#ircnwccd

There is a first for everything, she knows. Although she is not in the least doubtful of the trickster’s ability to protect himself, there is no denying the chieftain has done it for longer, from birth, in order to survive and later in order to maintain her position. She has fought many and she won every single battle. But even she cannot say she has always won unscathed. There are scars around her body to prove. She is simply always the last one standing, breathing.

At this time, the tables are turned. Although the newly acquired wound is somewhat bad, she has endured worse. It is Loki the difference this time, skilled hands hard at work, making sure she does not bleed further. She appreciates it. She appreciates him.

Her hands pull her locks away from her back so he can have a better look at the wound, the tips of her hair creating thin crimson lines on her skin as they move. “Tell me I shall live”, she humours him, unbothered by the lack of upper garments. In fact, she is quite content about that. Those clothes did not survive.

He loves the chieftain’s scars as he loves her eyes, as he loves her lips. They tell the story of her just as eloquently, if by a different medium. Her eyes tell him what is in her heart, her lips tell him what is in her mind, and on the parchment of her body is written the story of her life. With a little help from her lips he can read the tale of her childhood, of her rise to power, of her success in keeping contenders and usurpers at bay.

A tale that is not yet ended, the reminder of which fact is written in bold crimson, impossible to ignore -- especially since he is the one stitching up this page. Only to make room for the next, he knows, and he is not sure whether or not he likes the thought.

When she draws her hair away from her back (with a little help from his own deft fingers, to add a few stray strands to the collection in her hand), he leans forward and presses a long, warm kiss to the crook of her bare neck. The cloth in his hand is hot, and he takes exceptional care as he dabs at the sutured gash not to tear the stitches or press hard enough to hurt.

She's in need of some sort of affection tbh u3u (and ofc she misses loki like a fuck ton)

“People are impossible.” 

helvitisbrokentoy

"I want a baby."

“A what?” Angrboda replied, brows raised in surprise. It was not that she believed that any of her children were so pure as to not understand sex or participate in it, but for her precious little girl to say such words did startle her – if only momentarily. “A baby?!”

@ircnwccd

His wolf form caused enough harm. There is no reason to induce fear to be safe. The son of Loke hurdled backwards and resurfaced in a body of a man-- a shapeshifter like the rest of his pack. He appeared less daunting, but his gaze remained as piercing as ever. There is no surprise to be had. He is, after all, the eldest son of Angrboda. He carried every bit of her strength in his blood, and her trembling presence in his veins. In such a form he willingly surrendered himself to her touch, rubbing his face against the hand of the woman whom he had missed so much. The gods were cruel to separate him from such a loving mother. And so they shall pay for stealing away time that was never theirs to keep, never theirs to take away from. He would apologize for not bringing Jormungandr and Hel with him, for he knew how important it is for the pack to stay together.