#Father's Day is a holiday honoring one's father | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

amethystarachnid · 1 month ago

Note

Hey! I wanted to request Loki x reader fanfic. Can it be arranged marriage with slow burn au where the reader is a princess of a small kingdom who never thought she'd be marrying into a higher kingdom let alone Asgard. So is surprised when is betrothed to loki. She tried to give him benifit of doubt but we'll he acts like an ass and she decides to give it to him back equally. They both banter and throw sarcastic jibes during the courting period and after the marriage but over time they become friends and then lovers. Maybe She calls odin out on his bullshit and bias towards thor, and all the fun family dynamics with frigga and thor.

Thank you! And wishing you a happy new year!✨🍀

THE ROYAL LOVERS

⤷ LOKY LAUFEYSON

ᯓ★ Pairing: Loki Laufeyson x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: romance, some angst and some fluff

ᯓ★ Requests status: open (only by asks)

ᯓ★ Story type: one shot

ᯓ★ Word count: 11k (I dont think I can make it more slow burn than this lol)

ᯓ★ Summary: just what the ask said

ᯓ★ TW(s): nothing I think

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ MARVEL Holiday Special

ᯓ★ MARVEL Multiverse - choose an AU, pair it with your favorite character and make a request!

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

You sit in the grand hall of your father’s castle, the sunlight streaming through the stained glass windows, casting kaleidoscopic patterns on the cold marble floors. The room feels heavier than usual, the weight of your father’s words pressing down on your chest. Betrothed. You turn the word over in your mind, trying to make sense of it, trying to figure out how this has become your reality.

“To one of Asgard’s princes?” you repeat, unable to mask the disbelief in your tone.

Your father nods, his expression grave yet tinged with pride. “Yes, daughter. This alliance is a great honor for our kingdom. A union with Asgard strengthens our position, ensures our prosperity, and secures peace for generations to come.”

Peace. Prosperity. You’ve heard these words countless times before, always in speeches or during court gatherings when foreign diplomats visit. Now they’re being used as the justification for altering the course of your entire life.

You swallow hard. “And which prince?”

A pause stretches between you, long enough for your heart to skip several anxious beats. Your father finally answers, his voice calm, though his eyes betray some unease. “Prince Loki.”

The name settles over you like a shadow. You’ve heard stories of Asgard, of its golden spires and indomitable warriors. Tales of its princes, too—Thor, the golden-haired god of thunder, beloved by all, and Loki, the sharp-tongued trickster whose reputation is far more ambiguous.

You straighten in your chair, forcing yourself to remain composed despite the storm building inside you. “I see. And when am I to meet this... prince?”

“Soon,” your father says. “King Odin and Queen Frigga have agreed to host a meeting at their palace. You will accompany me to Asgard in three days' time.”

Three days. That’s all the time you have to prepare yourself for the encounter that will determine your future. You nod stiffly and rise from your seat, excusing yourself from the conversation.

Once you’re alone in your chambers, the weight of it all crashes down on you. You pace the room, the rich fabrics of your dress swishing around your legs, your mind racing. Betrothed to a prince of Asgard. It sounds like something out of a storybook, but you’re no naïve dreamer. You know enough to understand the realities of political alliances.

Still, you can’t help but wonder: why would Asgard—a kingdom so vast and powerful it dwarfs your own—be interested in such a union?

Three days later, you stand before the shimmering Bifrost Bridge, its prismatic light almost blinding. The sight of it steals your breath, though you quickly compose yourself as the Asgardian guards usher you and your father toward the grand palace that looms in the distance.

The palace is even more magnificent than the stories described, its golden towers piercing the sky, its halls adorned with treasures from realms beyond your imagination.

You feel small here, insignificant. But you refuse to let it show.

In the throne room, King Odin sits atop his gilded seat, his presence commanding, even intimidating. Beside him stands Queen Frigga, her beauty and poise as striking as the rumors claimed. The sight of her eases your nerves slightly; she seems kind, her gentle smile a stark contrast to the stern expressions of her husband and the guards flanking the room.

And then you see him.

Prince Loki.

He stands a step behind his parents, dressed in sleek black and green, the golden accents of his attire catching the light. His dark hair is neatly combed back, his pale features sharp and angular. There’s an air of arrogance about him, a cool detachment that only adds to his enigmatic aura.

Your father bows, and you quickly follow suit, keeping your gaze fixed on the floor.

“Your Majesties,” your father begins, his voice steady. “It is an honor to stand before you. I thank you for welcoming us into your home.”

Odin nods curtly, his single eye fixed on your father. “We are pleased to have you here. This alliance is of great importance to both our realms.”

Frigga steps forward, her smile warm. “And you must be the princess,” she says, addressing you directly.

You lift your head, meeting her gaze. “Yes, Your Majesty. It is a privilege to be here.”

Frigga’s smile widens, and for a moment, you feel at ease. But the feeling is short-lived as you catch Loki’s gaze. He’s watching you, his expression unreadable.

“Loki,” Odin says, gesturing toward you. “This is the princess, your betrothed.”

The words hang in the air like a thunderclap. Loki’s lips curl into a faint, almost dismissive smirk. He inclines his head slightly but says nothing.

You suppress the urge to bristle. Fine, you think. If he’s going to be curt, so be it.

Frigga notices the tension and steps in, her voice soothing. “Why don’t the two of you take a moment to speak privately? Get to know one another.”

Your father nods in agreement. “An excellent idea.”

Before you can protest, you’re being led to a nearby chamber, Loki following behind you at a leisurely pace. Once the door closes, you turn to face him, your hands clasped tightly in front of you.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The silence is thick, uncomfortable.

“So,” you begin, forcing yourself to sound calm. “It seems we are to be married.”

Loki leans against the nearest wall, his arms crossed over his chest. “Indeed. Though I must admit, I find the arrangement rather curious.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Curious? In what way?”

He shrugs, his tone casual but laced with condescension. “Our kingdoms are not exactly equals. One might wonder what my father hopes to gain from such a union.”

The words sting, but you refuse to let him see it. Instead, you smile sweetly, matching his tone. “Perhaps he hopes I’ll teach you some manners.”

Loki’s eyes narrow slightly, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before he regains his composure. “Manners? How quaint. I wasn’t aware my betrothed was a tutor.”

You take a step closer, meeting his gaze head-on. “And I wasn’t aware mine was a child.”

His smirk falters, and for a moment, you think you’ve won. But then he chuckles, low and amused. “You have spirit, I’ll give you that. It’s almost endearing.”

“Almost?” you echo, tilting your head. “I’ll take that as a compliment, though I doubt you intended it as one.”

Loki studies you for a moment, his green eyes piercing. “You’re not what I expected.”

“And neither are you,” you reply, refusing to look away.

The tension in the room is palpable, an unspoken challenge hanging between you. Finally, Loki straightens, his expression unreadable once more.

“This should be interesting,” he says, his voice quiet but carrying an edge.

You don’t respond, watching as he strides toward the door and leaves without another word.

When you return to the throne room, Frigga gives you a knowing look, as if she can sense the clash of wills that just occurred.

“I trust you had a productive conversation,” she says gently.

You offer her a polite smile. “It was... enlightening.”

Loki says nothing, his expression calm but his eyes glinting with something you can’t quite place.

As the meeting concludes and you prepare to return to your chambers at Asgard for now, you can’t shake the feeling that this is only the beginning of a battle of wits and wills. And for the first time since hearing of the betrothal, you find yourself almost looking forward to the challenge.

The news spreads faster than you’d expect. Within days of the announcement, the realms are abuzz with the most unlikely engagement of the century: Loki, the so-called “trickster prince” of Asgard, and you, the princess of a modest but proud kingdom.

You learn of the reactions secondhand—your father shares reports from neighboring realms, some of which range from incredulous laughter to outright disbelief. Even within Asgard, whispers fill the air. Servants, courtiers, even the warriors of the great halls exchange furtive glances as you pass, clearly wondering how and why such a union has come to be.

You, however, have no answers for them.

Forced to stay in Asgard for the duration of your courtship, you find yourself in a whirlwind of carefully orchestrated meetings, formal dinners, and—most excruciating of all—dates.

The first one is planned with all the subtlety of a lightning bolt. Frigga herself announces it over breakfast, her tone pleasant but brooking no argument.

“The two of you will take a walk through the gardens this afternoon,” she says, her serene expression giving no indication that this is a royal decree rather than a suggestion. “It’s a lovely day, and I’m sure you’ll find the fresh air invigorating.”

Loki, seated across from you at the lavish dining table, barely looks up from his plate. “Invigorating,” he echoes dryly, his tone implying that being dragged into the sunlight is the last thing he finds appealing.

You sip your tea, determined not to let him ruin your mood. “It sounds delightful,” you say, forcing a bright smile.

When the time comes, the “walk” is as awkward as you anticipated. The gardens of Asgard are, of course, stunning, with vibrant flowers and towering trees that look as though they were sculpted by the gods themselves. But the beauty of your surroundings does little to ease the tension between you and your betrothed.

“You seem thrilled to be here,” you remark as you stroll along a cobblestone path, glancing at Loki. He walks a step ahead of you, his hands clasped behind his back and his expression neutral.

“I’m beside myself with joy,” he replies without missing a beat.

You roll your eyes. “If you hate this so much, why not just tell your parents you’re not interested? I’m sure they’ll understand.”

Loki stops, turning to face you with an arched brow. “You think I haven’t tried? My father, as you may have noticed, is not particularly accommodating when it comes to matters of ‘duty.’”

You shrug. “Neither is mine. But at least I’m trying to make the best of it.”

“Ah, yes,” Loki says, his lips curling into a smirk. “You’re positively brimming with enthusiasm. Tell me, is sarcasm a custom in your kingdom, or is it just your natural talent?”

“It’s a survival skill,” you shoot back, crossing your arms. “Particularly useful when dealing with insufferable princes.”

Loki laughs—a genuine laugh, though he quickly masks it with a cough. “Touché.”

The rest of the walk is less tense, though the banter continues. By the time you return to the palace, you’re both mildly annoyed but also—if you’re honest with yourself—mildly entertained.

The dates that follow are no less eventful.

One afternoon, you’re coerced into accompanying Loki to the library, which he claims is his “sanctuary.” You quickly learn that by “sanctuary,” he means a place where he can hide from people and indulge in his penchant for mocking their intellectual inadequacies.

“You know,” you say, trailing your fingers along the spines of ancient tomes as Loki lounges in a nearby chair, “if you put half as much effort into being pleasant as you do into being smug, you might actually be tolerable.”

“Why would I aim for tolerable when I can achieve perfection?” he counters, not looking up from his book.

You grab the nearest volume and plop it unceremoniously onto the table in front of him. “Here. Enlighten me, oh wise one.”

Loki picks up the book, glances at the title, and smirks. “A Beginner’s Guide to Asgardian History? How quaint.”

You grin, leaning on the table. “Well, I wouldn’t want to overwhelm you with anything too advanced.”

For a moment, his eyes meet yours, and you swear you see a flicker of amusement there. Then he closes the book with a theatrical sigh. “Very well. Sit, and I’ll educate you—though I can’t promise you’ll retain anything.”

By the end of the afternoon, you’ve learned more about Asgardian history than you ever thought you’d care to know. And, despite his constant teasing, Loki is an excellent teacher.

Another date—a “ride” across the Bifrost on enchanted steeds—proves to be even more chaotic.

“Have you ever ridden a horse before?” Loki asks as you mount your steed, his tone suggesting he already knows the answer.

“Of course,” you reply confidently, though your grip on the reins betrays your nerves.

As the horses take off, galloping across the shimmering bridge, you quickly realize that Asgardian steeds are not like those of your kingdom. They’re faster, stronger, and seemingly unbothered by the laws of gravity.

You let out an involuntary squeal as your horse leaps into the air, soaring above the bridge for a heart-stopping moment before landing gracefully.

Behind you, Loki laughs—an infuriating, delighted sound. “Having fun, princess?”

“Shut up!” you shout, gripping the reins tighter.

By the time the ride is over, your hair is a mess, your heart is pounding, and you’re thoroughly mortified. Loki, of course, looks as composed as ever.

“Well,” he says as you dismount, his smirk firmly in place, “that was exhilarating. Shall we go again?”

You glare at him, brushing strands of hair from your face. “Don’t push your luck.”

Despite the constant banter, you find yourself… not hating his company as much as you expected. Loki, for all his arrogance, is undeniably clever, and his sharp wit keeps you on your toes. He’s also surprisingly observant, occasionally making remarks that reveal a deeper understanding of you than you’re comfortable admitting.

For his part, Loki seems to enjoy sparring with you, though he never lets on too much. There are moments when his smirk softens, when his eyes linger on yours a little longer than necessary. But just as quickly, he retreats behind his usual façade of indifference.

The days pass, and the courtship continues, much to the amusement of the palace staff and the frustration of your parents.

“They’re impossible,” Odin mutters one evening after dinner, watching as you and Loki exchange yet another round of playful insults.

“They’re perfect for each other,” Frigga replies with a smile, her gaze warm as she watches the two of you.

Perfect. You wouldn’t go that far. But as you lie awake in your chambers that night, replaying the day’s events in your mind, you can’t deny that something about Loki intrigues you.

And though you’d never admit it, you’re starting to think that this arrangement might not be so terrible after all.

The day of your wedding looms ever closer, and Asgard hums with preparations. The golden halls are adorned with garlands of flowers, banners bearing the crests of your kingdom and Asgard hang side by side, and the palace is abuzz with activity. Servants scurry to and fro, courtiers gossip behind jeweled fans, and Frigga oversees every detail with her characteristic grace.

You, meanwhile, feel like a tightly coiled spring, caught between nervous anticipation and the persistent irritation that comes from dealing with Loki.

If the prince’s attitude was difficult before, it’s positively maddening now. You’re not sure what changed, but he’s been colder, more distant, his biting remarks sharper than usual.

One day, as you’re walking through the palace gardens, you decide to confront him.

“Alright, what’s your problem?” you demand, stepping in front of him and blocking his path.

Loki arches a brow, clearly unimpressed by your attempt to corner him. “You’ll have to be more specific, princess. I have so many.”

You cross your arms. “Don’t play coy. You’ve been acting like an even bigger ass than usual lately, and I want to know why.”

His lips curl into a smirk, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “You flatter me with your concern.”

“I’m serious, Loki.” Your voice softens, though your gaze remains firm. “If I’ve done something to upset you, just tell me.”

For a moment, his expression falters, and you think he might actually answer you. But then his smirk returns, colder than before.

“Perhaps I’m simply preparing you for the reality of being married to me,” he says, his tone light but laced with something darker.

Your stomach twists, but you refuse to let him see how much his words sting. “Fine,” you snap. “Be an ass. See if I care.”

You storm off, leaving him standing in the garden, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

The tension between you only worsens with the arrival of Thor.

The golden-haired prince returns from a long mission, his presence immediately commanding attention wherever he goes. Thor is everything Loki is not—open, friendly, and effortlessly charming. He greets you with a beaming smile, his blue eyes sparkling with genuine warmth.

“You must be the princess,” he says, clasping your hand in his large, calloused one. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

“Good things, I hope,” you reply, returning his smile.

“Of course!” Thor’s laughter booms through the hall, drawing the attention of everyone nearby. “I can see now why my brother is so reluctant to share his time with you. He must be afraid I’ll steal you away!”

You laugh politely, though the comment catches you off guard. Before you can respond, Loki appears at Thor’s side, his expression carefully neutral.

“Thor,” he says smoothly, his tone deceptively light. “How delightful of you to join us. I see you’ve already met my betrothed.”

“Indeed, I have!” Thor claps a hand on Loki’s shoulder, grinning. “She’s delightful. You’re a lucky man, brother.”

Loki’s smile tightens, and you swear you see his jaw clench. “Yes,” he says, his voice a touch colder. “Lucky indeed.”

From that moment on, Loki’s demeanor shifts even further. He grows colder, more distant, and his once playful banter becomes outright cutting.

During a dinner with Thor and the royal family, you find yourself on the receiving end of one of his more caustic remarks.

“Tell me, princess,” Loki drawls, leaning back in his chair. “Have you been enjoying your time here in Asgard? Or is it too overwhelming for someone from such... modest origins?”

The table falls silent, all eyes turning to you. Thor frowns, clearly disapproving of his brother’s behavior, while Frigga gives Loki a sharp look.

You take a deep breath, forcing a smile. “Oh, it’s been lovely,” you reply sweetly. “Though I must admit, the company has been a bit... mixed.”

Thor bursts out laughing, while Loki’s eyes narrow dangerously.

“Well played, princess,” he says, his voice low and icy.

The tension between you only seems to escalate as the days pass, culminating in a heated argument the night before the wedding.

“You know,” you say, standing in the middle of the grand hall where the ceremony will take place, “if you’re so miserable about this marriage, why don’t you just call it off?”

“And bring shame to both our kingdoms?” Loki replies, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “I think not.”

“Shame?” You scoff. “Oh, please. Everyone knows you don’t want this any more than I do.”

“And yet here we are,” he snaps, his eyes flashing with anger.

The argument spirals, both of you hurling insults and accusations until you’re both breathing heavily, standing far too close to each other.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The air crackles with tension, and you half-expect Loki to say something cruel, something to end the conversation once and for all.

But he doesn’t. Instead, he steps back, his expression unreadable. “Goodnight, princess,” he says quietly, before turning on his heel and walking away.

You’re left standing alone in the empty hall, your chest tight and your mind racing.

The day of the wedding arrives, and you wake with a mixture of dread and resignation. You’re dressed in an elaborate gown, the finest your kingdom has ever produced, and escorted to the ceremony by your father and a contingent of Asgardian guards.

The hall is packed with dignitaries and guests from across the realms, their eyes fixed on you as you make your way down the aisle. At the end of it stands Loki, dressed in black and gold, his expression a perfect mask of calm.

As you approach, you search his face for any sign of emotion, any hint of the man you’ve gotten to know over the past weeks. But he gives nothing away.

The ceremony proceeds smoothly, the vows exchanged without incident. But as you stand before the gathered crowd, your hand resting in Loki’s, you can’t shake the feeling that something has shifted between you.

When the officiant finally declares you husband and wife, Loki leans in, his lips brushing your ear as he murmurs, “The games begin, princess.”

You pull back slightly, meeting his gaze with a mixture of exasperation and amusement. “Bring it on, prince.”

The crowd erupts in applause, oblivious to the battle of wills raging between the two of you.

And as Loki leads you down the aisle, his hand resting lightly on yours, you can’t help but wonder what the future holds for this strange, tempestuous union. One thing is certain: life with Loki will never be dull.

The wedding feast is a blur of golden light, laughter, and endless toasts. Your smile is painted on, your cheeks aching as guests from every realm offer their congratulations. Loki plays his part impeccably, charming the crowd with his wit and occasional glances in your direction that are just shy of affectionate.

Inside, you feel like a tightly coiled spring, wound tighter with every passing moment. You know what comes after the feast. The thought sits heavy in your chest, making it hard to breathe.

The hour grows late, and when the last of the guests have finally departed, you’re escorted to the chambers that have been prepared for you and Loki. The halls seem longer than usual, the distance to your destination stretching endlessly as your nerves build.

When you reach the door, the servants offer you both polite bows before disappearing down the corridor, leaving you and Loki alone.

He opens the door, gesturing for you to step inside. His expression is unreadable, though his usual smirk is noticeably absent.

The chambers are stunning, of course—richly furnished and illuminated by soft, flickering candlelight. But all you can focus on is the massive bed at the center of the room, its silken sheets and embroidered pillows looking more like a throne than a place to rest.

Loki closes the door behind you, and you hear the faint click of the lock.

You stand frozen in the middle of the room, your hands clasped tightly in front of you as you stare at the bed.

“Well,” Loki says after a moment, his voice breaking the tense silence. “I suppose this is the part where we consummate the marriage.”

Your stomach flips, and you force yourself to turn and look at him. “I... I know,” you manage, your voice barely above a whisper.

Loki studies you, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly. Then, to your surprise, he sighs and moves to the nearest chair, sinking into it with an almost theatrical air of exasperation.

“Let’s make one thing perfectly clear,” he says, resting his elbow on the armrest and propping his chin on his hand. “I have no intention of forcing you—or myself, for that matter—into anything tonight.”

You blink, taken aback. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” he replies, his tone dry, “that we don’t actually have to do anything. All anyone needs to know is that we sayit happened. As long as we both stick to the story, no one will be the wiser.”

Relief floods through you, so sudden and intense that your knees nearly buckle. “You’re serious?”

“Deadly,” he says, his lips twitching into a faint smirk. “I find the idea of spending the night in awkward silence far more appealing than the alternative.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, nodding quickly. “Alright. I... I agree.”

“Good.” He stands and moves to the other side of the room, unfastening his cloak and draping it over a chair. “We’ll sleep in the same bed—appearances and all that—but I promise to stay on my side. You won’t even know I’m there.”

You hesitate, glancing at the bed again. “Alright,” you say softly, your voice steadier now.

Loki changes into a loose tunic and trousers while you slip behind a screen to remove your elaborate gown and don a simple nightdress. When you emerge, he’s already lying on one side of the bed, his back to you.

You climb in cautiously, keeping to the very edge of your side. The mattress dips slightly under your weight, and you can feel the faint warmth of Loki’s presence, though you’re careful not to look at him.

The silence stretches between you, heavy but not entirely uncomfortable.

“Goodnight, princess,” Loki says after a while, his voice quiet but laced with his usual sarcasm.

“Goodnight, Loki,” you reply, your lips curving into a faint smile despite yourself.

The next morning, you’re awoken by a knock at the door. Loki groans softly, rolling onto his back but making no move to get up.

“Come in,” he calls lazily.

The door opens, and a group of servants enters, carrying trays of breakfast and fresh clothing. They’re followed by Frigga, who takes one look at the rumpled bed and your mussed hair and smiles knowingly.

“I trust you both slept well,” she says, her tone light but her eyes sharp with curiosity.

Loki sits up, running a hand through his disheveled hair and flashing her a lazy grin. “Like babes in a cradle, Mother.”

You flush, quickly busying yourself with the tea that one of the servants has placed on the bedside table.

Frigga’s gaze lingers on the two of you for a moment longer before she nods, clearly satisfied. “Good. The court will be eager to hear that the union has been properly sealed.”

You nearly choke on your tea, but Loki remains perfectly composed, raising an eyebrow at his mother. “Of course,” he says smoothly. “They needn’t worry about that.”

Frigga gives him a pointed look, then turns to leave, her skirts sweeping gracefully behind her.

When the door closes, you let out a shaky breath, your cheeks still burning.

“Well,” Loki says, leaning back against the headboard with a smirk. “That was convincing enough, wouldn’t you say?”

You glare at him, though there’s no real heat in it. “You could have warned me she’d ask.”

“And deprive myself of the pleasure of seeing you flustered?” He grins, clearly enjoying himself.

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips.

The rest of the day is a whirlwind of public appearances and well-wishes from guests and courtiers. You and Loki play your roles to perfection, standing side by side and accepting congratulations with polite smiles.

But every so often, you catch Loki’s eye, and there’s a flicker of something there—something you can’t quite define.

As the sun sets and the festivities wind down, you find yourself wondering if this strange, tentative partnership might become something more.

The passing weeks blur in a mix of royal duties, public appearances, and private moments that seem far too fleeting. You and Loki settle into an unexpected, but not unwelcome, routine. It’s not one born out of affection, nor of any deep romantic feeling—at least not on your part—but something else entirely.

It’s friendship, of sorts, though it has an edge of guardedness on both sides.

Loki is still as sarcastic as ever, his barbed words often making you want to throw a pillow at him, but there’s a subtle shift in his attitude. He doesn’t try to make you uncomfortable, nor does he push you into situations that force your discomfort. Instead, he lets the two of you share moments of quiet companionship, moments that pass without him demanding anything more than just… being together.

At times, you even catch him offering a rare, genuine smile when the two of you exchange witty banter, the edge of coldness in his eyes softening for just a moment before it’s hidden away again.

It’s those moments—small, fleeting—that make you begin to wonder if there’s more to Loki than meets the eye.

But then, every time Thor is around, Loki retreats into himself. His demeanor hardens, his eyes become colder, and the playful teasing he once directed at you disappears, replaced by something almost resembling disdain.

It’s frustrating. You had grown used to Loki’s sharp wit and dry humor, but around Thor, he becomes a stranger. It’s as though he’s a different person entirely.

It’s in those moments that you realize just how much Thor’s presence affects Loki. The way his brother’s easy charm and warmth seem to have earned him the favor of everyone around them, especially their father, Odin.

The stark contrast between the two brothers becomes painfully obvious during family dinners.

On this particular evening, you’re seated at the grand table in the palace hall, flanked by Frigga on one side and Thor on the other. Loki sits at the far end, his posture rigid and his eyes fixed on his plate. The tension between the two brothers is palpable, though it’s subtle, buried beneath layers of carefully crafted politeness.

Frigga chats lightly with Thor about his latest battle, her soft voice carrying through the room. You listen attentively, though a part of you can’t help but glance over at Loki.

You can feel the weight of his silence, the way he seems to withdraw into himself whenever Thor speaks. Loki only offers the occasional half-hearted comment, his tone distant, as if he’s not really a part of the conversation.

Frigga, ever perceptive, seems to notice as well. She glances between Loki and Thor, her expression one of quiet concern.

“Loki,” she says gently, her voice carrying the weight of unspoken understanding, “is there something you wish to add?”

Loki straightens slightly but doesn’t look up from his plate. “No, Mother. I’m simply… observing.”

You can’t help but notice the way his jaw clenches, his gaze still fixed on his food as though he’s avoiding looking anyone in the eye.

Thor, ever the optimist, tries to break the tension. “Come now, brother. Surely you have a better tale to tell than mine. You’ve always been the more… creative one when it comes to storytelling.”

Loki’s eyes flicker toward Thor, but the look he gives his brother is colder than you’ve ever seen it. There’s something there, something unspoken that hangs heavy in the air between them.

“I have no tales to tell,” Loki replies coolly, his voice flat. “Not tonight.”

The silence that follows is thick, awkward. You shift in your seat, unsure of what to say, and Frigga clears her throat, clearly attempting to shift the atmosphere.

“I’m sure Loki has many stories to share when he’s in the mood, Thor,” she says, giving her son a kind smile. “But for now, perhaps we should allow him the peace to enjoy his meal in silence.”

Thor seems to take the hint, though there’s a flicker of confusion in his eyes as he nods. “Of course, Mother.”

But you notice the way he glances at Loki one last time before he turns his attention to you. He smiles, his usual warmth returning.

“It’s good to see you again, Princess,” Thor says, his voice easy and kind. “I trust you’ve settled in well?”

You smile back, grateful for the change of subject. “Yes, thank you, Thor. Asgard has been… more than welcoming.”

Loki stays silent, his fork moving absently as he pushes food around on his plate. You try not to let your gaze linger too long on him, but it’s difficult to ignore the way he seems to withdraw further with each passing moment.

Later, after the dinner has ended and the courtiers have dispersed, you find yourself walking the halls of the palace, your thoughts a tangled mess.

Loki’s behavior continues to trouble you. It’s clear that there’s something between him and Thor, something deep and unresolved. You can sense it in the way Loki acts when his brother is near, the way he retreats inward, shutting everyone else out.

And then there’s Odin. You’ve seen it too—the way the Allfather seems to favor Thor in ways that Loki could never seem to earn. The way Odin’s praise comes effortlessly to Thor, while Loki is left in the shadows, forced to fight for every scrap of recognition.

You’ve begun to notice the small things—the way Loki’s expression shifts when Odin speaks to Thor, or how he watches them both with an almost painful intensity when they stand together.

It’s hard to ignore the dynamic between them. Loki’s desire to prove himself to his father, to gain his approval in a way that seems perpetually out of reach, is something you can’t help but empathize with.

But you don’t know how to talk about it, how to approach him without making things worse.

That night, after the dinner, you retreat to your chambers, the silence of the room settling around you like a weight. Loki is already there, seated on the edge of the bed, his back to you as he stares out the window.

The flickering light from the torch on the wall casts shadows across his face, making his expression seem distant and closed off.

You hesitate in the doorway, unsure of what to say. But the longer you stand there, the more the words seem to push their way out.

“Loki,” you begin, your voice tentative, “I know things have been… difficult lately.”

Loki doesn’t turn around, but his shoulders tense at the sound of your voice. “Difficult? You mean the constant parade of Thor’s victories and Father’s adoration?” His words are sharp, laced with bitterness.

You step further into the room, your heart aching at the venom in his tone. “I didn’t mean it like that,” you say quietly. “But I can see it, Loki. I can see how much it hurts you.”

For a long moment, there’s nothing but silence. Then, Loki sighs deeply, rubbing his temples as if trying to stave off a headache.

“I don’t need your pity,” he mutters. “I don’t need anyone’s pity.”

You take a careful step closer, your voice soft. “I’m not pitying you, Loki. I’m just… I just don’t want you to feel alone in this.”

He laughs bitterly, his shoulders shaking as he turns to face you. “You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t understand what it’s like to be cast aside, to never be good enough no matter how hard you try?”

You swallow hard, your throat tight as you look at him. “I don’t know what that’s like,” you admit, “but I know what it’s like to feel like you’re constantly trying to prove yourself to someone who doesn’t even notice.”

Loki’s gaze flickers briefly to yours, and for a moment, there’s a crack in his armor. But it’s gone almost instantly, replaced by that familiar coldness.

“I don’t need your sympathy,” he repeats, though there’s less conviction in his voice.

“I’m not offering you sympathy,” you reply firmly. “I’m just saying… if you ever want to talk about it—about anything—I’m here, Loki.”

He stares at you for a long while, his eyes unreadable. And then, with a quiet sigh, he nods once, his voice barely above a whisper. “Thank you, princess. But I’m not ready to talk about it yet.”

You nod, though your heart aches at the weight of his words.

“I’ll be here when you are,” you say softly.

Loki doesn’t answer, but the silence that falls between you is… less heavy somehow. Less lonely.

You’re not sure what the future holds for the two of you, but in that moment, you both find a small measure of peace.

And for now, that’s enough.

The days following your conversation with Loki are a strange blend of light and shadow. The weight of your words lingers in the air between you two, but there’s an undeniable shift. It’s subtle, at first—a slight softening in the way he looks at you, a rare but meaningful smile that occasionally plays at the corners of his lips.

But it’s clear, too, that there are walls around him, walls that are not easily torn down. You don’t press him further, content to let him open up in his own time, if at all.

Then, one evening, when the palace is quiet and the rest of the court is engaged in a distant gathering, Loki surprises you.

You’re walking down one of the many hallways, heading back to your chambers after a rather dull meeting with various nobles, when you hear his voice.

“Princess,” he calls softly, his voice carrying through the silence of the corridor.

You turn to find him standing a little ways down the hall, leaning against the stone wall with his arms crossed. There’s something different in his stance—less guarded, more… open, though he still holds that impenetrable air around him.

You raise an eyebrow. “Loki? What’s the matter?”

He shifts, a subtle but noticeable tension in his posture as if he's deliberating whether or not to speak. Finally, after a beat of silence, he steps toward you, his footsteps soft on the stone floor.

“I… I’ve been thinking about our conversation,” he says, his voice quieter than usual.

You give him a careful look. “What about it?”

Loki glances down, avoiding your eyes for a moment before meeting your gaze. “About my father.” His voice tightens slightly, but it’s not the usual bitterness. It’s something more raw. “You were right. I… I’ve been carrying a lot of things for a long time.”

You wait, not wanting to interrupt, giving him space to speak.

“I don’t know if I’ve ever told anyone this, but…” Loki exhales slowly, his breath shaking as if he's letting something go for the first time. “I’ve never felt like I was enough for Odin. For my father. Not in the way Thor is. Not in the way that he needs me to be.”

You step closer, drawn in by the vulnerability in his voice. “Loki…”

He shakes his head, as if frustrated with himself. “I’ve always tried to do everything he wanted. Prove myself, be the son he wanted. But it’s never been enough. Every time I think I’m close to earning his favor, Thor does something. It doesn’t even matter what. Odin just… adores him.” Loki’s words come out with a sharpness, like they’ve been pent up for years, and yet there’s an unmistakable sadness there.

You want to reach out, to comfort him, but you don’t. Not yet.

“Thor…” Loki scoffs, though it’s not with malice—more a mixture of frustration and helplessness. “He doesn’t try. He just is. And Odin… he praises him for every little thing. Meanwhile, I’m left to pick up the pieces, to try to carve out a place for myself. But nothing ever works.”

A knot forms in your chest as you listen to him. It’s impossible to ignore how deeply Loki’s words cut, how much he craves the recognition and love he feels he’ll never receive.

“I know it’s not Thor’s fault,” Loki adds, almost as an afterthought, as if the words pain him. “But sometimes, I just… I can’t help but resent him.”

There’s an ache in his voice that hits you like a physical blow, and without thinking, you step forward and place a hand on his arm.

“You don’t have to explain yourself, Loki,” you say quietly. “I can see how much this hurts you.”

His eyes soften for just a moment, a flicker of something—something like gratitude—before the walls go back up. But it’s a start.

“I know you understand,” he mutters, his gaze dropping. “It’s just… hard to admit, even to myself.”

The silence between you two stretches, but it’s not uncomfortable. It feels like a shared understanding, an unspoken bond that has formed between you.

“You don’t have to carry it alone,” you say softly, stepping back a little but keeping your eyes on him.

Loki looks at you, his expression unreadable. Then, with a small, almost imperceptible nod, he gives you a faint smile. “Thank you.”

It’s more than he’s ever said to you in any of your interactions, and it makes your heart flutter, though you don’t show it.

“Anytime, Loki,” you reply, your voice steady, though your hands are trembling ever so slightly.

The next day, Odin makes his usual rounds through the court, his presence like a weight hanging over everyone. He speaks with courtiers, listens to reports from the generals, and gives out orders. But as usual, his praise for Thor is effusive, his voice rich with admiration.

It’s when you’re walking through the hall toward the council room that you catch the conversation between Odin and Thor. They’re speaking loudly enough for you to overhear, and you can’t help but wince as Odin lauds Thor’s latest achievement.

“Thor,” Odin says, his voice full of pride, “you’ve done the kingdom proud. Truly, your battle strategies are unmatched. I’m so glad to see you take your place as the leader Asgard needs.”

Thor laughs, clearly pleased, though there’s no sign of arrogance in him. “Thank you, Father. But I couldn’t have done it without the support of my allies.”

Odin waves off the sentiment with a chuckle, his voice warm. “Your humility is one of your finest qualities, my son.”

And that’s when it hits you—how blatant the favoritism is. How obvious it is that Odin is always quick to praise Thor, but Loki, despite his brilliance, is always left in the shadows.

Your chest tightens with the unfairness of it all. You’ve heard whispers before—how Odin has always placed Thor on a pedestal, how his approval has always been out of reach for Loki.

You’ve seen it yourself, in the way Odin looks at his sons. Thor, with his easy smiles and loud boisterousness, is clearly the favored one. Loki’s quieter, more calculating nature doesn’t seem to earn him that same adoration.

And something inside you snaps.

You’ve had enough of watching Loki suffer in silence. Enough of the obvious bias that Odin so openly displays.

With a deep breath, you step forward, deliberately interrupting the conversation between father and son.

“Lord Odin,” you say, your voice steady and louder than you expect. Both Odin and Thor turn toward you, surprised by your sudden interruption.

Odin’s eyes flicker over you, but his expression remains neutral. “Princess,” he greets, his tone polite but distant. “What is it you need?”

You take a step closer, finding the courage you’ve never had before to speak your mind. “I think it’s time someone pointed out something that’s been bothering me for some time,” you say, meeting Odin’s eyes with unwavering resolve.

Thor looks at you, clearly surprised, but Odin’s expression doesn’t change.

“I’ve noticed,” you continue, “that you never seem to acknowledge your sons equally. You give Thor praise, constantly sing his virtues, while Loki…” You glance over at him, who stands with his arms crossed, looking more uncomfortable than usual. “Loki deserves the same recognition, and it’s time someone said it.”

Thor’s eyes widen at your words, and Odin’s gaze sharpens, though he doesn’t immediately respond.

“Princess, this is a matter between my sons and I,” Odin says, his tone calm but with an edge that warns you to back down.

But you don’t. “It’s a matter of fairness,” you say, your voice unshaken. “Loki is just as capable, just as brilliant, and he deserves the same respect as Thor.”

For a long moment, there’s silence, a heavy, thick silence that seems to hang in the air. Odin’s eyes study you carefully, as if deciding whether or not to chastise you.

But then, to your surprise, he lets out a slow breath. “Perhaps you are right,” he says, his voice thoughtful, though still carrying the weight of authority. “I will consider your words, Princess.”

You nod, your heart pounding in your chest as you turn to leave. You know you’ve probably made a powerful enemy, but for once, it feels worth it.

As you walk away, you can’t help but glance back at Loki, who is now watching you with a look of surprise—and something else, something softer.

Later that night, you’re in your chambers, lost in your thoughts when a quiet knock at the door pulls you from your reverie.

You open it to find Loki standing there, his usual composed demeanor in place, though there’s something different in his expression.

“Loki,” you say, surprised to see him. “What’s wrong?”

“I wanted to thank you,” he says, his voice low and sincere. “You didn’t have to do that. But you did.”

You shrug, trying to appear casual despite the flutter in your chest. “It was the right thing to do.”

“I know,” he replies, his tone soft. “But that doesn’t make it any less… meaningful.” He hesitates, then takes a step closer, his eyes meeting yours. “You’ve… you’ve done more for me today than anyone has in a long time.”

The words settle between you, and for a moment, everything is quiet.

You don’t know what to say. But somehow, it doesn’t matter. The air between you is charged, but calm, like a storm that’s waiting to break.

And then, without thinking, you step forward, closing the distance between you.

Loki’s breath catches slightly, but he doesn’t pull away. His hand brushes yours, tentative but warm, and that’s when you both understand.

You look into each other’s eyes for a moment, the words unsaid but understood, and then you kiss—softly, tenderly, as if this moment, this connection, is something you both desperately need but never quite expected.

It’s gentle, quiet, and everything in between, and for the first time in a long time, you feel as though the walls between you are starting to fall.

The day after you stood up to Odin, something subtle but undeniable changes between you and Loki. The lingering tension that had once surrounded him, the cold barrier he had erected between himself and everyone, especially you, seems to soften just slightly. He still wears that aloof mask he’s perfected over years of deflecting people’s attention, but there are moments when he looks at you differently—like he sees you, really sees you, as something more than just the princess he was supposed to marry.

But of course, Loki is Loki, and despite the small shifts, he’s still a master of maintaining distance. He keeps his emotions locked away as tightly as his wit, but you’ve begun to notice the cracks. Maybe it’s in the way he lingers a little longer when you’re together, or how he catches your gaze in passing, holding it just a little longer than necessary.

Despite the changes between you two, the world around you continues to spin, and your role as the Princess of Asgard, as Loki’s wife, only grows more public.

The next day, after an awkward breakfast with Frigga, where she kept giving you knowing looks and you were pretty sure you heard her suppressing a sigh, you find yourself walking through the gardens, trying to escape the subtle whispers of court life.

As you stroll among the flowers, you hear footsteps behind you. A familiar, booming voice calls your name.

“Princess Y/N,” Thor’s deep voice rings out, and you stop, turning to face him.

Thor looks even more like the golden child of Asgard today, his wide smile blinding and a glimmer of guilt in his eyes. “I’ve been meaning to thank you, for what you did yesterday. Defending Loki like that.”

You tilt your head, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“I never saw it, you know?” He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “The way Father favors me and how much it’s hurt Loki. I’ve always thought he was… I don’t know, distant, difficult. I didn’t realize I was a part of the problem.”

You blink, a little surprised by his sincerity. You’ve never seen Thor look so humble, so… vulnerable. It’s a stark contrast to the loud, boisterous warrior he usually presents to the world. “You didn’t know?” you ask softly.

He shakes his head, his broad shoulders slumping a little. “No, not really. And I’m ashamed to admit it. But I never thought about how he might feel when all the praise I get… it takes away from what he deserves. Loki’s clever, more than anyone gives him credit for. I see it now. I see how I’ve made him feel… less.”

Your heart aches a little. There’s so much more to Thor than the world gives him credit for, and perhaps there’s more to Loki’s pain than you even realized.

“Thor,” you start, your voice a little unsure but kind. “I think you need to tell him that. He needs to hear it from you.”

Thor gives a tight nod, the look in his eyes both heavy and sincere. “I will. But… I wanted to talk to you first, because I didn’t want you to think that I… I didn’t care.” He pauses, as if weighing his next words carefully. “I know you’re in a difficult position, Y/N, especially with Loki…”

You shrug lightly. “It’s not difficult. He’s my husband, Thor. I have a duty to him, yes, but I also want to see him happy. I don’t want him to feel this way anymore, either.”

“I understand,” Thor says with a soft smile. “And I promise you, I’ll try to make things right between me and Loki. But thank you. Truly.”

He offers a warm, brotherly smile and pats you on the shoulder, making you smile back, a little touched by the earnestness in his voice. It’s rare to see Thor so serious, but in moments like this, you realize just how much he cares about his family—even if it’s a little too late.

As the conversation dies down, Thor bids you farewell, walking off in the opposite direction to presumably find his brother. You remain in the gardens for a few more minutes, deep in thought. There’s a strange, almost bittersweet tension in the air now, an unspoken understanding of the dynamic between the brothers.

The next day, you find yourself walking the palace halls when you catch sight of Loki. He’s talking to a group of Asgardian nobles, but the moment he notices you, his demeanor shifts instantly. His sharp, emerald eyes cut toward you, his mouth forming a thin line. He says something to the nobles, and they scatter quickly, leaving him alone in the corridor.

You pause for a moment, unsure of how to approach him. But before you can decide, Loki walks toward you, his footsteps purposeful. You can feel the chill of his presence before he even speaks.

“What was that, then?” Loki’s voice is cool, his usual aloofness cloaking his words.

You raise an eyebrow. “What are you talking about?”

His eyes narrow. “You and Thor,” he sneers slightly, as though saying his brother’s name leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. “You two spent an awfully long time together yesterday, didn’t you? Talking about me, no doubt. What was it this time? His concern for my well-being?”

You bite your lip, taking in the sharp edge of jealousy in his voice. You feel a slight pang of guilt, but you stand your ground. “We talked about you, yes. But it wasn’t to criticize you, Loki. It was about… understanding.”

Loki scoffs, crossing his arms tightly over his chest, and his gaze shifts toward the floor. “I see. Understanding.”

“You don’t have to do this,” you say, your voice softer now. “You don’t have to push everyone away. Not me. Not him.”

Loki’s head jerks up, and his eyes flash with something unreadable. “I push people away because I know how this ends, Y/N. Thor always takes what he wants. He took Father’s love, and now he wants to take you, too.”

The words hit you harder than you expect, the raw, vulnerable emotion in his voice twisting something deep inside you. You take a step toward him, but he recoils slightly, his posture rigid.

“You don’t have to be afraid of that,” you say, your voice barely a whisper, but there’s certainty in it. “Thor won’t take me from you. I won’t let him.”

Loki’s eyes flicker toward you, the flickering of something darker in his gaze before he presses his lips together in frustration. “How can you be so sure?” His voice cracks slightly, and you don’t know how to respond, except to step even closer to him.

His face softens for a fraction of a second—just long enough for you to see how fragile he really is, how deeply the idea of losing you, losing anything, is etched in him. You place a hand gently on his arm, your voice even softer now.

“I know because we talked. Thor and I. He knows the way you feel, Loki. He’s going to make things right between you two. You don’t have to push him away.”

Loki’s jaw tightens, and you can see the battle within him, the struggle to trust his brother again. But then, something shifts in him, and his gaze softens, if only for a moment.

“I don’t want to lose you,” Loki admits in a low voice, the words barely audible, as though he’s afraid of speaking them too loud, afraid of what they might mean.

You reach up, gently cupping his cheek, your thumb brushing lightly over his skin, and he leans into your touch. “You won’t lose me, Loki. I’m not going anywhere.” Your voice is steady, and you see his breath hitch slightly as his emotions threaten to overwhelm him.

He looks away quickly, his throat tightening, but the tremor in his shoulders betrays him. “I don’t deserve you,” he mutters, barely holding it together.

“Don’t say that,” you reply firmly. “You’re not perfect. None of us are. But you deserve all the love and respect in the world. And I’m here, Loki. Always.”

He looks at you then, his expression softening with that familiar vulnerability you’ve seen fleetingly in the past few days, but it’s stronger now, more present than ever before. Without thinking, you pull him into an embrace, wrapping your arms around him tightly. For a long moment, he doesn’t respond, his body stiff in your arms, but then he exhales slowly, his breath shaky, and finally, he holds you back.

The weight of everything between you two finally lifts, and the walls crumble a little more. The steady rhythm of his breathing in your arms is all you need to know that he feels safe.

Later that night, when you retire to your chambers, Loki follows you, a quiet presence in the doorway.

You look at him, feeling something deep inside you—a need for closeness, for reassurance that everything will be okay. “Stay with me?” you ask softly, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you see something like relief wash over his face.

“I don’t think I can ever go back,” he says quietly, his voice laced with exhaustion, vulnerability.

You reach for him, and without another word, Loki walks into your arms, settling beside you on the bed. You pull the blankets up around both of you, and without a word, you curl up against him.

His arm drapes around you naturally, and you breathe in the warmth of his presence, the security of knowing that, no matter what happens, you

’ve found something real between you two.

“Thank you,” Loki murmurs softly, as if you’ve given him everything he’s ever wanted, even when you haven’t fully realized it yourself.

You smile, tracing circles on his chest with your fingers, whispering back, “No need for thanks. Just stay here, with me.”

The night deepens, and the world outside your chambers is cloaked in quiet, but inside, there’s an unmistakable warmth that envelopes both of you. Loki’s arm around you feels like the most natural thing in the world. As the minutes pass, you rest your head against his chest, listening to the rhythmic thrum of his heartbeat beneath your ear. There’s a comfort in the silence, in just being close to him. You feel safe here, as if this moment is yours and yours alone, something you both can keep in the quiet intimacy of the night.

Loki doesn’t speak, but the occasional brush of his lips against your temple is all the words you need. Each kiss is a small promise, gentle and soft, as though he’s trying to tell you everything his voice cannot. The warmth of his lips against your skin lingers long after he pulls back, and the weight of the past few months—the distance, the uncertainty, the doubts—slowly begins to dissolve. You realize now that it was never about the marriage contract, nor the obligations that bound you together; it was about this—this connection between the two of you that had always been there, waiting for the right moment to surface.

You kiss him back, tentatively at first, but as you feel him pull you closer, your kisses deepen. They’re slow and deliberate, as though you both want to savor this, to make sure it isn’t just a fleeting moment but a beginning. His lips are warm and soft, and every time they meet yours, there’s a spark—a connection that has been years in the making, one that now feels as though it’s blooming into something beautiful, fragile, and new.

The kisses grow longer, more meaningful, as if both of you are learning how to express the things you’ve kept hidden for so long. Loki’s hand gently cradles your face, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw, as if memorizing the feel of your skin. He deepens the kiss slightly, and you meet him with equal fervor, the world outside fading away until there’s nothing left but the two of you, tangled in the quiet intimacy of shared tenderness.

When the kiss finally breaks, neither of you moves, just breathing in the same air. Loki’s forehead rests gently against yours, and you can feel the warmth of his breath, still heavy with emotion.

“Stay here,” he murmurs, his voice low and filled with something you can’t quite put into words. It’s a question, but more than that, it’s a plea—a quiet request for this peace to last.

“I will,” you reply softly, your hand resting on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart under your palm. And you mean it, more than anything. You know that, in this moment, everything between you has changed.

The night goes on quietly, both of you finding comfort in each other’s presence, the soft and tender kisses gradually fading into the warmth of shared silence. It’s a perfect peace, a moment of vulnerability and connection that neither of you had ever expected but now can’t imagine living without.

As the days pass, the dynamic between you and Loki shifts. What once seemed like a forced relationship, something borne out of duty and circumstance, is now something more. The distance that once existed between you two has shrunk, replaced by an ease that only comes when two people begin to trust each other in ways neither expected. Your interactions are now filled with light touches, shared glances, and quiet smiles. There’s a softness in Loki’s demeanor that wasn’t there before—a gentleness that’s slowly replacing the walls he’s built around himself.

You see it in the way he looks at you, the way he seeks out your presence even when there’s no need for it. There’s an undeniable shift in his behavior, one that others notice, too.

Frigga, ever observant, notices the change in the air the moment she steps into the palace halls. She smiles knowingly when she sees the way Loki watches you during breakfast, his eyes soft and full of affection. It’s the first time she’s seen him like this in a long while—less guarded, more present. She watches you both from across the room, her heart swelling with a mix of pride and relief. For all the missteps and misunderstandings, she’s always known that the two of you could find something real.

Thor, too, sees the change, though he’s not as subtle in his observations. He slaps Loki on the back one afternoon, his booming laugh echoing through the palace halls. “Well, well! Looks like someone’s finally figured it out,” he teases, a wide grin plastered on his face.

Loki stiffens at first, but then the corner of his lips quirks up, a smirk that’s less mocking and more content than it’s ever been. “What do you mean?” Loki asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Don’t play coy,” Thor says, his tone playful. “I’ve seen the way you look at her. It’s about time, brother.”

Loki sighs, rolling his eyes dramatically. “I’m not in the mood for your commentary, Thor.”

But even as he says this, there’s a subtle flush to his cheeks, a fleeting moment of embarrassment that makes you chuckle softly. Loki’s pride may be as sharp as ever, but there’s a vulnerability there too, one that he tries to hide behind his biting sarcasm and quick wit.

As the days go by, your connection to Loki only deepens. The two of you spend more time together, finding moments of quiet solace amid the chaos of palace life. You talk—about everything and nothing at all. You learn more about each other in those quiet, unspoken moments than you ever did in the months before. It’s in the way he brushes your hair out of your face when it falls in your eyes or how he looks at you when you laugh at something absurd he says. It’s in the way he remembers small details about you, like the way you take your tea or how you always tie your shoes in the same knot.

The change doesn’t go unnoticed by the people around you. The courtiers whisper about it, the nobles gossip behind their fans. They notice the way Loki looks at you when you enter the room, how his eyes soften when you speak. They notice how the two of you sit together at dinner, heads close, sharing small private jokes no one else seems to understand. The shift in the way he treats you is almost palpable, and it doesn’t take long for the rest of the palace to catch on.

But the real surprise comes from the children.

It starts innocently enough. One evening, as you walk through the palace gardens with Loki, you hear giggling in the distance. When you look around, you see a group of young children playing near the fountain. They stop as soon as they notice you, eyes widening before they run over to you, their faces alight with excitement.

“Princess Y/N!” one of them exclaims, a little girl with bright red hair. “Is it true that you and Prince Loki are really married now?”

You raise an eyebrow, surprised by the question, but before you can answer, another child chimes in.

“Yes! I heard you two are so in love!” The child’s voice is full of awe, as though this is the most magical thing they’ve ever heard.

Loki scoffs, but there’s a teasing glint in his eyes. “I assure you, we’re simply fulfilling our duties. Nothing more.”

But the children aren’t convinced. They gather around you, bombarding you with questions. “When will you have babies?” one of them asks innocently.

You blush deeply, not quite sure how to handle the question. Loki looks absolutely mortified, but there’s an amused edge to his expression.

“Well,” you start, unsure of what to say, “we haven’t really discussed that yet. But we’re very happy.”

“Oh, I bet you are!” another child giggles, clearly not taking you seriously. “You two are always together now. You must be so in love!”

Loki looks at you in mild horror. “What have we gotten ourselves into?”

You laugh, feeling the warmth in your chest spread. “I think we’ve just become a fairytale, Loki.”

The children’s excitement doesn’t end there. The next day, they’re playing again, this time reenacting your supposed “love story” with elaborate costumes. They insist on calling you and Loki the “Royal Lovers of Asgard,” and you can’t help but smile at their innocent enthusiasm. It’s impossible not to see the joy they find in the idea of your relationship, an idea that, in their eyes, is full of magic and wonder. The way they view you both—so wrapped up in this imagined romance—is innocent and sweet, and it makes you realize how far you and Loki have come.

As the days go by, the children’s stories spread throughout the palace. The courtiers begin whispering more frequently about the Royal Lovers, and soon enough, even the servants are in on the tale. You and Loki have become the subject of countless stories, both real and imagined. The court’s expectations of your relationship have shifted, but for the first time, it feels like you’re not just playing a part anymore. You’re both actively shaping this life, together.

And for all the teasing from Thor and the gossips from the children, there’s a part of you that feels proud of what you’ve built. It may have started as a duty, a contract forged by fate, but now it feels like something more. You and Loki are no longer bound by obligation alone. There’s affection, there’s trust, and there’s something deeper—something far more real.

It’s not the fairytale the kingdom expected, but it’s yours. And somehow, that feels perfect.

part 2 with royal kids? ;)

316 notes · View notes

lupinqs · 4 months ago

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CHAPTER ELEVEN ━━ Home, For Christmas

☆ ━ pairing: hopkins!paige x oc (dani callan)

☆ ━ word count: 4.3K

☆ ━ warnings: subtle talks of dani’s bitchass homophobic dad what’s new

☆ ━ links: my masterlist, take me to church masterlist

☆ ━ author’s note: in honor of gameday 🫡sorry this took so long you guys!!!! hopefully the next one won’t lol ALSO! y’all i wrote julia in for a reason, she will end up being important :)

CHRISTMAS DAY at her grandparents’ house is always cozy and warm, filled with laughter and the smell of cinnamon and pine. Dani’s family fills the living room, sprawled across couches, perched on armchairs, and gathered around the fireplace. Her aunts and uncles are trading stories, her little cousins are running around in holiday pajamas, and there’s a pile of presents under the tree, each one wrapped in brightly colored paper.

Dani sits in the corner of the couch, balancing her youngest aunt Julia’s newborn, Grey, in her lap. She’s been fawning over him all day, enchanted by his tiny fingers and the little yawns he lets out every now and then. His downy dark hair sticks up at odd angles, and his soft little hands rest against her arm as she holds him, his eyes drifting closed with that peaceful look babies seem to have mastered.

Julia, who’s only twenty-five and just as warm and lovely as Dani remembers from her childhood, sits beside her, watching Dani with a smile. “You’ve got the magic touch, Dani,” she says, nudging her gently. “He hasn’t fallen asleep for anyone else yet today.”

Dani grins, glancing down at Grey as he lets out a tiny sigh. “Guess he knows I’m his favorite already,” she jokes, stroking the baby’s soft cheek.

Julia shifts a little, leaning back against the couch, and after a moment, she glances sideways at Dani. “How’s your dad been doing?” she asks quietly, her tone careful.

Dani rolls her eyes, her expression slipping into something neutral. “It’s… whatever,” she says, keeping her voice low. “We don’t really talk much.”

Julia nods, understanding written all over her face. “Yeah. Me neither.” There’s a heaviness to her voice, and Dani knows why. Julia is certainly not married to Grey’s father, him having left long before Grey was born. It’s something that Dani’s dad has shamed Julia for, his conservative views casting his half sister as some kind of disgrace. Dani’s heard the things he’s said about her—heard him scoff at Julia’s life choices like they were some kind of moral failure.

She looks at Julia, her heart aching for her. “I’m sorry,” Dani says quietly. “He’s like that with everything, not just you.”

Julia lets out a soft sigh, her gaze drifting to Grey, who’s now fully asleep, his little face relaxed and peaceful. “I know,” she murmurs. “But it still sucks. I just wish he could see… it’s not like I planned for things to turn out this way. But I love Grey. And I wouldn’t trade him for anything.” She smiles down at her son, her expression soft and full of love. “It’s just a difficult situation.”

Dani nods, her throat tight. “Yeah. I get it.” She glances down at Grey, feeling the familiar warmth in her chest. She doesn’t understand why her dad has to be so harsh, so unwilling to forgive. She’s been on that side of things when her own secret came to light, and when that same judgment had been turned on her, it was terrible.

Dani adjusts her grip on Grey, who shifts a little in his sleep, tiny fingers curling around the edge of her sweater.

After a moment, Julia speaks again, her voice soft. “So… are you and Paige still not talking?” she asks, her tone careful, but curious. “Last I heard, you two weren’t friends anymore.”

Dani’s stomach tightens a little, her gaze shifting to the floor. Julia’s met Paige plenty of times—Paige was practically family, as far as her grandparents and aunts were concerned. Dani can still remember how much her mom adored Paige, how her mom used to say that Paige was the best thing to happen to her, that Paige brought out this light in her daughter that she hadn’t seen in anyone else. It’s something that, in her quiet moments, Dani clings to—thinking that maybe her mom really would have understood her situation.

“Paige was always so sweet,” Julia continues, almost wistfully. “And I remember how much your mom loved her, Dani. She always said Paige was the best friend you could ever have.”

Dani sighs, feeling the weight of it all pressing down on her. Her chest tightens with the urge to spill everything—to tell Julia about how it was so much more than just friendship, how Paige is basically her entire world, how they love each other in a much different way than most know. Dani knows Julia isn’t homophobic, and she can’t imagine Julia judging her, especially after everything Julia herself has been through with her dad and such.

But the words catch in her throat. Her fear is too strong, a familiar, icy weight. She imagines what would happen if anything she said got back to her dad, even by accident. She remembers the camp, the isolation, the way it felt like she was being slowly erased. The thought of going back there makes her stomach twist with dread.

She takes a slow breath, then finally says, “No, we’re still not friends.” Her voice is flat, and she hates how empty it sounds. “And we’re… we’re not ever going to be friends again.”

Julia frowns, reaching over to place a comforting hand on Dani’s arm. “I’m sorry, Dani. That must be so hard. Losing a friend like that… I can only imagine.”

Dani just nods, swallowing back the ache in her throat. “Yeah,” she murmurs, her gaze fixed on Grey, who’s still blissfully asleep. “It is.”

Julia gives her a soft smile, a silent offer of comfort, but Dani barely notices, her mind drifting to thoughts of Paige. She feels like she’s buried that love as deeply as she can—hidden it away in a place where her dad and the church can’t touch it.

And she’s going to stay that way. Because that is what is going to keep it safe.

DANI SINKS into her blankets, watching Christmas Vacation play on her laptop, the warmth of the bed comforting against the bite of winter outside. She’d asked her dad to watch the movie with her, hoping for at least a little shared Christmas cheer, but he’d just brushed her off with a brief mutter of how tired he was. So here she is, alone, her room dimly lit, a quiet feeling of loneliness settling in.

The Griswold family is just finishing fitting their huge Christmas tree in their living room when Dani’s phone lights up beside her. She glances down and finds Paige’s name on her screen. Her heart does a little flip as she picks it up, biting back a smile.

Paige ❤️‍🔥

You home yet?

Dani ❤️‍🔥

yeah i got home like an hour ago

Paige ❤️‍🔥

you doing anything?

Dani pauses, glancing at her screen.

Dani ❤️‍🔥

watching christmas vacation in my bed

She sends the message and internally cringes a little as she realizes how lonely it sounds.

Paige ❤️‍🔥

By yourself?

Come over and watch it with me and my fam

Dani laughs softly, rolling her eyes. Of course Paige wouldn’t let her stay alone, not tonight. Paige always has that unwavering energy, that impulsive streak that Dani has never been able to resist.

Dani ❤️‍🔥

paige my dad’s home

Paige ❤️‍🔥

Sneak out!!!

I’ll come get you by your window

Dani stares at the screen, a little stunned, a little thrilled. Her fingers hover over the screen, her thumb hesitating over the keyboard.

Dani ❤️‍🔥

you’re insane

Paige ❤️‍🔥

And yet ur not saying no 😁😁

A grin tugs at Dani’s lips, and she feels her pulse quicken. She glances at her door, hoping and praying for her sake that her dad was true on his word and that he’s asleep, then quietly swings her legs off the bed. Closing her laptop, she grabs her thickest hoodie from her chair, pulling it over her head. She finds her Uggs under the bed, slipping them on and making her way to the window, heart pounding in anticipation. Her fingers fumble a bit as she undoes the lock, the cold air hitting her face the moment she slides it open.

Peering outside, she feels her heart skip as she spots Paige standing below. Paige is bundled up in her coat, hands deep in her pockets, and despite the shivering, she’s grinning up at Dani like this is the most natural thing in the world. Snow has started to fall again, gentle flakes catching in Paige’s hair and dusting her shoulders. She looks really pretty.

“Hey!” Paige calls up softly, her voice a mix of excitement and impatience. “You comin’ down, or what?”

Dani can’t help the smile that spreads across her face. She leans out a little, gripping the window frame for balance. “This is so stupid, you know that?” she whispers, trying not to laugh too loud.

Paige just shrugs, her grin undeterred. “Live a little!”

Dani laughs softly, the sound swallowed by the stillness of the night. She glances down, assessing the climb, feeling a pang of nervousness when she sees just how far the ground looks. Her window isn’t exactly low, and she can’t be sure the snow is soft. She swallows, feeling her pulse quicken as she considers her next move.

“Paige,” she whispers, trying to keep her voice down but still sounding panicked, “I’m going to fall!”

“If you do, I’ll catch you!” Paige whispers back, her voice carrying a confidence that only makes Dani’s heart beat faster. “Besides, there’s like a foot of fresh snow down here. You’ll be fine.”

Paige waves, motioning for her to climb down. Dani takes a deep breath, telling herself she’s done more dangerous things in her life than sneaking out of her own house. She slowly climbs through the window, her fingers gripping the cold edges of the siding as she carefully makes her way down. She’s almost to the bottom, just a couple of feet away from the ground, when her foot slips on the last ledge.

She lets out a small yelp, her fingers losing their grip, and she starts to tumble. There’s a split second of weightlessness, her heart in her throat, and then Paige’s arms are around her, just enough to slow her fall before they both collapse into the snow in a heap. The impact sends a puff of snow up around them, freezing and soft at the same time. Dani’s breath catches as she feels Paige’s arms around her, the warmth of her body cutting through the biting cold.

For a moment, they just lie there in the snow, laughing softly, breathless and tangled together. Their faces are close, so close that Dani can feel Paige’s breath against her cheek, warm and sweet, mingling with the cold night air. Paige’s cheeks are flushed pink, her nose red from the cold, and there’s a light in her eyes that makes Dani’s heart skip a beat.

Paige reaches up, brushing a few stray snowflakes from Dani’s face, her fingers lingering on her cheek. “You good?” she asks softly, her voice barely more than a whisper.

Dani nods, her own cheeks flushed. She’s suddenly hyper-aware of every point of contact between them—their knees, their hands, the faint tremor in Paige’s touch as her fingers trace along Dani’s cheek. She shivers, but this time, it has nothing to do with the cold.

Paige nods back, looking thoughtful, her hand dropping to swipe a bit of snow off Dani’s shoulder. She glances around, making sure no one’s watching, before leaning in. Her eyes search Dani’s face for a moment, just a flicker of hesitation, before she closes the distance, her lips brushing softly against Dani’s.

The kiss is barely more than a whisper, a featherlight touch that’s over almost as soon as it begins. But it leaves Dani breathless, her heart racing in her chest as she looks up at Paige. There’s a warmth in Paige’s eyes that makes Dani’s stomach flutter, a tenderness that feels like the best Christmas gift she’s ever received.

Paige pulls back, her eyes sparkling with mischief, a soft smile tugging at her lips. “Come on,” she whispers, her voice warm, filled with a quiet joy that Dani feels mirrored in her own chest. Paige helps her to her feet, brushing snow off their coats as they stand together, grinning like conspirators in the snowy silence.

They link arms, Paige’s hand slipping into Dani’s pocket to hold her hand, the feeling of Paige’s fingers warming her whole body up. Together, they start making their way toward Paige’s house, the snow crunching beneath their feet, their laughter echoing softly in the stillness of the night.

They go through the back door of Paige’s house, each of them letting out a relieved sigh as the warmth surrounds them, chasing away the icy chill of the Minnesota night. Dani takes a moment to close her eyes, basking in the feeling of warmth creeping back into her fingers and toes, the familiar smell of cookies, cinnamon, and evergreen filling the air.

There in the kitchen, Drew is perched on a stool by the island, his legs swinging idly as he chews on a Christmas cookie dusted with red and green sprinkles. Bob, Paige’s dad, stands near the stove, pulling sprinkles out of a cabinet. A tray of freshly baked cookies cools on the counter, the sweet scent drifting through the room. Bob’s face lights up when he sees Dani and Paige sneaking in, a broad grin stretching across his face.

“Dani! Merry Christmas!” he exclaims, waving her over as if she were his own daughter. “I saved a couple cookies for you, but they almost fell victim to that creature—” he points to Drew, who giggles at the wording, frosting dusting the corners of his mouth “—over there.”

Dani laughs, an easy grin drifting to her face as she says, “I can see that. Thanks for letting me come over; I didn’t mean to intrude on family Christmas.”

Paige rolls her eyes, her hand on Dani’s hip as she pushes her toward the island. “Shut up, Dan, you’re never intruding.”

“She’s right,” Bob says cheerily, grabbing a couple plain cookies from the tray and placing them in front of the two empty stools next to Drew. “You’re family, Dani.”

Dani feels her face flush at his words, and her chest warms, too. It’s nice to know that they’re glad she’s here, that they don’t feel as though she’s intruding, that maybe she really belongs in this corner of her world. She’d really, really like to.

Dani sits on the bar stool next to Drew, and Paige sits on the other one so the brunette girl is in between the two Bueckers siblings. However, it seems as though the small distance between Dani and Paige is too much, because Dani feels Paige’s hand graze her thigh as she grabs hold of the stool Dani’s sat on, pulling it so close to her own that the two of them are practically sharing a seat. Their shoulders press against each other, as do the sides of their legs, and it’s enough to send a warm jolt through Dani.

Dani sends a little look to Paige, her brows raised ever so slightly, smirk playing her lips.

“What?” Paige asks, though she’s got a look that mirrors the Callan girl’s. “You were too far.”

Dani just shakes her head at the blonde’s words, watching as she grabs the remote and flicks through the Christmas movies until she finds Christmas Vacation, having told Dani that she should watch it with them instead and holding onto her word.

Dani feels a smile lifting her lips as she reaches for a cookie in the tray in front of her, placing it on her plate. She grabs a piping bag, too, squeezing a tiny bit of green icing onto her finger just to get a taste.

“Oh, you’re gettin’ into the icing already?” Paige teases, leaning in with an arched brow. She grabs her own piping bag and, without warning, dabs a bit of red frosting on the tip of Dani’s nose, laughing as Dani’s eyes widen.

Dani gasps, swatting at her with a laugh. “Paige!” she exclaims, grabbing her green icing before leaning over and spreading some onto Paige’s cheek in retaliation.

Paige’s mouth open in mock outrage, but before she can protest herself, Drew interrupts with a grin, reaching for another piping bag, and asking, “Are we having an icing fight?”

The seven-year-old’s words seem to catch Bob’s attention, who turns from where he was watching the movie to see what’s happening behind him. Dani watches his eyes trail over the green on her nose and the red on his daughter’s cheek and he gives them a playfully stern look before telling Drew, “No, buddy, no icing fight. You’ll get on Santa’s Naughty List next year if you do.”

Drew laughs a little, pointing at the two girls sitting next to him and saying, “Ooh, Naughty List.”

Paige just playfully sticks her tongue out at her little brother before grabbing a napkin. She dramatically uses it to wipe the red icing off of her cheek, before balling it up and tossing it back onto the island. Dani rolls her eyes at the blonde’s dramatics, reaching to grab her own napkin to clean up her nose. But Paige swats at the hand Dani was reaching. Dani sends Paige a look, watching as the girl beside her cautiously glances at her dad and Drew—whose attention’s have both been captured by the movie—before leaning in and grinning as she kisses the tip of Dani’s nose and then sticks her tongue out to lick the icing away. She pulls back and Dani’s sure her face is red—especially due to the proximity of Paige’s family—but Paige is just smiling mischievously, using her tongue to swipe away any remaining frosting on her lips.

Dani finally takes the liberty to actually decorate her cookie, deciding for the traditional Christmas tree route. She’s spreading the green icing along the sugar cookie carefully, her eyes occasionally flicking between Christmas Vacation and Paige decorating her own cookie. It’s more endearing to watch the latter—she’s decorating with exaggerated precision (though if Dani’s honest, she can’t tell what the glob of frosting is meant to look like… it might be an ornament), her tongue sticking out in concentration, her hair falling into her face ever so slightly. Dani flicks her eyes away, back to her own handiwork.

At one point, Paige leans over to whisper to Dani, “Look at Drew’s cookie… the sprinkles…”

Dani does as the blonde says, her gaze finding Drew, to the left of her. He’s humming quietly to himself, concentrating on drowning his cookie in red and green sprinkles, his fingers sticky and his cheeks dusted with sugar. Dani stifles a giggle as she leans in even closer to see the cookie piled high with so many sprinkles that it’s almost unrecognizable. She catches Paige’s eye, and they both burst into quiet laughter, trying not to let Drew hear.

“Hey, it’s nice!” Drew defends, noticing their stifled laughter.

From where he’s standing, Bob chuckles, watching the exchange with a fond smile. “You’re doing great, Drew,” he says, reaching over to ruffle his son’s hair, eyes flicking across the three cookies the kids before him are making. “Though, I think you and Paige both have some competition in Dani here.”

Dani watches as Paige looks at her dad in betrayal, though it’s true—her cookie is terrible. Dani just grins, nodding, nudging Paige’s knee under the counter. “Years of practice,” the brunette says in a mock-serious tone before carefully adding a few more sprinkles to her cookie.

Paige rolls her eyes, mumbling, “Whatever. Mine tastes better.”

CHRISTMAS VACATION ended not too long ago, and Drew and Bob went upstairs to bed, leaving Dani and Paige alone. The warm glow of the tree casts a soft light over the living room, and Home Alone now plays quietly on the screen, adding to the late-night comfort. Dani’s curled up against Paige, the two of them snuggled under a thick fleece blanket, Paige’s arm wrapped securely around her. Dani lets herself drift, lulled by the movie, the warmth, the way Paige’s fingers trace soft circles over her shoulder.

But then Paige shifts slightly beneath her, murmuring, “So… I know we promised not to get each other anything…”

Dani’s eyes immediately flick from the TV to Paige, her brow furrowing as she pulls back slightly, a hint of accusation in her gaze. “Tell me you didn’t get me something.”

Paige, looking a little sheepish, averts her eyes and rubs the back of her neck, mumbling, “Well…”

“Paige!” Dani sits up fully now, her voice holding a mixture of surprise and mild reproach. “We promised not to!”

“I know, I know!” Paige protests, her face flushed as she tries to defend herself. “And I wasn’t going to, I swear! But then I was at the mall literally yesterday, just doing some last-minute shopping for my family, and—” She pauses, looking a bit embarrassed but determined to explain. “I saw this thing that really reminded me of you…”

Dani sighs, her shoulders dropping a little as she shakes her head. “Paige…”

“I know,” Paige says quickly, hands lifted in a half-hearted attempt at appeasement. “But it was on sale because of the holidays! I hardly spent any money on it.”

Dani narrows her eyes, trying not to let the affection she feels soften her mock glare. “Still. I feel bad. If I’d known you’d gotten me something, I would’ve gotten you something.”

“Don’t feel bad,” Paige says, shaking her head earnestly. “I was the one who went against our promise, not you.”

They fall silent for a moment, the only sound in the room coming from the movie on the TV. Dani’s gaze flickers to Paige, whose face is shadowed in the dim light. There’s something vulnerable in the way Paige looks at her, something almost tentative, and it makes Dani’s heart ache in a way she can’t quite name.

Finally, Paige speaks up again, her voice soft. “Can I go get it?”

Dani nods, and Paige disentangles herself from their cozy nest of blankets, slipping upstairs while Dani stays on the couch, her mind racing a little. She knows Paige put thought into this, that whatever it is, it’s going to mean something.

Moments later, Paige is bounding down the stairs again, a tiny jewelry box held carefully in her hand. She pauses by the couch, her gaze flickering between the box and Dani, and Dani watches her, heart thudding with a mix of anticipation and warmth.

“Here,” Paige says softly, holding out the box as she sits back down beside Dani, even closer than before, their entire sides pressed up against each other.

Dani takes the box, feeling the slight weight of it in her hands, and slowly lifts the lid. Inside is a delicate silver necklace, the pendant small and simple—almost nondescript, but close up she can see the engraving on it, the tiny, intricate letters that spell out a single word: home.

Dani’s breath catches as she stares down at the pendant, her fingers trembling slightly as she lifts it. She can feel her throat tighten, emotion welling up inside her as the weight of the word hits her fully. It’s more than a necklace; it’s a message, a reminder of everything Paige has been to her, a promise that wherever Paige is, she’ll always have a place to belong.

She glances up at Paige, her eyes stinging, her voice barely above a whisper. “You… you really thought of me when you saw this?”

Paige nods, her gaze soft and steady, her fingers reaching out to brush lightly against Dani’s. “Yeah,” she says, her voice equally soft, almost like she’s afraid of breaking the moment. “I know things have been… hard, with your dad and everything. I just… I wanted you to have something that reminds you that you’ll always have a home with me. No matter what.”

Dani feels the tears slip down her cheeks, and she doesn’t bother to wipe them away. She just lets the words sink in, lets herself feel the weight of Paige’s thoughtfulness, her kindness, the unwavering support Paige always seems to offer, even when Dani feels like she doesn’t deserve it.

“Thank you,” she whispers, her voice barely audible.

Paige moves closer, pulling Dani into a hug, her arms wrapping securely around her. She rests her chin on top of Dani’s head, her fingers gently stroking her back, and Dani melts into her, closing her eyes and breathing in Paige’s familiar scent.

“I love you,” Paige murmurs into her hair, her voice soft and steady, filled with a warmth that wraps around Dani like a blanket.

Dani’s own arms tighten around Paige, and she whispers back, “I love you, too.”

They stay like that for a moment, wrapped up in each other, the rest of the world fading away. Then, slowly, Paige pulls back, her gaze meeting Dani’s, and there’s a question in her eyes, one Dani answers by leaning in, pressing her lips softly to Paige’s.

The kiss is gentle, almost tentative at first, a quiet meeting of emotions unspoken. But as the seconds stretch, Dani lets herself get lost in it, her hand slipping up to rest against Paige’s cheek, her fingers brushing along her jaw. Paige’s hand finds the small of Dani’s back, pulling her in closer, and Dani feels her heart pounding, the warmth of Paige’s touch grounding her, steadying her.

When they finally pull back, their faces are close, their breaths mingling, and Dani can’t help but smile, the kind of smile that’s soft and true, filled with a happiness she rarely allows herself to feel.

Paige grins back, her fingers brushing over Dani’s cheek as she murmurs, “Merry Christmas, Dani.”

Dani’s voice is quiet, but full of warmth. “Merry Christmas, Paige.”

#paige bueckers #uconn wbb #hopkins p fic #take me to church #paige bueckers fic #uconn huskies #wbb #uconn #wcbb #paige bueckers smut #paige bueckers fluff #paige bueckers x oc #paige bueckers x reader

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blackynsupremacy · 2 months ago

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THIS CHRISTMAS

pairing: nicholas a. chavez x black!fem!reader

summary: celebrating christmas with your husband and daughter has never been sweeter.

contains: holiday cheer and fluff, established relationship, reader and nicholas are married, wife/mom!reader, husband/dad!nicholas, just holly jolly vibes, kissing, cuddling, a little suggestiveness, nicholas calls his daughter “butterfly”.

a/n: MERRY CHRISTMAS SHAWTIES!

taglist: @greengoblinswifey @thabiddie23 @hopefully-saturn @jkr820 @hoffmansgirl @austeenbootler @niteskysx @sabrinasopposite @thabiddie23 @hnch33rios @xoxoglittergossip @supaprettyg @motherismotheringggg @oscarisaackissmykitty @simply-lovley44 @elitesanjisimp @gxuxhdjdu @venic-bxtch @stargirl-mayaa @miguelspvssy

“mommy! daddy! wake up! it’s christmas!”

the elated voice of your five-year-old daughter, armani, woke you and your husband, nicholas, up out of your slumber as she was jumping at the foot of your bed in her pink, buffalo plaid pajama set along with a matching pink, silk bonnet to protect her freshly, braided hair with beads. with a yawn and stretch, your eyes slowly open to look over at the digital clock on your nightstand that read eight a.m. sharp.

“mhm—that’s right, ‘mani.” you rub the sleep out of your eyes to clearly get a glimpse of the pristine blanket of snow that covered every inch of the yard like a winter fantasy. you found that to be absolutely perfect for a day like this. you open your arms to your daughter who wastes no time to snuggle within your lap, you hug her to your chest and place a kiss atop of the silk of her headwrap.

“you ready to see what santa got you, my love?” you question with a whisper, armani hastily nodded, but she was hesitant.

“yeah—but, not without daddy.” she responded also in a whisper. you smile. armani loved you both immensely, but it was no lie that she was a daddy’s girl, so you let her do the honors. the little girl rolls over to shake your snoring husband’s shoulder.

“daaaaaddy! wake upppp!” she urged pushing him as if he were an hundred pound log that was impossible to move.

“nooo, five more minutes…” nicholas grumbled, pulling the covers tighter over his body.

“nuh-uh!” with a pout, armani shook her head. “i can’t waitttt! i want to see what santa got and i don’t want to do it without you, pleaseee!” with a pout she begged and crawled over nicholas, hoping her father would muster the strength to free himself from the warm cocoon of blankets. armani repeatedly tapped his head and shoulders, causing you to chuckle. you loved that she was tenacious, a true fighter who knows what she wants. nicholas couldn’t knock it at all. with a sudden burst of energy, his arm came around to entrap armani in an embrace in which she squealed loudly.

“daddy’s up now! good morning, butterfly.” he greets planting a kiss on the giggling girl’s cheek. you’ve always loved that nickname for her. when she was first born, he coined that for her because it was like she was in a cozy cocoon as a baby and as time passes by, she continues to grow and change into something as beautiful as a butterfly. you and nicholas were just a young twenty year old couple in college that happened to fool around one too many times which resulted in you getting pregnant. you were terrified because you thought that nicholas would surely leave, but it was the exact opposite. he was on his way to star in a soap opera and he still wanted to be there for you and his child, knowing he could support you both. it was a tough journey, but you found a love that grew deeper. when your daughter hit six months, nicholas popped the question. it wasn’t a huge wedding because you just didn’t have the time to plan all of it, but it was still a joyous day nonetheless.

armani excitedly greets him back with a kiss on his cheek, his eyes then land on you watching the whole thing as your melodious laughter fills the room. he observes with a mischievous grin,

“what’s so funny, gorgeous? i bet you want what she’s having. c’mere!” he quips and you try to protest, but it’s too late as you’re already scooped by nicholas’ free arm to be glued by his side while your daughter resides in his lap.

“merry christmas, girls!” he enthusiastically chimed and you simultaneously return the greeting. armani urges you both to get a move on and open some gifts. all on one accord, you and your family washed your faces and brushed your teeth before venturing downstairs to the lit, decorated living room with nicholas by your side and armani on his hip. she’s so spoiled! the christmas tree was a sight for sore eyes as presents galore were perfectly aligned around the tree.

“yaaaaaay!” armani squirms within her dad’s arms for him chuckle and release her to the floor, her tiny feet scurrying around not knowing which present to open first. you and your husband were exhausted from setting out these presents while armani was in a deep slumber, so you took a seat on the couch and took out your phone to capture this moment. armani was estatic as she opened every gift to reveal an item that she wanted on her list. a barbie dream house, lol dollz, squishmallows, and the top two for being extra good during her first semester of kindergarten: a brand new bike and a tenth generation pink ipad with an apple pencil.

“look what i got! you see it, mommy? look, daddy!” she ran up to you both to reveal the packaged devices in which you both will set up later for her.

“that’s awesome, butterfly! that’s what you get for being such a good girl all year. i’m so proud of you—now, what do we always say when we get something, hm?” nicholas communicates, leaning forward on his knees while caressing his thumb over the honey skin of his daughter’s face to which she grins. you coo at the interaction.

“thank you so much! this is the best christmas ever.” she comes in to individually give you each a hug.

“that’s my girl!” nicholas commends returning the hug.

“you’re welcome, ‘mani! santa’s glad you’re enjoying everything.” you say with a knowing wink towards your husband.

“i got something for you too! wait, don’t move.” she hurriedly ran upstairs to retrieve the gift she made in school which was expertly hidden in her bedroom until christmas. as armani walks down she calls out in the distance,

“i’m coming. close your eyes, okay!?”

you and nicholas smile, complying to her request. you could hear the patter of her tiny feet scurry to you closer.

“you can open them now!” she proudly announced. you and nicholas are amazed to see the crafted gifts your daughter put so much thought into. for you, she made a bracelet that resembled those from taylor swift’s eras tour, successfully spelling the word, “MOMMY”. although you weren’t a big fan, you can’t resist belting out some songs with armani when the opportunity is presented because she adores the singer. for nicholas, it was a calender for the upcoming year, featuring her own unique artwork for each month. armani made it because nicholas’ schedule can get so hectic, so she thought the calendar would help him to keep track, he cherished it with his entire being. you both could cry in gratitude, but you scoop her into a group hug with a simultaneous “thank you.” after exchanging gifts with one another as a couple, nicholas thought it would be a great idea to to bundle up in the new matching north face winter gear he gifted for the family to have some fun in the snow while it was still early.

armani didn’t need an ounce of candy from her stocking for her to bounce off the walls in anticipation as you all got washed up and dressed. as soon as you stepped foot outside, all you could do was stare in awe at how much snow covered the area. it was like straight out of a christmas movie. you could already hear the soft clacking of your daughter’s hair beads as she moved around to scope the yard.

“be careful walking, baby girl, i don’t want you to fall, ‘kay?” you instruct and she responds with a nod.

“yes, ma’am. may we go now, daddy?” she questioned to nicholas, tugging on his arm. he looked at you both a mischievous smirk. lord, what is this man up to now?

“i don’t see why not, butterfly—the last one to make a snow angel is a stinky grinch!” he exclaimed to let go of armani’s hand to get a head start into the icy, white powder on the ground.

“oh, no he didn’t! c’mon, ‘mani.” you giggle and race with your daughter to follow after nicholas. before you know it, you’re all in your own space of snow, sprawling your limbs up and down to sculpt the perfect snow angel in the frosted covered earth. nicholas was first to get up from his spot to marvel at the indention he made. like the strong gentleman he is, he reaches out his arms for you and armani each to get you out of the snow. you take your phone out to snap a photo of the family of angels. as you were saving it to a special album in your phone, you didn’t expect for your back to be pelted by a speedball of ice, causing you to yelp at the sensation. you turned slowly with a playful menacing glare towards nicholas and armani who seem to look so “innocent”.

“a’ight. ‘fess up! who did that?” you interrogate them, crouching to the snow as you plot to get your lick back. once your icy spheres of ammo are locked and loaded within your gloved hands, you give them one more chance only for them to point the finger at each other.

“it was daddy!” armani defended.

“nah, don’t listen to her, babe. i swear i saw the whole thing. it was definitely armani.” nicholas rebutted with his hands up in surrender. you smirk with a low chuckle as if you were a supervillain,

“then i guess you leave me no choice.” you say, lifting your arms to aim the snowballs before throwing them in their direction to hit nicholas in his chest and armani in her stomach, causing you all to laugh, but now this means war. you all spent the next hour with your family running around the yard trying to see who can get the most hits followed by building your own snowman. you notice your daughter starting to shiver from the cold and that was your cue to go back inside for breakfast.

after dressing comfortably in a fresh pair of matching pajamas, nicholas sets the atmosphere by gathering some wood to burn in the fireplace while you and armani put the spread of breakfast along with mugs of hot chocolate together on the table. everybody took their seats, it was a lovely meal where you ate and talked about anything under the sun. you all took turns to decorate your hot chocolate with whip cream, chocolate sauce, and sprinkles. you giggle seeing that nicholas went overboard with the whip cream. after he took a sip from the red mug, it was all over his nose and upper lip.

“butterfly.” he calls, causing armani to turn her head. once she gets a glimpse of nicholas’ appearance, the room was instantly filled with her giggles.

“can i get a kiss?” he requested, grinning widely with his messy face.

“noooo!” armani refused her beads clacking as she shakes her head. nicholas pouted,

“why not, butterfly?”

“because you’re a mess, daddy! give mommy one.” she points in your direction to which you wave your hands in refusal, “mm-mm, ‘mani! i don’t want that either. take one for the team.” you say with a chuckle, taking a sip from your mug.

“okay, but if daddy kisses me, i want another present.”

“what would that be, boo?” you ask, yours and nicholas’ brows raise in piqued curiosity.

“hmm—y’know i love you and daddy so much?”

“of course and we love you so much, butterfly.” nicholas affirmed and you nod in agreement by placing a kiss on her forehead.

“i want a baby!” the five year old announces with a beaming voice. you choke on your drink a bit at hearing the words come out, nicholas calmly chimes in to clarify.

“you mean like a baby doll or a real baby?”

armani sighs and palms her face, eager to get her point across. “a real baby, daddy! i just want someone to play with—so, if i give you a kiss, there’ll be a baby next year?” nicholas gave you a glance as you both pondered on the thought. it wouldn’t be so bad. you felt you got some footing on this parenting thing. your careers are established and you’re financially stable. there’s no denial that your baby had grown so fast. it felt like yesterday that she was barely crawling on her first christmas and now, she’s making and giving away her own gifts. you see it from her side as well, having siblings could be such a blessing when the foundation of the relationship is real love, so you give in.

“okay, armani, you got it, but you gotta be patient—really patient.”

“yes!” the girl cheered, she raised her arms before patting her face towards her dad, “hurry, daddy, hurry!” nicholas didn’t waste time to lift her in his arms to plant a sweet kiss to her face which was now covered in the whip cream. she squealed at the sensation to wipe away the mess.

once the kitchen was clean and you made some phone calls of holiday greetings to some family members, you all lay back on the sofa to have a christmas movie marathon starting with none other than home alone. you all enjoy in the classic slapstick hijinks of kevin mcallister. nicholas being the movie geek he is, spoke softly to put in some commentary regarding the film.

“you guys know that black and white crime movie he was watching isn’t real, right?”

“really? how you do know?” armani curiously asked.

“i, uh—mm, i looked it up because i wanted to watch it, aha!” he cleared his throat and bashfully chuckled, wrapping his large arm around you as armani snuggled closer into his chest. by the time the movie ended, your daughter was already snoring away. it was only half past noon and she was tuckered out from all of the holiday excitement. now, with armani peacefully napping in her room, the house was filled with a serene silence. you and nicholas settled in your own bedroom. he leaned back against the headboard pulling you into his side, his warmth radiating against you as the comforter concealed your bodies. there was a pause of silence before nicholas broke it.

“babe, did you mean that earlier?” he asked softly, glancing down at you. “about having another baby?”

“well…” you trail off, cutting a piqued glare towards your husband. “that depends on what you think about it.”

nicholas chuckled, his brown eyes sparkling with mischief. “well, i guess we have to think about it, don’t we? it’s a big decision.” he paused, a playful grin spreading across his face. “but i can’t deny that the idea of another little one running around would be kind of—sweet.”

you bit your lip with a smile, feeling your face heat up and your heart flutter at the thought. “i think armani would be such a great big sister. she’s already so nurturing as it is. plus, she’s playful, imaginative, and dramatic—thanks to her dad.” you smirk at his feigned offense,

“i beg your pardon. i think she takes that dramatic part after you.”

“says the literal actor.” you quickly retort. he raises his right hand in surrender,

“got me there.”

you both dissolve into laughter for it to die down before resuming the conversation. nicholas expression turned more serious for a moment, gently taking your left hand within his and peering into your eyes. “but it’s not just about armani, y’know, it’s about us too. are we ready for that?” you took a moment, reflecting once more on the joy that armani brought into your lives despite the circumstances. “baby, i think we could handle it. we have our jobs and our home. plus, we make a pretty good team, you know?” you pause, another thought popping into your mind that could further convince him,

“besides, this could be a chance for you to not be the only guy in the house. you’re a boss at being a girl dad no doubt, but deep down you’d want a little nick causing havoc with you.” with a chuckle, his gaze softened, and he leaned in closer to your ear, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “you had me convinced at havoc.” he pressed a lingering kiss to your jaw before peppering more along the line and descending to your neck. he then held onto you to lay you down against the mattress, straddling your body.

“you think we should start trying now?” his smirking lips ghosted over yours for a second before closing the gap between you in a slow, sensual kiss. after indulging in each other for a moment, he pulls back to place his forehead on yours with a gaze mixed of both romance and lust.

“there’s still one gift we haven’t exchanged yet.” he teased, returning his lips to yours as his hands slowly go under your pajama shirt. you giggle and hum softly encouraging him as you felt the temperature of your body rise with every touch to your skin. just as he was about to lift it up, there was a knock at your bedroom door,

“mommy, daddy! can you help me? i wanna play on my ipad.” you and nicholas quickly separate with a sigh and chuckle as you were both back to reality. nicholas rolls himself from on top of you and pulls the covers away to stand and stretch,

“i’m coming, butterfly! gimme a minute, okay?” he calls out before turning to you,

“duty calls. i’ll handle this now then i’ll handle you later?” he asked shooting you a wink.

you giggle with a nod, he was the same flirt that you met five years ago.

“go on. do your thing! i’ll be waiting with your gift right here.” you slyly respond, laying across the bed with your chin resting in your palm.

“oh, you better.” he said, opening the door to greet your daughter and promptly attending to her needs. as you peer out of the window at the snowy blizzard outside, you realize that this christmas, you couldn’t ask for anything better than what you have right now.

#black reader #nicholas alexander chavez #nicholas chavez #nicholas chavez x black reader #nicholas chavez x reader #nicholas chavez fluff #nicholas chavez au #nicholas chavez smut #nicholas chavez x y/n #nicholas chavez x female reader #x black reader #x black!reader #actor x reader #actor x black reader #wife!reader #mom!reader #husband!nicholas #dad!nicholas #Spotify

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spiderman2-99 · 4 months ago

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Día De Muertos is supposed to be a celebration. When the dead return home, the day is filled with festivals, family, home-cooked food, and the bright smell of marigolds.

But Miguel O’Hara has no family, is too miserable to leave the apartment, and all the marigolds have gone extinct.

They’ve been extinct since 2095, actually. How hadn’t he known? That should've been something he'd figured out sooner, right? But no, he finds out a week before the day itself while he’s trying to make Gabriella’s ofrenda.

What does his beloved baby girl, who he would’ve given the world a thousand times over, get instead? Paper flowers.

Paper flowers instead of real ones, possessions that represented her instead of properly being hers, a half-done altar that was done in a manic, grief-fueled haze.

It’s paltry. Miguel knows it is. But it’s all he can give, and by God, he hates it. He tried to make it up in home-made pan de muerto and fresh fruit and her favorite dinners, in the carefully arranged papel picado garlands, in finding actual copal to burn… but it’s not enough. It could never be enough.

It’s been a long time since he’d last made an ofrenda, actually. He fell out of the tradition sometime when he was in college, when he was young and unburdened and selfish and so, so stupid, and had convinced himself he had much more important things to do with his time than honor traditions.

Sometimes, he wants to reach out to that little twerp and beat him senseless.

No, he wants to laugh, or scream, or pull his hair out. It’s a sick joke; a cruel jab at his expense, that he only started giving a shit about his own cultural holidays again after Gabi died, when he could no longer share the homemade food with her, help her learn about the significance.

It feels so wrong, being unable to share this with his daughter. Having the altar be dedicated to her, instead of her helping him set it up; teaching her how to make the banners and arrange flowers and bake bread, entertaining whatever thousands of questions she’d have about the holiday and her great-great-whoever’s they’d be celebrating. What would she have thought of the chicken and chile rellenos? Of the Calaveritas? The toys he left out?

Hijo de puta. A parent isn’t supposed to outlive their child.

It’s a pathetic altar too, as far as he’s concerned. Miguel hadn't done this in so long that he'd nearly forgotten how to; having to go on the internet just to remember the guidelines. Even then, there were so many conflicting answers that it left him confused and flying blind the whole damn time.

Did he do enough as a father to honor her? Did the ofrenda do her memory justice? Did he do anything right? Is there enough salt to purify her body? Enough water and food to provide for her long journey? Was the copal actually supposed to be incense, or did it have a different meaning? Are the purple candles placed correctly? Would tissue paper marigolds, devoid of scent and life, be enough guide her safely back home?

These worries swarm like vultures to a carcass, picking at and tormenting him to the point where he can barely stand to look at the stupid, thrown-together thing any longer. He should know how to do this— today is much more than just a holiday; Día de Muerto and all of its rich traditions should be a part of who he is, steeped in his identity, his culture. It should be more familiar than breathing.

But now it just makes him ache, seeing how he couldn’t even properly commemorate his own little girl.

In a brief moment of clarity, Miguel realizes he really just should’ve just taken more time to research and plan it out better. If only it weren’t for the constant high-stakes responsibilities, the needs of far too many all on his shoulders, the people, people, people.

Not like he didn’t try; Halloween and all day yesterday, Miguel had been rushing uncharacteristically through work, trying to get caught up enough to take time off. But of course, God had it out for him and practically half the damn Society wanted to barge into his office to badger him about something. He ended up with a shock-ton of random gifts and baked goods on his desk that he’d unceremoniously pawned off to Peter B. (save for a bottle of Don Julio, but the other man didn’t need to know that), enough sanguine well-wishes to last him a lifetime, and high blood pressure.

And the time and effort he scraped up still wasn’t enough to get it done right. It could never be good enough. He could never be good enough.

Miguel can’t stop second-guessing himself, can’t stop that all too familiar spiral of guilt and self-loathing that rots away at his insides like necrosis. He’s a scientist and an engineer, for shocksake— logic and reason should override his emotions, should stop them from clouding him at all. But all he can do is sit there, staring at the sorry excuse for an ofrenda with a lump in his throat and a throbbing headache that won’t go away.

Today couldn’t have gone any worse.

His joints pop viciously as he gets up from the floor just to prove him wrong. Cristo en el cielo.

The only bright side to this whole thing is that… well, no one is here. No one to see his embarrassment, or his failure; no one to question him, or ask him how he’s feeling, or try to give a hug, or any more goddamn food. It’s just him and his ever-spiraling thoughts and the grief that threatens to consume him whole.

Carefully, with a trembling hand, he lights the incense, then the candles, the golden glow dancing around his otherwise dark apartment. It… almost makes it look better. Less like a broken down man’s sorry attempt at repentance and more like a proper ofrenda.

Almost.

Día De Muertos is supposed to be a celebration, filled with festivals, family, home-cooked food, and the bright smell of marigolds.

But Miguel O’Hara has no family, is too miserable to leave the apartment, and all the marigolds have gone extinct.

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scarletardor · 1 month ago

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meeting zayne's parents for lunar new year. she/her pronouns for reader, reader is an artist & has familial issues. unedited.

it's hard to not feel the way you do when you go with zayne to visit his parents for the lunar new year. where you come from, it's a holiday you don't celebrate by any means. before you, zayne hadn't necessarily celebrated or prioritized holidays either. his parents were as busy as he was, and you recall him mentioning the last time he sat down with them for a proper meal was when he graduated from medical school.

for you? you stopped reaching out to family for holidays. birthdays. it was a difficult feat but necessary should you want to keep your sanity. zayne had been there to witness the day you made the hard decision. he stayed by your side, comforted you, prioritized everything you needed from him until you could smile again. he had been there, too, in the nights before where you felt guilt. nights where you broke down feeling like you were never enough, no matter what you did.

(in turn, he was angry for you. sure, while you two were just a natural pair that made sense, the work you put into this relationship made you both stronger. you had a heart bigger than your own body. you were a passionate, sensitive lover. so he couldn't wrap his head around any parent incapable of accepting their child as they grew into their own person.)

his parents talk about their work with doctors without borders, then idle the conversation into how they missed being back in their home. they had cleaned for the past few days, anticipating their visit and wanting to make the atmosphere as welcoming as possible.

your mind begins to drift as they talk to zayne about his recent accomplishments recognized by medical boards across the nation. the current research he's doing, and a bunch of medical jargon you weren't sure you could enunciate.

but then, zayne's hand finds yours under the table. he squeezes it to ground you, just as his mother looks to you warmly, enthusiastic as she asks, "zayne tells us you're an artist. he's shown us some of your work, and you're very talented, hon! are you doing any exhibits or guest shows any time soon?"

you're taken by absolute surprise. among a lineage of medical professionals, you hadn't expected to be embraced like this.

squeezing zayne's hand back, you nod with a shy smile, "yeah, i... i do. chansia city's local gallery space is having a reopening, and... they invited me to be one of the guest artists. i'm a bit nervous, but i'm very honored they considered me."

his father nods, "you should take more pride in your work. the world needs both doctors and artists; much like you and our zayne."

you were far too engrossed in this warmth that was never a constant in your own home. you didn't see the way zayne was looking at you with the same tenderness in his eyes he always did, a soft smile gracing his features. he's proud of you. grateful. he's proud that you allowed him the room to earn your love and trust, proud of your strength to persevere.

he's never faltered in reminding you that. (and you never doubt his love for you. not anymore, you didn't.)

"she's amazing," zayne punctuates.

but he's not just talking about you as a creative.

"she deserves it all."

#sighs sadly #zayne #zayne love and deepspace #lads zayne #lnds zayne #l&ds zayne #zayne x reader #love and deepspace zayne #love and deepspace #love & deepspace #lads #lnds #l&ds #zayne x you

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cloveroctobers · 3 months ago

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string of lights — 4. Armando Aretas [Winter Prompts]

A/N: The list keeps on growing for this man but I couldn’t help but to imagine what he would be like during the Christmas season…yet it’s never that simple with me ofc! Also never watched Vikings a day in my life so I’m not entirely sure how Travis’ character is but I’ve seen enough TikTok’s on him outside of his character lol so this is more oc than anything and I thought it would be fun to throw a little connection in there. Hope you like 🤍

PROMPT IS FROM HERE & I’m using: SITUATIONS — We broke up and I'm asking someone else to go home with me for the holidays because I know my ex will be there with someone + DIALOGUE PROMPTS — “I'm not drunk!" // "Oh yeah? Then why are your eyes crossed?”

WARNINGS: ended up longer than intended, language, heartbreak, corny Christmas one liners, one night stand + slight intimate scene.

<- read my previous anthology winter prompt here.

⋆⑅˚₊ ⋆⑅˚₊ ⋆⑅˚₊ ⋆⑅˚₊ ⋆⑅˚₊ ⋆⑅˚₊ ⋆⑅˚₊ ⋆⑅˚₊ ⋆⑅˚₊ ⋆⑅˚₊ ⋆⑅˚₊ ⋆⑅˚₊

She warned you.

She meaning Kelly.

Kelly warned you that Armando would be here with his supposed ex fiancée and you’ve never known Kelly to be a liar. In fact, you considered her a friend outside of AMMO and her blunt nature could be harsh majority of the time but you can always trust her to give it to you straight. It was simple over text but she knew already before you responded that you needed an explanation, which later resulted in her sending over a voice message about ten minutes later—she got distracted okay!

You already had a sense of dread going to Christine’s annual Christmas party (it was mostly for charity) single because who really wants to be single on the holiday’s? but you made a promise that you would show your face. You never broke a promise, this many knew. Yet you couldn’t say the same for your ex. Now that Armando was parading his ex in your face, the same ex from Mexico City, that he decided not to tell you about because his past life was meant to be kept there although you got a pretty good glimpse of it, that relationship was actually some sort of arranged marriage (that Isabel set up) until she mysteriously disappeared, yeah that ex was also going to be in attendance.

It left a nasty taste in your mouth but you didn’t want to be the bitter one. You could hold a grudge and be in your feelings but why did that have to automatically mean you were bitter? Angry and hurt, sure but bitter? Just felt misplaced. There was nothing else to talk about, Armando made his decision to want to explore what that relationship could be like again, like you were supposed to be put back on the shelf and sit pretty until Armando was ready to try again when it didn’t work out.

Notice how you said when?

You were never going to be someone’s second option.

Especially not to someone who claimed they would die for you and without you.

Armando’s dark eyes were burning into you from across the hall but the more cranberry martini’s you threw back, his stare honestly just felt like a gnat you would have to lightly fan away. So you angled your body in your fancy party dress so your gaze wouldn’t dare look his way over your shoulder, further tuning into the conversation with Dorn’s cousin, Ronan Steffensen, who told you that he could basically be Dorn’s father—followed by a eye roll from the blond—with how involved he was in Dorn’s upbringing.

“Yeah, I always could tolerate you much better than Jax.” Dorn called over his shoulder, referring to Ronan’s younger brother, as Kelly pulled him away to mainly dance but to leave you alone to engage with Dorn’s cousin, with a wink tossed your way.

It was honorable how Dorn spoke so highly of the guy and now you can put the name to the face. You wished he would have put you on sooner but…there’s no time like the present! Ronan had the brightest of blues that no frame of glasses could shield with a hint of mischief in them the longer you stared. A hour and half had passed since you two got introduced but the conversation never got boring.

Armando can tell you were enjoying yourself. You barely acknowledged him when Detective Lowrey called you over after your attempt to sneak on by. His own low lidded eyes lifted a bit in annoyance at his…father trying to force you two to play nice. Working together was tense enough but regardless when things got hectic, the both of you would always look out for one another.

“Thanks for that back there.” Armando walked behind, butt of the sniper resting against his shoulder as the both of you made your way back to the van a few nights back.

He knew how much you weren’t a fan of weaponry, preferring hand to hand combat more than anything but in a case like this, where Armando let his guard slip in search of you through the smog, you landed a single bullet to the neck of your opponent, slightly clipping the tip of Armando’s ear in the process.

You scoff, “No need to thank me. That’s part of the job, watch your back and hope you watch mine in return.”

He blinks with a slight frown, “Of course I would. I’m just acknowledging what you did back there for me.”

“Mhm.” You exhale, fighting the urge to not roll your eyes. You couldn’t even lie and say that part of it wasn’t for him.

Armando was the one that was always a person of few words and he hated that he was getting this from you so he starts, “Look—

You shake your head, “Let’s just continue doing what we need to do so you can get back to Priscilla.”

Armando winced from behind you as you nearly spit out the woman’s name but you didn’t see that, “Y/N.”

“Armando. You should get your ear checked out when we get back.” You hissed with the back of your hand facing him, which meant you were done talking, and Armando took the hint, deciding not to press you.

Tonight was different.

Whereas Armando was supposed to be enjoying the party, he kept moving around the supposed hall, which was actually more of a mansion, zoning out of conversations to keep his eye on you and Dorn’s older cousin.

“I can give you something else to look at,” Priscilla purs as she stands in her tassled low-cut red dress, tucked underneath Armando’s shoulder.

He hums, slowly bringing his eyes to meet her green ones, not hiding that he had been caught.

“If you’re going to stare at her the whole night, you might as well tell her to come home with us instead of with Dorn’s primo.”

His jaw sets at the mention of you going home with someone else but he knows deep deeep down he doesn’t have the right.

“You decide what you want to do.” She runs her finger up his chest before sharply gripping his tightened jaw, her pointed acrylics digging into his flesh, “but don’t you dare embarrass me.”

Which means what exactly?

“Kinda like how you left me in the dark about your whereabouts…how long ago?” Armando easily furrowed his brows at the audacity of this woman.

“That’s just business baby, don’t act like you don’t know how it is.” She dismissed, which made Armando scowl as she began to strut away.

The night went on but Armando knew to keep his distance. From overly invasive questions from colleagues of Christine’s, who were just dying to know how a old cartel member with a highly respectable birth father for a detective managed to turn his life around for the better, to the overflow of the awful peppermint desserts, spiked hot chocolate, to trying to keep his eyes off of you and Ronan but didn’t falter when Ronan caught him and you attempted to be oblivious as you now held onto his arm like you were suddenly a couple now, to ignoring Priscilla’s advances for a quickie in one of the marble bathrooms, being disgusted by the white powder on her nose which definitely wasn’t her makeup, to small chatter with AMMO and Reggie, telling both Mike and Marcus to butt out on them checking up on him in regards to you, which resulted in Marcus threatening to stick his size 10 up his ass if he didn’t fix his behavior, all Armando could do was smirk at his new uncle, showing him that he wasn’t the least bit threatened, and to finally almost getting in Dorn’s face about bringing more than a plus one to this event.

Armando had to collect himself, straightening out Dorn’s business casual attire, “…My bad bro. I just…need a minute.”

“Well take one.” Kelly snaps, ready to shove Armando her damn self.

Dorn, always the one to give people the benefit of the doubt and diffuse his fiery girlfriend says, “Kelly,” he warns before turning his gaze to Armando who rubs at his face, “What was that about? Do you need to talk?”

“No. Definitely not.” Armando scowls, growing more iritated that people were concerned about his well-being when he said he was fine many times.

His eyes find you making your way out of the room towards the gigantic red and gold covered tree in the lobby that made you appear so tiny. He could tell from across the room that you were wobbly in your heels and sensed that you were leaving. His eyes quickly searched for Mike who sipped from his drink, eyes already peering at his son from underneath his eyelashes. A dip of his head to Armando makes him aware that you already had said your goodbyes for the night.

“Armando…let it go.” Dorn calls out, careful not to touch him but his hands were open as if he was ready to guard him.

Armando side eyed the blond as he pointed at the couple, “You two were trying to distract me.”

“Oh, boo-hoo! She deserves a good lay for the holidays and since you broke her heart like the dissociative asshole you are, Dorn and I decided to give her a gift of our own.” Kelly sends a smug smile his way, crossing her arms.

Armando flares his nostrils.

Dorn shakes his head at the Filipina before turning back to his team member, “That wasn’t exactly my plan. I actually didn’t have a plan really. Ronan’s in town and he didn’t have anything going on tonight so I thought why not—

Kelly shushed him, “Dorn baby, you don’t need to explain yourself to him.”

“What the fuck is your problem?” Armando exclaimed, making the dark haired woman tilt her head.

“Hey.” Dorn cuts in as he notices some attendees whip their head at Armando’s language and also because he didn’t appreciate how Armando was speaking to Kelly, “Let’s be chill here.”

“Chill about what? You setting my girl up with some bozo who can’t even see how many fingers I’m holding up?”

Dorn frowns as Kelly lets out humorless laughter, knuckles going back to knock against her boyfriend’s chest, “Did you hear that? Armando still thinks he gets a say in what y/n does. Isn’t your fiancée around here somewhere? Or is she taking another bump of snow in one of the many corners of this place?”

Armando didn’t know why he was wasting more time going back and forth with Kelly. She often had no issue saying what was on her mind and right to Armando’s face, making them butt heads often but she was a helluva weapons expert and ultimately a good friend to you.

So he walks off, making Kelly also stalk after him but Dorn grips her wrist and shakes his head at her, deciding for the both of them that they’ve done enough tonight.

When Armando catches up to you, you’re staring up at the lights, a goofy smile on your face, and it sounds like you’re humming along to one of the sickening Christmas instrumentals, until a glare hits your face, getting a sense of Armando beside you.

“Leaving so soon?” Armando questions, clapping his hands behind his back, “The night is still young.”

You throw your head back as you laugh, “Of course it is, which is why it’s continuing…at my place.” You whisper the last bit as if it’s a secret.

“You’re not driving.” Armando states.

You snort, “Its not your business but I’ve got a beautiful man who’s gonna keep me entertained. I’ll be a passenger princess tonight. He should be coming back from the bathroom any minute.” Which was ironic as you unintentionally tell him, searching your satin clutch to reapply your plum colored gloss to your lips.

Armando flicks his eyes from your lips up to your face, “You’re drunk.” He sighs.

“I’m not drunk!” You yell while trying to roll your eyes and pluck your lipgloss back into your bag but you miss as it clutters to the linoleum floor.

Armando saves you the trouble of bending down, picking it up for you so you wouldn’t tumble over. You snatch it from his grasp as he says, “Oh yeah, Then why are your eyes crossed?”

You laugh, resting a hand against your cheek, “B-being worried about me is funny when you weren’t worried about me when you decided to leave me in t-t-the dust for the chica who belongs in whoville! Don’t worry though, Ronan will probably make my vision worse…and I’m not talking about stealing his glasses off his handsome face. So you can go now, I’ll be warm enough tonight.”

A clearing of a throat interupts your stare off and Armando’s stare turns heated as Ronan stands behind you two. You don’t even waste time, not wanting the two to chat as you let out a sigh, arms wrapping around his neck, as his hands rest on the big white bow on the back of your dress. Ronan is all grins as well, his hand going up in the air to wave at Armando as you practically drag him away into the night.

Now it was Armando’s turn to feel a nasty taste in his own mouth as he watches you two leave.

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Although you were drunk, somewhere in your mind you managed not to scream Armando’s name once Ronan got inside you. He wasn’t Armando at all but he still knew what he was doing. You had no doubts in your mind with a man like this as you sat on his lap, his hand guiding you by the jaw so your lips could reconnect.

His glasses were so fogged up that you just decided to do the honors of taking them off his face as you sat on his lap. The both of you tasted like liquor and that was enough courage for the both of you to tis’ the season. You knew what it was as the night carried on at Christine’s party and after you let it slip to Ronan that you wanted to snatch Armando’s eyes out of his damn skull, he left the floor open for you to give a rundown of what happened.

Ronan had no problem accepting taking you home tonight in hopes that you could forget about Armando but that didn’t work out in your favor. You should have known better, Armando was your person and Ronan would just be for the night. You bit down on the tip of your tongue so hard that you should have had your own source of cranberry dripping from it as Ronan gave one last thrust up into you, finishing last by being the gentleman that he is, then one of his hands drags the rest of your ripped tights down your lower legs, before trailing his finger up your thigh, and nipping at your bottom lip.

“Wow…who knew you had it in you?” You joked, staring up into the blues through half lidded eyes.

He’s laughing against your mouth, “Joy to the world and all that is what they say, babe.”

You roll your eyes before pecking his lips once more.

He doesn’t stay and it doesn’t bother you as you manage to get into your lengthy night routine and being a giggly mess you order from doordash from two places, deciding to surprise yourself. You’re just about to doze off on your couch when knocks on the door and ringing of the door bell manages to wake you. Groaning you get to your feet, dragging yourself to the door and yank it open.

It’s Armando standing in your illuminated doorway, still dressed in his christmas wear from the party.

“You’re not doordash…don’t tell me you’re some sort of porch pirate?” You lean against the door, blocking his way in, still trying to sober up despite being in cozy wear and showcasing glass skin—for the next twelve hours that is—your skin has a mind of her own.

Armando scoffs, hand going to push the door back but you held on for a bit, which makes the bearded man quirk up a brow. “Let me in, mami. We need to talk…the only way I can get my mind right is if we have a convo.”

“Sounds more like you wanted to interrupt.”

Armando dips his head at your accusation, “Who’s to say his body isn’t already in the dumpster in the alley?”

Scrunching up your summerfridays covered lips you rasp, “…that’s not very jolly of you, ya know?”

“Y/n.”

You sigh, stepping back from the door and allowing Armando in, knowing this would probably be a mistake but instantly felt your heart race as he strolled around your penthouse. The curtains are wide open, showing the view of the city lights in various shades of white and rainbow.

He’s leaning against the window, legs crossed at the ankle as Armando rests his forehead against the cool of glass. Slowly closing his eyes, he exhales, while you try to roll the tension out of your neck, folding your arms as you awaited for him to say what he needed to say so you can kick him right out.

“Is Priscilla slumped out in the passenger seat or something…I don’t know why you’re here?” You begin, the drumming of your heart was getting too loud in the quiet of your home and Armando’s presence was the cause of that.

He rolls his eyes and steps back from the glass, which makes you feel a bit better since you always hated when he looked out into Miami like this. It was humorous, you being afraid of heights but snagged you a spot on one of the highest levels in the building. Sometimes he likes to do it just to work your nerves but tonight he needed strength from the lights that guided him here.

Armando clasps his hands in front of him, which lets you know he’s in serious mode, “We don’t gotta talk about her.”

“But we need to talk about Ronan?” You fired off.

His nostrils flare as he exhaled, “He ain’t important either. You’re a free woman and you’re open to do what you want…but don’t think for a second it’s gonna continue.”

“Oh?” You push your lips out in confusion, “You want to play mind games right now? You can let yourself out cause I’m not doing this with you.”

You make your way over to your couch, plopping down and search for your phone to check the ETA on your late night dinner.

“I said we should talk.” Armando restates while he plops right down on your coffee table, sitting in front of you so you had no choice but to meet his eyes, “…I realized that I really didn’t want to go home to Priscilla and not just tonight.”

“Because she represents everything that you’ve tried…for the most part…to leave in the rearview.” You answer as you tap your chin, “Sounds like something I said to you a minute ago huh?”

“I fucked up,” Armando admits with a nod of his head, “And I’m not gonna ask for you take me back because I know I don’t deserve it, not when it seems like I just dropped you like you dont mean the world to me.”

A tongue goes into your cheek, “If this is how you treat your world…I hate to see what your hell looks like.”

He’s quick with it, “I’m living it, without you.”

“I can’t tell.”

“You know me better than you think.” Armando tells, “I felt like I owed it to myself to just see if something was still there. Cilly and I—we had a connection.”

You pointed out, “That your mother set up.”

“Sure but we’ve leaned on each other with our struggles.”

“And that’s love?” You quizzed.

“I never said it was love. Just that we care for each other…had a partnership.”

You sigh, “I thought we had something special too once.”

“I’m in love with you, mami.” Armando stares hard at you, pressing his elbows into his knees as if to get closer to you but still respecting your space, “So much that it hurts to breathe…which I’ve never felt before in my life…and I didn’t just end up here because of my ego. I ended up here because I can’t go any more nights missing you. I’m sorry for picking my past over my priority.”

At a loss for words, you felt blood rushing to your face and possibly tears on the inside. You weren’t really an emotional drunk, more of a hungry and horny type and you aren’t sure if you wanted to remember any of this in the morning. Armando really hurt you good and to hear him say this while the room was spinning like a carousel, to be so vulnerable when he was used to being a shell, meant a lot.

Feeling like you would crumble, you just sink back into the couch, staring at him with glossy eyes. His hand goes to your knee, you don’t move and your eyes close. His touch seemed to only make your heart drum harder. Sweet words can mean anything but actions were always louder.

Maybe Armando did come to you by some unforeseen light. When your eyes opened to meet his, you saw him in a whole new one, a complex man that you were willing to love once upon a time.

Now it was up to you to choose what you would do with this.

Keep the lights on, let them flicker, or…simply unplug them.

⋆⑅˚₊ ⋆⑅˚₊ ⋆⑅˚₊ ⋆⑅˚₊ ⋆⑅˚₊ ⋆⑅˚₊ ⋆⑅˚₊ ⋆⑅˚₊ ⋆⑅˚₊ ⋆⑅˚₊ ⋆⑅˚₊ ⋆⑅˚₊

Continue with my winter anthology prompts here.

#Spotify #queued #armando aretas #Armando aretas lowrey #Armando Aretas x reader #armando aretas x black reader #travis fimmel #winter prompts #Kelly bad boys #Kelly bad boys for life #Kelly bad boys ride or die #Dorn bad boys #Dorn bad boys for life #Dorn bad boys ride or die #mike lowrey #vanessa hudgens #alexander ludwig #jacob scipio

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esther-dot · 2 months ago

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Downton Abbey AUs

Look for the Silver Lining 7k, WIP by @ohhaveyouseenme

“He’s coming to stay…” Lord Eddard Stark’s announcement was met with silence before it was broken by the incredulous scoff of one Sansa Stark. “Here?” she bit out, turning fully away from her father. “With all of us?” Sansa looked around imploringly at the rest of her family.

And Then There Was You 49k, WIP by @periwinkle39

Lord Ned Stark and his family live in a beautiful stately home called Winterfell in the northern English county over which he presides as earl. His wife, Lady Catelyn Stark, is an American heiress whose fortune helped secure the Stark estate and keeps it running. They have three children: Robb, Sansa and Arya. Robb, who was set to inherit everything, has died tragically. By law, Ned’s heir is the next oldest male Stark and that turns out to be a distant cousin named Jon.

Of Love and Land 2k (incomplete but works as a one shot)

A Downton Abbey inspired AU - When Eddard Stark, the owner of one of the largest estates in England, Winterfell, dies on the sunken Titanic along with his wife and sole son, Robb, only his daughters Sansa and Arya are left. Given the absence of a male heir, the estate is inherited by their estranged cousin Jon Snow, who lived the entirely of his life on his own mysterious father’s modest lands in Scotland. While Arya adores cousin Jon, Sansa is as disconcerted by him as he seems to be by her…

The Chauffeur and the Lady 1k (incomplete but works as a one shot)

AU set in 1921 Jon Snow is hired by the Stark family to be the Chauffeur and Jon and Sansa find themselves drawn to each other. Loosely inspired by Downton Abbey

Gifsets: Downton Abbey AU by @winterrobb and Downton Abbey Jonsa and Gendrya AU by @divinespairings

Edit: Downton Abbey AU manip by @sardoniyx, "Marry a man who can barely hold his fork like a gentlemen?" by @azulaahai, “Don’t do this Jon! You can’t just kiss me!" by @jonsa-creatives, “I’m not going to give you an answer until you say it properly.” by @kitten1618x

General Edwardian AUs

Even a Small Love 54k

After the war that sundered her family and tore her homeland apart, Sansa had thought a loveless marriage to a near-stranger a small price to pay for her honor, her safety, and, above all, Winterfell. Over a year later, she begins to wonder if that's really all she wants out of life. Then her husband falls ill.

A Just Woman and an Honorable Man 12k, WIP by @sibyldisobedience

A story of politics, corruption, blackmail, marriage, and love. (an Ideal Husband AU)

The Sweet Intoxication of the Fall 30k by @vivilove-jonsa

When Jon is hired on as the new undergardener at Winterfell, Old Willem’s rules are simple: “The godswood takes care of itself. The rest of the estate does not. If a task can be done by sundown, I expect it to be done by sundown. If not, go eat your supper and finish it the next day. Don’t neglect the lemon trees in the Glass Garden. They need constant care to thrive up here. Leave Lady Catelyn’s roses that grow there be. She prefers to tend them herself. Leave Lady Catelyn’s daughters be as well.” Keeping to four out of five isn’t so bad, he reckons.

Cousin Jon ficlet by @amymel86

“Cousin Jon?” Lady Catelyn rolled her eyes in exasperation and set the letter gently down on her writing desk. “Yes, cousin Jon. Who else were you expecting to swoop in and save us from this scandal?” Corresponding gifset

PRE CANON - WESTERN - FAIRYTALE - REGENCY - LITTLE WOMEN - HOLIDAY - SEASON SIX - ANNE OF GREEN GABLES - THE GIRL IN GREY - FREE CITIES - FAIRYTALE PART II - POLITICAL MARRIAGE -SALTY TEENS - POST CANON - RICKON LIVES - JON X ALAYNE

#jonsa #jonsa fic #downton abbey au #edwardian au #historical au #dot fic list

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chthonic-sorcery · 7 months ago

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PSA for new Pagans❗️🚩🚩🚩

(Overlooked pagan holidays)

Paganism isn't a singular religion,

it is an umbrella term for thousands of different pre-christian polytheistic faiths that span Antiquity. Heathenry (Norse polytheism) Mesopotamian, Phonecian, Hellenic Polytheism, Kemeticism/Netjerism, Slavic Polytheism, Celtic, Roman, Basque, etc. It goes on and on. Sometimes, these religions are even combined or synchronized, like Greco-Egyptian polytheism.

So, no, not all pagans celebrate Yule, or Beltane, or whatever.

Yule itself seems to be more of a Wiccan (new age) revival than a continued tradition.

There are quite literally thousands of holidays and traditions celebrated that no one talks about because people, especially newer converts, seem to believe paganism is its own singular religion.

So, here are some of my favorite holidays I celebrate that aren't usually talked about:

The Anthesteria:

A 3 day drunken celebration in honor of Dionysus and the Dead. Houses would be decorated with spring flowers, ghosts swept from the home; feasting and drinking no matter your status, and offerings given to the Dead and the Furies so that may not harm you, as they were said to roam the earth at this time.

Tar/pitch was also spread onto doorframes and black hellebore was hung to protect the home.

It was held each year from the 11th to the 13th of the month of Anthesterion, around the time of the first full moon of the year.

The Haloea:

The closest Greek equivalent of "Yule" celebrating the winter solstice and which honored Demeter, the goddess of agriculture, crops, fertility, and harvest.

During the festival, people would celebrate by preparing a rich meal with dough cakes in the shape of genitalia, telling lusty jokes and swearing with vulgarity, singing, drinking, and dancing.

The festival took place in Athens and ended in Eleusis during the month of Poseideon, which is December.

The Dionysia:

where plays originated! Comedy, tragedy, and drama.

The Festival of Dionysus, otherwise known as the “Greater Dionysia” took place in the spring (around our March) when playwrights would compete to entertain Athenian citizens,

complete with parades of giant phalluses and sacrifices of bulls!

The Feat of Sekhmet:

an annual festival at the beginning of the year, which began around August for the Egyptians following Wep Ronpet, or the New Year.

The festival was a time of drunkeness with red beer and wine, where Egyptians would dance, play music.

The goal was to imitate the drunkenness that had once stopped the goddess Sekhmet from destroying humanity.

According to Egyptian mythology, Sekhmet became so bloodthirsty from humanity betraying her father Ra, that she nearly destroyed all humans on Earth. The other deities asked Ra to stop her, and he eventually pacified her by making her believe the wine or beer was blood and she drank herself to sleep, turning into either Hathor or Bastet.

the Aphrodisia:

The festival of Aphrodite! The festival occurred during the month of Hekatombaion, which modern scholars recognize as starting from the third week in July to the third week of August.

the first ritual of the festival would be to purify the temple with the blood from a dove, the sacred bird of Aphrodite. Afterwards, worshipers would carry sacred images of the goddess, as well as Peitho, in a procession to be washed.

During the festival it was not permitted to make bloody sacrifices, since the altar could not be polluted with the blood of the sacrifice victims, which were usually white male goats.

This of course excludes the blood of the sacred dove, made at the beginning of the ritual to purify the altar. In addition to live male goats, worshipers would offer fire, flowers, and incense.

This was even celebrated in Thebes, Egypt, where Aphrodite had a large cult following.

Wep Ronpet:

Wep Ronpet is the Kemetic New Year.

It falls usually somewhere btwn late July and mid-August. The date for Wep Ronpet varies each year, as it is marked by the rising of Sopdet, modernly known as Sirius. Wep Ronpet is in fact one day long.

However, there are 5 days of excitement leading up to Wep Ronpet that we typically call the Epagomenal Days, or the Intercalary Days.

The Epag. days came about from a myth where Nut got pregnant with 5 kids. Ra got upset about this and forbade her from giving birth on any day of the year. Thoth, being the tricky guy that he is played a game of Senet with the moon, and upon winning this game of Senet, he received a small portion of the moon which he used to create an extra 5 days which she can use to birth her five children.

Traditionally, these days are said to be a little weird because they are ‘outside of the norm’. Usually great care was taken not to take too many risks.

So, each day is dedicated to the god that was born on that particular day. The order that it goes in is:

Osiris

Heru-wer (Horus the Elder)

Set

Aset

Nebhet (Nephthys)

Normally, celebrations of Wep Ronpet include prayers to Sekhmet against the 7 arrow or plagues of the year: libations and offerings to the Netjeru, song, dance, feast.

Ritual bathing for purification is sometimes done afterwards.

Personally, I like to perform execration, banishing all the illness, negativity and harm from the previous and coming year.

#ancient history #hellenic pagan #paganism #paganblr #psa #polytheism #Greco egyptian polytheism #ancient greece #pagan community #dionysus #aphrodite #sekhmet #new year #hellenic polytheism #hellenic deities #hellenic polythiest #helpol

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faynthearted · 2 months ago

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a/n: a drabble for @beautifulboysbeingbusy, who requested tianshan talking about loved ones they've lost during the holidays, and @faery-moss, who requested morning cuddles and tianshan's first Christmas together. enjoy! <3

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When he was younger, Guan Shan never slept on Christmas Eve. He’d try, but the excitement, the anticipation, would fuel him the entire week leading up to Christmas. He’d lay in bed until the first rays of sunlight fell into his bedroom, then he’d race to wake up his parents. They always woke with a smile as he climbed into their bed.

Now, He Tian smiles as he lies in Guan Shan’s bed.

“Merry Christmas,” he murmurs against Guan Shan’s lips when he wakes, still sleep heavy. “I think your mom is already up. I heard the sink running.”

“Yeah,” Guan Shan mumbles, wrapping around him. He’s warm and too big for a twin sized mattress. Guan Shan has never complained about it. “She likes to make breakfast right away on holidays."

“It smells sweet.”

“It’s stuffed french toast. Fresh fruit on top. Since you’re here, she’ll probably pull out all the stops and make muffins, too.”

He Tian hums, pleased. “I must admit I feel awfully special whenever I come over,” he says. “I should’ve brought her another gift.”

“God, no,” Guan Shan tells him, because he already helped He Tian wrap two presents for her the other day: a gold necklace and a scarf. They're sitting under the small tree in the living room. Anything more and she would begin to ask Guan Shan more questions than she already does. Guan Shan is beginning to run out of ways to tell her that yes, He Tian is a very good friend, and no, Guan Shan doesn’t know what his parents do for work.

He Tian huffs a laugh. He’s in good spirits already, eyes bright and hands warm as he shifts their weight, settling on top of Guan Shan.

Guan Shan lets him kiss him, but a few moments in, He Tian pulls back.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

Guan Shan shakes his head but doesn’t say anything. He Tian’s touch lingers on his side. Waiting.

Eventually, Guan Shan breathes out. There's an awful dread building in his throat. He says, “Tell my mom that breakfast was good after we’re done eating. Even if it wasn't, tell her it was."

“Of course I will,” He Tian says and Guan Shan doesn't doubt it. “I’m sure it will be good. I’ve had her cooking before. Is she— is it usually not good?”

Bringing up his hands, Guan Shan presses them into his eyes. “No,” he mumbles, “it’s good. But just tell her that it is anyway, okay? Don't make a big deal out of it, but make a point of it at least."

“Okay.” After a moment, He Tian’s fingers wrap around his, pulling them down. “What’s wrong, ah-Shan? What’s this about?”

Guan Shan swallows. He’s had an awful pit in his stomach since yesterday, though he’d done a well enough job of hiding it. Or maybe he hadn’t. Maybe He Tian saw right through it the entire time. Maybe that’s why he’s looking at him like this.

He Tian's smile is gone now and Guan Shan feels stupidly selfish.

“My dad used to be in charge of Christmas breakfast," Guan Shan says, looking away. "He always made the same thing. The french toast. Breakfast was the first thing we'd do once we all woke up. And it— it’s fucking impossible not to be reminded of that every year. It ruins everything for me. My mom got the recipe from him and she’s always done a good job since he’s been gone, but…”

He doesn’t know how to put it into words. If he was a better person, he’d be able to say that the breakfasts are now a tribute to his father. That they're a piece of him that Guan Shan and his mother get to honor and carry with them, but it's always felt more like a gaping wound that never closed. When it’s just him and his mom sharing breakfast each year, they make light of the situation, but there’s always an inevitable lapse of silence that’s impossible to ignore.

Today will be the first time in nine years that there’s a third person at the table. Guan Shan wants He Tian here — he asked him to be here — but he doesn’t want to endure the suffocation of another holiday. He doesn’t want He Tian to see the evidence of Guan Shan’s broken origins, laid out on a tablecloth with ceramic plates and silverware.

It’s Christmas. They’re supposed to be grateful; happy. Bright and in good spirits, like He Tian.

After a minute, He Tian brings Guan Shan’s fingers to his lips.

“I didn’t want to tell you this,” He Tian starts, speaking against his skin, “because I didn’t want to… ruin the day, or make it about me. But I understand, Guan Shan. The impossibility, I mean. I got your mom the scarf because you said she’d like that color, but I got her the necklace because that’s what my mom asked for every year. A gold necklace. My brother would either get her matching earrings or a charm to add onto it and we’d wrap them in the same box. She loved it, but she died a couple weeks before Christmas one year. I was never able to give her that last necklace.”

He turns Guan Shan’s hand over, pressing a kiss to his palm. There's a pause, his eyes gone distant. Eventually, he lowers Guan Shan's hand.

“Christmas fucking sucks, sweetheart,” He Tian continues, offering a small, closed-lip smile. “I hate it. It's ruined for me, too. But that’s because I usually wake up alone, and I’m not expecting a nice breakfast, and I don’t have a mother to give a necklace. It’s different this year even if it’s not exactly what I had as a kid. It won’t get easier, but it can get better. You’re showing me that. I want to do the same for you.”

They hold each other's gaze. A pot clangs in the kitchen, muffled through the walls. Guan Shan thinks he can hear his mother humming a holiday song. It makes his eyes sting.

He pulls He Tian back down to him, and they lay in bed as the smell of blueberry muffins wafts under his bedroom door.

#19 days #tianshan #my writing #my adult apathy towards the holidays really shows in this. i miss being a kid.

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literaryvein-reblogs · 2 months ago

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Writing Reference: Names for Santa Claus

Sinterklaas (The Netherlands)

The original story of Santa starts with the monk St. Nicholas. He lived in the late 200s in what is today Turkey, and he built a reputation for helping others by giving away his inherited money. After he was canonized by the Catholic church as a saint, people idolized him as the protector of children and sailors. They celebrated his life every year on December 6, which was the day of his death.

The Dutch, who called Saint Nicholas Sinterklaas, were one of the cultures that celebrated. In the late 1700s, the Dutch had a strong connection to New York City—a city first known as New Amsterdam.

New York newspapers reported that Dutch families were holding Sinterklaas gatherings on December 6 in 1773 and 1774.

Sinterklaas is the shorter version of the Dutch name for Saint Nicholas: Sint Nikolaas. This Dutch depiction passes on the flying reindeer for a land-bound white horse and has a red bishop’s hat rather than a floppy triangular hat with a tuft of white fur on the tip.

Today, the Sinterklaas feast is celebrated annually with the giving of gifts on St. Nicholas' Eve (5 December) in the Netherlands and on the morning of Saint Nicholas Day (6 December) in Belgium, Luxembourg, western Germany, and northern France (French Flanders, Lorraine, Alsace and Artois). The tradition is also celebrated in some territories of the former Dutch Empire, including Aruba.

Der Weihnachtsmann, Heilige Nikolaus, and Christkind (Germany)

Much of Germany knows Santa Claus as Der Weihnachtsmann. The depiction is similar to Saint Nick in the US, and he has similar present-giving tendencies.

Der Weihnachtsmann isn’t the only Santa Claus-like figure in Germany, however. There’s also Heilige Nikolaus (heilige translates to "saint"). This depiction is closer to the Catholic association with Saint Nicholas, and he comes every year around the original saint’s death day of December 6. Heilige Nikolaus wields a staff and looks like a bishop. He also travels with Krampus, a scary looking character who handles the children who’ve been bad.

Then there’s the gift-giving character who is divorced from Catholic saints that came about during the lifetime of Protestant leader Martin Luther in the 1500s. Rather than basing the deliverer of presents on a Catholic saint, that honor was given to Christkind, an angelic figure. Today, Christkind is depicted by a crowned woman in white and gold who drops gifts under the tree on Christmas Eve.

Père Noël (France)

The name Père Noël literally translates to "Father Christmas." The original version of Père Noël has a robe and wicker basket, and he wanders with his donkey, Gui (which translates to "mistletoe"). Kids leave out their shoes with food (carrots and other vegetables) for Gui, and Père Noël replaces the donkey food with presents.

In some parts of France, this friendly depiction of Santa Claus is accompanied by Pére Fouettard, which translates to “Father Whipper.” The name refers to the old legend that he would whip those on the naughty list.

Dedt Moroz (Russia)

Dedt Moroz is the gift bearer around the winter holidays in Russia. The name translates loosely to "Father Ice" or "Grandfather Frost." Legend has it that Dedt Moroz traveled around on a sleigh and one day saw a girl who was thrown out by her stepmother.

Dedt Moroz gave her diamonds for her kindness and turned her evil stepsister into ice. The figure is somewhat like a New Year’s Santa, as he typically arrives with presents six days after Christmas.

Noel Baba (Turkey)

Turkey, the home of the original Saint Nicholas, calls Santa Claus Noel Baba, which translates to "Christmas Father."

The original legend of Saint Nicholas lives on with celebrations on and around December 6.

Father Christmas (England)

England’s version of Santa, Father Christmas, opts for a green robe with a hood rather than the red clothes, and he has a staff and a wreath of holly. The name dates back to 1650—60.

For people familiar with Charles Dickens’ book A Christmas Carol, Father Christmas closely resembles the Ghost of Christmas Present.

Babbo Natale and La Befana (Italy)

The closest modern version of an Italian Santa Claus is Babbo Natale and he does travel with reindeer (with names like Freccia, Saltarello, and Donato), but there’s a Santa-like figure that goes back even further.

Since the 700s, an Italian witch named La Befana has flown around the region on a broom giving treats to good children and coal to the bad. She did her work on Epiphany on January 6, which is the final day of the Christmas season that is designated as the day the three Wise Men made it to Mary and Joseph’s manger.

La Befana hosted the Wise Men while they were on their way to Bethlehem, so the story goes, but she couldn’t join them on their journey. She changed her mind after they left and tried to follow with a basket of gifts but never made it. Her lonely search for Jesus continues on the night before Epiphany, and she drops off candy for the good kids she finds in those homes.

Święty Mikołaj (Poland)

Like the German Heilige Nikolaus, this version of "Saint Nicholas" dresses in a bishop's robe and delivers gifts on December 6, the day of the saint's feast.

Children do write letters to Święty Mikołaj, and they might receive such traditional Polish desserts, such as chocolate-covered pierniczki (a type of gingerbread cookie), in return.

サンタさん or Santa-san (Japan)

Over time, Santa has grown in popularity all around the globe.

In Japan, Christmas has been embraced as a Western tradition, with Santa-san appearing in department stores during the holidays or at a charity event known as the SantaCon festival.

Santa Claus (United States)

The Dutch Sinterklaas was transformed bit by bit into the Americana version of Santa Claus (Anglicized name and all) that people recognize today.

The writer Washington Irving called Saint Nicholas the patron saint of New York in The History of New York, and the minister Clement Clarke Moore described Santa as a “right jolly old elf” in his 1822 poem “A Visit from St. Nicholas” (though perhaps you know it better as “'Twas The Night Before Christmas”).

In 1881, a Harper’s Weekly cartoon of the poem put a face to the man complete with the belly, beard, and sack of toys.

Kriss Kringle (United States)

Even in the United States, Santa goes by several names.

For example, Kriss Kringle comes from the German Christkindl or "Christ child." The original 1947 film Miracle on 34th Street uses this particular name for Santa.

Shaka Santa (Hawaii)

Shaka Santa is depicted as throwing the hang loose sign (or "shaka sign"), and travels with his wife, Tūtū Mel.

They dress in typical vacation garb when they arrive in Honolulu each year.

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#santa claus #christmas #writeblr #literature #writing notes #writers on tumblr #writing reference #dark academia #writing prompt #spilled ink #creative writing #light academia #history #writing inspiration #writing ideas #writing resources

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heartfullofleeches · 3 months ago

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What are Remmy/Sammy/Liu/Carnis/Clem/Aspen/Blacksmith doing for thanksgiving?

Also happy thanksgiving! I hope you’re feeling better and in less pain!

Remmy:

Prior to the date, he's insisting to his folks they don't need to drop by for a visit. They're both so busy with their own lives, and there's a certain someone he'd like to spend at least one Thanksgiving alone with to enjoy that quiet, domestic bliss before his family bombards them with a million questions about their future together.

"My parents couldn't come out this year... You wanna maybe stop by? I'll prepare something just for the two of us and if things feels a little lonely we can set the table with family.. Other family, I mean. The dolls... Does that sound too silly?"

Sammy:

Would sooner hole himself up for another sleepless night in the funeral home than spend the holiday with his family, but they always managed to wear him down- Possibly due to the venue being closed, but who's to say. He might be able to skip this years festivities if he has already made plans with someone else. His father would still be the grumpy hard ass he is, but any signs of wedding bells in the future and his mother will send him in your direction with a pie in hand.

Liu:

On holidays like Christmas and Thanksgiving, Liu celebrates by donating their time to local food kitchens. They have nobody else to spend the day with before meeting their darling, and if they're completely alone on those days it puts them in a bad headspace. Giving back and helping out their community is another thing that grounds Liu with their humanity as their species typically cares only for themselves/the family it creates.

If their darling is in the picture, Liu halfs their day so they can spend the rest of the night with them warming up the feast they prepared in preparation.

Carnis:

"I'm t-thankful for sweets, and a warm place to sleep, and...and hot baths, and... you... Y-you're at the top of the list,but I t-thought that'd be pretty obvious... by now.."

Carnis has never heard of Thanksgiving- They don't know much about any celebrations beyond their birthday, but that technically can't be called a holiday - not until they meet you anyway. What better way to show their gratitude than to offer their meat- No? Then at least them set the table. They aren't the greatest chef right off the bat, but there must be something they can help you with. They'll get pouty if you attempt to do household chores in their stead.

They get like that any other day too, but how are they supposed to show their appreciation if you take over from them?

Clementine:

"Dinner will be ready in approximately one hundred and twenty... Correction, make that one hundred and fourty five seconds... You would like me to sit you?.. Strange."

Keeps to herself and for a period, actively seems to avoid you. She has lot to do in the kitchen afterall- Certainly isn't grappling with an bothersome emotions over not being your true family whether platonically or romantically. That would be ridiculous.

Aspen:

It's not a holiday he would celebrate on his own, but he with take whatever excuse he can muster to prepare a big meal for his spouse. Prods his darling for cherished memories of events past. While his own remains a secret, Aspen lives for the remnants of darling's life before they became one.

There are some traditional Thanksgiving foods that he does not fancy, but he will make for darling if he is a fan. Scolds them if they dare bring anything store bought into his kitchen, but if darling is sneaky enough later that evening they'll find him scarfing down a can of cranberry sauce.

Blacksmith:

"You required one of these feathery creatures, did you not? I can remove its head if the stare of its soulless eyes offends you."

Gods in their time held their own traditions, but even then Blacksmith rarely had the grace to be apart of the festivities. It's a great honor for you to share this holiday with them, and he will do everything in his power to be the model guest. It will try to be on their best behavior for you, but there are no guarantees.

#Remmy my oc #Sammy my oc #Liu my oc #Carnis my oc #Aspen my oc #The Blacksmith #yandere x reader #yandere #yandere x you #yandere imagines #yandere headcanons #yandere insert #yandere blurb #yandere oc #yandere scenarios

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amethystarachnid · 7 days ago

Note

Hi I've just come across your Valentines challenge and I love it! My request is Fake Dating and Loki. Please!

PRETENDING

⤷ LOKY LAUFEYSON

ᯓ★ Pairing: Loki Laufeyson x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: romance, some angst and some fluff

ᯓ★ Requests status: open (only by asks)

ᯓ★ Story type: one shot

ᯓ★ Word count: 10k

ᯓ★ Summary: when your father tells you about the marriage he has arranged for you you are already coming up with a plan to escape it, and you might need the help of your dear friend, the God of Mischief.

ᯓ★ TW(s): someone stabs someone else with a poisoned knife and the injuried one goes into a coma (I wrote it like this to not spoiler anything lol)

ᯓ★ Love is in the air - Valentine's Day special game

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ MARVEL Holiday Special

ᯓ★ MARVEL Multiverse - choose an AU, pair it with your favorite character and make a request!

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

The golden spires of Asgard stretch into the endless sky, bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun. You stand on one of the many ornate balconies of your father’s estate, the heavy folds of your gown brushing the marble beneath your feet. From here, you can see the Bifrost bridge shimmering in the distance, but the breathtaking view offers no comfort. Not when the weight of your father's latest decision hangs over you like a storm cloud.

“Y/n,” he had said only this morning, his voice firm with the kind of authority that leaves little room for argument, “Lord Eirik is a wise and wealthy man. The union would benefit our house greatly.”

Lord Eirik. The name alone makes your skin crawl. You’d met him once, years ago—a man older than your father, with cold eyes that roamed far too freely. And now, your father expects you to marry him, all for the sake of strengthening alliances and preserving the honor of your house.

You grip the balcony railing tighter, your knuckles turning white. There has to be another way.

The soft sound of footsteps pulls you from your thoughts, light and calculated, as if the person approaching enjoys the art of making an entrance without announcing it. You don’t need to turn around to know who it is.

“Pouting over arranged marriages? How very traditional of you,” Loki’s voice is smooth, laced with amusement, but there’s an undercurrent of curiosity.

You sigh but can’t help the ghost of a smile tugging at your lips. “I’m not pouting.”

Loki steps closer, leaning against the railing beside you. His emerald-green robes flutter gently in the evening breeze, and his raven-black hair, perfectly styled as always, catches the last rays of sunlight. Mischief dances in his eyes, but there’s something softer there too—something he hides well.

“Then what would you call this brooding display?” he asks, gesturing vaguely at your stiff posture.

“Desperation,” you mutter, before you even think to stop yourself.

Loki arches a dark brow, his curiosity piqued. “That bad?”

You finally turn to him, your chest tightening. Of all the people in Asgard, Loki is the one you can trust, even if trusting him sometimes means falling victim to elaborate pranks or being roped into schemes you didn’t sign up for. But he’s been your friend for years, since you were both barely more than children running through the palace halls, and now he’s the only one you can think to turn to.

“I need your help,” you say, the words tasting heavier than you expected.

Loki straightens, his playful smirk faltering just slightly. He crosses his arms, studying you. “Now this is interesting. Usually, people only seek my help when they’ve truly run out of options.”

“I have run out of options.” You let the frustration bleed into your voice, feeling the weight of it. “My father is going to marry me off to Lord Eirik. I can’t—” You stop, the bile rising in your throat. “I won’t do it.”

Loki’s expression shifts, the humor fading. There’s a flicker of something deeper—concern? Anger? It’s hard to tell with him. “I assume your father isn’t one for simple persuasion?”

You scoff. “Not when it comes to alliances. He’s set on this, Loki. The only way he’ll back down is if he believes I’m already… involved.” You hesitate before forcing the rest of the words out. “With someone more powerful. Someone he wouldn’t dare cross.”

Loki’s sharp mind picks up on your meaning instantly. His smile returns, slow and deliberate. “And who better than the God of Mischief himself?”

You meet his gaze, your heart pounding. “Will you do it? Pretend, I mean? Just until my father calls off the arrangement.”

He leans in, closer than necessary, his breath brushing against your cheek. “Darling, you wound me. Of course, I’ll help.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, a wave of relief washing over you. But before you can thank him, he adds with a wicked grin, “Though I must warn you, I’m an exceptional actor. You might fall in love with me for real.”

You roll your eyes but can’t help the warmth that blooms in your chest. “In your dreams, Loki.”

He chuckles, but there’s something else beneath his laughter—something softer, hidden deep. If only you knew how close to the truth his teasing really is.

The next morning, it begins.

Loki arrives at your family’s estate in a flourish of green and gold, his entrance nothing short of theatrical. His presence alone commands attention, but today, there’s an extra layer to his performance. His smile is softer when he sees you, his touches more lingering, every gesture calculated to sell the lie.

Your father watches from the grand hall, seated on his ornate throne-like chair. His expression is unreadable as Loki approaches him, your hand securely tucked in the crook of his arm.

“Lord Y/f/n,” Loki begins, his voice carrying a practiced charm, “I believe you and I have much to discuss.”

Your father’s gaze flickers between the two of you, his jaw tightening. “Does this have something to do with my daughter?”

Loki’s smile widens, and he draws you subtly closer. “Indeed. You see, we’ve been… involved for quite some time now. And I thought it best to make our intentions clear before any unfortunate misunderstandings arose.”

There’s a heavy pause, the kind that seems to stretch across the entire hall. Your father’s eyes narrow, and for a moment, you think he might call the bluff.

But then, he speaks. “I see.”

It’s hard to tell if he believes it, or if he simply recognizes the delicate politics at play. After all, Loki is the prince of Asgard, brother to Thor, son of Odin—if your father openly challenges him, it could mean far more than just a personal insult.

He exhales slowly, leaning back in his chair. “I assume you intend to treat her with the respect she deserves?”

Loki dips his head in a mock bow, though his voice is sincere when he says, “Of course. Y/n is… precious to me.”

Your heart stutters at the way he says it, but you quickly remind yourself that this is all part of the act.

Later, as you walk through the palace gardens, away from the prying eyes and heavy expectations, you turn to him. “That was… convincing.”

He offers a playful grin. “Did you doubt me?”

“Not for a second.”

You both fall into an easy silence, the kind that only comes with years of friendship. Yet now, there’s something unspoken between you—a tension you can’t quite name.

“Thank you,” you say softly, breaking the quiet.

Loki stops walking, turning to face you fully. There’s something in his eyes, something deeper than mischief. “Anything for you, Y/n.”

You feel your breath catch, and for a fleeting second, you wonder if this is still just part of the act.

But before you can dwell on it, he smirks again, the moment slipping away. “Now, shall we make this charade more convincing? I believe a few stolen glances and lingering touches are expected.”

You laugh, swatting at his arm. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, here you are, fake betrothed to me.”

What neither of you says is how easily this charade could slip into something real.

For Loki, it already has.

And for you? Well, only time will tell.

The next few days in Asgard unfold like scenes from a grand play, each one more elaborate than the last. It doesn’t take long before whispers ripple through the golden halls, carried on the breeze like wildfire.

You hear them everywhere—soft-spoken words trailing behind you as you walk through the palace gardens with Loki, your arm laced in his, your smile painted carefully onto your face. The stories grow with every passing day, stretching the truth in ways only Asgardians could manage.

“Did you hear? Prince Loki and Lady Y/n have been secretly involved for years.”

“I always suspected something. Did you see the way he looked at her during the last feast? Like she was the only one in the room.”

“I heard he challenged Lord Eirik himself, told him to stay away from her.”

“That’s not all. Someone said he plans to propose soon. Imagine that—a royal wedding!”

You try not to let the gossip get under your skin, but it’s impossible not to hear it, impossible not to feel the stares following you everywhere you go. Loki, on the other hand, thrives in it. He walks beside you with the ease of someone who has spent a lifetime performing for an audience. He basks in the attention, offering charming smiles and knowing glances to anyone bold enough to meet his eyes.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” you murmur one afternoon as you pass a group of noblewomen who pretend to be absorbed in a conversation but clearly hang onto every word between you and Loki.

“Immensely,” Loki replies without missing a beat. He leans in closer, his lips brushing your ear. “Though, I think I could convince you to enjoy it more if you’d play along a little better.”

You pull back to glare at him, but the twinkle in his green eyes disarms you. “I am playing along.”

“Hardly. You still stiffen every time I touch you.”

“I do not.”

“You do.”

You huff in annoyance, but the truth of his words gnaws at you. Despite the charade, despite the time you’ve spent with Loki over the years, something about the closeness now—about what it means—makes it harder to pretend. Because pretending means noticing things you’ve tried not to notice before. Like the way his fingers linger at the small of your back, or how his gaze softens when he thinks you aren’t looking.

Still, you manage a smile for the sake of your audience and link your fingers more tightly with his. “I’ll try harder.”

“Good.” He grins, triumphant.

But the real test comes sooner than you expect.

Loki approaches you late one evening in the palace library, where you’ve sought refuge from the endless gossip and prying eyes. The tall shelves lined with ancient tomes offer some comfort, but not nearly enough.

He strides in, his dark green cloak billowing behind him, and you know immediately that something is different.

“What?” you ask, setting the book aside.

He leans against the table, his fingers drumming against the polished wood. “We’ve been summoned.”

Your stomach twists. “Summoned?”

“To see my parents.”

The words hang heavy in the air. Odin. Frigga. Meeting the All-Father and the Queen wasn’t something you’d fully thought through when you first begged Loki for help. But of course, it was inevitable. If the story was going to hold, you’d have to convince them as well.

You try to steady your breathing. “When?”

“Tomorrow.”

You swallow hard. “And… what do we do?”

Loki’s usual confidence falters for a moment, so brief you almost miss it. But then he straightens, slipping back into the role as easily as breathing. “We do what we’ve been doing. Pretend.”

You stand, nerves knotting in your chest. “It’s Odin. And Frigga. They’ll see right through us.”

He steps closer, his expression softening. “Frigga might. But Odin… well, he’s been fooled before.”

There’s a flicker of bitterness in his voice, quickly masked, but you choose not to push. Instead, you take a deep breath and meet his gaze. “Then let’s make it believable.”

The next morning arrives far too quickly.

You wear a flowing gown of deep emerald silk, chosen carefully to match Loki’s signature color. Your hair is braided elegantly, delicate gold threads woven through it—Frigga’s tastes are well-known, and you hope to make a good impression.

Loki meets you outside the grand hall, looking every bit the prince in his regal Asgardian attire. He offers you his arm, and when you hesitate for just a moment too long, he smiles softly. “It’ll be fine.”

You place your hand on his arm, feeling the tension beneath his cool exterior. “You’re nervous too.”

“Of course. I’m about to introduce my supposed beloved to the All-Father and the Queen. They’ll dissect everything you say.” He pauses, then adds more quietly, “But you’ll do fine.”

The heavy doors of the hall creak open, and together you step inside.

Odin sits on his throne, his golden armor gleaming beneath the grand beams of the hall, Gungnir resting at his side. His one good eye fixes on you and Loki as you approach, his expression unreadable. Beside him, Frigga sits with her usual calm grace, her blue robes flowing around her like water, though her eyes are sharp and knowing.

You bow low, as does Loki, though his is more casual, a prince bowing to his own parents but still observing the formality.

“Mother, Father,” Loki begins, his voice smooth but carefully measured, “I bring Lady Y/n before you.”

Odin’s gaze lingers on you, heavy and powerful, and you feel the weight of his scrutiny. “We have heard whispers,” he says finally, his deep voice reverberating through the hall. “Of your… intentions.”

Loki nods, the barest hint of a smile on his lips. “Indeed. Y/n and I have been… close for some time now. I thought it best you meet her.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Frigga speaks next, her voice gentle but firm. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Y/n. I’ve long heard of your family’s standing.”

You straighten, trying to hide the nervous flutter in your chest. “The pleasure is mine, Your Majesty.”

Her smile is kind, but her eyes are sharp. She sees more than she lets on.

Odin leans forward, his knuckles tightening around Gungnir. “And tell me, Lady Y/n, what is it about my son that draws your affections?”

Your heart pounds. This is it—the moment that could unravel everything if you don’t answer carefully.

You glance at Loki, who watches you intently, his usual smirk absent, his jaw tense. And in that moment, something shifts. You think of all the times he’s been there—the years of friendship, the whispered secrets, the laughter, the mischief, and now this.

You meet Odin’s gaze. “Loki has been my friend for many years. He is… brilliant, clever, and fiercely loyal to those he cares for. Beneath his mischief, there is kindness—more than most people see.” You pause, swallowing. “And he makes me feel… seen.”

The hall is silent. Odin watches you carefully, but Frigga’s expression softens.

Loki clears his throat, breaking the tension. “As you can see, Father, I chose wisely.”

Frigga’s smile returns, more genuine now. “It seems you have.”

Odin leans back, still unreadable. “We shall see.”

The meeting ends shortly after, but the tension lingers as you and Loki leave the hall.

You exhale deeply once the heavy doors close behind you. “Well. That was… terrifying.”

Loki chuckles, though it’s quieter than usual. “You did well. Even I almost believed you.”

You arch a brow at him. “Almost?”

He smirks, but there’s something softer in his eyes. “You were… convincing.”

As you walk through the palace, you notice more than ever how the whispers have grown. You catch snippets—your name, Loki’s, theories about how long the two of you have been secretly involved, about whether wedding bells are on the horizon.

It should feel overwhelming, but strangely, it doesn’t. Not with Loki walking beside you, his arm brushing against yours, his warmth grounding you.

But what lingers most is the look on Frigga’s face when you spoke—the knowing softness in her eyes, as if she could see right through the lies to something else, something truer.

You wonder if she saw the same thing you’re beginning to feel. Something deepening between you and Loki, something you didn’t expect.

And as Loki glances at you, his smile softer now, less forced, you can’t help but wonder if he feels it too.

The calm that settles over Asgard after your meeting with Odin and Frigga is short-lived. For a few brief days, you feel the weight lifting, as if the worst of it is behind you. The whispers in the palace grow louder, but now they carry a different tone—gossip laced with excitement rather than judgment. People speak of your so-called love affair with Loki as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

But the feeling of safety is fragile, thin as glass, and it shatters the moment Lord Eirik returns to the city.

You first hear of his arrival from one of the palace maids, who finds you in the gardens where you and Loki had spent countless hours perfecting your act. She approaches nervously, her hands clasped in front of her, eyes wide.

“My lady,” she whispers, glancing around to ensure no one overhears. “Lord Eirik has returned. He rode through the gates this morning.”

The news strikes like a physical blow, the breath catching in your throat.

“Already?” you manage to ask, your fingers tightening around the edge of the marble bench you sit on.

She nods quickly. “I heard he was… furious.”

The words hang in the air long after she departs, leaving you alone in the garden’s silence. You stare at the carefully trimmed hedges, your heart racing. Of course, Eirik wouldn’t take this lightly. His pride, his status—it was all tied to the alliance your father had promised him. And now, with you publicly attached to Loki, that promise had crumbled before his eyes.

A shadow looms over you before you even hear the approaching footsteps.

“I heard,” Loki says smoothly as he sits beside you, though there’s an edge to his voice, something darker than his usual playful tone.

“Of course you did.” You sigh, your shoulders sagging. “What do we do now?”

He leans back on the bench, looking up at the blue Asgardian sky, but there’s tension in the set of his jaw. “We keep pretending. And we let him come to us. I’m sure he will.”

You glance at him, worry swirling in your chest. “Loki, Eirik isn’t like the nobles who whisper behind fans and silk curtains. He won’t just let this go.”

A sharp smile curls at Loki’s lips, but there’s no warmth in it. “Then let him try something.”

You know that tone. It’s the same one he uses when he’s plotting something dangerous, something reckless.

“Loki…” you start, but he cuts you off.

“I won’t let him lay a hand on you, Y/n.”

It should comfort you, but all it does is make the knot in your chest tighten.

You don’t have to wait long before Eirik makes his move.

That evening, as you walk the palace corridors alone—something you now regret—his voice cuts through the stillness.

“My lady.”

You freeze before turning around.

Lord Eirik stands at the end of the corridor, dressed in deep burgundy robes lined with fur, his gray-streaked beard groomed perfectly, though his sharp eyes burn with fury.

You swallow, trying to summon the courage you’d had when speaking to Odin. “Lord Eirik,” you say as calmly as you can, though your heart pounds in your chest.

He strides toward you, each heavy step echoing off the marble walls. “I had expected a different welcome upon my return. Perhaps one from my betrothed.”

You straighten your shoulders, meeting his gaze. “I am not your betrothed.”

A muscle in his jaw ticks. “That was not your decision to make.”

The air between you thickens with tension, heavy and suffocating.

“My father agreed to the arrangement, yes,” you say carefully, “but I never did.”

His eyes narrow, and for a moment, you see the true depth of his anger, barely restrained beneath the surface. “And yet, now you belong to Loki? Do you think I don’t see this for what it is? A ruse. A desperate attempt to escape a future you did not want.”

You flinch, but refuse to look away. “If you see it so clearly, then why bother?”

“Because,” he hisses, stepping closer, his voice dropping into something low and dangerous, “I do not take well to being made a fool of.”

Your heart races, but you stand your ground. “I made my choice.”

Eirik’s hand twitches at his side, like he’s considering reaching for you, but before he can make another move, a familiar voice slices through the corridor, smooth and laced with venom.

“I suggest you step away from her, Eirik.”

You turn just as Loki appears from the shadows, his tall figure tense with restrained fury. His usual playful demeanor is gone, replaced with something far more dangerous. His green eyes burn as he closes the distance between the three of you, his steps slow and deliberate.

Eirik sneers. “So, the prince emerges. Tell me, Loki, how long do you expect this little performance to last?”

Loki stops at your side, his presence a solid wall between you and Eirik now. “Long enough for you to realize that she is no longer available to be traded like livestock.”

Eirik’s face reddens, his fury bubbling beneath his carefully constructed facade. “You think you can embarrass me like this? Ruin what was promised to me?”

Loki steps forward, the air around him crackling with restrained magic. “I think I just did.”

For a tense moment, you think Eirik might draw his weapon, might be foolish enough to challenge a prince of Asgard right here in the palace. But he doesn’t. Instead, he sneers, spitting his next words.

“This isn’t over.”

And with that, he turns on his heel and storms down the corridor, his heavy footsteps echoing until they vanish into silence.

You exhale sharply, your knees feeling weak beneath you.

Loki turns to you immediately, his hands resting gently on your shoulders. “Are you alright?”

You nod, though the adrenaline still courses through you. “I’m fine. I didn’t expect him to… I thought he’d just walk away.”

Loki’s jaw tightens. “Men like him never walk away quietly.”

You meet his gaze, seeing the worry beneath his sharp features. “Thank you. For stepping in.”

His fingers brush against your cheek, softer now, his anger replaced with something gentler. “I told you I wouldn’t let him touch you.”

Your heart stutters in your chest at the closeness between you. You’ve spent so much time pretending, weaving this elaborate lie, but this moment doesn’t feel like an act at all.

“Loki…” you start, unsure what you even want to say, but he shakes his head slightly, his eyes never leaving yours.

“We need to be careful. Eirik won’t take this humiliation lightly.”

You know he’s right, but part of you still lingers on the way his fingers brushed your cheek, on how his anger burned so fiercely on your behalf.

Over the next few days, the tension in Asgard thickens. The gossip shifts once more, no longer idle talk of romance and secret affections. Now it’s filled with sharp edges—talk of Eirik’s fury, of how the nobleman had been made a fool, of the confrontation in the palace corridors.

“He’ll retaliate,” you hear one nobleman whisper at a feast, his voice low but urgent. “Men like Eirik don’t take humiliation lightly.”

“He won’t dare cross Loki,” another responds, though even he sounds unsure.

You sit beside Loki at the long table, his hand resting casually on yours, playing the part still, though now there’s an undeniable tension beneath his touch.

“Everyone’s waiting for him to strike,” you murmur, sipping your wine.

Loki’s jaw tenses, but he keeps his smile in place for the crowd. “Let him. I’m ready.”

You glance at him, the flickering torchlight casting shadows across his sharp features. There’s something more beneath his calm exterior, something darker brewing.

“Don’t do anything reckless,” you say softly, but he only offers that same infuriating, knowing smile.

“For you, I’d do anything.”

The words are playful, but there’s truth laced in them—a truth you’re not sure you’re ready to face yet.

But in the pit of your stomach, you know Eirik’s next move is coming. And when it does, it will shatter the fragile facade you and Loki have built, forcing both of you to face the deeper truths you’ve been hiding behind the mask of your lie.

The days following Eirik’s return pass in a haze of tension and whispers, every corner of the palace echoing with fragments of your story. What started as a desperate act to avoid a loveless marriage has spiraled into something far more elaborate—something neither you nor Loki fully anticipated.

You thought the hardest part was convincing Odin and Frigga, but now you see how naïve that was. The entire realm buzzes with the news of your supposed love. And there’s no way to retreat from it now.

The decision comes swiftly, a conversation you’re not even a part of.

One morning, you’re summoned to the royal chambers, your heart hammering in your chest. You half-expect it to be Odin demanding the truth, but when you step into the vast room, it’s Frigga who greets you, her gentle smile doing little to soothe your nerves. Loki stands near the window, his hands clasped behind his back, his posture stiff. He avoids your gaze.

“Lady Y/n,” Frigga says, her voice kind but measured, “we’ve been discussing the future.”

Your throat tightens. “The future?”

She nods, her hands folded elegantly in front of her. “Yours and Loki’s.”

You glance at Loki, but he still won’t meet your eyes.

Frigga continues, “Asgardian tradition holds that public declarations of love, especially from royalty, carry a certain… expectation. The people are watching. Your families are watching. There will be pressure.”

The word hits you hard. Pressure. That’s all this has been—a tight, suffocating cage you’ve been trying to escape, only to find yourself deeper inside it.

“I… I understand,” you manage to say.

Frigga’s smile is patient, but you see the knowing glint in her eyes. “Odin believes the most honorable course now is marriage. It will solidify the alliance between your family and the royal house. It will… legitimize what has been said.”

The room seems to tilt beneath you.

Marriage.

You’d known it was a possibility—this was the path you chose the moment you begged Loki to fake this relationship—but hearing it spoken aloud makes it real.

You finally look at Loki, and this time he meets your gaze. His green eyes, usually so full of mischief and confidence, are unreadable now, guarded.

“This is what needs to happen,” he says quietly.

The words sting more than they should. You know he’s playing the part still, but a small, fragile part of you had hoped… for something else in his tone. Something warmer.

Frigga, ever observant, watches the silent exchange between you. “There will be time to prepare, of course. But the arrangements will begin immediately. The people will want a grand wedding.”

You can only nod, your heart beating too loud in your ears.

As you leave the chamber, Loki falls into step beside you. Neither of you speaks for a long moment, the weight of what just happened hanging between you like a storm cloud.

Finally, you break the silence. “So. We’re getting married.”

He exhales through his nose, the faintest trace of a smile curling at his lips. “Seems so.”

You try to laugh, but it comes out hollow. “I thought the whole point was to avoid being married off.”

His smirk deepens, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “At least this time it’s your choice.”

Is it? You want to say, but the words catch in your throat.

Instead, you glance at him, searching his face. “You don’t mind?”

Loki slows his steps, considering. “I’ve had worse fates.” He glances sideways at you, his green eyes softer now. “And it’s not as though I find the idea unbearable.”

Your stomach twists at his words, at the quiet honesty behind them.

He clears his throat, brushing past the moment. “We should… prepare. I’m sure the palace will be overrun with wedding plans soon.”

And it is.

Within days, Asgard buzzes with preparations. Nobles flock to the palace, eager to be part of the grand event. Silk merchants arrive with bolts of fabric shimmering in the sunlight. Jewels from realms beyond Asgard are presented as offerings for the bride-to-be—each more ornate than the last.

You’re swept into it all, barely able to catch your breath. Tailors drape you in rich fabrics, court advisors debate over seating charts, and Frigga herself insists on helping you select flowers from the royal gardens.

At first, it all feels like a dream—distant, surreal. You go through the motions because you have to, because this is what the story demands. But somewhere, amid the chaos, things begin to shift.

It starts when you see the temple where the ceremony will take place—its high arches carved with ancient runes, golden light pouring through the stained glass. You picture yourself standing there, before the entire realm, with Loki at your side.

You imagine the moment Odin will declare you husband and wife, the vows you will speak, the ring that will slide onto your finger.

And, unexpectedly, your heart flutters.

You try to brush it off at first. It’s just nerves, you tell yourself. The weight of everything happening so fast.

But it becomes harder to ignore when you catch glimpses of Loki in the quiet moments—when he thinks no one’s watching.

Like when you find him in the palace library, flipping through old texts on Asgardian wedding customs. You approach silently, watching as his brow furrows in concentration, his long fingers tracing the pages.

“Studying?” you tease, breaking the silence.

He startles, then chuckles softly. “I suppose I should know what I’m getting myself into.”

You smile, but the warmth in your chest lingers longer than it should.

And then there are the times you catch him staring at you during fittings or dinners—when he isn’t wearing his usual smirk but something softer, more vulnerable.

It’s in those moments that you begin to realize the truth you’ve been avoiding.

You care for him.

No—more than that.

You love him.

The realization hits you one evening as you stand on the palace balcony, watching the stars blink into existence above Asgard. The city glows beneath you, but all you can think of is Loki—the way he’s been by your side through all of this, protecting you, helping you.

He didn’t have to say yes when you begged him for help. He didn’t have to throw himself into this charade so completely.

But he did.

And somewhere along the way, pretending stopped feeling like pretending.

You press your hands to the balcony railing, your heart racing.

You love him.

But before you can even begin to unravel what that means, a new threat looms—darker and more dangerous than the whispers of nobles or the expectations of the court.

Eirik.

Though he has remained out of sight since his confrontation in the palace corridors, you know better than to believe he’s simply accepted his defeat.

And you’re right.

In the shadowed halls beneath Asgard, Eirik plots.

The slight against him, the humiliation he endured—it festers like a wound, growing deeper with each passing day. He cannot stand the thought of you standing at Loki’s side, wearing a crown that should have elevated his own status.

And so, he makes a decision.

If he cannot have you, if he cannot claim the future that was promised to him, then no one will.

Whispers reach his ears—servants who are easily bribed, guards who turn a blind eye. He learns of the wedding plans, the route you will take to the temple, the secluded chambers where you rest.

He plans his revenge carefully, methodically.

A poisoned blade. Swift, silent.

He imagines it easily—how the chaos would erupt if the bride-to-be were found dead on the eve of her wedding. The scandal, the shame, the grief. It would tear through the palace like wildfire.

Loki would suffer.

And that, more than anything, is what Eirik desires.

But what he doesn’t anticipate is how fiercely Loki watches over you.

Late one evening, as you sit in your chambers, going over the endless lists of preparations, Loki slips inside silently.

“Can’t sleep?” he asks, noting the candle still flickering beside you.

You smile tiredly. “Too much to think about.”

He crosses the room, sitting beside you. There’s something different in his demeanor tonight—tense, alert.

“You should rest,” he says gently. “The days ahead will be… intense.”

You glance at him, your heart aching with the weight of your unspoken feelings. You want to tell him—about the realization on the balcony, about how this no longer feels like an act to you.

But before you can speak, Loki’s expression shifts, his eyes darkening as he glances toward the window.

In an instant, he’s on his feet, his dagger appearing in his hand as though conjured from thin air.

“Stay here,” he orders, his voice low and sharp.

You barely have time to react before he vanishes into the shadows, leaving you breathless, fear curling in your chest.

Something is coming.

And this time, it’s not just your heart that’s at risk.

The tension that had filled the room moments ago lingers like a fog, even as Loki returns from the window, dagger still gripped tightly in his hand. His sharp eyes scan the corners of your chamber one last time, but there’s nothing—no shadowy figure lurking in the darkness, no threat waiting to strike. It had only been a flicker, perhaps a trick of the moonlight or the frantic pounding of both your hearts playing tricks on you.

Still, Loki doesn’t lower his weapon.

“It was nothing,” you whisper, though your voice shakes.

“Perhaps,” he replies, but the edge in his voice remains. “But I won’t take chances with your life.”

Your chest tightens at the words, at the sheer intensity of the way he looks at you, as though the thought of something happening to you is unbearable. You realize then how deeply this act—the lie you both started together—has woven itself into something neither of you can ignore.

“Loki,” you begin, but the words falter on your tongue. There’s so much you want to say, but the lump in your throat threatens to choke you.

He steps closer, lowering the dagger and reaching out, his hand brushing lightly against your cheek. “I won’t let anything happen to you,” he repeats, softer this time, but the weight of his promise feels heavier now.

The moment lingers between you, thick with unspoken confessions, but before either of you can cross that fragile line, he pulls back.

“You should rest,” he says, though his voice sounds strained, as if he’s fighting against something inside himself. “We both should.”

And with that, he slips out of the room, leaving you alone with the racing of your heart and the realization that the feelings you’ve buried for so long can’t be hidden much longer.

The following day—the day before the wedding—passes in a blur. The palace buzzes with preparations, the air filled with the scent of fresh flowers and the soft hum of music as musicians rehearse for the grand ceremony. Nobles flit about like jeweled birds, discussing everything from the seating arrangements to the color of the tapestries.

But none of it feels real.

Not to you.

Your mind is elsewhere, trapped in the heavy weight of what you need to say. The feeling that’s been growing inside you—quiet at first, then louder, unstoppable—can’t be ignored any longer. The thought of standing before all of Asgard tomorrow and binding yourself to Loki in a marriage that had begun as a lie is unbearable if he doesn’t know the truth: that it’s no longer pretend for you.

You find him that afternoon in the palace gardens, beneath the towering silverleaf trees where the two of you had so often sought refuge from court life. He stands with his back to you, hands clasped behind him, staring out over the shimmering pools that reflect the afternoon light.

You take a deep breath, summoning every ounce of courage, before stepping forward.

“Loki.”

He turns, the faintest smile touching his lips. “Y/n.”

But his usual mask of mischief and ease falters when he sees the seriousness in your expression.

“I need to talk to you,” you say, your hands twisting nervously in front of you.

His brow furrows, and he gestures for you to sit on the bench beneath the trees. “Of course. Is something wrong?”

You sit, the cool stone beneath you grounding, though your heart still races. “No. Well, yes. I—Loki, I can’t keep pretending.”

His entire body stiffens. “You want to call it off?” he asks, but there’s something vulnerable in his voice, hidden beneath the careful nonchalance.

You shake your head quickly. “No. That’s not—” You exhale, frustrated with yourself. “This started as a lie, yes. A way to avoid being forced into a marriage I didn’t want. But somewhere along the way…” Your throat tightens. “I stopped pretending.”

His eyes widen, the green depths shimmering with something fragile and raw.

“I love you, Loki,” you say, the words finally spilling out, freeing you from the cage they’ve built inside your chest. “I don’t want tomorrow to be a lie. I want it to be real.”

For a moment, there’s only silence. The soft rustle of leaves, the trickle of water, and the loud thundering of your own heartbeat.

And then Loki moves, swiftly, closing the space between you and pulling you into his arms. His hands cradle your face as he searches your eyes, as if trying to determine if you’re telling the truth.

“You love me?” he whispers, his voice filled with disbelief, hope, and something else—something deeper.

You nod, tears pricking your eyes. “I do.”

A smile breaks across his face then, the most genuine one you’ve ever seen. “I’ve loved you for so long,” he confesses, his voice cracking slightly. “Since before all of this. I never thought—”

You don’t let him finish. Instead, you press your lips to his, soft at first, tentative, before he deepens the kiss, pouring all the emotions you’ve both kept hidden into that moment. It’s everything you hoped for and more—electric, grounding, and undeniably real.

When you finally pull back, both of you breathless, he rests his forehead against yours.

“Tomorrow,” he says, “will be real. I swear it.”

You nod, your heart full in a way it’s never been before. “Tomorrow.”

But happiness, it seems, is always fleeting.

That night, after the palace has quieted, after you’ve retreated to your chambers to rest before the wedding, a darkness lingers—one that neither you nor Loki can sense.

Eirik.

He’s been watching, waiting, hidden in the shadows of the palace where no one dares to look. His fury has only grown, twisted into something vile and dangerous. And now, with the wedding hours away, his plan is set into motion.

You lie in your bed, staring up at the ornate ceiling, unable to sleep. The events of the day replay in your mind—your confession to Loki, his to you—the way your heart had soared with hope for the first time in so long.

But that hope shatters the moment your chamber door creaks open.

You sit up, expecting it to be Loki, but the figure that steps into the moonlight is not him.

It’s Eirik.

Before you can scream, he’s on you, pressing a hand over your mouth, his blade gleaming in the moonlight.

“I warned you,” he hisses, his face twisted with rage. “I told you this wasn’t over.”

You struggle beneath him, panic clawing at your chest, but he’s too strong. His blade plunges forward, piercing your side. A sharp, searing pain rips through you, followed by a coldness that spreads quickly.

The blade is poisoned.

But then—another voice, fierce and filled with rage.

“Get away from her!”

Loki bursts into the room, his magic already crackling around him. A blast of green energy slams into Eirik, sending him flying across the chamber. Loki is on him in an instant, his dagger pressed to Eirik’s throat, but his eyes flick to you, wide with horror.

“Y/n!”

You clutch your side, blood seeping through your fingers, your vision already blurring.

Loki knocks Eirik unconscious with a swift blow, then rushes to you, cradling you gently in his arms.

“No, no, no,” he whispers, his hands trembling as they press against your wound, trying to stop the bleeding. “You’re going to be fine. Do you hear me? You’re going to be fine.”

But the poison is already coursing through your veins. You can feel it—cold and heavy—pulling you under.

“L-Loki…” you whisper, reaching for his face, your fingers barely able to brush against his cheek.

“Stay with me,” he begs, tears slipping down his face. “Please, Y/n. I can’t lose you.”

You try to smile, but it’s weak, your strength fading fast. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he chokes out, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “More than anything.”

Your vision darkens, your body growing heavier. The last thing you see is Loki’s tear-streaked face before the world slips away.

But you don’t die.

Not yet.

Loki lifts you in his arms, his magic flaring wildly as he races through the palace toward the healers, his mind filled with one thought: he will save you.

No matter what it takes.

The palace, once alive with wedding preparations and buzzing excitement, now stands in eerie silence. The vibrant flowers meant to line the temple aisle wilt in the morning sun, untouched. The music that had echoed through the golden halls has fallen quiet, replaced by whispers and hurried footsteps. Word spread quickly—faster than anyone could have expected. By dawn, all of Asgard knows what happened.

You lie motionless on the grand bed in the royal healing chambers, your skin pale against the deep emerald sheets. The faint rise and fall of your chest is the only sign of life, but even that seems fragile, as if it could slip away at any moment. The wound at your side has been cleaned, the poison drawn out as much as possible by the royal healers, but the damage is done. You’re trapped in a deep, unnatural sleep—a coma—your body caught between life and death.

Loki sits by your bedside, his hand tightly wrapped around yours, refusing to let go even for a moment. His knuckles are white, his jaw clenched so hard it aches, but he doesn't care. All that matters is you.

It’s been hours since the attack. Hours since he carried your limp, bloodied body through the palace halls, screaming for help, his voice raw with panic. The healers had done all they could, but the poison had been crafted with dark intent—designed to kill slowly, to make sure the victim suffered. And now, you lie here, untouched by time, your face serene, while the people who love you crumble around you.

Frigga stands in the corner of the room, her hands folded tightly, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. She’d tried to offer comfort to Loki, but he had brushed her off, his grief too raw, too consuming. Odin had been there too, though he had left after ensuring the healers were doing everything in their power. His anger at Eirik had been palpable—a rare sight, even for Odin.

But it’s your father who breaks the tense stillness. He storms into the healing chamber, his ornate cloak billowing behind him, eyes wild with rage and grief. Seeing you there, pale and still, strips him of all the formality he’s known for. The weight of his noble status means nothing now.

“My daughter…” he chokes, rushing to your side, but stopping just short of the bed as if afraid that touching you will break what fragile life remains.

Loki stands abruptly, his protective instincts flaring. “This happened because of him,” he spits, his voice low and venomous. “Eirik did this.”

Your father’s face hardens, his grief shifting into something darker. “I will see him executed for this.” His voice trembles with fury.

“Good,” Loki snaps. “Because if you don’t, I will.”

Frigga steps forward, placing a gentle hand on Loki’s arm, but even her touch doesn’t soothe the rage coursing through him. His magic swirls just beneath the surface, green tendrils flickering around his fingers.

“We will ensure justice is done,” Frigga says softly, her voice filled with grief but calm. “But right now, Y/n needs us. She needs you.”

Loki swallows hard and looks down at you again. Your hand remains limp in his, your skin far too cold. He sinks back into the chair beside your bed, brushing his thumb over your knuckles.

“I should have been faster,” he whispers, guilt lacing every word. “I should have stopped him before he touched you.”

Frigga shakes her head, her voice gentle but firm. “You saved her life, Loki. Without you, she would be gone.”

But her words feel hollow to him. Because you’re still not awake.

In the depths of the palace dungeons, Eirik sits shackled, his once-pristine robes torn and bloodied from his scuffle with Loki. His face is bruised, his lip split, but his expression is one of seething hatred—not regret. He glares at the guards stationed outside his cell, their spears crossed tightly over the iron bars.

He knows what fate awaits him. Attempting to assassinate the future princess—on the eve of her wedding, no less—is a crime punishable by death. There is no path out of this, no clever words or noble connections to save him now.

But that doesn’t stop him from holding onto his bitterness.

“They’ll kill me for her,” he mutters under his breath, his hands tugging at the heavy iron chains around his wrists. “All for that witch and her liar of a prince.”

The guards ignore him, standing stiff and silent, but their disgust is evident in the way their grips tighten on their spears.

Above, the court gathers in the throne room. The news of the attack has stirred Asgard into chaos, and the nobles demand justice. Odin sits on his throne, Gungnir in hand, his face a mask of fury barely held in check. Frigga sits beside him, her usual calm replaced by cold, regal anger. Your father stands at the base of the dais, his voice thundering as he calls for Eirik’s execution.

“This man,” your father spits, “attempted to murder my daughter—the future princess of Asgard. There is no trial needed for such treachery. His fate should already be sealed.”

Murmurs ripple through the assembled nobles. Some nod in agreement, while others exchange uneasy glances. Eirik’s family—once powerful and influential—stand to the side, their faces pale with shame and horror. Their name will be tarnished forever.

Odin raises a hand, silencing the whispers. “There will be justice. But we are not barbarians. Eirik will face trial tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Loki’s voice cuts through the hall like a blade. He storms into the throne room, his cloak billowing behind him, his face twisted in fury. “Y/n lies in a coma. She may never wake, and you speak of trials?”

Frigga stands, reaching for her son, but Loki brushes past her, his eyes locked on Odin. “He deserves nothing but death.”

Odin’s jaw tightens, but his voice remains calm. “We will uphold Asgardian law. Even now.”

But Loki shakes his head. “This isn’t about law. It’s about her. About the woman I love lying on her deathbed while her attacker sits comfortably in the dungeons.”

A hush falls over the court at Loki’s words. Love. There had been whispers, of course—rumors that the engagement was more than a political arrangement—but to hear him say it aloud sends a ripple through the room.

Frigga moves to her son’s side, her hand resting on his arm. “Y/n would not want you to lose yourself to this rage.”

But Loki can’t stop. Not now. “She trusted me to protect her, and I failed.” His voice cracks then, the weight of his guilt finally breaking through. “If she dies…”

“She won’t,” Frigga says gently but firmly. “The healers are doing everything they can.”

But the uncertainty remains. Because no one knows if you will wake.

In the healing chambers, your father sits beside you now, his large hands dwarfed by your delicate ones. He’s silent, tears glistening in his eyes. For all his strength, for all his power as a nobleman, he is just a father now, grieving for his daughter who may be lost to him forever.

“I promised your mother I would keep you safe,” he whispers, his voice trembling. “I failed her. I failed you.”

He presses a kiss to your knuckles, his tears falling onto your cold skin.

Loki returns a short while later, his steps heavy as if the weight of the entire realm rests on his shoulders. Seeing your father there, he hesitates at the door, unsure if he’s welcome. But your father lifts his head and meets Loki’s eyes, something raw and real passing between them.

“She loves you,” your father says, his voice hoarse.

Loki swallows hard, his throat tight. “I know.”

“I didn’t want this for her—the court, the power plays, the danger. I wanted her to be happy.” He looks down at you, his voice cracking. “I never thought… this would be the price.”

“I’ll fix this,” Loki says, stepping forward. “I swear to you, I will.”

Your father doesn’t argue. He sees the grief in Loki’s eyes—the guilt—and knows it mirrors his own.

“Then bring her back.”

That night, Loki doesn’t leave your side. He sits by your bed, your hand still wrapped tightly in his, his magic thrumming just beneath the surface. He knows Asgardian law, knows that Eirik will be brought to trial and likely sentenced to death, but it doesn’t bring him peace. Because none of it matters if you don’t wake.

He brushes a strand of hair from your face, his fingers trembling. “You promised me tomorrow,” he whispers, his voice cracking. “You said we’d make it real.”

He swallows hard, tears burning his eyes. “So don’t leave me. Please, Y/n.”

For a moment, there’s nothing—just the soft sound of your breathing.

But then… the faintest twitch of your fingers in his hand.

Loki’s heart leaps, his eyes snapping to your face, but your eyelids remain closed.

Still, it’s hope. And it’s enough.

“I’m not letting you go,” he vows, his magic flaring around him, filling the room with soft green light. “No matter what.”

The days following the attack pass in a haze of tension, fear, and fragile hope. The palace remains silent, weighed down by the uncertainty that lingers in the air, but within the healing chambers, where you lay trapped in your poisoned sleep, life begins to stir.

Loki hasn’t left your side since that night. He’s there when the healers come and go, carefully checking your pulse, your breathing, the wound on your side that has started to heal. He sits by your bed, your hand cradled in his, whispering words meant for you alone—confessions, promises, and prayers, though he’d never admit to praying. Sleep comes to him only in short, restless intervals, his head often resting on the edge of your bed, his fingers still intertwined with yours, unwilling to let go even in his exhaustion.

It’s in one of those moments, when he’s dozed off, that it happens.

Your fingers twitch—small, faint, but undeniably real.

Loki jerks awake, his heart pounding as he lifts his head, eyes wide. For a moment, he thinks he imagined it, that his mind has finally broken beneath the weight of waiting. But then, your hand twitches again, this time more deliberately, your fingers curling slightly against his.

“Y/n,” he breathes, his voice trembling as he leans closer. “Y/n, can you hear me?”

Your brow furrows, your eyelashes fluttering against your pale cheeks. It’s as if your body is fighting its way back to him, clawing through the darkness that held you prisoner. Then, slowly, your eyes open, hazy and unfocused at first, but unmistakably alive.

Loki’s breath catches in his throat.

You blink, struggling to focus, your body feeling impossibly heavy. The room is blurry, but the first thing you truly see is him—his tear-streaked face hovering above yours, his eyes filled with so much emotion it makes your heart ache.

“L-Loki?” you whisper, your voice hoarse, barely more than a breath.

A choked laugh escapes him, mingled with a sob he doesn’t have the strength to hold back. “I’m here. I’m right here.”

His hand cups your cheek so gently, as though you might shatter if he touches you too firmly.

You try to speak again, but the effort drains you, your eyes threatening to close.

“Don’t push yourself,” Loki says, brushing your hair back from your damp forehead. “You’re safe now. You’re going to be okay.”

You feel the warmth of his hand, the tremble in his voice, and despite the pain and weakness coursing through your body, you find a fragile comfort in his presence.

“W-what happened?” you manage.

His jaw tightens, the memory of that night flashing in his mind. “Eirik. He… he tried to kill you.” His voice is bitter, filled with venom, but when his eyes meet yours again, they soften. “But I stopped him. You’re safe now.”

You swallow hard, the fog in your mind slowly clearing as you recall the moment—the cold blade, the burning pain, his voice calling your name as you slipped away.

“Thank you,” you whisper, your fingers weakly squeezing his hand.

His lips curl into the faintest smile. “You scared me, Y/n. I thought I’d lost you.”

“I came back,” you murmur, the corners of your mouth lifting, despite the pain. “For you.”

Tears fill his eyes again, but he lets them fall, not caring who sees. “And I will never let anything happen to you again.”

Your recovery is slow, but each passing day brings more strength. The healers, though amazed you survived the poisoned blade, constantly warn you to rest, but it’s difficult with Loki hovering by your side like a watchful hawk.

He refuses to leave the room for more than a few moments at a time, often bringing books, flowers, or enchanted lights to keep you entertained. You tease him for it, your humor slowly returning, but there’s a comfort in having him so close.

Your father visits daily, often staying silent, simply holding your hand and whispering soft apologies. He blames himself for what happened—for nearly forcing you into a marriage with Eirik, for not protecting you. But you forgive him. In truth, there’s nothing but relief in his eyes now when he sees you alive.

The trial for Eirik had been postponed multiple times, each delay issued by Odin himself. No one had wanted to move forward with it until you were awake, until you were strong enough to face what had nearly destroyed you. And now, weeks later, you finally are.

“I want to be there,” you tell Loki one morning, sitting up in your bed, your strength finally returning enough to hold yourself upright without his assistance.

He frowns deeply, his arms crossed. “Y/n, you’re still recovering. You shouldn’t push yourself.”

“I need to see it through,” you insist, your eyes filled with determination. “I need to see him pay for what he did.”

Loki’s jaw tightens, but he knows he can’t deny you this. “Then I’ll be at your side the entire time.”

“Always,” you say, smiling softly.

“Always.”

The grand hall is filled with nobles and soldiers, all gathered for Eirik’s long-delayed trial. The tension is palpable, whispers flowing like water as you make your entrance, draped in flowing Asgardian silks, your posture regal despite the lingering ache in your side.

Loki is at your side, his hand on your arm, guiding you gently but firmly through the sea of eyes. The crowd parts for you, many bowing their heads in respect—though some, you notice, can’t help but stare. You are a living ghost to them; no one had expected you to survive.

On the dais, Odin sits with Frigga, her eyes soft but fierce as they settle on you. Your father stands near them, his face hardened with the weight of what’s to come.

Eirik is brought forward, shackled and bruised, though his expression holds no remorse. He glares at you, his lips curled in disdain, but Loki steps forward, his presence towering, his magic subtly crackling in the air. One wrong move, and Eirik wouldn’t leave the hall alive.

The trial is swift. The evidence is undeniable—Eirik’s confession to guards, Loki’s eyewitness account, and the poisoned blade recovered from your chambers.

But the moment that stills the hall is when you stand, your body trembling from exertion but your voice clear.

“I stand here today,” you begin, your eyes fixed on Eirik, “alive despite your cowardice. You took from me my safety, my peace, and nearly my life. But you didn’t take my strength.”

Eirik sneers but says nothing.

“I will not let you break me,” you continue, your gaze never wavering. “Nor will I let your hatred poison what I have with Loki.”

Loki steps closer, his hand slipping into yours, anchoring you as Odin rises from his throne.

“Eirik,” Odin’s voice booms, “for your crimes against the crown, against Y/n, and against Asgard itself, you are sentenced to exile from this realm. You will be banished, stripped of your titles, your magic bound, and never permitted to return.”

A mix of gasps and murmurs ripple through the crowd. It’s a merciful punishment—perhaps too merciful—but Odin’s decision is final.

Eirik’s face twists with rage as guards drag him away, but you feel no satisfaction watching him go. Only relief that it’s over.

Weeks later, as the palace slowly returns to its usual rhythm, you and Loki begin to speak of the future. This time, without lies or politics or necessity.

The marriage that had once been a facade is now something else entirely—something real.

Loki brings it up first, in the gardens beneath the silverleaf trees where you had first confessed your feelings.

“We never did have a proper proposal,” he says, his voice soft, his eyes filled with warmth.

You smile, brushing your fingers over his. “No, we didn’t.”

He steps closer, reaching into his pocket to pull out a delicate ring—an emerald stone set in gold, shaped like twisting vines. “Then let me do this properly.”

Your breath catches as he lowers himself to one knee, his expression both nervous and overjoyed.

“Y/n,” he says, “will you marry me? Not because of duty, not because of lies—but because I love you, more than I ever thought I could love anyone?”

Tears fill your eyes, but your voice is steady. “Yes, Loki. A thousand times yes.”

When he slips the ring onto your finger and pulls you into his arms, the world seems to fall away, leaving only the two of you.

This time, the wedding is planned with care—not rushed, not clouded by politics. The palace buzzes again, but this time it feels right. Frigga oversees the arrangements, often pulling you aside to discuss flowers or gowns, her joy clear in every smile. Odin, though still stoic, offers his blessing, and your father—though still protective—gives his approval, seeing the happiness that radiates from you.

The day of the wedding dawns bright and golden, the skies clear, the air sweet with blooming flowers. You stand before Loki in the temple, draped in flowing silks, your heart full in a way you never imagined possible.

Loki looks at you as though you are the only thing in the universe, his smile soft, his hands trembling as he takes yours.

When you speak your vows—real vows, honest and pure—there is no trace of the fear or pain that once loomed over you both. There is only love.

And when he kisses you, sealing your bond, the palace erupts in cheers, and you know—truly know—that this was always meant to be.

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zepskies · 2 years ago

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Break Me Down - Part 11

Pairing: Soldier Boy/Ben x Female Reader

Summary: You’re a private investigator by trade, but now you happily sit at a desk — leading a surveillance team at Supe Affairs. After managing to end Homelander in New York, Soldier Boy escapes custody. You are recruited for the manhunt, joining Butcher’s team.

Truly, you joined the S.A. for the right reasons. But after you become his accidental hostage, Soldier Boy will break down every single one of them…

💚 Break Me Down Masterlist

AN: Happy Father's Day and early Juneteenth! In honor of the holiday weekend, here's an early chapter update. 😘

Word Count: 4,000 Tags/Warnings: Violence and peril, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff

Part 11: The Lion’s Den

“Where is she?” Ben asked, once he and Frank were loaded in the car.

Loco and his team had to stay behind as their distraction for escape. If they weren’t slaughtered, they’d be taken into custody.

Ben knew he could’ve wasted all of them, Butcher, his team, the CIA, but the nuclear power in his chest had refused to cooperate…

Anyway, Black Noir hadn’t been there. So it was all the more useless to stick around. The real plan was with you, and he was very surprised that you’d stuck to it…but maybe he shouldn’t have been.

“She was brought to the Tower,” Frank informed him.

Ben smirked. “Good. But pretty fucking stupid of Stan to stick around there when he knew I’d be coming.”

He looked over and noticed Frank’s frown as he drove.

“Unless he’s not at the Tower,” Frank said.

Ben’s smirk fell. Why would that prick take her there if…

“We have to be open to the possibility that his Chief of Security is taking the matter of his daughter into his own hands,” Frank said. “Or she’s improvising.”

Ben frowned.

That didn’t change when they arrived at the Tower, and attempted to use the entrance through the back garage to avoid attention. But it didn’t matter.

The entire squad of Vought security, included what looked like some added muscle (hopped up on what smelled like V24), met them when they reached the lobby of the building. Now that the Seven had been disbanded, there was no pretense of “good guys vs. bad guys.” It was just defense and siege.

And in front of them all was Black Noir.

“There you are,” Ben said, but the other supe didn’t even tilt his head in greeting. He was a still statue, an attack dog given a single mission.

When Noir surged forward, Ben ran to meet him. It was a clash of blade to shield, fist to fist, grappling and reflexes that only Compound V could endow. The match tore through the lobby, then up the large staircase as Ben continued to fight his way up to Stan’s office.

Frank was already on his way up to you, but it would take him time with Vought security crawling all over them. He was good, and temporarily a supe, but he was still just one man.

Meanwhile, Ben and Noir’s fight spilled into the upper floors, through walls and offices and screaming employees trying to get out of their way.

Once they reached near the floor below Stan’s office, Ben got an arm around Black Noir’s neck, and with his free hand tried to unmask him. He wanted to know for sure what lied underneath it, if it was actually the Noir he knew. Or if it was something else entirely.

But Noir twisted with superior reflexes and flipped Ben hard over his shoulder. In the process, he ripped off Ben’s helmet. His brown hair hung over his brows as he pushed to his feet, deliberately taking his time.

When he turned, Noir was standing there with the helmet crunched in his hand. Rolling his neck, Ben prepared to jump back into the fight, but a new sound reached his ears.

He heard you on the floor above. And you were fighting someone…

Ben pressed a finger to the comm in his ear.

“Frank, you got eyes on her?”

V24 had endowed the man with x-ray vision. A moment later, Frank patched through while he struggled and fought.

“She needs help,” he said gravely.

Ben took his hand off the comm, gritting his teeth. Black Noir was still waiting on him, attuned to Ben’s every move as the other supe brandished one of his blades.

Shit, Ben thought. He needed to end this.

Right fucking now.

That resolve helped him take a deep breath, then summon the energy inside him. He focused with the aim of blasting a clean stream of power at Black Noir; not enough to take out the whole building, but enough to take out just him.

His insides felt molten when the power collected, and finally released at his target.

Noir covered himself at the last moment with a piece of fallen debris (a half-crumbled wall), but it only created a small buffer. The force of the blast itself pushed him down the hall and through the side of the building.

Meanwhile, you were holding your own…but you were also getting beat to hell.

You were battered, with blood dribbling down the corner of your mouth from a particularly bad hit.

You were still standing though.

“You’ve gotten soft,” Jon remarked. He’d broken a sweat, had some bruises, and was panting for breath just like you. But he was more in control as he swatted a well-aimed, yet ultimately weak fist as your strength waned. He used his own to smack you down again.

“I gave you time to come around, and this is what you did with it,” he said, shaking his head. “Disappointing.”

When you tried to stand on shaking legs, he kicked you in the dead center of your chest. You felt your ribs crack as you fell back into the glass coffee table.

You gasped for breath, turning onto your side as glass pricked at your back, your sides, your arm. You coughed, wincing at the agony of knife-like pain near your lungs. Blood flecked from your mouth onto your arm, and for a moment, you stared at it in a daze.

But then Jon was above you. You tried to swipe at his face, but he bat your hand away, his brows furrowed angrily. He turned you back onto your back and wrapped a hand around your neck. Your eyes flew wide with panic.

He squeezed with enough pressure that it wouldn’t crush your windpipe, but it was sure to knock you out eventually. You slapped and clawed at his hand, but he only shushed you.

“What you need now is what you’ve always needed. A firm hand,” he said. “But I’m going to help you. I promise, I will.”

The fight drained out of you as it became impossible to breathe, and harder still to block out his words from entering your brain.

But then, the vice around your throat was gone. Oxygen poured back into your lungs as you gasped, then coughed again when your fractured ribs protested.

Your eyelids fluttered open in time to see your father thrown hard into the far wall. You heard the sick crack and breaking of bone as he landed.

Still, you struggled to breathe.

Tears leaked from your eyes when you looked up and found Ben. His helmet was missing, and he wore a furious, steely frown. You opened your mouth, but nothing came out except for more coughing, and more blood.

To your surprise, he tucked his shield on his back and bent down to scoop you up into his arms.

You cringed, uttering an agonized sound when he tried to move you.

Ben hesitated. Looking down at you, some of his anger drained. He made a slower ascent as he straightened to his full height.

And without a word, he carried you out of the room and down the ruined hallway. All the while, you stared at the side of his face. His jaw was still clenched, his brows knitted, his eyes set dead ahead.

You wondered why he had to wait for moments like this to show you who he truly was.

“What are you, some kind of hero?” you managed to quip, offering a small smile.

Ben glanced down at you, and gradually smirked. “Something like that.”

When his foot slipped on a piece of debris, he righted himself quick. But the jerking movement jostled you, eliciting another pained whimper. Your hand gripped at his chest, digging into the grooves of his suit.

“Hold on,” he murmured. His lips briefly pressed to the crown of your head. “We’re getting the fuck outta here.”

Your eyes closed at the tender touch, and a few more tears spilled down your cheeks.

“He…knew,” you managed to say. “Knew I was lying.”

“I know,” said Ben. “I should’ve fucking known better.”

You marveled at that near apology. Your lips trembled as you rested your head against his chest. You just couldn’t help it anymore.

“Was my idea,” you admitted.

“Yeah, well, evidently not all your ideas are aces,” he said.

You could’ve gotten angry, but you saw the way he moved with care, trying not to slip again for your sake. You tried at a smile.

“Guess not,” you said, though you bit your lip at the pain that seemed to radiate through your entire body. Ben seemed to notice.

“Just relax,” he said, a deep rumble. But there was a soothing note to it, you thought. Or maybe, you just liked the sound of his voice.

Then silence fell between the two of you, both comfortable and tense as Ben focused on potential threats in his surroundings.

All the while, you continued to rest your eyes. Instead of your pain, you tried to concentrate on his steady heartbeat beneath your cheek.

“It’s about fucking time,” you eventually heard Ben grouse.

You opened your eyes and were relieved to see Frank exiting the stairwell to meet you and Ben. His face and black tactical gear were splattered with blood, but he looked fine, more or less. His gaze roamed over you with his usual stoicism, but you thought you saw a glint of concern.

“I take it Stan Edgar isn’t here,” said Frank.

“You could fucking say that,” Ben snarked. “Let’s just get the hell out of here.”

“Sir.” Frank saw something ahead, behind you. Ben turned to find Black Noir silently standing in the middle of the hall, with a large, suspicious-looking gun in his hands.

Without taking his eyes off Noir, Ben gestured to Frank. He came up beside you, and Ben passed you into Frank’s arms.

“Get her out of here,” Ben ordered. With a nod, Frank carried you back the way he came, towards the staircase. You tried to peer over his shoulder.

“He shouldn’t face Noir alone,” you said, even though every breath was a challenge with the sharp pain in your chest.

“He’ll meet us after,” Frank told you. But as soon as he started down the stairs, a fresh team of Vought security and police came to meet you.

Meanwhile, Ben stared down the hall at his opponent. Black Noir activated the strange gun, which lit up with a blue energy.

“You can bring out any kind of fancy artillery you want, but it’s not going to stop me from killing you,” Ben taunted.

Noir remained silent, of course, but he aimed the gun and fired. It shot a potent, crystal blue beam of energy that ate through Ben’s shield, and eventually hit him in the chest before he could finish revving up his own power. The blast from the gun, it wasn’t hot.

It was ice cold. So frigid that it extinguished the heat that had been building in his chest, but it wasn’t diffusing his power completely…it just made it even harder to control.

And the resulting backlash was overwhelming.

Ben woke slowly, like wading through molasses. Usually his mind was sharp, even when he woke from a booze-induced coma. Now he felt groggy, and it was hard to focus or even force his body to sit up on the hard cot he was laying on.

Glancing down, he realized he’d been changed out of his suit. He was dressed in a plain gray shirt and matching pants, no shoes. He knew a prison outfit when he saw one, just as he now knew where he was: a white padded cell.

Fuck.

At least it was better than a frigid coffin…but in his mind, not by much.

He slid his legs over and managed to push up onto his feet.

Why’s it so fucking misty in here? he thought, waving his hand through the smokey air. And why was he so tired?

He soon got his answer when he realized who stood at the large window at the front of his cell.

Stan Edgar.

The man himself, dressed in a well-tailored navy suit, was watching him with crossed arms.

“We did hope you would remain on sabbatical,” said Stan. “But I had a feeling you would return, and come directly to us.”

Stan gestured to the large cell. “This was our contingency plan.”

Ben made his way, with difficulty, closer to Stan, who pointed at the air vents above that were pumping in a gas of some kind.

“A light mist of Novichok,” Stan explained. “Enough to keep you docile.”

“And if I’m not?” Ben asked. His voice was edged with grit, and the promise of retribution.

“We can up the dose, put you to sleep indefinitely,” Stan replied. “But you have my attention. What would you like to discuss?”

“The conversation I planned on having was…a little different,” Ben said darkly. “But first, let’s start with what you used to clone Black Noir.”

“I suppose there’s no real harm in telling you,” Stan said. Even his voice was grating on Ben’s ears, the smug prick.

“We kept some of Homelander’s blood as an insurance policy. But, we’ve learned from our mistakes.”

“Right,” Ben scoffed. “How’s that?”

“This Noir is not a carbon copy, but nor is he a megalomaniac. He’s under our control,” Stan said.

“Until he isn’t,” Ben snarked. If he thought about it, that was something you would say. Maybe your penchant for smart-ass remarks had gotten into his head.

“And that new gun?” he asked. “Don’t tell me your little lab rats put that together just for me.”

Stan’s lips made a wry turn.

“It was a breakthrough project. Temporarily destabilizes the energy you generate when you charge up like a Power Puff Girl.” Stan thought for a moment, then inclined his head. “A reference, I realize, which may be lost on you.”

“So what’s the play here?” Ben said. He was getting impatient. “You know, when I break out, things aren’t gonna be pretty.”

Stan didn’t seem bothered by the clear threat.

“In the meantime,” he said, “you won’t be alone.”

Stan stepped back and revealed the cell right across the hall. Through the window, Ben could see you, lying unconscious on a shitty cot in similar gray pajamas. His brows crunched as he narrowed his eyes, trying to peer in closer. You looked like you’d been bandaged up, at least.

“You also managed to put my Chief of Security in Intensive Care, but his daughter should be fine…if a bit worse for wear,” Stan informed him.

Ben glared back, his lips curling. Sloppy of him. He should’ve made sure that bastard was dead.

“That’s cute, considering he’s the demented fuck who beat her to hell,” Ben said.

Stan rose a solitary brow. “And at whose behest did she enter the lion’s den?”

Ben had nothing to say to that.

You woke with a pained groan before your eyes even opened. Your body felt like a walking welt.

Your brain pounded like bongo drums, your chest felt tender with every infinitesimal movement, but you realized that you’d been seen to medically, at least. Your head was bandaged, and you felt that the blood had been wiped from your face and arms.

You looked up and found, with a sigh, that you were indeed in a cell. But you softened when you found Ben through the large glass window, in a cell of his own. He was sitting on his bed, arms crossed, with his back against the wall. His eyes found yours, and his lips twitched.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

He sounded off. Tired, you thought. And you noticed a steady mist being piped into his room.

Shit. Novichok, you surmised with a frown.

“You okay?” you asked.

Ben chuckled a little. “You’re the one who looks like hell.”

“Why, thank you,” you replied wryly.

There was a pitcher and a cup of water on a tray, a small paper cup of what you assumed were painkillers, and an ice pack next to you on the cot.

You hesitated on the pills, but in light of your incredible pain, you had no choice. You took the pills, drank the water, and grabbed the ice pack, pressing it against your sternum. You sat up all the way with a slow gait and a pained groan.

“Go slow,” he warned. “Bet you’re missing that Temp. V right about now.”

You rolled your eyes at him.

“How’d you get caught?” he asked.

That succeeded in dimming your mood. You explained that Frank had been forced to set you on your feet when you were confronted by more security and a police squad.

The man had been a one-man weapon; hopped up on V24 as he was, he managed to fight his way down to the garage, where you slowly, painfully crept down there.

You and Frank had almost reached his car, but you held him back. You were stubborn about waiting on Ben, even considered going back for him.

That was when the shot rang out, hitting Frank point blank in the chest.

Before you could even bend to help him, you were taken, dragged back into the building, and knocked out before you could take your captor’s gun.

You tried in vain to wipe away fresh tears while you retold the story.

Bottom line: Frank’s death was your fault. Though while he frowned in disappointment, Ben didn’t seem to hold it against you.

“Good on ya, Frank,” Ben murmured. “You went down fucking swingin’.”

“What about you? What happened with Black Noir?” you asked after a moment. Sniffling, you met Ben’s eyes.

He eventually told you about the strange gun Vought had commissioned just for him. And the more you listened, the deeper your frown became. It sounded impossible.

“Makes you wonder what else they’ve been cooking up in that lab,” you muttered.

“Other than Noir?” Ben quipped. He told you about that too.

“We can figure this out,” you said. “If nothing else, my team, the CIA, they’re looking for both of us…if for different reasons.”

Ben scoffed at that. “A silver lining there. Make no mistake, we’re getting the fuck out of here. Just…need a minute to think.”

But he was starting to wane. It was taking all his energy to concentrate on your voice, to even keep his eyes open. The steady stream of gas being pumped into his cell made it damn near impossible, and it was frustrating beyond belief.

Because if he fell asleep now, there was no telling when he’d wake up. And fuck if Ben would ever admit to the panic he felt welling up into his chest.

“Aaah, fuck!” he growled, pounding a fist against the wall.

You noticed, biting your lip in concern…until an idea made you smile. It was something you used to do to distract your sister when she was little.

“Why are colds bad criminals?” you asked.

Ben just blinked at you. “What?”

He asked not because he understood what you were doing, but because he was genuinely confused.

“Because they’re easy to catch,” you said, making a drumming motion with your hands. “Buddum-ch.”

Your neighbor just stared back at you, unimpressed.

“Okay, not a fan of that one. Let me see…okay,” you raised a finger. “What does a baby computer call its father?”

Ben’s eyes narrowed, like he couldn’t tell if you were serious.

“Data!” you said, biting your lip at an embarrassed smile. It curved Ben’s lips, but he was stubborn.

“Why was 6 afraid of 7?” you asked.

“Jesus Christ, enough…” he muttered.

“Because 7’s a dick, that’s why,” you said. And your straight face lasted for all of three seconds before you ended up giggling. It hurt your bruised body, but it lightened you to see the reluctant smile tug its way onto Ben’s face.

“All right,” he said at last. He briefly closed his eyes, trying to remember a joke he’d heard Loco tell. “How do you make a pool table laugh?”

You smiled. “How?”

“Tickle its balls,” Ben said. Your answering snort deepened his smile into a smirk.

“Playing bridge is just like sex,” you said. Ben shook his head. His grandmother used to play fucking bridge.

But regardless, he took the bait.

“How’s that?”

“If you don’t have a good partner, you better have a good hand,” you said with a smirk.

Ben made a sound of amusement, though it wasn’t quite a laugh. You traded these back and forth, each trying to make the other crack with progressively dirtier jokes (though you suspected Ben was just trying to disgust you).

You considered yourself the winner when Ben finally chortled a deep, belly laugh that showed his charming smile.

It made you smile in return.

Ben rested a hand on his chest, but when his mirth died down, he realized just how tired he was. Still, he wasn’t ready to let go of this. His connection with you tethered him to reality, even if reality sucked dick right now.

His gaze met yours. “Why don’t you sing something, crooner?”

You bit your lip once again. “Like what?”

Ben’s eyes closed.

“You know the one,” he said. A softer smile graced your lips, though he couldn’t see it.

“You’re getting sentimental in your old age,” you teased. He chuckled.

“Just sing, for fuck’s sake.”

His brows were knitted, like he was trying all he could to stay awake. You took pity on him.

“If I didn’t care, more than words can say…” you began to sing softly. “If I didn’t care…would I feel this way?”

Every extended note was painful, but it was worth it to see his face relax.

Stan Edgar’s lips pursed, and he set down his cell phone on his desk. Victoria was screening his calls.

Disappointing, he thought, but not unexpected. He surveyed the cleanup crew wiping up debris, glass, and blood from the lounge area with a dispassionate gaze.

This was going to take a while.

So after drumming his fingers on the mahogany surface, Stan decided to push up from his desk and head downstairs via the elevator. It took him all the way down to Level 0, the home of one of Vought’s most secure R&D labs.

There his most trusted scientist, Dr. Tonya Baker, was at the helm with her team at work on various projects. Most of which were not sanctioned by the government.

Stan folded his hands behind his back and reached her side, and she set down a beaker filled with a green, buzzing liquid.

“Good afternoon, sir,” she greeted.

“Tonya, you know what I’m about to ask,” he said. She bobbed her head and turned to face him in her rolling desk chair.

“We’re still working on solutions. Without his cooperation, safely extracting Soldier Boy’s DNA is a tricky thing,” she said.

“You don’t say?” Stan said dryly. “What are our options?”

“Well, needles will only break, as you know,” said Dr. Baker. “The scientists in Russia found that only Soldier Boy is strong enough to break his own skin.”

“And I doubt he’ll open a vein for us,” Stan said, “even if we threaten to put him to sleep.”

He didn’t even think leveraging with the girl would aid, more than complicate their goals. While it was something to consider, Stan would rather find the path of least resistance here. Soldier Boy was…volatile at best.

“How much of Homelander’s blood remains?” he asked.

“None,” the doctor replied. “We used the last of it to clone Black Noir. And a hair sample is not enough to create additional subjects…at the very least, a urine sample. Even Dr. Vogelbaum managed that.”

Stan sent her shrewd look. If only he still had Dr. Vogelbaum in his employ. If only the man were still alive.

What a waste of a talented, resourceful man.

“That will be a problem,” Stan said.

“Not necessarily.” Dr. Baker adjusted a monitor screen at her desk. It displayed the feed from Soldier Boy’s cell.

She pointed to the toilet in the corner of the cell. Then she called over one of her assistants.

“Tell Maintenance to cut the water, and then a section of the pipes.”

AN: Okay. 😅 I know I'm gonna get some mixed reviews on this one (Let me know what you thought!).

But despite the teaser, I think you'll enjoy where the story's headed next...

Next Time:

They wheeled in what looked like a large metal casket. You had only seen one of these in pictures, but it had to be a cryochamber.

A doctor in her mid-fifties accompanied them, giving directions on how to safely enter Ben’s cell. Your eyes widened.

“What the hell are you doing?” you shouted.

Panic trilled down your spine as the guards fitted themselves with special suits and gas masks. The doctor turned toward you as the guards led you out of your cell and into the hall.

“You’re being transported,” she informed you.

Keep Reading: PART 12

Soldier Boy Masterlist

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