Annie.

Peter’s entire body locked. A low, guttural sound tore out of him that didn’t sound entirely human. His muscles flexed hard under your hands, denser and tighter than usual, like every fiber had suddenly drawn taut with unnatural strength.

His eyes flooded pure black from edge to edge, reflective and hungry, pupils vanishing completely. Fangs pressed faintly against the inside of his lip. The new spider mutation—stronger, more instinct-driven—took complete control without changing his shape.

He didn’t pull out.

Instead he slammed forward to the hilt and stayed buried deep, grinding hard as he came with a harsh, animal growl. Thick pulses of heat flooded you, over and over, no hesitation at all.

“Peter—!” you gasped, eyes wide. “Wait, you’re still—oh my godd”

One hand shot up, not rough but firm, cradling your jaw and gently parting your lips with his thumb. He leaned in and spit a slow, warm strand of saliva straight onto your tongue, watching it land with those pitch black eyes.

Then he kissed you messily—open-mouthed, wet, tasting you and himself, tongue sweeping deep while his hips kept twitching through the last of his orgasm. The kiss was frantic and claiming for several long seconds, then softened into something almost sweet, like the human part of him was still trying to be gentle even while the mutation ruled.

You made a small, startled sound against his mouth, hands flying up to grip his wrists. “Peter… Peter, what’s happening? Your eyes—”

The mutation receded as suddenly as it had come.

The extra tension drained from his limbs. His eyes cleared back to that familiar dark brown, blinking rapidly. Peter froze, still buried inside you, still kissing you.

He pulled back just enough to look at your face, pupils blown wide with pure confusion. Then his gaze dropped between your bodies.

He stayed buried for a second longer, watching with dazed intensity as he finally eased back the slightest bit. A thick, pearly strand of his cum immediately welled up around his cock and began to drip out of you in a slow, heavy trail, sliding down to the sheets. Another pulse followed, warmer and messier, coating him as he stared. His breath hitched hard.

“Oh my god…” he whispered, voice cracking. He didn’t yank away; he stayed carefully still, eyes locked on the steady drip of white leaking from you around him. “I—fuck, look at that… it’s everywhere. I came so deep and it’s just… pouring out.”

His cheeks flushed dark with a mix of horror and residual heat. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t— I was gonna pull out, I swear I was. Something just… took over. It—fuck, I’m so sorry. Are you okay? Did I hurt you? Please tell me you’re okay.”

You stared up at him, still catching your breath, heart racing from both the intensity and the sudden shift. Your voice came out soft but steady. “Hey… hey, look at me. I’m okay. You didn’t hurt me.”

“…But I came inside,” he whispered with a small pout coating his face, panic rising as another slow drip slid free and he tracked it with his eyes. “I just— I couldn’t stop. And the spit, the kissing like that— fuck, what the hell was that? There’s so much of it… it’s still coming out of you.”

He swallowed hard, gaze still fixed on the mess between you for a long moment. A new, flustered expression crossed his face. “And the worst part is… part of me liked it. Like, really liked seeing it. Filling you up. I think—god, this is so messed up—watching it drip out of you is doing something to my brain and I feel terrible about it.”

You reached up, cupping his face with both hands so he had to meet your eyes. “Baby. Breathe. I’m right here. It felt… intense. But I’m not scared of you. And hey… finding something out about yourself doesn’t make you a bad person.””

His lower lip trembled. “I love you. I’m so, so sorry. I’ll do whatever you need—morning-after stuff, anything. Just please don’t be mad.”

You brushed your thumbs over his cheekbones, voice gentle. “I’m not mad. Surprised? Yeah… but if anything that was really hot”

Peter let out a shaky breath and carefully lowered his forehead to yours again, still half-buried like he was afraid moving would make the mess worse. His eyes flicked down one more time, watching another thick trail of his release slip free. “I hate that it happened like that. I never want to take choices away from you.”

You slid one hand down to rest over his racing heart. “I know. And I trust you. We’ll figure the rest out together, okay? Just… stay close for a minute. Don’t pull away yet.”

He nodded against you, pressing a soft, apologetic kiss to the corner of your mouth, then another to your cheek. “Okay. I’m here. I’m so sorry… and thank you for not freaking out on me.”

You gave a tiny, breathless laugh, fingers carding through his damp hair. “We’ll talk about the mutation later. Right now just hold me. You’re still my Peter.”

He wrapped his arms around you carefully, burying his face in your neck with a quiet, relieved sound. “Always. I love you so much.”

“I love you too,” you whispered back, stroking the nape of his neck. “Even when your DNA decides to get dramatic mid-orgasm.”

That pulled a small, watery chuckle out of him, and he held you tighter—still apologetic, still a little shaken, but softening into the comfort of knowing you weren’t going anywhere.

dividers — @/pixopix

an — just saw the movie today and im going crazy just mmm i need him

“Coffee with milk.” You’d called, fighting with the plastic lid as you pried it over the cardboard corners. You’d passed it out to whatever hand reached for it first, glanced up politely, mind preoccupied with the next order until recognition derailed your rhythm.

“Oh, hey Peter.” A casual, polite hello. A nod to an acquaintance. A friendly smile. “How’ve you been?” A perfectly normal thing to say to a classmate. An unobtrusive, socially acceptable remark.

Or so you’d thought.

The gratitude tumbling out from his mouth was cut short, and he chocked on the rushed thank you so much! As he reached out for his order. His entire body grew still, like he’d been isolated in a pocket of time. Frozen. His muscles locked up, his eyes widened, and his fingers hovered over yours, close enough to feel the heat emanating through the cardboard. As he blinked slowly, pulling himself back into the present, something painful flashed through his expression. It was instantaneous, barely noticeable, but your smile turned cautious.

You waited, coffee extended between you like peace offering, until the silence became unsettling. Your eyes flitted from the man before you to the line of customers growing behind him.

Had you said something wrong?

He mustn’t recognise you. Surely school hadn’t been that long ago…Was it only you that remembered the quiet, smart, nervous boy who always saved a hello or goodbye for you each day? You’d shared a project together in your last year, hadn’t you?

“Sorry.” You began, conscious of yourself, the queue, and his evident discomfort. “I didn’t mean to-sorry. Your drink.” You presented the little cup again, as if maybe he hadn’t noticed it the first time, and felt his fingers flex over yours.

He was trembling.

Beneath the harsh lights of the coffee shop his wide-eyes seemed bug-like. He took the cup, but didn’t withdraw, and his lips parted and pressed together like he was trying to say something.

“Are you feeling alright?” You ask.

“What did you just say?” It came out as a pant. Almost a whisper. Though the urgency was sharp.

Someone behind him cleared their throat irritably. You glanced over his shoulder and started to feel hot under the scrutiny of the collective stares as they waited for you. Exchanging your weight, you looked at the little ticket with his order - one regular coffee, additions: milk - and stressed your lip.

“I asked if you were alright.” Suddenly conscious of yourself, your voice, and the way he stared at you like he was close to tears, you weren’t sure what else to say.

“Before that.” Peter said.

“Um…Coffee with milk?” You looked at the little cup as if it had the answer, searching for a grasp of whatever it was he wanted to hear. His stare was unrelenting.

The line behind him was getting longer, bunching at the door so much that the little bell had stopped ringing, instead propped open by the bodies crowded there. As much as it was nice to see a familiar face, clearly just for you, it was coiling your nerves. Each huff, each glower, every tsk that hissed out from behind your old classmate made your chest tighten apprehensively. You were going to get in trouble soon. You were sure of it. You itched to move on.

“No-“ Peter shook his head. The wobble in his voice startled you. He sounded…pained. Desperate. You looked back at him, brows curved, and rolled your lips together. He seemed close to tears.

“…your name?”

“Yes.” Peter gasped, grip visibly tightening on the flimsy cup caged by his palm. Your gaze flicked between the paper and his face. His eyes were rimmed with red, lips parted with anticipation. Buckling under the intensity of his stare, you glanced away.

“…Peter?” You offered weakly, unsure what else you’d possibly said in the few words you’d given him, until a voice cut through the strings of your conversation, and jolted you back to life.

“Excuse me, how long’s my drink gonna be?”

“Sorry.” You gushed, snatching a paper cup, a ticket, and snapping your attention to the next customer. “Y-yes, just a minute.” You rambled, and turned your head back to Peter, who washed his eyes over you like he was seeing you for the first time. “Sorry-“ you started, but you weren’t certain exactly what for. “Sorry if…if I did something. Feel better, okay?” You moved to the ticket, and then to the row that had appeared beside you. You didn’t have another moment to spare. “I’ll see you later, Peter.”

I’ll see you later, Peter.

The last thing you’d said before turning back to your station. Five simple, normal words. He’d heard them a thousand times. But that had been before. Now, they were words that cracked him open and punctured his lungs, like he’d been unable to breathe in the time since anyone had known his name.

He was washed out by the wave of customers moving from the store. The bell above his head chimed again like an alarm trying to drag him from a dream.

Through the glass, he watched you. Coffee, milk, repeat. Mundane, routine, and completely oblivious to his turmoil. Peter glanced at the paper cup, the liquid warm now instead of hot, and exhaled loudly through his nose. The traffic on the sidewalk dislodged him, and he was swept by the stream to his apartment, where he climbed onto the fire escape. He sat his coffee on the railing and watched it, like it might say his name all over again. It remained untouched, as if drinking it would pour away whatever impossible thing had just happened and leave him alone and forgotten all over again.

He hadn’t realised quite how little he’d existed until now. Each day without his name he’d faded a little more. It was like his soul was evaporating. Piece by piece, until only his suit remained and no boy inside to wear it.

You let your head fall back against the pillow, your eyes already drifting closed as sleep begins to pull you back under again. It's only then, just as you're comfortable, that the next sound tears through your bedroom.

Your bedroom window, old and creaky, is slid open. The curtains stir as something, a big something, slips past them. There are no footsteps or creaks of the floorboards to prove it happens, just the rustle of the curtains as more breeze flies through.

"...P–Peter."

The name slips from your mouth before your mind has even fully caught up. It has to be him, he's the only person reckless enough to slip in at three in the morning, and the only one who would consider your fourteenth story window as a perfectly reasonable front door, despite having a key.

There's no response, so you reach for the lamp. A soft, yellow glow fills the bedroom, your eyes taking another second to adjust before immediately settling on the wall.

Peter's halfway up your bedroom wall, crouched close to the ceiling with his weight resting on his feet. He has one hand on the opposite wall, as if he needs it to keep him balanced.

He's still not turned to look at you, opting to watch the city through the gap the wind creates in the curtains. One shoulder in his suit has been ripped almost clean off, exposing bruised skin beneath streaks of drying blood. There's more dried blood along the side of his face, disappearing beneath his jaw and into the collar of his suit. Fresh crimson still trickles from a cut above his eyebrow, his curls clinging damply to his forehead.

You chew your bottom lip as you take him in. It's become the norm for him to crawl through your window at night after patrol, but never this late and never looking this banged up. Dating Spider-Man has its perks but now it brings you an uncomfortable swirl in your stomach.

"Pete?"

When he finally looks over to you, the breath in your throat catches. His eyes, usually so soft and brown when they look at you, are gone, replaced by darkness. You blink a few times, as if that will reset your sight and give you something more familiar.

It doesn't and your brow furrows. You've spent enough time looking into Peter's eyes to know every shade of brown that they could be in a different light. This wasn't that. The colour has been swallowed whole, replaced by a black glossy enough to catch the light from your bedside lamp.

Over time, you've learnt to just roll with the things that happen to and around Peter. Now, for the first time really, he's beaten, he's bloody, his eyes are pitch black, and he just stares at you.

It's probably one of the most unsettling things you've ever seen, which makes it deeply irritating that your first coherent thought is still 'God, he's attractive'.

"That's... new," you finally say.

His head tilts ever so slightly, the movement smooth enough that it reminds you he isn't entirely human, as if him clinging on your wall without a regard for gravity wasn't reminder enough.

"What happened, handsome?" You ask softly.

One corner of his mouth twitches at the nickname, it's barely a smile, but it's enough to loosen the knot that has been tightening in your chest from since you turned the light on.

"Suit yourself," you say.

The silence feels wrong on him. Usually, Peter feels silence the way other people breathe. He apologises, makes terrible jokes, and talks himself into circles until you have to interrupt him just to get a word in. Even after the worst patrols, he somehow finds the energy to ramble on about the criminal who threw a microwave at him or complain about New York's pigeons' vendetta against him.

Tonight, he just watches you. His gaze follows you as you kneel beside the bed and pull out the first-aid kit you stashed there for times like this. It tracks the movement of your hands while you sort through gauze and antiseptic, placing them on the bed.

"Come here."

This, he obeys immediately. Usually there's some sort of protest, "I'm fine." "You don't need to fuss." "It's not even my blood."

But today, he walks down the wall, each step carrying him lower until both feet settle quietly onto the carpet. He walks the short distance over to you, stopping close enough that you can smell the rain and city dust beneath the metallic tang of blood.

There's tiny cuts scattered across his jaw, already looking like they're healing. "You really got beat up, huh?"

He nods in response.

"The other guy look worse than you?"

Another nod.

"Good."

It's your turn to watch him, your eyes trailing down from where his hair is still damp to the way his muscles bulge out of his suit. A hum of approval slips past your lips, and the corner of Peter's mouth lifts again.

"Missed you." His voice is rough, quieter than usual, as though he hasn't spoken in hours. Knowing Peter, that is unlikely.

"I missed you too." You reach for the antiseptic. "Suit off, sit down."

It's a routine you've done time and time again. He's out of the suit in no time, then on your bed in only his boxers. His chest and stomach is no better than his face, scrapes and bruises littered across him.

You kneel between his open legs, soaking a cotton pad with antiseptic before lifting it towards the cut above his eyebrow. "This is going to sting."

Normally, he'd flinch before you'd enough touched him, already complaining about your bedside manner despite being the one who'd shown up at your window and begging you to take care of him with those puppy-dog eyes.

But, the antiseptic touches raw skin without so much as a wince or bad joke about how it hurts worse than anything he fought as an Avenger.

The furrow in your brow deepens for the second time today as you carefully clean his face. "Peter."

His black eyes flick briefly to your mouth before returning to your eyes. "What?"

"You've been staring at me for the past... I don't know. Like five minutes."

"I know." Is his simple response.

There's something in his voice that somehow manages to sound not quite like Peter but also entirely like Peter at the same time. A hint of brown peaks through his eyes as you study him.

You find yourself looking away first, pretending to concentrate on cleaning the cut along his jaw even though you've already wiped it clean.

When your thumb accidentally brushes against the corner of his mouth, any hint of brown disappears, replaced by pitch black again as there's a faint hitch in his breath.

The effects of his reaction rolls through your body in a way that you're not sure you can admit out loud. Although he doesn't show it, he's probably in pain, and the worry you'd had initially is very quickly being replaced by a burning desire.

"I think we're done."

You stand to throw the used cotton aside. The moment you try to leave, warm fingers close around your wrist. It's not tight enough to bruise, but it's enough to stop you in your tracks, to stop you from even thinking of pulling away.

The tug on your arm is done with hardly any force at all, but it still has you tumbling forward. Your hands land on his shoulders to steady yourself, and he lets go of your wrist only to settle one hand against your waist.

Lifting you with ease, he puts you on his lap.

For a brief second, he looks almost puzzled by the contact, as though some part of him is only catching up to what the rest of him decided several seconds ago.

As your fingers trace down the lines of his chest, over the faint bruising, his eyes drop to your chest, watching how your chest begins to rise and fall faster as your heart thuds in your chest.

His nipples are already erect, so perky and tempting and you can't help but slide your thumbs over them. It's as if the touch sparks something within him, his hands tighten on your waist, drawing you closer until there's barely any space between your bodies.

The streets of New York sound even more distant as the sounds of ragged breathing fills the room, it's all consuming and desire pools in your stomach without even being touched.

"Pete," you moan, and the restraint snaps.

Peter's hand cups the back of your neck, pulling you down to crash his lips to yours. It's not really a kiss, it's too messy and too desperate, and he groans in your mouth as your teeth accidentally catch the cut on his lip. Still, he doesn't pull away. In fact, he craves more.

His hands run over your back and then down to cup your ass, tilting your hips forward in an attempt to press you harder against him. He hums quietly against your mouth, the sound vibrating somewhere deep in his chest.

Somehow, he calms down enough that his lips move against yours in a way more resembling real kiss, his tongue sliding over yours. The motion has heat prickling under your skin and a throb blooming between your thighs. Your nails scratch at his back, adding to the collection of marks there.

Without breaking the kiss, Peter eases you both backwards. You barely notice you're being moved until you suddenly feel him, all of him, press against you. He arranges you so he's flat on his back, your knees on either side of his hips.

The thin fabric of your panties is damp in a way that you're sure he can feel through his boxers. He's done nothing so far to warrant that.

"Fuck," you groan against his mouth as you shift against him. The friction sending little sparks of pleasure through you, but not enough to satisfy the ache.

He pulls back just enough to look up at you. You could always tell what he was thinking through his eyes, but they're still black, probably darker than before if that's possible. But, the expression on his face gives you all the reassurances that his eyes can't.

"My senses are going crazy." It's the first sentence that was more than two words he's pulled together all night, so you sit up straight, looking down at him. He closes his eyes, drawing in a deep and ragged breath. "Fu-. You smell so..."

The praise went straight to your core, more wetness dampening your panties and Peter whimpered.

He didn't open his eyes immediately, taking another long, shuddering breath of air as if your scene was an intoxicant he couldn't get enough of.

Shifting in his lap, you grind down against him with as much pressure as you could manage. His hands on your hips twitched, his fingers digging into your skin with enough pressure that you knew it would bruise tomorrow. Good.

His eyes lock on to yours, the void in his gaze terrifying in a way that only made you ache more. "I can hear your blood rushing. I can feel... no, I can smell how warm and wet you are."

Leaning forward, you drag your chest against his bare skin until your noses almost brush.

"So, then you know I'm ready for you." You kissed the bottom of his jaw, where a bruise has formed. "I'm begging for it." Another kiss and shift against him. His full body tremors underneath you. "I need you."

Before you can blink, his hand flies up to wrap around the back of your neck, and then the room spins. Peter's over you in an instant, pressing his erection against your core.

There's a wet patch on his boxers where his precum has pooled and each roll of his hips coats his boxers as it glides over your damp panties.

"Fuck... Pete."

Your nails find their way to his back again, leaving him with marks that you know he'll appreciate in the mirror in the morning.

Peter whimpers, hair flopping over his face and eyes half-lidded as he moves faster against you. You reach up, thumb flicking over his nipples in time with his grinds against you. Electricity runs through his veins at every wipe.

"I-I'm not- I'm close already," he stutters, his dick twitching in his boxers.

"But I want you inside of me," you all but whined.

"Okay, yes."

If you weren't as aroused as you are now, you would have laughed at the unnecessary acrobatics as he jumps back to pull your panties off in one swoop. The cold air hits your soaked folds, and his throat bobs as he watches the way it glistens in the light.

"Hurry up," you begged, legs closing slightly. It was a silly thing to feel so self-conscious in front of the man who's been between your legs more times than you could count, but he's also not seen you this desperate before.

He stands to pull his boxers down, a soft moan escaping his lips as the fabric catches on his sensitive tip. He turns to look at you as you swallow hard. His dick is beautiful, slightly curved and thick in a way that fills you up completely every time. It's flushed a pretty pink at the tip. Your tongue moves in your throat, craving the feeling of how heavy it would feel on you.

Settling between your legs again, Peter spreads your legs wide. He rubs the tip of his length through your slick folds, his precum and your arousal mixing. He uses the tip to circle your clit with extra pressure, and you cannot help the grind of your hips.

Peter taps his dick on your clit once, then once again, running it through your folds again.

Your hands hook under the backs of your thighs, pulling them to your chest and exposing yourself to him. "Peter, please."

"I'm sorry, baby," he coos.

Just the tip is eased past your hole, and it's enough for your mouth to go slack, eyes rolling back as the stretch burns so well. He continues to push in slowly, face scrunched as your walls wrap around him like a specialised glove.

Every ridge, every vein, and every pulse drags hits against the walls of your pussy. He fills you up completely, thick and veiny, and neither of you move for a moment, too lost in the feeling.

"Won't last long," he grits out.

Sweat already beads at his forehead. Sex with Peter is usually a stamina war, he goes rounds and rounds before even tiring. But whatever's happened to him has heightened his senses in a way that he cannot yet control, the feelings overwhelming him to the point of almost overstimulation.

"That's okay, take what you need."

He begins to move, pulling out so just the tip is left in before pushing back forward. He finds the right angle immediately, hitting against your spot and making your toes curl.

Without missing a thrust, Peter grabs hold of your ankles, using them to spread your legs further. The new angle has you both sighing, moans mixing in the room with the sounds of his skin clapping against yours.

"Feels s'good, s'tight," he groans. "Touch... self."

Three of your fingers immediately find your clit, circling with the pressure that you know you like. It only takes a few tightly pressured circles for the first waves of your orgasm to shake through your body.

Peter watches your body arch as your orgasm hits you in full force. You clench around him and that combined with the pure ecstasy on your face has him burying himself deep inside of you, giving you a few more frantic thrusts before he's whimpering and groaning, his nerve endings going haywire.

Seconds later, he's shooting hot, ropey cum into you. He falls forward but keeps his body hovering over yours. Your hands cup his cheeks, pressing kisses to his face as you both come down from your highs. He mumbles praises to you between kisses, making your heart squeeze.

"Feeling better, Pete?" You ask.

"Yeah, thanks to you," he sighs. He sits back on his heels, still buried inside of you.

As you watch him, his eyes slowly clear of the black, his soft brown eyes finding yours.

Growing up, you’ve always pictured your wedding day as this grand, romantic thing. You’d have the perfect dress, the perfect flowers, the perfect everything. You'd walk down a petal-strewn aisle toward the love of your life, your heart doing a little fluttery dance. Maybe your dad would get teary-eyed. Maybe your mom would be proud for once in her life. You would be happy.

Yet here you sit, Grima and your mother fussing with the pins in your hair, and all you can feel is this cold, heavy dread.

“There,” your mother says, giving a final, sharp tug that makes you wince. “It’s adequate.”

You stare at your reflection. The woman staring back is a stranger. Sunken eyes, a dress of bright blue that clings to your torso before flaring out at the waist, and a silver circlet embedded with dark opals that feels more like a crown of thorns than anything else. You look like a princess, but you feel like a sacrifice.

“It’s beautiful, my lady,” Grima says softly. Her smile is genuine, which is the only thing keeping you from shattering into a million pieces. “His Highness will be speechless.”

One of them certainly will be, your brain supplies unhelpfully. And not the one she’s talking about.

Loki has not shown his face since his confession last night. You had stayed in the garden until your skin was chilled and your heart was raw, before sneaking back to your chambers and crying yourself into an exhausted sleep. Now, with the sun already climbing high into the sky, there is still no sign of him. The ceremony is at midday.

A knock sounds at the door. Your mother straightens, her expression hardening into one of habitual regal disapproval.

“Enter.”

A guard pokes his head in. “Apologies—”

“Out with it,” your mother snaps. She has always been a woman of little patience, and today even less so. “We are on a schedule.”

The guard swallows nervously. “The allmother has requested the princess’ presence in her chambers.”

Your mother’s eyes soften almost imperceptibly. “Of course.” She turns to you, her hands resting on your shoulders in a gesture that almost feels maternal. Almost. “Come. We mustn't keep her waiting.”

She makes to move, but the guard hesitates. “Apologies, my lady, but Her Majesty specifically requested the princess come alone.”

You immediately feel a surge of something you can't quite name. You didn’t always feel so fearful of Odin’s wife. As a child, you had a strange fondness for the queen, for the quiet way she watched over things, for the way her hands always seemed to know just how to soothe a scraped knee or a feverish brow. But now, since you and Loki had been playing this treacherous game, every interaction with the Asgardian royal family is filled with paranoia.

“Very well,” your mother says, giving you a look that’s a mixture of ‘don't you dare mess this up’ and ‘good luck.’ “We have preparations to finish anyway.”

Yo are led from your chambers by the guard, down familiar gilded hallways that suddenly feel like a cage. The guards outside the queen’s chambers bow as you approach, and one opens the heavy oak door for you.

Frigga is standing by the window, her back to you, gazing out at the sprawling grounds of the palace. She’s wearing agown of blue, her golden hair braided intricately. She looks every inch the queen.

“You sent for me, Your Majesty?” you ask, your voice sounding small and thin in the vast, quiet room.

She turns, and her smile is kind, but her eyes hold a strange, knowing light. “My dear girl. Come. Sit with me.”

She gestures to a small, plush sofa near the fireplace. You do as she asks, the hue of your gown a stark, vibrant slash against the muted tones of the room.

“Today is a big day,” she says, settling into a chair opposite you. “You must be very nervous.”

You nod, not trusting your own voice. You fidget with a loose thread on the sofa. There’s a lump in your throat that won't go down.

You wonder if she knows. You wonder if her husband knows. You wonder if anyone knows how close you came to throwing it all away last night.

Because, oh, how you had wanted to. You didn’t understand until Loki put the choice in front of you, but the desire to stay was a palpable thing. A longing that had been buried under layers of duty and fear and resignation, but was now clawing its way to the surface. And what could you do but deny it?

“I was nervous on my wedding day, too,” Frigga continues, her gaze unwavering. “Terrified, in fact. Marrying Odin was the most significant thing I would ever do. It would define my life, my legacy. There is a certain… weight to that, isn't there?”

“Yes,” you whisper, finally finding your words. “A great weight.”

She studies you for a long moment, and you have the unsettling feeling she’s peeling back your skin and looking right into your soul. It’s a different kind of perception than Loki’s. His is a sharp, clever thing. Frigga’s is a soft, enveloping warmth, a river that wears you down until you have no choice but to let it flow. And right now, you are afraid you might drown in it.

“You have been a good friend to my son. To both of my sons,” she says, and there’s no accusation in her tone. “Thor, for all his… Thor-ness, can be a bit boisterous. He doesn't always see the quiet things. But you do. You see Loki.”

You freeze, every muscle in your body tensing. There is that feeling again, as if you were a child caught with your hand in the cookie jar. But you school your features into a mask of calm, even as your heart starts to pound against your ribs like a trapped bird.

“He’s my friend,” you manage to say, your voice barely audible. “Of course I see him.”

She smiles, a slow, gentle curve of her lips. “Of course.” She leans forward, her hands clasped in her lap. “And because you see him, surely you must understand that Loki… he does not always react to things in the way one might expect.”

You say nothing, because what can you possibly say to that?

I know he’s a trickster? I know he has a temper? I know he whispered words in a garden that could cost my realm its alliance with Asgard?

“The two of you. Always bickering, always at odds,” she muses, almost to herself. “You know, when you were younger, he used to practice a particular illusion. A very simple one. He would make a rose appear in the palm of his hand. He would practice for hours, trying to get the color just right, the petals just so. And whenever he felt he thought he had perfected it, who do you think he would show it to?”

Your breath catches in your throat. You don’t want to hear this. You can’t hear this.

“He would show it to Thor, of course,” she continues. “And Thor would clap him on the back before running off to do something more… heroic. He would show it to me, and I would smile and tell him it was lovely. But he was never satisfied with our reactions. He wanted more.”

She pauses, and the silence in the room is a heavy thing.

“Then one day, he showed it to you.” She is watching you so intently now, it’s as if she’s trying to will the memory into your head. “You were assisting me with my tapestry in the gardens. He came up to you, that same illusion in his palm. And you didn’t just say it was ‘lovely.’ You told him the petals were too symmetrical. That a real rose has imperfections. You told him the color was too vibrant. That it looked… fake.”

You remember. The memory, long buried under years of complicated feelings, resurfaces with a painful clarity. You had been full of a child’s blunt honesty, with none of the carefully curated diplomacy you now possess.

“He didn't speak to you for a week after that,” Frigga chuckles, amusement in her tone. You definitely remember that. “But the illusion he showed me the next week… it was the most perfect, most convincing illusion I had ever seen. Every petal was unique, every color was muted.”

“It looked real,” you say, the words slipping out before you can stop them.

You had noticed. He’d come up to you again, and without a word, held out his hand. And the rose had been perfect. The scent of it had even seemed real. And you had just nodded at him, and he had nodded back, and that was that. It was also after that he began to get a little too cocky with his illusions. Not long after that was the first he'd tried to make you believe a serpent was in your bed. You'd screamed so loud the entire wing of the palace had heard you. To this day, you have never forgiven him for that.

“He has always valued your opinion.” Her voice pulls you back to the present. “Far more than he would ever admit. It is why he goads you so.”

You don’t know why she’s telling you this. It feels like a warning and a kindness all at once, a beautifully wrapped dagger pressed into your palm. Your hands are trembling in your lap, and you have to clasp them together to keep her from noticing.

“Your Majesty,” you begin, your voice strained. “What is the purpose of this conversation?”

Please, Gods, let it just be a mother’s fond reminiscing. Let it be a last-minute attempt at comfort before the wedding. Let it be anything but what you fear it is.

She doesn't answer your question. Instead, she rises from her chair and walks to a small, ornate chest in the corner of the room. She opens it and pulls out a leather-bound book. It’s large, with no title on its cover. She brings it over to you and places it in your lap.

“What is this?” you ask, your fingers tracing the worn leather. It’s surprisingly heavy.

“A record of seidr,” she says simply. “Basic spells. Illusions, healing, minor conjurations. Things I believe you have a natural aptitude for.”

You stare at her, dumbfounded. “Me? But I… I have no magic. My realm—”

“Is full of it,” she finishes gently. “Your people simply use it differently. You weave it into your textiles, into your songs, into the very structure of your homes. You just don’t call it by that name.”

You open the book. The pages are filled with elegant, looping script and intricate diagrams. You can’t read a word of it, but there’s a strange pull to it. You feel a hum of energy that vibrates through your fingertips.

“I do not understand,” you say, your head starting to spin. “Why are you giving this to me? On my wedding day?”

Frigga kneels before you, her hands covering yours on the book. Her touch is warm, and for a second, the heavy dread in your chest lifts.

She doesn’t seem angry. Perhaps she knows not about Loki’s plea in the garden. Perhaps she has no idea how close you were to choosing him. She’s just… kind. And you don't know what to do with that.

“Because I am your queen,” she says, her voice firm. “And my duty is to protect my realm and its alliances. My son is to be your husband. He is a good man, but he is… focused. He sees the grand tapestry, but not always the threads. You see the threads. This,” she taps the book, “will help you mend them when they fray.”

Her words are a riddle, and you’re too exhausted to solve it. “Thank you,” you say, because it seems like the right thing to say. “I will treasure it.” And you mean it. In a life full of things you didn’t ask for, this book, this gesture of faith from the most powerful woman in the Nine Realms, feels like a bright spot.

“There may come a day,” Frigga softly speaks, “when you find yourself with no counsel but your own. If that day should arrive, I would rather you possess knowledge than fear.” She stands and smooths down her skirts. “Now, off with you. I’m sure you have much to do.”

You get up, the heavy book clutched to your chest like a shield, and give a curt bow before walking to the door. However, before you think to leave, you hesitate, your back to her. You need to know.

“Your Majesty,” you say, your voice barely a whisper. “Did Loki… did he say anything to you last night?”

There is a long silence, and you can feel her gaze on your back.

“Loki and I often speak late into the night. He is my son. Why do you ask?”

You shake your head, unable to turn around. “No reason. Just… a silly concern.”

“He is a prince of Asgard. He will do his duty, as will you. But duty does not have to be a cage, my dear. Sometimes, it is a key. You just have to find the right lock.” She doesn't confirm nor deny, only gives you a piece of her own kind of cryptic wisdom. “Go on. Don’t keep your mother waiting.”

She may not be Loki’s blood, but she is as adept at weaving words as he is. You find it almost hard to believe the two of them aren't actually related.

With a final, curt nod, you leave.

***

The walls are closing in, the dress feels like a shroud, and the book of spells is a heavy weight in your lap. You’ve read — or rather, looked at — the same page three times. It makes no sense. The symbols are like nothing you’ve ever seen.

You feel a strange sense of loss, that a gift with such potential is completely out of your reach.

A bit like your life.

The guards outside your door stand like statues. You’re a prisoner in your own chambers, and your sentence is about to be carried out. Every tick of the ornate clock on the mantelpiece is a hammer blow against your heart.

Midday is drawing near, and still no Loki.

You keep replaying Frigga’s words in your mind.

Duty does not have to be a cage. Sometimes, it is a key.

It’s a pretty thought, but you can't make it fit. Your duty is to Thor. To Alfheim. To the alliance. Loki is the opposite of your duty. He is the locked door you’re not supposed to open, and you doubt the queen was encouraging you to pick the lock to that particular room.

And yet, she gave you the book.

Why? Was it a test? A message? Or just a mother’s quiet attempt to give you a sliver of power in a powerless situation?

You have this aching suspicion that she knows. Not the specifics, perhaps, but the shape of the thing. If Thor of all peoplesaw what was between you, the woman who raised the God of Mischief must have some inkling. And instead of forbidding it, she armed you. The thought is more terrifying than comforting.

You rise from the sofa, needing to move. You pace the length of the room, the silk of your dress whispering against the stone floor. You stop at the window, looking down at the grounds. Thousands if not tens of thousands of your own people have gathered. You see their brightly colored clothes, a stark contrast to the muted earth tones of Asgard. They are here to see their princess marry a god. They are here for the celebration. They don’t see the fear. They don't see the cage. They only see hope for a better future.

You wonder if Thor is watching from some high balcony. You wonder if he feels as sick as you do.

A wave of vertigo hits you, and you grip the windowsill to steady yourself.

This is it. This is the rest of your life. You will live here, in this golden palace, as the wife of a man whoms brother you love.

Would it be possible for you to live such a life?

Could you stand in a court and watch Loki whisper secrets in another’s ear? Could you share a table with him and your husband and pretend your heart wasn’t being carved from your chest, piece by painful piece? Could you bear children with Thor and look at them, knowing that every single one of them is a symbol of a choice you made out of fear?

You close your eyes, willing the tears away for what feels like the thousandth time.

When you open your eyes, your gaze lands on the little elven children running among the crowd, their clothes no longer the rags they wore the day of the wedding announcement. They are dressed in fine fabrics, their hair clean and neatly braided. They are laughing.

You did that. Your sacrifice is already giving them something better. You cannot forget that.

In that instant, a resolve hardens within you. You were not raised to be a selfish woman. You were not raised to follow your heart. You were raised to lead and to protect your people, no matter the cost to yourself. It is a cold comfort, but it is a comfort nonetheless.

You are a princess of Alfheim, and you will do your duty. You will stand before the Allfather and you will say the words. You will take Thor’s hand and you will smile. And you will learn to be happy with it, or you will learn to be a very good actress.

But the thought still does not bring you any semblance of peace. That’s when you know, with a certainty that chills you to the bone, that the ache for Loki will not simply go away.

Damn the orders to not leave your chambers. You need fresh air. You know this place like the back of your hand, you know a servant's corridor that'll lead you to a secluded balcony, and with the wedding chaos it's unlikely you'll run into anyone.

You quell the hope in your heart that he might be there. It is too dangerous a hope to have. You are simply going to calm your nerves before the ceremony. That is all.

You slip out of your chambers, giving the guards a dismissive wave of your hand as if you have every right to be leaving. To your surprise, they don't question you, merely bowing their heads as you pass. Perhaps your status as the future queen is already granting you some small freedoms.

You navigate the familiar corridors with a practiced ease, your feet knowing the way even when your mind is a mess of static. The servant's passage is empty, as you expected, and you push open the heavy wooden door at the end of it. And—

“I don’t want to hear a lecture on being out of my rooms. I just needed—"

“Oh my gods!” You shriek, quickly turning away as your eyes land on the one person you definitely were not expecting to run into.

“I didn’t see, I swear!” Thor’s familiar, deep voice says, sounding as shocked as you are. You hear a rustle from behind you, and you don’t have to look to know he is also turning his back. “… did you?”

It was an old custom that extended from realm to realm — a bride and groom were not to see each other on the day of the wedding, lest they bring about bad luck. Though a silly superstition, you didn’t want to tempt fate. Not that things could get any worse.

"No! I mean, I didn't look properly! Just your back," you stammer, face burning with embarrassment. "What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be preparing?"

"I could ask you the same thing," he shoots back. "I came to think. This seemed a good a place as any. What's your excuse?"

"Same as you."

An awkward silence stretches between you, punctuated only by the distant sounds of the crowds and the frantic beating of your own heart. This isn't how it's supposed to be. You're supposed to be full of romantic anticipation, and he's supposed to be… well, not standing with you on a secluded balcony, possibly struggling with the same things as you.

You risk a glance over your shoulder, careful to keep your eyes trained on the floor. From what you can see he in his ceremonial armor, the polished gold gleaming in the sunlight. He looks every bit the hero, the god, the prince. He looks like the future king of Asgard.

"You're wearing your armor," you say, stating the obvious as you try to break the tension.

“Hey! You said you didn’t see!”

“I didn’t see your face,” you retort, feeling a spark of your old self rise to the surface. “I do have peripheral vision.”

He chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that feels surprisingly genuine. “Fair enough. You are wearing your dress.” He pauses, and you can feel his gaze on the back of your head. “It’s… a very blue dress.”

“It is,” you agree, a small smile touching your lips. “it’s the color of royalty in my realm. My mother chose it. She called it ‘acceptable.’”

“She’s a hard woman to please.”

“She has to be,” you reply. “Our realm isn't as prosperous as Asgard. A single mistake could cost us everything.”

“Yes… I know,” he sympathizes.

A beat, and then,

"Thor..” your voice is barely a whisper. "Are you scared?"

He is silent for so long that you think he isn't going to answer. Then, he sighs, a weary sound.

"Terrified," he admits, and the vulnerability in his voice is so raw, it catches you off guard. "I've fought monsters. I've battled giants. I've seen the birth of stars. But this… this is different. This is… forever."

Forever.

The word hangs in the air between you, heavy and suffocating.

"I'm terrified too," you confess. It's the truth, and it's a relief to finally say it out loud.

You finally turn fully around, keeping your gaze fixed on the horizon. The golden spires of Asgard glitter in the sun, a breathtaking sight that does nothing to calm your nerves.

He's still facing away from you, a mountain of a man with shoulders that seem to carry the weight of the Nine Realms.

"My brother came to see me this morning.”

The casual way he mentions Loki sends a jolt through you.

You try to keep your voice steady.

“Oh?”

"He told me I was a fool," Thor continues, a wry humor in his tone. "He told me I was trading a lifetime of freedom for a lifetime of… well, you."

You flinch, a sharp pain lancing through your chest. "That sounds like him."

"He also told me that you were the most intelligent, infuriating, and stubborn woman he had ever met.” Thor’s voice drops, becoming more serious. “And that if I hurt you, he would personally see to it that my entrails were used to decorate the great hall.”

Despite the gruesome image, a hysterical bubble of laughter escapes your lips.

“He’s protective of you,” he acknowledges, but it sounds like the words of a man that has known it for years. It sounds like you are the last one to know.

You nod, the motion feeling almost automatic. You have no idea what to say. It feels as though every path your conversation can take is leading you someplace you can't bear to go.

"What do you want me to say to that?" you ask, unable to keep the bite from your tone. Your nerves are frayed. Your heart is raw. You feel like you're on the edge of a knife.

"Nothing," he says, a gentle reassurance. "I just want you to know that I don't plan on hurting you. Not intentionally."

Your throat constricts with emotion. He is not saying anything you didn't already know, but to hear it spoken aloud is like a balm.

He isn't Loki, but he is still your friend. The thought of spending the rest of your life with him isn't the worst fate… but it's also not the one you want.

"You are not a fool, Thor," you say, your voice soft. "And I am sorry if I made you feel like one."

You don’t know the extent of what he knows, or how much he understands, but he seems to accept your words as the apology they are.

“Let's just… can we just be Thor and you? For five minutes. Before we have to be them."

The prince and the princess. The symbols. The alliance.

You turn around, slowly, giving him a chance to object. He doesn't. You keep your eyes fixed on the middle of his chest plate, until you eventually build the courage to face him. His blue eyes, usually so full of bluster and confidence, are filled with a depth of emotion that you didn't know he was capable of.

You see your own fear reflected back at you.

You extend your hand. "Hi. I'm me.”

He takes your hand, dwarfing it with his own. His grip is strong, but surprisingly gentle. A God, but also a man. A good man.

"Hi," he says. "I'm me, too."

You shake your head, a smile tugging at your lips despite everything. "You're ridiculous."

"I've been told."

He squeezes your hand, and you squeeze back, a silent acknowledgment of all the things you can't say out loud.

You let go, your fingers trailing across his palm before slipping away completely.

You are both making this choice. You will both live with it and find whatever happiness you can.

But the thought keeps turning over and over in your mind.

Thor.

Your best friend.

"Have you spoken to Sif?” you blurt. "Is she..."

You trail off, unable to finish the sentence. You don’t even know what you’re trying to ask.

Is she okay? Is she angry? Is she hurt?

“Ay," he admits, and there's a deep sadness in his tone. "She is not angry with you, nor me. She is angry with the fates, and I cannot fault her for that.”

A fresh wave of guilt hits you, and you swallow down the lump in your throat. Your gaze drops to your feet.

He sighs, and when he speaks again, there is a forced levity in his voice. "Have you spoken to my brother?"

“Not today,” you admit, your heart clenching painfully at the question.

You want to tell him about the garden. You want to tell him how Loki looked, how he sounded, how he made you feel. Thor is your best friend, after all. But you can't. And that makes it hurt all the more.

He nods, a resigned kind of acceptance. "You know, he wont hate you,”

You shake your head, unwilling to let yourself think about it. "He already does."

He raises an eyebrow. "You truly believe that?"

"I know it."

His gaze softens, his eyes full of a gentle sympathy that you want to cling to. "Then you don't know my brother as well as I thought."

"Thor, I—"

A bell echoes throughout the palace grounds, signaling the hour. The wedding is about to begin. You feel like a noose has just been tightened around your neck.

He glances over his shoulder at the door. "We should—"

"Yes. Yes, we should," you finish.

Before anything, you step forward and wrap your arms around him, pulling him into a hug. He stiffens in surprise, but his arms come up around you after a moment. His embrace is comforting, and you lean into it. You are so tired of being strong. For a brief moment, you let yourself be weak.

"This doesn't change anything," you murmur into his shoulder, knowing it's not strictly the truth. But maybe you can make it true if you say it often enough. Maybe you can force it into existence. "You're still my best friend. You'll always be my best friend."

He squeezes you tightly. "And you mine."

You pull away, keeping your hands on his forearms. Your eyes meet, and there is an unspoken understanding between the two of you that neither of you wanted this.

At the very least, if you were to spend your life bound to a man who was not the one you willingly chose, you could do so with someone who felt the same way.

You take a steadying breath and step back.

“Okay, you first. I'll wait a few minutes before following. Just in case, because—"

"Our mothers would have our heads," he agrees with a small smile. "Very well."

He turns and walks through the heavy wooden door, leaving you alone on the balcony.

You take a deep breath, smoothing down your dress.

This is it. This is the rest of your life.

You close your eyes and remember Lokis face — the expression he may never wear for you again. You commit every detail to memory, even though it hurts.

You open your eyes, you straighten your shoulders, you square your jaw, and you walk back inside to get married.

***

The ceremony takes place in the great hall. It's the same hall where the Allfather announced the treaty all those years ago. However, it is unrecognizable now.

The golden pillars are adorned with garlands of flowers. The high ceiling glitters with thousands of tiny lights, like stars in the night sky. The tables and chairs are gone, replaced by rows of benches, filled with nobility from all the Nine Realms. And in the front of the room, beneath a golden canopy, stands the Allfather, regal as ever.

You walk down the aisle, your gaze fixed on Odin. If you look at the people, you might panic. If you look at Thor, you might cry. And if you look at the youngest prince, standing stoically beside the throne, you might forget what you are doing all of this for.

The heavy fabric of your dress trails behind you, the sound of it muted behind the soft violets of the court musicians. The whispers of the crowd are a low hum in your ears, but you can hear some of the comments as you pass.

"My gods, she's so beautiful!"

"She looks like a queen already."

"Do you think they'll be blessed with children soon?"

Your face burns with the heat of a thousand suns. You feel like an animal on display. You have been in this palace for years, and these people still look at you as if you are some exotic curiosity.

Grima and your mother are waiting at the base of the steps to the throne. Your mother looks positively regal in her gown of white and gold. She gives you a small nod of approval, which is more than you expected and you feel a strange sort of pride that she seems pleased with you. Perhaps she'll be a little less cold after today.

She takes your arm and guides you up the stairs, into position. You stand facing Thor, your eyes fixed on his chest plate. It feels safer than looking at his face.

Odin's voice booms through the hall, echoing off the high stone walls. "We are gathered here today to witness the binding of two souls. Through this union, we will strengthen our ties to the realms, we will show our commitment to peace and prosperity, And we will ensure that the realms will stand together against any enemy that might threaten them."

His words wash over you, feeling both distant and far too close. You barely hear him recite the ancient words.

It seems only a few seconds later that Thor takes your hand, and you know it is time for the exchange of vows. You look up at him, and his gaze is fixed on yours as Odin speaks.

"Do you, Princess of Alfheim, vow to serve Asgard as their future queen? To lead with wisdom and compassion, and to protect your people until you are pardoned from your duties by either death or decree?"

Your throat feels dry. The words stick in your mouth, and for one awful moment, you think you may not be able to say them.

“I—” you begin, your voice barely audible.

Your eyes stray without meaning to, and they finally land on Loki. He is standing to Odin's right, his expression unreadable.

Your breath catches in your throat.

He is so close, yet he seems a million miles away.

There is an expectant hush in the room as everyone awaits your answer, but you cannot look away.

You see it then. A flicker of something in his eyes.

Hope.

His gaze drops to your hand, where Thor is holding it, and then back to your face. And there, in the space between heartbeats, is a question you thought you'd never see from him.

Do you want me to save you?

There is a flutter in your chest, because even after everything, he would do it. Consequences be damned.

You look out to the crowd, at the people you have fought so hard to protect. You think of your parents, and you think of Frigga, and you think of all the sacrifices they have made for their people. You think of the elven children in the marketplace, and you think of the countless lives that could be saved with the treaty.

The next person you make eye contact with is the Seer from the market. She is sitting in the front row, her eyes glittering like a serpent. And as she looks at you, she lifts her gnarled hand and holds one finger up.

"You will someday make a wise and brave queen." Her breathless whisper was her final prediction, voice cracking from age and abuse, "Though only in one of these worlds will that hold true, my lady. Choose wisely, for once you choose, you will commit."

Oh, how badly do you want to be selfish. One look and you know that Loki would conjure an illusion in a heartbeat, he would pull you down those steps and out of this hall, and he would not let go until you were both free. But clever as he may be, even he cannot outmaneuver fate.

“—I do.”

The words leave your lips before you can second guess yourself, but the crack in your voice is impossible to hide. You tear your gaze away from everyone and focus on Thor.

It isn’t until you blink that you realize tears are streaming down your face.

Everyone else would simply see a woman moved by the gravity of the moment. But Thor… Thor would see the truth. Thor would see that the tears were for his brother.

“Do you, Prince Thor Odinson, heir to the throne of Asgard, vow to stand beside the Princess of Alfheim as her husband? To honor her counsel, defend her kingdom as your own, and rule with her in wisdom until death or decree parts you?”

Silence.

His blue eyes search yours, and for a moment the crowded hall disappears. There is only the two of you, standing exactly where neither of you wishes to be.

He raises your joined hands to his lips, and kisses your knuckles. His beard tickles your skin, and you barely repress a shudder.

“…No.”

A ripple moves through the hall like thunder rolling across the mountains. Murmurs erupt from every corner of the chamber. Nobles rise from their seats, confused whispers swelling into open disbelief.

the sound of Gungnir striking the stone floor echoes through the room, silencing the crowd. Odin fixes his son with a stare that could split mountains.

“What did you say?”

Thor releases your hand and turns to face his father, his broad shoulders squared. His voice is steady and clear as he speaks.

"I said no, Father. I will not marry her."

You stare at him, unable to breathe.

“My son,” Odin warns.

Thor turns first to you. His expression is gentle, almost apologetic.

"My friend,” he says, quiet enough for only you to hear. “I do this for your sake as well as mine."

Then, he turns to the crowd, raising his hands for silence. A natural born leader. The hall immediately quiets, and he begins to speak.

“This marriage was never meant to unite two people. It was meant to unite two realms. And it is that union I wish to forge. I wish to honor the treaty between our realms, but I refuse to do so at the expense of our happiness."

What in gods name is he doing? You want to scream at him to stop, that this is foolishness, that you are already willing to make this sacrifice. But your tongue is tied to the roof of your mouth.

Your mother looks as though she has just seen a ghost. The Allfather looks like he might actually murder his son on the spot. Frigga, however, is the only person in the entire room who does not look surprised. She merely watches, her hands clasped calmly in front of her.

“The prince of Asgard still stands before you.”

Thor turns.

“Loki.”

Your blood freezes in your veins. You follow his gaze to the youngest prince that is still standing by the throne, and you watch as the full weight of Thor's words hits him.

“Loki possesses every right of royal blood that I do. He is a son of Asgard. If the purpose of this union is alliance, then the alliance need not die because I refuse to make prisoners of us both.”

Odin’s face hardens.

“Have you lost your senses?”

“No, Father.” Thor’s voice remains unwavering. “I have found them.”

Your heart hammers in your chest as you realize what Thor is doing. He is offering you an out. A way to save the alliance without forcing either of you into a loveless marriage. And he is doing it at the risk of being exiled.

He is saving you both.

"Loki is a prince of Asgard," Thor continues. "He is my brother.”

It is such an ordinary word. One Thor has spoken a thousand times without thought, yet never has it carried such weight.

Not after Jotunheim.

Not after learning the blood in Loki’s veins did not match the blood that raised him.

Every eye drifts to Loki, waiting to see if he will deny it, reject it, or disappear behind one of his carefully crafted masks.

He does none of those things.

He simply stares at Thor, as though he no longer understands the language he is speaking.

He doesn’t move.

For once, the God of Mischief has no clever retort waiting on his tongue. The carefully practiced mask he wears before the court has cracked. Disbelief flickers across his face, chased quickly by something far more vulnerable.

Forgiveness.

Fear.

They wage war behind his eyes.

“If this alliance is to endure, let it be built upon truth rather than sacrifice.” Thor’s gaze shifts between you and Loki. “I ask that the crown recognize Prince Loki as my equal in this matter and permit him to take my place.”

“You would surrender your claim?” Loki asks quietly, his voice stripped of every ounce of wit.

Thor smiles a tired, familiar smile that reminds you of two boys racing through palace corridors long before crowns and kingdoms demanded pieces of them.

“No,” he answers. “Only what was never mine to begin with.”

Odin’s face darkens, every trace of composure vanishing beneath the weight of wounded pride “Enough!” he thunders.

“You presume to dictate affairs of state before the assembled Nine Realms?” Odin narrows his eye, staring down his son with a look that would cower a lesser man. “You would cast aside years of negotiation for the sake of sentiment?”

“Do you ask me as my king…” Thor’s voice is calm, carrying to every corner of the chamber. “…or as my father?”

Odin says nothing.

“If you ask me as my king, then hear your heir.” He gestures toward you and then toward Loki. “The treaty remains intact. Alfheim shall still be joined to the House of Odin. The alliance is preserved. Nothing is lost but my place at the altar.”

His tone softens, pleading.

“But if you ask me as my father… then I beg you to look at your sons.”

Odin hesitates, and for a moment, his iron façade crumbles. His gaze flicks from Thor to Loki.

Two princes.

Two sons.

One standing with his shoulders squared against the weight of a kingdom.

The other standing impossibly still, as though moving might shatter the fragile hope that had settled over him.

At last, Odin exhales.

“…Very well.”

A murmur ripples through the gathered court.

“The alliance shall stand… If Prince Loki is willing to accept the duty his brother relinquishes…”

Loki doesn’t hesitate.

“I am.”

Your heart thunders against your ribs as Odin turns to you. "Princess, do you consent to this arrangement?"

You are not sure what compels you to look to Frigga first. You aren’t certain why it is her gaze that you seek for confirmation, but it is. The queen of Asgard gives you a small nod of approval. And with that, you turn back to Odin.

"Yes," you say, your voice only wavering slightly. This time, the words come easily. “I do.”

Odin studies his oldest son for a long moment before giving a single nod.

“Then take your brother’s place.”

Thor steps aside, leaving the center of the dais open.

Loki descends the stairs and pauses in front of you. There is so much unspoken between the two of you. So many questions, so many emotions, so many things that could go wrong. But he is looking at you with an expression that makes you almost calm, and there is only one thing left to do.

You offer your hand to him, palm up. He looks at you like he doesn't believe you're real. His fingers tremble as he reaches for you, slowly sliding his hand into yours.

Just like the first time you ever touched him, you feel that familiar spark ignite at the contact.

With rapid clarity you finally understood.

All this time, you had believed the prophecy asked you to choose between two princes, and in only one of those scenarios would you someday become queen. You had believed the fates were demanding you sacrifice your happiness for the good of your people.

But the truth is so much simpler.

So much more beautiful.

The court would still bow. They would still call you “Your Majesty.” But only one of those women would answer without wondering who she might have been.

“Well,” he says, his voice low, meant only for you. He tilts his head and that familiar smirk tugs at his lips. "This is an unexpected turn of events."

***

You are married to Loki.

The binding had been made, the vows exchanged. Despite all odds, the peace treaty remained intact.

The feast had stretched long into the day, overflowing with music, laughter, and enough mead to convince the court that perhaps this strange turn of events had been fate all along. Lords who had expected to toast Thor instead now raised their goblets to Loki without hesitation, and though he wore his usual composed expression, you caught him glancing over the crowd now and then as though waiting for someone to declare the whole thing an elaborate illusion.

No one did. The marriage was real. Which left only one tradition still to fulfill.

Your ladies fuss over you in the antechamber, their chatter filling the room while deft fingers tug pins from your hair. Golden ornaments clink softly into waiting trays, followed by jeweled combs and the heavy ceremonial veil that had rested upon your head throughout the day.

“There,” one of them murmurs, running a brush through the loose waves cascading down your back. “Much better.”

Another laughs. “Her Highness looks terrified.”

“I am not,” you reply automatically.

The women exchange amused glances.

“You are,” one says gently. “Every bride is.”

You couldn’t exactly explain that the ceremony itself wasn’t what had your stomach tied into knots. It was everything that had led to this moment.

This morning, you had sat believing you were about to spend a lifetime with one brother. Now, as another maid slipped a simple ivory robe over your shoulders in place of the elaborate wedding gown, you found yourself preparing to share a bed with the man you had spent years despising.

The irony was almost laughable.

Had anyone told the girl who used to argue with Loki over every imagined slight that one day she would become his wife, she would have accused them of madness. But life in Asgard had grown unexpectedly, unbearably strange.

“All done,” your head lady says softly, fastening a simple gold chain around your throat. “You are ready, my lady.”

You look at your reflection.

The woman staring back at you hardly resembled the princess who had entered the hall that morning. Gone was the dread and the carefully rehearsed smile. In their place lingered a sort of calm.

“My father and mother won’t be in attendance, right?” you ask, turning away from the mirror.

You knew the customs, of course. But given the circumstances of this marriage — the sudden switch of grooms, the rushed ceremony, the political maneuvering beneath it all — you found yourself unable to stop double-checking every detail.

“No, my lady,” the head lady assures. “The traditions are clear. The bride and grooms relatives are not permitted beyond the threshold. The final rite is to only be witnessed by the officials and the elders of your two realms.”

Relief washes over you stronger than you expect, but it is quickly followed by another wave of nerves. “And the marriage will only be officially recognized once—”

“Once it has been witnessed that the union has been completed,” she finishes. “Yes.”

You nod slowly. The ceremony in front of the court meant little in Asgardian law. Without this final tradition, the marriage could be dissolved. All is not yet done, which means there is still time for it to all fall apart.

A Knock at the door echoes through the small room, and one of the younger maids scurries to open it. Your father stands there. His expression is neutral, but the lines etched around his eyes are deep as though the day had aged him years.

“Leave us,” he orders.

Your ladies bow deeply, then file out with soft steps, closing the doors behind them.

For a long moment, he doesn’t speak. He just studies you in the way only a father could — as though he’s trying to reconcile the child he raised with the woman standing before him now.

“Is mother upset?” you ask, picking at a loose thread on your sleeve.

“Your mother is… adjusting,” he says, stepping forward. “She had planned this day differently.”

His answer does not surprise you. It mattered not that Thor said no out of love for another, only that you had not been enough to secure the marriage.

She had planned your entire life differently, and your wedding to Thor had been the culmination of decades of alliance building. And while the treaty itself remained intact, the entire foundation had shifted beneath everyone’s feet.

You are not guaranteed to be future queen of Asgard anymore. Loki is not the heir, not the one who would inherit Asgard lest Thor’s disobedience to Odin’s orders cost him his place. The political implications of this marriage are complex, and though your own realm would gain a powerful connection through you, it would never be the one your mother envisioned.

“Are you upset?” you ask, finally meeting his gaze.

He shakes his head. “No. I am not.”

He steps close, reaching out to adjust the chain at your neck. His fingers linger against your collarbone for a moment, then drop.

“Your mother has never been good at adapting,” he says quietly. “She forgets that the tides shift and a queen who does not change with them drowns. You are different than her.”

You swallow hard, feeling the weight of the little girl who had always tried so hard to be what her parents wanted.

“You do not think it is.. dishonorable?” you ask.

“Dishonorable to make peace? To save lives?” he scoffs. “No. You were not the one to make the mess, child. You simply made the most of it.”

He smooths the front of your robe, and the familiar gesture brings tears to your eyes. He used to do this when you were small — pat down your dress before you went into formal events, straighten your hair, wipe a smudge of dirt from your cheek. But the tenderness in his touch now is heavier, layered with years of regret and a quiet pride he rarely voiced aloud.

“But I must ask… are you truly alright with this?” he asks. “I’ve heard no complaints from you. You’ve accepted this union with Loki with a grace I would not expect.”

You realize for the first time that beneath all the political maneuvering and duty, he is simply a father asking the question that matters most. The question he cannot ask in front of a court or even your mother.

“Would it matter?” you ask softly. “If I wasn’t?”

A beat passes.

“Not to the realm,” he admits finally. “But it would matter to me.”

Something in your chest tightens, and although you have shed most of the tension of the day, the threat of tears rises again. You blink them back quickly.

“I know that my birth was never a matter of personal joy,” you say, testing the words that have lived unspoken between you for years. “It was political strategy. My very existence is a treaty.”

Your father exhales slowly, and his face shows a strain you rarely see. “That is a burden no child should bear. Yet you have, and I am… so sorry for it.”

You don’t trust yourself to speak, so you just nod, throat tight.

“You have spent your entire life preparing for a role. The daughter, the diplomat, the future queen of Asgard through Thor,” he says, stepping back slightly. “I never taught you how to be yourself.”

Your mind races back through years of lessons. Etiquette, diplomacy, history, warfare, political strategy. The things that would make you valuable. Useful. But never once had someone asked you what you wanted.

“It matters not now,” you say, forcing steadiness into your tone.

“I am not finished,” he says gently. “I have spent my years as a king trying to secure alliances. But I have spent my nights as a father worrying about my daughter. And tonight, I find myself wishing I had worried less about the alliance and more about you.”

He reaches out and takes your hands. His palms are rough, but his grip is steady.

“I have no right to say this,” he says, “but I will. If Loki ever harms you—”

“He won’t,” you interrupt quietly. “He’s not what everyone thinks.”

Your father raises an eyebrow. “You believe that?”

“I do.”

“Then I will trust your judgment.” He releases your hands. “But know this: if you find you cannot bear this life, if you need an escape, you need only send word. I will come for you. Whatever the cost.”

You stare at him, stunned. This is the first unconditional offer you have ever received. The one thing he cannot offer as a king, he is giving you as a father.

“Thank you,” you manage to say, your voice thick.

He nods, and no more words are needed between you. He simply holds out his arm, and you take it.

The halls are quieter now. As you walk, the torchlight flickers off the golden walls, making your shadows dance and merge on the polished floor.

Your father is silent, and you are grateful for it. There is nothing left to say that can prepare you for what comes next.

When you reach the doors leading to the Hall of Concord, two guards straighten, their faces impassive. Your father stops before them, then turns to you.

“Your mother and I leave for our realm tonight. This will be the last I see of you until the next solstice, unless you send word sooner.”

Your mother did not even intend to stay to say goodbye. A familiar pang of disappointment settles in your chest, though it is duller than it once would have been.

“Travel safely,” you say.

“And you,” he gives you one last lingering look. “Be well, my child.”

Then he is gone, striding away down the hall without a backward glance. You watch him until he turns the corner, then turn to face the doors.

Now or never.

Warm light spills into the corridor as the doors are pushed opened, carrying with it the low murmur of conversation and the faint perfume of burning incense. You step inside, your breath catching despite yourself.

The chamber stretched farther than you’d expected, its vaulted ceiling disappearing into shadow above. It was the one room in Asgard you’d never been permitted to see before this day.

You had heard tales of it, of course. The floor was said to be made of a single, massive slab of obsidian so polished it reflected the open starlit sky above.

At its center, upon a raised dais, rests the ceremonial bed.

It is draped in ivory linen embroidered with silver vines and golden leaves, the canopy above woven with the banners of both Asgard and Alfheim. Fresh blossoms spill across the coverlet — a bit over the top, even for Asgard. But you have learned that when it comes to their traditions, Asgardians do nothing halfway.

Around the dais stand the assembled witnesses. The royal steward occupies a place of honor at the head of the room several feet from the bed, while the elder nobles and respected families of both realms form a wide semicircle beyond.

It is easy to lose your nerve when everyone is looking at you. But when your eyes find Loki, a strange calm descends.

He stands near the foot of the dais, alone and apart from everyone else. Gone are the ceremonial layers he’d worn during the wedding, exchanged for garments befitting the final rite. A simple robe to match yours — only of a deep forest green. His hair, no longer pulled back in the formal arrangement of earlier, fall in dark waves across his shoulders.

He looks less like a prince and more like a statue carved from night itself, all sharp angles and quiet grace.

As the doors close behind you with a heavy thud, the conversation ceases. Every eye turns toward you and you have to resist the urge to fidget with the chain at your neck or straighten the nonexistent wrinkles in your robe. Instead you lift your chin and walk forward, your steps echoing in the sudden silence of the hall.

You come to a stop before Loki, close enough to feel the heat radiating from him but not quite touching. The air between you is charged, alive with the unspoken and the unknown.

“All rise,” the Stewards voice booms. “We are gathered here tonight for the final rite of union, witnessed and recorded in the halls of Asgard and the courts of Alfheim.”

His gaze sweeps over you, then over Loki, but there is no warmth in it. Only the cold, steady assessment of a man whose only care is protocol and the preservation of tradition.

“In accordance with ancient laws and for the security of the realms, the bride and groom shall consummate the marriage here tonight, in the presence of their witnesses.”

You can feel a light flush begin to creep up your neck, and you fight to keep your expression neutral. It is one thing to understand the tradition intellectually, quite another to hear it spoken aloud.

“Only once the union has been sealed will the treaty be binding and the marriage recognized by all Nine Realms,” he concludes. “What is done here tonight cannot be undone.”

Loki hasn’t taken his eyes off you since you entered the room, and as the man speaks, one side of his mouth curves into a small, almost imperceptible smirk.

“Nervous?” he murmurs, so softly that only you can hear.

“Of you? Never,” you murmur back, matching his quiet tone.

His smirk widens into a genuine smile that reaches his eyes, making them glitter in the torchlight. “Liar.”

The formal words come to an end, and with them everyone takes their seats.

Loki does not ask to take your hand this time, instead reaching for it with the ease of one who knows it is already his. You allow your fingers to curl around his as he pulls you up the dais toward the bed, where he then pauses to regard you.

His other hand comes up to brush a stray hair from your face. It lingers there for a moment, tracing along your cheekbone and coming to rest just below your ear.

“Do you trust me?” he asks softly, his voice pitched for you alone.

Recklessly so, you think. But you do not say it aloud. Instead, you tilt your head slightly into his touch and answer with a sure nod.

He leans in close until his lips are brushing against the shell of your ear. The feeling sends a shiver down your spine, and your eyes flutter shut of their own accord.

He smells of leather and cedar, clean and woodsy. Something you could lose yourself in if you were not careful, and you have never been careful with him.

His breath is warm as it ghosts along your skin.

"Good.”

His hand comes up to cup your other cheek and he kisses you slowly, languidly. His mouth moves with agonizing tenderness against yours, his lips brushing over yours again and again with the lightest touch.

Somewhere in the dizziness, your hands find his chest and curl into the fabric of his robe. You cling to it like a lifeline, anchoring yourself against the gentle assault of his mouth.

You can’t pinpoint the exact moment you end up on the bed, only that at some point you are no longer standing but laying with your head pillowed on the softest pillows you have ever known.

Loki still stands above you, the muscles in his arms flexing as he reaches to untie the sash at his waist. The robe falls open to reveal smooth planes of pale skin and taut muscle, and you have to resist the urge to reach out and trace your fingers along the lines of his abdomen as you did what now impossibly felt like a lifetime ago.

He lets the garment drop from his shoulders to pool on the ground at his feet, revealing the full expanse of him.

All glory and no shame. His lack of nerves come as little surprise; you doubt that Loki has ever had occasion to feel shy about his body. Nor should he.

Yourself, on the other hand...

You have never felt more exposed than you do in this moment, and your body has not even been laid bare yet.

Loki seems to sense your discomfort, because his expression softens as he climbs onto the bed to kneel over you.

“Express yourself,” he says, and it is not just Loki making a suggestion. It is the command of a Prince. “Use your tongue. What is it that has you worried so?”

You don't know where to start.

That you're not an Aesir.

That you have no claim to beauty or grace, not like the women he must have been with in the past.

That it will hurt.

That you will embarrass yourself.

That you will embarrass him.

What comes out instead is, "I'm... scared."

He leans closer, and for a moment you think he means to kiss you again. Instead his lips graze your cheek until they come to rest by your ear, the warmth of his breath making you shiver.

"Be more specific, princess.”

The way his voice rolls over you is enough to make your head swim.

You are suddenly hyper aware of everyone's eyes on you, and it makes you feel small and exposed. You know they cannot hear your words, but they can see the way you move, the way your expression changes. The thought makes your cheeks flush, and you close your eyes against the scrutiny of the room.

“They are watching us," you whisper. "It makes me nervous."

His fingers trace a slow line down the side of your neck before coming to rest over your pulse.

"You want them to stop?"

"Yes," you breathe.

He takes a deep breath, and you feel the warmth of it against your throat as he exhales.

"Then open your eyes."

You do, and it takes you a moment to realize what has happened.

The stands are empty. Gone are the nobles and the courtiers and the family. The only person who remains is Loki.

“What—” You start to sit up, but he stops you with a gentle hand on your shoulder.

“Illusion," he explains, smiling faintly. "They are still there, able able to see everything that goes on in this room. I'm afraid that part is unavoidable. But we can pretend, at least, that it is just the two of us."

You glance around the room again, marveling at how real it all seems.

"How long can you hold this?"

"Longer than you could imagine.” His lithe fingers begin tracing along the edge of the robe where it falls at your collarbone, dipping into the hollow of your throat. "Why? Do you have other fantasies you would like me to indulge?"

"What else can you do?"

A slow grin spreads across his face.

"What can I not do, princess?" He slides your robe aside, exposing your shoulder to the chill of the air. "Perhaps I'll show you, some day."

“And why not today?"

His lips ghost across your collarbone as his hands move to the sash at your waist. He undoes it slowly, never taking his eyes off yours.

“Two lessons and you believe yourself ready for all I have to teach?"

You shiver as he slips the robe from your shoulders to pool beneath you, leaving you bare before him. He pauses a moment to look at you, his gaze roving over your body with such intensity that you have to fight not to shy away.

"Perhaps I'm eager to learn."

He makes a soft noise of amusement in the back of his throat as he lowers himself above you.

“Oh, darling. You haven't the faintest idea what you're asking for."

Your legs part of their own accord to allow him to settle between them, and he lowers his weight onto his forearms. The sudden feeling of his skin against skin makes you gasp, and his lips curve into a smile against your throat.

"I could take you to the ends of the universe and back, and you still wouldn't begin to comprehend the power at my fingertips." He pauses, seeming to consider his words. “Perhaps one day I'll show you just how far that power extends."

Your pulse quickens at the thought, and Loki chuckles as he feels it thrumming beneath your skin.

"Not tonight, princess," he murmurs, trailing kisses down the column of your throat. "Tonight I intend to do things properly, if only for your sake."

"I thought you didn't believe in doing things properly," you manage to rasp as he nips at your throat, eliciting a small sound from the back of your throat.

"Oh, I don't." He shifts slightly, and you feel the hard length of him against your thigh. He then presses forward until you are forced to spread your legs further apart to accommodate his hips. "But I've no desire to break you so soon after getting you."

His tongue traces a slow, languid line along the shell of your ear before he takes the lobe gently between his teeth. You gasp again, and this time the sound is accompanied by a breathy moan as you feel him slide between your folds, hot and heavy.

He hums with pleasure at your reaction, his voice low and smooth in your ear. "Does that feel good, princess?"

He pushes forward again and you nod, unable to form a coherent sentence.

"So eager," he purrs. "And to think, you were so reluctant to let me touch you before."

You open your mouth, but before you can find the nerve to say anything he trails his fingers down the side of your neck until they come to rest above the swell of your breast. He lets them linger there a moment, tracing light circles around your nipple before pinching it gently between his thumb and forefinger.

It's just enough pressure to make you arch your back with a soft cry, and Loki's chuckle sends a warm shiver running down your spine.

"Look at you, writhing beneath me like a wanton little thing.” His free hand comes up to tangle in your hair, his grip firm as he forces your head back, exposing your throat. "Have I created a monster?"

"Loki," you gasp, feeling the slow tug of pleasure between your legs as he tauntingly grinds his hips against yours. "Please."

The hand in your hair tightens. "Do you remember what I told you the first time you came to me for a lesson?"

You try to nod your head, but he holds you firmly in place.

"Answer me."

"Y-yes."

"Say it."

You close your eyes. "Patience is a virtue."

It was the second thing he’d taught you that night, after teaching you how to let go of shame.

The first you had nearly mastered — but patience? That would take much longer, and knowing you had all the time in the world, you know he will insist on being thorough.

Loki hums with approval, and his fingers release your nipple to trace a lazy line down the center of your chest.

"Are you patient?"

No.

"Yes," you breathe.

His laugh is deep and dark in your ear as his hand dips lower, teasing the soft skin just below your navel.

"Is that so?"

"I can be," you insist.

His fingers come to rest at the apex of your thighs, where you ache the most, and he makes no effort to disguise his amusement as you instinctively press yourself against his hand.

"Mmm, I see. Shall I test your mettle, then?"

His fingers finally, finally, slide between your folds to stroke your aching clit and you moan as they begin circling the sensitive bundle of nerves, teasing you mercilessly. It isn’t much longer until you give a small cry as he slips one inside, the sound echoing through the “empty” chamber.

This isn’t tradition.

He pumps slowly, in and out, curling his finger up to brush against the spot that makes you whimper with need.

Tradition dictates that this is supposed to be clinical, quick. It does not require that the groom take the time to play with his bride before he finally sinks inside her. In fact, you are certain that Loki is going well beyond the call of duty here.

But there is no way in Hel that you are going to stop him.

He watches your face carefully as he adds a second finger, stretching you so as he begins to pump a little faster. You gasp softly as his thumb joins his fingers to stroke your clit in slow circles, drawing the pressure out with agonizing tenderness.

“So tight,” he murmurs, and it sounds as if the words have been drawn out of him against his will. “I know not how I am meant to fit myself inside you."

You open your mouth to say something clever in return, but it dissolves into a soft cry as you feel another finger slip inside. It is slightly painful now, but it is tempered by the pleasure of feeling full. He holds still for a moment, allowing you time to adjust, before he resumes the steady rhythm.

You can't remember what it was that you meant to say.

Your head is thrown back, the muscles in your neck straining as you arch against his hand. The only sound in the room is the harsh panting of your breath and the wet squelch of his fingers moving in and out of you.

You feel the tightness building low in your stomach, but you can't seem to find the words to warn him. Instead all you can do is moan, and it spills from your mouth again and again as you try to find purchase on the sheets.

He takes one of your hands in his free one, entwining your fingers together, and pins it above your head. His other hand continues its relentless assault on your body, and you can feel yourself teetering on the edge.

It's too much. It's too much.

"Loki," you gasp. "I — I —"

And then his lips are crashing down on yours, swallowing the rest of your sentence. The sudden pressure is enough to send you hurtling over the edge, and you come undone with a silent cry.

Your head is spinning as he pulls away, his breathing slightly labored, and you watch as he lifts his fingers to his lips to lick them clean. Just as he had the first night you spent with him.

You distantly wonder if the invisible crowd can see the familiarity with which he does it, or if that knowledge is just for you.

He lowers himself above you, and you feel the tip of his cock at your entrance.

"Look at me," he commands softly.

You do.

"Are you ready?"

You nod, and his expression softens.

"I want to hear you say it. Do you want this?"

You take a deep breath.

Is it not too late? You are already naked and exposed and laid bare before him.

Could you turn back now, even if you wanted to?

He seems to sense your hesitation, because he lets go of your wrist to cup your cheek. it helps you to focus.

“Stop thinking of your people. Think of only yourself, here with me, in this moment. For once in your life, do something selfish." His thumb strokes lightly over your cheekbone, and his eyes search your face. "Do you want me?"

There is only one answer.

"Yes."

He lowers his head until his lips are hovering just above yours, but he makes no move to close the distance. Instead he stays there, suspended in space as if waiting for something.

It takes a moment to realize what he is waiting for.

You lift your chin and press your lips to his, tentatively at first. When he does not pull away, you deepen the kiss, parting your lips and letting your tongue trace along the seam of his mouth. He opens to you, allowing you access, and you slide your tongue against his with a small sigh.

He groans against your mouth as the hot, velvet weight of his cock stretches your entrance. You can't help the gasp that escapes you as he slides in inch by agonizing inch.

Finally, when he is fully sheathed inside you, he breaks the kiss to murmur softly against your lips.

“I promised you three lessons," His voice is a low rumble. "Let this be the last one.”

Letting go of shame, learning to service, and…

“What is this one?" you manage to choke.

"Surrender," he breathes, and you cry out as he pulls out almost all the way before slamming back into you.

Your nails dig into the flesh of his shoulder as you cling to him, anchoring yourself against the sudden onslaught of sensation.

He sets a slow, steady pace. His thrusts are not punishing, but they deep and thorough. Your body has never felt so full. So complete.

You don’t know when it happened, but somehow your hands have found their way into his hair as you cling to him, unable to form a coherent thought beyond more. More. More.

It doesn’t hurt as you feared. In fact, there is no pain at all. Just an unexplainable thing, like the feeling of stretching before a long run or the slight burn of sore muscles after training. It feels strange and new, but not unpleasant.

And then it feels... good.

He takes his time, slowly rocking into you with a measured kind of gentleness that you would not have expected from a God who is known for his lack of restraint. He touches you everywhere he can reach as if trying to memorize every inch of you. And you touch him too, because he is yours now, and you have the right.

Your fingers slide over his arms, his chest, his shoulders. They tangle in his hair then trace along his jaw. They find his back, his hips, the curve of his ass. They roam wherever they please, leaving small marks in their wake.

He does not seem to mind.

At some point he takes your hand and guides it between your legs, urging you to touch yourself as he watches with a hooded gaze.

And you do, because he asks it of you.

Another break of custom, and one that comes uncharacteristically naturally.

Is it truly so easy to abandon the formalities and the rigid expectations you’ve been trained to follow your entire life? You never even knew such an option existed.

You wonder if this is who you really are. If perhaps this was the version of you that had always been there, hidden beneath the skin and just waiting for someone to free it.

Your entire life you have been a person who obeys rules and traditions and decorum. Even here, on your wedding night, you have followed them dutifully.

But with him it is different. With him you do not feel bound by the things that have always governed you. With him you feel free.

It is a revelation, and it sends you soaring.

“You, princess of Alfheim and Asgard, are going to be the death of me," Loki groans, and his voice is little more than a broken whisper.

His words send a jolt through you and you tighten around him, drawing a low moan from his throat.

He drops his head into the crook of your neck, where it seems to fit so perfectly, as if it was meant to be there all along. He presses an open mouthed kiss to the sensitive spot just below your ear as his hips begin to move faster, harder. His thrusts are becoming erratic, and you feel his cock twitch inside you.

“I am yours. Say it."

"You are mine," you whisper.

"Again."

"You are mine, Loki."

It is as if he is still seeking reassurance even now.

And he is yours.

Yours, yours, yours.

Just as you are his… but he has given you something more than that. Something no one has ever given you before.

You are not just a wife that belongs to him. You are a woman that wants to be, and that makes all the difference in the world.

Your hand finds his cheek and you turn his face toward you until your noses are brushing and his breath is mingling with yours.

"I am yours," you say again, and you hope he understands what you mean by it.

I love you.

It’s a startling thought, but not one that is entirely foreign.

In truth you think you might have loved him all along, from that very first day when you arrived at the palace as a girl and he had — albeit begrudgingly — given you a tour of the grounds.

All the arguments and the sharp words. Every time he had delighted in getting beneath your skin, only to linger long after he had left the room.

You had mistaken constancy for conflict.

Everyone else eventually yielded to you. They bowed because you were a princess. They agreed because it was easier. They smiled politely and told you what they thought you wished to hear.

Loki never did.

He questioned you. Challenged you. Infuriated you. He was the only one who ever met your fire with his own.

And somehow, in all those years of bickering and barbed remarks, neither of you had realized you were doing the same thing over and over again:

Finding your way back to one another.

Perhaps love had never arrived all at once. It had grown quietly in the spaces between the things you didn't say and the way your eyes always found his across a room.

You love him.

You love him and looking back on it now, you cannot remember a time when you didn’t.

And you have surrendered.

You let go of everything that has held you back for so long and allow yourself to fall. Surprisingly, it is not frightening. It is exhilarating and freeing and everything you ever needed.

All you must do is follow.

And you do, tumbling headlong into your own desire. You come undone for the second time with his name on your lips, and you are dimly aware of his answering groan as you clench around him, sending him hurtling over the edge with you.

As the world begins to right itself around you, you become aware of Loki's breathing. It is ragged, harsh, as if he had just run a great distance or fought a long battle. You are not far behind him.

Carefully, he pulls out of you. The sudden emptiness makes you shiver, but in one swift motion he pulls you up until both of you are positioned upright in the center of the bed. Your arms instinctively wrap around his neck and he holds you close, his face buried in your hair.

“You alright?" he murmurs softly, and you nod.

The moment seems to stretch on forever, but in reality it can only be a few heartbeats before he reluctantly lets go and pulls away.

“Are you ready to face them?” he asks, glancing pointedly at the empty stands where everyone else waits.

Your eyes follow his, and you take a deep breath.

"Yes," you answer, and this time you are certain of it.

He nods, and the room slowly fades back into focus. The weight of a thousand eyes becomes a physical thing that settles on your shoulders like a cloak as the illusion dissolves completely, revealing the stands once again filled with people.

Some of them looked beyond shocked. Some were even looking away, their expressions ranging from scandalized to embarrassed. Others did not bother to hide the way their eyes were locked on the two of you, curiosity and something akin to hunger on their faces.

The Royal Steward steps forward, his face red as he clears his throat. "With this, the final rite of union is complete.” He hesitates for a moment before adding, "On behalf of Asgard and Alfheim, we thank you."

You watch as the Royal Steward bows, and the rest of the stands quickly follow suit.

"I believe that is our cue," Loki says, and there is an amused note in his voice.

In a flash of emerald light, your robes settle once more upon your shoulders.

A ripple of murmured disapproval passes through the assembled court. According to tradition, Loki should have cleansed you with the ceremonial cloth, dressed you himself, and formally presented you to the court.

It is terribly improper.

Entirely deliberate.

So unmistakably Loki.

Although unnoticeable to the crowd, you know his choice to leave his seed dripping down your thighs was intentional. You have to fight the urge to squirm where you sit.

Before you can take so much as a single step, he slips one arm behind your back and the other beneath your knees. With effortless ease, he lifts you from the bed.

A startled laugh escapes you, instinctively looping an arm around his shoulders.

“Loki!”

“You weren’t truly planning on walking, were you?” he murmurs, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Half the realm would spend the next century debating your gait.”

Heat floods your cheeks.

He isn’t wrong.

After everything the day has demanded of you — of both of you — you are fairly certain your legs would betray you before you reached the door.

“You are insufferable,” you whisper.

“And yet,” he replies, unable to suppress the crooked smile tugging at his lips, “you married me anyway.”

The great doors swing open before you, and the once reluctant crowd bursts into cheers. It follows you through the corridors and out into the gardens, where the people gather to celebrate the union of two kingdoms.

It is a thing of wonder, the way they look at you now. No longer with the guarded suspicion and distrust they once held so closely, but with hope and a kind of quiet pride.

They look at you as if they have never seen you before, and you suppose in a way they haven't. You aren’t just a princess of Alfheim anymore. Now you are also a Princess of Asgard.

Loki carries you all the way to the edge of the fountain and sets you down gently on the marble ledge.

The cheering seems to have quieted somewhat as the crowds take their places around the garden, but the joy is still palpable in the air.

Everything seems almost too perfect to be real.

Thor dances with Sif, laughing as she drags him about the grass.

The allfather watches over the proceedings with his usual grim expression, but there is something softer about it that you have never seen before.

The allmother wears a serene grin as she gazes out over the festivities. She catches your eye and gives you a small nod of approval, and you know that whatever has placated Odin is largely due to her influence.

Volstagg hoists a barrel of ale onto the table, prompting several of the nobles to begin passing out glasses. Fandral is already on his second if the way he sways is any indication.

And finally, the seer.

She stands alone beside a tall ash tree at the edge of the garden, her white eyes staring off into nothing. Or perhaps they see everything. You cannot say for certain, but you know that she can sense you, for her head turns in your direction and a small smile plays across her lips.

You have no doubt that you have made the correct decision.

You had believed the shadow the seer spoke of belonged to Loki. The forgotten prince. The keeper of secrets. But shadows were never proof of evil, they were only proof of light. And you knew now that he was not the shadow in this story.

He was the light.

Your light.

And your heart had chosen him.

By time the sun had set, your feet were aching from dancing and your cheeks were sore from smiling. You have been introduced to more people than you care to count, and it is late enough that even the most enthusiastic revelers have retired for the night.

Now you sit side by side on a cliff overlooking the sea, watching as the waves crash against the rocks below. Your bare feet dangle off the edge, and it feels almost as if the two of you are suspended above the world.

For a long moment neither of you speak, content to sit in this newfound peace together. But it is unlike the youngest prince of Asgard to let a silence linger for very long, and you feel the need to break it before he does.

"What are you thinking?” you ask softly, glancing over at him.

He stares off into the distance, his expression thoughtful.

“That I do not deserve this.” He glances down at his hands. At the ring on his finger. “It is not my nature to be happy. I can’t help but think that sooner or later this will be taken from me."

You reach over to place your hand over his, intertwining your fingers.

“Not if I have anything to say about it."

“I am not of Asgard — not truly. I do not know what the future holds for me here."

You stay quiet, letting him work through whatever he needs to say.

“It was never a question who would someday take my fathers place as king, no matter how much I might wish it otherwise. Thor has always been the clear choice for the throne, and he is better suited for it than I. It is his birthright, and I have accepted it. Odin will forgive him for his indiscretions, as he has always done before. Even when it nearly cost him his life and all of Asgard besides.”

When the silence stretches on, you prompt him gently, "I do not see how this pertains to us."

He sighs. "You too, as my brother, was born to rule. You have always been meant for greater things than I. And I… I can not make you queen. I fear that one day you will find yourself resenting me for it."

For a moment you just stare at him. Then, despite every effort to stop yourself, you laugh.

Loki blinks.

“You are laughing.”

“I am.”

“I’ve just confessed one of my deepest insecurities.”

“You have.”

“And your response is laughter.”

You nod, trying — and failing — to compose yourself.

His brow furrows in that wonderfully familiar way, offense settling across his features with almost theatrical precision.

“You find this amusing?”

Something warm blooms in your chest.

There he is.

The infuriating, dramatic boy who had spent years arguing with you over everything from swordsmanship to whether roses ought to have perfectly symmetrical petals.

“No," you manage to say, seriousness finally returning to your voice. "I find it ridiculous."

Loki opens his mouth, but you hold up a hand to silence him before he can speak.

“I was born for the sole purpose of being a pawn. Something I’m sure we both know all too well. We were made to be used, Loki. And we have been used. By our parents. By our people. By everyone else who believes they have a claim to us.”

He looks away, and you reach out to tilt his face toward you once more.

“I never wanted to be a queen. All I ever wanted was to be free. And now that I am, I don't think I could go back." You hesitate a moment, trying to find the right words. “You do not get to decide what I deserve. Neither does Thor, nor Odin, nor anyone else in the realms. Only I can. And I have decided that you are what I want. Do you understand?”

His eyes search yours for a long moment, but you hold his gaze steadily.

Then he smiles.

“Of course your first act as my equal is to give me an order."

You narrow your eyes at him, but you can't quite disguise the smirk tugging at your lips.

"And my second act will be to toss you over this cliff if you don’t obey it."

“Careful. Threatening the prince, husband or not, may be considered treasonous."

"If you think that is a threat, then you clearly have not been paying attention," you say dryly, raising an eyebrow.

He grins. "Darling, I have been paying attention to everything about you since the day we met."

You roll your eyes and give him a little shove. "Flatterer."

He catches your hand as you move to push him, and in one fluid movement he tugs you forward until you are on his lap, his arms wrapped securely around you.

"Perhaps," he says, “but that does not mean it is not true."

The smile you give him is shy, and he traces a finger along the curve of your cheek as he gazes at you.

“You know, we can visit Alfheim whenever you like." His thumb grazes along your lower lip. "I believe I am owed a tour."

You smile.

"I think I would like that."

You are certain that there will be difficulties both large and small, and some that may even seem insurmountable. But that is something you can worry about another day. Tonight, you do not wish to think of anything except him.

“Then it shall be.”

You make a noncommittal noise as you settle against him, your head coming to rest just below his chin. His heart beats steadily beneath your ear, and you allow yourself to bask in the warmth of him.

"What are you thinking?" he asks, echoing the question you had asked him moments earlier.

You close your eyes, letting the sounds of the horse and the sea wash over you.

“For the first time since arriving in Asgard as a frightened little girl, I feel at home."

Loki shifts slightly so he can press his lips to the top of your head.

“Welcome home.”

You smile.

“Your mother spoke to me today.”

He hums softly. “Should I be concerned?”

“Probably.”

He chuckles.

“She gave me a gift.”

You feel him stiffen just enough to know you’ve piqued his curiosity.

“A gift?”

“A book. On seidr.”

Loki pulls back just enough to look at you.

“Mother gave you a book on magic?”

“She believed it would serve me one day.”

“Then I suspect it will,” Loki says simply. “My mother was rarely in the habit of giving gifts without purpose.”

“But that wasn’t the strange part.”

You think back to the worn leather binding beneath your fingertips, to Frigga’s gentle hands resting over yours.

This will help you mend the threads when they fray.

At the time, you had thought she meant treaties. Politics. The endless obligations of a queen. Now you wondered if she had meant something much smaller and Indefinitely harder.

You wonder if perhaps she meant family.

You think of Thor, who had surrendered everything because he refused to make prisoners of either of you.

You think of Odin, who had, if only for a moment, looked at both of his sons instead of only one.

You think of the years Loki had spent believing himself unseen.

Threads. Broken ones. Frayed ones. And somehow, all of them had begun to weave together.

A queen was not the one who wore the finest crown.

She was the one who refused to let the kingdom unravel.

“She knew,” you whisper.

Loki’s brow furrows.

“About us,” you clarify.

You feel him hesitate before answering.

“I think…” He exhales through his nose. “I think she knew long before either of us did.”

A laugh escapes you.

“That is horribly unfair,” you murmur.

“It is.”

“We spent years arguing.”

“So we did.”

“We could scarcely be in the same room without finding something to disagree about.”

“I distinctly remember you beginning most of them.”

You lift your head just enough to look at him. “I did not!”

“You absolutely did.”

“I simply corrected you.”

“You called my illusions ‘uninspired.’”

“They were.”

He lets out an affronted noise.

“I still don’t understand why she chose today of all days to give me the book,” you say thoughtfully, ignoring his protests.

Loki scoffs, though it is more fond than annoyed

“oh she has just ensured I shall never win another argument.”

You laugh.

“I hardly need magic for that.”

“No,” he sighs dramatically. “That has been painfully evident for years.”

He kisses your forehead.

“I pity the poor soul who attempts to outwit both of us now.”

You lean into him, smirking.

There has not been a single moment of peace in the last 12 hours.

Since fleeing Loki’s room, you had barely slept a wink. Once you did succumb to slumber, it was not without horrid dreams of jade-colored eyes, heated breath, and whispered promises that set your blood aflame with equal parts dread and uncharacteristic longing.

Even now, while you sit stiffly at the breakfast table with both royal brothers present, you have the creeping notion that you may never know peace again.

You grip your fork tightly and chew methodically, aware of the conversation being made but not truly paying attention.

The Allfather and Thor speak at length about the day's agenda: a trip to the armory, a council meeting, and something about an appearance in the training yard before attending the celebration later in the evening. Frigga sips her tea and smiles, listening patiently and interjecting on occasion. Your mother and father do the same.

It all seemed very mundane, and yet, the air around you is charged.

It would only take a small glance up from beneath your lashes to spot the source of your anxiety.

Loki.

He sits across from you, posture ramrod straight and lips pursed. The morning sunlight streams through the arched windows and catches on his raven locks, turning them to shimmering ebony.

He looks regal, almost bored. And if you hadn't witnessed the look in his eyes last night, seen the way he watched you in a manner not unlike a hungry wolf offering his prey a chance to run, you might have believed his nonchalance.

But you did see that look. And you did run. And now...

Well, now you simply don't know what to make of things.

“My lady, you have barely touched your food. Are you unwell this morning?"

Your head snaps up as Thor’s booming voice reaches you from your right, and you meet his concerned blue gaze. You offer a weak smile and a shake of your head. "I'm fine. I think perhaps the ale is still weighing on me."

It wasn’t entirely untrue. Your stomach does feel a bit off this morning, and your head is a tad foggy, but the real cause of your lack of appetite is currently smirking down at his plate, the evil little bastard no doubt taking great pleasure in the fact that he has thoroughly ruined your sleep, appetite, and sanity.

Thor laughs, the sound echoing around the dining area. "Yes, well, the ale was indeed potent."

The blond prince reaches out and gently places a large, warm hand over yours. He gives it a quick squeeze, a gesture meant to comfort, and offers a dazzling smile.

"Perhaps tonight we should keep to the mead. Or try the new wine I heard is in port from Vanaheim. Something lighter. What do you say?"

A small smile tugs at the corners of your mouth as you nod, though it falters the instant a familiar, velvety voice enters the fray.

"Brother, do you truly believe it wise to allow her another evening of indulgence? After last night's spectacle of staggering into my room at such an hour, I fear any more merriment might be a mistake."

Your heart seizes at Loki's words, and your cheeks flame with a blush that rivals the hue of your dress.

What in the name of hel was he doing? Surely he wouldn’t actually go through with his threat—he couldn’t hate you that much, could he?

You risk a glance at Thor and find that his relaxed expression has faltered. There was a deep furrow in his brow and a hint of confusion dancing behind his eyes.

"Your room?" he asks, tone laced with bewilderment.

Your shoulders tense as Loki turns his sharp gaze onto you, a devious grin gracing his thin lips. He tilts his head and studies your face with the air of a cat observing a particularly amusing mouse, and you are certain that any minute now, he is going to open his mouth and ruin you forever.

Odin would banish you and your family from Asgard, and Thor, the man you have spent most of your life pining for, will never so much as look at you again. Alfheim would take you back in an instant, but you would be ruined. Without an alliance, your people would surely suffer, and the shame would follow you until the end of your days.

Your image… Your dignity… Everything would be ripped away by one cleverly placed lie.

You open your mouth, prepared to deny everything and pray to the Norns that Thor will not believe the younger prince. “I can ex—”

"Yes," Loki answers, cutting you off before you can utter another word. "It was amusing. She came barging into my chambers, drunk as a Midgardian sailor, and asked me to brew up a potion to rid her of the headache she predicted would plague her come morning.”

You blink once. Twice.

That was not the lie you had expected. You are so full of relief that it takes a monumental effort not to visibly relax in your seat.

Instead, you swallow the lump forming in your throat and offer a strained smile.

"Yes, well," you begin, casting a quick glance toward the Allfather, "I was in desperate need of a remedy, lest I be unable to dance and properly celebrate my engagement with our guests come tonight."

Thor seems pleased with your response, and Odin appears satisfied, but the queen's eyes have narrowed slightly, and you suddenly feel very exposed.

"Ah, and was he able to assist you, my dear?" She asks, her gaze flickering between you and her youngest son.

"I—well—"

"Able to assist her? Yes.” Loki interjects once more. You can’t help the feeling that his choice of words was deliberate, a subtle double entendre meant only for you. “But she fled my room before I could give her the draught. Perhaps she decided that accepting my help was too much to bear.”

His words are innocent enough, but the way he leans back in his seat and analyzes your reaction is anything but. It feels like an accusation and a silent challenge.

Thor laughs a hearty laugh, pulling you both from your wordless battle of wills. “A wise decision on her part, I would say. Knowing Loki, I would wager there was nothing in that bottle but a trickster's brew, and you would wake to find yourself in an even worse state than when you entered."

Loki offers his brother a tight smile but says nothing. Instead, he lifts his goblet and takes a long drink, the muscles of his throat working as he swallows. Obviously, he had not appreciated the jest.

Thor continues, seemingly oblivious. "It is no matter, though. I am sure the healers will have something for your headache, my lady."

"Thank you," you manage to reply, silently hoping your voice did not betray the tension tightening in your throat. "I will be sure to stop by after breakfast."

The Allfather and Thor turn back to their previous discussion, but Frigga's attention remains on Loki. It was only for a moment, but you saw it: the subtle tightening of her mouth, the worried crinkle around her eyes. It was clear the queen sensed something was amiss with her mischievous son, though she may not know what.

You could only hope she never would.

***

Three hours and a healing draught later, your head is considerably clearer than it had been before. Not mentally, for even with your brain free from the lingering effects of one too many drinks, it remains cluttered with the thoughts and memories of last night. And now, thanks to the most obnoxious god in Asgard, this morning had gone on to be just as eventful.

But that was to be expected.

Really, when was the last time you had encountered Loki without it taking an unwanted turn?

With an irritated sigh, you begin to strip off your dress, the luxurious fabric falling to your feet in a soft puddle of velvet. Next are your undergarments, the delicate silk fluttering to the floor much in the same manner.

Steam curls through the air, warm against your naked skin as you step toward the deep, spaciously round tub filled with aromatic oils, fluffy bubbles, and blessedly hot water.

You lower yourself into the marble-stained hole and bite back a satisfied moan as the heat creeps into your weary bones. It feels glorious, like Valhalla on your flesh, and you lean your head against the rim, giving in to the wonderful feeling and closing your eyes.

The royal bath chamber is a lavish place—spacious and opulently furnished, adorned in muted golds and rich ivory, with thick tapestries hanging against the walls and sconces bearing silken candles that emit a warm, inviting glow. It was one of your favorite places in the entire palace, second perhaps only to the grand library.

“Should I wash your hair or soap your back, Princess?”

Your assigned handmaiden, a lovely Asgardian woman named Grima, smiles from her spot near the door, a white robe and a pair of soft, matching slippers clutched in her arms.

“No, that won't be necessary. I can finish up on my own. Just make sure to alert the seamstress that I will be by at midday to collect my dress for tonight.”

You refrain from revealing any hints of dread in your voice. You could name a hundred more things you'd rather spend an afternoon doing than playing the part of a perfect trophy princess and enduring countless dull, tedious conversations regarding Thor’s sexual prowess.

Like, say, stabbing yourself with the sharpest sword the greatest blacksmith had ever forged.

"Very well." Grima nods. "Shall I send for a guard to stand watch outside the entrance in the meantime?"

You simply wave a dismissive hand. "No need. I will not be too long."

The woman sets your garments aside, bids you a curt goodbye, and quietly slips out the door. It clicks shut with a dull thud, and then you are alone.

No family. No advisors. No duties. No insufferable princes hellbent on dragging you through the seven rings of hel.

Just a cozy bath, a pitcher of freshly squeezed orange juice, and silence. But then again, nothing so wonderful ever really lasts long.

Not even a few minutes pass before the creaking door signals the intrusion upon your peace and quiet. Considering everyone else was already in attendance at today's proceedings, you have only one guess as to who would enter.

“Grima, I thought I said I was fi—”

“You know, you might find these steam rooms provide better isolation if you learned to lock the door.”

All vestiges of serenity you had found melt into a black hole along with your stomach. A dreadful chill creeps across your flesh in spite of the surrounding heat, and your temples begin to throb all over again.

“And you might find a little common courtesy to knock not just advisable, but painfully necessary,” you seethe, subconsciously sinking further beneath the frothy water.

Loki ignores your barely veiled hostility and closes the heavy wooden door behind him, giving the brass lock a firm twist. The low snick it makes gives you little comfort.

In fact, every little detail about the situation—his careless bravado, the way he swiftly approaches the tub, the smell of leather and pine that hangs thick in the air around him—prompts an urge to flee that is almost overwhelming.

“I am a prince, and last I recall, the baths are not off limits to royalty."

The words are mocking, taunting. A dare, as if the snake was silently begging you to try and order a crowned prince from the baths when he knows very well you have no right. You were not officially a princess of Asgard yet, after all. Your status only rose in par with his in 3 days time—once your union with Thor took place.

And Loki is damn well aware of that, the vile creature.

“Seriously, Loki. Have you not done enough damage this morning?" Your jaw tightens, your hand gripping the edge of the tub hard enough for your knuckles to turn white. "Honestly, stooping so low as to threaten me was petty, even for you. Bravo. Now what do you want, the gloat?”

You notice his eyes soften a tad at your accusations, and there is an inkling of pity beneath the mask of arrogance he sports so well. He almost looks uncomfortable—perhaps even contrite—but the expression quickly disappears. In its place is a haughty roll of his eyes.

“Damage?” He echoes, the word laced with acidity. He scoffs. "What I did this morning was, if anything, salvage my dear brother's precious betrothed from a scandal.”

His footsteps echo dully as he advances, eventually stopping to kneel down at the tub's edge. The distance is uncomfortably close, and his very proximity prickles the hairs at the nape of your neck.

“When you came barreling into my chambers last night, I highly doubt discretion was anywhere near your mind. All it would take is one guard, one passing servant to have witnessed you—drunk and disheveled—stepping out of the wrong prince’s room at an hour far too late for innocuous reasons," he lowers his voice as if sharing a salacious secret, gaze unwavering, "and you would have been ruined."

He was right, infuriatingly so.

The image would have been damning, regardless of how false the accusations might have been.

The princess, drunk, stumbling around the palace after dark and entering the prince's bedchambers—alone and without escort—was a story far too juicy for the gossiping hounds to pass up.

Still, you are too stubborn and far too irritated to concede his point, let alone give him the satisfaction of knowing he is right.

"Yes, thank you, oh great savior, for the noble rescue." You roll your eyes. "And while we're on the subject, what is stopping me from telling Thor about your little proposition? What then?"

A slow smirk curves the edge of his lips.

"If you were going to do that, you would have done so by now."

You swallow, unable to tear your gaze away from his, no matter how much you want to.

"I believe," he whispers, bringing his mouth dangerously close to your ear. "It is because deep down, you are considering my offer.”

You are suddenly aware of every dip and curve of his face, every minute shift and subtle change in his features. The way his tongue darts out and moistens his lower lip and how his eyes flicker down, briefly, before they rise once more and lock with yours.

Most prominently, you are aware of the warmth spreading through your stomach and how sickeningly wrong it is. You push back against the feeling and steel yourself, mustering every ounce of disdain you could manage.

"I am not."

It comes out hoarse and unconvincing.

You try again.

“It would be a betrayal. I love him."

That one you believe.

Loki is quiet for a moment, as if lost in thought. Then, he moves to his feet.

"So you keep saying."

There is something in his expression you cannot read, though it is gone too soon for you to try and decipher.

You watch, bewildered, as his long, elegant fingers deftly begin to undo his shirt buttons.

“What are you doing?!" You hiss, panic setting in as he shrugs nonchalantly, the fabric slipping away to reveal the smooth skin beneath. His boots were already abandoned and forgotten somewhere.

"I'm joining you," he replies matter-of-factly, sure enough making work at his trousers.

"What? No. Absolutely not!" You protest, trying desperately not to notice how perfectly defined his stomach is, or the sharp angles of his hips, or the dark trail of hair that begins just below his navel and descends to-

Oh god.

You look away, but not quick enough.

Loki was, well... gifted, to put it mildly. You have heard tales of his bedroom antics, mostly whispered rumors between maids and giggling men and women at the court, but seeing was another thing entirely.

"Are you insane?" You hiss, forcing yourself not to stare. "Do you have no shame?"

"Shame?" He chuckles, stepping out of his trousers. "None."

You are not sure whether the sudden rush of heat flooding your body is embarrassment or... something else. Either way, you feel as if you are about to die.

“As I said earlier, there is no rule that prohibits royalty from using the baths whenever they see fit. You are not the only one entitled to a little relaxation."

With that, he steps into the tub, water sloshing over the sides as he sinks his lean frame into the depths—so close that your knees brush together, and the hair on his legs tickles your skin.

The tension in the room is suffocating.

You stare blankly at the wall, trying to focus on anything but the naked god seated across from you, or how his presence seems to dominate the room and make it smaller, almost claustrophobic.

"You can relax. I am not going to attack you." He snorts, amused. "Although, it does seem as if your thoughts are doing quite the job on their own."

"How would you know what my thoughts are?" The question escapes you before you have the chance to stop it. You instantly regret it.

“Because, if you were thinking about what was proper, you would have left the second you realized you were not alone." A beat passes, and then, much to your chagrin, Loki begins to shift closer. His long fingers find your knee, the pad of his thumb grazing along the top. “Yet here you sit, unmoving and unflinching. Why is that, I wonder?"

The sensation is electric. Similar to a wire, exposed and frayed, sending jolts of electricity through your veins. Your entire body is alight with a foreign energy—a tingling, throbbing pulse that has no business existing, least of all between your legs.

But exist it does.

And you have never been more ashamed of yourself.

“I will stop if you ask me to." His voice is a mere whisper now. "Say the words, and this ends. I will leave, and we will never speak of this again.”

His touch travels upwards, higher, until it pauses at your inner thigh.

"But,” he leans forward, nose grazing the side of your cheek, “I warn you, this is my final offer. Say no now, and you will have to find your own means to learn—though I highly doubt you wish to humiliate yourself so publicly. The choice is yours."

You cannot move.

Your brain, which had always functioned so reliably and effectively, has gone completely blank.

There is no right decision. One path is immoral and dishonest. The other is shameful and embarrassing.

Remain faithful, or be seen as inadequate by your people and, worst of all, Thor?

Either way, you are bound to be humiliated. The only difference is that the former is public. The latter would be private.

You close your eyes and think of Thor—of his warm smile and sunny laugh. The way he made you feel safe and whole. But accompanying these pleasant images, you remember why you had sought refuge in several bottles and found yourself in this situation to begin with.

The ceremony, the bedding, the people.

Their stares, their whispers, their judgments.

So, despite your conscience screaming at you to do the right thing and reject the tempting offer, you whisper a single, solitary word.

"Okay."

It's a mistake. You know that.

You know it when you feel his hands encircle your waist and drag you through the water to straddle his lap.

You know it when his cock, almost fully erect, presses insistently against your abdomen.

And you know it most certainly, without a shred of doubt, when his lips finally close over yours.

It is like being kissed by winter itself. Cool and harsh and unforgiving. Yet, in spite of the frigidity, a flame still ignites deep within you. A dangerous, treacherous, all-consuming inferno that threatens to burn down everything good in your life and reduce you to ashes.

And then, before you can stop yourself, you mimic the action to the best of your ability, kissing him back.

There is no grace, no technique. Your movements are sloppy and uncoordinated, and your hands awkwardly rest on his shoulders as if unsure where to touch or what to do. You have never felt more like a bumbling virgin than you do now, and that realization alone causes a wave of shame to wash over you.

The fact that the person kissing you was Loki did not help matters in the slightest.

You half expect him to pull back, make some derisive comment about how pathetic you are, or laugh at you for foolishly falling for a cruel trick. But, surprisingly, he does none of those things. Rather, he cups the back of your head and slows the kiss down, allowing his lips to move leisurely against yours.

It is an unexpected gesture, and one that leaves you feeling both stunned and a tad less intimidated. Encouraged even.

You mimic his movement, the way his mouth tilts and the rhythm it keeps. You memorize the subtle pressure he applies and the pattern of the dance. Less necessary information is filed away in the recesses of your brain—the faint taste of mint, the coolness of his breath, and the soft texture of his lips.

After a few moments, he breaks away, leaving your lungs gasping for air and your cheeks flushed. You can still feel the pressure, a reminder of your treachery. Subconsciously, your fingers lift to touch the spot.

His eyes track the motion, and you could swear, for a fleeting second, he looked almost wistful.

The moment does not last long.

His face grows unreadable, and then he is moving you off his lap and into the space beside him.

"Meet me in my chambers an hour after tonight’s celebration has concluded.”

You barely have time to register what had just happened before he is rising out of the bath, the water rushing down his back in rivulets and dripping off the tips of his hair.

It takes a moment for the statement to process in your haze-ridden brain. When it does, your throat is too dry for words, so you simply nod.

He waves a hand, and an emerald robe manifests around his body, completely shielding his nakedness—and granting you a reprieve.

The door creaks open, and you catch the tail end of his sentence.

"And do try not to drink yourself into a stupor again before you arrive."

With that, he is gone. Leaving you just as confused and guilty as before. Perhaps more.

You just had your first kiss.

And holy shit, it was with Loki Odinson.

***

You had intended to tell Thor.

All throughout the evening, all throughout the dancing, all throughout the nightly celebration, you had wanted to confront him. Yet, each time your morals sparked enough to grant you the courage, something would happen.

Someone would ask him for a dance, and he would leave to accommodate his obligatory duties.

Another would congratulate you on your upcoming nuptials, and your stomach would twist unpleasantly.

The few moments you did get a private second alone with him to confess, you suddenly lost your nerve. It was like the words were trapped somewhere between your brain and throat, hidden behind a massive wall and denied passage.

And now, with the revelers having retired and the servants dismissed for the evening, you sit on a particular sofa in a particular room for the second time in your entire life, only this time you don’t have the excuse of being drunk or disoriented for being there. You are sober and painfully aware of what is about to happen.

Rich, red wine drizzles from a carafe into a glass, filling it halfway. The sweet aroma of spices and fermented berries fills the air.

Loki stands a few paces away, back turned to you. You are unsure whether he is purposely ignoring you or lost in thought, but either way, the silence is making you increasingly uncomfortable.

You shift on the plush sofa, and the sound of the material crinkling is loud. Far too loud for this quiet room.

His head turns, and the corner of his lip quirks slightly.

"Nervous?"

It's not an accusation.

"No." You lie, hoping he doesn't hear the way your voice shakes.

He turns, wine in hand, and slowly strides toward the sofa, pausing in front of you.

"Here.” He extends the glass, and after a moment of hesitation, you take it.

“I thought you said no alcohol,” you mutter.

His eyes roll heavenward, and you have to refrain from making a scathing comment about how petulant the action makes him look.

“I suggested that you avoid drinking so much, seeing as you are unable to handle your ale. This,” he gestures towards the glass, "is merely a means to calm your nerves."

You glare up at him but do not argue the point. Instead, you bring the rim to your lips and let the sweet liquid coat your tongue.

He watches the action with rapt attention, his gaze following the curve of your throat as you swallow.

You drain the rest unnaturally fast and place the empty glass on the table beside the sofa.

"Well?" You prompt, folding your hands in your lap. "What happens now?"

"What do you think comes first?”

"…sex?”

You wince at your own bluntness, wishing you would have chosen better phrasing.

He raises his brows, amusement evident. "Eager, are we?"

Heat rushes to your face, and you look down.

"No… I just—” don’t know what to say or do, your brain helpfully supplies. Your shoulders slump, and your tone takes a defensive edge. "If you plan on mocking me, then I will leave."

He studies you for a moment, contemplative, then sighs deep from within his chest. "Look at me."

His words are softer than you’ve ever heard them, but you don’t miss the hint of authority behind the demand. When you don’t comply fast enough, cool fingers grasp your chin and lift your gaze upwards. He is closer than you remembered, and you find yourself breathless for the millionth time that night.

“My intention is not to demean you. Quite the opposite, in fact." His thumb swipes along your lower lip. "But if you wish for me to guide you, to explain things in a manner you will understand, it would be in your best interest to drop your guard.”

Sharp eyes study your reaction, gauging your next move. When you don’t shy away or try to pull from his grip, he continues.

“Starting now, when we are in the privacy of this room, you will cease whatever silly rules of propriety, court etiquette, or modesty you might have been raised to believe. You will not look at me as Thor’s brother, nor yourself as his betrothed. When those doors close, those titles have no significance or power. Only pleasure.”

Something odd, and definitely not appropriate, stirred in your belly at the sound of that final word rolling off his tongue.

Pleasure.

"And when the doors open again?"

"When the doors open," his thumb moves once more, an erotic brush to your cheek, "we go back to reality and carry on as if nothing happened. Me, a little more satisfied—and you, a little more experienced.”

"And you can separate the two easily?"

There was a beat, heavy and permeating.

“As easily as you, I imagine.”

This time, you are the one who makes the first move.

Your arms wind themselves behind his neck, and you pull his mouth down until your lips are joined. He complies without an ounce of resistance, though the surprise is tangible. It is reminiscent of the kiss in the baths, except this time, you are the one who dictates its pace. Slow, methodical. Each part is explored, and each movement is dissected. Before long, you have memorized the curve of his lips and the manner in which they react to different pressure.

It is sloppy at first, a learning experience. But the longer the kiss is allowed to continue, the more you find yourself falling into a routine.

The tension in your body, however, remains. Your shoulders are stiff, and the position is awkward at best. Eventually, he must pick up on this, because his next move is bold.

A soft press on your shoulder guides you backward until your spine sinks into the cushions below with his solid frame hovering above you—one leg bent between your parted thighs and the other supporting his weight on the floor.

Only then, when he releases your mouth with a wet smack, do you realize you've been holding your breath.

You exhale through parted lips and stare, wide-eyed, up at him. He is practically shining above you, the moonlight pouring through the windows and bathing him in a near-supernatural aura. It drapes him in a sense of untouchable regality, enhancing the planes and angles of his cheekbones, his nose, and his jaw, until he looks more like a statue carved from marble.

You’ve never noticed the sharp curve of his ear or the faint scar resting above the left of his brow—so subtle that a quick glance would make it nearly invisible. This close now, it seems impossible to have ever missed.

“You are thinking too hard," he murmurs, causing your eyelids to flutter, "And wearing far too many layers. We will have to remedy that."

You open your mouth to protest, only to watch helplessly as a green shimmer whisks your gown away, leaving you in nothing but flesh.

The action leaves you feeling exposed and vulnerable. You try to cover yourself with your hands, but he is quicker. His long fingers circle your wrists and pin them above your head, exposing the swell of your breasts and the pink peaks of your nipples.

You squirm, suddenly embarrassed, but he tightens his grip.

“No undergarments?” A wolfish grin tugs at the corner of his lips. "My, my... I had not pegged you for a temptress. Had you been hoping to make yourself more accessible for me, or do you always strut around the castle so brazenly bare underneath your clothing?”

In all honesty, you did not own a single garment appropriate for the occasion. Virginal white didn't necessarily suit the mood for a secret affair—but there was no way in all the nine realms you would admit as much to Loki. So you pretend his question was rhetorical and remain stoically silent.

He chuckles at this. A rich, warm sound that is entirely too pleasant and smooth to be coming from the God of Mischief himself.

“Well, whether you intended for such a thing to come to fruition, the result is the same—so why shy from it now?"

His free hand glides down the side of your body, allowing you to feel every featherlight touch before it passes over your abdomen and towards your hips.

“Have you ever pleasured yourself before?” His voice is conversational, as if he is speaking about the weather and not asking the most intimate question possible. As if it were a question you were expected to answer. “Guided your hand down this very path, and let those curious fingers wander to where the heat and ache were most prominent... only to stroke yourself into oblivion?"

You almost can’t believe such filthy words could pass between his lips so easily. Involuntarily, you shudder, and something slick and tingly bursts in your stomach like firecrackers.

At least four different responses compete to leave your mouth, but the only thing you manage to voice is a tiny, shameful croak.

"Once or twice..." You wince and mentally kick yourself.

"Oh?" Cool fingers glide lower, lower, lower, until they are just shy of brushing between your thighs. "Do tell.”

"Loki—"

"Humor me."

Suddenly, he dips two fingers between the shockingly drenched seam of your lower lips and spreads you open, exposing your soaked cunt to his scrutiny.

The instinct to clamp your thighs together, to hide away, is overwhelming and intense. And in true Loki fashion, he pins your legs down with his knee, forbidding you from any sort of modesty. Not that it mattered now.

"Like this?" Up and down, up and down. Almost taunting in nature, his middle and pointer fingers glide in excruciatingly slow stripes. They are purposely avoidant, paying no mind to the cluster of nerves that are now screaming for attention.

“No,” you choke.

His tongue clicks in a mocking fashion.

"No?” He feigns confusion before giving three heavy taps directly against your swollen clit. You jolt beneath him, a gasp lodging itself in your throat. In reward—or punishment, depending on one's definition—he cockily repeats the motion again. “Something like this, then?"

Tap. Tap. Tap.

“N-not exactly,” you grit.

He knew exactly what he was doing.

"Ah, a bit more like... this?"

Without warning, the relentless presses morph into slow, skilled circles from his thumb. No longer is the swollen bud neglected but teased to the brink of torture. You can feel every twitch, every careful glide, and it draws a shameless whine from your throat.

You want to hate it. To wriggle free from his grasp and demand he stop whatever this is, but your body is no longer under your control. Blood is steadily roaring in your ears and pulsing fiercely between your legs, and a terrible itch has emerged.

You can do nothing but lift your hips in a hopeless attempt to seek more.

His eyes are alight in a way you’ve never seen before. Dark and full of mirth, swirling with curiosity and a near-sinister aura.

“Oh, yes,” he purrs in appreciation, speeding up his movements, apparently pleased with your vocal response. "This is correct, then?"

All you can do is nod, too overwhelmed to do anything other than swallow the urge to beg.

Then, so abruptly that it leaves your body confused and throbbing, the pressure ceases.

“Show me, then," he prompts, finally releasing your wrists and giving you back control.

"Wh-what?" Your voice trembles, as does your chin.

"Pleasure yourself." The command is far more imposing now, the air filled with demand rather than suggestion. “Since your tongue has ceased to cooperate, I require a means of direction."

You gape at him, looking for any trace of humor, but he seems deadly serious.

“I thought you were to guide me?" You argue, furrowing your brows. "Not the other way around."

He only shrugs, unconcerned with your inner turmoil.

“Your first lesson… letting go of shame." With these words, he eases off the sofa and hovers, watching you expectantly. Continuing, he adds, "If the thought of gratifying yourself while I watch mortifies you, then how do you intend to perform with all of Asgard watching on the night of your consummation?"

You want to curse his logic but have no means of arguing its point.

His large, cool palm cups your own and guides it downward, a soft, encouraging press. You don’t stop him. Not when he helps you position your shaking fingertips over the still aching nerves, nor when he guides you through the first hesitant circle.

"Keep going," his voice is honey, sweet and laced, "Close your eyes if you must, but allow it to take over. There is nothing shameful in satisfying a need, not when it makes your blood run hot and your mind race in anticipation. Don’t fight what feels good; focus on your instinct."

You have never felt more ridiculous or absurd in your entire life. Yet, against your better judgment, you do as instructed.

Eyes shut, breathing shallow, you begin again. Slowly at first, your timid swipes unsure and lacking a certain rhythm.

“Exactly like that,” he encourages, and you hate the fact that his voice sends another gush between your thighs. “Is this how you touch yourself in the comfort and seclusion of your chambers? In the night, perhaps, when you think everyone else has long fallen into rest and dreams. Is this how you relieve your hunger, little minx?"

A sound escapes from deep in your throat—something cross between a pathetic mewl and an irate grunt—because despite how odd and humiliating this ordeal is, it is starting to make you feel undeniably good.

He chuckles low at the sight, clearly taking your response as a sign to keep talking. Whether or not you should feel disgusted with yourself for actually enjoying his filthy whispers was lost in a sea of endorphins, floating alongside your fleeting pride.

“Are you always so drenched, or have I earned a special sort of reaction?" His hands graze the sides of your trembling thighs, spreading them wider for his gaze. “I mean, truly… leaking onto my cushions like an untamed whore. Who would have guessed Alfheim’s pure little princess harbored such depravity?”

The crass nature of his language should make your stomach turn or offend your sense of dignity. It shouldn’t rile you into adding more pressure and speeding up the pace of your fingers—yet, that is exactly what is happening.

“Are you picturing my fingers stroking you to completion?" He continues, merciless and taunting and far too perceptive for your liking. "Or is the fantasy too obscene for your innocent mind to conjure? What wicked thoughts lie behind those naive eyes?”

"Loki." It comes out as an angry hiss, the last string of your resolve threatening to snap.

"What?" His tone is impish, purposely casual. He is enjoying himself greatly. "Simply inquiring."

With a growl, you pry your eyes open to glare at him, hoping your expression accurately relays the breadth of your annoyance.

Apparently, it doesn't.

"Yes, there she is." His smile is broad and arrogant, almost proud, as if this were the point he was trying to make all along. "Emotion. Reaction. So much more honest than when you try to suppress what you are feeling. Of course, we will have to work on those deadly, glaring eyes. Unless you intend to battle your bed partner rather than seduce him."

You have no time to form a retort because his head lowers and captures one of your nipples with the heat of his tongue. It is a completely shocking sensation—unexpected, new, and confusing, but very much not unpleasant. You gasp at the wet lick and squirm against his hold, fingers stuttering in your ministrations.

It does nothing to discourage him. If anything, the reaction incites him further. With a hand squeezing your right breast and mouth devouring your left, his hand rejoins the onslaught between your legs. Only this time, it does not settle for lazy strokes and teasing circles but works its own rhythm atop your fingertips.

“Allow your tongue some freedom. Tell me what feels nice, what isn’t quite right.” His teeth give a soft nip to the tight peak before he switches his attention to its twin, lavishing it just the same. "Honest and shameless,” he murmurs into the swell.

"Wh- what if I say something…wrong?" The words spill out before you realize you're verbalizing them. "Something you won't like, or it ends up sounding foolish rather than—"

He moves so quickly, so fluidly, that you don't have a moment to comprehend it before it's happening.

Firmly grasping your jaw, he pulls his mouth away and pins you with a predatory stare. It makes your spine tense. "As long as you are forthright and honest with what pleases you, there are no wrong answers." His lips find the column of your neck, teeth nibbling at the skin there. “I do not expect you to be perfect, but I do demand that you let go. Submerge yourself. Tell me what you want."

What do you want?

Your eyes roll skyward, desperately thinking of something you could actually vocalize. Eventually, one very simple thought settles in your mind and sticks there.

"I want... your fingers.”

It makes you nervous just saying it out loud. Nervous in a way that is neither uncomfortable nor dreadful, but entirely strange and unlike yourself.

A noise—an exhale or a hum or a laugh, you cannot be sure—leaves his throat before he presses a small kiss to your collarbone.

“Oh, but you already have those," he purrs, purposefully being difficult, as he loves to be.

In spite of his teasing, though, your next word comes easier.

"Inside," you practically groan.

One second. That is all he waits, just a mere second, before granting your request. Two slender digits dive deep into your fluttering hole, and you choke on a breath, unprepared for the foreign fullness of it.

He laughs softly, as if sensing your inner monologue. Or, it could very well be the fact that you clamp like a vice the moment he is inside you, muscles struggling to adjust.

"Greedy little thing," he chides, amused and appreciative all the same. "Sucking me in as soon as I allow. Oh, yes, you needed this. I can tell."

And then he is moving, thrusting in and out in a fluid tempo. Slow, patient, and somehow smug. His fingers coax a staccato of choked noises from you that can best be described as obscene, each a chorus to your own embarrassingly lewd squelching.

With your jaw free from his grip, both your hands fly to his hair, seeking an anchor. His silken strands wrap themselves around your fists, and you pull, just a little too tight to be proper. In response is a sharp exhale through his nose, followed by the subtle jerk of his hips.

“The God of Mischief likes his hair pulled, then?" You pant, using the last vestiges of coherent thought. It is a new and fascinating piece of information, one you feel almost privileged for uncovering.

“Does it surprise you?"

For the first time, it occurs to you that Loki is panting, too. Hovering above, lips parted, he looks a bit…flushed. As close to ruffled as the youngest prince ever gets, that is. It sparks a confidence that is normally not present with him, a means of reprieving a tiny bit of the control.

So you pull again. Harsh and unabashed.

“Not in the slightest."

His fingers respond by quickening their pace. You are far beyond embarrassment now, chasing a high that is both confusing and intimidating. Your walls begin to twitch uncontrollably, fluttering and pulsing in warning. And in a stroke of serendipity, his clever thumb finds its way to the needy little clit begging for attention—taking over where you have subconsciously stopped.

“Oh gods—” The exclamation barely makes its way past your clenched teeth. Your fingers clamp, white and desperate, still buried within his tresses.

“Only one," his breath fans hot across your shoulder, just a tad uneven. "But do let him hear it. Let it ring for all the Nine Realms to hear."

One second his mouth is by your shoulder, the next trailing slow, open-mouth kisses between your breasts. Lower and lower, until he is propped up between your thighs and his breath fans against your unbearably hot sex.

Those devastating fingers continue to fuck in and out of you, faster and faster and faster, curling up to hit a spot you didn't know was there.

You are certain nothing has ever made you feel quite this way before—raw and primal. Powerful. Out-of-body, almost.

Then, as if he couldn't be any more depraved, a hot, flat tongue drags up the center of your throbbing cunt.

He repeats the motion twice, three, four, five times, then latches on.

Your hips jolt.

A sharp cry escapes.

And with that, it's over.

There is no stopping the wave of blinding, white-hot euphoria that washes over your senses. No holding back the strangled, animalistic noises that follow. You can feel yourself clenching and pulsing, feel the rush of liquid between your thighs and his tongue lapping you clean, but none of it makes sense.

None of it registers as reality, not until the high is fading and the room is no longer spinning. And that's when the realization hits.

You just climaxed on Loki's tongue.

Oh fuck.

The world stops turning, and you are frozen. Frozen and mortified. Because surely, surely, he is going to make some snarky remark about your lack of endurance, or the sheer volume of your moans, or the way your entire body trembles in the aftermath.

He is a cruel, callous being. A prince raised with privilege and a silver spoon in his mouth. He will mock you, berate you, and lord it over your head for years to come.

Maybe he will even tell Thor about it.

And you will deserve it. You will have brought it upon yourself.

So when his voice finally sounds beneath you, you can't help the cringe that follows.

“All my life I have assumed many things about the elven princess from Alfheim," he murmurs, his hands running soothing circles up and down the outside of your thighs. "But never did I think she would taste quite so sweet."

What?

Your eyebrows knit together, and you push yourself up onto your elbows to look at him. He is still situated between your spread legs, watching you intently. There is a shine to his chin and lips that is undeniably your doing, and his hair is mussed from your assaults.

He does not look smug, or arrogant, or malicious.

Instead, he looks pleased. Satisfied, in a way. It is not an expression you have ever seen him wear—not in your presence, at least. It puts you a little more at ease.

“Was it... adequate?" you ask, hesitantly.

A soft huff, and he is moving again. Slowly crawling his way back over you, caging you beneath his broad frame.

"I should think the answer was rather obvious."

He does not elaborate further, instead bringing two shiny, soaked fingers up to his lips. Without breaking eye contact, he slowly sucks the digits into his mouth and hums around them.

Your stomach swoops.

"Next time," he promises, releasing them with a pop. "I will teach you how to return the favor."

He rises to his feet in one smooth motion, and suddenly you are very aware of your nakedness compared to his still-clothed state.

"But for now," he turns away and dusts nothing in particular off his shirt, "I have taken up enough of your time. The hour is late, and you will need your rest."

That same green shimmer engulfs your body, and the gown is back, fitting seamlessly over your curves. Perfect and pristine, as if you hadn't been sprawled and debauched a moment ago. The only difference now is that you can feel the slick between your thighs.

You stand on shaky legs and attempt to right your appearance, smoothing the fabric and pulling a loose strand of hair away from your face.

"You will not... tell anyone?" You bite your lip and glance up at him, unable to keep the worry out of your voice. "About what just happened, I mean. Right?"

He arches a brow but otherwise seems unconcerned.

"What, and ruin my fun?" A dark chuckle, and he is walking towards the door, leaving you to trail behind. "Where would the entertainment be in that?"

His fingers close around the handle, and you find yourself at a loss. What were you supposed to do now? Just walk back to your room as if nothing had occurred?

"Wait."

Loki pauses, looking back at you over his shoulder.

"Will you not be needing… um." Your cheeks burn, and you glance at the obvious bulge in his pants, hoping he can catch the drift without making you actually say it.

"No."

Your brows furrow, confused. You may not be the most sexually experienced person in the realm, but even you know that a man cannot be expected to walk away completely unfulfilled. Besides, wasn't the point of all this for you to learn?

He smiles a secret, sly sort of smile and opens the door.

"A lesson for tomorrow," he explains. "Patience is a virtue, princess. You will learn it."

He waits expectantly, holding the door open, and you take it as your cue to leave.

But when you are a few steps out, a sudden burst of confidence overcomes you. You don't know what makes you say it—maybe the way his eyes bore into you, maybe the heat in your blood, maybe the thrill of the encounter. Whatever the reason, the words tumble out.

"Tomorrow, then," you echo.

And with that, you walk down the hallway, praying your legs won't give out before you reach your chambers.

You do not see the tension in Loki's jaw.

Nor do you see him close the door, only to immediately turn and brace his back against it, his head tilting up to stare at the ceiling.

You also don't hear him groan, nor see his hand move between his legs, gripping the aching hardness hidden beneath his ridiculously tight pants.

As you’re maintaining the soil of recently planted herbs, a fleeting noise manages to whisper in your ear. You turn, scanning the area, but no one has made their way into your space. 

Perhaps it was the wind. 

You return to your duties, smoothing over one last patch of dirt before looking on with satisfaction. 

“Quite the green thumb you have.” Although the one who utters those words is completely discernible, the lack of warning to his arrival is what causes the startle. 

“Loki!” A hand flies to your chest right behind a small yelp from the suddenness of his appearance. “We talked about this, you cannot keep materializing out of nowhere whenever you see fit. Unless you wish to see my heart fail one of these days.”

“Oh, it was just a bit of fun,” the one in question responds, making no effort to conceal the amusement that your reaction brought him. “Plus it was all worth it to see the look on your face.”

You shake your head, relenting to his antics. 

See, Loki is the younger prince of Asgard. Despite your polar opposite roles in this kingdom, the two of you have seemed to form a bond with one another. 

The first meeting must have been a decade or so ago, when you caught the raven-haired man nestled among the rows of flowers in a desperate attempt to find a new place of solace from his louder older brother and the company he voluntarily kept—his words, actually, not yours. 

Since then, he’s visited often, and you make the room to accommodate him every time because you truly adore his company despite his tendency to scare the remainder of your life force out of you more and more whenever he shows up. The company is mainly consistent; sometimes it ranges between the pair of you hosting deep, thought-provoking conversations. Other times, it was enough to simply sit with each other after exchanging pleasantries. 

And sometimes, like now, he would watch you work, examining the way you delicately cared for the life thriving within these gardens like it was your own. 

“The usual?” you inquire, referring to whether or not he had run away again. 

“For a change, no,” he says. “My brother and his companions have set off on a conquest that I had no desire to join, so I decided to relax here. Ensure you’re still doing your job, of course.” 

“I’m almost honored with how highly you think of me,” the dry quip follows, matching his humor in a way that has him cracking a small smile. 

“How have the amaryllises been faring as of late, by the way?” His question has you shifting, sarcasm swapped out with glimmering excitement.

“Come! Come and see!” 

Loki strides behind you as you move to one of the farther expanses of the garden, where a large patch of rows—all exclusively containing the amaryllis flower—sit, the sunlight hitting the petals like they were having their own personal golden hour. 

“I figured you’d rather enjoy seeing them up close.” It was clear how much pride you took in them, and the prince was impressed with the fruit of your labor. 

“This is… quite magnificent, dear (y/n).”

The compliment has you beaming further, “Aren’t they the most beautiful thing you’ve ever laid eyes on?”

Loki noticed your spark—this truly was your element. 

“I wouldn’t say the most.” 

You miss the most passing of glances in your direction, laughing off the statement and marking it as another one of his naturally satirical quips. 

“Well, pretend for a moment. For my sake.” 

He makes a small laugh at your insistence, “...They are quite something.” 

You nod in satisfied agreement, “Ironically, these flowers are actually the symbol of beauty, or so I’ve been told. And if it is true, then they certainly live up to the tales. Maybe even more.” 

“The passion you hold for nature is inspiring, to say the least.” 

“Be glad, it’s what keeps this place lively. All the more comfortable in the end for you, no?”

“I suppose so,” he replies. “That reminds me. I found something for you just this morning.”

The revelation piques your interest, “For me?” You don’t speak again until after a confirmation has been received. “What is it?” 

Loki steps forward, placing his hands behind his back. When he’s deemed himself close enough to you, they’re brought back into view, this time holding a thick view, its cover decorated with gold vines leaves and vines that wrap gracefully around its entirety. 

There’s no doubt about it that the book contains much about the very thing that takes up about 80% of your daily occupation, meant to fuel the flame that keeps you so engaged.

“I was going through the selection in our library when I stumbled upon this,” he explains. “And before you ask, it’s completely fine that I give this to you, it’s a guarantee no one will even notice it missing, really. I thought you could…find enjoyment in it.” 

“This is…” you’re left speechless, a deep appreciation for his observation and thoughtfulness squeezing at your chest. “This is so kind of you. I don’t know what to say.” 

“Shall we start with you actually taking the book into your own hands, then?” he teases, drawing a chuckle from you as you do just that, brushing a thumb lightly over the cover. 

“...Thank you.” The features of your face soften when the two of you make eye contact, conveying how deep the sentiment touched you. “This is a wonderful gift. I owe you.” 

“Nonsense. I beg to differ. Just knowing that you’ll put it to good use will be enough for me.”

You nod in return, “That I certainly will.” 

After that, Loki remained with you until he sensed the return of his brother, bidding you a goodbye before using his magic to return somewhere within the palace. 

When the time came where there was nothing more to tend to for the day, you took your own leave, embarking on the brief journey to your nearby home, the weighty book clutched to your chest the entire way.

Opening it was the first thing you did after getting settled in, turning to the first page. There was something inside of it, though—two things, actually.

The first was a flower, one that was unmistakably similar to the ones you’d shown to your mischievous companion. How he’d managed to get his hands on one, you’ll never know, but it left you smiling regardless. 

What was paired with it was a small, folded note. Curiously, you reverse the handiwork, smoothing out the paper creases. 

There, in neat, elegant handwriting, it read: 

Beauty should become acquainted with its originator. 

It lacked a signature, but you knew exactly who wrote it, the words sending an exhilarating flutter throughout your body, along with a wide smile that you’re sort of glad no one else can see now, lest you go hot with embarrassment.

Twirling the stem of the flower between your fingertips, the message the note carries feels ever more intimate, such a small gesture making a large impact. 

“...Thank you, Loki,” you murmur into the empty air, hoping that despite the distance, the man with raven hair and emerald eyes would be able to magically hear you someway. 

Your most adored treasure whom you found hidden among the flowers. 

. . .

Y/N woke to sunlight burning directly across her face.

She groaned, rolled toward the wall and pulled the blanket over her head.

For several blissful seconds, she forgot everything. The diner. The flash in the sky. The crater. The unconscious man tied to her skateboard. The naked god standing in her kitchen.

Her eyes opened beneath the blanket. “Oh, shit.”

Y/N threw it aside and sat up too quickly. The room tilted. She braced one hand against the mattress until the dizziness passed, then grabbed her phone from the nightstand.

12:08 p.m.

She had slept for nearly seven hours. More importantly, she had willingly slept for nearly seven hours with a self-proclaimed god loose in her apartment.

A god who had threatened to turn her into something unpleasant. A god who could stop objects in midair. A god who, unless she had hallucinated from exhaustion, possessed absolutely no sense of modesty.

Y/N listened.

The apartment was quiet. No crashing furniture. No screams from the neighbors. No ominous chanting.

She slipped out of bed and opened the bedroom door cautiously. “Loki?”

No answer.

Y/N stepped into the hallway.

The bathroom door stood open. His armor was no longer spread across the floor where she had left it to dry. The towels had been folded and stacked beside the bathtub.

She continued toward the living room. Then stopped.

Her apartment was clean.

Not simply cleaner than she remembered.

Clean.

The throw blankets had been folded into neat squares over the back of the couch. Her discarded shoes had been paired beside the wall. The pile of textbooks on the coffee table had been arranged from largest to smallest, with her loose papers stacked beneath them. Even the abandoned laundry basket had disappeared.

Y/N looked slowly around the room. The empty mugs from earlier were gone. The cushions had been straightened. The floor had been swept. Her laptop sat closed in the center of the table with its charger carefully wound beside it.

“What the hell?”

“You’re awake.”

Y/N spun around.

Loki sat near the window in the armchair, one ankle resting across the opposite knee. He had managed to put on most of his repaired clothing, though the heavier armor remained absent. The black and green layers fit closely around him, the fresh stitches visible near one shoulder and along his side. He held one of her textbooks open in his lap.

The sight of him there, dressed, composed and entirely at ease made the events of the previous night feel even more surreal.

“You…cleaned.”

His eyes returned to the page. “I restored a small degree of order.”

“You cleaned my whole apartment…”

“I found continued exposure to its condition intolerable.”

Y/N stared at him.

Loki turned another page. “You live like a Midgardian slob.”

Her mouth dropped open. “A what?”

“A slob.”

“I know what you said.”

“Then why did you ask?”

Y/N crossed the room and smacked him lightly on the upper arm.

Loki looked down at the place she had struck.

Then slowly up at her.

The expression on his face suggested no one had dared do such a thing in several centuries. “You struck me.”

“You called me a slob.”

“It was an observation.”

“It was rude.”

“It was the truth.”

She raised her hand again.

Loki caught her wrist before she could hit him, his fingers closing around it with effortless speed.

Y/N froze.

His grip was not painful.

If anything, it was remarkably careful.

Loki glanced from her hand to her face. “You have a troubling habit of assaulting those who could destroy you.”

“You have a troubling habit of insulting the person letting you sleep on her couch.”

“I did not sleep.”

“That explains why you reorganized my books like a serial killer.”

“They were arranged without regard for subject, size or language.”

“They were arranged by where I dropped them.”

“Precisely.”

Y/N tugged her wrist.

Loki released it immediately.

She rubbed the spot more from awareness of his touch than discomfort.

Then a thought struck her.

Her eyes widened.

“Wait.”

Loki watched as she turned toward the television stand. “What?”

“Did you touch my bag?”

“Which bag?”

“The little plastic one.”

“That does not narrow the possibilities.”

“The one with the funny-smelling flowers.”

His brow furrowed.

Y/N hurried across the room and dropped onto her knees beside the low wooden stand supporting the television. She reached beneath it, fingers feeling along the hidden space between the bottom shelf and the wall.

Nothing.

Her stomach dropped. “No, no, no.”

She leaned farther down, nearly pressing her cheek against the carpet.

Loki closed the textbook. “What have you lost?”

“My weed.”

“Your what?”

“My bag.”

“You have several.”

“The flowers, Loki.”

“I found no flowers.”

“They don’t look like regular flowers. They’re dried and green and kind of—” Her fingers brushed plastic. “Oh, thank God.” She glanced Loki. “Or Gods…”

Y/N dragged the small bag from its hiding place and held it against her chest.

Loki stared at it.

She quickly checked that it was still sealed and that the contents appeared untouched.

Everything was there.

She released a breath.

“You hid vegetation beneath your viewing apparatus?” Loki asked.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s illegal.”

Loki’s expression changed from confusion to interest. “You conceal forbidden substances inside your home.”

“It sounds worse when you say it like that.”

“What purpose do these flowers serve?”

Y/N tucked the bag back beneath the television stand. “They help me relax.”

“You consume them?”

“Sometimes.”

“By eating them?”

“No.”

“You brew them?”

“…Not usually.”

His eyes narrowed. “Then how?”

Y/N stood and brushed the dust from her knees. “I smoke them.”

Loki was silent for a moment. “You set the plant aflame.”

“Basically.”

“And inhale the fumes?”

“Yeah.”

“Intentionally?”

“Yes, Loki.”

He leaned back in the chair, considering this new information. “Midgardians are even stranger than I believed.”

“You’re the one who fell out of space.”

“That was not intentional.”

“Neither was me needing stress relief during college.”

Y/N wandered into the kitchen, opening cabinets as she went.

Her stomach felt hollow, and the scent of the eggs she had made earlier lingered faintly in the room.

She checked the refrigerator. There was not much to work with. Bread. Cheese. Half a package of deli turkey. A tomato that needed to be used before it became a biological hazard. Grilled sandwiches, then.

Loki appeared in the kitchen doorway behind her.

She looked over her shoulder. “You’re moving better.”

“I am recovering.”

“Your ribs?”

“Satisfactory.”

“That means they hurt.”

“It means they are satisfactory.”

Y/N retrieved a frying pan. “Sit down before you fall down.”

“I have already explained that I do not fall.”

“You fell through the sky.”

His expression darkened.

She winced. “Right. Sensitive subject. Sorry.”

Loki moved toward the small table but did not sit. Instead, he watched as she laid slices of bread on the counter. “What are you preparing?”

“Lunch.”

“It is barely morning.”

“It’s noon.”

“That is an absurd hour to rise.”

“I worked all night rescuing a dramatic alien.”

“God.”

“Alien god.”

“Do not call me that.”

Y/N placed cheese over the bread. “You’re from another planet.”

“Asgard is not a planet in the crude manner you understand such things.”

“Different world, realm, floating space kingdom. Alien enough.”

Loki looked offended by every option.

Y/N added turkey to one sandwich. “…Do gods eat turkey?”

“Do you possess anything more substantial?”

“No.”

“Then apparently we do.”

She smiled and assembled the second sandwich.

Loki’s gaze drifted back toward the living room. “These forbidden flowers…”

Y/N sighed. “What about them?”

“They’re meant to help you relax?”

“Yes, they can help you relax or help you deal with pain.”

“They help with pain?”

“They can.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. They make your body relax. Everything feels less intense.”

“They alter the mind.”

“Yes.”

“Like wine.”

“…Kind of, but different.”

“More potent?”

“Depends.”

“Dangerous?”

“It can be if you’re stupid, but it’s not like you’re going to drop dead from smoking a little.”

“You hid it as though possession invites execution.”

“It doesn’t. I could get arrested, though.”

“For possessing a plant.”

“Welcome to America.”

Loki considered that with visible disdain.

“Your rulers forbid it, yet you keep it within your dwelling.”

“Quietly.”

“You admitted its existence to me.”

“You already know I dragged a stranger home from the desert. I think we’ve skipped the normal trust-building process.”

She buttered one side of each sandwich and placed them in the pan.

One landed slightly crooked.

Loki’s eyebrows rose.

“Elegant.”

“Shut up.”

His mouth curved faintly.

Y/N looked at him over her shoulder. It was the first time she had seen him appear genuinely relaxed. Only slightly, and only for a moment, but the sharpness around his eyes had eased.

He noticed her watching and the expression vanished.  “Why do you look at me so?”

“I’m checking whether you’re about to pass out.”

“A transparent falsehood.”

“You ask too many questions.”

“And you avoid half of them.”

“I answer all of them.”

“With simplicity intended to make further inquiry difficult.”

“That’s because most things aren’t as complicated as you want them to be.”

“Everything is complicated.”

“Grilled cheese isn’t.”

Loki glanced toward the pan. “You have added flesh to it.”

“Turkey.”

“Therefore, it is no longer merely grilled cheese.”

Y/N stared at him. “You’ve been awake for less than a day, and you’re already correcting my sandwich terminology.”

“It required correction.”

She plated the food and slid one toward him.

Loki finally sat.

He inspected the sandwich.

Y/N sat across from him and picked up her own. “You eat it with your hands.”

“I had gathered as much.”

“Just making sure, Your Highness.”

He lifted it with obvious reluctance and took a bite.

Y/N waited.

Loki chewed.

His expression remained carefully neutral.

“Well?”

“It is adequate.”

“You like it.”

“I said it was adequate.”

“You ate half of it in one bite.”

He ignored her and took another.

Y/N smiled into her sandwich.

For a few minutes, they ate in relative silence.

Then Loki spoke again. “Would the flowers affect me?”

Y/N looked up. “What?”

“Your illicit vegetation.”

“I don’t know.”

“You claimed it’s meant to relax and eases pain.”

“In humans.”

“I resemble one closely enough.”

“You also fell through space, caught a towel with your mind and called yourself a god.”

“All accurate.”

“So I’m not using you as a science experiment.”

His eyes narrowed. “I require no protection from your minor mortal intoxicants.”

“Last night, you couldn’t walk across the room without holding onto something.”

“I was injured.”

“You’re still injured.”

“I am significantly improved.”

Y/N studied him.

He did look better, but there was still strain around his mouth whenever he shifted. The bandage beneath his clothes pulled slightly across his ribs.

“If the pain gets bad again,” she said, “maybe I’ll let you try some.”

Loki’s eyebrows lifted. “You will let me?”

“It’s my weed.”

“You presume authority over what I place within my own body.”

“No. I presume authority over whether you smoke my limited supply.”

His gaze sharpened with amusement. “You would deny a prince relief?”

“If the prince is annoying, yes.”

“I could just simply take it.”

“You’d have to find the hiding spot again.”

“I watched you retrieve it.”

Y/N stopped chewing.

Loki smiled.

Slowly.

Smugly.

“You said you didn’t touch it.”

“I did not.”

“But you know where it is.”

“I possess eyes.”

She pointed at him with the remaining half of her sandwich. “You better leave it alone.”

“I have no desire to inhale burning shrubbery.”

“Good.”

“…Unless curiosity compels me.”

“Loki.”

“Or pain.”

“You don’t even know how to smoke.”

“A skill I am certain I could master.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes.

He took another bite of his sandwich, looking unbearably pleased with himself.

“You know,” she said, “I liked you better when you were unconscious.”

“A lie.”

“See? This is why people hit you.”

“So far, only you.”

“Give it time.”

Loki regarded her across the table.

The apartment was bright with midday sun now, and the tension that had filled it hours earlier had faded into something stranger.

Not comfort.

Not yet.

But the beginnings of familiarity.

He had cleaned while she slept.

She had woken and made him lunch.

He insulted her home.

She threatened to withhold illegal flowers.

It was absurdly domestic for two people who had met beside a crater less than twelve hours earlier.

Y/N finished her sandwich and stood to rinse her plate.

Behind her, Loki spoke. “Why keep something that places you at risk?”

She turned on the faucet. “Because I like it.”

“That is your entire justification?”

“…Uh-huh. Pretty much.”

“No elaborate philosophy?”

“Nope.”

“No rebellion against your rulers?”

“I’m not starting a revolution, Loki. I just like getting high sometimes.”

He appeared disappointed by the lack of deeper meaning.

Y/N glanced back at him. “You really do make everything complicated.”

“And you make everything simple.”

“Someone has to.”

Their eyes met.

For a moment, Loki said nothing.

Then his attention lowered to the sandwich still in his hand.

“Yes,” he murmured. “Perhaps someone does.”

“Exactly.”

. . .

Y/N had exactly forty-three minutes before she needed to leave for work.

Which should have been plenty of time.

It was not.

She stood in front of her bathroom mirror with a toothbrush between her teeth, attempting to pull her hair into something resembling an intentional style while Loki occupied the hallway directly outside the door.

“Do you always prepare for labor with such urgency?” he asked.

Y/N spat toothpaste into the sink.

“I overslept.”

“You rose at midday.”

“I work late.”

“You also slept late.”

“Thank you for explaining how sleep works.”

Loki leaned one shoulder against the wall, arms folded across his chest. He had put his repaired clothing back on, though he had left most of the armor stacked neatly beside the couch.

The dark fabric and leather made him look slightly less out of place than the full green-and-gold armor had, but only slightly.

He still looked like he had wandered out of a medieval war and into a second-floor apartment in New Mexico.

Y/N wiped her mouth and reached for her makeup bag.

Loki watched her pull out a tube of mascara. “What is that?”

“Makeup.”

“For what purpose?”

“To look less tired.”

“You remain tired.”

“Yes, but now people might not know.”

He considered that. “So it’s deception.”

“It’s mascara.”

“A cosmetic deception.”

Y/N twisted around to look at him. “Do you have to classify everything I do as some form of manipulation?”

“You conceal exhaustion by altering your appearance.”

“I’m putting black stuff on my eyelashes, Loki. I’m not overthrowing a government.”

“Not with that attitude.”

She stared at him for a moment.

Then she turned back to the mirror before he could see her smile.

It was strange how quickly his presence had begun to feel less alarming.

Not normal.

There was nothing normal about having a god watching her get ready for a closing shift.

But familiar, somehow.

He had been in her home for less than a day and already behaved as though every decision she made required examination.

Y/N applied mascara to one eye.

Loki continued watching.

Y/N lowered the mascara in her hand. “You’re making me nervous.”

“I have done nothing.”

“You’re staring.”

“I am observing.”

“That’s staring.”

His reflection regarded hers in the mirror. “You alter only the area surrounding your eyes.”

“I’m going to work, not a wedding.”

“What has marriage to do with it?”

“Nothing. It means I’m not doing full makeup.”

“And your employers require this?”

“No.”

“Then why bother?”

Y/N lowered the mascara wand. “Because I like how it looks.”

He seemed almost disappointed by the uncomplicated answer. “That’s all?”

“That is all.”

His gaze remained on her reflection. “It is pleasing.”

Her hand stopped.

Y/N looked at him through the mirror.

Loki’s expression revealed nothing. He had delivered the compliment as though offering an objective assessment of the weather.

“What?”

“The darkening around your eyes,” he said. “It suits you.”

“Oh.” She turned back toward the sink, suddenly more interested in returning the mascara to its tube than necessary. “Thanks.”

Loki tilted his head slightly, studying the warmth rising in her cheeks.

Y/N immediately changed the subject.

“So, about tonight.”

His expression sharpened.

“You’re welcome to stay here while I’m at work.”

“I require no permission.”

“You do when it’s my apartment.”

His lips pressed together.

Y/N stepped around him and returned to her bedroom. Loki followed as far as the doorway while she pulled on her diner uniform shirt.

“You can stay,” she continued, buttoning it, “or you can leave. I’m not holding you prisoner.”

“We established that I am presently unable to depart this realm.”

“I meant the apartment.”

“I am aware.”

She tucked the shirt into her pants and glanced toward him. “But there are rules.”

Loki’s brow lifted. “You propose rules for me?”

“Yes.”

“A prince of Asgard.”

“A prince of Asgard who is sleeping on my couch.”

His expression cooled.

Y/N began counting on her fingers. “You’re not allowed to touch my weed.”

“I have no interest in your foul-smelling vegetation.”

“You were asking a lot of questions about it.”

“Curiosity is not desire.”

“Good. Then leaving it alone should be easy.”

She lifted a second finger. “And you’re not allowed past the kitchen entryway.”

Loki stared at her.

“What?”

“Kitchen, living room and bathroom are fine. My bedroom is off-limits.”

“You left me unattended in your dwelling, yet fear I may enter one particular chamber?”

“I don’t fear it. I’m telling you not to.”

“What do you conceal there?”

“My stuff.”

“A compelling mystery.”

“It isn’t a mystery. It’s clothes, homework and laundry.”

“Then why prohibit entry?”

“Because it’s private.”

Loki’s expression remained unreadable.

Y/N narrowed her eyes. “…You already went in there, didn’t you?”

His silence answered her.

Her mouth fell open. “You did.”

“I sought to determine whether you had been truthful.”

“You opened my door while I was sleeping?”

“You might have been plotting against me.”

“I was unconscious.”

“Yes. I discovered that.”

Y/N stared at him in disbelief. “And you didn’t think to mention this?”

“It appeared unnecessary.”

She grabbed a hairbrush from her dresser and pointed it at him. “No bedroom.”

“I have already seen it.”

“That doesn’t mean you get to go back.”

“I could enter without your knowledge.”

“You could also not be creepy.”

The word seemed to offend him more than any threat had. “I was not being creepy.”

“You watched me sleep.”

“I confirmed that you slept.”

“From the doorway?”

Loki hesitated for half a second.

Y/N’s eyes widened.

“You came inside?”

“I took several steps.”

“Loki!”

“You were unharmed.”

“That’s not the point!”

“It is very much the point.”

She lifted the hairbrush as though considering throwing it.

Loki’s eyes flicked toward it. “Do not.”

“You’d catch it.”

“I would.”

“That would somehow make me angrier.”

Y/N set it down with deliberate care. “No weed. No bedroom. Don’t answer the door, don’t touch the stove, and don’t use my phone to call another realm.”

“Your device is incapable of such communication.”

“Good. One less concern.”

Loki remained in the doorway while she gathered her purse and searched for her keys. “And if I elect not to remain here?”

Y/N looked up. “Then come with me.”

“To the establishment where you serve food?”

“The diner.”

“I recall.”

“You’d have to sit there for several hours, though.”

“I have endured longer periods in less dignified locations.”

“Great. Then you can keep me company.”

His gaze sharpened slightly at the words.

Y/N did not notice. She was too busy searching beneath a stack of papers.

“Where are my keys?”

“Beside the entry.”

She stopped. “How do you know?”

“I placed them there.”

“Of course you did.”

She walked into the living room and found them centered neatly on the small table beside the door.

Loki followed.

Y/N glanced over his repaired Asgardian clothing.

“You can’t wear that.”

His expression turned dangerous. “Why not?”

“Because everyone will stare at you.”

“They already do.”

“More than usual.”

“That is hardly my concern.”

“It becomes my concern when my manager thinks I brought a fantasy convention performer to work.”

Loki looked down at himself. “These are the garments of Asgardian royalty.”

“And they’re very nice.”

“Nice?”

“Beautiful. Majestic. Extremely prince-like.”

He eyed her suspiciously.

“But you’ll look insane in a roadside diner.”

His mouth tightened.

Y/N opened the small closet by the front door and searched through several jackets. “I might still have some of my ex-boyfriend’s clothes.”

Silence fell behind her.

Y/N continued digging. “He left a box here after we broke up. I told him to pick it up, but he never—”

“You intend for me to wear another man’s castoffs?”

She glanced back.

Loki stood perfectly still.

There was something almost affronted in his expression.

“They’re just clothes.”

“They belonged to a man who shared your affections.”

“Past tense.”

“That alters little.”

“It alters the entire situation.”

“I will not wear them.”

Y/N shrugged and turned back toward the closet. “Then stay here.”

“I did not say I would remain.”

“You can’t go to work dressed like that.”

“Your realm places an astonishing amount of importance upon unremarkable fabric.”

“Says the man offended by the idea of wearing jeans.”

“I’m offended by the idea of wearing his jeans.”

The emphasis was unmistakable.

Y/N slowly looked over her shoulder. “Are you jealous of a guy you’ve never met?”

Loki’s expression became glacial. “Don’t be absurd.”

“You sound jealous.”

“I possess no reason to envy a Midgardian foolish enough to lose your favor.”

The words landed between them.

Y/N blinked.

Loki appeared to realize what he had said at the same moment she did.

His posture stiffened.

She tried not to smile. “That almost sounded like another compliment.”

“It was an insult directed toward him.”

“Sure.”

“I will not wear his clothes.”

“Then what are you going to wear?”

Loki looked at her for a long moment.

Then green light shimmered across his body.

Y/N stumbled backward into the closet door.

The magic moved over him like water, dissolving the repaired Asgardian layers and replacing them piece by piece.

Dark trousers appeared first, fitted cleanly through the legs. A pale striped dress shirt formed over his chest, buttoned neatly to the throat beneath a black tie. A patterned scarf settled around his neck before a long, dark overcoat swept over his shoulders.

The glow faded.

Loki stood before her dressed as though he belonged in an expensive office in some colder, more sophisticated city.

His hair had changed too, no longer hanging loose around his shoulders. It was swept back neatly, leaving his sharp features fully exposed.

Y/N forgot what she had been saying.

The outfit should have looked too formal for a diner.

Instead, it made him look effortlessly elegant.

The coat broadened his shoulders, while the fitted shirt and trousers emphasized the lean lines of his body. The scarf gave the entire appearance something polished and strangely modern without making him look ordinary.

Nothing could make Loki look ordinary.

He adjusted one cuff.

“This should satisfy your realm’s arbitrary expectations.”

Y/N continued staring.

His gaze lifted to hers.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“A lie.”

She looked him over again before she could stop herself.

The dark coat.

The narrow tie.

The pale shirt against his skin.

The sharp sweep of his hair.

He looked less like someone she had dragged from a crater and more like the sort of man who walked into a room already knowing everyone would turn to look.

And they would.

They absolutely would.

“You look…” Y/N stopped.

Loki’s eyebrows rose. “I look?”

“…Normal.”

His eyes narrowed. “That was poorly delivered.”

“No, I mean—” She gestured toward him. “You look good.”

A trace of satisfaction entered his expression. “I am aware.”

She rolled her eyes. “Of course you are.”

“You were staring.”

“I was checking the clothes.”

“With your mouth open.”

Y/N immediately closed it. “It was not.”

Loki stepped closer.

It was only one step, but the small living room suddenly felt much smaller.

His eyes moved over her face, openly amused now. “You find this form pleasing.”

“This form?”

“The attire.”

“Oh.” She cleared her throat. “It’s fine.”

“Fine?”

“Appropriate.”

“You called it good moments ago.”

“I changed my mind.”

“No, you became embarrassed.”

“I am not embarrassed.”

His gaze dipped briefly toward the color in her cheeks. “You are.”

Y/N grabbed her purse from the table and pushed past him.

“We’re going to be late.”

“I was unaware gods were required to obey your work schedule.”

“You are when you’re riding in my car.”

Loki followed her toward the door, looking far too pleased with himself.

Y/N unlocked it and stepped onto the landing.

Behind her, he paused. “You have neglected one matter.”

She turned. “What?”

“Your restrictions.”

“What about them?”

“If I accompany you, I cannot violate them.”

“That’s the point.”

“Then perhaps your insistence upon my presence was a calculated maneuver.”

She stared at him. “I gave you two choices.”

“And clearly preferred one.”

“I did not.”

Loki stepped outside and pulled the apartment door closed behind him.

“You offered another man’s clothing knowing I would refuse.”

“I didn’t know you’d get weirdly territorial.”

“I am not territorial.”

“You called his clothes castoffs like they personally offended your bloodline.”

“They did.”

Y/N locked the door.

When she looked up, Loki was standing beside her beneath the harsh afternoon sun, dressed in his dark coat as though the New Mexico heat had no authority over him.

She gave him another involuntary once-over.

He caught it immediately. “Again.”

“Walk.”

Loki smiled. It was small, smug and infuriatingly attractive.

Y/N headed toward the stairs before he could see her smiling too.

. . . 

By the time the afternoon rush began, Loki had decided that the diner was an insult to nearly every one of his senses. The coffee smelled burnt. The lights hummed overhead. The vinyl seats stuck faintly to the backs of his thighs. And the small metal bell beside the register made an irritating chime every time someone struck it, despite the fact that Y/N was almost always standing close enough to hear them speak.

He sat on the counter near the register with one polished shoe resting against the cabinet beneath him, looking far too elegant for the faded diner around him.

Y/N placed a white ceramic mug beside his hand and filled it from the coffee pot. “Here.”

Loki glanced down at the black liquid. “This is the same substance you consumed last night.”

“Technically.”

“It smells worse.”

“That’s because this pot’s been sitting for an hour.”

His expression sharpened with distaste. “Then why have you offered it to me?”

“Because you’ve been asking what every single thing is, and I’m trying to keep you occupied.”

Loki lifted the mug by its handle, inspecting it before taking a cautious sip. His face immediately tightened.

Y/N laughed. “You don’t have to drink it.”

“This is coffee?”

“Diner coffee.”

“That distinction appears significant.”

“It is.”

He took another sip anyway.

Y/N reached beneath the counter for a stack of clean menus. “And do not smash the cup when you’re finished.”

Loki slowly looked at her. “Why would I smash it?”

“You already did it at my apartment.”

“That vessel was empty.”

“So?”

“In Asgard, one casts down the cup and calls for another.”

Y/N stared at him. “You threw my favorite mug on the floor.”

“You had several.”

“It said World’s Okayest Student.”

“I spared you further humiliation.”

She slapped a menu against his knee. “Do not smash this one.”

Loki glanced at the mug. “And if I desire another?”

“You ask.”

His mouth twisted. “Simply ask?”

“Yes.”

“No dramatic declaration?”

“No.”

“No raised voice?”

“No.”

“No destruction?”

“Definitely no destruction.”

He appeared almost disappointed. “…Well, that’s no fun.”

Y/N pointed at him. “You say, ‘May I have another cup of coffee, please?’”

Loki regarded her with the wounded dignity of a king being taught table manners by a child. “I am familiar with courtesy.”

“You nearly threw a knife at my toaster last night.”

“It startled me.”

“It popped bread.”

“Without warning.”

She shook her head and walked away before he could defend himself further.

Loki watched her cross the diner. She moved quickly between the tables, pouring coffee, collecting plates and offering the same bright smile to every person who entered, regardless of whether they deserved it.

Most did not.

A man at the counter complained that his eggs were not over easy. Y/N apologized and sent them back. A woman in the corner snapped her fingers at her for more syrup. Y/N brought it without comment. A family allowed their child to scatter crackers across the floor, then left without attempting to gather them. Y/N swept them up.

Loki’s irritation grew with every interaction. They spoke to her as though her presence was beneath acknowledgment, yet expected immediate obedience from her.

And she continued smiling.

When she passed the counter again, Loki caught her wrist lightly. “Why do you permit them to speak to you in this manner?”

She followed his gaze toward the man still complaining about his replacement egg. “Because I’m working.”

“That does not answer the question.”

“It does here.”

“They behave as though you belong to them.”

“They’re customers.”

“That word does not improve them.”

Y/N pulled her wrist free and gathered a fresh pot of coffee. “They pay for food. I bring it to them. At the end of the week, I get money.”

“You endure disrespect for coin?”

“Pretty much.”

Loki frowned. “Your realm is poorly arranged.”

“Tell me about it.”

“You could refuse.”

“And then I could get fired.”

“Then your employer is a fool.”

“My employer likes customers more than employees.”

“Another fool.”

She smiled. “Agreed.”

Loki watched her refill a cup. “What would occur if you simply commanded them to leave?”

“I don’t command anyone.”

“That is evident.”

Y/N gave him a look. “You’ve been here an hour. Try not to overthrow capitalism before dinner.”

“I know not what that is.”

“Good. Stay innocent.”

She walked away again.

Loki’s attention followed her despite himself. She looked tired. Still, she remembered every order. She asked an elderly couple whether they wanted more coffee before they had to call for her. She carried a heavy tray for another server who had briefly stopped by. She laughed when a child offered her a crayon drawing as payment.

The ease with which she offered kindness to strangers was as baffling as it had been the night before. Perhaps more so.

Loki had assumed her mercy toward him had been an exception born of unusual circumstances. Watching her now, he began to understand that it was simply how she moved through the world.

She helped because someone needed help. She smiled because hostility would cost her more energy. She endured because, as she had said, she needed the money.

Loki disliked that last part immensely.

The bell above the front door chimed.

A man entered alone and chose a booth near the back. He was perhaps twice Y/N’s age, broad through the shoulders and wearing a dusty work shirt with the sleeves cut away. His gaze found Y/N almost immediately.

Loki noticed.

Y/N approached with a menu. “What can I get you to drink?”

“Coffee.”

“Cream or sugar?”

“Just you, sweetheart.”

Y/N’s smile tightened, though it did not disappear. “I’ll bring the coffee.”

Loki lowered his mug.

The man watched her walk away. Not idly. His eyes remained fixed on her in a manner Loki recognized immediately.

Possessive without cause. Hungry without invitation.

When Y/N returned with the coffee, the man knocked a wrapped fork from the edge of the table. It landed near her feet.

“Sorry about that,” he said.

Y/N bent to pick it up. The man leaned sideways in the booth, openly staring at her backside.

Loki’s fingers tightened around the mug.

Y/N placed the silverware back on the table. “Anything else?”

“Not right now.”

She turned away.

The man waited until she had taken three steps, then swept a napkin from the table. It fluttered to the floor. “Miss?”

Y/N stopped.

He pointed downward. “Dropped something.”

Loki’s expression went cold.

Y/N looked at the napkin. Then at the man. She knew. That much was obvious. But she walked back anyway, crouched and picked it up without comment.

The man grinned as she straightened.

Loki set his mug down. Carefully. He had been explicitly instructed not to smash it.

Y/N returned to the counter and shoved the napkin into the trash.

“You’re aware,” Loki said.

She wiped down the coffee pot. “Of what?”

“Do not insult me.”

She sighed. “Just ignore him.”

“He is intentionally dropping objects so that he may observe you.”

“I know.”

“And yet you comply.”

“He’s going to leave eventually.”

“That’s not sufficient.”

“It has to be. For now.”

Loki looked toward the booth. The man was still staring.

“No,” Loki said quietly. “It does not.”

Y/N pointed the cleaning cloth at him. “Do not do anything.”

“I have done nothing.”

“That’s why I’m saying it now.”

“He’s an idiot, not an enemy soldier.”

Loki’s eyes remained on the man. “The distinction appears narrow to me.”

“Loki.”

He looked back at her.

“Stay here.”

The command made one eyebrow rise. “I beg your pardon?”

She sighed. “Please stay here.”

The addition appeared to satisfy him only marginally.

Y/N picked up a pitcher of water and returned to the floor. Loki watched.

The man found another reason to call her over moments later. Ketchup this time, despite there already being a bottle at the end of his table.

Y/N brought him another.

He smiled up at her. “You got a boyfriend?”

“Nope.”

Loki’s gaze sharpened.

“Pretty girl like you?” the man continued.

“I’m busy, sir.”

“I can see that.”

His eyes traveled down her body again. Y/N stepped away from the table.

As she passed him, the man lifted his hand and struck her backside.

The sound carried across the diner.

Y/N froze.

So did Loki.

For one perfect second, the entire room seemed to stop.

Y/N turned slowly.

The man laughed, raising both hands. “Come on. Just playing around.”

Loki slid from the counter. Not even flinching from the pain in his side from standing.

There was no dramatic motion. No visible magic. One moment he was seated near the register. The next, he was walking across the diner with such deliberate calm that the absence of anger in his face became far more frightening than rage would have been.

Y/N saw him approaching. “Loki.”

He did not stop.

The man glanced past her. “What’s his problem?”

Loki stepped beside Y/N. Up close, he seemed taller than he had from the counter. The dark coat sharpened the line of his shoulders, and the fluorescent lights caught the green of his eyes.

“You will remove your hand,” Loki said.

The man looked down at his own lap, confused. “From what?”

“From your body.”

Y/N’s eyes widened. “Loki.”

The man laughed uneasily. “What the hell is this?”

“You touched her without permission.”

“Relax, Dracula. It was a joke.”

Loki leaned slightly closer. Nothing in his posture appeared hurried. That made it worse.

“I have heard jokes,” he said. “They are generally intended to inspire amusement.”

The man’s smile faded. “Back off.”

Loki’s gaze dropped briefly to the man’s hand. “I could remove the offending limb. I have several blades to choose from—“

Y/N grabbed Loki’s sleeve. “No.”

The man shoved himself upright in the booth. “Did he just threaten me?”

“Yes,” Y/N said. “But he’s leaving.”

“I am doing no such thing.”

She tugged his arm. “Loki, go sit down.”

His head turned slowly toward her. The look he gave her might have frightened armies.

Y/N did not release him. “Now.”

“He struck you.”

“I know.”

“And you would have me ignore it.”

“I would have you not dismember a customer during my shift.”

“He is fortunate that is all I proposed.”

The man stood. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

Loki turned back toward him.

Y/N stepped directly between them. “Nope.”

His gaze dropped to her. She placed one hand against his chest and pushed. Loki did not move. Naturally. But he looked down at her hand as though the contact itself had surprised him.

“Go sit at the counter,” she said.

“He has not apologized.”

“He’s not going to.”

“Then I will provide encouragement.”

“No magic,” she whispered to him.

“I require none. Just a blade will do.”

Behind her, the man scoffed.

Y/N felt Loki’s body tense beneath her palm. She pressed more firmly against his chest and lowered her voice. “Please.”

That stopped him.

Not immediately.

His eyes remained fixed over her shoulder, cold with the promise of consequences. Then his attention returned to her face.

“You ask me to tolerate this.”

“I’m asking you not to make it worse for me.”

The anger in his expression shifted. Not vanished. Shifted. He understood the distinction.

If he hurt the man, Y/N would be blamed. She could lose the money she needed. Perhaps the employment itself.

Loki looked once more at the customer. “You will not touch her again.”

The man rolled his eyes, though he did not seem willing to answer.

Loki took one step forward.

Y/N pushed both hands against his chest. “Loki. Seat. Counter.”

His jaw tightened.

“Now.”

For several seconds, neither moved.

Then Loki allowed her to guide him backward.

It was not obedience, he told himself.

It was a strategic withdrawal made solely because she had requested it.

Y/N kept a hand around his arm until they reached the register. “Sit.”

He looked at the counter stool. Then at her. “I am not an animal to be commanded.”

“Then stop acting like a guard dog.”

“That man placed his hand upon you.”

“I noticed.”

“And you expect no consequence.”

“I expect him to tip badly and die alone.”

Loki stared at her.

Y/N lowered her voice. “I appreciate that you wanted to defend me.”

“Defend you? I intended to punish him.”

“That’s still defending me.”

“It is not.”

“Yeah-huh.”

He looked back toward the booth. The man had returned to his coffee, though he now kept both hands clearly visible on the table.

Y/N nudged Loki toward the stool. He finally sat.

She picked up his mug. It was empty. “You finished this.”

“I did.”

“And you didn’t smash it.”

His eyes moved to hers. “I exercised remarkable restraint.”

“You really did.”

Y/N lifted the coffee pot. “Would you like another?”

Loki glanced toward the rude customer one final time. Then back at her. His expression remained severe, but when he spoke, the words were controlled. “May I have another cup of coffee, please?”

Y/N smiled. “See? You’re learning.”

She poured it for him.

Loki watched her replace the pot. “He should consider himself fortunate.”

“He should.”

“Had you not intervened—”

“I know.”

“…I would not have killed him.”

“…Probably.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Loki.”

“What?”

“You don’t sound convincing. At all.”

He wrapped one hand around the warm mug. “I would merely have ensured he remembered the encounter.”

“How?”

Loki took a sip.

Y/N waited.

His eyes gleamed above the rim.

“Drink your coffee,” she said.

A faint smile touched his mouth.

Across the diner, the customer signaled for his check. He did not ask Y/N to pick up anything else.

Y/N left Loki at the counter with a pointed look. “Behave.”

Loki lifted the mug toward her in a gesture of solemn agreement. “I have done nothing.”

“Yet.” She narrowed her eyes at him before turning away to carry the customer’s check toward the register.

Loki waited until her back was turned.

The man in the booth was muttering beneath his breath as he dug through his wallet, casting irritated glances toward the counter. His coffee sat near the edge of the table.

Still steaming.

Loki’s fingers shifted subtly around his own mug. A faint ripple of green passed between them, invisible to every mortal eye in the diner.

The man’s cup tipped.

Hot coffee poured directly into his lap.

He gave a strangled shout and shot upright, knocking his knees against the underside of the table. “What the hell?”

Coffee streamed from his jeans and spread across the vinyl seat before splashing onto the tile below.

Y/N spun around from the register. “Oh, my God.”

The man stumbled out of the booth, swearing loudly as he tried to brush the scalding liquid from his pants. His boot landed directly in the puddle.

The sole slipped.

His arms flew outward.

For one brief, magnificent moment, he remained suspended between standing and falling, his face twisted in horrified realization.

Then he hit the floor.

Hard.

The crash rattled the table.

Y/N pressed both lips together.

Loki took a slow drink of coffee.

The man groaned and rolled onto his side, clutching the edge of the booth as he attempted to drag himself upright. “What is wrong with this place?”

Loki’s gaze remained fixed on the window. A deeply satisfied smile curved across his mouth.

Y/N hurried over, though she made no attempt to conceal how little sympathy she felt. “Are you okay?”

“Does it look like I’m okay?”

“It looks like you spilled your coffee.”

“I didn’t spill it. It just fell over!”

Loki’s smile widened behind his cup.

Y/N glanced toward him.

He immediately smoothed his expression into one of innocent disinterest.

She looked back at the customer. “Cups don’t usually do that on their own.”

“That’s what I’m saying!”

The man managed to stand, keeping one hand pressed against the table for balance. His face was red from pain and humiliation, while the front of his jeans was soaked dark.

Y/N retrieved a stack of napkins from the neighboring table and offered them.

He snatched them from her hand. “I’m not paying for that coffee.”

“I’ll take it off the check.”

“And I want to speak to your manager.”

“They’re not here.”

“Of course they’re not.”

The man roughly wiped at his pants, then shoved several bills onto the table. He had left enough for the meal.

No tip.

Naturally.

He limped toward the exit, muttering about lawsuits.

As he passed the counter, Loki inclined his head. “Do take care.”

The man stopped. He looked at Loki’s composed face, then at the coffee in his hand. Something suspicious flickered across his expression. “You.”

Loki raised one eyebrow. “I?”

“You did something.”

“With your coffee?”

“My coffee.”

Loki looked toward the abandoned booth before chuckling. “…Your clumsiness is hardly my responsibility.”

“I wasn’t clumsy!”

“Your current position suggests otherwise.”

The man stepped toward him.

Y/N immediately moved between them again. “Okay. You’re leaving.”

“I want him out too.”

“You don’t own the diner and he didn’t do anything.”

Loki’s eyes slid toward her.

Y/N avoided meeting them.

The man pointed at Loki. “He was staring at me.”

“I assure you,” Loki said, “there was little worth observing.”

Y/N covered a cough with her fist.

The customer glared at both of them before storming toward the door. His wet shoes squeaked across the floor with every step.

The bell above the entrance gave one final cheerful chime as he shoved it open and disappeared into the parking lot.

Y/N watched through the window until he climbed into his truck. Then she turned slowly toward Loki.

He sat exactly where she had left him, holding his cup with both hands as though he had spent the entire incident peacefully enjoying his drink.

She walked back to the counter. “What did you do?”

Loki looked up at her. “I have been sitting here.”

“Not what I asked.”

“I drank my coffee.”

“Loki.”

“It remains as unpleasant as the first.”

She planted both palms on the counter. “Did you knock his cup over?”

His green eyes widened with expertly manufactured offense. “From here?”

“You do magic.”

“So you have repeatedly observed.”

“And then he happened to slip.”

“Well that was because the floor was wet.”

“…Because his coffee spilled.”

“A sequence of unfortunate events.”

Y/N stared at him.

He met her gaze without flinching.

A tiny smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

She saw it. “You did.”

“I have admitted nothing.”

“You look way too pleased with yourself.”

Loki took another sip. “The man received an important lesson regarding unwanted advances and proper balance.”

Y/N shook her head.

She should have been angry. He had used magic in the middle of her workplace after she explicitly told him not to make the situation worse. The customer could complain. Her manager could review the incident. Something could have gone wrong.

But then she remembered the hand striking her backside.

The laughter afterward.

Just playing around.

Her annoyance weakened. “Did you burn him?”

“Nothing lasting.”

“Did you make him fall?”

“I merely allowed gravity to complete what his own incompetence began.”

“That means yes.”

“It means your realm possesses reliable natural laws.”

Y/N stared at him for another second. Then she picked up a cleaning cloth and headed toward the spill.

“Okay, well, I’m not cleaning the whole thing alone.”

Loki looked toward the puddle. “You cannot possibly expect—”

“You caused it.”

“Allegedly.”

“Bring the mop.”

“I am a prince.”

“And I’m a Midgardian slob. Get the mop.”

His eyes narrowed.

Y/N held his gaze.

Eventually, Loki slipped down from the counter with a look of profound offense. “…Where is this instrument?”

“Supply closet beside the bathrooms.”

He walked away with the stiff dignity of someone marching toward an execution.

Y/N waited until he disappeared around the corner before allowing herself to smile.

The guy had deserved it. Maybe not the hot coffee. Maybe not the fall. But something.

A few minutes later, Loki returned carrying the mop as though it were a weapon too primitive to deserve his touch.

Y/N took it from him. “Thank you.”

“You are enjoying this.”

“A little.”

“I defended your honor.”

“You spilled coffee on a creep.”

“A distinction without consequence.”

She crouched to gather the fallen cup.

Loki stood beside her, watching the diner door through which the man had departed.

Defended her honor.

The phrase lingered.

A memory surfaced before he could dismiss it.

Asgard. After he had just killed Laufey. Thor standing in front of him, changed by his brief exile to Earth. Softer, Loki had thought. Weakened by sentiment and mortal affection.

He remembered circling his brother with cruel amusement, eager to find the source of that transformation.

What happened to you on Earth that turned you so soft? Don’t tell me it was that woman.

Thor’s silence had been answer enough.

Oh! It was! Well, maybe, when we’re finished here, I’ll pay her a visit myself!

At the time, Loki had enjoyed the threat for what it did to Thor’s face. He had regarded his brother’s attachment to a Midgardian woman as another weakness, proof that Thor had lost the resolve required of a king.

And now Loki stood in a roadside diner, dressed in Midgardian clothes, holding cleaning supplies because a mortal woman had commanded him to do so.

Worse, he felt satisfied.

Not merely because the man had been humiliated.

Because Y/N had been defended.

Her pride restored in the smallest possible measure.

Loki’s mouth flattened.

The realization was deeply inconvenient.

Y/N rose with the broken pieces of napkin holder in one hand. “You’re doing the face again.”

His attention returned to her. “What face?”

“The one where you disappear into your own head and get mad at whatever you find there.”

“I am not angry.”

“Brooding, then.”

“I do not brood.”

She glanced at his dark coat, swept-back hair and severe expression. “You’re dressed like the physical embodiment of brooding. You’re a brooder.”

Loki took the mop from her with more force than necessary. “Attend to your duties.”

She smiled. “Yes, Your Highness.”

He pushed the mop through the puddle, sending a thin wave of coffee across the tile.

Y/N watched him struggle with the handle. “You’ve never used one of those, have you?”

“I understand the concept.”

“You’re making it worse.”

“The instrument is poorly designed.”

“Let me—”

“I said I understand.”

“Loki. You’re holding it upside down.”

Loki looked at the mop. Then at her.

Y/N bit the inside of her cheek.

He silently turned it around.

She walked away before she laughed in his face.

Loki watched her return to the counter, smiling to herself as she reached for the coffee pot. His irritation should have returned.

Instead, he found himself watching the easy movement of her shoulders, the looseness that had replaced the tension from earlier.

She knew what he had done.

She had chosen not to condemn him for it.

Perhaps Thor’s softness had not been weakness after all.

The thought was intolerable.

Loki shoved the mop across the floor with unnecessary force.

Still, when Y/N glanced back at him and smiled, he smiled too.

. . .

taglist, •o+*. (yall asked for part two so here):

Clearly not-

He pretended to work but he was using his superhearing to eavesdrop. If his Ma ever found out, she'd give him a proper talking to but she wasn't here and she'd never find out.

"Really? You've never had charcoal icecream?" Peter smiled easily and you giggled, shaking your head. "Well, see, now I gotta fix that and take you."

"Oh?" You mused, "Do you now?"

"Of course! You're missing out on mediocre icecream that stains everything black." He laughed, his feet swinging in the air.

Who the heck even ate charcoal icecream? Clark frowned, typing the same sentence down for the seventh time.

"That's not exactly a good sales pitch." You asked Peter.

"I think it's great because it's honest." He offered, "If I'd been lying, I would say it's life-changing." He jumped off your desk and turned around towards you, his body loose like a dancer's. "So, Friday? After work?"

"For the mediocre staining everything icecream?" You raised a brow

"Obviously." He said easily.

You rolled your eyes a little, then winked at him with a smile. "Okay."

Okay?? WHAT? Clark pressed down hard and broke the spacebar on his computer.

"You good, man?" Peter asked Clark, brushing past him, clapping a hand to his shoulder.

"Peachy!" Clark gave him his best smile but his shoulders instantly deflated as Peter disappeared from his view. He turned to look at you again, hoping to catch your eye but you were already back to your screen and working again.

Gosh darn it. He frowned and focused back on his work.

"Uh- Clark? You okay?" Jimmy was standing over his shoulder.

"Yeah. Why?" Clark blinked.

"You've written therefore seven times in one paragraph." He pointed to the screen. "And you broke your spacebar." He looked down at the keyboard.

"I didn't- Uh- Notice-" Clark couldn't lie to save his life.

Jimmy nodded, a little confused. Clark glanced at your desk for a microsecond but Jimmy caught it. He laughed and folded his arms.

"Oh, I see." He grinned wide.

"See? See what? There's nothing to see?" Clark stammered.

"Your little crush, man." Jimmy whispered, pulling his chair to sit at Clark's desk.

"That- That is extremely inappropriate. I don't-" He swallowed, eyes darting everywhere.

"Relax." Jimmy leaned back in his chair, staring at you. "Perry doesn't care and no one would blame you for having a little soft spot for Little Miss Sunshine." He smiled and called out your name.

"Yes, Jimmy?" You gave him an exasperated look, knowing that something dumb was about to happen.

"Movie tonight?" He teased you and you rolled your eyes but laughed still.

"Sure thing, Red. Tell me how it was." You winked at him.

Jimmy groaned dramatically, both hands on his chest. "You wound me!"

"You'll survive, you big flirt." You shook your head and went back to writing your article.

"See? She doesn't mind either." Jimmy smiled at Clark. "Or maybe she's just into photographers." He egged him on. "The new guy- Parker- He seems to be getting on with her very well, yeah?"

The pen in Clark's hand exploded and his hand was covered in ink. Jimmy looked down then back up, laughing.

"Jesus, man. You got it bad." He stood up, patting Clark's shoulder. "Hey- Word of advice?" He leaned down to whisper in Clark's ear. "Maybe you two could share-"

Clark's entire face turned red and he turned away, making Jimmy laugh some more.

It had been weeks since you saved Loki’s life and brought him back from his near-death experience. Or as Loki fondly likes to call it, “the time you asked him out on a date.” He was relentless with his flirtations towards you. He would seek you out at all hours, multiple times a day, just to wear you down.

One time he caught you by the kitchen pouring yourself a cup of coffee. “There you are, my angel.” He slid on the side of the counter, pulling up right next to you. “I have a headache. Do you think you could kiss it and make it all better?” he crooned so sweetly.

“No,” you answered him flatly and walked away, sipping your coffee.

Or, that time you were kickboxing with Sam. While Loki and Thor just happened to be training on the mat across from you. Thor had knocked him down with a single blow. Loki immediately cried to you from the floor. “Darling! My brother doesn’t seem to know the difference between practice and actual combat. Could you spare me a kiss so that I can continue and teach him a lesson?” He lay on the floor with his hair falling from the loose bun he kept it in. His arms spread apart, looking up at you through thick, long lashes.

“No, Loki!” You were so irritated that you took your fighting gloves off and threw them on the floor. Missing his head by an inch. Loki didn’t even flinch as he watched you storm off in anger. “Go to med-bay if you’re injured!”

“My angel,” Loki purred this morning after a team meeting. “I seem to have a paper cut on my finger. Can you-”

“No! Loki I will not kiss you!” you asserted, gathering your materials to get out of there quickly.

“I was going to suggest you lick it. But if that’s what you prefer, I’ll take it as a consolation prize,” he smiled and puckered his lips towards you. Your palms had never itched more, wanting to slap the kiss right off his mouth. You growled in frustration as you turned on your heel and walked out.

Loki heard light chuckles coming from the end of the large meeting table. Wilson and Barnes were shaking their heads, having watched the whole scene play out. “Is there something that you two find amusing?”

“Ya, man. You!” Wilson answered.

“I’m glad my shortcomings amuse you,” Loki answered with a slight upturn of his lip.

“Let me give you some advice,” Sam said walking over to him.

“Not warranted. Nor requested.”

“I’ma give it to you anyway.” Sam clapped a hand on Loki’s shoulder and looked him straight in the eye. “You need to chill.”

“I beg your pardon?” Loki said astounded.

“The more you push, the harder she resists,” Barnes interjected.

“Stop harassing her,” Sam continued.

“You, constantly being around her, reminding her of that kiss, is not gonna go well for you,” Barnes added.

“Are you saying that she regretted healing me?” Loki questioned.

“No,” they both answer in unison.

“Anyone can see that she was smitten with you from day one!” Sam declared.

“And she wouldn’t just kiss anybody. She offered to heal my arm once, though,” Barnes said to Wilson. “I wonder if she would’ve kissed me then?” He said introspectively, biting his lip in thought. Loki sneered at the notion.

“But she thinks that you’re just teasing her. That you’re not sincere with your feelings and you’re just looking for a way to provoke or annoy her.”

“I honestly don’t know how I can make it any clearer for her that I’m interested other than to ask her flat-out naked!”

“NO!” they both screamed again.

“Well, it would've worked on Asgard.” Loki pouted, crossing his arms as he sat on the ledge of the conference table.

“I’m sure it would’ve,” Sam nodded sarcastically. “Look, do you really like her?” Loki gave him a sardonic look, appalled that Wilson would even ask such a question.

“Then prove to her that you’re worthy of her affections. Wait for her to ask you. That way you’ll know she wants you too and not just because she’s trying to save your life.” At this last drop of wisdom, Barnes and Wilson left Loki in the conference room, pondering ways to prove his sincerity towards you.

You hurried towards your room, scenes from the last moments with Loki replaying in your mind. How could everything have gone tits up in just a couple of weeks?! You left the meeting today exhausted more than ever. You weren’t sure if it was misplaced gratitude for saving his life or if he genuinely is attracted to you but you didn’t think you could resist Loki anymore.

You know he’s just mocking you about what happened. He doesn’t have any real feelings towards you. It’s in his nature to be playful. But every time he comes anywhere near you and he puckers those lips of his, your knees buckle and you almost give in.

Screw it! If he wants to tease you so badly, maybe you could call his bluff and kiss him back. Perhaps then he’ll realize that his joke had gone way too far and he’d stop. Yes! The next time he teases you, you’ll kiss him right back.

But he never did. After weeks of trying to get under your skin, he finally relented. Morning coffee breaks were innocuous and pleasant. Sometimes, he would have a cup waiting for you, just the way you like it. No quips. No lewd gestures about kissing. Just a handsome smile and a friendly, helping hand.

There were times you would see him walk out of the training rooms with Thor, holding on to his side in pain. You were ready for him to make a quick jab about needing your kiss to heal the ache. But none ever came. Only a quick, “Hello, darling,” in passing as he limped off in the direction of med-bay. You’ve missed your chance.

Days later, holiday lights still glittered around the buildings of New York. Remnants of Christmas still decorated Fifth Avenue. The frigid air nipped at your cheeks making you hold on to your faux mink tighter.

Tony’s New Year’s Eve party was different this year. No celebrities. No politicians. Just the Avengers, along with the friends and family that loved them. He had rented the whole rooftop of the Marriott Marquis, overlooking Times Square. Soft velvet settees were strewn across the space under a luxurious pergola and a fantastic view of the ball waiting to be dropped.  

Lounging next to one of the many heat lamps, you wrapped your coat tighter around your shoulders. “So, who are you kissing when the clock strikes midnight?” Nat asked you, pouring you a glass of Bollinger. Her red lipstick was as bright as her hair. With one side of her fur falling down her shoulder, she looked like the classic Hollywood vixen, ready for her next close-up. Fitting for tonight’s Vintage Hollywood theme.

“I don’t know,” you lied, taking the stem from her hand. You knew exactly who you wanted to kiss tonight. “I haven’t really thought about it.”

“Liar.” She said so cooly. You smirked, chastising yourself for trying to lie to one of the world’s best interrogators. “I bet I could guess who!” She sang as you rolled your eyes.

“Even if I did want one of them to kiss me, that doesn’t mean that they will.”

“Come on. I’m sure one of them would love to snog you at midnight,” she chuckled. “An extra blessing of good health and fortune for the coming year…” She wagged her eyebrows and elbowed you.

“Oh, please.”

“Ok, there’s Steve.”

“Your ex?!”

“Ya!”

“No!” you exclaimed.

“He’s a great kisser.”

“Then why don’t you kiss him at midnight”

“We’re trying to get YOU kissed. Not me, remember? OK, what about Thing 1 and Thing 2?” She said pointing to Sam and Bucky.

“No,” you said laughing.

“Why not?”

“No. I just don’t see them that way. It’ll make for an awkward kiss.”

“How ‘bout Bruce?”

“Bruce isn’t even here.” You said looking around the party.

“Ok then, what about Thor?”

“He’s with Jane.”

“Why not try your luck with tall, dark, and stabby then?” she said pointing to Loki with her champagne flute. You snorted at her nickname for Loki nearly spilling champagne as you took a calculated sip. “Oh my god!”

“Nat! Please. Keep your voice down!”

“No one can hear me! It’s a loud party.”

“Yes, a party with superhuman beings who have superhuman hearing!”

“Good! Maybe he’ll make a move!” She said slightly louder, hoping to grab his attention.

“Shh! Shh! Keep it down!” you laughed as you tried to calm her. “He’s been making moves. But I think…I dropped the ball on this one.” You looked over to where Loki was standing, trying to see if he had caught anything that Nat was saying. He was standing proud, having a conversation with Steve. His long black coat fit him snugly while the fur lining of his collar accented his sharp jaw. His gloved hand squeezed tightly around the cane he was holding, making you wonder if he did hear Nat. God, to have that gloved hand wrapped around my neck.

“He’s staring at you.” You heard Nat whisper to your ear.

“What?!” you turned to Nat and then back to Loki quickly, meeting his stare. You were so caught up in imagining his hands that you missed his eyes on you.

You see Loki and Steve staring at both of you, saying things under hushed tones. “They’re probably looking at you,” you explained. “What’s the deal between you and Steve, anyway?” You changed the subject.  “How long has it been since you guys talked?”

“A while.”

“How long is a whi-”

“Listen, since I don’t have anyone to kiss either, why don’t we just kiss each other at midnight? Deal?”

You paused at her ability to change the subject. You gave her a knowing look but allowed her to escape your scrutiny. “Deal!” you sighed, giggling as you clinked your glasses again and took sips readying for round two.

Loki smirked as he listened to your entire conversation. Up until now, he’s been patiently waiting for you to come to him. Giving you compliments. Finding small but lingering ways to touch you. He didn’t know if his tactics were working until he overheard your conversation with Agent Romanoff. He was confident you returned his affections.

Nerves shot through his entire body. Excitement and anxiety all rolled into one giant emotion he could not define. Who knew that Barnes and Wilson’s advice would work? “Tell me, Rogers, what is this tradition you guys have about kissing each other at midnight?” Loki asked as he watched you and Romanoff.

Steve followed Loki’s stare and saw you and Natasha lounging and laughing over a bottle of champagne. He remembered how he and Nat kissed at midnight last year, promising each other to try. But ultimately failing after six months.

“It’s a stupid superstition that doesn’t mean anything,” Steve said bitterly. Loki gave him a look to continue. “It’s said that whoever you kiss at midnight, will be your sweetheart for the rest of the year. Or if you’re already in a relationship, make it stronger.”

“I see,” Loki said contemplatively.

“It’s just superstition, Loki, don’t buy into it.”

“If you’ll excuse me, I have to find my brother.” Loki excused himself, already putting together details of a plan in his head.

“Thor! Thor…” he said pulling him aside. “Did you know about this Midgardian tradition of kissing at midnight?”

“Yes! Jane and I planned on it when the hour strikes. Who will be your intended, dear brother?” Thor asked happily. Loki looked at him pointedly. “Oh! You got the priestess to agree to kiss you?! That’s wonderful news!”

“Not quite. I need your help.”

“Get Help?”

“NO! For Father’s sake, if you throw me across the room, I will END YOU!”

 “Alright, alright. I jest Loki. What can I do to help?”

“I’d like to kiss her at midnight, but too many people are vying for her attention. Too many variables. Too many options.”

“Don’t worry little brother, I’ve got this!”

Ten minutes before midnight, you can feel the buzz in the air as everyone scrambles to ring in the new year. You and Nat had graduated to the bar. Both of you nursing new flutes of prosecco.

Behind you, Thor rushes through the crowd looking for Steve. “Rogers, who are you kissing at midnight? Nat or Wanda?”

“Nat or Wanda? What do you mean?”

“Well, you have to kiss someone. Isn’t that your Midgardian tradition? And I figured you wouldn’t want to kiss Nat, I mean with your history and all…”

“Well, ya…” Steve rubbed the back of his neck, thinking about Thor’s proposition. “But what about Y/N?”

“Oh, Lady Y/N is kissing my brother.”

“Loki?! But, I…”

“Oh, I apologize. Did you want to kiss my brother instead?” Thor asked quickly. “I can look for him and change his mind. I didn’t know you had…”

“NO! No, I don’t. But, um…”

“Wonderful! So, Nat or Wanda?”

“I guess Wanda,” Steve shrugged. “Nat and I do have a history.”

“Perfect! I’ll let Wanda know.”

“Now hold on just a second…” Steve’s voice trailed away as Thor sprinted into the crowd. His eyes searched for the Scarlet Witch among the revelers and found her amidst a harem of men all rivaling for her attention.

“Wanda!” Thor shouted, frightening some of the men in the group. “Come. Steve says he wanted to kiss you at midnight!”

“I knew it! He couldn’t hide behind that shy act for long!” she said standing up and smoothing out her dress.

“Perfect! You should go to him right now, and make sure no one else claims him before you do.” Thor said. Wanda nodded with determination and marched her way over to Steve.

“Oh, come on Thor!” Wilson said behind him. “I was just about to ask her!” Thor turned to see Sam and Bucky amongst Wanda’s many admirers.

“Uh…you’re in luck, my dear friends. I know someone anxious to kiss you both.” Thor gleamed.

“Us both?” Bucky questioned. Thor pointed to where you and Natasha sat.

“Ooh, nice choice. But I doubt that Steve would actually like that.” Sam said.

“And I believe Y/N is already spoken for,” Bucky added, pointing to Loki walking in your direction.

“It is for Steve we do this!” Thor wrapped his bulging arms around each of their necks. “We all know how miserable both he and Natasha are right now. Make him a little jealous. Perhaps he’ll rise to the occasion and get back his true love.”

“His true love?” Sam questioned.

“For true love!” Thor repeated, squeezing their necks tighter.

“The things we do for our friends,” Bucky grumbled under his breath.

Meanwhile, Loki made his way to the bar where you and Nat were laughing. “Ladies,” he said in that low baritone of his. “I’m sorry to disrupt your merriment, but may I speak to you privately, Agent Romanoff?”

You and Nat exchanged glances as she raised her eyebrow. A smirk fell upon her red lips and that’s when you felt it. A sharp pang of jealousy that twisted a knife in your gut. You hoped that your smile was still plastered on your face. Lord knows Nat could spot a tell from a mile away and you weren’t as good at hiding it as she was.

Loki offered his hand and Nat took it, hopping off the barstool, hand in hand with the man you’ve been pining for. You waited till both their backs were to you when you turned back around to the bar and let your smile die.

“Can I get a shot of tequila!” you yelled to the bartender, holding up your hand. You watched as Loki led Nat to the middle of the room, his arm wrapped around her delicate waste. “Make it a double!” you said with a huff. The sight in front of you was too much to witness. You had accepted that you might not get to kiss Loki at all tonight, but to watch him kiss someone else would be devastating to you.

With nothing, and no one else, keeping you at the party you decided to leave. You ran from the party as quickly as possible with your head turned down, holding back tears and feelings of betrayal.

“Loki, I hope you’re not gonna ask me for a kiss at midnight. That’s a hard pass.” Nat started before he took her very far.

“No, my dear. I overheard your conversation earlier with our dear healer. I was hoping to alleviate your promise of kissing her at midnight by offering you an alternative.”

“What alternative?”

“Two, alternatives actually.” At this, Loki gently grabbed Natasha’s shoulder and spun her around to see Bucky and Sam by the DJ booth. Sam held his drink up to her in greeting, while Bucky just grinned.

“Two! Steve wouldn’t like this.”

“Roger’s is kissing the Witch tonight.” He pointed to where Steve and Wanda were talking. Jealousy burned inside Natasha. A quiet resolve cemented in her and she was set on making him pay for it. “But what about Y/N?”

“As I said, I plan to take charge of her kiss from midnight, and all her kisses thereafter,” Loki winked at her.

“Don’t play with her heart, Loki.”

“I should warn you of the same with your soldier, agent.” He bowed slightly as Nat sauntered her way over to the two soldiers waiting for her.

When Loki turned back towards the bar, his face had fallen realizing that you were no longer there. Panicked, he looked around and found a trail of your coat just as it disappeared inside the hotel. Loki looked at his watch- three minutes left. The crowd below started getting restless and the giant numbers on the large screen on top of the prismatic ball had started ticking down towards midnight.

“Darling, where are you going? The clock is about to strike.” Loki caught up to you at the elevators. You gulped at the sight of him coming towards you. Inside the lobby, the heat was almost suffocating, and Loki unbuttoned his coat to be less stifling. You watched as he removed his gloves, finger by finger, and stuffed them into his coat pocket. The action mesmerized you until you were face to face with him.

“Loki! Shouldn’t you be with Natasha right now?” You said as you looked up at the elevator numbers ticking by so slowly. You pushed the call button praying for the lift to come faster.

“She’s currently entertaining Thing 1 and Thing 2. If my memory of your conversation serves me correctly.” You stared at him in disbelief. You might have had too much to drink. But not enough to miss the implication of what that meant.

He knows. He overheard your conversation and he knows!

He placed his hands on your waist and pulled you towards him, leading you away from the elevators. Away from the notion of running.

His fingers were soft and warm as he cupped your cheek. “Since you’ve saved my life, I have plotted and asked several times for you to kiss me again, my angel. I will not ask again.” His lips were grazing your skin. The heat in his breath intoxicated you. You closed your eyes at the overwhelming sensation of being held by him.  “I told myself that the next time we kiss, it would be because you asked me to. Not out of any obligation. But because you want me. As much as I want you.”

Outside you could hear the deafening roar of people counting down from ten. It melded with the electric buzz going through your body being held so close by Loki. “But I truly can't resist you any longer. I have thought of nothing else since you kissed me that day on the field.”

“Loki…”

“Please ask me.” Three.

“What?” Two.

“Ask me to kiss you.” One.

“Kiss me Loki-” you barely said his name when his lips found yours and held on tight.  A slight whimper fell from your lips, and he reacted by holding you tighter against his body.

Your fingers were entwined in his hair, holding him close to you. You pulled away to catch your breath, and his lips followed yours—unsatisfied from the short amount of contact they had received.  

This kiss was different than the last. There wasn’t a threat of losing his life hanging over you. Instead, the urge was from longing and desire. There was fire and vigor in his lips. And you consumed him easily like a starved woman.

“Happy New Year, my dear,” Loki exhaled between kisses.

“Happy New Year,” you giggled holding him tight.

⬅️ Have Mercy (prequel)

You didn’t know how much time had passed since you all started the ambush. Tall sequoias canopied above blocking the setting sun. The air was thick with smoke and heavy from the fighting. You heard multiple teammates calling for healing, but none was louder than Thor. His troubled voice blasted through the comms, “Medic! We need a healer quickly!” His deep command tore you away from the battle you were in and you fought your way over to him. “Priestess, please! Come quick!”

Through fire and volley, you found Thor kneeling on the ground with Loki in his arms. Lifeless. Steve was circling them, trying to shield the brothers from a barrage of attacks.

You knelt on the ground. Your knees hit soft mud as your eyes scanned Loki’s body. His sharp face was paler than usual. Blue-ish tint had started to stain his lips. And your naïve-self hoped it was just because of the cold seeping from the wet ground. “Thor, I’ll take it from here. Go help Steve. I can’t worry about my life when I have to worry about his!”

Thor nodded to you. But before he laid Loki down, he whispered in his ear, “I know you are stronger than this, brother. But I swear on Yggdrasil if you are pretending, I will not hesitate to cleave Stormbreaker into you.” Thor sniffed and placed him down to the ground.

You nodded your head and patted Thor’s shoulder. “He’ll be fine,” you feigned, as you tried to get a better look at what had happened. You didn’t have the heart to tell Thor that you could feel how thin and fragile Loki’s life string was. A hair, compared to the cord that we all have. Worse, the thick rope that the Asgardian’s life used to be. You didn’t even know if you were skilled enough to weave it stronger.

There was a large gaping hole that tore Loki’s chest plate. His skin had burned and was raw from the impact. You couldn’t see any entry wounds. Nor blood. But the bruising and dent on his chest was not a good sign. A stray missile, perhaps? Maybe jumping in the way to save his brother. They vex each other constantly. But deep down they care for each other like most siblings do.

You straddled his body, holding your two hands out, placing them over his wound. A soft resonance emitted from your palm down to his skin. You kept your hands on him as the pulse of your powers worked their way through his body. You can see tiny mends of his scrapes and scratches. The raw skin around the wound had returned to their usual pallor.  He’s reacting at least. There’s still some life in him- whatever little is left.

You persisted. With every pulse, you can see his wounds healing. Ribs cracking back into place. The blue on his lips retreated ever so slowly. But his lifeline was stubborn. If you could hold out just long enough, his own regenerative powers might kick in.

Grasping at straws, your mind quickly raced with ideas to help speed the process along. You remembered that sometimes, shock was a good way of knocking someone back into the land of the living. “Ugh, don’t get mad at me, okay? I’m only trying to save your life,” you vowed out loud in case he was able to hear you. You quickly pulled your palm back and slapped Loki hard across his cheek.

Small capillaries burst where your hand met his face. Aside from the new hue, Loki had remained the same. Still and quiet. His line fading from your grasp. You panicked at your failed attempt.

You didn’t know what to do anymore. You didn’t know how to tell Thor that you couldn’t save his only brother. Ideas and thoughts ran past your mind all muddled and incoherent. Ways and spells. Teachings and theories you’ve learned on healing and regeneration.

You cupped Loki’s cheek, healing the bruise you had left. Your brows knit together, puzzled as to what to do next. Hopeless in feeling and thought. You didn’t want to look up. You didn’t want to see Thor’s face and have to tell him an awful truth. They had just reunited this past year. It wasn’t fair. And it would be all your fault because you couldn’t save him. You couldn’t save Loki. Your heart turned solemn as angry tears threatened to drop from your eyes.

By now the fighting had stopped. You didn’t realize how quiet the world had gotten around you. How still the air was from flying projectiles or weapons. The team gathered loosely. Giving you space to try and save Loki’s life, but the look on their faces betrayed the faith they were trying to offer you.

Your thumb brushed Loki’s cheek, wiping away the mud that speckled his face. He would’ve been appalled if he knew where Thor had left him on the ground. You smirked at the thought as your thumb rested on his chin and traced his lips.

His cold lips opened slightly at your touch, and you were struck with an idea.  You grabbed both sides of his leather collars and brought him to sit up towards you. His slack weight was heavier than you anticipated, and it took your remaining strength to sit him upright. You closed your eyes as your lips crashed into his, honing your powers into that desperate kiss.

You had never done this before. You had never needed to do this before. But you were hoping that your breath of life could pass onto him and carry him through till his own powers could take over. You sucked hard on his upper lip, not wanting to break any contact. Your fingers entwined themselves in his hair, desperate to keep him close to you. “Please. Please. Please,” you whispered into his mouth. Tears fell from your eyes and landed on his cheek. Your arms wrapped around his neck, unwilling to let go. Unwilling to accept the truth.

Still, you continued.

You felt a low rumble from his chest. A hopeful sign that it’s working. You just needed to hold on a little bit longer! You opened your lips for a breath of your own. And when you closed your mouth around his, your power pulsated in between you.

You felt his temperature return first. The warmth in his lips, the heat in his breath. You could feel his lifeline winding itself tighter and stronger.

His mouth returned your kiss. Sluggish and tentative. But they held on to your lips, tightly. His hands embraced your hips so delicately you didn’t even know they were there. You naturally leaned into the kiss more. Your power still pulsing through you. One last intake of breath and you passed it along towards Loki.

His grip tightened around you and he pulled you closer onto his lap. His arms snaked around you, holding your head close to his, unwilling to let you go.  You could hear small groans and heavy panting. But you honestly didn’t know whether it came from you or from Loki.

His tongue touched your lips, asking for entry. Catching your breath you opened your mouth once again and Loki gainfully ran his tongue inside against the roof of your mouth.

You didn’t realize that your powers had finished. With nothing left to heal, your powers subsided. But you were so lost in the kiss that you had forgotten where you were and what you were doing. Slowly, you pulled away. But Loki’s kiss followed you unwilling to release you. You bit his bottom lip as a warning, holding his face in between your hands.

“Darling, what an indecent way to ask me out,” Loki grinned from ear to ear. His voice was rough and garbled. He kept his face close to yours, running his nose against your cheek. “I accept!”

The world came crashing back around you. The time. The place. The situation. The shock froze you in place just staring into Loki’s blue-green eyes. “I always thought you harbored affections for me. But now I am certain,” he taunted.

You slapped him.

You couldn’t think of anything else to do. You felt betrayed somehow. Tricked. Even though you knew that he was genuinely in peril. The fact that he was joking about it even now, irked you.

Loki’s eyes narrowed. His brow furrowed as he slowly turned his head to face you again. His chin jutted out, trying to contain the smirk that was coming forth. “Is that how you like it?”

You tried to push yourself off of him. You’ve had enough of his antics. You were utterly embarrassed at being caught in this situation. Especially with the team around, surely watching.

He caught your wrists as you pushed on his chest, stopping you. “Do it again,” he commanded. His grin was out in full force now. Dazzling you to the last inch of your nerve.

“Ugh, the thanks I get for saving your life!” pushing him down as you stood yourself up. “Next time I’ll just leave you limp in the mud.” You sneered, walking away with your head held high and your face heated and red. From humiliation or from desire, you didn’t know.

“Well, that’s very hard to do when you’re kissing me like that, my angel,” Loki yelled after you. He couldn’t stop smiling as he watched you angry and flustered. All because of him. Oh, I’m in trouble.

“What do I gotta do to get a kiss like that?” Bucky asked teasingly as you stomped passed him.

“Die!” you growled back at him. The words felt mean as they left your mouth. And you regretted saying them instantly. He was only trying to lighten the situation. But you couldn’t help the shame you had inside you.

“Oh, c’mon doll. I was only teasing.” Bucky raised his arms in defeat and followed you back to the quinjet, laughing.

“Loki!” Thor scolded as he held his hand to his brother, helping him up. “I hope that you were not deceiving us just to try and gain favor with the priestess. I know you’ve been seeking her affections.”

“Brother! I am genuinely hurt! Did you not see me lying there at the last inch of my life?” Loki contended, pointing to the ground where he once laid.

Thor rolled his eyes but smirked, clapping Loki on the shoulder. He was glad to have his brother back once again. “She’s very talented that one. And I do not want to see her get hurt, Lo-. Loki are you listening to me.”

Loki was at a loss for words, watching you. “She gave me my life back, brother. I have felt her lips against mine and I’ll be damned if I don’t feel them again soon.” Loki smiled as he swatted away Thor’s hand on him. His eyes solely on you, plotting how to get you to kiss him again.

➡️ When The Ball Drops (Sequel)

A/N: I know it's been awhile. I do plan on finishing my series' soon. Thanks for staying with me. Life has been hard and you guys get me through it.