#muc

[daily-daydream]

Bob: Bucky asked me what a situationship was today John: Tell him that's what him and Sam are Yelena: BOB NO-

[no-fudge-left-to-buy]

Honor Among Thieves ll Loki Laufeyson

pairing : loki laufeyson x valkyrie!reader synopsis: when your sorta-not bff is too busy to commit crimes with you so you try to murder them. cw: sorry if the prose is bad. i don’t speak british | loki's a toxic attention ho but what’s new | i in no way condone the relationship in this fic. if a man treats you like this irl kill him | some thor hate. does not reflect the author's true feelings towards thor. | loki being too stressed to do his hair flip thing | reader calls loki ‘your highness’ twice (mockingly?) | it starts out cringe but I swear it gets better | no beta we die like loki notes: the fic is finally here and it only took three months of me crying at 3 am whenever i got stuck. i hate hate hate writing fight scenes. but pls enjoy. word count : ~6k

♫ from eden - hozier

Prologue: The Beginning 

Loki has been accused of being a lot of things. ‘Thief’ is one that comes up often but this is his father’s armory. Everything in here will be his when he ascends the throne of Asgard. Moreover, he’s only borrowing. Once he gets bored with his new acquisitions, he’ll return them all, unscathed, and no one would be the wiser.

Somebody else must have thought the same thing as him, for as he enters the vast armory he finds a shadowy figure by one of the shelves. 

You’re examining the intricate carvings on a small ceremonial dagger— admiring the meticulous dwarven craftsmanship of it— when you feel a change in the air and the presence of someone in the room with you. You spring into a defensive stance, the dagger held in front of you. It might only be ceremonial but it is sharp. 

Loki stands at the entrance watching you, pale in the moonlight. You’re startled by his presence but not enough to lower your weapon. 

Something curious flickers in Loki’s green eyes as the two of you continue to regard each other. "You're not bowing," he finally says, voice echoing in the vast armory.

"Neither are you," you reply.

Loki’s thin lips curl up into a mockery of a smile. “I could have your tongue removed for that.” he hisses. 

“Oh, I don’t doubt that, your highness.” You adjust your grip on the dagger. “But I have a feeling you shouldn’t be down here either.”

“Well, you’ve given me the perfect excuse for being here now.” Loki drawls. He stalks further into the room, his eyes fixed on your every move. “And honor demands I defend my father’s house from a thieve.” He flicks his wrists and twin blades appear in his hands, their fine handles curved and molding to his palms like affectionate snakes. 

You drop the small dagger and pick up a sword instead— running a hand along the long slender blade before holding it out in front of you. “Rumor has it you’re not much for honor.”

“Someone ought to teach you some respect.” Loki rushes you without warning and metal grates against metal as you raise your sword just in time to block his daggers. 

Loki doesn't miss a single move, memorizing all of your tells in record time and making it impossible to use any of your reliable moves more than once for fear of predictability. But growing up in the dark corners of Asgard has thought you a thousand different ways to take down opponents, even those twice your size. You were in no real danger of running out of tricks anytime soon. With Loki's next strike you use the flat side of your sword to knock one of his daggers out of his hand.

Loki flexes his now empty right hand before passing the remaining dagger to it. “Now we’re evenly matched.” he says.

“Oh, don’t insult me.” you answer.

The loss of the dagger doesn’t slow Loki down by any noticeable amount. He’s still a formidable foe. And you find yourself infuriatingly impressed by his performance. Growing up in the palace, he must have had the best instructors and it shows in how easily he wields the smaller weapon to his fullest advantage.

With a flick of his dagger, he knocks your sword aside and his free hand shoots out and closes around your wrist. His grip is firm and cold. Too cold.

You kick out instinctively and your boot connects with Loki's shin. He doesn’t flinch. Instead his eyes slide to yours, glittering with something that isn’t quite anger. “You fight dirty.” he remarks. 

“Let go,” you grunt, heart hammering.

“Make me.” Loki says, one elegant eyebrow lifting.

You twist yourself out of his hold and elbow him in the jaw. He stumbles back and you adjust your sword in your newly freed arm. “How’s that for dirty?”

Loki’s fingers come up to his jaw, delicately feeling where your elbow struck him. “You’re infuriating.”

“You’re just mad I’m better than you.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“You have it.”

Loki laughs. 

The fight changes after that. It becomes less about killing and more of an exchange— a conversation conducted in steel and footwork, in near-misses and sudden pauses. He would feint left, and you would shift right, and your swords would cross, and for a second you would be frozen there, face to face, breathing the same air.

“There are plenty of other armoires for you to rob.” Loki says during one such pause. “Why the royal one?”

Your blades are locked at the hilt, your faces inches apart. So close you can see the veins on his eyelids and every flyaway strand of hair. “The thrill.” you breathe. 

Loki’s eyebrows pinch. “The thrill, huh?” He suddenly breaks off, shoves you back, and throws his remaining dagger. It embeds itself in the ground where your foot had been. “I call a truce.”

You glance down at the blade then back at Loki, standing there completely unarmed now. “Why should I trust you?” you ask, trying to figure out what trick this might be. 

“You shouldn’t if you’re smart.” he says, and there is no jest in his voice. “But I would like to make you a deal.”

You consider your options. You’re equally matched and the fight is going nowhere, both of you unable to best the other. The odds of you getting out now without him alerting the guards is also slim. You decide to entertain the offer. It could buy you time if nothing else. “On what grounds?”

"You're competent,” he says. “I could use competent.” 

You loosen your defensive stance as you regard him. “What’s in it for me?”

Loki smirks. “The whole of the castle.”

The Fall

Your fate changed forever under the canopy of Idunn’s Apple tree. You’d just touched the smooth skin of one of the golden beauties, a faint tendril of its legendary power and sweet scent wrapping around you, when you’d been caught. 

Odin was impressed you got as far as you did before getting caught and in his mercy, offered you a choice— join his Valkyries or suffer death for your crimes against the throne. You went for the infinitely more appealing choice even though it meant you had to learn to walk the straight and narrow path from then on. No more stealing, no more elaborate pranks on the castle guards, no more replacing the kitchen wines with vinegar before a feast. No more of the things you used to do with Loki. 

But you built a life and a name for yourself. No longer the street urchin breaking into villas in the dead of the night. You’re the protector of the realm’s peace now. People rest easier for your work. Honorable work. 

It’s a slow night for you as after a long day of drills, you’d been assigned the low effort task of patrolling Odin's treasure room, a vast hall filled with his spoils of war from all over the nine realms and gifts given to him by gods desperate to curry his favor. If only they knew they sit on piles of gold coins, forgotten after never even having reached the All-Father’s hands. 

You’re broken out of your musings by a clumsy clutter from a little ways off followed by a string of colorful curses hissed in a voice you’d recognize in your sleep. “Dammit, Loki.” you mutter, changing course to where you heard the commotion from. You find him desperately trying to shove a set of wyrm-bone arrows back into their large quiver.

Loki turns around, sensing your approach. He kicks the remainng arrows aside and smiles at you as if you’d just run into him at the market square. "Well, look what the cat dragged in." he says, still smiling. "I havent seen you in forever. How have you been?"

It has been quite a while seen you’ve seen Loki in any capacity more than passing him in the halls or at Odin’s left hand during war councils. But there had been a time when you’d spent almost every waking moment of your days exploring the ins-and-outs of the vast castle with him, causing mischeif and whatever else you can get away with. Even though you never stopped regarding each other with a healthy amount of suspicion, you had formed some form of camaraderie. Maybe even friendship, although you never called it that. But that was before the apple and you becoming a Valkyrie.

"Busy." you answer, crossing your arms over your chest. "You know I’m going to have to report you now, right?"

“Come on.” Loki says, holding up his hands. “You don’t want to do that. Let’s talk it over.” 

“Your silver tongue doesn’t work on me, Loki.”

Loki huffs a resigned laugh. “Believe me, I know.” He flicks his wrists and his daggers materialize in his hands. “How about a duel then? For old times' sake.”

You sigh before pulling out your valkyrie sword— a plain, well-balanced blade that’s the standard. In three simple strokes, you send both of Loki’s daggers flying off to skid under shelves and disappear. 

“How…?” Loki stammers, still staring at his suddenly empty hands. 

You sheath your sword, trying not to let the easy victory get to you. “I was studying the blade in all the time you spent in Madam Sjofn’s hall.” 

Loki’s ears crimson. “Oh, you misunderstand.” he says, laughing nervously. “I only go to fetch my brother.”

“And that takes you half the night?” you ask.

His discomfort melts away to be replaced by that infuriating smirk. “Have you been watching me?” Loki drawls. 

It’s your turn to blush. “No. Not me.” you say, trying to keep your tone even. “But word travels fast. Especially when it concerns the second prince. Especially when he’s seen doing things unbecoming of a prince.”

Loki scoffs. “You used to be fun. What happened to you?” 

Your smile fades. “I outgrew you, Loki.” you say. “I have responsibilities now and I can’t afford to have you ruin it for me just because you’re bored—”

“I’m not bored.”

“— or because you believe you have some sort of binding claim on me.”

“You owe me your life.” Loki interrupts.

“Then let me repay my debt the only way I can. Leave now and no one need know you were stealing from the treasure room again.” He starts to say your name but you cut him off. “Go.” you say. “Your highness.” you add, hoping to soften the blow. 

Loki knits his brows. “This isn’t over.” he spits and turns on his heels to storm out. 

“It never is with you.” you mutter to the empty room. 

The Trial

Loki, Prince of Asgard, has just accused you of treason in front of the entire court.

"I saw her myself," Loki says, voice silken and unhurried. He stands beside Odin's throne, dressed in his formal robes and gold filigree, radiating smug righteousness. "Passing intelligence to a Jotunn operative in the Nidavellir trade district."

The throne room is silent. Three hundred courtiers hold their breath. And you, standing in the center of the marble floor with your hands cuffed in front of you, feel your blood turn to molten iron.

"That is a lie," you say, your voice steady despite the fury coiled in your chest. "And the prince knows it."

Loki tilts his head, a parody of curiosity. "Does she call the prince of Asgard a liar in your presence, Father? In front of the entire court? How very treasonous of her."

“I wouldn’t dare.” you reiterate, jaw clenched so tight you feel your molars crack. “But there must be a misunderstanding here—”

“There is no misunderstanding.” Loki interrupts. He turns to Odin. “She’s stood here before your judgment once already, Father. This is not out of character for her.”

Murmurs of assent ring through the hall at the memory of your last trial. 

Odin raises Gungnir and taps it once. The sound cracks through the hall like thunder and the murmur ceases. "Enough.” voice calm but carrying. “Valkyrie, you stand accused of a grave offense. Do you have evidence to refute the prince's testimony?"

You look at Loki. He looks back at you, and beneath the mask of courtly arrogance, you see it— anticipation. The glee of a cat who had cornered a mouse.

You have no evidence. The meeting he describes never happened. But Loki is the God of Lies, the master of illusion. If he had fabricated a memory or created false witnesses, you would never prove your innocence in time. Moreover, he is a prince of Asgard. You are but a common thief who rose to Valkyrie status after getting caught stealing from the Allfather himself. Your word alone would mean nothing against his.

"Allfather," you say slowly, "I ask only for a trial by combat. Let the gods judge between my word and the prince's."

A fresh wave of murmurs ripple through the crowd. Trial by combat is rarely invoked, undeniable justice: if you win, your innocence is proven by the divine will of the Norns. If you lose, you die a traitor's death.

Odin's single eye narrows. He looks between you and his son, and for just a moment, a weary look crosses his weathered face. "Loki. Do you accept this challenge?"

Loki smiles, his glee palpable from across the vast hall. "Gladly."

———

The training yard is cold. A thin layer of frost has settled over the cobblestones, and the braziers along the walls cast dancing orange shadows across the combat circle. A small crowd had gathered; Valkyries, nobles who had heard the news, even a few of Thor's companions, though he himself is off-world.

You stand on one side of the circle, dressed in your Valkyrie leathers and your sword in your hand. No shield. You had never fought with one. You hadn’t slept a wink all night with the threat of the trial hanging over you, and you pay for it with the subtle fatigue you’re already feeling. 

Loki, on the other hand, stands opposite you looking well-rested and utterly unbothered. He’s changed into his battle leathers too, dark green and black, and he holds his daggers with a casual ease. His dark hair is pulled back from his face, and in the firelight, his features look sharper than usual.

"Last chance to confess," he calls across the circle. His voice is conversational as if your life doesn’t depend on the outcome of this duel.  "I can be merciful. A quick death, perhaps. None of the screaming."

"Last chance to tell the truth," you reply, settling into your stance. "But I suspect that's anatomically impossible for you."

The crowd laughs nervously and Loki’s eyes flash. He doesn’t seem to be enjoying this as much anymore. 

A deep rumbling horn is blown and the crowd quietens— the signal has been given.

Loki moves first— not toward you, but sideways, circling like a wolf. His footsteps make no sound on the frost. You track him, turning to keep him in front of you, your sword held low and ready.

He lunges.

The first dagger comes high, aimed at your throat. You parry, and step into his guard, too close for his second dagger to find purchase. Your shoulder slams into his chest, and for a heartbeat, you’re pressed against him, close enough to smell leather and something cold, like winter air over a frozen lake. “Why are you doing this, Loki?” you ask. “I thought we were friends.”

His eyes widen just a fraction. Instead of answering he twists away, graceful as water, and you feel the edge of his second dagger whisper across your ribs— not too deep thanks to your armor, but enough to draw blood.

"First blood to me," he murmurs, retreating to the edge of the circle.

You touch your side. Your fingers came away red. Your breathing quickens as it finally dawns on you that he means to go through with this to the end. You wipe the blood off on your leg and grip your sword tighter. "It's not over until one of us yields or dies."

"That can be arranged."

He comes at you again, faster this time, a blur of steel and green. His fighting style is fluid, deceptive, full of feints and sudden shifts. One moment he’s low, the next high, his daggers spinning in patterns designed to confuse the eye.

But you had not survived this long by being easily confused. You stop trying to track his blades and start watching his shoulders. The way he shifts his weight. The tells of his face a fraction of a second before each attack. Loki lies with his tongue, but his body is honest.

You catch his next lunge on your crossguard, shove his arm wide, and bring the pommel of your sword up into his jaw.

The crack echoes across the yard. Loki staggers back, one hand flying to his face where a dark bruise begins blooming across his cheekbone. 

For a long moment, he just stares at you, his chest heaving. Then his eyes turn wild and fill with what looks almost like delight. "Yes," he says, licking blood from his split lip. “This is much better.”

Loki returns with renewed vigor and it's all you can do to keep up, every move you make reduced to nothing but a desperate attempt to keep his attacks away. Your longer blade gives you more reach but Loki is fast and gracefully darts past your guard with almost no effort. 

The crowd watches with batted breath, gasping every time a fatal looking blow is delivered. 

But you stand your ground, refusing to die by a liar's hand under false accusations. 

He strong-arms you off balance and the crowd groans, thinking it’s over for you. But you see an opportunity. You roll, come up, and kick his legs out from under him.

Loki hits the frost hard, flat on his back in an instant, and you’re on him before he can move— one knee pinning his sword arm, your blade at his throat. You press the edge against his skin, just shy of drawing blood. Your hands tremble a little.

"Yield," you say.

He looks up at you. The firelight catches the green of his eyes, turning them into deep and unfathomable pools of gold. His chest rises and falls beneath your knee. His free hand comes up slowly and he brushes his fingers against your wrist, feather-light. "I yield," he murmurs, so quietly that only you could hear. "I yield everything. I always have to you."

The crowd erupts in cheers. Someone’s calling your name. Hands reach down to pull you to your feet, to clap you on the back, to declare you innocent by the will of the gods.

But you don’t hear any of it. You’re still looking at Loki, still feeling the ghost of his fingers on your wrist, still trying to understand what he said.

He rises slowly, brushing frost from his armor. His jaw is already purpling. His hair has fallen across his face but he doesn’t bother with fixing it. And as the guards move in to lead him away— for even a prince could not level false accusations without consequence— he turns to you one last time.

"This isn't over," he says.

"No," you agree, your heart pounding. "It isn't."

Revelations

Loki is confined to the palace under house arrest, stripped of his council seat and his ceremonial duties. 

You returned to your post, promoted— as a gesture of apology from Odin— to command of a cohort of Valkyries. Your days are filled with drills and briefings and the thousand small monotonies of military administration.

Your nights— when you can sleep— are filled with dreams of green eyes and a split lip and fingers on your wrist.

You tell yourself it’s hatred. The natural fixation of someone who had nearly died at the hands of a liar. You have every right to despise Loki. In his childish whims, he almost had you executed. He had called you a traitor and done everything in his considerable power to ruin you and your reputation.

And yet… And yet, when you walk the palace corridors at night, you find yourself detouring past the library. Past the observatory. Past the small, disused solar where you had once seen him sitting alone, reading, his face soft and unguarded in the pale moonlight.

You’re not looking for him. You’re... patrolling. Simply attending to your duties. 

One night, months into his confinement, Loki finds you.

You’re in the weapons vault, inspecting a new shipment of blades from Nidavellir, when the torches suddenly flicker and dim. The air grows cold and tendrils of frost start curling along the blade you’re holding, blurring your reflection in it. You turn, sword already half-drawn, and find Loki standing in the doorway— pale and gaunt, dressed in simple gray, his wrists free of shackles.

"You're supposed to be confined to your chambers," you say.

"I am," Loki says. "These are my chambers."

You look around at the racks of spears, the mounted shields, the bust of some long-dead warrior. "This is a weapons vault."

"This is my favorite weapons vault." He steps inside, and the torches flare back to life. "I used to hide here as a child. Thor would search for hours and never think to look among the axes."

"Your brother is a fool," you say, leaning against a shelf.

"My brother is the only person in the Nine Realms who has never stopped believing in me." Loki's voice is quiet, thoughtful. "Even when I gave him every reason to stop."

"That must be exhausting."

He smiles— small, tired and unexpectedly genuine. "You're still angry with me." he says, and there’s a faint hint of guilt in his voice. 

You turn away from him and replace the sword on the rack. "I'm still deciding whether to report you for violating your confinement."

"You won't."

You look back at him and his infuriatingly smug smirk greets you. "And why not?"

"Because you're curious." He moves closer, slowly, like a man approaching a wild animal. "You've been walking past my door for months, I know. You want to know why I did it."

"I know why you did it.” you say. “You're petty and cruel." You go to move past him and he locks his hand around your arm to stop you. 

"True," he agrees. "But not the whole truth."

You wretch out of his hold but don’t walk away, taken aback by what you see now that you’re standing close to him. The torchlight pools in the hollows of his cheeks, creating shadows under his eyes. He looks thinner than before. Weaker. But his gaze is the same— sharp and searching and uncomfortably perceptive.

"Tell me," you say, against your better judgment.

Loki’s silent for a long moment. "Do you know what it's like?” he starts. “To be the second son. The spare. The monster that Odin found in a temple and decided to keep as a pet?" 

You roll your eyes. "Stop feeling sorry for yourself, Loki. You're not a monster."

"Aren't I?" He looks up, his eyes wet. "I tried to have you killed because I couldn't stand the thought of you being happy without me. I couldn't stand that you had earned everything you had— your rank, your reputation, the love of your fellow Valkyries— while I remain the reviled beast the realm only tolerates because I’m Odin’s over glorified shame.”

The confession hangs in the air between you, raw and bleeding.

"You're telling me you framed me for treason," you say slowly, "because you were jealous?"

"No." He steps closer. "I framed you for treason because I wanted to see you break. And when you didn't— when you stood in that throne room with your head high and your voice steady and asked for trial by combat— I wanted to see you fight. And when you fought—" His voice cracks. "When you fought, I wanted you to put your blade to my throat and look at me the way you looked at me before. When I was still worth your time."

You stand frozen. Your heart is pounding so hard you’re certain he could hear it. "You could have just asked," you whisper. 

"And would you have said yes?" His smile is bitter as he points back at himself. "Would you really have willingly kept associating with me?"

Somewhere in the distance, a guard's boots echo on stone, carrying over to you on the complete silence as you stand there trying to form an answer. The torches flicker. Slowly, carefully, you raise your hand and cover his where it rests against his chest.

His breath stutters.

"You tried to have me executed," you say.

"Yes."

"You called me a traitor. You made the court believe I had sold secrets to our enemies."

"I really am sorry."

"You're a liar and you have no honor."

The corner of his mouth twitches. "You might have said something similar before."

"And yet," you say, and the word comes out softer than you intend, "here I am. Still talking to you. Still indulging you. Still—" You stop before you say something dangerous you won’t be able to take back.

But Loki has always been too clever for his own good. "Still what?" he breathes.

You pull your hand away— in self-preservation though it looks like rejection. "Still deciding whether to report you."

He catches your wrist before you can retreat. His grip is gentle this time, as if he’s assured himself you won’t shrug him off again. His thumb brushes the inside of your palm, tracing the calluses left by a lifetime of sword work. "Stay," he says. Almost a plea. "This is me asking. Stay with me. Just for a little while. I've been alone for three months, and the walls are starting to whisper."

"You're a grown man, Loki.” you say, still seeking to put some distance between you. “You can handle silence."

"I don't mean the silence." He pulls you toward a low bench against the vault wall, and you let him. "The walls here are old.” he says, voice trembling slightly. “They remember things. They remember the last time a frost giant walked these halls. They remember the way Odin's voice sounded when he told me the truth about who I am."

You concede and sit beside him, close enough that your shoulders almost touch. “No one blames you for that, Loki. It’s your own mind that’s playing tricks on you.”

“Odin said the same thing.” His voice is flat. "He said the only reason the truth was kept from me for so long was because he had meant to tell me when I was older. That he had been waiting for the right moment. That he loved me as a son, regardless of my blood."

You look into his eyes, the anguish in them, the betrayal he feels. "But you don't believe him."

Loki laughs without humor. "I’m the god of lies. I know a lie when I hear one. The Allfather didn't tell me because he loved me. He told me because Thor will become king one day, and he needed me to know my place. To know that I could never inherit the throne, that I would always be second, always lesser."

"Why are you telling me this?" you ask. 

He turns to look at you, and his eyes are ancient and exhausted. "Even when my own father treated me like a beast that must be kept on a leash indefinitely, you never made me feel like the villain.” He pauses. “Not until you got your cushy seat with father’s prized worriers anyway."

The weight of his words settle over you like a shroud. You realize now that in your efforts to prove your reformation, you’ve been neglectful of Loki. "You're not a villain," you say after the long pause.

"Then what am I?"

You reach out and take his hand, lace your fingers through his. His skin is cold, always cold, but his grip tightens around yours like a drowning man grasping a rope. "Misguided," you say. "Angry. Lonely. Hurt." You squeeze his hand. "But not a villain. Villains don't realize their mistakes and come clean."

He stares at your joined hands. “I almost got you killed.” His voice is rough. "You should hate me."

"I do hate you."

"Then why are you holding my hand?"

You turn on the bench to face him fully. The torches gutter low, throwing his features into sharp relief— the bruise long faded, the split lip healed and the unnaturally fragile expression on his face. 

"Because," you say, "I’m only really me when I’m with you. These past few months I’ve felt more myself than I did in all the years I’ve tried to be good. And… I dont know, but maybe we’re not that different, Loki.”

The words hang between you as Loki goes very still. His eyes search your face, looking for the lie, the trick. He finds nothing. "You can't possibly mean that," he whispers.

"I can and I do. And I hate that I do. I hate that you tried to destroy my life and I still—" You stop, steeling yourself to force the words out. "I still think about you. At night. When I'm alone. I think about the way you looked at me in the training yard, and I don't know whether I want to kill you or kiss you, and both options terrify me."

Something flickers behind Loki's eyes. The mask he’s worn like a second skin for so long slides away. Underneath is just a man. A strange man in a strange land who had spent his entire life reaching for something that looks like him, reflects him.

"Kiss me," he says. "If you're going to kill me, kiss me first. I want to die knowing what it feels like."

"You're being dramatic." You try to let go of his hand but he holds on tighter. “Loki…”

"I'm always dramatic.” Loki says, growing bolder, inching closer to you. “It's part of my charm."

A laugh escapes you and Loki's face breaks out in a smile that’s nothing like his usual smirks and sneers. 

Next thing you know, you’re kissing him. And he’s kissing you back, careful at first, then deeper, more desperate. Your free hand goes up to thread your fingers through his hair, and he makes a sound against your mouth as you pull him closer. Unlike his hands, his lips are warm. 

You pull back just far enough to breathe. His forehead rested against yours. His eyes are closed, his lashes dark against his pale cheeks. 

“I’ve wanted to do that for a long time now.” Loki whispers, soft as a prayer. 

Epilogue: The Garden

Three weeks later, Odin lifts Loki's house arrest. The official reason is good behavior. The real reason is that you had implored the Allfather to show his son some measure of mercy by claiming a desire to be the bigger person. Odin only smiled one of his smiles before agreeing to grant your request. 

Of course, you don’t tell Loki that part. He would have been insufferable about it.

The first time you see each other in public after the duel, is at a feast celebrating the end of the Vanaheim trade negotiations. 

Loki arrives late, as is his habit, and finds you standing in a small cluster with your fellow Valkyries. Off duty for the night, your group shine like jewels in shimmering gowns of every color but Loki has eyes only for you— disarming in emerald green. He wonders if you are doing it to torment him. 

He makes his way over and the Valkyries scatter, leaving you alone with him. 

Loki brushes his lips delicately against your knuckles. “It’s nice to see you out of armor.” he murmurs against your skin. 

“Well, no one’s trying to stab me, so I can afford to have a little less coverage.” you answer, in the tone of someone making a neutral observation. 

Loki straightens up, smirk firmly in place. “Ah, but of course.” 

“Where’s your helmet?”

Loki's hand goes up to touch it out of habit before he remembers it’s not there and drops his hand. “Didn’t seem occasion appropriate.”

Murmurs erupt in the hall when people notice the prince and the Valkyrie he accused of treason not long ago talking. Gossip doesn’t die easily in the halls of Asgard but in time the novelty of it all will fade. You just have to give it time.

“I’ll find you later,” you whisper to Loki. 

Loki doesn’t let go of your hand immediately, choosing to instead run his thumb over your knuckles once more before finally letting your fingers slip from his. 

Later, after the feast had dissolved into drunken chaos and Thor had challenged a Vanaheim noble to an arm-wrestling contest, you find Loki on the rooftop garden overlooking the city. The stars spread out above, cold and distant, and the lights of the palace glowing warm below.

“Had enough of the festivities?” you ask. 

Loki turns to you. “Just needed somewhere I can hear my thoughts over Thor’s blustering.”

“Yeah. He’s really enjoying himself.” You come and stand next to him, leaning your elbows on the parapet and fixing your eyes where Loki’s had been a second ago.

"I got you something." Loki says after a pause, his hand going to a hidden pocket of his suit. "An apology gift." He pulls out a sheathed dagger and places it into your hand.

You recognize the triangular blade. It was the same one you'd been holding the day you met him. With an addition to the handle— your initials carved in with a delicate hand. “Loki—“

“It’s lawfully obtained.” he says, guessing what you were about to ask. “You have my word.” He carefully takes the sheathed dagger form you and fixes the handle into a loop in your belt. The gold is striking against the emerald green of your gown as it shimmers in the starlight.

"It's going to take more than this to get back into my good graces," you say, only half joking.

“I’ve heard a rumor that you had a hand in my being here tonight." He glances at you sideways. "Does that mean you believe in me now?"

You run your fingers against the cold edge of the dagger, feeling it warm with every pass of your skin over the blade. "I believe you're capable of being better.” you say, quietly as if in reverence of the still air. “There's a difference."

He considers this. A breeze stirs his dark hair, and in the starlight, he looks almost peaceful. He turns to face you fully. The city glitters behind him, a thousand tiny lights reflecting in his eyes. He reaches out and takes your hand slowly, giving you time to pull away. You don’t.

"I'm not good at being honest,” he murmurs, eyes fixed on where your hands are joined, “or kind, or any of the things you deserve. I will probably hurt you again. I will probably lie to you again, not because I want to, but because lying is the only language I know."

You look into his eyes and they have more sincerity in them than you’ve ever seen there before. "I know."

"And you're staying anyway?"

"I'm staying," you say, squeezing his hand. "Not because I trust you— I don't. Not because I've forgiven you— I haven't. I'm staying because I want to see what happens next. I want to see if the God of Lies can learn to tell the truth." You step closer and his breath hitches. The scent of frost and pine wraps around you, familiar, comforting. “Can you do that?”

“I can try.” Loki kisses you, soft and slow, no hesitation this time. His lips move against yours like he’s trying to memorize the shape of them, the way you sigh when his hand settles on your hip.

When you finally pull apart, the stars have shifted and the music from the feast has faded to a distant buzz.

“Good.” You thread your fingers into the collar of his suit and yank him down. “But cross me again, Loki, and there will be deadly consequences.”

Loki's startled but he recovers quickly. "Good." His smile is genuine and utterly devastating. "I'd hate for things to get boring."

Lily's Masterlist Marvel Masterlist

The screenshot that started it all btw. Pinterest did this and I thought “wouldn’t it be fun to write a Loki fic inspired by a hozier song”.

[thethirdbear]

[aidensana]

Man up and kiss me on my hot mouth bro

[andallshallbewell]

[kathrynsbride]

"She is my scar" - Rio Vidal

[drdawnbreaker]

The urge to have Steve, Bucky, Bob, Matt, Frank, Billy, Peter 3, Loki, Reed, and Johnny to gang up on me in the most inappropriate manner ever is unseemly.

Its a WANT and a NEED

[xinakwans]

bringing out the failson show pony for one last ride around to get money from old rich people