#her red hair was so pretty I’ve been meaning to gif dilemma for a while AKSJJSJS also namjoo T_T

[yoonzinoswife]

Apink 에이핑크 ‘Dilemma’ : hayoung

[whirlybirbs]

✶ ┈ PART TWO !

summary: loki meets the grandmaster and you intervene. the agreement (it’s really not an agreement, okay, more of a cause of circumstance) of parading as a married couple happens and neither of you are very excited about it. pairing: fake!wife reader x loki, set in ragnarok. a/n: hehehe here’s another 1.7k of these two. READ PART ONE HERE.

The third time you meet Loki, he’s strapped to that contraption the Grandmaster uses to intimidate the new fighters.

You’ve had a long week.

You’d woken up in a trash heap, bruised and sore and somehow alive. You’d decided, wholeheartedly, not to think too much about it -- not that you had an option. After stumbling over an entire mountain of inter-galactic trash being deposited by the varying collapsing stars around the planets atmosphere, you were quickly descended upon by a terrifyingly pretty woman with a tight braid and white symbols painted down her cheeks.

She smelt like booze and swaggered like a practiced warrior.

You didn’t trust her.

“You a fighter?” she’d called out, tilting her head.

“Where am I?” you’d asked, narrowing your eyes.

“Sakaar,” she chirped, “Now, are you a fighter? Yes or no?”

The moment that followed was tense -- a bit like a standoff.

“... Depends.”

“Hm.”

She’d caught you in the neck with a tracker then, a smirk on her face the whole way. In one swift move, she’d thumbed open the control device in her hand and sent you convulsing to the ground.

“The Grandmaster likes the pretty, clever ones.”

Her condescending smirk was the last thing you saw before you blacked out.

You woke up in the same chair Loki’s strapped to currently, bleary eyed and confused -- that man, The Grandmaster as he called himself, had decided rather quickly that he liked you. Perhaps it was your sudden decision to praise him and his choice of make-up.

(That was a great way to make friends in the bathrooms of bars -- surely compliments are universal.)

“Who are you, then?” he asks with a slow smile.

“I’m a Doctor,” you say slowly, “I study astrophysics.”

The smile drops immediately.

“Boring.”

He’s about to wave his hands, then, send you off to some horrible fate, you’re sure.

“A-And I tell stories!”

(That wasn’t really a lie -- you had a minor in classics. If you recited the plot to Hamlet to any of the colorful people in this penthouse suite, you’re sure none of them would realize it. Perhaps being entertainment would be worth keeping you around until you figured out how the fuck to get back home.)

“Stories, huh?”

So, here you are now, swathed in Sakaarian socialites, faux-smiles plastered to your face as you giggle into your neon colored drink. Your gown is something deemed fashionable for this planet, all colorblocked and tight with high slits and low dips. Along your cheeks is the same stark white branding as the brazenly mean warrior-lady you’d first met on Trash Mountain. You realize, half-way through the application by one of the Grandmaster’s maids, that it’s a mark of ownership. It’s rather disgusting, the whole fact you’re someone’s property now -- but, you suppose that it’s keeping you alive and in this current state? 

You really can’t complain.

Until you see Loki.

You choke on your drink.

You stand swiftly, leaving your martini and the gaggle of others behind as you move quickly upon the center of the room. The Grandmaster reels for a moment at the obstruction amidst his usual induction -- and your jaw drops.

“You.”

Quickly, the look of surprise morphs into one of anger and Loki’s eyes widen. You feel like you’re suddenly had all the words you’d thought about screaming in his face these last seven days pulled from your brain and all you can do is snarl and shriek:

“... You!”

Your finger jabs his chest, prodding at the green and gold armor there with such ferocity it’s no wonder you’re not stabbing him. For the first time, Loki gets a good look at you -- it’s clear you’ve somehow managed to worm your way into this “Grandmaster”’s circle; it’s commendable. For a Midgardian.

The Silvertongue, with every passing moment, is beginning to see his opportunity to do the same slip away.

“What? What’s the matter?” the Grandmaster coos, circling Loki to place his arms around your frame. You stiffen. Loki watches you swallow your anger. If he wasn’t strapped to a chair, maybe he’d find your discomfort amusing. However, Loki can’t help but avert his gaze.

Your anger is well deserved, really. He did throw you out of the Bifrost.

“... Oh, I see what’s going on here.”

Both you and Loki blink at the Grandmaster.

“... I’m sorry?”

“Star-crossed lovers.”

Your face twists into disgust as Loki blinks between the two of you -- confusion splits his features into an attempt of a charismatic laugh.

“Good sir, I believe you’re mistaken --”

“No,” he raises a finger, “I’ve seen this before. And you told me of your crash landing, my pretty little pet -- you said you lost your friends on the way. Lost a love… Raven haired and pale...”

You’d been entertaining the party with a poorly remember retelling of Romeo and Juliet to the Grandmaster’s court, but okay. It’s pretty clear the Grandmaster is making his over revisions as well.

Loki’s brow quirks.

There’s a moment pause. Then, the Grandmaster stops his blinking between the both of you and claps his hands. “But, if not -- I’ll have him executed. Your reaction was warrant enough. Can’t have my best storyteller off her game, can I?”

The maniac’s ability to bounce between party and murder is astounding.

Loki’s eyes are wide. His look is pleading.

You, in that moment, are put in the biggest moral dilemma of your life.

You can, of course, turn the other cheek -- but that means cozying up to the global terrorist who unceremoniously threw you out of the Bifrost to try and save himself from his own sister. On the other hand, you’d be letting Thor’s brother die all while losing your potential way off this planet. But, there’s no guarantee the trickster will help you. However, if there’s anything you remember from that one mythology class in college, it’s that gods tend to honor their debts.

Saving his life is a debt owed, right?

(And honestly? Letting Thor down and never seeing your parents again sounds pretty horrible.)

“It’s just… I thought you were dead.”

Loki, in that moment, is nearly impressed by your acting.

“I was worried sick,” you continue, clearly gritting out the last bit, “I… I was sure I lost you.”

“Fear not,” Loki’s mood swings then into one of pure amusement, smirk brandishing his features, “I apologize for scaring you, my sweet.”

“You know,” the Grandmaster’s face is twisted into a grin, “I have this six sense -- I can just… smell love in the air, or something. I knew it, I mean… Look at you two. God, it’s… adorable. Really. So, what is this, huh? Just a… a fling? Or --”

“We’re married.”

Where the fuck did that come from?

Loki’s got the same look on his face.

“She’s the crowned Princess of Asgard,” Loki says then, slowly. His eyes are glued on the way you shrink away from the Grandmaster’s gaze, “My wife.”

“Ass-gard, huh? Wow.”

He hums.

Loki is suddenly realizing there’s a reason to why you’re doing this. You’d made it apparent in the Sanctum that you weren’t intimidated by the likes of him. Somehow, though, this Grandmaster figure has earned your evident anxieties.

(Maybe it was because you’d watched him roast a guy who made a poorly timed joke about the color blue on your second day here. The smell was awful. But, it’s not like you can tell Loki that -- you just have to hope that somehow this little improv plan works and you and Loki can somehow get the hell off this floating landfill.)

“And… what’s his gig, huh, my pretty?” he’s addressing you now, lips upturned in an expectant smile, “Besides… well.. good bone structure.”

“He’s a Silvertongue, Grandmaster,” you explain slowly, hands clasped in front of you, “In more ways than one.”

Loki suddenly feels a bit like a piece of meat.

You relish in his discomfort as the Grandmaster bursts into an excited bought of laughter.

“Oh, see! This is why I love you! You’re so clever,” he chirps, waving his hands, “Your wife, Mr. Low-key, is lovely.”

“Isn’t she?” he grits.

The Grandmaster is unphased. “Quite! Now, this is good, this is very good -- I mean, it’s evident your… sexual tension is there. I can’t see why you two would lie to me, y’know? That would just be… uh… a bad idea.”

Behind him, Topaz clacks the Grandmaster’s staff on the red and white floor. You swallow thickly.

“I could never lie about my love for him, Grandmaster,” you supply, a delicate hand moving to touch Loki’s cheek. His skin is cold, “It’s simply not in my nature.”

“Nor I,” Loki says sweetly, “We make a better pair than separate, good sir, I promise you that.”

The man claps with glee.

“I love this, two lost loves reunited,” he nearly cries, “Topaz, get these two their own room, will you?”

It works.

Somehow it works.

The penthouse apartment they set you and Loki up in is big -- it’s better than the slave quarters you’ve been sleeping in for the last week. The far wall is ceiling to floor windows. Outside, Sakaar flies by; it’s the first time you’re actually getting a good look at the planetside. It’s bustling and the sun is setting between two twin moons, bathing the capital city in pinks and oranges.

“You are idiotic, bug, to propose this little plan -- had you wanted to sleep with me, you only needed to say so; lest I would.”

You recoil in a snarl. Loki is staring at the room in disdain.

“I just saved your life.”

“That colorful maniac had neither the strength nor gall --”

“Oh?” you chirp, hands flying to your hips, “Really? Sorry -- when did you get here? Ten minutes ago? Yeah, nice, cool, I’ve been here for a week and I’ve seen him toast like, five people for fun. The smell is awful.”

Loki’s mouth snaps shut.

Who in the Nine Realms are you?

“Besides,” you snarl, “I’m not doing this for you -- I’m doing this to get home.”

“And who, pray tell, said I would help you, bug?”

You, then, engage in this game of chess again -- your movements are slow and calculated and predatory and Loki has to admire your ability to dish it out. Your fingers jabs his chest once, then again.

“I did,” you seethe, “When I made sure you didn’t get easy-bake-oven’d, asshole. You owe me.”

He opens his mouth, keen on biting into your argument, when there’s a knock at the door.

“Dinner is being served, Lord and Lady Loki!”

You both save it for another time and exit the apartment holding hands.

The third time you meet Loki, you’re married.