#hidden longing

You met him for the first time in the shadow of a throne.

You were sixteen, newly brought into the palace court as your mother’s position rose — an advisor, a scholar, one of Odin’s most trusted minds. You were quiet then, careful. You learned to walk the golden halls like a ghost: visible, but never watched.

Except by him.

Loki Odinson — second son, trickster, liar.

He saw you from the start.

He noticed the way you watched instead of spoke. The way you held your posture like a blade. The way your words were chosen, never spilled.

And over time, he began to linger in your silence.

It started with books, half-stolen from the library. Notes passed across tables in long, droning council sessions. Arguments behind shelves about power, prophecy, magic.

Then came the glances. The touch of hands too close when no one was looking. The nights in the observatory tower where the air between you grew thick with things you couldn’t say.

Until finally — one kiss.

And everything after that was war.

Not open battle — not yet — but a slow, consuming fire neither of you could put out.

You knew what it meant.

A handmaid caught leaving his chambers could be dismissed. An attendant might be overlooked. But you — the daughter of Odin’s inner court, educated, connected, loyal — loving him was treason.

And you did.

Gods, you did.

Even now.

You moved through the winding halls behind the throne room without hesitation. The guards were elsewhere. The court still distracted by the feast. You’d memorized the quiet hours — when the palace dimmed, when the shadows were your allies.

You ducked behind a thick velvet curtain and slipped into the servant’s hallway, heart already pounding.

He was waiting.

Loki stood in the dark, back against the far stone wall, arms crossed. The low torchlight painted gold across his cheekbones, shadowed his eyes. He didn’t smile.

“You’re late.”

“I wasn’t followed.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

You stepped forward, breath shallow. “I had to wait until Freya passed. She asked why I wasn’t sitting near my mother.”

“And what did you say?”

“That I needed air.”

He exhaled slowly, unfolding his arms. His jaw was tight — not with anger, but something else.

“Do you realize how close this is getting?” he asked. “One wrong glance, one servant with loose lips, and they’ll tear you apart to get to me.”

“You think I don’t know that?”

His voice dropped. “You shouldn’t have come.”

“You told me to.”

He stared at you.

Then — “I tell myself to stop wanting you, and it never works.”

The words landed like a blow. Not because they hurt. Because they were true.

You were in front of him now, close enough to feel the magic humming beneath his skin — cold, electric, familiar.

“I’m not afraid of them,” you said.

“You should be.” His hand rose, hovered near your face. “Because I would burn Asgard to the ground for you.”

You swallowed.

“And I wouldn’t regret it.”

You leaned into his touch, just slightly. “Then let them be afraid of me too.”

His eyes flickered shut — just for a second. And when they opened, something inside him broke.

He kissed you like he was starving.

Your back hit the wall with a soft thud. His hand curled at the base of your skull, the other gripping your waist like he didn’t trust himself to let go. You kissed him back, fingers threading into his hair, your heart beating like a warning.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t safe.

But it was real.

He pulled back, barely. His lips brushed yours as he spoke.

“I dream of you every night,” he whispered. “And every time I wake up, I wait for it to fade. But it never does.”

You held his face, kissed the corner of his mouth.

“Because it’s not a dream.”

A noise — faint, distant. A door closing. Footsteps, too close.

He stilled. You froze.

His hands vanished from your body. His face became stone.

You stepped back, breath shallow. Fixed your hair. Adjusted your sleeves.

When the door opened, you were standing beside a shelf, studying a scroll. Loki was near the archway, looking indifferent.

A servant passed through. Bowed. Said nothing.

When the door closed again, the silence between you was unbearable.

You turned to him, throat tight.

“This isn’t going to last, is it?”

His eyes found yours. And for a moment, they were soft.