‎all things green and gold

clarke — she/her| 18+ | i read and write, primarily a loki blog

[never-stranger]

Welcome!

hi, i’m clarke! i’m 18

this is my marvel, though primarily Loki, blog. i use this blog to read and write about Loki.

i write mostly reader insert fics, and i’m very open to suggestions!

hope you enjoy my work :))

Ao3 Dashboard

Works

one-shots:

I’m No Goddess — Loki x Reader (to be reposted on tumblr)

New Beginnings - Loki x Reader

longforms (more than 3 chapters long):

Glory Burnished Bronze — Loki x Reader (to be reposted on tumblr) [ONGOING]

[lokihiddleston]

When you like posts on tumblr, you get a pumpkin animation. Oh, it's so much fun! 🎃 👻

[dailyloki]

Nice! Now, an animated button on a snake for Loki? 🐍

[theleavesofwesteros]

silver tongue - Loki x F!Reader

A/N: a short fluffy/flirty thing about an engaged Loki and reader. An arranged betrothal, mind you, which seems to have gone very fortunately for the both of them. :)

@cafekitsune dividers save the day again

Set in Asgard! No other specifications given.

CW/TW: Arranged marriage, very slight allusions to oral (f!receiving duh), loki is a little devious shit but we love them still

1492 words

my fav gif of him ever probs, he was insane for this

Most ladies dreamt of a romantic courtship and of a grand wedding ceremony. You, at least, were certain you would have the latter. As a lady getting married, to a prince of Asgard no less, you were sure to have all of Asgard (if not multiple realms) celebrating your nuptials, however unromantic their origins might have been.

Indeed, arranged marriages were rarely ever romantic. But again, with you being a lady, and the eldest prince getting passed over for your hand in order to be given a chance at finding a true love match, your hand had been cleverly arranged to be given to prince Loki.

It is how you now found yourself living in the royal palace, in one of its nicer guestrooms, and arranged promenades with Loki every single day. It was certainly a change to your previous routine, and it was taking plenty of your energy to simply get used to the idea.

“My lady, good morrow.” You had not even noticed the doors opening, and yet there was one of your newly appointed handmaidens, Gunhild.

“Good morning, Gunhild. Come to get me ready for the day?”

“Oh, certainly so, my lady.” She said, approaching you where you sat at your vanity.

“Tell me of my engagements for the day.”

“Well, let us see… I believe there was mention among the All-Mother’s handmaidens of a tea at noon, as well as your usual promenade with your betrothed.” Gunhild spoke, looking at you in the reflection of your vanity mirror.

“And which of the two is first today?”

“Ah, the tea with the All-Mother, my lady. The prince wished to reschedule to the afternoon. Or so I heard from his servants.” She added quickly.

“Very well, thank you. So, shall the jewelry be gold or silver today?”

Gunhild hummed and looked down at the two sets of jewelry you’d already been looking at and considering.

“Well, my lady. Both the All-Mother and the prince wear gold more oft than silver. It would do well to honour them, no? You are not meeting with Prince Thor, after all.”

At her words, you glanced at Gunhild in your mirror.

“No, indeed, I am not meeting with him. The gold it is, then. I shall not argue with their preference.”

“Oh, but they shall find you ever so fetching, my lady, if you will allow me.” Gunhild said, reaching to select exactly the golden pieces you ought to wear for today.

“Speaking of… what are your thoughts on prince Loki? Or rather… have they changed much since we last spoke of them, my lady?” She corrected herself softly at the end, meeting your eyes briefly in the glass.

“My opinion…? Well, he is certainly curious to listen to. He always has a story to tell. Or some gossip to share. Much like a snake he slithers around these halls, it seems.”

Gunhild smiled at that comparison.

“Indeed, my lady. Are you frightened to be wed? It is only… I have many friends who were awfully scared before their own marriages.”

“Well, I am a lady. It was always a certainty I would marry, and it is no surprise to me that it is happening for political gain. Therefore, I suppose my biggest worry is that I do not trip down the aisle.”

“Do you not have fear of him…?”

“Of prince Loki? He has never been anything other that courteous around me. Why? Have you heard something, Gunhild?” You asked, your eyes meeting.

“Well… all servants speak of him, my lady. And they repeat the words spoken about him by the nobility they serve. Much like you said, he is like a snake, slithering through quiet corridors and practically feeding off the bedlam that courtly life brings. And unlike prince Thor, who is so very handsome, most people of court are quite perturbed by your betrothed, my lady. They say his colours are too dark and frightening unlike the fair ideals of Asgard.” Gunhild spoke whilst going over to your wash basin to fill it with water from the water jug she’d brought in with herself.

“And do you agree with the sentiments of the other servants and nobles, dear Gunhild?” You asked, turning to watch her as she worked.

“I rather think he is a bit frightening indeed, my lady. However, it is your opinion only that matters in the end. He shall be your prince, after all.”

“My opinion, is it?” You cocked your head softly to the side, considering your thoughts on the matter. “Well, I should rather think that I would prefer him if he dared ask me these questions himself. I thought him more daring than resorting to simple trickery.”

The silence in your bedchambers was incessant for a few tense seconds, before the sound of Gunhild’s laugh morphed into one more familiar to your ears.

“Very good, my lady. You are bright, indeed.” Loki said, now back to his true form. He approached your vanity, turning his back to it in order to rest himself up against it, looking down at you as you remained on your chair.

“Good morrow, Loki. Are you so bored as to come up with such schemes yourself?”

“Good morrow, my fair lady. And I must assure you; these schemes are not born of my boredom. My boredom would invite me to bother my oafish brother, never you. No, I did all of this in order to get an honest insight on what you feel about our impending nuptials.”

“And again, I ask you: could you not have simply asked me? I have no need to hide my feelings from you.”

He hummed, looking at you with curiosity, head cocked slightly.

“And yet, so many ladies are taught how to be pleasant above all else. I only wished to figure out whether or not my future bride happens to be one of those ladies who lie to please.”

“I would be bored if my husband were some simple nobleman. Our families might just have picked the most fascinating match for me. Indeed, he seems to sneak into my rooms in the morning, when we are barely ever allowed alone.”

He chuckled, head tipping back slightly with the action, his sharp jaw displaying itself beautifully.

“No creature, mortal or not, could resist the chance of getting you alone, my lady.” He said, now picking up your hand and kissing your knuckles. “And yet, you’ve not answered dear Gunhild’s question: what do you think of your betrothed?”

“I think… I think that he is a deviant, and nothing but buckets of trouble. That said…” You sat up from your chair, now standing between his legs. “My opinion does differ from that of the court’s. I think that my intended, the aforementioned deviant, is very much handsome.” You whispered.

He seemed briefly startled, before his face turned confident and knowing, all within what felt like a mere second.

“My lady, you tease me. What is more, you tempt me, too. You are no mere blushing bride. You bring trouble to your husband already with your jests.”

“I do not jest.” You murmured, reaching up to hold his face in your hands. His skin was soft, and you could feel all the sharpness of his bones beneath it, and still, you found him so very handsome. “If you wish to have my fully truthful opinion on my intended, I cannot wait to be married to him. He has turned out to be a complete, unexpected surprise. He is very witty, interesting to listen to, bright, and devilishly handsome. What’s more, I do believe he will keep me on my toes forever. I shall never be bored with him, that is to be sure. And that is a relief, to be sure.”

He smiled gently at your words, his face softening nearly to the point of you feeling like all of his emotions were borne upon it. Yet, you knew that was not the case, not even close. He turned his face in order to press a gentle kiss to your palm.

“You shall make for a perfect princess, my lady. You have perfected the act of gracious elegance and pleasantness, indeed. The realm of Asgard will be beyond lucky to have you. As will I.”

“You ought to know one last detail, my prince, on how I feel about my betrothed.”

Loki raised a brow, inviting you to speak.

“I most like his silver tongue. I have heard he has found many uses for it over the years, to varying success.”

He grinned, leaning in until your noses were just gently touching.

“You have heard truth for once, my lady. Should you like a demonstration, I am always available. And eager.”

“As it so happens, it seems I am free until noon. My handmaiden told me so just a few moments ago.”

His answering kiss was nothing if not full of promise and earnest want.  

[catbayunthestoryteller]

Hi, can I request for Kinktober number 16. Loss of virginity and arranged marriage with MCU Loki. I would like that their wedding is first time they ever see each other. She heard horrible things about him bc gossip ofc and is terrified because his reputation. Maybe she had no say in this arrangement and such. Thank you in advance 🖤 ps. If anything of this makes you uncomfortable (maybe you don't want to write terrified women) you don't have to. You have free will to change anything. Have a good day ✨️👋

Kinktober Day 7: Arranged Marriage with Loki

The wedding feast of a prince should have been a night of splendor. Gold banners hung from the vaulted ceiling of the great hall, torches blazing against the polished marble, goblets raised in endless toasts. Yet you felt none of it. Every cup of mead that was lifted in your honor might as well have been a dirge, for your heart sat heavy in your chest.

You had never spoken to him, never even seen him until today. And now you were bound to him for the rest of your life. Loki, son of Odin. Loki the trickster. Loki the sly.

Your mother, when arranging the match with Queen Frigga, had spoken in cool, rational tones: A prince of Asgard, clever and cunning. Not the reckless sort to fling himself against an army as Thor would. He survives, child. He endures. Such a man is safer than a warrior drunk on glory.

But the whispers you had heard told a darker tale. Of illusions spun like webs to ensnare, of lies sweeter than poison. He was chaos incarnate, a silver tongue clothed in emerald and shadow.

So you stood beside him at the altar, hands bound in ceremonial silk, lips reciting vows you barely heard. His face, pale and sharp as a blade, betrayed nothing. His eyes flicked over you once, unreadable, then returned to the priest. He did not offer his arm when you descended the steps, nor did he spare a word for you when the court roared with celebration.

Through hours of feasting, music, and congratulations, he was a statue at your side, speaking only when duty demanded. You chewed bread that turned to dust in your mouth, drank wine that tasted of ash. The longer his silence endured, the more dread coiled in your stomach.

By the time the doors of your new chambers closed behind you, you were stiff as marble. The room was warm with firelight, the bed strewn with ivory silk and petals of pale flowers. You lingered by the hearth, fingers twisting in the folds of your gown, while Loki stood a few paces away, studying you with that same distant gaze.

At last, he spoke, his voice smooth as glass, edged with a glint of mockery. “So this is the timid doe my mother has chosen to tether me to. I wonder if she fears I should starve for lack of meekness in my life.”

The words stung. Hours of biting your tongue split open in a rush of heat. “You might have offered a kind word before insulting me,” you snapped, surprising yourself as much as him. “But then, perhaps courtesy is too great a burden for the god of mischief.”

The silence that followed was unbearable. You braced for cruelty, for sorcery, the clink of your bracelets turning into a hiss of serpents, the jewels in your hair twisting into biting fangs. You flinched at shadows on the wall, waiting for them to come alive.

Instead, he laughed. A low, rich laugh that startled you more than any threat. He pressed a hand to his mouth as if to smother it, but his eyes gleamed, bright and alive at last. “There is fire in you, then,” he said, almost delighted. “I had begun to fear my mother had shackled me to silence made flesh. How swiftly you bare your claws when pricked.”

His mirth unsettled you, but it also loosened something tight in your chest. You stared at him, really stared, for the first time, and saw not a monster, but a man amused, intrigued. A man who, perhaps, had been as unwilling a participant in the silence as you.

“You find this all very entertaining, do you not?” you murmured.

“Would you prefer I glowered at you until morning?” he countered. “We are wed, little one. If we are to endure this union, it is better we do so without masks. Or at least, not the sort that bore me.”

You fought a smile, and failed. It flickered across your face, shy and quick, but he caught it. His expression shifted subtly, some sharpness softening as though your amusement had given him permission. He stepped closer, his presence both commanding and careful, like the closing of a door you had not noticed open behind you.

“Ah,” he said, voice low. “There it is. I wondered if you would grant me the truth of your smile before the night was done.”

You should have looked away, but the air between you hummed, charged with something that had not been there before. He reached for you, unhurried, fingers brushing the sleeve of your gown. The gentleness of the gesture unsettled you more than any barbed remark.

“Do you fear me still?” he asked softly.

Your breath caught. “Yes,” you whispered. “But not as much as I did.”

His lips curved. Not quite tender, not quite cruel, something in-between. “That will do.”

When he drew you into his arms, it was with surprising grace. His kiss was not tentative, nor brutal, but measured, like a man well-versed in power but patient in wielding it. His hands, though, told a different story; they trembled faintly where they held your waist, betraying an eagerness beneath the veneer of control.

And though you had entered the night fearing sorcery and serpents, what he gave you was neither spell nor sting. He was relentless, yes, in stripping away your composure, but he did not turn from your inexperience. He guided you, coaxed you, took without apology but with an attentiveness that made your body yield even as your mind reeled.

You gave him what you had never given another. And when the trembling left your limbs, when your voice returned, you found yourself laughing softly at some wry comment of his, your head against his chest.

Loki shifted, pressing a kiss to your temple as if the gesture had escaped him unbidden. His voice was velvet in the dim chamber. “Take heart, wife. Whatever tales you have heard of me, I am far worse.”

But his hand lingered at your back, steady, anchoring you against him. And you thought, perhaps, that was not the whole truth.

The next gathering was a banquet in the golden hall, a celebration of some minor victory at the borders that mattered little to you but much to the generals who toasted it. You were seated beside Loki, as always, at a long table that glittered with crystal and gold, every noble eye fixed upon you.

It began as it always did: forced smiles, veiled questions, polite venom. Yet you sensed at once that Loki was different tonight. He sat with an ease, every movement measured, as though a performance had already begun.

When a lady of high rank leaned forward, her voice just loud enough to carry, and said, “One wonders if the prince has yet tired of his new bride’s silence. You always were fond of clever tongues, Loki,” you braced for his usual cutting retort.

But instead, he turned to you. Slowly. Intentionally. His hand came to rest over yours upon the table.

The hall went still.

“On the contrary,” he said, his voice smooth as silk but pitched for all to hear. “Her words are few because she chooses them well. A rare art in this place, do you not agree?”

The lady faltered, her painted smile trembling. A ripple of laughter, uneasy but real, passed down the table.

You were frozen, every muscle taut, for his thumb traced the back of your hand lightly, a gesture intimate enough to make your skin burn. He leaned closer, so that his shoulder brushed yours, and lifted his goblet with the other hand.

“To my wife,” he said. “May the court weary of speaking her name long before I weary of hearing it.”

They drank because they had no choice, though you saw their surprise, their eyes glittering with fresh gossip. You could feel your pulse at your throat, too loud, too fast, while Loki’s expression remained serene, almost bored, as though he had not just shaken the entire hall.

You dared to whisper, barely moving your lips, “You mean to make a spectacle of me.”

He tilted his head, his breath warm at your ear. “A spectacle of us, wife. Do not fear, it will be most convincing.”

The rest of the night passed in a haze. He poured your wine himself, leaned close when you spoke, laughed low at some comment of yours and touched your wrist as though you had whispered the cleverest jest in the realm. It was all theatre, you told yourself, every glance, every brush of his hand designed to ensnare the court in its own hunger for scandal.

And yet, when his fingers lingered a little too long against yours, when his laughter softened for a heartbeat as if only you could hear it, you wondered how much of it was play, and how much was not.

Later, when the banquet ended and you walked the golden corridors back to your chambers, you found your voice at last.

“You enjoy tormenting them,” you said, not quite able to keep the breathlessness from your tone.

His smile was sharp, but his eyes gleamed with something softer. “I enjoy watching them choke on their own envy. And,” he added, with a glance that made your stomach twist, “I find the role of devoted husband…not altogether disagreeable.”

You stopped in your tracks, uncertain whether to scoff or blush. He did not pause, only opened the door to your chambers and said over his shoulder, “Do not worry, my dear. Tomorrow, they will speak of nothing else. We have given them their entertainment. Now, perhaps, we might find some of our own.”

The way his gaze lingered on you left no doubt as to what he meant.

Loki shed his cloak in a careless motion, emerald silk pooling on the floor. He looked at you in that measuring way of his, as if reading a book only he could decipher.

“You think me cruel,” he said at last, “to drag you into such theatre before all of Asgard.”

You swallowed hard. “It was cruel.”

His mouth curved. “Cruel but effective. They will not speak against you now, not openly. To wound you would be to wound me. And none of them dare that.”

He stepped closer, each movement deliberate, until you could see the faint shimmer of green in his dark hair from the fire. His fingers grazed your chin, tilting your face upward.

“But tell me,” he murmured, voice low, “was it only cruelty you felt tonight? Or something else?”

Your lips parted, but no words came. The weight of his gaze held you still, caught between fear and a treacherous thrill.

He chuckled softly. “Ah. Silence again. But this time not from terror.”

His mouth claimed yours before you could reply. There was nothing tentative in it, only demand, the sharp press of teeth against your lower lip, the taste of wine still clinging to his tongue. His hand slid to your waist, drawing you forward until the fabric of your gown rustled between you.

When he broke the kiss, his breath ghosted hot against your cheek. “I promised them devotion,” he said. “Shall I prove it to you as well?”

He did not wait for an answer. His hands moved with swift precision, tugging at the fastenings of your gown until the heavy fabric spilled from your shoulders. You gasped at the sudden cool air against your skin, your arms instinctively crossing over your chest.

Loki caught your wrists, binding them gently but firmly in his grasp. “Do not hide from me,” he said.

Slowly, he lowered your arms. His eyes swept over you, drinking in every line, every tremor, until you felt bared not only in body but in soul. And yet he did not laugh, did not sneer. He looked hungry.

He kissed you again, slower now, his hands trailing down to your hips, over the thin shift that was all that remained. His palms pressed firmly, urging you backward until the back of your knees struck the bed.

You fell onto the silken covers, breathless. Loki followed, bracing himself over you, his hair falling like a dark curtain around his face.

“This union was meant for politics,” he said against your throat, his lips tracing heat along your skin. “An arrangement. An inconvenience.” His teeth grazed your collarbone, making you shudder. “But tell me, little bride…do you still believe it nothing more than that?”

Your answer dissolved into a moan as his hands slid beneath your shift, fingers skilled and merciless. He teased you until your hips arched off the bed, until words became impossible.

He laughed softly, wickedly. “Ah. That was not the sound of a woman untouched by desire.”

And then the teasing ceased. The shift was gone, tossed aside like an afterthought. His own tunic and trousers followed, each layer discarded until there was nothing between you.

You saw him fully then, and though fear flickered, of his power, his control, it was drowned swiftly by want. He was lean and pale, carved with strength you had only guessed at beneath his finery. His eyes burned with intent.

He entered you in one slow, claiming thrust, his mouth capturing your cry before it could echo off the stone. He held you there, buried deep, until you were trembling. Then he moved, unhurried at first, savoring each drag, each helpless sound that escaped you.

“Look at me,” he ordered, his hand framing your face. “I would see you when I take you.”

You obeyed. His gaze locked with yours, and the world narrowed to the rhythm of his body driving into yours, the searing press of his skin against your own. Each stroke unraveled you further, until you clung to him with desperate fingers, nails biting into his shoulders.

He did not relent. He whispered against your lips, words of devotion laced with mockery, of ownership sweetened with endearments, until you shattered beneath him, voice breaking on his name.

Even then he did not stop. His pace grew sharper, until he spilled inside you with a groan, his head pressed to your throat, breath ragged and hot.

For a long moment neither of you moved, only the sound of your mingled breathing filling the chamber. Then, slowly, he lifted himself, eyes searching yours.

“You are no longer afraid,” he said quietly, almost in wonder.

You managed a trembling smile. “Perhaps I am. But not enough to flee.”

A low laugh rumbled in his chest. He kissed you once more, softer this time, lingering. “Good. Then we may yet make a marriage of this.”

He lay beside you, drawing the covers around your bodies, his arm firm around your waist. And though his reputation had haunted you, though you had dreaded nights like these, you drifted to sleep with the strange, unshakable thought that Loki’s arms might not be a cage at all, but a snare you were no longer certain you wished to escape.

[batfig-deactivated20250903]

there is something erotic about irritating a man. i’m really enjoying pissing you off. do you want fuck me yet

[ricardianguy]

[sonderinghiraeth]

I love a wishy-washy Loki

I don't know what it is about me, and I'm not yucking anyone's yum, but I can't stand it when Loki is being sweet to the reader by like, chapter four. It just feels so unrealistic sometimes I have to close out of the fic, so here's some headcanons of the Loki I envision.

He never wanted to like you; it was just something that seemed like it came overnight. An elephant in the room. Perhaps it was a hazed over dream that he can't quite remember aside from the afterglow of emotions it left him with, but by God, now every time he saw you, it felt like he needed an excuse to get away. He didn't want these feelings, so of course, the first thing he knew to do was to run.

Running turns to ignoring, because no matter how fast he ran, it seemed like it just looped back to you. So now he was trying out bullying you, maybe trying to get you to hate him, to spoil the feelings. He hated that you were always just as sharp with the tongue as he was, and he especially hated how it always made him rather uncomfortably hard below the belt now.

You would think this man gets paid for vacillating. Vacillator by Ethel Cain is his theme song. He has little pockets of vulnerability. Perhaps you're sitting in your bay window together after a long night of partying with the Avengers, just staring out the window. He ticks his jaw, refusing to look at you. "I don't know how you do it." He would say, causing you to quirk a brow. "How you make me so red with anger, yet I keep crawling back like a damn starved dog."

And the look in his eyes when he finally did look at you gave away everything. They were so much softer, much more tired than the act he would possess around the others. Yet, the next morning, he would be right back to donning that mental armor, if not laying on the antagonization of you tenfold in order to take back his soft comments.

And God forbid you ever actually bring up those comments. He'll belittle you to the bone for even having the nerve to think that you were anything other than some bothersome mortal to him. You were a time pass, an eye roll, and occasionally, if you were lucky, somewhat of a lukewarm acquaintance.

Yeah, let's not forget if you're human, he is definitely using that as his main device of denial. How could he, a God, like someone like you? He gets sick at even the thought of it, but he can't quite discern if he gets more sick from the thought that he likes a Midgardian or the thought that you are only a tiny thread in the giant tapestry of his life.

He totally goes searching for an apple of Idunn to keep safe until he finally gathers the nerve to get over his emotional constipation and tell you how much he can't get you out of his head.

The worst thing is his love language is definitely acts of service, so he bends through multiple hoops to nonchalantly find out what your favorite candy, food, etc. is. Say there's a candy bowl in the main room, and you're both picking through it. He'll say, "You mortals and your need for tooth decay, I bet your favorite candy is something like those stupid chocolate pills." (Totally not talking about M&Ms.) Trying to get it out of you, and when he does, there conveniently starts becoming an increased supply of that candy everywhere in the tower.

He finds excuses to touch you. Something like the collar of your jacket is popped up, and he'll sneer, beckoning you over. "Come here, you fool." He'll mutter, jerking your collar back in place to pitifully play off annoyance, as if he doesn't leave his hand there a second too long. "Can't even wear clothes properly."

It would probably take something absolutely catastrophic happening to you in order for him to finally confess. Like you come back from a mission within an inch of your life, coated in your own blood, carefully slung over Steve's shoulder, as Tony is barking orders right and left in the infirmary floor of the tower to get you an emergency surgery underway. Loki's in the midst of it all, staring at your limp body in utter horror. He refuses to leave for days, even when Thor and Tony insist he's scaring the poor nurses Tony called in.

And when you do wake up, he almost seems angry. In fact, he's pissed. He grips your hand just tight enough for you to seethe, but when you go to cuss him, you look up to see his eyes tear-rimmed. "You damn brat." He would mutter, bringing the top of your wrist to ghost his lips. "You keep me up day and night, you plague not only my thoughts but my dreams, and then you run off and almost die? Am I nothing but laughable?"

And even after he confesses, you're left in some sort of situationship. It's even worse when Loki refuses to acknowledge it even happened, blaming it on the grocery list of pills Tony had you doped up on.

But now you sleep together. He finds himself in your bed every night, climbing in and lying on the edge at first as if you were a plague patient he's been paid to sleep with. But when you wake up from a routine dream at four in the morning, his arm is clinging to you to mold your entire frame into his.

GIVE ME EMOTIONALLY CONSTIPATED LOKI OR GIVE ME DEATH

[fidelcostco]

[skribblegurl]

some people think writers are so eloquent and good with words, but the reality is that we can sit there with our fingers on the keyboard going, “what’s the word for non-sunlight lighting? Like, fake lighting?” and for ten minutes, all our brain will supply is “unofficial”, and we know that’s not the right word, but it’s the only word we can come up with…until finally it’s like our face got smashed into a brick wall and we remember the word we want is “artificial”.

[heywriters]

I couldn't remember the word "doorknob" ten minutes ago.

[bumblewyn]

ok but the onelook thesaurus will save your life, i literally could not live without this website

[breelandwalker]

REBLOG TO SAVE A WRITER'S LIFE

[profoundtyrantharmony]

Loki Oneshots I Recommend ~M~ to ~Z~

~M~

Airport (from @meganlpie)

Shiver // Savior (from @muertawrites )

Late night cravings (from @maiden-of-asgard)

Have fun (from @multific)

Spellbound (from @mygfloki)

In the name of science (from @marvelswh0re)

Training wheels (from @marvelmadam08)

Badass reader (from @mischievous-loki-headcanons)

Loki shapeshifting into you (from @moonlit-imagines)

Cookie (from @micahsweirdworld)

~N~

New beginning (from @never-stranger)

~O~

Curiosity kissed the cat (from @odinsonsobsessed)

Winning (from @ohhhmyloki)

~P~

Ragnarok Kinks (from @picassho-18)

When in doubt, be a snake (from @poormeowmeowcollector)

~R~

Craving her (from @revengingbarnes)

Spellbound (from @redbluekj)

~S~

One more habit (from @shotsbyshae)

A cage of golden glass (from @sserpente)

Mint (from @surrounded-by-superheroes )

Asking Loki dirty questions (from @starscreamloki )

Squishes and Kisses (from @sugars-fluffy-escapes)

Very subtle (from @samdeancass)

The kissing contest (from @sassenach-on-the-rocks)

Loki falling for a shy reader (from @starks-hero)

A snitch in slumber (from @stanknotstark)

Only in my daydream (from @star-bucks-lover)

Getting Loki // New Year kisses (from @sabine-leo)

Despised enemy (from @sauntered-vaguely-downward)

~T~

Li’l Lou (from @thegoddamnfangirl)

I could just drink you up ( from @thosekidswhohuntmonsters)

Warm up (from @tarithenurse)

The illusion of ice (from @theincaprincess)

Hickey (from @thejokersenigma)

It's not work if you enjoy it (from @the-winter-smoulder)

Loki vs Puppies (from @that-little-zebunny)

First encounter (from @takenbypeter)

Mr Laufeyson (from @theartofimagining13)

~U~

Braid (from @uncomfortable-writers)

~W~

You snake (from @wickednerdery)

The curious incident of the doppelganger (from @wolfpawn on AO3)

We make a pretty good team // The gift (from @wrenhyperfixates)

Last Updated : 09/11/22

[never-stranger]

thank you so much for the rec!!

[never-stranger]

it’s been more than half a year of me being 18 and i still don’t feel 18 enough 😭 when does the feeling of adulthood kick in

[buckydollz-deactivated20251121]

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

reblog if you’re a sick fuck

[never-stranger]

A Penchant For Danger

Pairing: Magnus Martinsson x journalist!reader

Summary: basically a meet-cute drabble with Magnus and a mildly frustrated reader trying to find a lead on a compelling case. Might have a longer next part (that may or may not include smut)

Tags & Warnings: Mentions of murder.

Forenote: I rewrote this thrice and kept kept all copies LOL. This was the second rewrite, the third rewrite will be the second part—meaning it’s already halfway through!

Word Count: 1054

────୨ৎ────

You seemed to have a penchant for danger.

It was evident by the demeanour you had once carried all the way to the police station on your own. It was a busy afternoon, the sunlight carefully casting an illusion of safety—danger only lurked at night, did it not? Evil did not sleep, nor did the minds of those who sought answers; where better to find answers than from those who seek justice?

You padded across the police station carrying several notepads in your hand and a pencil. You stumbled and dropped a few things, but just as you moved to retrieve them, a second pair of hands had begun collecting them. As you reached out to get them back, you raised your eyes to thank the kind stranger properly.

You were greeted by a blue pair of eyes, wide and crinkling at the edges, in confusion, perhaps. You were not a colleague, nor were you dressed as an ordinary concerned citizen with something to report. Yet you walked into the station as though you knew it like the back of your hand.

A muttered “thank you” was all you managed. The stranger did not even have the time to respond before you spotted someone else behind him, the one you had come to visit for. Kurt Wallander. You remembered standing hastily, calling the detective’s attention. Magnus’ eyes followed your tracks; the loud clatter of your shoes fading as you followed the detective. That was his first impression of you, one he had not thought much of at the beginning.

That impression soon became reoccurring. Like a steadily-building routine, your presence grew in frequency at the Ystad Police Station. Magnus, and several other workers there, knew you for your voice–some spoke about your demands, some called you nagging. You paid no heed. All you cared for was answers, a hook, a story to write to mark your role in society as a journalist.

“You keep running your mouth that way and people might start to notice. The kind you don’t want to keep close behind your back.” Wallander’s words one day had interrupted you mid-sentence, making you pause in your tracks. Every other question swimming within your mind was silenced, barring the words from leaving your mouth. “You’ve already got yourself into quite the predicament. If I were you I’d start keeping an eye over my shoulder. Let this one go.”

He left as you remained pondering where you stood. It wasn’t until the commotion returned that you had realized it had all stopped for a moment, that people were listening in on your conversation.

You had gone above and beyond today. But you thought anything below it meant merely behaving and playing a part–remaining complacent to the absurd events occurring around you. A string of seemingly unrelated murders seemed like a surreal enough situation. You just had to uncover what everyone was trying so desperately to hide. All you needed was somewhere to begin. Though it was evident you would not be finding that here.

You spun on your heel and walked straight into another figure blocking your path; the collision was followed by the sensation of liquid warmth soaking through your blouse.

“Shit–”

“Sorry,” muttered Magnus. You watched as he used one hand in a vain attempt to wipe at the coffee staining his shirt. The other held the now quarter-filled cup.

“No, please, I was the one who wasn’t looking. I doubt these would do much of anything, but here,” you handed him a few pieces of tissue from your pocket from the coffee you had taken out earlier that day. He used them to clean the coffee that had spilled on his hand. He opens his mouth to express his gratitude, but the sight of your own stained shirt makes him eat his words. “Are you sure you didn’t need these more than I do?”

When he looks back up at you, there is a look in his eyes you are quite familiar with. But it is something you never thought to name–was it awe or disbelief, repulsion, maybe?

“You’re the journalist.” He says in a tone you would associate with a toddler finding a shiny rock in his mother’s garden.

“Yes, it’s—“ you clear your throat.

“Y/N, I know.” He interrupts. You respond with a smile, mustering whatever semblance of cordiality you had left in you after your earlier encounter with the detective. It precedes an awkward silence between you two, one that compels you to fill the space.

“And you’re—“

“Magnus—“

“Martinsson, I know. Does Wallander really let you cut into people like that? He seems to hate it when I do it.”

Magnus crosses his arms, pursing his lips—his features alight with amusement. “Well judging by your stance, he must have been doing all the interrupting.” He assesses you from head to toe, his eyes surveying you almost comically.

With a roll of your eyes, you walk around him, and you hear his footsteps follow. “He certainly isn’t the open-minded type,” you say as you—ineffectually—try rubbing the stain off your shirt and he falls into step right next to you.

He hums in thought, shrugging. “Well he does usually take a little more convincing than most.”

Your response is a mere shake of your head. But his next words have you stopping in your tracks, just inches away from the exit’s threshold: “But I can help you.”

You whirl towards his direction with a flourish. “To some extent, I suppose—and if you can ensure that you can keep yourself safe on your own then…” he adds, albeit sheepishly. Truth be told, he’d been waiting on the opportunity to be on the field again. He tries to keep his mirth at bay, but it isn’t the most difficult to spot in eyes as clear and blue as his.

“Of course I can,” you say simply. Then, he feels the pad of your forefinger against his chest, a business card pinned between. You wait for him to take it before retracting.

It read plain and simple, containing all he needed to know if he was being serious.

“Just give me a call.” He looks up from the card as you speak, anticipating you’d say more. All you give him is a small, cordial smile, before finally finding your way through the door.

Magnus doesn’t realise he’d been smiling.

Somewhere behind him, someone whistles and parrots your words.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

End

[never-stranger]

Fondness and Friendship

Pairing: Loki x fem asgardian!reader

Summary: reader visits Asgard every summer and becomes friends with the princes. But one holds a special place in her heart.

Tags & Warnings: mild angst, mentions of blood, Odin, first kiss

Forenote: I actually SUCK at writing titles. Sorry. But I might write a second part/another oneshot vaguely connected to this one? Maybe. Long time no post. Barely proofread, but if I make any edits, I’ll log it in here. Also I actually cannot for the life of me write love confessions.

Word Count: 3,355

────୨ৎ────

Summers in Asgard were not nearly as terrible as they were where you were from. The warmth of the afternoon sun was always accompanied by the dusk-like wind, making it quite enjoyable to stay outside—whether in the markets, the labyrinthine woods, or simply within the comforts of the gardens.

Your mother and Queen Frigga had grown close over the centuries, the Queen’s fondness began with her favour of your mother’s handiwork as a perfumer, then she had sooner than later requested her frequently during special events that needed souvenirs for guests; sometimes the Queen would send flowers and new oils to your mother in order to aid in her scent-making innovations. And once she had discovered she had a daughter around her sons’ age, she had been overjoyed—even more so after being told you had a penchant for magic.

Both ladies had brought their children one summer. Asgard’s first prince took after the Queen greatly with his warm skin and boyishly cropped blond hair. Though as opposed to the Queen, he moved with most pride, as expected of a prince his age. After greeting your mother, he had all but run off despite Frigga’s protests.

His boisterous nature made you shy and you hid behind your mother’s skirts, the cloth tightly within your fingers— but it seemed you were not the only one.

Queen Frigga beckoned another, and after a few moments, he languidly strode into the light. He was more timid, graceful, like his mother. His eyes danced around as he bounced on his heels, a gesture you could have deduced to have been from shyness. It brought you comfort somehow—enough to give you courage to mirror his steps, letting go of your mother’s skirt to stand by her side instead.

You gave Loki a small wave, and he responded with a gentle smile.

From a distance, Thor called out for him. Loki looked at his mother for permission, and the next thing you knew, you were running along the halls with him.

You usually came in last whenever you’d participate in their little races or any games that involved running. Of course, you’d learn to run faster—they would, too. You could never really keep up with the two.

Thor had his way of bending the rules when you played, climbing trees to make it hard to find him, knowing that you were more physically limited. Soon enough, Loki would follow in his footsteps. But what you could not do physically, you made up for with your keen sight.

“That is in no way fair when you play games with a girl!” You cried out from below right before folding over as you caught your breath, hair unraveling as strands stuck to your skin.

In a moment’s concern, Loki almost hopped off the branch he’d been perched on, only to be halted by Thor’s commanding arm. “Let her breathe.”

“She’s hardly capable of it, would you look at her!”

As Loki spoke the last word, something snapped and sent them into freefall, followed by a harsh collision with the ground.

Thor groans as he stands on wobbly feet, rounding his arms. Loki remains on the ground, the wind completely knocked from his lungs. For a second, he expects to see the gates of Valhalla open before him, or perhaps to sink into the ground until he reaches Hel. But when he hears your laugh, he realises he is very much alive.

With a shake of your head, you offer him your hand. He grasps it firmly—then there is a twinkle in his eyes that you notice a bit too late.

You topple bluntly onto the grass—you pray to the gods that the bitterness in your mouth does not come from the soil. Then, with the sun right behind him, Loki beams at you with childlike innocence. You tarnish it by ripping a handful of grass and hurling it directly at his face.

“First you play dirty, then you defile my face?” He wipes a hand over his mouth. How dramatic.

“Dirty? Both of you climbed a tree, knowing how unladylike it would have been for me to follow!” You stand upright, dusting out your skirts.

“So you resort to using magic to take us out?”

“I used no magic. You know plenty that destruction is well beyond my… capabilities,” you say as though the admittance warrants embarrassment. Unlike Loki who was frequently dispatched on missions that required a set of skills to inflict harm, you were taught to sustain life, not to take it—and it was not lives limited to the sentient. And though you never said it aloud, you loved Frigga’s garden for that reason, it was always peaceful yet teeming with life.

Behind the both of you, Thor crosses his arms smiling to himself.

You take closer steps towards the younger prince, unaware of your spectator. “Mischief and foolishness are your thing. How foolish it would be for me to take that from you—look to the side, please.” With your thumb and forefinger, you tilt his face away before he could protest further. You could practically feel the words reverberating from his mouth.

But now you draw your attention to the wound on his face. Probably a few millimetres deep, though barely enough for someone like him to feel, at least without any interference.

“Ow!”

You swipe a thumb across his cheek, making him yelp, “What was that for!”

You show him your thumb, smothered with a drop of fresh blood. But when he wipes at his cheek with his hand, he feels nothing, not even a scar.

“Was that really necessary? Thought your healing magic wasn’t supposed to hurt.” He grumbles, gesticulating wildly. Thor approaches Loki, patting him on the shoulder. “Serves you right, brother.”

The younger prince shakes him off, his eyebrows knitted in annoyance as he watches the older prince walk off towards the direction of the palace—but you quickly dismantle him by leaning in close to whisper, “You know, you really ought to learn how to heal soon.”

The two of you follow Thor’s footsteps, and when you’re met with ponderous silence, you continue. “I hear you’re sent out by the King quite often, makes me a worry a little…”

“Save your worries for the heir,” he teases. “I assure you, my lady, today was a freak accident; a kind I do not come across on my expeditions.”

My lady.

The words make you scrunch your nose. “So formal,” you mutter.

He chuckles lightly, stopping in his tracks for a moment before calling out your name softly, fingers brushing against your sleeve discreetly, fleetingly, you barely felt it. “I mean it,” he says. The world is too quiet, Thor has gone far ahead. In the silence, you look him in the eyes, the wavelike crevices in his iris, often thrashing and wild, but for now they are calm like liquid serenity. Grounding. “But if it will help you sleep better, then I’ll consider doing a bit more learning.”

And until now, you spent most of your summers within the palace grounds, a guest room for yourself in the royal wing, and a dainty guesthouse when you came with your family.

Every year, something changed. Running in fields turned to cheering on the sidelines during sparring matches—sometimes followed by a scolding from your mother when you’d return with your garments tattered from participating in them, the time spent causing a ruckus in the halls was used to exchange books in the library or the courtyard, with passages and words underlined to convey cryptic messages of palace gossip and secret meeting places where the stars look the brightest.

These were changes you enjoyed and learned to love as a part of growing up, but one thing you dreaded, though never admitted to anyone, was how waiting for a couple of hours for Loki to finish training turned into whole days of standing by for his arrival from a lengthy mission. You hated how distant and cold he’d be to everyone and you, because by this time, you considered him one of your dearest friends—Thor close behind. You could only hope he felt the same way too.

That’s why you learned to distract yourself on days he wasn’t there. You’d made friends, other daughters of nobles visiting the palace. If they were new, you’d grant them the pleasure of bringing them to the best places around; then, in the back of your mind, you remembered who took you there first.

You were giving the girls fragments of palace gossip, something about a certain pair being caught in a very compromising position right in the halls you were walking in. But you’re interrupted by the sound of a familiar voice, loud and boisterous.

“A bunch of stealthy bastards, weren’t they!” Thor’s voice boomed, accompanied by a chorus of agreements and cheers from men. They gradually became visible as they came closer, and you quickly excused yourself from your group to approach Thor.

As you treaded towards his herd, you could see clearly their tattered clothing, the fresh scrapes and bruises blemishing their skin–yet, they were all smiles and laughter.

“Prince Thor?”

“Lady (Y/N)!” He greeted you with a grin.

“That’s the Lady (Y/N?)”

“She seems cordial with Thor; she must be.”

The men around him muttered, loud enough that it wasn’t easy to ignore.

“You’re earlier than I heard your expected arrival was.”

“Well, it’s the closest we get to a reward after being ambushed a short way from home,” he said, the enthusiasm laced in his words. “And I hear we have you to thank! Came back in one piece for the most part,” bellowed one of the men. The rest of them gave you their thanks, too. You were confused—you told them they might have had the wrong person; still, they persisted and you had no choice but to return their gratitude.

When the voices died down and you were near enough, Thor’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Can’t find a certain face in the crowd?”

The slight scrunch of your brows and the way your eyes darted everywhere but to his told him everything he had to know.

“Where is he?” You whispered hastily.

“He’s alright, I assure you. Just how he usually is after travesties like this one. He left his horse last, I suppose you’ll find him in the back—if he hasn’t wandered off.”

The second Thor said the prince was alright, you released a breath. He looked at you with a small, knowing smile, waving off his men to leave you two alone. “You should find him.”

You scoff, “You know better than anyone that the last thing he’d want right now is to be found.”

“Even a sulking serpent as he would have his exceptions.” Thor crossed his arms, carefully watching your expression to determine what you were thinking. “He may not want it; he may deny it, but he might need you as we speak.”

There was a gravity in his tone you couldn’t ignore, a stark contrast to his reassuring words that Loki was alright, you look at him with worried eyes. “You said he was fine.”

“The ambush was quick, but preventable. There was something we overlooked in the strategies, and he’s taken the blame for it.” Thor looks around the way he does before he shares a delicate piece of information. “He does not admit his faults to anyone, but at Odin’s questioning, as it has always been, he’ll be the one to answer. And you know better than anyone how that ends.”

You knew, of course you did. You’ve watched it happen before. It was scrutiny in full display to those who dared to watch. The Allfather would dissect him—piece by piece, where it all went wrong; then he’d mention the handful of other times he had failed under the throne’s orders. The first time you had watched it happen, you witnessed how Loki took all the daggers being hurled at him with full stride, his chin up, his words cold, his stance rigid. After he was dismissed, you followed him, wanting to express how well he did. But he walked away too quickly for you to even be able to fall into step next to him.

You called his name twice; by the third, he whirled around to meet your gaze with the same frigid glare he had given his father, melting only slightly at the corners where tears began to form.

He opened his mouth—to tell you to leave, perhaps, to apologise. You never knew. But after seeing him, you stopped dead in your tracks, allowing him to walk away first.

You did not see him for a week—the last week of the summer, when you had to leave soon. The next time you’d seen him was along the path to the Bifrost home. He stood awkwardly, his hands clasped behind his back and his face stricken with a kind of guilt you could not determine. It took everything in him to meet your gaze, metres apart from him.

“You’ll return next summer?” He said, but his words did not have the questioning tone, almost as if he were telling you to return, like he could not accept it otherwise. But it was not a command, either; he was not angry. His eyes spoke of hesitation—he was imploring you.

You hummed in thought. “Once in winter, and then again in summer.” you smiled meekly.

“In time for the Winter Ball, I hope.” He took a step closer, assessing you silently for any discomfort. You stood your ground. “You love your dresses. The perfect opportunity to flaunt your fashion, don’t you think?”

You laugh at his words, and Loki can’t help but return the sound. His eyes never leave your mirth-graced features. “You also speak fondly of snow,” he said. “It rarely ever snows back home. The most I’ve experienced it is from books and well… Your stories,” you replied.

“Well then, that’s something to look forward to.”

—

Thor could almost tell what you were thinking even without the thought-seeking powers of his brother. He hoped that it had at least convinced you enough to hear him out. So when you gave him a slight nod, patting him amicably on the shoulder before walking towards the palace doors, he felt pride in himself; relief for his brother.

The first place you checked was the stables. Loki’s horse was distinct from the rest, darker than—yet as quiet as an undisturbed evening. You found his horse unattended, nibbling idly at a stack of hay. It whinnied softly as you approached, offering a hand that it gladly nuzzled.

As you observed, the hay seemed to have been just placed there—compared to the others that had already looked a mess. You looked for any clues Loki might have left, and when you gave up, you scratched the horse’s face lightly at its sides. “Now where could you be…”

Right as the words escaped your lips, your eyes trailed down the horse’s chest, eliciting a gasp from you. There was a scar drawn right across. It looked like an old one that had taken years to heal, but you were not mistaken in remembering that it had not been there when they had initially left.

“What are you doing here?”

Despite the biting draftiness in his tone, a warmth swells in your chest. But it is quickly thwarted when you turn your gaze towards him—the sight of him, bloody and tattered. He must have noticed how your expression changed, how you pitied his appearance as his eyes hardened and made your heart feel brittle. You stepped closer to him.

“Don’t,” he breathed, “come any closer,” he says, but he does not make a move to step back or avoid you when you do so anyway.

When you’re close enough, your eyes travel across him entirely—the dents in his armour, the stains of amalgamated blood and grime, his torn cloak, his tired stature—his laboured breathing.

You lift your hands to hover at the sides of his face, but before you could get to touch him, he speaks. “I will taint your dress.”

You tilt your head, scoffing. “I don’t care.”

He melts at your touch, closing his eyes as he bows his head. You move closer so he can lean on your shoulder. Your fingers graze his scalp, you feel your sleeve dampen where his face lies, but you make no mention of it. When his arms wrap around your torso, yours wrap around his neck as you bask in his embrace.

“Are you hurt?” You whisper.

“No.” The strain in his voice tells you he isn’t saying everything. His arms remain around you as he pulls away slightly—and you’re blessed with those blue eyes, akin to the warmth of a lake in summer. “I mean I was, but… I’m alright.”

For a few moments, you stare at him in confusion, then you remember the healed scar on his horse and you break into a giddy smile; the puzzle falls into place. “You’ve learned to heal!”

Your joy infects him, warranting him to chuckle sheepishly. “It has helped the other soldiers and the horses, too.”

“That sounds wonderful. I’m sure your generosity won’t go unnoticed.”

“Neither will yours.”

Your eyebrows twitch in wonder moments before you scowl indignantly. “When my notes and books would go missing, that was you!” You ruffled his hair as he laughed. “But I would always return them in three days!” He argued.

“You were playing tricks on me.”

“I merely listened to your advice.” His words were slow and solemn. Your hands cradle his face once more; for a moment, you do not see the man—callous and cold, as they call him and as they make him up to be. You see the boy who would run to you with his wind-tousled hair and the brightest grin in the Nine Realms, donning a snake over his shoulders. You feel the warmth he had learned to hide within walls as time passed.

And then you see him again—the same boy, the same sheepish smile, just leaner, taller, older—wiser.

That’s all it takes for you to close the gap between your faces, your lips moving against his with a tenderness that surprises him, to which he gladly responds with his tongue and a part of his lips and a tighter grip on your waist.

You pull away, your noses still close enough to touch. “For what it’s worth,” he begins. “Every time they’d thank me, I would give them your name.”

“Ah, that would explain a lot of things.” You looked up in feigned thought, remembering the gratitude the men earlier had expressed towards you. Loki laughs in amusement.

“But I hear you’ll be answering to the Allfather again.”

Loki rolls his eyes—frantically, for a moment, you think you’ve ruined the moment. But he doesn’t let go. “It’s nothing new. Same story, same ending.”

You trace your thumbs over crest of his cheekbones. “It was an accident.”

“There was no room for an accident.”

“Then show yourself the mercy your father does not give.”

Loki stills in your arms, the wind knocked from his lungs for a moment as he tries to find his next words.

“Will you be there?” He asks earnestly.

“If you want me to be.”

His arms tighten around you as he whispers his next word, “Please.”

And you nod—giving him a chaste kiss. When you retract from his embrace, your dress is smothered in dirt and blood as he said it would be. He looks at it with guilt-ridden eyes, but you wave him off. “Nothing a bit of washing can’t fix.”

But still, his eyes are fixed on yours. He has fallen silent—the weight of the upcoming confrontation has settled on his shoulders, this time he’d have at least one more person to rely on.

You take his hand, gingerly lacing your fingers with his. Entering the palace, you feel the stares of people. Perhaps it is because you hold the prince’s hand—because for a moment you have forgotten the grime on your dress.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

End

[cueloki]

actually in awe of this piece, absolutely loved it, beautifully written 💚

[never-stranger]

thank you so much 🥹💙

[never-stranger]

Fondness and Friendship

Pairing: Loki x fem asgardian!reader

Summary: reader visits Asgard every summer and becomes friends with the princes. But one holds a special place in her heart.

Tags & Warnings: mild angst, mentions of blood, Odin, first kiss

Forenote: I actually SUCK at writing titles. Sorry. But I might write a second part/another oneshot vaguely connected to this one? Maybe. Long time no post. Barely proofread, but if I make any edits, I’ll log it in here. Also I actually cannot for the life of me write love confessions.

Word Count: 3,355

────୨ৎ────

Summers in Asgard were not nearly as terrible as they were where you were from. The warmth of the afternoon sun was always accompanied by the dusk-like wind, making it quite enjoyable to stay outside—whether in the markets, the labyrinthine woods, or simply within the comforts of the gardens.

Your mother and Queen Frigga had grown close over the centuries, the Queen’s fondness began with her favour of your mother’s handiwork as a perfumer, then she had sooner than later requested her frequently during special events that needed souvenirs for guests; sometimes the Queen would send flowers and new oils to your mother in order to aid in her scent-making innovations. And once she had discovered she had a daughter around her sons’ age, she had been overjoyed—even more so after being told you had a penchant for magic.

Both ladies had brought their children one summer. Asgard’s first prince took after the Queen greatly with his warm skin and boyishly cropped blond hair. Though as opposed to the Queen, he moved with most pride, as expected of a prince his age. After greeting your mother, he had all but run off despite Frigga’s protests.

His boisterous nature made you shy and you hid behind your mother’s skirts, the cloth tightly within your fingers— but it seemed you were not the only one.

Queen Frigga beckoned another, and after a few moments, he languidly strode into the light. He was more timid, graceful, like his mother. His eyes danced around as he bounced on his heels, a gesture you could have deduced to have been from shyness. It brought you comfort somehow—enough to give you courage to mirror his steps, letting go of your mother’s skirt to stand by her side instead.

You gave Loki a small wave, and he responded with a gentle smile.

From a distance, Thor called out for him. Loki looked at his mother for permission, and the next thing you knew, you were running along the halls with him.

You usually came in last whenever you’d participate in their little races or any games that involved running. Of course, you’d learn to run faster—they would, too. You could never really keep up with the two.

Thor had his way of bending the rules when you played, climbing trees to make it hard to find him, knowing that you were more physically limited. Soon enough, Loki would follow in his footsteps. But what you could not do physically, you made up for with your keen sight.

“That is in no way fair when you play games with a girl!” You cried out from below right before folding over as you caught your breath, hair unraveling as strands stuck to your skin.

In a moment’s concern, Loki almost hopped off the branch he’d been perched on, only to be halted by Thor’s commanding arm. “Let her breathe.”

“She’s hardly capable of it, would you look at her!”

As Loki spoke the last word, something snapped and sent them into freefall, followed by a harsh collision with the ground.

Thor groans as he stands on wobbly feet, rounding his arms. Loki remains on the ground, the wind completely knocked from his lungs. For a second, he expects to see the gates of Valhalla open before him, or perhaps to sink into the ground until he reaches Hel. But when he hears your laugh, he realises he is very much alive.

With a shake of your head, you offer him your hand. He grasps it firmly—then there is a twinkle in his eyes that you notice a bit too late.

You topple bluntly onto the grass—you pray to the gods that the bitterness in your mouth does not come from the soil. Then, with the sun right behind him, Loki beams at you with childlike innocence. You tarnish it by ripping a handful of grass and hurling it directly at his face.

“First you play dirty, then you defile my face?” He wipes a hand over his mouth. How dramatic.

“Dirty? Both of you climbed a tree, knowing how unladylike it would have been for me to follow!” You stand upright, dusting out your skirts.

“So you resort to using magic to take us out?”

“I used no magic. You know plenty that destruction is well beyond my… capabilities,” you say as though the admittance warrants embarrassment. Unlike Loki who was frequently dispatched on missions that required a set of skills to inflict harm, you were taught to sustain life, not to take it—and it was not lives limited to the sentient. And though you never said it aloud, you loved Frigga’s garden for that reason, it was always peaceful yet teeming with life.

Behind the both of you, Thor crosses his arms smiling to himself.

You take closer steps towards the younger prince, unaware of your spectator. “Mischief and foolishness are your thing. How foolish it would be for me to take that from you—look to the side, please.” With your thumb and forefinger, you tilt his face away before he could protest further. You could practically feel the words reverberating from his mouth.

But now you draw your attention to the wound on his face. Probably a few millimetres deep, though barely enough for someone like him to feel, at least without any interference.

“Ow!”

You swipe a thumb across his cheek, making him yelp, “What was that for!”

You show him your thumb, smothered with a drop of fresh blood. But when he wipes at his cheek with his hand, he feels nothing, not even a scar.

“Was that really necessary? Thought your healing magic wasn’t supposed to hurt.” He grumbles, gesticulating wildly. Thor approaches Loki, patting him on the shoulder. “Serves you right, brother.”

The younger prince shakes him off, his eyebrows knitted in annoyance as he watches the older prince walk off towards the direction of the palace—but you quickly dismantle him by leaning in close to whisper, “You know, you really ought to learn how to heal soon.”

The two of you follow Thor’s footsteps, and when you’re met with ponderous silence, you continue. “I hear you’re sent out by the King quite often, makes me a worry a little…”

“Save your worries for the heir,” he teases. “I assure you, my lady, today was a freak accident; a kind I do not come across on my expeditions.”

My lady.

The words make you scrunch your nose. “So formal,” you mutter.

He chuckles lightly, stopping in his tracks for a moment before calling out your name softly, fingers brushing against your sleeve discreetly, fleetingly, you barely felt it. “I mean it,” he says. The world is too quiet, Thor has gone far ahead. In the silence, you look him in the eyes, the wavelike crevices in his iris, often thrashing and wild, but for now they are calm like liquid serenity. Grounding. “But if it will help you sleep better, then I’ll consider doing a bit more learning.”

And until now, you spent most of your summers within the palace grounds, a guest room for yourself in the royal wing, and a dainty guesthouse when you came with your family.

Every year, something changed. Running in fields turned to cheering on the sidelines during sparring matches—sometimes followed by a scolding from your mother when you’d return with your garments tattered from participating in them, the time spent causing a ruckus in the halls was used to exchange books in the library or the courtyard, with passages and words underlined to convey cryptic messages of palace gossip and secret meeting places where the stars look the brightest.

These were changes you enjoyed and learned to love as a part of growing up, but one thing you dreaded, though never admitted to anyone, was how waiting for a couple of hours for Loki to finish training turned into whole days of standing by for his arrival from a lengthy mission. You hated how distant and cold he’d be to everyone and you, because by this time, you considered him one of your dearest friends—Thor close behind. You could only hope he felt the same way too.

That’s why you learned to distract yourself on days he wasn’t there. You’d made friends, other daughters of nobles visiting the palace. If they were new, you’d grant them the pleasure of bringing them to the best places around; then, in the back of your mind, you remembered who took you there first.

You were giving the girls fragments of palace gossip, something about a certain pair being caught in a very compromising position right in the halls you were walking in. But you’re interrupted by the sound of a familiar voice, loud and boisterous.

“A bunch of stealthy bastards, weren’t they!” Thor’s voice boomed, accompanied by a chorus of agreements and cheers from men. They gradually became visible as they came closer, and you quickly excused yourself from your group to approach Thor.

As you treaded towards his herd, you could see clearly their tattered clothing, the fresh scrapes and bruises blemishing their skin–yet, they were all smiles and laughter.

“Prince Thor?”

“Lady (Y/N)!” He greeted you with a grin.

“That’s the Lady (Y/N?)”

“She seems cordial with Thor; she must be.”

The men around him muttered, loud enough that it wasn’t easy to ignore.

“You’re earlier than I heard your expected arrival was.”

“Well, it’s the closest we get to a reward after being ambushed a short way from home,” he said, the enthusiasm laced in his words. “And I hear we have you to thank! Came back in one piece for the most part,” bellowed one of the men. The rest of them gave you their thanks, too. You were confused—you told them they might have had the wrong person; still, they persisted and you had no choice but to return their gratitude.

When the voices died down and you were near enough, Thor’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Can’t find a certain face in the crowd?”

The slight scrunch of your brows and the way your eyes darted everywhere but to his told him everything he had to know.

“Where is he?” You whispered hastily.

“He’s alright, I assure you. Just how he usually is after travesties like this one. He left his horse last, I suppose you’ll find him in the back—if he hasn’t wandered off.”

The second Thor said the prince was alright, you released a breath. He looked at you with a small, knowing smile, waving off his men to leave you two alone. “You should find him.”

You scoff, “You know better than anyone that the last thing he’d want right now is to be found.”

“Even a sulking serpent as he would have his exceptions.” Thor crossed his arms, carefully watching your expression to determine what you were thinking. “He may not want it; he may deny it, but he might need you as we speak.”

There was a gravity in his tone you couldn’t ignore, a stark contrast to his reassuring words that Loki was alright, you look at him with worried eyes. “You said he was fine.”

“The ambush was quick, but preventable. There was something we overlooked in the strategies, and he’s taken the blame for it.” Thor looks around the way he does before he shares a delicate piece of information. “He does not admit his faults to anyone, but at Odin’s questioning, as it has always been, he’ll be the one to answer. And you know better than anyone how that ends.”

You knew, of course you did. You’ve watched it happen before. It was scrutiny in full display to those who dared to watch. The Allfather would dissect him—piece by piece, where it all went wrong; then he’d mention the handful of other times he had failed under the throne’s orders. The first time you had watched it happen, you witnessed how Loki took all the daggers being hurled at him with full stride, his chin up, his words cold, his stance rigid. After he was dismissed, you followed him, wanting to express how well he did. But he walked away too quickly for you to even be able to fall into step next to him.

You called his name twice; by the third, he whirled around to meet your gaze with the same frigid glare he had given his father, melting only slightly at the corners where tears began to form.

He opened his mouth—to tell you to leave, perhaps, to apologise. You never knew. But after seeing him, you stopped dead in your tracks, allowing him to walk away first.

You did not see him for a week—the last week of the summer, when you had to leave soon. The next time you’d seen him was along the path to the Bifrost home. He stood awkwardly, his hands clasped behind his back and his face stricken with a kind of guilt you could not determine. It took everything in him to meet your gaze, metres apart from him.

“You’ll return next summer?” He said, but his words did not have the questioning tone, almost as if he were telling you to return, like he could not accept it otherwise. But it was not a command, either; he was not angry. His eyes spoke of hesitation—he was imploring you.

You hummed in thought. “Once in winter, and then again in summer.” you smiled meekly.

“In time for the Winter Ball, I hope.” He took a step closer, assessing you silently for any discomfort. You stood your ground. “You love your dresses. The perfect opportunity to flaunt your fashion, don’t you think?”

You laugh at his words, and Loki can’t help but return the sound. His eyes never leave your mirth-graced features. “You also speak fondly of snow,” he said. “It rarely ever snows back home. The most I’ve experienced it is from books and well… Your stories,” you replied.

“Well then, that’s something to look forward to.”

—

Thor could almost tell what you were thinking even without the thought-seeking powers of his brother. He hoped that it had at least convinced you enough to hear him out. So when you gave him a slight nod, patting him amicably on the shoulder before walking towards the palace doors, he felt pride in himself; relief for his brother.

The first place you checked was the stables. Loki’s horse was distinct from the rest, darker than—yet as quiet as an undisturbed evening. You found his horse unattended, nibbling idly at a stack of hay. It whinnied softly as you approached, offering a hand that it gladly nuzzled.

As you observed, the hay seemed to have been just placed there—compared to the others that had already looked a mess. You looked for any clues Loki might have left, and when you gave up, you scratched the horse’s face lightly at its sides. “Now where could you be…”

Right as the words escaped your lips, your eyes trailed down the horse’s chest, eliciting a gasp from you. There was a scar drawn right across. It looked like an old one that had taken years to heal, but you were not mistaken in remembering that it had not been there when they had initially left.

“What are you doing here?”

Despite the biting draftiness in his tone, a warmth swells in your chest. But it is quickly thwarted when you turn your gaze towards him—the sight of him, bloody and tattered. He must have noticed how your expression changed, how you pitied his appearance as his eyes hardened and made your heart feel brittle. You stepped closer to him.

“Don’t,” he breathed, “come any closer,” he says, but he does not make a move to step back or avoid you when you do so anyway.

When you’re close enough, your eyes travel across him entirely—the dents in his armour, the stains of amalgamated blood and grime, his torn cloak, his tired stature—his laboured breathing.

You lift your hands to hover at the sides of his face, but before you could get to touch him, he speaks. “I will taint your dress.”

You tilt your head, scoffing. “I don’t care.”

He melts at your touch, closing his eyes as he bows his head. You move closer so he can lean on your shoulder. Your fingers graze his scalp, you feel your sleeve dampen where his face lies, but you make no mention of it. When his arms wrap around your torso, yours wrap around his neck as you bask in his embrace.

“Are you hurt?” You whisper.

“No.” The strain in his voice tells you he isn’t saying everything. His arms remain around you as he pulls away slightly—and you’re blessed with those blue eyes, akin to the warmth of a lake in summer. “I mean I was, but… I’m alright.”

For a few moments, you stare at him in confusion, then you remember the healed scar on his horse and you break into a giddy smile; the puzzle falls into place. “You’ve learned to heal!”

Your joy infects him, warranting him to chuckle sheepishly. “It has helped the other soldiers and the horses, too.”

“That sounds wonderful. I’m sure your generosity won’t go unnoticed.”

“Neither will yours.”

Your eyebrows twitch in wonder moments before you scowl indignantly. “When my notes and books would go missing, that was you!” You ruffled his hair as he laughed. “But I would always return them in three days!” He argued.

“You were playing tricks on me.”

“I merely listened to your advice.” His words were slow and solemn. Your hands cradle his face once more; for a moment, you do not see the man—callous and cold, as they call him and as they make him up to be. You see the boy who would run to you with his wind-tousled hair and the brightest grin in the Nine Realms, donning a snake over his shoulders. You feel the warmth he had learned to hide within walls as time passed.

And then you see him again—the same boy, the same sheepish smile, just leaner, taller, older—wiser.

That’s all it takes for you to close the gap between your faces, your lips moving against his with a tenderness that surprises him, to which he gladly responds with his tongue and a part of his lips and a tighter grip on your waist.

You pull away, your noses still close enough to touch. “For what it’s worth,” he begins. “Every time they’d thank me, I would give them your name.”

“Ah, that would explain a lot of things.” You looked up in feigned thought, remembering the gratitude the men earlier had expressed towards you. Loki laughs in amusement.

“But I hear you’ll be answering to the Allfather again.”

Loki rolls his eyes—frantically, for a moment, you think you’ve ruined the moment. But he doesn’t let go. “It’s nothing new. Same story, same ending.”

You trace your thumbs over crest of his cheekbones. “It was an accident.”

“There was no room for an accident.”

“Then show yourself the mercy your father does not give.”

Loki stills in your arms, the wind knocked from his lungs for a moment as he tries to find his next words.

“Will you be there?” He asks earnestly.

“If you want me to be.”

His arms tighten around you as he whispers his next word, “Please.”

And you nod—giving him a chaste kiss. When you retract from his embrace, your dress is smothered in dirt and blood as he said it would be. He looks at it with guilt-ridden eyes, but you wave him off. “Nothing a bit of washing can’t fix.”

But still, his eyes are fixed on yours. He has fallen silent—the weight of the upcoming confrontation has settled on his shoulders, this time he’d have at least one more person to rely on.

You take his hand, gingerly lacing your fingers with his. Entering the palace, you feel the stares of people. Perhaps it is because you hold the prince’s hand—because for a moment you have forgotten the grime on your dress.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

End

[never-stranger]

Title: Glory Burnished Bronze — Chapter One

Pairing: Loki x fem!reader (reader has wings)

Summary: After a mishap in a great battle, you are condemned as a traitor to Asgard, Vanaheim, and your own country. Centuries have passed of your incarceration in your kingdom, your magic suppressed by wards, your wings gone, but the magic falters and brings forth your freedom.

Your freedom is a catalyst for nothing but calamity.

The younger prince has a penchant for calamity.

Tags & Warnings: (For this chapter) Slow burn, Violence, Torture, Blood (for general tags, check it out on Ao3)

Forenote: This is gonna be a loooong one. big

Word Count: 3K+

────୨ৎ────

Asgard’s might is not one to be slighted. The Nine Realms cower before its shadow and their rulers immediately seek the Allfather’s rule for his judgement. Now the council surrounds you in dead silence within the walls of a bleak hall that is barely lit with torches. Metal-clad feet collide with the back of your legs, urging you to kneel. The chains rattle as you land. Your muscles are still sore from the throes of battle, but you dare not make a sound, refusing to grant them the pleasure.

Had you been taken here blindfolded, you wouldn’t be able to guess this place was in the Golden City. It was more run-down than its dungeons, much like it was reserved specifically to condemn the worst of criminals.

You train your eyes on Odin before you. He is dressed in his armour with his fingers wrapped around Gungnir. On one side is his wife who fails to stifle her emotions; the sorrow seeps through her eyes and her lips quiver slightly. Sentiment was one, cruelly stupid thing. She was not your friend, perhaps she was even less of an acquaintance than anyone else in the room.

On the other side are his sons. Thor’s gaze is downcast. He’d known you by name and title, but seeing the face of the crimes proved heavier than he’d anticipated, much more when it was the face of a woman about his age. This is why he could never be king, his younger brother next to him seethes.

Unlike the golden prince, he stares sharply. His face is inclined so he looks down at you as he stands on the platform with his family. He condemns you to scrutiny. He’d heard of your crimes and thought you no more than a fool, the magic in your veins was misplaced and could have gone to someone far more capable like himself. In his eyes you were a brutish warrior without foresight; how you were assigned to command a legion of enchanters was beyond him. Sending you to your death would be like rooting out weed plaguing Yggdrasil.

Even so, he swallows a swell in his throat when his father rejects the axe in favour of sentencing you to a lifetime of imprisonment.

“I believe The Swan will be best kept with us, Your Majesty,” a voice interjects. The voice you recognise comes from Rognvir, Fjaerheim’s spokesman speaking on behalf of its king. Glaring up at him, you see the flame in his silver eyes, burning of sorrow and anger. His greying hair threatens to catch fire, the crevices of his skin bury any semblance of empathy he has left. In his eyes, you were a traitor, a rogue warrior drunk on power that led to his son's untimely death on the battlefield. He tells himself it isn’t selfishness and he speaks purely out of concern for his country; that the power you wielded was deadly and could only bring forth more catastrophe.

“Do you suggest that Asgard falters in the task of keeping her bound?” The Allfather challenges.

“I dare not claim such a thing, my lord. But King Anundr reckons there is no greater punishment for treason than to be bound by one’s own people.”

When the One-Eyed King remains silent, the spokesman prods, “With all due respect, Your Majesty,” Rognvir bows his head, a fist to his chest. “The capital of Vanaheim will be keeping the Aether in its vaults, Asgard has also collected its trophies. Consider this act a consolidation of our loyalty to your throne.”

“We are to trust that she remains tethered to the lands of Fjaerheim? Under the rule of her own people?”

“It is under our rule that she abused her power, something we do not take kindly. I myself, shall ensure the full extent of her punishment,” says the Fjaervakt bitterly.

The prince counts four heartbeats before his father nods.

Irony was lost on everyone else. Every man and every woman in the hall had blood on their hands, insurmountable lives taken by wielded blades, yet you… you were guilty.

The voice he had only once heard spoken soft and tenderly now screams and hollers, pleading for death. The thrashing of chains overcomes the sound of Gungnir striking the ground twice, signifying Odin’s ratification of his decision. Your wings spread out in distress, a last-ditch effort your body makes to shield you, it makes the guards behind you stumble.

The raven prince does not hear his father’s second command, so when a blade is brandished he thinks you’d been sentenced to death after all. But when it lands, it elicits a blood-curdling scream as the winged flesh falls on the floor. The action earns an echo of gasps, but the sound of blood rushing in your ears drowns them out.

Freedom was torn from you twice. No, it slips like liquid from your fingers, blood cascading down your skin to paint a grim picture. It clings to the dirt on your body, to your hair. The stench invades your nose; it’s taunting you. You’ve lost, you’ve lost.

Your forehead touches the ground as you suppress your sobs, but you do not have the luxury of time as you are dragged back to your feet. Darkness surrounds your sight until you can only focus on one man. Your prosecutor is the last man you see before the doors close. You curse him, you curse everyone who stood by and watched.

Gone are the days you’d led them to glory and countless victories. Forsaken by your own people; where once they’d bow in greeting, now they seemed satisfied to see you on your knees before them. It leaves a bitter taste on your tongue. These rats, how they’d scour to appease.

Fjaerheim was a disparaged state. For millennia on end, the Fjaervakt would throw themselves upon the Allfather’s feet, offering their greatest accomplishments to the god. With all of Asgard’s pretentiousness and grandeur, they’ve had to fight tooth and nail to prove themselves worthy of alliances and recognition. Such is true for the warriors of Fjaerheim for the most part. The enchanters, like you, were at least a little more reserved. Enchanters, witches, magic users alike had always been criticised for being arrogant in nature, but is it truly so arrogant to refrain from toiling every fleeting shred of praise?

It burns. You can’t quite tell what, but it does. Perhaps it’s everywhere on your body. All that’s left of your identity are the stubs on your shoulder blades that were once wings. With a hoarse throat and dehydration, no voice comes out as you’re dragged.

Loki looks down at himself and checks for blood. He wants to scrub off all the grime he had accumulated from this room alone, more so when he catches a glimpse of his mother whose eyes are filled with pity that should make him scowl. But her eyes only remind him of an afternoon from decades ago, years before war threatened to set loose.

“You aren’t supposed to be here,” the raven prince scolds. His demeanour is as juvenile as any young man, a hand on his hip, his hair disordered in the wind. “This is a private sanctuary for my serpents.” His words are punctuated by the hissed agreements of the snakes. Some crawl on the ground, the others are wrapped around tree branches, but one of them seems content to be coiled around your arm.

“What, are these your chambers as well then?” You snap.

He clenches his fists to your amusement. “Leave before I call the guards.”

“I somehow doubt you’ll need them to cast me out, Odinson,” you address the snake on your arm more so than him as you lift it close to your face to look in its eyes, stroking the scales gently. “Besides, I could ask them to bring me to Frigga and she’ll tell them she had let me drop by.”

“These little things… all bark and no bite.” You dare a glance at him. He looks at you contemplatively. Why in the Nine Realms would his mother let a bird into a snake enclosure? Let alone his very own!

He takes a few steps in your direction, making sure to crush leaves in its wake. “You are its prey, had you been smaller they all would have clambered for a taste.”

“Had I been a bird, I wouldn’t even be here to have this conversation,” you say dryly. “I would have better things to do apart from all the politics and these pretentious… royal engagements.”

Kølldottir. Daughter of Køll, he remembered. Though he’d never cared for your given name until now. Perhaps his mother would be inclined to tell him

They called you a swan. But it makes him wonder. You held no grace of one… did you even have wings? Though he knew the Fjaervakt could hide their wings, you still seemed to be awfully… ordinary.

You crouch closer to the ground, softly cooing at the wicked little thing. He watches as it loosens from you, making a line towards him. He almost laughs at how obedient such a creature known for its stubbornness was.

The snake nuzzles his boots, akin to a feline’s gesture of affection. He picks it up as delicately as how you settled it down. His mouth opens to question you, but he looks up to see the sanctuary empty, no hint of a presence apart from the hissing of snakes.

The next time he’d seen you, he was an ambassador visiting your kingdom. You knelt before the throne, a blade being graced softly on your shoulders. You were being anointed as the next Cardinal Enchanter.

“Brother,”

Silence.

“They wait for us at the victory banquet.”

Serpents plague your dreams. Though a mere fragment of your imagination, the hissing seems too thrum in your eardrums. The ruthless predator strikes a bird, and in another moment that bird is you. It’s coiling around your frail form, stealing the breath from your lungs.

You hear a call, pleading, calling out your name.

You search for it. There is no longer a snake as you soar over the battlefield. Wings stumble, but something else keeps you steady. You can feel it wrapping around your throat, warring with your mind, heart, and soul. The skies above are obscured, perhaps it was of your doing. But with the dark magic crawling into your eyes, clawing at your vision, it’s hard to see.

The magic drenches your fingertips, tainted black, the veins on your forearms, closing into your pulse points, darkening and threatening to consume you whole

You hear it again, it’s closer, but fainter.

“Father?”

When you wake on the cold stone, you take a breath as though you had just drowned. All you see are the same ecru bricked walls, the same dark, eerie marble floors and the torches that keep the temperature bearable at most. The cell was spacious and high, as though to mock your freedom to walk, but not to fly. There were runes inlaid on the ground, carved in a circular motion. They are the ones holding you tethered here. You had no chains, but you could feel the weight of the wards casted on your shoulders. They fatigue you and stifle your magic all the same.

There is no telling of the time, you were underground with no windows or gaps to peek through. They had granted you the luxury of books, half of the cell was a large bookshelf but to compare the quantity with the lifetime you would live here… No, you had finished the books before a decade had passed.

Once, you had laughed to yourself remembering Rognvir’s words about ensuring your full punishment. You had assumed it would be a lifetime of physical torture. But no. This. This was your punishment. An inescapable feeling of languor, the incessant boredom as life moves on without you, depriving you of meals. You felt the hunger, the starvation, but it did not kill you as you wish it would have.

But even this feat did not last long as one night Rognvir entered your cage. He’d grown frail and older. The greys of his hair spread into his skin, his eyes are dull and he holds a cane. With him was an enchanter, whose face was obscured from your view.

The old man moves closer to your shelves, examining the titles available as though to distract himself while the enchanter positions themself. You deserved this, yes. No one could come to rescue you, but he needed to be sure. His son died a quick, albeit painful death. Many of the souls sent to Valhalla were also on your hands. It was in his hands to make sure you died slowly.

And if you dared to break free, you would know it was a greater mistake.

When the enchanter speaks, their voice is distorted, but the words are clear and clawing at your heart.

O, sacred fates heed me

Carry these words to the tree

By the laws that bind the ancient realms

By the wrath of the gods be sound

For no hand to lift you from the ground

May your touch bring forth flames

For fire shall be your bane

Bound by the wrath of Hel

Till the flames seethe and yearn

You could have sworn you’d seen the face of your hexer. At least, the teary eyes and the apology on their tongue.

A fire that shifts, should the heart discern

The curse shall linger to who you hold dear

When hearts entwine shall it disappear

You would pass the centuries in a cycle of slumber and wake. You’d grown tired of reading the same titles, of pacing the same grounds. Sleep merely felt like the blink of an eye as you lay unmoving on the ground. Numb. Your eyes would open, then close again. But without a clock, you were oblivious to how much time would have passed. You could only feel it by how sore your body has grown, perhaps how your hair had grown to reach your feet.

Slumber takes you in full. You do not dream, nor hear the faint crackling of torches.

You do not hear the seal groaning above.

But you feel the rain cascading down your skin.

The Raven was not in high spirits.

Even less as he had just returned from subduing an illegal operation in the north, only to return home with his presence being requested immediately before the Allfather. No hero’s welcome, perhaps a sliver of it in the form of a salute from awaiting soldiers. He gives them a nod as he dismounts his horse, his party of enchanters follow suit. Only to be followed by the Allmother’s servant, Mendel, hastily making his way to the prince to blabber all the way into the palace.

“...There are a myriad of preparations to be made in the upcoming months, my lord, plenty of which the Queen has requested your assistance with. The Annual Arcane Tournament, too, is within the fortnight–”

“First, I am welcomed with a request from the King. Now you nag me all the way to him with matters that are of no concern at the moment. Do you mean to tell me the King wishes to talk of these fatuous preparations on the throne? By fate, I hope it won’t be a waste of time as you are making it sound like.” The prince halts in his tracks to give the servant a pointed glare as he speaks. Mendel feels the frostbite nip his skin, the prince’s icy glare freezing him into place before quickly melting as the forest’s winter peeled his gaze away to will his feet further into the corridors.

“First things first, Mendel. I shall attend to my mother later. What urgency requires my presence upon the throne room this early noon?” Though weary, he has returned to his princely demeanour. The events of the earlier morning slowly fade into the depths of his mind. But they linger nonetheless, in his mind and in the droplets of blood on his leathers.

The prince and all his wonders, thinks. Kingly duties were primarily only of Thor’s concern as the heir, it seems this concern exceeds beyond.

The pair stops before the grand doors as the prince awaits his answer.

“A messenger from Vanaheim, my lord.”

Before Loki could voice his contempt, the grand doors swing open, and a herald announces his arrival. The lingering echo rings in his ears. It makes him wince.

He scurries into the room, leaving Mendel behind. He does not see the servant bowing as the doors close.

Upon reaching the foot of the stairs to the platform the thrones lay upon, Loki heaps a small show of reverence himself, bowing to his hips, a fist to his heart before making his way to his mother’s side. Mother and son exchange fond gazes before awaiting their special guest.

They do not wait for long.

“The messenger Bernhard of Vanaheim!” Bellows the herald.

Bernhard was of lesser stature, as most of the Vanir were compared to the Aesir. He scampers into the throne room, unfashionably urgent. His hair was unkempt, ginger splayed all over his face, eyebrows furrowed into an expression of distress. His skin was darker, too, evidence of Vanaheim’s closest star warming its lands. He had barely made it to the foot of the platform before he fell to his knees. Both of them. As opposed to the tradition being only one. The momentum from when he ran inside makes him glide half an inch onto the carpet.

“What concerns of Vanaheim requires Asgard’s counsel, Bernhard? Speak,” commands Odin, ever the king he is.

“Fjaerheim is in a state of unrest. Their magic has dwindled, though we know not why.” Bernhard’s voice trembles. He’d heard of the king’s wrath in tales and did not wish to witness it for himself. What he’d just stated was merely the tip of the iceberg.

The king has moved in his seat. If intrigue was a scent, he’d reek of it. “Continue.”

“The capital of Vanaheim has lost the Aether.”

The brothers look at each other, the atmosphere hardens and a bead of sweat drops on the ground. But the messenger continues.

“The former Cardinal Enchanter of Fjaerheim–” he clears his throat. “The last who wielded the Aether has been set free.”

The Wraith.

The Lady of the Swans.

Odin grasps Gungnir tightly, the messenger prepares himself for a strike that does not come. Perhaps the Allfather wasn’t as merciless as he’d been told.

“Fjaerheim has granted her freedom?” The irritability leaks from Odin’s voice. They’d sworn full sentence five hundred years ago, surely they would have known better than to rescind loyalty now.

“N-no, sire. At least not from what we have been told. The weakening of Fjaerheim’s magic is to blame. The spells that kept her tethered faltered with its people. But the council suspects that the Fjaervakt are keeping something from us, perhaps they seek to reap more of their sovereignty from the capital of Vanaheim, they say.”

“Does the council surmise a connection between these events?”

“As we presume the prisoner has no means of escaping or retrieving the Aether without wings, nor magic, it’s quite hard to tell, sire. Unless she has someone from the outside, which too isn’t completely out of the question.”

The Wraith , yes. A handful remained loyal to you despite your sentence, and some still lived at present. Even Loki could remember their faces, how they were somehow frozen into contortion expressing indefinite derisiveness whenever they stepped foot into the Golden Palace. They scorned the King, but never enough to raise an impression.

The idea was on the tip of his tongue, but Thor beat him to it– “Then we shall find her. Before she makes allies, we’ll be sure to have her,” He turns to his brother, “you and I, and our men. We’d make a formidable search party.”

Loki rolls his eyes, his hands tighten behind him as he clears his throat. “With your permission, father?”

The hopeful look in Bernhard’s eyes does not escape the sights of the king and his youngest son. In hindsight the idea seemed rash, but would there be anyone else so willing to take the quest?

Was The Wraith as vulnerable as they say? Or are they merely imploring for action to be taken. Either way, his sons were capable, he knew that far. Should they find her, you, you’d be returned to Asgard to where you rightfully belonged. Fjaerheim took you as a prize, a cruel symbol of loyalty to the Golden Kingdom. But they’d failed.

The thought lingers, but he keeps it at bay. Your power, the Aether. No one else had wielded it for so long before losing their minds or deteriorating physically. With that kind of power how, had you stood for so long? And with that kind of power within an arm’s reach from him…

“Very well. The princes of Asgard shall lead a search party to seek out the prisoner. Thor shall take five of his best men, and Loki shall take five of his best enchanters–”

“I’ll fare perfectly fine with just two.”

“...Two of his best enchanters, and Vanaheim and Fjaerheim can provide as much as they deem fit for this venture.” The Allfather moves in his seat, leaning forward. “However, I duly suggest to simmer down any animosity between the two nations for the time this shall take place. Asgard and Vanaheim are powerful, but only the Fjaervakt can be certain of their own lands.”

“Of course, sire.”

“Then it is settled.” Two thuds of a spear resound.

Bernhard rises from his knees and graces the family with one last bow.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

Afternote: Just reuploading progress from my Ao3!!! what are your favourite Loki headcanons? I really like the idea that he has a snake sanctuary somewhere. Also that he transforms into a snake when he doesn’t feel like talking to people lolll

[never-stranger]

i can’t even begin to explain the entire plot i have in mind for this fic… twists snd ending and everything else in between… it would be an entire thing on its own 🤞🥲 i want my motivation to continue writing this so baddd