#sweetestconstancy

Send in 📜 and I’ll use this incorrect quotes generator using your muse and my muse.

@tricksandtreason​ said: 📜 {Sera and Loki are my go-to but like...I'm curious what else may come from this xDDD}

I have loved you for a thousand years.

The end had not come. How he wished it had. Much to everyone's dismay, the old world was not destroyed and a new one was not forged out of its ashes. The Norns, it seemed, had an even sicker sense of humor. Those who fought, waiting for their rebirth, found themselves on a crimson meadow, the soil overflowing with the blood of the fallen. And still, they would remain. No second world came. Slowly, as the realization dawned on each and every single warrior, weapons fell to the ground. What had they done?

The old trickster one could not even fathom why or how, but there he was, standing. A mournful man hid underneath layers of pure hatred, of undying anger, of impossible closure. His face scarred with venom, his wrists still red from writhing against his chains -- against the last remains of one of his sons -- and his resolve unchanged. But as he saw that nothing would change after the war against the Aesir, the Vanir and everyone else. Nothing.

His suffering, his family's suffering, his children's deaths were for not. The once god looked around, unfamiliar faces butchered. Surely those too had families of their own. And what about them? Who wept for them? Was there anyone left?

Loki ran. Alone. He ran and ran until the field was no more. He ran until he found water. The sea, which one of his children once inhabited. The body of water was suddenly as alien to him as the lands behind. He touched it with his fingers once, before a sudden urge to wash his body came over him. Forcefully, ungracefully, his hands together, he brought the cold, salt water to his figure, but nothing would ever wash what had happened and the realization that nothing could be done to remedy it.

He walked, following the shoreline. He walked and walked.

Years passed. Slowly, the ground -- as if drinking from the blood of those who would never return -- began sprouting. It seemed life would go on regardless of all of them. Their issues, petty as they were, were nothing in the grand scheme of things. Like a book, their lives were but a page. With each turning, with each new white canvas, their stories got overlaid. With each turn of the pages, the more they became 'the past'. Life was for the living. The present waited for no one. Their stories became forgotten, the focus shifting to new stories.

And Loki saw it all. He saw more bloodshed, none of which were caused by him. A lesson learned. He saw new folk, who knew him only as a passing line or a recollection by the elders. And eventually, even those died. His name was but a footnote by then.

But he persisted, and by the Norns -- or whichever new gods clashed against one another -- how he wished he hadn't. Eons came and went, and Loki lived still. He changed his name numerous times, changed his craft. His silver tongue was still there as well, although using it lacked the pleasure of the old times. Looking back, he was unsure if it was ever good to begin with. Perhaps his tongue was like a snake's. Slowly, it poisoned him, turning him into what he eventually became: bitter, rotten, foul.

The city lights are dull to him, regardless of how bright they truly were. His money was but a material thing. Paper. Less than that. It was as worthless as the fallen leaves autumn brought. No food was satisfying. He only lived because he could not die. If the Aesir -- was any of them even left? Baldr? Nanna? His 'blood brother'? -- were unable to, no mortal, modern weapon ever would.

Often times, he heard them. His wives. His children. His sons, his daughter. Figments of the past that came to taunt him, to provoke him. After a while, such visions became less and less frequent. The more he became used to it, the number he became, the less he would hear them.

But... he could feel something still. Deep within his chest, a casket of whatever was left of Loki, something rumbled. Sometimes, the trickster could even call it warm. Remnants, surely. Still, like a moth to a flame, Loki was guided to it. That one spark.

He drove for hours, leaving a big city for another, guided solely by the compass that suddenly was nested within his ribcage. Small cities gave way to big cities, which themselves gave way to even bigger ones, filled with people whose faces were meaningless. A crowd would always be replaced by the next.

His travel ended by a building, a rather posh one. Its name -- 'Scandinavia' -- was a bit of humor lost on him. It had been millennia since the last time a smile or a chuckle ever escaped his lips. At least, truthful ones. Ones born out of actual contentment. He entered it without any issues. However poisonous his tongue was, it was still useful and sharp as ever.

The elevator took him to the sixth floor. Room sixty-two. It is unlocked. By then, his heart -- the old, dead organ -- thumped aggressively against his chest. Why? What was this?

There was no preparing him for the sight before him. He could tell it from the door. He could smell her, he could feel her, he could almost see a string -- the one unbroken string that remained intact -- guiding him inward. Her golden locks cascaded down a slim back, and although he was not used to seeing her like that -- dressed in modern clothes --, there was no mistaking it. It was no doppelganger, no trick. She was there.

He called out her name, a mere whisper, almost lost amidst the sirens and rustle and bustle of the city outside. Still, she turned. His name too, which no one has used to address him by, is called. It was recognition. Validation. She was there and so was him. Truly there. They repeated it a couple more times as if their strength only grew with every time their names were spoken. Names called out almost as prayers, the prayers from the old days in which people called for them. Mostly for her, for her strength. Still...

Her arms wrapped around his body. Tears fell and fell from the once trickster's eyes. So much so, even Njörd could rule over them, were he alive. He cried and cried, hands tentatively grasping his wife's body. How could she be alive? And yet, she was. And he needed no explanation. There were only so many times one could try their fates, and Loki would not dare anger the Norns, or God, or whichever higher being, if it meant he could stay there, like that.

for every ‘@’ sent (anon or not) I WILL mention and post some positivity about a fellow tumblr user

@tricksandtreason​ / @jxrmungand​ / @sweetestconstancy​

You ever have that RPer you just click with?  You share similar headcanons about what a canon muse is like, you have muses that want similar things out of life, you like the same kind of threads, your writing styles mesh, and to top it off you get along well OOC?

Well that was Jewels.  We’ve only been following each other for a short while - not even six months - and she’s been a delight and a pleasure and we already have a dozen threads between our accounts.  Her Loki is an absolute gem.  I’ve had so much fun writing with her, both here and on my Asgardian OC and on Discord.  Just like any well-crafted muse, Kali remains true to the core of who she is while being able to interact with two very disparate muses.  

Jewels also cosplays female!Loki and her outfits and makeup are phenomenal. 

To a passerby, maybe the soft humming might cause shock given its origin. The trickster is nothing if not secretive. The communicative side of him means little when he spills falsehoods and malicious ideas with ease. But this, all of it, is much different. He keeps much to himself, hidden behind thick layers of protection.

Here, however, he feels safe. Truly at home, as the thick woods of Ironwood once were. And so, he sings contently, with flowing verses he swore he had forgotten but that come to him almost second nature. He had sung them before, after all. Countless times.

Ear to his beloved’s stomach, his words sound somewhat harsher than the usual lullaby, but he is not from here. This realm is not his just the same as his tunes. He is a jötunn, and the lyrics display a different sense of serenity. Still, he continues.

Wasteland, Baby sentences | accepting.

Loki looks through his window. He knows the intent behind Sigyn’s words: she speaks to soothe the growing anger within him. She can see it because the trickster god is sometimes unable to hide it, especially whenever he sees his own flesh and blood being used by the Allfather as nothing more than a steed.

Seeing Sleipnir reminds him of his other three children, children of Ironwood, who have also been mistreated and taken from their mother’s reach. Anger makes him seethe, he can almost feel his skin crawling.

Make Me Feel | accepting.

66. Your muse finds mine having a mental breakdown.

The throne room feels empty, even though it is populated. Mourners, shocked at the recent events fill the space, whispering between themselves. They wish to talk, offer their condolences. But no word of sympathy can reach the Allfather’s mind nor his ears. Through the thick walls, Odinn can still hear the lamenting of his wife. It serves as a barrier, it feels cold underneath his touch. He cannot stand to see Frigg suffering so deeply. Their own flesh and blood. Their golden child, beloved by one and all. Dead. Odinn had failed her countless times, but this... He couldn’t have failed her then, but he did.

For all she had done once he was born, their son was still dead.

For all he had done, their son was still dead. Odinn did what he could to ensure this day would not come. But it was always following him, a shadow looming over his and his family’s happiness.

The mistletoe flew right, out of Hodr’s bow, but it was not truly the blind one’s hand that pulled the string. No, the perpetrator is known to all. His name, his hatred known to every living being on the realms. He was the Allfather’s shadow. The one who would cause him the greatest grief. The sly one. His blood brother.

Walking away from the wall, Odinn reaches a chair and, for once, his shoulders drop, hands reaching his face. He can feel the tears that fall from his one eye. For so long, his demeanor was one of eternal strength. Through the worst of times, Odinn had been firm.

Now his foundation is cracked. Pieces of it crumble underneath the weight of his failures. It all crumbles with every wail of Frigg’s. It becomes dust as he sees the image of his son bereft of life, blood across his garments. Odinn is no longer. So he cries. Silently. His sadness, as his happiness, is never shown to others. His smiles and tears were always exclusive to his wife, but he can no longer hold such a façade.

When the door opens, he is still looking downward. But habits are hard to break and, through misty eyes, the Allfather looks up. It is impossible to hide the sudden revulsion that shows on his features. It is misguided at the golden-haired goddess, but even the reminder of his son’s own hair is enough to change him inside. Sadness and grief give turn to the fury Odinn is known for.

The one-eyed god stands and clears his hands on his garments. This woman, the woman who chose and was chosen by the sly one, is undeserving of seeing him like this. The guards are sent off with a wave of Odinn’s hand. In a moment, the Allfather has his spear on hand. “Sigyn”, he begins, voice low and rough. He says her name as a curse, disgust and venom present in each syllable that leaves his lips. “What your husband has done...”

Unbeknownst to the hanged god, his knuckles are white around the weapon on his hand. The thought of Loki turns his sight into crimson. Red as his son’s blood. Still, a part of him knows -- or believes -- Sigyn is not truly the one to blame. But neither is Frigg. And both shall suffer. His one good deed is to let Loki’s wife know what is coming for him. For her. For theirs.

He walks over to her to stand before her. He looks down at the small Vanir, contempt clear on his face. A long sigh fills the air between them. “Know that he has brought this on himself. And onto you. He will pay. Find him. Make sure he knows he will suffer ceaselessly”.