the edge was a colorful void │loki laufeyson
summary: as an artist, you knew better than to rely on anything else but your vision and your craft. as an artist experiencing a creative crisis at the most inconvenient time, your mind wanted to rely on someone else.
pairing: loki laufeyson x genderneutral!reader
warnings: anxiety, a good amount of self-pity
a/n: hi! this is me trying to write, again! this is both a testament to my never ending fascination with miserable men, and my favorite parasocial relationship. i want to thank my friend Luisa who was my beta reader. and i want to thank tom hiddleston, just because. anyhow, this is my first time writing loki. if anyone ever reads this, let me know what you think. <3
The edge was a void, but not devoid of color.
As the hem of your gown drifted in the gush of wind and water, your breath flowed with the violent stream to your feet – flowing into nothingness, the home of the stars. You told yourself that you came here to find inspiration. The truth was that the Rainbow Bridge was the easiest place to feel on edge. Here, it was chaos without consequence. Here, it was just you, the current of colors, the stars. And, on occasion, the attentive eye of the Gatekeeper, Heimdall, but only if you happened to pay attention.
You knew you had no right to be here, and yet you were allowed. Permitted by royal orders. A temporary privilege.
Despite the fact that your hands were your source of income and pride, you had no idea what to do with them. As a soldier relying on someone else’s orders, that would not have been a problem. As a practitioner of the fine arts, however, it was a professional death sentence. Quite common, but nevertheless a death sentence. Like most other artists, you had grown accustomed to the rising and falling waves of your creativity. But this felt different. Ridiculous. Selfish. All other projects in the palace had been straightforward, clear cut, deliberate. The ceiling paintings in the ballroom, the sculptures in Lady Freya’s garden, even the depiction of the Dark Elf Conflict in the hallway leading to the war room. And yet, your final project elicited only emptiness. No vague ideas lingered in dusty corners of your mind, edging you to find the pathway – always hidden, always out of reach – to the rush and ecstasy that you craved so badly and that only a finished painting could give you. There was only the fair certainty of lifelong embarrassment and shame if you failed. You did not dare hope for banishment.
It was the simple dance of a paintbrush and a flush of color.
It was everything you had ever dreamed of. It was quite possibly the reason you would go insane. Even though every member of your atelier was formidable in their craft and had been hand selected to assist you, you felt the burden of the task heavily on your shoulders. In your weakest moments, you asked yourself whether your late master had been mistaken in passing down the atelier to you. Centuries of excruciating work, and you still felt like neophyte.
The walls and ceiling of the throne room were sacred, the voice and heart of the palace.
Who was I to leave my mark on them?
“This is quite the place to brood.”
“Well, you’re not the only person who enjoys a moment or two of drama,” you mumbled back to him, absentmindedly. You had grown just as accustomed to him, during your time in the palace. A bit too much, apparently. Biting hard into your lower lip, you turned to your side. Against the shimmering golden silhouette of the palace in the distance, his raven hair looked like a fluid eclipse. Your fingers twitched. He always looked younger when you encountered him on his own, the green of his eyes less poisonous than in the presence of the Royal Court.
Bowing, you whispered, “My apologies, your majesty. I did not expect company at this hour. Or this place.”
“You know I do not value repeating myself. My name suits your mouth much better.” He was clasping his hands behind his straightened back as you put on your most innocent face and sluggishly, silently mouthed L-O-K-I.
You rarely saw him smile. It seemed he was barely moved by genuine joy. Maybe that was why your mind imagined the kind upward pull of his lips. Maybe you were tired, exhausted from your beating heart at the sight of him.
Yet, you could not help yourself. “I was under the impression that you are rather fond of being reminded that you are a prince, your majesty.”
“Oh, certainly. I am your prince. And as heir to the throne, I am more than capable of punishing you for such a blunt remark in the face of your future king.”
The sharpness in his tone was hollow. Like a forgery, it did not move you. It did not hurt you, not like the other times he had lost his temper in your presence. No, you guessed, he probably sought you out to play.
“Then please, do your worst,” you insisted and looked him in the eye. His eyebrows rose, then knitted together in the slightest movement.
“Oh, you know I would. But it is not nearly as much fun when you are asking so nicely.” Water from the grumbling waterfall below prickled at your heated neckline.
“May I ask what is irritating you?” There was a shift in his tone, an opening, a chance to be honest.
You held your breath, holding his inquisitive stare. “I have not painted anything in two weeks.”
“And?” You fully turned to him. You may also have a temperament issue.
“And! The All-Mother invited me to the palace – your home – because I am accomplished at exactly one thing. And the one thing she asked of me, I seem utterly unable and unfit to do,” you clench through your teeth, determined to feel every bit of shame that was heating up your face.
“I am sure you will find something to paint,” he shrugged, almost confused by your panic.
“Something. Anything!” he exclaimed and extended his arms, “This is a residence of Gods. Home of Odin, All-Father.” A drop of bitterness in his voice. “This is the land beyond the stars. Surely you will find something that will spark your imagination. And if not –“
He turned to you, arms slightly opened, indicating to himself with a mischievous grin. You furiously turned around from him. He was definitely toying with you now.
Well, technically, he was right. There were miraculous things that begged to be painted on Asgard.
But he did not know. How could he?
These last weeks, you had mostly laid on the wooden floor of your atelier, contemplating your life decisions. And if not, you had painted him. One too many times on canvas, to be honest. A thousand times in your head, admittedly. There were a dozen paintings, neatly covered up with drapes, collecting dust in your studio room. The corners the cloth did not reach beared soft curls, raging green irises, the pulsing veins of slender hands.
Somehow, you were sure he would find a cruel way to mock you for painting him with such sincerity.
“Oh, what do you know?” You mumbled into your shoulder. You were a sulky child, not an artist. And next to him, you were no one. This day truly became more pleasant with each passing second. You sighed.
“What do I know?” He interjected. You did not look, but, in that moment, you imagined he looked like a fluffed chicken. And then that moment stretched – until a much kinder voice whispered,
“I know how you look when you illuminate a boring room with boring people with the swing of your palm. I know that your colors are the most exquisite storytellers. I know that you keep the cleanest apron known in the history of painters because for some Godforsaken reason, you do not like to get color on your habit.” A chuckle. From both of you. “I have seen the look on your face when you breathe life into dullness.”
I have seen you, he did not need to add, not in your awry infatuation.
Breathing in, you slowly looked up. From here, the stars were so bright, you could have bathed in their light the same way you usually did in the sun’s warmth on the atelier’s balcony on warm summer days. You could still hear the water sing beneath your feet, roaring towards that endless void. To your dismay, Loki had made a solid point.
Your home was full of wonders, a river of infinite beauty. But – it was all paintable. All imaginable in your mind. You closed your eyes. How could you ever admit to anyone that, right now, you had stopped painting entirely because no matter how hard you had tried, there was one thing eluding your imagination and your skill? There was a divinity to Loki’s voice that made it impossible to color. You were uncertain of your abilities to depict anything now, really. You were uncertain whether you were truly going insane.
You bet he would like that.
Surprisingly, you did not flinch as his long fingers graced your shoulder and tugged your wind-blown hair behind your ear. You had never touched each other, not like that. Yet the tenderness felt oddly familiar.
“Do you want to join me in the library, then? I have discovered the most absurd book on painters Midgardians refer to as maestros. Quite pathetic, if you ask me, but potentially entertaining for brooding artists.”
“Are you mocking –“ Turning to him, you decided it was best not to insult him when he looked at you… like that. It was impossible for you to determine his intent, but you decided to disregard your self-pity for a while longer, even if it meant jumping into a fantasy he was conjuring for both of you. The first night in the library with him had been a dream, all following nights could only be described as self-sabotage. The sweetest kind masochism. An evening hidden away beneath towering bookshelves, in-between heavy glances and honest laughter, could barely make up for daylight’s blinding ignorance while you watched him yearning for his father’s throne and bathing in the court lady’s twisted obsession. You nodded, if only because you could not spend another night trying to paint the voice that would read you to sleep on your kindest nights.
You felt Loki’s hand grace the small of your back as you turned to walk down the Rainbow Bridge, away from the colorful edge into a destined free fall.
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