Summery: A love torn apart by a choice she never had.
Characters: Bucky Barnes x f!reader
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You don’t sit.
You never sit when you’re about to break something.
Bucky notices immediately—the way you hover near the door, fingers worrying at each other, eyes darting anywhere but him. He asks what’s wrong and you swallow hard, like the words are too big for your throat.
“I’m being married off,” you say finally, voice thin and careful. “It’s… an arrangement. A wealthy businessman. It’s convenient.”
The word tastes wrong in your mouth. It doesn’t belong here—in his apartment that smells like coffee and gun oil, in the space where you learned how to laugh again. Bucky just stares at you, waiting for the punchline that never comes.
“I don’t want it,” you rush out. “God, Bucky, I don’t want it. But I have to.”
“Have to?” His voice cracks. He steps closer, eyes frantic. “You don’t have to marry anyone. Whatever it is—we’ll figure it out. Together.”
You shake your head, a sad little smile breaking your face. “You can’t fix this.”
When you reach for the door, something in him snaps. He catches your wrist—careful, like he’s terrified of hurting you—and pulls you back, crowding you against the wall. Not rough. Just desperate. His forehead presses to yours, his breath uneven, shoulders trembling beneath his jacket.
“Please,” he whispers, like it’s ripped out of him. “Don’t leave me. I can’t— I won’t survive losing you too. Let me try. Let me fight for you.”
Your tears spill then, silent and hot. You cradle his face like it’s sacred, like you’re afraid it’ll fade if you don’t hold on tight enough.
“I already did,” you whisper. “I fought. And I lost.”
You kiss him before he can argue—before he can give you another reason to stay. It’s messy and aching and full of everything you’re about to bury. His hands grip you like anchors, like if he holds on hard enough the world might stop moving.
When you pull away, both of you are shaking.
“I love you,” you breathe, pressing one last kiss to his lips, his cheek, his forehead. “And that’s why I have to go.”
“Don’t,” he sobs, breaking at the sound of goodbye forming in your chest.
“Goodbye, Buck.”
You leave while he’s still reaching for you.
The door shuts with a soft click that feels louder than any gunshot. Bucky sinks to the floor, hands in his hair, a broken sound tearing out of him as the apartment echoes with your absence.
On the other side of the door, you press your back against the wall, choking on your tears, heart splintering as you walk away—because loving him was the one thing that felt right… and choosing anything else is the punishment you’ll carry forever.
-the end
>>>should a make this Drabble into a Oneshot or a series?<<<
When the chapel doors opened and Y/N appeared in the doorway, Bucky felt the entire world tilt—slow, deliberate, like time itself was bowing to her. His breath hitched painfully in his chest, a sharp inhale that never fully released. For a second, he honestly wondered if he was dreaming, if this was another one of those fragile illusions his mind conjured when he ached for softness. But then she stepped forward, the fabric of her dress catching the light like something holy, and he knew—this was real. She was real. She was walking to him. His knees nearly gave out. His heart stuttered, pounding so loudly he was convinced the guests could hear every panicked, disbelieving beat. He had survived wars, Hydra, the Winter Soldier, decades of silence and nightmares, but nothing—nothing—had ever hit him with this kind of force. She lifted her gaze and her eyes locked onto his, and the world went silent in a way that made him feel both terrified and saved. That look—warm, steady, overflowing with love—made something deep inside him collapse, a part of him he’d kept barricaded and braced for years. He felt tears burn the back of his eyes before he could stop them, felt his throat tighten until he could barely swallow. His metal hand twitched at his side, clenching and unclenching as if trying to hold the magnitude of this moment. He watched her walk toward him with such softness, such trust, and he couldn’t understand how a man like him could be chosen, wanted, loved by someone like her. For a fleeting, desperate heartbeat he remembered every night he’d spent thinking he’d die alone, every moment he thought he wasn’t worth saving. But then she smiled—small, trembling, luminous—and it shattered every dark thought left inside him. She’s my wife. She’s walking to marry me. Me. The thought broke him open. His vision blurred, and he didn’t even try to blink the tears away as she came closer, step by step, carrying all the hope he never believed he would have. By the time she reached him, his entire soul was trembling, because Bucky Barnes had never seen anything more beautiful, more impossible, more achingly perfect than the woman who was choosing him for forever. He wasn’t just watching her walk down the aisle—he was watching the rest of his life come home.
I know today has left you weary, and it pains me to see even a shadow touch your light. You don’t always have to be strong with me—let yourself rest, let yourself lean. I will hold the pieces when the world feels unkind.
You are my solace, the one who softens even the sharpest corners of my heart. If you need silence, I will give it. If you need warmth, I will never let you go. All I ask is that you remember—you are not alone. Not now, not ever.
Hiii! I was wondering your rules or guidelines for requests so I know what you are or arnt okay with like if you do male reader or just female, that kind of stuff? It’s fine if you don’t do male I’m fine with female I was just wondering so I’m able to request something if you’re okay with it.
Have a lovely day/night!
I’m completely fine with genre, however i dont write for male reader only female or gender neutral (only wrote one drabble in gender neutral so it may not be that good) so, it would be best for me if you request for a female reader.
Also, I’m not ok with these few points:
I do not write character x minor!reader or parent!character x child!reader
I have wrote a few smut fanfics and I didn’t really liked it but I still posted it. However now, I prefer not to write smut because sometimes it makes me uncomfortable, cant really think of what to write and maybe some underage readers might read it. I hope you understand!
I am ok with these:
Fluff of course
Dark romance (without sexual content)
Multiple pairings (character x reader x character)
Angst, hurt/comfort, shenanigans etc
I hope this helped! If you have any questions you can always ask. Also, tell me if I missed anything because I feel like it did 😅
I just stumbled across your blog and have been scrolling for quite some time, your fics are so good!!
i was wondering if I could request something for loki x f!reader where the reader tends to be more adverse/not used to affection and loki helps her become more open/enjoy it? :)
Sorry for posting so late, I was really busy with my exams 😅
𝑮𝒂𝒓𝒅𝒆𝒏 𝑳𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕-𝑶𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕
Summery: Y/n is learning to embrace affection with Loki’s patient guidance, as their bond deepens under the glow of his magic and the quiet of her balcony garden.
Characters: Loki x f!reader
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The balcony was Y/N’s sanctuary, a small patch of green clinging stubbornly to the side of the building. A swing hung from the ceiling, slightly frayed at the ropes, and scattered pots overflowed with herbs, flowers, and tiny vegetables that stubbornly refused to die despite her inconsistent attention. The city hummed below, distant traffic a dull, omnipresent thrum, but up here, she could pretend it didn’t exist. Up here, she could breathe.
She rocked gently in the swing, her bare feet tapping the air, the evening breeze ruffling her hair. The sun had dipped behind the skyline, and the first stars blinked uncertainly into existence. She loved these quiet moments, alone with her thoughts, her fears, and the soft scents of lavender and thyme.
It was supposed to be quiet.
And then there was a shadow.
At first, she thought the city had thrown a trick of light across the balcony railing, but when the shadow shifted, Y/N’s stomach clenched. Her swing jolted, and she yelped.
Loki, impossibly graceful as always, perched atop the railing, one hand gripping the balcony frame, the other adjusting his dark coat. A strand of hair fell across his forehead, catching the fading sunlight. “Don’t scream,” he said softly, almost gently, though his voice carried that edge she had come to recognize—mischief tempered by restraint.
She blinked, frozen. “Loki… How—what—why are you—”
He slid down onto the balcony floor with a precision that made her head spin, landing lightly beside her swing. There was a pause, a heartbeat where the world seemed to narrow to just the two of them. The city noise dulled, the evening breeze stilled, and the plants around her seemed to lean toward him as if sensing his presence. A faint glow shimmered along the edges of his fingers, the soft, green-gold pulse of magic that he didn’t bother hiding anymore. Her herbs and flowers tilted toward it, tiny leaves quivering in recognition of the energy she didn’t understand but instinctively trusted.
“You startled me,” she said, voice trembling, though her words sounded weaker than her fear.
“I meant no harm,” Loki replied, the glow in his hands fading as he lowered them to his sides. “I only… needed to see you.” His eyes, dark and unyielding, softened slightly, holding an emotion he rarely let anyone witness. Concern? Longing? Something fragile, like a cracked shard of starlight.
She swallowed, looking down at her hands. “I… I’m not used to people getting close.” Her voice was barely audible, but it was honest. Too honest.
He knelt slightly closer, the faint shimmer of magic brushing over her sleeve, warming her skin without touching it. “Then we take our time,” he said softly. “I will not rush. I will not force anything. Only… allow you to be safe with me, if you wish.”
Safe. The word reverberated in her chest. It sounded alien on her lips, almost forbidden. She had spent years learning to push people away, to shield herself from disappointment, from touch, from affection. And yet, here he was. He didn’t ask, he didn’t demand—he simply existed, patient and real.
She shifted in the swing, hands gripping the ropes. “Why… why do you care?” Her voice cracked. She hated how small it sounded, but she couldn’t stop the question.
He smiled faintly, the kind of smile that hinted at centuries of pain and isolation, and yet carried warmth like sunlight through winter leaves. “Because, Y/N… even gods can recognize a soul that has been lonely too long. Even I… have been lonely.”
She blinked at him, astonished. “You? Loki? The God of Mischief?”
“I am many things,” he said, voice low, almost reverent. “But I am also a man who cannot abide the absence of someone who brings light into his days.” He leaned back slightly, giving her space, yet every inch of his posture drew her gaze like gravity. “You are that light, whether you realize it or not.”
Her chest constricted, and for a moment, she considered retreating. But the warmth of his presence, the subtle shimmer of his magic curling around the balcony plants, coaxed her to stay. “I… I don’t know how to… I mean, affection… I’m not—”
“—You are not used to it,” he finished for her. “I know. And I will not shame you for it. Nor will I take what you do not give willingly.”
She exhaled slowly, the words she didn’t realize she’d been holding in spilling into the space between them. “It’s… hard. People touching me. Saying nice things. Being… kind.”
Loki tilted his head, considering her, then extended a single hand toward her—not to grab, not to press, but simply to hover within reach. His fingers glimmered faintly, the soft magic visible now in the dying light, brushing the edge of her sleeve without touching. “Then we start here,” he said. “A touch is not a demand. It can be a promise.”
She studied his hand, hesitant. The gentle glow beckoned her, warm and safe, like the first sunlight of spring warming soil that had been frozen too long. Slowly, trembling, she lifted her hand and rested it against his. Just on top, lightly, barely.
His lips curved into a small, triumphant smile. “That… is all I ask for now.”
Her lips parted in surprise. “That’s… enough?”
“For now,” he said. “And later, we can explore more. Words, gestures, silences. Whatever you allow, I will accept. Always.”
The city lights twinkled below, distant and muted. The balcony felt like a world apart, one small universe suspended between sky and stone, where only the two of them existed.
“I… I think I can try,” she whispered, eyes wide and vulnerable. “I want to… learn.”
Loki’s fingers tightened slightly around hers, not enough to overwhelm, only enough to anchor her in the moment. He shifted closer, brushing his shoulder lightly against hers. “Then we will try… together.”
The glow from his magic intensified faintly, illuminating her hair like spun gold. A few petals from the nearest flower floated up, suspended in the magical warmth that flowed around them, as if the garden itself was blessing this fragile, tentative closeness.
She laughed softly, a little unsure, and he laughed too, low and rich, the sound vibrating through the balcony floor. It felt like home, even in the small moments.
“You know,” she said, leaning slightly against him, “this… this is kind of nice.”
“It is,” he agreed, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of her head. “And it will grow. Slowly. Surely.”
Her chest tightened with something she hadn’t allowed herself to feel in years: hope. And maybe even trust.
“I… I think I’d like that,” she admitted, resting her cheek against his shoulder, her hand still in his.
He held her gently, his own breathing evening out against hers. “Then it is agreed. No rush. No pressure. Only this… and more when you are ready.”
The stars above twinkled uncertainly, mirrored in the soft glow of his lingering magic. The city hummed quietly below. The balcony garden, their tiny haven, smelled faintly of lavender, thyme, and new beginnings.
“I like this,” she murmured. “I like us… like this.”
Loki’s lips curved in a rare, unguarded smile. “So do I, Y/N. So very much.”
He brushed her hair back gently, resting his forehead against hers. “We will take our time. Together. That is my promise to you.”
And in the quiet of the night, amidst the scent of her balcony garden, the flickering glow of magic, and the distant hum of the city, Y/N finally felt warmth she hadn’t known she’d been missing. She felt seen, safe, and, for the first time, willing to let someone in.
The swing creaked softly beneath her, but it no longer mattered. For once, she wasn’t alone.
And Loki, holding her hand, watching the soft rise and fall of her chest against his, kissed her forehead—tender, reverent, and full of promise.
The night stretched on, quiet, infinite, and full of light.
I’m sorry today weighed on you the way it did. I wish I could’ve been there to shield you from every rough moment, every thought that hurt. Please remember—you don’t have to hold it all in or fight through it by yourself. I’m here. Always.
If you need someone to listen, I’ll listen. If you need silence, I’ll sit with you in it. If you need arms around you, mine will never let you go. You don’t have to be strong every second—let me be strong for you when you’re tired.
No matter how heavy the world feels, you are never a burden. You are my peace, my home, my favorite part of every day. Rest easy knowing tomorrow doesn’t have to be faced alone—I’ll be right beside you, every step.
Thank you so much for writing this. I found this right when I needed it, two weeks ago. Not only was it comforting but also exactly what I needed to hear. Thank you 💜
No problem 😉 I wrote this because I was having a horrible day and I wanted to make others who were also having a bad day feel better. These words are what I wanted to hear from someone but I didnt have anyone. :/
Y/N tries to teach Loki Fall traditions of Midgard. Loki doesn't understand the big deal about pumpkins.
Pumpkin of My Eye~Oneshot
Summery: Pumpkins vs Loki
Characters: Loki x f!reader
||Main Masterlist|| ||Oneshot Masterlist||
The market smelled like cinnamon and apples, laughter tangled with the crisp autumn air. Children darted between hay bales, clutching caramel apples with sticky fingers, while families carried baskets brimming with orange gourds. To Loki, it was chaos. To you, it was heaven.
“You’ll love it,” you promised, tugging gently at his sleeve as he slowed before a pumpkin stand. His dark hair gleamed in the sunlight, catching in the breeze, and his sharp gaze scanned the rows of lumpy orange produce as though they might sprout legs and attack.
Loki arched a brow. “You dragged me halfway across Midgard to… choose fruit?”
“They’re not fruit,” you corrected, grinning at his disdain. “Well… botanically, they are, but that’s not the point. It’s about the tradition. Pumpkins are a symbol of fall. You carve them, decorate them, bake them into pies—”
“Deface them, display them, and then consume them,” Loki summarized coolly. “All in honor of… what? The changing weather?”
You bit your lip to keep from laughing. “It’s about celebrating the season. Warmth, harvest, community. Pumpkins are part of that.”
He crouched suddenly, inspecting a particularly round specimen. His long fingers tapped its surface, producing a dull thunk. He scowled. “It is hollow.”
“Perfect for carving,” you said brightly.
“Why would anyone mutilate a perfectly defenseless gourd?” His eyes flicked to yours, sharp but amused. “Does it scream?”
You gasped, shoving his shoulder lightly. “Loki!”
The god only smirked, straightening to his full height. “I simply do not see why mortals assign such reverence to vegetation. In Asgard, we honored the hunt, the storms, the strength of warriors—not… squash.”
You crossed your arms. “Maybe if you actually tried it, you’d understand.”
Moments later, back at your apartment, Loki stood at the kitchen table like he was preparing for battle. A pumpkin the size of a small boulder sat before him, knife gleaming in his hand.
“Careful,” you warned.
He gave you a withering look. “Do you not trust me with a blade?”
“Not when it comes to vegetables,” you teased.
His first slice was elegant, precise—as though he were crafting a weapon rather than cutting open a gourd. Orange guts clung to the knife. Loki peered inside with utter disgust. “It is infested.”
You burst out laughing. “Those are seeds. You roast them.”
“Midgardians truly stop at nothing to prove their madness,” he muttered, though he dutifully scooped the stringy mess onto a tray. His nose wrinkled with every pull.
When it came time to carve, you guided his hand, showing him how to make simple shapes. Loki, of course, refused to be simple. What started as a triangle eye became a perfectly symmetrical rune, etched with impossible precision. Soon the pumpkin bore an intricate design that seemed to glow even before you placed a candle inside.
You stared at it, breath caught. “Loki… that’s beautiful.”
He tilted his head, watching the flickering light play through his work. A rare softness brushed his expression. “Perhaps it has… charm. In its own way.”
You nudged him, smiling. “See? Pumpkins aren’t so ridiculous.”
Loki’s lips curved into the faintest smirk. “Do not mistake tolerance for enthusiasm. I still fail to see how a gourd represents warmth or community.”
You leaned closer, resting your chin on his shoulder. “It’s not really about the pumpkin. It’s about doing it together.”
For once, he had no retort. Just a quiet hum, his eyes lingering on yours longer than they did on the flame.
And though he would never admit it aloud, Loki thought perhaps there was more to these mortal traditions than he’d first believed.
—
The flicker of candlelight glowed through the carved pumpkin on your windowsill. The air was rich with cinnamon, nutmeg, and the faint sweetness of baked apples—your oven currently occupied by a pie you’d sworn would impress Loki.
He sat at the table, long legs stretched out, chin resting on one elegant hand. His emerald eyes were fixed not on the pumpkin but on you, flour dusted across your nose and sleeves rolled up as you fussed with the crust.
“You look absurdly pleased with yourself,” he drawled.
“That’s because I am.” You shot him a grin, brushing your hair back. “You, God of Mischief, carved your very first pumpkin. Successfully.”
He arched a brow. “Successfully? My dear, I carved a rune so precise your mortal eyes nearly wept. That is hardly mere success.”
You laughed, pulling the pie from the oven. The buttery scent filled the room, and Loki’s nose twitched despite himself. You slid a steaming slice in front of him. “Now the best part: pumpkin pie.”
He eyed it warily. “You expect me to consume this?”
“Yes. With whipped cream.” You plopped a generous swirl on top.
He took a bite, slow and cautious—and then paused, eyes narrowing as if offended by how much he liked it. “This… is not intolerable.”
“Not intolerable?” you echoed, mock-offended. “That’s the highest Midgardian honor.”
He smirked, leaning back in his chair, the candlelight dancing over sharp cheekbones. “You’re insufferable.”
“You love it,” you shot back.
“I might tolerate you,” he murmured, stealing another bite—and then, to your outrage, the entire slice.
“Loki!”
But his grin was wicked, his lips sticky with cinnamon as he caught your wrist when you reached for the plate. “If it’s about doing things together, as you claim…” His voice dropped, velvety and low. “…then surely you’ll share.”
And just like that, pumpkin pie became the sweetest tradition of all.
—
The pumpkin carnival was in full swing. Lanterns shaped like jack-o’-lanterns glowed along the paths, hay bales lined the walkways, and the smell of cinnamon-sugar doughnuts mingled with roasted corn. Children darted past carrying candied apples, couples posed in front of pumpkin arches, and a local band plucked fiddles in the background.
You were practically glowing with excitement. Loki, on the other hand, looked like he’d been forced to attend his own execution.
“Mortals,” he muttered, staring at a group of children chasing each other with glow sticks. “You celebrate harvest with… glowing sticks and fried sugar.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” you teased, tugging at his sleeve.
“It is frivolous.”
“It’s fun.” You beamed, steering him toward the next booth. “Look, pumpkin bowling! Pumpkin ring toss! Ooooh, pumpkin catapulting!”
Loki gave you a sharp look. “If you attempt to make me launch squash for entertainment, I will hex this entire field.”
You laughed, dragging him onward until your eyes lit on a trough filled with bobbing apples. A hand-painted sign read:
BOBBING FOR APPLES — 2 Tickets
You slapped your tickets on the counter before Loki even processed what was happening.
He stared at the trough like it was cursed. “You cannot be serious.”
“Oh, I’m very serious.” You grinned, bouncing on your heels.
He leaned closer, lowering his voice as though speaking of forbidden knowledge. “You wish me to submerge my face into a communal basin of water—already fouled by the saliva of others—in pursuit of fruit?”
You bit back laughter. “When you say it like that, it sounds gross. But trust me—it’s fun!”
He crossed his arms, towering over the trough. “I am a prince of Asgard. I will not humiliate myself for a—”
“Loki…” You tilted your head, deploying your best pleading eyes. “Do it for me?”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “This realm has truly lost its mind.”
His lips twitched, caught between annoyance and fondness. Finally, he sighed like a man condemned. “If I contract a plague from this, it shall be on your conscience.”
The attendant handed each of you a turn. You crouched down first, tucking your hair back. Loki stood over you, smirking. “I must say, I am eager to witness this humiliation.”
“Watch and learn,” you shot back.
You plunged your head in. Cold water splashed across your cheeks as apples bobbed mockingly away from your mouth. You lunged, missed, lunged again—and finally emerged triumphant, gripping a red apple in your teeth, dripping water down your neck.
The crowd around you clapped and cheered. Loki gave a slow clap, unimpressed. “One apple, after three attempts. Remarkable.”
“Oh, you’re next, Mischief.” You handed him the stool.
Loki crouched elegantly, rolling up his sleeves like he was preparing for battle. “This will be effortless.”
He leaned down, hair falling forward, and dunked. Immediately the apples scattered away from him like they were enchanted. Loki surfaced with a splash, sputtering, hair plastered to his face.
You howled with laughter. “Effortless, huh?”
He glared, water dripping from his nose. “They are avoiding me on purpose.”
“That’s the point!” you giggled.
Loki scowled, then plunged again—this time with more force. Apples bobbed and spun, still eluding him. He came up empty-handed again, soaked to the bone. The crowd was laughing now, clapping and shouting encouragement.
You doubled over, tears in your eyes. “Oh my god—you’re losing to fruit!”
His eyes narrowed dangerously. “The apples are conspiring.”
“Or,” you teased, “maybe you’re just bad at this.”
That did it. Loki’s competitive streak ignited. “One more round,” he growled, shoving his hair back. “Best of three.”
You agreed instantly.
For the second round, you dunked again, grabbing your apple in record time, emerging victorious with a triumphant grin. Loki followed, dunking so dramatically the water sloshed over the edge of the trough. He bit into an apple with a savage growl, holding it aloft like a prize.
“Tied,” he declared smugly, apple still clenched between sharp teeth.
The crowd roared.
Final round. The two of you knelt side by side, faces inches from the water. You grinned at him. “Ready?”
His eyes glinted. “I was born ready.”
“Three, two, one—go!”
You both plunged. Apples slipped and spun, water sloshing everywhere. Your hair stuck to your forehead as you snapped at a slippery red one—only for it to dart away. Loki’s shoulder bumped yours, deliberate and mischievous. You shoved back, sending a splash into his face underwater.
The crowd howled with laughter as the two of you waged silent war in the trough. Finally, you surfaced—empty-mouthed but laughing too hard to care. Loki popped up a beat later, victorious apple in his teeth, water cascading down his jaw.
He spat it into his palm and smirked. “And thus, the god prevails.”
You shook your head, still giggling. “You cheated!”
“I did no such thing.” He flicked his dripping hair back. “I merely outperformed.”
“Uh-huh. Sure.”
With a mischievous gleam in his eye, Loki leaned down until his lips brushed your ear. “Shall I bob for another… and share it with you?”
Your heart skipped, cheeks heating as you shoved his shoulder lightly. “You’re ridiculous.”
He only grinned, slipping the apple into your hands. “And yet… you’re smiling.”
And as the crowd clapped and cheered, Loki decided maybe—just maybe—bobbing for apples wasn’t so terrible after all.
Summery: Y/N L/N, adopted and winterborn with a quiet gift for magic, never thought much about the faint silver soulmark on her wrist—until it begins to glow in Asgard’s library. Loki Odinson, sharp-tongued and cynical, has spent centuries scoffing at fate… until he sees the same mark shining on her skin.
Characters: Loki x f!reader
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This is based on a request by: @stygianoir
Note: Soulmate!au. Fluff and more fluff
Winter had always felt like a secret language to Y/N L/N.
Snow whispered differently to her than it did to others—it carried a hush, a promise, the echo of something larger than herself. As a child, she used to press her palms against frosted glass windows and imagine the patterns of ice shifting at her command. Sometimes, it almost felt like they did. That small spark of wonder, the faint tug of something magical, had been with her as long as she could remember.
And yet, there were so many things she didn’t remember.
She had been adopted at a young age—too young to recall where she truly came from, or who had left her swaddled at the doorstep of a kind Midgardian family. She grew up with dark hair that never quite seemed to match the rest of them, eyes that shimmered strangely when the moonlight caught them, and a deep pull toward things she couldn’t explain. Where her siblings liked sports and music, Y/N liked books of myths, whispered words that carried power, and the feeling of energy stirring beneath her fingertips.
Her adoptive parents never discouraged her oddities. They let her stay up late during December storms, let her read by candlelight until the wax pooled in shallow bowls. They called her their “winterborn girl,” a daughter of snow and stars.
It was only years later, when she grew into her talents, that she realized she wasn’t imagining things at all. The way flames bent slightly when she raised her hand, the way shadows seemed to obey her thoughts, the way snowflakes lingered in her palms long after they should have melted. Magic—quiet, subtle, waiting.
Fate, however, had been waiting too.
On her wrist, faint but undeniable, was a mark. A curve of silver light, like the tail of a falling star. The soulmark. Everyone had one, though no two were alike. It would remain dormant until she stood near the one destined for her—the other half who carried the same mark, mirrored and glowing.
Some spent their lives searching. Some never cared to look. Some found their soulmates and wished they hadn’t.
Y/N never thought much about it. The mark was there, yes, but it was quiet. It never pulsed, never shone. She figured, if it was meant to happen, it would. And if not—she was content with her books and her winter storms.
⸻
Far away, in golden Asgard, another winterborn child had once stared at his own mark with disdain.
Loki Odinson—second son of Odin, shadow to Thor’s light—had always scoffed at the notion of soulmates. Childish fairytales, he called them. Destiny was something he had been handed cruelly, without consent. Born of Jotun blood, hidden in plain sight, raised in the shadow of a brother who seemed to embody everything Asgard valued—strength, thunder, sunlight. Loki had been the clever one, the schemer, the sharp mind too often dismissed.
And the soulmark on his wrist? A small starburst, faint silver. He used to hide it beneath leather bracers, unwilling to admit that fate dared to claim him. The thought that somewhere in all the realms, someone might be bound to him by cosmic design—it felt like mockery.
He didn’t want kindness forced upon him. He didn’t want love dictated by a glow.
So he buried the thought. He poured himself into seidr, into illusion and enchantment, into every dark corner of magic that gave him control when the rest of his life had denied him any.
If the mark glowed one day, he decided, he would ignore it. He would sneer at fate and walk away.
Or so he told himself.
⸻
The years wound on. Y/N grew into her quiet magic, unaware of the golden realm that spun far above her. Loki grew sharper, lonelier, a storm in human form, unaware that the one person who could soften him was out there, dreaming in the snow.
And in December—each December—they both felt a peculiar tug in their chests. Nothing painful, nothing urgent. Just a flicker. A sense of being almost whole, though neither knew why.
Two December children, dark-haired, winterborn, marked by fate.
The universe was waiting for the right moment to let them collide.
And when it came, it would begin in the quietest of places—the library.
The palace library was unlike anything Y/N had ever seen before.
She had been given permission to explore the halls of Asgard as a guest—an honor extended to very few mortals—and the first place she had been drawn to was not the training fields or the banquet halls, but here: endless shelves, ladders climbing toward glittering ceilings, books stacked higher than she could measure.
Her footsteps echoed quietly against the marble floor as she walked, fingertips brushing along spines etched in golden runes. The air smelled of parchment and candle wax, of ink that carried centuries of knowledge. Her heart beat with the thrill of discovery.
It was here, in a secluded corner, that she set her armful of books on a table. Enchantments of healing. Ancient poems about constellations. A tome on seidr, the very magic that had whispered to her since childhood. She sank into a chair, dark hair falling over her shoulder, and exhaled in contentment.
That was when she felt it.
A tug. Not physical, not painful—but an unmistakable pull. Her wrist warmed, a subtle hum in her skin. Y/N frowned, glancing down.
The mark.
The faint silver curve that had always been quiet now shimmered softly, like moonlight caught in water.
Her breath caught.
And then—footsteps.
They were light but deliberate, accompanied by the soft rustle of fabric. From the shadow of the towering shelves emerged a figure: tall, lean, with black hair as dark as hers, falling in elegant waves. His green eyes were sharp, too intelligent to be at ease, and his robes swirled with silver threads that glimmered like starlight.
Loki.
Though she did not know him yet, Y/N had heard whispers from the guards, from passing courtiers. The second prince. Mischief given form. Dangerous, clever, unpredictable.
And in that moment, both their marks flared.
Loki’s stride faltered. He glanced at his wrist with a flicker of annoyance—then froze when he saw hers.
Silver light danced across both marks, mirroring perfectly, as though they had been carved from the same star.
The air between them grew charged.
Y/N, wide-eyed, pressed her wrist to her chest, half in wonder, half in disbelief. Loki, however, scoffed under his breath.
“Of course,” he muttered, voice dry as winter air. “Fate has a sense of humor.”
Her lips parted. “Excuse me?”
He tilted his head, studying her as though she were an unsolvable riddle. “You. A mortal. In my library.” His tone dripped with disdain, though his eyes betrayed curiosity. “And my soulmark decides to wake for you.”
Y/N blinked at him, then at her glowing wrist. The mark pulsed gently, matching the rhythm of her heart. Slowly, carefully, she set her hand back on the table and straightened.
“I didn’t exactly ask for this either,” she said softly, though her voice held a thread of courage. “But… I don’t think it’s something either of us gets to choose.”
Loki’s jaw tightened. He leaned closer, narrowing his eyes. “You say that as though it were a gift. Tell me, mortal—do you truly find the idea of being bound to a stranger comforting?”
She studied him, dark hair framing her face. His words were sharp, but beneath them, she sensed unease. Fear, even. Not of her—but of what she represented.
“I don’t know if it’s comforting,” Y/N admitted. Her kindness shone through the nerves. “But I do know this—if fate ties two people together, maybe it’s not about comfort. Maybe it’s about possibility.”
Loki stilled.
For the first time, someone had answered him without flinching, without fawning, without trying to match his venom. Her words were simple, but they lodged in his chest like a splinter.
He straightened, brushing invisible dust from his sleeve. “Possibility,” he repeated, as though the word itself offended him. Then, with a crooked smirk, he gestured at the open book before her. “You read seidr texts?”
“Yes,” she said, a spark of pride flickering in her voice. “It feels… familiar. Like breathing.”
He raised a brow. “For a mortal?”
“For me,” Y/N corrected gently.
The corner of his mouth twitched, as though he almost smiled before he caught himself. “Interesting.”
They lapsed into silence. The marks still glowed, soft and steady. Neither of them dared to cover them.
Finally, Loki pulled a chair opposite hers, lowering himself into it with practiced elegance. “If fate insists,” he said smoothly, “then perhaps we should test this… possibility. Show me what you know.”
Y/N’s eyes widened, but she nodded. “Alright.”
She lifted her hand above the candle between them, murmuring a quiet word she had learned as a child. The flame rose, twisting into a delicate shape—a snowflake of fire—before dissolving into sparks.
Loki’s eyes lit, despite himself. His lips parted with intrigue, and for the first time since he walked in, the arrogance slipped.
“Oh…” His voice was low, almost reverent. “Now this is interesting.”
And just like that, the library became their beginning.
In the weeks that followed, the library became a secret world for the two of them.
What began as Loki’s sharp-edged curiosity soon turned into something else—an unspoken routine, a pattern he could not bring himself to break. Each evening, he would find her tucked into the same corner, hair spilling across her shoulder as she bent over tomes of seidr and ancient runes. And each evening, he would settle across from her, feigning disinterest even as his green eyes followed her every movement.
At first, their conversations were clipped, filled with his smug corrections and her patient counterpoints. But soon, they softened into true discussions—arguments about the nature of magic, shared fascination with stories of constellations, playful debates over which realm’s myths were the most beautiful.
And always, their marks glowed.
Not brightly—just a steady shimmer, as though quietly reminding them that the universe approved of this closeness.
One evening, snow drifted lazily past the tall windows of the library. Y/N reached up to steady a heavy volume, only for the ladder beneath her to wobble dangerously. Before she could even gasp, Loki’s hand shot out, steadying it with effortless grace.
“Careful,” he drawled, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of alarm. “It would be terribly inconvenient if fate handed me a soulmate with no sense of balance.”
Y/N laughed softly, climbing down with the book in her arms. “And here I thought you’d conjure a cushion of feathers to catch me.”
He smirked. “Perhaps. But watching you fall might have been more entertaining.”
“Liar.” She brushed a strand of hair from her face, smiling knowingly. “You care more than you let on.”
His smirk faltered for a fraction of a second. Then he lifted his chin. “Don’t presume to know me so easily, little mortal.”
But the warmth in his gaze lingered.
Their studies grew into experiments. Y/N would attempt enchantments, fumbling through new runes, while Loki corrected her hand movements with patient precision. His fingers would brush against hers, cool and steady, sending a spark up her arm every time.
When her spells faltered, she laughed at herself instead of sulking. Loki found the sound… disarming. He had grown so used to sharp edges, to the coldness of court politics. Her laughter slipped past his defenses like sunlight through cracks.
One evening, when the candle between them sputtered, she murmured a word and coaxed it back to life. Loki tilted his head.
“You’re not supposed to know that incantation yet.”
She grinned, sheepish but proud. “Maybe I peeked ahead.”
For the first time, he chuckled. A real laugh, low and unguarded. Y/N’s heart stuttered at the sound.
The gardens became their second refuge. When the library doors closed for the night, they wandered into the snow-covered courtyards.
Y/N delighted in shaping snow into glittering sculptures with her magic. She once crafted a snowflake so large it shimmered like a crystal, holding it up proudly. Loki pretended to sneer, though his lips twitched.
“Amateur work,” he declared, conjuring a perfect miniature raven from snow, wings flapping before it dissolved.
Y/N gasped, clapping her hands together. “That’s incredible!”
He blinked at her, startled. Most people reacted to his illusions with suspicion, fear, or admiration laced with envy. But she looked at him as though he had just handed her a treasure.
Without thinking, he murmured, “It’s… nothing.”
But it wasn’t nothing. Not to her. Not to him.
It was during one of these snowy nights that the subject of birthdays came up.
They sat on a stone bench, their cloaks brushing, the winter air nipping at their cheeks. Y/N exhaled, her breath curling like mist, and said quietly, “I’ll be another year older soon.”
Loki arched a brow. “Ah, mortals and their fleeting years. When is this grand occasion?”
“December,” she replied, smiling faintly. “The twenty-first.”
Loki stilled. For a moment, his practiced composure faltered.
“…Your birthday is in December?”
She turned to him, amused by his tone. “Yes. Why? Is that surprising?”
His eyes narrowed slightly, as though fate had played another trick on him. “Because mine is as well. The twenty-second.”
Y/N blinked. Then, slowly, her lips curved into a grin. “You’re telling me… we’re not just soulmates, but practically birthday twins?”
He groaned dramatically, dragging a hand over his face. “The Norns mock me.”
She laughed, leaning back against the bench. “Or maybe they wanted to make sure we’d never forget each other’s day.”
For a long moment, he stared at her—her smile, her unshaken warmth, the way her mark glowed faintly beneath the snowlight. Something in his chest softened, a thread pulling taut.
He looked away before she could see it. “Ridiculous,” he muttered. “Utterly ridiculous.”
But Y/N only smiled wider, her heart lighter than the falling snow.
They began to count the days.
December drew closer. Their shared birthdays loomed like a promise. And though neither spoke of it aloud, both wondered what fate had planned for them when the stars aligned.
The days between their discovery and December blurred together, not in the dizzy rush of passion, but in something gentler. Something steady.
Routine.
Every evening, the library lamps would flicker awake, and Y/N would be there, hands dusted with parchment, eyes alight with curiosity. And every evening, Loki would arrive with the nonchalance of someone who pretended he had nowhere else to be.
They always found each other.
One night, she had fallen asleep at the table, head pillowed on her arms, the spine of a heavy tome still open beneath her. Her hair spilled like ink across the pages, lips parted slightly in slumber.
Loki paused at the sight.
For years, he had thought himself untouchable by softness. But here was a mortal—his soulmate, no less—looking entirely unguarded in his presence. The trust in that simple act struck him harder than any blade.
Quietly, he conjured his green-draped cloak, settling it over her shoulders with a flick of his hand. The fabric fell across her like a second blanket. For a moment, his fingers hovered near her hair, tempted to brush it aside. He caught himself just in time.
Instead, he sat. And for the first time, Loki studied a face not for weakness, not for leverage—but for peace.
Another evening, Y/N insisted on teaching him something.
“You’re always correcting me,” she said with mock sternness, pulling a slip of parchment toward her. “Tonight, it’s your turn.”
Loki arched a brow. “Teaching me? Dangerous ambition, darling.”
She ignored his smirk, sketching a rune with careful strokes. “This is a Midgardian charm. My mother taught me—it’s simple, but it’s supposed to keep nightmares away.”
He leaned in, skeptical but intrigued. “Primitive.”
“Effective,” she countered, nudging the parchment toward him. “Here. Try.”
With a sigh of exaggerated suffering, Loki mimicked her hand movements, whispering the words she spoke. The rune shimmered faintly, a soft gold glow instead of the sharp silver-green of his usual magic.
Y/N’s eyes lit. “See? You can learn something new.”
He narrowed his gaze, though a corner of his mouth betrayed amusement. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re stubborn,” she teased back.
Their laughter filled the quiet corners of the library, wrapping around them like firelight.
The gardens became their winter haven.
One night, Y/N dragged Loki outside with a grin, ignoring his muttered complaints about the cold. “It’s snowing,” she said simply, pulling him toward the courtyard where fresh flakes blanketed the stone paths.
Loki folded his arms, feigning disdain. “Snow loses its charm after a few hundred years.”
“Not if you actually enjoy it,” she replied, crouching to scoop up a handful. With a flick of her wrist, she shaped it into a perfect sphere. Then, before he could react—thwack—it hit him square in the chest.
His jaw dropped.
“…Did you just—”
Her grin widened. “Yes. Yes, I did.”
For a heartbeat, silence. Then, with a wicked smile of his own, he conjured an arsenal of snowballs with a snap of his fingers.
Y/N squealed and darted behind a tree as the first volley came flying. “That’s cheating!” she called, laughing so hard she could barely breathe.
“You started this war,” Loki retorted, his voice full of rare, boyish delight.
Their battle raged until Y/N slipped on the ice, tumbling into a heap of snow. Loki was beside her in an instant, amusement faltering into concern.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, hand extended.
She looked up at him, snow dusting her hair, cheeks flushed from the cold. And she laughed again, pure and unrestrained. “Only my pride.”
Loki’s lips parted, caught between scolding her and smiling. In the end, he helped her up, his hand lingering in hers a moment too long.
For the rest of the night, neither mentioned how natural it had felt to hold on.
There were smaller moments, too.
• Loki conjuring illusions of constellations across the library ceiling, just to see her eyes widen in awe.
• Y/N braiding her hair at the table, Loki pretending to read while secretly watching her fingers work.
• Their marks glowing brighter whenever their hands brushed—at first by accident, later by choice.
It was as if the universe had been holding its breath, waiting for them to find this rhythm.
And though Loki still told himself he didn’t believe in fate, each evening he returned to her without fail. Each evening, he sat a little closer. Each evening, his smile softened just a little more.
Y/N had not expected much. In Midgard, her adoptive parents would usually mark her birthday with warmth—candles, hot chocolate, the gentle hum of celebration. Here in Asgard, she assumed the day would pass like any other, tucked away in the library with her books.
But when she entered that night, the room was different.
The lamps had been dimmed, replaced by an illusion of a night sky. Stars glittered across the ceiling, constellations shifting slowly as though the cosmos itself had bent to the room’s shape. A ribbon of green aurora swirled among them, glowing softly.
And there, standing in the center, was Loki.
His usual sharp composure was softened by the starlight. In his hand, he held a small box of polished wood.
Y/N stopped in the doorway, breath catching. “What is all this?”
His lips curved into a wry smile. “You are far too fond of the stars. I thought it fitting to bring them to you.”
Her chest tightened with warmth. “Loki…”
He extended the box. “Go on.”
With careful hands, she opened it. Inside was a delicate charm shaped like a snowflake, carved from silver and threaded onto a chain. Tiny runes shimmered faintly on its surface.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispered.
“It is enchanted,” he said softly. “It will warm when you are afraid. Cool when you are restless. Always reminding you that you are not alone.”
Her eyes glistened as she looked up at him. “You did this… for me?”
He cleared his throat, suddenly restless under her gaze. “Consider it… a birthday gift.”
“From my soulmate,” she teased gently.
His smirk faltered. For a long moment, silence stretched between them, filled only by the glow of their soulmarks pulsing in unison.
Then Loki exhaled, the weight of centuries falling from his shoulders. “I never believed in this,” he admitted, voice low and unsteady. “In fate. In soulmates. I thought the very idea insulting—that some cosmic force would dare to decide for me.”
He stepped closer, green eyes luminous in the starlight. “But then you appeared. With your laughter, your stubborn kindness, your impossible magic. And for the first time, I…” His voice caught, rare vulnerability breaking through. “…I am glad I was wrong.”
Y/N’s heart swelled. She reached for his hand, intertwining their fingers. Their marks glowed brightly, silver light spreading like starlight across their skin.
“Fate didn’t force this,” she said softly. “We chose it. Every evening. Every moment. We chose each other.”
Loki’s breath hitched. Slowly, reverently, he lifted her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss against the glowing mark.
The library sky shimmered brighter, constellations whirling in silent celebration.
“Happy birthday, Y/N L/N,” he murmured against her skin.
Her smile was radiant. “Happy almost-birthday, Loki Odinson.”
And when their foreheads touched beneath the illusion of endless stars, it felt as though the universe had finally sighed in relief—two December children, winterborn and bound, no longer wandering alone.
