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@myrkvae
𝐋𝐎𝐊𝐈, 𝐍𝐄𝐂𝐑𝐎𝐆𝐎𝐃 .
an independent and extremely private roleplay blog for loki odinson. heavily, heavily rooted in the universe of mike vasich’s novel, LOKI, and tied to marvel’s canon, with influences from 2017′s the ritual. Chaos, King of Jötunheimr, The Necrogod. pages need reading before interaction. thorkis and silkis don’t interact; we will never get on. by abigail, she/her, 21+. expect varying activity.
𝙲𝙰𝚁𝚁𝙳 𝙹𝙾̈𝚃𝚄𝙽𝙷𝙴𝙸𝙼𝚁 // 𝙵𝚄𝚁𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚁 𝙸𝙽𝙵𝙾
mains & unfortunate DNI below.
One point to be made here: Loki has never been married before Jane... and he married her three times to make sure it stuck. This means that no, none of his children before Solvar are heirs or have position enough to make claim to anything. Were he to offer, that'd be different - but since he has countless spawns roaming around, some of which he probably doesn't even know by name, such generosity is unlikely. While this doesn't completely exclude myth muses, it does mean that there was never a 'relationship' to speak of since i've seen the first Thor film and don't believe that worm had one wife let alone multiple, it'd just ruin my immersion if that wet yogurt managed to marry anyone asdfgjk. I'm just trying to be realistic. That doesn't mean he didn't have civil relationships where they'd bang (again, he doesn't know how many kids he's even fathered, dirtbag), or even uncivil ones. It just means he's never had the hearteyes before. Like and sex =/= love or even trust. Not with this guy. His relationship now is the one he was fated for, he and Jane are tied and have always been tied, and he never knew love before her, despite what she thinks. Perhaps that's why he so obviously favours their children.
Given this, if your muse is a historic 'love interest' of Loki's or a wife in mythos, just bc they weren't here doesn't mean Loki didn't shack up in sin and bugger off one day to get cigarettes. You are most welcome to loathe him for it, he's a complete tart.
In later years, after the influence of Christianity, the god Baldur, then Jesus, was reborn at this festival.
The entirety of Jötunheimr has their longhouses and shit all decorated in mistletoe it’s a rule.
raging thunder and trembling clouds, a duel of lightning and rain and chaos, underneath this wild sky, we're dancing, our souls entwined between threads of intimacy
𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐈𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐋 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐂𝐄𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐃?
the steadfast . your soul is filled with the strength of one who has watched too many break before them. you set high standards for yourself and those around you, sometimes impossible marks. you know how the world should be and you're determined to make it so. was tough love what you needed? or was it the only thing you were ever offered. there are some things you cannot bend to your will and your bones will break before you turn back the tide. let go a little and breathe in the air. have you even stopped to look at the empire you built? have you noticed how far you've come?
TAGGED BY : @materxnatura & @folkesange thank you ! TAGGING : anyone who wants !
Source:
trepka
ᚺᛖᚨᚱᛏ ᛟᚠ ᛗᛁᚾᛖ // 𝑭𝑶𝑳𝑲𝑬𝑺𝑨𝑵𝑮𝑬 .
“Jane,” in Loki’s voice dices like she’s been thrown down a turret of spiraling teeth. She winces. A hiss fails to kill the noise. She hears him again, “Jane!” with mounting concern.
Ever-open dead stars track the sound about their bower…even though Loki’s lips remain static. To her, it appears he’s spoken. Crimson photons film the mouth that by myth should be scarred — there is a ding above his top lip. Only when the light lances off of him just right does shadow caress that fine divot. Jötnar hide disguises it all the more. The vanity bench dissipates, leaving her mired past the hips in oily black water that fails to ripple as she moves. The ends of her hair perform acrobatics at the surface. Loki practically towers ten feet over her now. Rolling onto her back and kicking an iridescent tail-fin out of the water propels her around him…swimming through pavers that melt into liquid as soon as she breezes by. Loki remains standing — he cannot swim, she’s not that deranged — as does their furniture and infant’s cradle. Short arms glide up and behind her, leading her backstroke that tightens its orbit and shimmies an infectious brightness over her bare torso.
Running her nose parallel to the ceiling saps those slim black tracks staining her cheeks back into the event horizons that spewed them. Her chin nudges even steeper. It broadens a smile that doesn’t extend beyond her mouth. Tears reverse their flow. The flattest planes of her flukes bash the water to further lure his eye. She’s bought herself enough time to save face: dry it of those hideous annihilating rivulets and freeze her resolve as best she can. The cracks in her claws expand. Star-breath exudes from those vermilion-gold grooves, subjecting the space to patinas of oppressive heat that fizzle in and out. When she rolls onto her stomach, a glitch jars every particle including his own. Distortion blurs shapes and diffuses color. A tumbling, seething hiss bursts from that misalignment till all returns to ostensible normalcy within a blink’s span.
Behind him, her reaping claws aglow where hairline fractures ruin them, she takes a silent step to the left. Every flower of light embroidered to her glimmers and shifts into a new refraction. Her hips swing like a coastal current, loosening her gait despite how rigid she is above the waist. Another pinch strikes her temple. Darkness snaps her teeth and slashes at nothing. This angers the deep red halos clinging to each of her event horizons. She chances approaching him anyway. A frown demands his attention. “Who is,” she finger-spells for emphasis, “Y-O-U - Who are you talking to,” Jane or Ginnungagap, “Who am I.”
“ You — ! ” Something ruptures in his chest, or pierces straight through. That allegorical blade is long and poorly sharpened despite how it has pinned him like a butterfly's corpse to a board. Its end is curved as a hook, and he feels that lone tooth spear his spine with a crook akin to Jane's bent fingers. Blood taints the air moreso than it already had; the ocean she'd built to escape him should be spoiled by his splayed innards, yet nothing drops to the marred pavers beneath his feet. His desperation's made a grisly corpse of him yet again, all the while she watches, waiting and unbelieving. Lost in the home they'd seemingly built. It might be rubble soon enough, along with the rest. Loki's clenched fist holds little more than stone dust.
His shoulders fall, and his head ducks so low that his chin knocks his chest. Frustration's burned the back of his throat like fire, and has thrown itself across the room like a bolt. Now that its emptied him, he's reminded of how much he aches. Every joint sears and attempts to refuse momentum. His eyes sting while intangible teeth scrape at their back sides, threatening to pop each in turn. When he blinks the sensation doesn't subside, nor the chaotic chorus in his head. So taken was he by Love’s own hypnotic, brutal choir, he'd forgotten this regular noise. A sigh rids of him of some rigidity, and he breaks each bone in his neck, it feels, to lift his head and find her again. Now his jaw's set and his shoulders carry him higher. His gaze holds his need, and behind that cloud his guilt.
“ You are my wife. ” He'll cause a battle no doubt anyway, though speaks no name. He walks on more than shards of glass and dark water. Here they stand, teasing the hung-open maw of a deeper misery. All attempts to lure her away fail; there is less now that can cheer her, perhaps nothing at all — and the dearth is his doing, his meaning, him. “ And the mother of our five children. ” Softly, he gestures below the waterline, where her torso has yet to swell for their unborn to make its presence known. “ Soon to be six. You are Everything, and Forever, and Everywhere... And you. Are. My. Wife. ” Pressing his lips doesn't rid him of the sinking he feels. First his leaden tongue, then as thick venom down his throat, until finally it manifests as stone in his chest. “ You are the... the only one I have ever loved. Completely. You are the only one I ever will. A part of me as I am you. ” So he thinks, though it appears a vacuum merely grows. “ You trusted me once, you saw me. And you're the only one who ever has. ”
ᚺᛖᚨᚱᛏ ᛟᚠ ᛗᛁᚾᛖ // 𝑭𝑶𝑳𝑲𝑬𝑺𝑨𝑵𝑮𝑬 .
Now is not a good time to lose control. It crawls up her legs. Wriggles beneath her corporeal husk, twists, hisses, and screams. Yggdrasil exhibits similar behavior, but not like this. Trillions of barbed teeth, stained the color of blood, latch and metastasize. They make a home in those slow-churning lenses that frame each supermassive black hole. Iridescence fades to red. Loki might glean the screech when the very nature of Darkness flares up and bleeds for her brows, her nose, cheeks, temples, and jaw. For a moment, they match. Crimson stone makes to trick the Chaos God’s eyes: project a mirror that he may or may not be able to crush with a fist. She makes to. Ere the glass maw behind her becomes a voracious aperture and claims him once again, the Abyss swings a closed fist back and bashes the glass.
A thick, oily shimmer barricades their infant’s cradle. He wakes, red eyes as wide as his father’s at the glass mobile orbiting him. Each black shard stains scarlet and further fragments. It’s no less sharp. The red blizzard becomes powdery as it infiltrates their bower. This vulgar display’s catalyst clenches a magma-veined fist and snaps her teeth as it’s slammed to her chest. Dead stars regard Loki once again, unblinking and starved. Ether gazes through Loki, past that beautiful decorative mantle he hides his true self behind: scarred, rotten, large red eyes blown white and lit from within. Liquid death pumps through his veins. He does not breathe, yet she lays a cracked hand on his chest as if it’ll restore it to him. That broken murmur of his heart will never leave. Its patter contends with the serpentine screeches resounding in her head. Broken glass crafts a mine field around them. One misstep and he’s impaled.
Those deep red rings strobe and thicken. A glitch rearranges her limbs, throws her facial features around in a thoughtless splatter, and sends her reeling — laughter strikes: pitchy and so bizarrely out of character that it stirs Ingmar. Dark matter rips from her vise, yet cannot leave the Aether’s perimeter. Baring teeth fails to dispel the urge to cough, to paw at her own face and rid it of gloom as he looks on. Fronting an empty simper, she signs, “So lonely - You will die for it.” Look his murderer in the eye. Her runny nose touches her shoulder to catch the fizzy, blood-curdling giggle that kills the artificial thoracic cavity she’d shaped and returns its dark igneous rock foundations. “This, then,” motions are flint-sharp, making her syrupy demeanor lose all appeal. Teeth sharper than any blade flash. Aether slithers around each event horizon. Sparks jump from her forearms as she inclines her chin as if it’ll make her taller and signs, “Is it me you love - Or what could have been.”
Laughter claws at the inside of his skull, a canvas carved to irreparable ridges by the intangible claws of the many ghosts she's bespattered their bower with. Though unseen and unreachable, each spectre has teeth, and whetted tines of her design, or whatever burst of madness he's caused. Chaos' harbinger would almost buckle beneath the weight of this specific disorder, targeted and bitter, fury turned upon him. By being his doing it no less softens each blow as the wind whips at his cheeks and whetted shards latch against the roots of his hair. Like bared canines each shard makes its attempt to burrow beneath his scalp. Be it hungry it will starve, for he's lost his cognition.
Ingmar stirs to his left, across a room of swathed shadow congealed like blood with blinding red light, though the boy doesn't cry out. His short arms cannot allow him to reach any kaleidoscopic spangle he reaches for above his crib, yet with tired, yearning eyes he tries nonetheless. The boy fears not what he doesn't understand yet knows is begotten by his mother. Loki, however, has been tossed into a mire far too recognisable. Though Jane has no voice her words are no less cutting, and reach him just as well as if he were leafing through her consciousness. He knows not what he'd find were he to make an attempt now. What she gives him freely carves well enough.
And he does separate, unfolding their hand and straightening his legs. He has always cast a shadow over her, though now none appears. He has no reflection in any of those scattered shards, and hardly feels when one impales the sole of his foot. Jötnar hide is nigh-impenetrable lest she will it. Loki's made malleable to the scene. “ I love you. ” To speak up over the din in his head is impossible, though she can read his lips. “ I have loved you, I will love you, ” Instead of reaching across chaotic space for her, Loki's fist clenches close to his chest. He holds nothing, he affects nothing. Not the turn of her head nor the hardening of her stare, the wild sparks that erupt from her in the dark. In solitude, as she well knows, he remains. “ I always love you. And always you question it! ”
Natalie Portman as Jane Foster in Thor: The Dark World (2013)
an exploration of this, a thematic study of that... is no one just writing a stupid bitch anymore?
Warren de la Rue. Total Solar Eclipse. 1860.
ᛊᚹᛖᛖᛏ ᚺᛖᚨᚱᛏ // 𝑭𝑶𝑳𝑲𝑬𝑺𝑨𝑵𝑮𝑬 .
That should’ve stung. Should’ve shunted a blade up her spine and sprung a tear to her eye. It didn’t. Jane’s cheeks remain dry. She neither stiffens nor disorients upon indirect mention of Thor. Lokkemand is Swedish, of course he grew up with the same stories Erik did. He’d have no knowledge that Thor exists…or Odin…or Frigga…even Heimdall. Still, she fronts a practiced simper. Lolls her head to mask her nervous giggle. Then she tucks her lower lip between her teeth and grips the banister so tight, she’s likely left with a burn. Loki’s clavicle will meet a swift bang from her shoulder blades. Jane repels off him to take the first step into the kitchen. Shelley’s not waiting. Two gold-ringed plates wait for them to make their own entree of Thanksgiving leftovers.
It dawns on her just now that Jane forgot to put music on. Save for the rustling within cardboard boxes and ripping of scotch tape to anchor and hang, the split-level is silent.
“I’ve already heated up the Tupperware,” Shelley points to the lukewarm plastic containers stationed around the island, “Just make your plate and move along!” She waves her arm with some panache. Jane’s hand shoots behind her to hook two fingers around Loki’s cuff and draw him close. He doesn’t emit body heat of any kind, but cinnamon marks his presence before anything else. Those notes are so strong they singe Jane’s nostrils and almost cause her to sneeze.
Further tickling her nose, Jane brings the back of Loke’s hand to her mouth for a kiss. Then she bobs her head along and hands him a plate without twisting to catch his eyes. “He wouldn’t,” she finally retorts, lifting the tongs for sweet potatoes with toasted marshmallows baked in. “At this point,” her eyebrows jump, “I wouldn’t want him to. Annny-way…!” She leans into dumping butter gravy onto her slice of white turkey breast. The old wonton soup container-turned-gravy boat sails towards Loke next. Shelley has taken her place at the kitchen table, eyes downcast and ostensibly blind to her daughter’s indirect mention of Thor, the Norse God of Thunder. No one unaffiliated with sleazy SHIELD would believe her. “You want that jellied cranberry crap, right?” The glass plate slides around leftover asparagus and Yukon mashed potatoes to make its way towards Loke. “Here. I love you.”
It's a mundane, nigh bleak scene. Shelley's presumably amassed her collection of plastics and throwaway containers through the years. They're lined up like unwilling soldiers awaiting orders, some askew and others already having cooled. Without blinking, Loki snares the gliding jar of cranberries. She's caught his other hand at the wrist, and so he turns his fingers in a swift, gentle arc against the underside of Jane's wrist. Even with how brief the touch is, her heightened pulse jumps at the pads of his fingers. He can't tell the cause; a lingering need to mourn her loss or general discomfort at the notion of Thor's return.
He, of course, is simply a man now. No doubt she believes him grown on the tales of the Thunderer and his house of gods. Including his fortunate -or unfortunate- namesake. Had Jane any ounce of suspicion since they 'met', it hasn't yet come to light. With his ghosts continuing to haunt him, and a storm brewing behind his eyes, Loki ducks, kisses the line of her hair above her temple, and finally serves himself a modest plate. He's had a starker appetite in the past, but for now flames as spectres torment him, turning his stomach over and around the ashes of his own bones. There's no sustenance or prize to he found in the suffering he endures, silently and far away, yet Loki's had his fill of anything all together it seems. Not, at least, her.
He hums, and with his long fingers looped about her wrist, guides her back whence they came. Away from the dour form of her mother, hunched over a lukewarm plate. “ When perhaps we are done with our tasks... ” Hers. There's no illusion to be had that this is a place belonging to him. Were it not for Jane trying to make it so. His eyes flash fleetingly toward the woman whose stare cools the skin at the base of Jane's skull. “ Tomorrow — would you come to dinner? ”
"How can emptiness be so heavy?"
- Unknown
would people fall in love with you ?
𝙿𝙴𝙾𝙿𝙻𝙴 𝚆𝙾𝚄𝙻𝙳 𝙵𝙰𝙻𝙻 𝙸𝙽 𝙻𝙾𝚅𝙴 𝚆𝙸𝚃𝙷 𝙷𝙸𝚂 𝙷𝙴𝙰𝚁𝚃
i know you find it hard to believe, but trust me this time. i'm sorry if something or someone in your life made you believe that you're unloveable; god, you're so far from that. despite everything, your heart is tender- a little scarred, yeah, but ready to be stitched up with some care and affection. please remember that your past mistakes don't define you, and nothing, nothing will ever make you unworthy of being loved. you remind me so much of a puppy, a little clumsy and a little uncoordinated, but so precious and tiny. or perhaps- a walnut? hard on the outside, soft on the inside. anyone would be lucky to be with you.
TAGGED BY: @folkesange <3 TAGGING: anyone.
bully loki.
