#mageprinceloki

you give permission for other characters to:

Hate yours

Be rude to yours

Become your character’s enemy

Be willing to attack/fight yours in a plot

Develop a bromance or platonic relationship

Have or receive UNreciprocated feelings with yours

Team up with your character against others

Otherwise engage in non-romantic interactions

Ellia didn’t really understand exactly what her grandfather had done on Midgard. She did however understand that her other grandfather was in a rather large amount of trouble for not only hiding the existence of dark elves but for hiding the existence of a half light and half dark elf child. Instead of just issuing a formal apology it had been decided that a ‘gift’ would smooth over problems with Asgard and make their secret princess someone’s problem. Stepping into the throne room she gently chewed at the inside of her bottom lip, trying to keep pace with the Alfheim ambassador. Curtseying quickly to the Asgardian king when she heard her name she flashed him a slightly nervous smile.

Headcanons: Sex Life Edition masterpost-Not accepting

♠    Dirty little secret

Thor accidentally picked up a cross dressing hooker the very first time he tried to lose his virginity. This was before he realized he was bi so Thor panicked and ran out of the room but now when he thinks back to it he regrets not going through with it. Over the years he’s developed a kink for guys in feminine clothes

❀   One thing they’re dying to try

Put ‘loaded question’ in my inbox:

  Loki glanced up from his book briefly, then paused,blinked,and lifted his head for a more thorough examination just in time to be struck with some force by the girl’s… was that an actual parasol?

  “Yes, it was,” he offered curtly, all but scolding her with expression and tone. He’d killed men for less, but this? This was a child. From his perspective,at least. Some of the hardness faded from his eyes, the set of his mouth softening as he folded the book across one knee. He had his own connections to make, but some time to spend before that, at least.

  “And why, pray tell, do you burden yourself with such a contraption? I understand they’ve been out of fashion here for a century or more…” Odd that he was curious, but there it was. Everything about her screamed “rebellion” and “misfit” at high decibels; two things he could certainly identify with.

  Still, he sat unsmiling in his crisp black suit, touched only by the traces of green in his intricate (and no doubt expensive) scarf and the silken lining of his coat, which was unbuttoned. Apart from the long, dark hair pulled partially back in a rudimentary ponytail, he could easily have been a disapproving businessman.

Well that was just rude.  She’d apologized, after all.  He was supposed to accept the apology; tell her it wasn’t a big deal.  Which it wasn’t.  Her parasol was bamboo and fabric - nothing that would hurt someone.  He wasn’t supposed to give her a look that said better-behaved people would control their parasols in the worst of winds.

Vivian was skilled by now in faking emotions, but far less so in keeping them off her face; her mixture of equal parts hurt and annoyance (he wasn’t following the rules) was probably written clear upon her features.  The desire to end the conversation now warred with deeply-rooted politeness.  He had spoken to her, after all, and to just ignore him would be rude - and she’d been raised to be polite.  In the end, she refrained from shifting her parasol to put it between the two of them, but kept her eyes on the phone in her lap.

The one earbud remained in her ear, a hint that she wasn’t interested in talking to strangers.  Or anyone, really.

His speech was interesting - it felt different, in a way she couldn’t quite name.  Much in the way she’d been able to say which phrases or patterns of speech were right the first time she’d taken the SATs simply by how they felt when she read them, Vivian had a feel for speech and grammar that she couldn’t explain.  And her companion’s speech didn’t quite fit what felt normal.

Nor did his outfit, really, for someone sitting on a bench in the park.  There were law firms nearby in town; maybe he belonged to one of them.  

He was attractive, in a “he’s way too old for me” way.

Send me ☟ for my muse to turn back into their younger self, with only the memories that lead up to that age.

She’s learned to tone things down a bit in the last few years.  Her face isn’t quite as pale, her eyeliner isn’t quite as heavy, and she no longer bothers dying her hair black.

She’s even slimmed down a bit, thanks to a classmate’s encouragement to join the cross-country team.

She’s showing off a little of that newfound confidence in her appearance, trading in her usual layered skirts for a pleated ballet skirt short enough to show her knees, and her multiple undershirts and shrugs for a simple lace bolero and a silver-studded bustier that makes her breasts more noticeable than they normally are.  All in black, of course.

The platform boots laced to her knee and black and white striped stockings haven’t changed, though.

Nor has the parasol that she angles to block any hint of the sun from touching her skin. 

She’s left her father no choice but to meet her here; if he’ll let her wander New York city alone then he can’t possibly object to the short walk down the road from her school to the town’s largest park.  It’s still bright daylight, after all, and the place is filled with people who have nothing but wholesome intentions.  Her excuse is that it means he doesn’t have to make the inconvenient U-turn to get to her school.  Her real reason is that it gets her away from classmates and faculty alike, all of whom are just too much to handle sometimes.  She can handle them in carefully-measured doses, but...

The bench she normally sits on - the only bench near the area where she’s told her father to pick her up - is occupied on one end.  She scowls.  While this is the most public, and therefore safest (she’s not an idiot, after all) part of the park, it also has the least seating, and she’s faced with the decision of standing for an indefinite amount of time or sharing her bench.

She opts to share.

Earbuds go in to ensure that everyone understands she is not to be bothered.  A book comes out; she could be doing her reading for her classes, but she isn’t, and this title’s a rather salacious one, chosen entirely for her classmates’ reaction to seeing her reading it.  Her phone’s in her lap so she can feel it ring if her father calls.

If it weren’t for the figure less than two feet to her left she’d be content.

And then, as she’s juggling phone and ipod and book and parasol, a gust of wind comes up, tugging the latter almost out of her hand so that it strikes her companion.

Vivian may be many things, but she isn’t rude.

aWhen Thor took Loki back to Asgard, Clint thought he was done with alien shit for good. Everything was cleaned up after the battle and the Avengers disbanded, leaving Clint to return to his regular duties. So it came as surprise when several months later, he was called into Fury's office after SHIELD received a message inviting several agents to Asgard.

"Why would they invite us there?" Clint asked, not exactly leaping at the opportunity to travel through whatever that 'Bifrost' thing was he saw Thor and Loki go back in.

"They said they wanted to give us the opportunity to see that Loki was being properly dealt with and wanting to establish an alliance between us." Fury replied, not bothering to take his eye off the paperwork he was writing out, as if a trip to Asgard was the most mundane opportunity.

"So you're sending me?"

"You got it."

"And only me?"

"Take an underling if you really want to, but you're the highest-ranking Agent we can spare right now."

Clint felt no need to take someone half as skilled as he was to Asgard, and since Natasha, Bobbi, and Kate were all busy with their own missions, he decided to just go alone. So a week later he was standing in the middle of a wildlife reserve away from the city, feeling absolutely ridiculous as he called up at the sky for 'Heimdall to open the bifrost'.

He really wasn't expecting it to work, but only moments later he was rushing sickeningly through a distorted, colourful wormhole of sorts and appearing in a large, round, golden room, stumbling to a stop in front of a tall, impressive looking man dressed in golden armour, holding a sword nearly as tall as Clint was.