Jul 27, 2020
downloaded an art app today bc i want to learn how to draw, and i was in a big Myriad Misadventures mood after posting chapter 13 so uhhhh here’s sigyn
seen from United States
seen from United States
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seen from United States
seen from Colombia
seen from United States
seen from Estonia
seen from United States
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seen from Malaysia
seen from China
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from China
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seen from Singapore
seen from United States
downloaded an art app today bc i want to learn how to draw, and i was in a big Myriad Misadventures mood after posting chapter 13 so uhhhh here’s sigyn
The Myriad Misadventures of a Midgardian Queen-To-Be - Chapter 1
AO3 | Next
Summary: The Choosing was just the beginning. After a year-long whirlwind of interviews, wedding plans, and attempts to get your family to warm up to your (gulp!) fiancé, you’re ready to be married, once and for all. But you aren’t the only one who’s been busy. There are, after all, those who have remained skeptical of Loki’s true intentions for Midgard, even after his confession. And they’re not going to give up their cause without a fight.
SEQUEL to "The Myriad Misadventures of Midgardian Queen-In-Training"
Word Count: 1394
Pairing: Loki/Reader
Rating: T
A/N: The first 6 chapters are up on AO3/Wattpad, if you’re interested in more. See you next update!
Queen-To-Be - Chapter 1
You would think that, after spending the better part of the last three years living in a quasi-Bachelor-esque reality show, you’d be used to cameras by now. Right?
“Two minutes to rolling!”
Far from it. Instead, you’re practically squirming in your seat, your gaze drifting away from Ricky Morgenstern’s face and towards the blinking red light to your left—and, even worse, the live studio audience behind it.
“You’ve nothing to worry about, you know.” A hand closes over your own on the arm of your chair. “They adore you.”
You glance up to your right, and immediately calm a bit at the sight of those sharp, clever eyes. “Easy for you to say.”
Loki squeezes your hand gently, dimples appearing on either side of his mouth. It really is easy for him to say, because at the very least you know they adore him. How could they not? Even dressed as simply as he is, in a fitted green tee and black jeans (a look more casual than even you’re used to), he’s not just endearing, he’s stunning—all cheekbones and cropped curls and open-mouth grins.
You’re back in modern clothing too, though you’re surprised to see more than a few audience members wearing outfits that more closely resemble any number of your “day dresses” from your competition days. Nothing so intricate as Meg’s embroidery work, but still. It’s strange, wearing pants again. Not necessarily a bad change, but something to get used to. (You’re still wearing your hair up, though, and a delicate circlet on top, almost too thin to be caught by the cameras. Some old habits die harder than others.)
Ashley Marino smiles at you kindly as she takes her seat. “You ready?”
Your stomach drops. You'd known this was coming, but now that you actually have to directly face the judgement of the crowd—a crowd that, for once, is face-to-face, not random names on the other end of a screen—you'd rather be anywhere but here.
Still, a queen—or whatever kind of public figure you are now—must do many unpleasant things for the good of their people. And so you nod.
As ready as I’ll ever be.
“And we’re live in three, two…” The cameraman gives a signal, and Ashley launches in.
“Welcome to Good Evening, America. I’m Ashley Marino, this is Ricky Morgenstern, and today we have perhaps our most highly anticipated guests in the history of the show.” You fix your best cheery-but-not-too-bright smile to your face and keep your eyes fixed on Ashley and Richard as the camera pans over. “I hope you’ll all join us in welcoming his formerly royal highness Loki and his lovely fiancée (Y/N)!”
The round of applause that rises is certainly enthusiastic enough. To be honest, it takes you by surprise. It’s been barely a week since the proposal, and your interactions with the outside world have been limited—you haven’t even seen your family yet. This is your first big television interview since (and, based on the schedule your newly-hired publicist sent over this morning, the first of many).
When the cheers die down, you dial up the smile a few notches, bringing your focus back to Ashley and Richard. “Thank you for having us!” You squeeze Loki’s hand, and he nods.
“Yes, we are both most grateful to be here.”
“The pleasure is ours.”
"Now, (Y/N),” Richard begins. “If I may, you have stunned the entire planet with your rapid development these past two weeks, absolutely taken our breath away."
You laugh in a way that you hope comes across as more witty than nervous. "Development? I'm not a character in a book. I haven't changed so drastically, not really. I've just become more relevant to the, um, plot."
He chuckles. "Yes, well, real as you are, many have been calling your love story a fairytale. My daughter went nuts when I told her I'd be interviewing you—she's six," he explains. "She always calls you 'the princess.'"
"Wow. That's really sweet." You raise a hand to your hair, trying not to disturb the intricate braids as, one by one, you pull out the hairpins and remove the circlet. "Hold on a sec..."
Well, you try to remove it. But either it got caught in your hair or you missed a pin, because it doesn't quite come off.
Ack, next time I - ow - wear one with so many damn rhinestones, I'll have to make sure I - ah - wear my hair down - ouch!
After a few seconds of wrestling with your hair—several times you have to bat away Loki's hands—you hand your headpiece to a bemused-looking Richard Morgenstern. "Here. For your daughter."
You feel a slight pressure on your head, and can't help but smile to see, out of the corner of your eye, Loki trying to smooth down your hair where it must have come loose from your battle with the circlet. You lean up to peck his cheek, an action that receives a collective "awww" from the audience.
"No need to be embarrassed!" laughs Ashley Marino as you blush. “It’s wonderful, seeing that the chemistry we all fell in love with on screen wasn’t just the result of a good edit!”
You laugh at that, and you hear more clapping. Scanning the audience, you realize that Loki was right: this is a room full of people who were—are—rooting for you. Rooting for you not in spite of your awkward moments, but because of them. And with that, it’s much easier to calm your racing heart and let the conversation flow.
That is, until you reach the part you’d been dreading:
"Now, we're going to be taking the first set of questions from our audience."
And just like that, your pulse spikes once more.
"Anyone?” Ashley scans the mob for raised hands, pointing at random. "Yes?"
A thin woman stands up, with intelligent eyes and a sleek, inky black bob. "Hi! I just have to say, I was a huge fan of the show.” You smile politely, not at all expecting for her to hit you with this: “How has your relationship been affected by the age difference?”
Even as you tense up, you feel a fair amount of self-assuredness—this, at least, is a question you can easily answer. “As you all know, I’m just about twenty, while Loki is...it’s one thousand and fifty I believe?” You look to him for confirmation, and he nots, eliciting a quiet rush of disapproving murmurs from the audience. You raise a hand, silencing them. “I do understand the objections. However, I would also take into consideration that, on Asgard, the average life expectancy is around five thousand years, give or take a century or so. Put in terms of total life expectancy, the two of us aren’t actually very far apart at all.”
There is scattered applause—enough to let you know you said the right thing, although you don’t feel ready to relax just yet. If that’s the first question, who knows what’s yet to come?
Another viewer rises. “When are you getting married?” Before either or Loki can so much as open your mouths, she presses on, “Are you planning on having children?”
You feel your jaw drop at that last bit. “Well, I...we…”
The truth was, you haven’t yet discussed it. You know that Loki didn’t expect you to have children—he had told you as much a few months ago, before the proposal, back when you were still convinced that he had resigned himself to a marriage of convenience. But has that changed, now that your relationship has gone from platonic to decidedly less-than-platonic?
The truth is, you don’t know if you ever want kids. Certainly not now, at nineteen. You know Loki wouldn’t particularly care if you decided you wanted to be childless forever—considering he already gave up the monarchy and his secret mind control secret in order to win you over, you doubt that children would be a dealbreaker.
That being said, it’s not exactly a conversation you want to have in front of a live studio audience.
Loki comes to your rescue. “In spite of our proportionally similar ages, we are cognizant of (Y/N)’s relative youth, when compared to the average age of marriage for most Midgardians today. Due to this, we have had some discussions of perhaps postponing the wedding a few years.”
Wait, what?
The Reader-bach Fall - Chapter 2
AO3 | Previous | Next
Word Count: 621
Pairing: Sherlock/Reader
Rating: T
Chapter 2
You grab the sheets and pull them up to your nose, relaxing slightly when your eyes fall on the speaker.
“Let me take a look at you - that’s a nasty bump you’ve got there.”
You sit up, letting her brush back your hair to see what you can only assume is a bruise. She has a caregiver’s touch, and a voice to match, but she’s familiar beyond that. “You - I know you?”
“What’s that, dear?”
“You - you play, um, on TV, you play - ”
“Mrs. Hudson!”
“Oh…” She goes to the doorway, leaving you with at least twice as many questions as you had when you woke up. “What is it?”
“The Internet is out.”
“Not my problem, dear.” She bustles back over to you. “Does it sting?”
“Hm? No, but - ah!” Her fingers graze a sensitive spot, and you pull away. “Sorry.”
She smiles at you warmly, and, despite the confusion, you feel slightly calmer. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll go get you a bandage - and maybe some breakfast?”
“I - sure? I mean, thank you, but don’t...you don’t need to make me breakfast.”
“Psh.” She flicks a hand at you. “Don’t be silly. I’ll be right back - you just lie down and rest.”
Okay…
Not that you’re not grateful, of course, but you’re having trouble getting over the sheer ridiculousness of the whole situation. Ignoring the fact of you falling out of a classroom window and into a taxi, - and the whole waking-up-in-a-strange-bed thing - the odds of the first person you meet being a woman named Mrs. Hudson, who just happens to be a carbon copy of Una Stubbs? Not very high.
Anyway, what were you doing before she came in? Oh. Phone. Right. You shake out the top of the blanket, looking for it, scowling when you notice there’s no service. Great. The offline functions should still work, though. You check your messages first.
Gone. All of them. Your contacts, empty. The same goes for your email. You feel the cold beginnings of a panic attack form behind your neck and climb around to your throat, pressing down on your lungs. Okay. Calm down, this could mean anything. You’d try to convince yourself it’s only a dream, but you’ve had panic attacks in dreams before, and this isn’t what it feels like. This is too sudden, too real to be a dream.
Think. What’s the path of least resistance? Logically, you should play along with this, right? Whatever “this” is, anyway. Logic doesn’t always work against anxiety, though; you feel the tip of your tongue beginning to go numb. Frick. Not good. You lie back down, forcing yourself to relax every muscle in your body as much as possible. It works well enough: your breathing slows, and you can hear your own thoughts over the blood rushing in your ears. Good. The calmer you are, the easier it’ll be to make sense of the whole thing.
“Mrs. HUDSON!”
The door slams open, and you leap back up with a little gasp. You end up somehow re-banging your head on the backboard of the bed on your way up - as though you haven’t done enough of that in the past twenty-four hours - so you aren’t exactly in any state to be defending yourself against potential intruders, but hey, it’s the thought that counts, right?
“I can’t seem to - oh. You aren’t Mrs. Hudson.”
Once again, you find yourself up against the headboard with a blanket clutched to your chest, wide-eyed with terror at whoever’s just barged into your - not-your - bedroom. So wide-eyed, in fact, that it takes you a second to recognize the voice, and the hair, and the eyes .
When at last you do, you just about stop breathing.
The Reader-bach Fall - Chapter 1
AO3 | Next
Relationship: Sherlock/Reader
Summary: “Go to college,” they said. “It’ll be fun,” they said. It is fun, actually - that is, until a classmate gets a little too carried away with a demonstration and shoves you head-first out a third-story window. You wake up with your phone in one hand, some money in the other, and a rather attractive cabbie awaiting payment. All this would be grand, of course, if you had any idea where the hell you are. You could also do without the on-again, off-again migraines - holy mint chocolate chip, is that Benedict Cumberbatch?
Word Count: 630
Rating: T
You know that gross, groggy feeling you get in your throat and behind your eyes after sleeping for too long? Multiply that by about a thousand. Mix in a bit of confusion, with a dash of thelightthelightitburnsss and voila! Here you are.
But...where exactly is here? And how exactly did you get here?
You remember...school. Ugh. Leaning out the window, preparing to drop an egg encased in green floral foam and duct tape. I’d better get that extra credit. Ah, jeez, focus, (Y/N), focus. Mikey Davis pushing you as a joke. The momentum taking you a little too far. Trying and failing to grab at the window sill, and then -
Nothing.
I am so going to kill Mikey.
Unless you’re already dead. The thought alarms you less than it should - at least you don’t ever have to worry about ever taking the MCAT, ever. On the downside, you’d never have the chance to become a doctor, now, either…
Focussss.
“Are you planning on waking up sometime this century? I’m on a bit of a schedule.”
You struggle to open your eyes against the artificial lights, and see a man (a very good looking man, in spite of your pounding head and blurry vision) staring at you from the front seat of a car. I’m in a car? You follow his gaze to your right hand, in which is clutched some money - is that American? That doesn’t look American - and hand it to him questioningly. He accepts. “Thank you, Miss.” He’s British. Or Australian. No, Irish?
You shake your head a few times, trying to blink the sleep out of your brain, and somehow find the energy to smile. “Thank you.” He nods. It takes you a minute to realize he’s probably waiting for you to get out of the car. Taxi, then. You drag yourself across the seat to the door, stumble out onto the pavement, and all of a sudden you feel the tiredness slip off of you, like a snake shedding its skin.
You’re in some kind of city, that much is clear. It’s nighttime, and you’re standing on a sidewalk, and you you you
hurts.nausea.head.hurts.stop
You try to take a step forward, but there’s something, no someone, in front of you and you can’t see straight and you stumble into them black hair black coat black night black vision and then -
Nothing.
**********************************************************************
The first thing you notice when you wake up again is that it’s morning. The second is that the headache is gone - you can open your eyes without wanting to cry. That being said, your now normal vision allows you to notice one third, crucial piece of information: this is not your bed. Or your room. Probably not your house, either. And the taxi driver sounded British - are you even in the right country?
Taxi driver. He looked...oddly familiar...
The memories of what you can only assume to be last night swirl around your skull, a whirlpool trying to suffocate your thoughts. Egg drop - me drop - taxi - stranger - here. You hope you weren’t “rescued” by an ax murderer. That would really, really suck.
Breathe, (Y/N). You’re thoughts are moving faster than you can follow, making it difficult for you to assess the situation logically. I don’t know what happened between falling out that window and the taxi, so skip that. Clearly, I fell into someone after I got out. Clearly, I blacked out. Clearly, they brought me up here. That’s my phone on the nightstand, right? You grab it, letting out a sigh of relief when it accepts your passcode. Good. No service, though, or unlocked wifi - not so good. They left me on the bed, so hopefully they aren’t trying to kill me -
“Oh, you’re awake!”
today, tomorrow, and perhaps the day after - Chapter 1
today, tomorrow, and perhaps the day after - Chapter 1
AO3 | Next
Word Count: 623
Pairing: Loki/Reader
Rating: T
Chapter 1
The guards sweep into the town square at eight in the morning with blood still on their hands. Everyone is gathered. A few months ago, when it had only begun, there were riots, protests, but now people are tired. Broken. Their daughters are dying and so is their will to fight. You see this in the tired eyes of Shari’s parents as the guards approach them.
The taller of the two bows, and hands them a box.
You know what’s inside. Everyone does. You’re tempted to go look, but you don’t want your last memory of Shari to be of her head, lifeless and grey and contorted into an expression of unimaginable pain.
Her mother opens the box, but instead of wailing at the sight, she simply closes her eyes, and looks away. Her cheeks are wet. She makes no sounds, but her shoulders shake as the guards walk away. Her husband places the lid back on the box, and gently guides her back inside. Shari was their only daughter. They have nothing else to lose.
They have no reason to stay for what comes next.
The lottery happens every day, in every town, city, village, everywhere across the world. Everyone gathers to watch. For those who are eligible to be chosen, it is mandatory; for those who, by some merciful stroke of luck, are not, morbid curiosity is often enough to bring them down to watch, anyway. Besides, your village was established not too long before the takeover. This is a group of people who built their new lives up from the ground side-by-side, and then lost everything they held dear in the same vein. Better to witness tragedy in the company of those you love than sitting alone in a darkened room.
The guards ascend the platform.
It is the same as always. They stare out, saying nothing. When they receive news—either of the drawing or of a volunteer—they will call out the name. How they receive the news, you do not know. Some kind of magic. Dark magic, if the rumors are to be believed. And there are many rumors. They say many things about the new King of Midgard. They say he is tall, with icy skin and inky hair. That he wields ungodly amounts of power in his nimble hands, but rarely has to use them. That he has eyes that flash crimson when provoked, and a short, strong temper. That words pour out of him like quicksilver, slick and seductive and easy to believe, and it is this quality, above all others, which has taken him this far.
They say darker things, too. You have heard the whispers of his rituals; a new bride taken each evening, a new head taken each dawn. Until they took Shari, you almost didn’t think the rumors could be real. Now that she’s gone, you know they are. The realization cuts like a knife, slicing through skin and breath until it settles deep in your bones. It is a living, breathing thing, this pain. Shari is dead. She is dead, and there is nothing you can do about it.
Then again, perhaps there is.
It is not difficult to push through the crowd, to reach the edge of the platform. After all, who would want to stop you? It is extraordinarily difficult, however, to will your hands to stop tingling, your stomach to steel up, your teeth to stop biting your tongue just enough for you to choke out:
“You can take me.” It takes another deep breath before you can say the magic words, the final knot in the noose around your neck. “I volunteer.”
They say many things about the new King of Midgard.
It’s high time you found out for yourself which of those things are true.
The Myriad Misadventures of a Midgardian Queen-In-Training - Chapter 1
Why did I decide 4.5 years and 53 chapters in to try and post this directly on Tumblr? I honestly don’t know. I’ll try to space out the chapter posts a bit between other posts/reblogs, so hopefully this won’t be as painful a process as I fear!
AO3 | Next
Summary: In an AU where Loki DID take over the world by the end of The Avengers, you (the reader) receive a letter on your sixteenth birthday informing you that you are eligible to be considered for The Choosing, a one-time-only, televised event in which the new King of Midgard will select a wife.
Eight girls. One crown. Who will win?
Word Count: 1115
Pairing: Loki/Reader
Rating: T
A/N: Keep in mind—I started writing this story my sophomore year of high school, when I was 15 or 16. A lot of it is cringe-y. A lot of my views and values has changed since then. That being said, I hope you enjoy anyway!
Myriad Misadventures - Chapter 1
The letter comes at the worst time imaginable.
The envelope is plain, if a bit large compared to the average letter. What first catches your attention is that it is addressed to you. Not Mom or Dad, not Erik or Carlie, but you. Okay, so it’s technically addressed "To The Parent/Guardian of (Y/N),” but still! It doesn’t have a return address, which doesn’t strike you as particularly strange, until you tear into the envelope and notice two things:
The heavy, creamy stationery.
The insignia. The smooth, calligraphy-curly insignia, drawn in deep, shiny, green ink.
“Mom!”
“Yes, sweetie?”
“C’mere!”
You shove the letter and envelope at her. “It was addressed to me - kinda - but I didn’t read it. I just saw the - ”
“Insignia,” she breathes. Her eyes widen as she scans the page.
You expect her to tell you what’s going on as soon as her gaze reaches the bottom of the page. Instead, you watch as she reads it again. And again. The third time she goes to reread it, you can’t stand waiting any longer. “Mom!”
“Sweetheart.” She looks up at you, eyes filled with dread. But instead of explaining, she shakes her head, stuffing the paper back into the envelope. “It’s nothing we need to worry about right now. Go get dressed.”
“What?” You can’t believe it. “No! Mom, come on. I know it’s about me. I have a right to know!” You extend an arm, but she pulls the letter just out of reach. You play the only card you have left. “It’s my birthday.”
At that, you see her resolve weaken a little bit. But it’s not enough. “Exactly. You deserve to have a nice evening out, and this can wait until tomorrow.”
“Let’s compromise. Open it at dinner. As a family,” you add.
At long last, she nods. “All right.” A split second later, her expression has gone from serious to playful as she leans in to kiss you on the cheek. “Now go change. And decide where you want dinner from. Your birthday, your choice."
(Yep. The letter arrives on the day you turned sixteen. Because you couldn't have been born one freaking day later.)
You run upstairs, grabbing a dress at random from your closet and yanking it on over your least-worn nude tights. Any minute, you know, your mom will leave to pick Carlie up from soccer practice.
Sure enough, you hear the tell-tale slam and click of the front door. You let out a sigh of relief when, upon reaching the bottom of the stairs, you see her pocketbook hanging from the back door, the envelope peeking out.
It takes you an infuriatingly long time to pull out and unfold the letter, shaky as your hands are, but you finally manage it. Beneath the insignia, it reads:
Dear Ms. (LN),
It is recorded that, as of (DD/MM), you are a heterosexual female between the ages of sixteen and thirty. As is such, you have been marked as eligible to participate in an exciting event in our realm’s history - The Choosing.
As the fifth anniversary of his rule approaches, our great leader has seen it fit to take a wife. Eight women will be selected from a lottery to compete for his hand in marriage. If you are the recipient of this letter, you are required to fill out the attached forms and submit them to your nearest government office by no later than a week from the day on which you received this letter.
Your king and government thank you for your service.
You’ve never been one for screaming at surprises. Instead, you have a tendency of going into shock, acting kind of dazed as your mind slowly absorbs whatever new piece of information it was being bombarded with. Which is what you do now.
“Heterosexual female between the ages of sixteen and thirty.” I’m a heterosexual female. I’m fifteen. I mean, I’m sixteen. I’m a sixteen-year-old straight girl…”The Choosing?” What the hell is The Choosing? And “Our great leader?” Who...oh. OH. Right.
Honestly, after the Battle of New York, life has pretty much gone on as usual, besides the whole thing with psycho-alien-king-guy taking over the world. You’ve never followed politics, and besides the fact that you miss your once-frequent trips into the city - Mom doesn’t want you there alone while all the renovations are going on - you’ve been too busy to notice any major changes. You still go to school and participate in your usual extracurriculars and stay up too late Skyping your friends. You have done quite a bit of online research - about Loki and the nine realms and what exactly went down during the Battle of New York and how apparently he's some kind of Norse god - so you aren’t completely ignorant, but after a while you’ve just fallen back into your normal routine.
But now, this letter…
So, Him. Psycho-alien-king-guy. Loki. Our great leader. Um, keep reading...wife. Eight women. Marriage. Competing? What, like The Bachelorette? Or The Bachelor, I guess, in this case...recipient of this letter, that’s me. Fill out the form...why? What service are they thanking me for? Are they just trying to ensure they have enough viewers for The Bachelor: Alien Royalty Edition?
Finally, it clicks.
Oh, my God.
Oh. My. God.
They want you. They’re rounding up potential candidates to star in their little reality marriage competition, and they want you.
But...I’m too young! I just barely made the age cutoff! That's so unfair! You rack your brain for more reasons why you should be exempt from this ridiculous "lottery" - as though that'll make any difference. I’m not even over the age of consent! In New York, I mean. If I was in California or Ohio or something, that would be a different story, but this is New York, so I still have a year before...or did they change the age of consent when they changed the government and stuff? Again, you didn’t really paid any attention to the news when all of that was going on. Or ever, really.
Later, you check Google and see that yes, the age of consent is still eighteen pretty much worldwide, something you might have found interesting and mildly amusing under different circumstances.
Like if you had a boyfriend, for instance.
Which you didn’t. Ever.
But these circumstances...the government wants you to marry a guy you’ve never met. Or compete to marry a guy you’ve never met, anyway...and based on what you know about Loki from your research thus far (Frost Giant? Trickster God? Psychopath?), you’re more than a little scared.
Okay, let's be honest: you are absolutely terrified.
today, tomorrow, and perhaps the day after - Chapter 2
AO3 | Previous | Next
Word Count: 380
Pairing: Loki/Reader
Rating: T
Chapter 2
Before His Majesty’s rise to power, you had always associated sadness and fear with crying. Sobbing. Screaming. But as you stand here, in the most ornate room you have ever seen, being fitted for all kinds of fine garments that you will wear no more than once, you are beginning to understand that isn’t entirely accurate. There is a certain brand of grief that is not only beyond words, but beyond sound; some things are so terrible that the only appropriate response is silence.
Shari is dead, and you have as good as signed your life away without a second thought. You have no plan. You want revenge, but how are you to achieve it in the twelve hours you have left before taking a scythe to the neck?
“Milady, your bath has been drawn.”
The bathwater is the warmest you’ve ever felt, so unlike the tepid leftovers you’re used to at home, and filled with some exotic-smelling oils that permeate the entire bathroom with their sweet scent. It’s a shame you are required to be bathed by your new ladies-in-waiting. Nakedness wasn’t exactly something you’d prepared yourself for when you’d decided to volunteer, and your self-consciousness at being so exposed is ruining your enjoyment of the luxuries at hand. When else will you have the chance to dry yourself off with hand-woven cotton towels? Or be enveloped in a robe so soft, it must have been spun from the clouds themselves?
The bath, the robe, the weighty jewels being clasped around your neck and wrists and to your ears and nose, all of it would be a dream in any other circumstance. But it is so heavy, all of it. The jewelry. The perfume. The promise of death. It is the last one which hangs in the air of your chambers—death. You sit on edge of the bed, draped in bright colors and dazzling embroidery, and all you can think is that the last time the sun set, Shari was exactly where you are, in this room—perhaps even on the same spot of the bed that you are on right now—and that, in a mere twenty-four hours, a new girl will have taken your place, and all you can do now is sit and stare and wait for—
“Hello.”
Myriad Misadventures - Chapter 63
The Myriad Misadventures of a Midgardian Queen-In-Training - Chapter 63
AO3 | Previous | Next
Word Count: 1293
Pairing: Loki/Reader
Rating: T
Taglist (lmk if you want to be added!): @lokis-girl-in-mischief
Chapter 63
“America is your home country, correct?”
“Yeah, I - and you’re from Germany? You’re from Germany.”
She laughs - not meanly, just a light chuckle. “Yes, Stuttgart.” You must look bewildered, because she goes ahead and clarifies. “My city.”
At sixteen, new to the palace and terrorized by Rosa and terrified out of your mind, you hadn’t had much time to wonder why the name of some random city in Germany had sounded so familiar.
But now you know.
*******************************************
Loki looks at you like you’ve just spoken in gibberish. “What?”
“Her hometown.” You recalls clips of newsreels from years ago: his manic gaze, a horned helmet and glowing staff, screaming at a crowd of terrified civilians to kneel before him. They hadn’t shown much footage past that, but they had announced an estimated twenty or so casualties. Known casualties. You remember that much. “The first invasion - Loki, you went to Germany, be-before New York.”
“That’s right, darling. Remember, Your Majesty? Although, why would you - I was just another head bent to the ground. My father didn’t bend, though. He refused to kneel, and you - you - ” She swallows. “I’ve waited so long for this, you know. I changed my wardrobe, my speech patterns, my whole lifestyle to get here, to the top of the polls, so I could take from you what you took from my father .” She’s practically spitting now. "But now...now I see. Taking your life won’t do anything, will it? Instead, I think - ”
And now her hand, the same hand you’ve seen pen elegant speeches and coax melodies from an out-of-tune piano and brush tears from Sapphire’s cheeks - now her hand is on you . It’s so much stronger than you remember, gripping your upper arm with a deadly force, swinging you around so that you’re held against her as she holds the knife just below your chin.
I probably should have seen that coming... but it’s a little late for should haves at this point.
“R-Rhea.” You swallow as she presses the blade into your skin - gently.
She was always so gentle, there was no way I could have known.
“Ah, ah, ah.” She delivers a sharp look to the approaching guards, who have now frozen in place after a gesture from Loki. “You so much as point a weapon at me, and I slit her throat.”
You try again. “Please, h-hear me out.”
“ H-h-hear m-me out, ” she mocks. “You can’t even get through three words without stuttering.”
“You don’t want to do this.”
“Well, I gave up my life, my time, and a good portion of my sanity to get this far, so maybe, just maybe, I might be just the teeny, tiniest bit invested in this. And you..." She pulls your back tighter to her chest, and you tense up. "Little Lady (Y/N). You were the only thing in the way of my plan, do you know that?"
"You knew he wasn't proposing to you," you choke out. "You lied. "
"I figured if I could get you to think he had abandoned you, you'd leave. For good this time."
“You’ve changed - ”
“No. He,” she snaps, jerking her chin at Loki, “he changed me.”
“The way we’ve changed him?”
She seems taken aback. “What?”
“Yes.” Loki speaks now. “Lady Rhea, you cannot imagine how…”
Her scoff rings uncomfortably close to your ear. “How what? How sorry you are?”
“At least.”
“Apologies won’t bring my father back, Your Majesty.”
“I know.” He takes a step forward, but stops when Rhea drags your back a step in response. “You have every right to be angry with me. But I swear, I was...I wasn’t myself, then.”
Rhea lets out a hysterical laugh. “I’m sure.”
“During the initial invasion of Midgard, my mind and actions were under the control of another.” He presses his lips together tightly. “A fact I should have been more transparent about in the years since.”
If you were in a movie, you’re certain this is the part where the audience of the ballroom would gasp. As it is, a murmur arises, diffusing the tense silence of before.
He's announcing this here ? After keeping it secret for so long?
All to save me?
“But you still...you…” She falters a moment, before steeling up again. “I don’t want excuses, I want my father back .” At this, her grip loosens a bit—not enough for you to pull away, but enough that you can breathe without fear of nicking yourself.
“My family is watching this, Rhea,” you whisper. “My parents. My brother. My little sister. We talked about them, remember? Erik? Carlie?”
“I remember.” You feel Rhea’s hands shaking now—not comforting, since one of them is still holding a knife to your bare throat. Your own hand, clutching at your dress, feels something hanging from it. Something hard and sharp and hidden in the billowing fabric of your skirt.
Yes.
“You know what it’s like to lose someone you love.” You keep talking, hoping it will distract her as you pull on the chain, sliding the fork up into your grasp. “Don’t take me from them . Please—”
Speech was clearly the wrong tactic, because she tightens her grip again. “He’s going to keep hurting people. He should have given up when he had the chance.”
“I am.”
Your eyes flick up to meet his.
He nods.
Rhea doesn't seem to get it at first. "What?"
"As current monarch of Midgard, it is my duty to act in the best interests of the realm.” He takes a deep breath. Without lifting his eyes from you and Rhea, he raises his voice so that it carries to the rest of the room. “After consulting with some trusted individuals, it's been determined that it would be in the best interests of the realm to relinquish my claim, and allow things to return to the way they were before my rule."
His eyes are determined, but behind that you see a layer of that softness you know. The sincerity. The same look he gave you yesterday when he asked you , “And if I weren’t king?”
This isn’t just something he’s saying to get you out of Rhea’s grasp.
He’s stepping down from the throne.
This seems to hit Rhea like a ton of bricks. The hand she has on your arm goes limp, and you summon up every last ounce of courage you have in your body.
Here goes nothing .
You jab the fork up between the knife and your neck, yanking the chain free of your dress. By some stroke of luck, the blade gets caught between the tines, and you twist it, knocking the knife out of Rhea’s hand and spinning yourself out of her grasp in a movement reminiscent of the Spider’s Waltz you danced in this very room, all those years ago.. The momentum nearly knocks you over, and as the guards descend upon Rhea, you find yourself stumbling forward into Loki’s arms.
He crushes you to his chest, and you return the embrace in kind, wrapping your arms around his waist.
“You’re stepping down?” you half-whisper. You don’t know how her hears you above all the commotion, but he pulls back a moment to catch your eyes in his.
“You said you didn’t know if you could remain your family’s daughter if you were to become my queen.” He cups your face in his hands, looking at you as though you were something unspeakably precious. “You said nothing of the sort with regards to becoming my wife.”
“You - for me?” The tears of fear turn to relief, now, spilling over as your hands find purchase over his. “I can’t believe you’d do that, I can’t believe you did that—”
“For you?” He leans down, pressing his forehead to yours. “Anything.”