaws of something ancient. White marble stretched beneath your steps, polished so smooth you could see your reflection beneath your feet—regal and still, cloaked in Asgardian silk and Earth’s crest. Your train followed like a comet’s tail, glinting silver and star-forged thread.

You’d been told you looked divine. But you felt like a blade about to break. There was still time. No vows had been spoken. No names exchanged. You had not yet taken Thor’s hand. And until you did, this was all still just theater. But it wouldn’t be for long.

The ceremonial chamber was packed wall-to-wall. Nobility from every realm. Advisors. War leaders. Dignitaries from Earth and beyond. All of them waiting to witness peace sealed in the most ancient way—through unity, through marriage. The High Priest stood beside the twin dais, draped in white and gold.

Thor stood to his right. Loki stood to the left. Both brothers dressed like royalty carved from myth. But they couldn’t have looked more different. Thor stood proud, golden, every inch the heir—the protector, the chosen one. And Loki—

He looked like ruin in velvet. Tall, composed, dressed in black so rich it drank in the light. Emerald embroidery shimmered down his sleeves, coiled like ivy. He wore no crown. Just a single silver pin over his heart. The same sigil you’d worn during the first Earth diplomatic summit.

He hadn’t looked at you yet. Not until you crossed the threshold. And then— then he did.

You thought you’d been prepared for it. You weren’t. His gaze slid over you like reverence. Like heartbreak. Like prayer. He looked at you in your wedding gown the way men looked at lost kingdoms—grief-struck and spellbound.

There was no anger in his face. No jealousy. No flash of the sharp, theatrical cruelty he sometimes wore like armor. There was only softness. Softness and pain.

Like he was watching the future dissolve in front of him. Like he knew he had already lost. And it shattered you.

Because even then—even now—he didn’t look away. He let you see it. All of it. And it nearly brought you to your knees.

Your pulse thundered as you walked to the center of the dais, your hands trembling beneath your veil. Thor turned toward you, his expression solemn. Steady. You knew he would never ask for more than you could give. That his love for you was not romantic, but real.

And that was the problem. Because the truth wasn’t about who was safe. It was about who undid you.

“You look radiant,” Thor said quietly, gently, so only you could hear. “Are you ready?”

Your mouth opened. And no sound came. You looked at the crowd. At the smiling faces. At the Council’s subtle nods of approval. At Earth’s envoy already preparing to transmit the ceremony to your world.

Then you looked back at Loki. He was still watching you. But he looked like he couldn’t bear to hope.

And suddenly you couldn’t breathe.

Because everything in you screamed. You turned—abruptly, fully—away from Thor.

Your footsteps echoed. A stunned murmur spread like smoke through the room as you walked, straight off the dais. Past the crowd. Past tradition. Toward the man the universe had told you not to choose.

And this time—

This time, he looked terrified.

He took a single step forward. One breath. Like he didn’t dare move until you spoke. You stopped in front of him. Close enough that the hem of your gown brushed his boots. And for a long, breathless moment, you just stared at each other.

You swallowed hard. “This was supposed to be about peace,” you said, voice quiet—but it carried. “About alliance. About safety.” Loki didn’t speak. “But what is peace,” you whispered, “if I have to silence the truth to have it?”

You lifted your hand. Reached for him. “If I must choose—then I choose the one I would go to war for.” Your fingers met his. And that was it.

The chamber erupted. Gasps. Shouts. The High Priest calling for order. Council members rising from their seats. Earth’s envoy muttering into comms. A chorus of disbelief, fury, scandal.

You barely heard it.

Loki took your hand as if you were the only thing in the world still worth holding onto. His eyes searched yours.

“You chose me,” he said.

You nodded, voice cracking. “I always did.”

His grip tightened around your fingers. Not possessive. Just real. Like something he didn’t believe he was allowed to have—but would die to protect.

And behind you, Thor did not move. He stood as he was. Unflinching. “Then I’ll stand beside you both,” he said.

You blinked. “You don’t have to—”

“I do,” Thor replied, gently. “Because you were never mine. And he… he needs someone to steady him.”

Loki exhaled, slow and unsteady. The ceremony was not what it was meant to be. There were no processions. No officiant cleared their throat to begin. The traditions crumbled in the face of something much more powerful.

Truth.

Your hands trembled as Loki took them in his. His vows weren’t rehearsed. His words weren’t diplomatic. “I have lied to kings,” he said quietly. “Deceived gods. Conquered realms. But I have never meant anything more than I mean this: I am yours. And I will burn every throne to ash before I let anyone take you from me again.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat and whispered your own. “I want a life that is mine. And that means you.”

When the rings touched your fingers—slim gold threads enchanted with old runes—you didn’t hear the crowd anymore. Just him.

“Wife,” Loki said, voice low and reverent.

-

You barely made it through the doors of your chambers before his mouth was on yours. The silk of your gown rustled as he backed you into the wall, his hand cradling the side of your face as though afraid you might vanish again.

“Do you know,” he rasped between kisses, “how many nights I spent dreaming of this—of you?”

Your fingers fumbled at the clasps of his robes, breath shallow. “Tell me,” you whispered. “Tell me everything.”

He growled low in his throat, spinning you toward the bed. “You walked down that aisle and to dais like a queen,” he said. “And I wanted to bend you over it. Show them all whose name you’d scream when the doors close.”

You gasped as he gripped your hips and pulled your back against him. You could feel his cock, already hard through his slacks, pressing to the curve of your ass.

“So fucking smug,” he murmured, dragging your gown down, baring your shoulders. “Looking at me like you didn’t already know.”

You turned to face him. “Know what?”

He leaned in, teeth brushing your jaw.

“That you’re mine. That this—” his hands slid up your thighs, dragging the gown with them— “has always belonged to me.”

He didn’t wait.

His mouth found your breast, tongue swirling over a peaked nipple as his hand slid between your legs. You were already soaked, and when his fingers found you, you cried out.

“Look at that,” he purred. “Wet for me already. So needy.”

He slipped two fingers inside you, curling just right.

“You take me so well,” he groaned, thrusting slow. “Are you going to fall apart before I even get inside you?”

Your breath hitched. “Don’t stop—please—”

He smirked. “Not until you scream for me.” You were already close when he dropped to his knees and dragged your gown off completely. He spread your thighs over his shoulders and pulled you to the edge of the bed, feasting on you like he hadn’t eaten in weeks.

His tongue was relentless. His hands gripping your thighs, pinning you down when you bucked against him. You moaned his name again and again, fingers tangling in his hair. When you came—hard and sudden—he didn’t stop. He licked you through it, groaning against your cunt like it gave him breath.

Only when you were sobbing his name did he pull back, panting, and kiss the inside of your thigh. “On the bed,” he ordered. “On your knees.”

You obeyed, trembling, bracing yourself as he undressed behind you. And then—you felt it. His fingers tangled in your hair, tilting your head back as he rubbed the head of his cock against your soaked entrance.

“You ready to be fucked like my wife?” he whispered in your ear.

“Yes,” you gasped.

“Say it.”

“I want to be fucked like your wife—please—” He thrust in hard, and you screamed.

“Fuck,” he groaned. “So tight. So perfect. Mine.” Each thrust was deep, possessive, brutal.

He pulled your hair harder, forcing you to look forward—into the opulent mirror across the bed. “Look at yourself,” he said. “Look at what I do to you.”

You met your own gaze. Saw your flushed cheeks, your parted lips, your fucked-out stare.

And behind you—Loki. Glorious and wild, eyes burning with hunger.

“You see that?” he snarled. “That’s what you look like when you’re being ruined by your husband.”

“Loki—”

“Say it.”

“Husband,” you choked out. “Fuck— Loki—please—”

He pulled out suddenly and flipped you onto your back, entering you again with a growl as he sank all the way in.

“Eyes on me,” he commanded. “Look at me, wife.”

Your body obeyed before your mind could catch up. The word wife—the way he bit it out, full of desperation and possession—lit something inside you. He pinned your wrists above your head, fucking you slow and deep. His forehead pressed to yours. His teeth scraped your neck, and when you clenched around him, he cursed. “Gonna come for me again?”

“Yes—please—”

“Then take it.” You did. You shattered. Mouth open in a silent cry. Legs trembling. And Loki followed you with a ragged moan, spilling inside you with a broken whisper. “Finally.”

You didn’t speak for a long time. Just held each other, limbs tangled, breath uneven. He brushed your hair back. Kissed your temple. “You’re mine,” he said again. Not a question.

Just a truth. And this time—you let it be true.

-

The chambers were dark now.

The candles had burned low, their light reduced to embers—soft and golden against the silk sheets tangled around your legs. Outside, the palace had quieted. The court was likely still buzzing with gossip, with outrage, with implications for the alliance.

But in here, there was only the sound of your breathing.

And him.

Loki lay beside you, arm draped across your waist, chin resting just above your collarbone. His hair was damp with sweat. His chest rose and fell against your side. One of his fingers traced gentle lines across your ribcage, like he didn’t trust the silence yet.

Neither of you had spoken in minutes.

Not because there was nothing to say—but because there was too much.

Eventually, his voice broke the stillness. “You’re still trembling.”

You blinked up at the ceiling, lips parted. “So are you.”

He smiled, the curve of it brushing your bare shoulder. “We’ve always been well-matched in chaos.”

You didn’t laugh—but the ache behind your ribs loosened. You turned your head, just slightly, to meet his eyes.

They were soft now. Not wide with hunger or edged in control. Just soft.

Unbelieving. Reverent.

“Do you regret it?” He asked.

The question hung there. And for once, you didn’t hesitate. “No.”

He let out a slow breath. “Good. Because I would burn the realms twice over if you’d said yes to anyone else.”

You hummed. “You almost let me.”

“I didn’t think I deserved the chance to stop you.”

You reached up, brushing his damp hair off his forehead. “That’s the thing about deserving. It doesn’t care whether we think we’ve earned it or not.”

“And do you think we’ve earned this?”

You took a long moment before speaking. “I think I’m tired of earning things.”

He was quiet again. But his hand slid lower, tracing your hip with an almost protective touch.

“The treaty,” you murmured. “It’s intact. For now. But they’ll talk.

“Let them.” His voice was steady. “They always do. And you—” his thumb brushed your stomach—“have done more than anyone asked. You gave them peace. And you chose something for yourself.”

You stared at him. “I don’t want to be a symbol anymore.”

“Then just be my wife instead.” It wasn’t a joke. It wasn’t a command. Just… gentle.

And gods, it nearly broke you again.

You curled into him, letting the weight of the night finally settle. The future would be complicated. Shaky. Full of consequences. But for the first time in years, maybe your choices—your life—belonged to you.

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