#i wondered why he decided to not betray god | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

amethystarachnid · 4 months 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★ Part 2

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? ;)

394 notes · View notes

practistyles · 13 days ago

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drunk

(everyone wants him extra)

In which Y/N drunk calls Harry while on a night out and he comes running. (based on this ask. thanks!!)

word count: 1.1 k

series masterlist here.

Y/N rarely ever got drunk. She’d told Harry that she hated the peer pressure that came with, the idea that you could only have fun with alcohol in your system. This is why she didn’t really like partying, because you rarely ever found sober people there. Y/N usually found it entertaining to be the only sober person in a room, but only for a little while.

And Harry hugely respected that. He was all for a good party, and obviously he would love it always if Y/N came with him, but she had her own thing going on and anyway he liked having her all to himself most of all.

Today the roles were switched. Y/N told him that she was having a night out with her friends, and Harry didn’t expect to feel so excited for her. She’d expressed nervousness about it before, so he was really happy that she was trying it out with her friends, who she’d said were party animals.

Harry decided to go all in for this reversal of roles, and decided to spend the night in his room, scrolling on his phone, maybe trying to finally start writing his paper that was due next week.

And then his phone rang, loud and jarring in the silence of his room. He reached for his phone on his sidetable, and his heart did that usual soaring thing when he saw Y/N’s name.

He answered, slightly confused, because it was almost one thirty in the night and she should be out there dancing.

“Hello?”

“Harryyy,” Y/N’s voice said from the other end. Her voice was slurred and higher pitched than it usually was. He heard some kind of chanting in the background.

“Y/N, are you okay?” he asked.

“I can’t find you,” she said, sounding deeply betrayed. “I looked everywhere and you’re just not here.”

Harry blinked. “Well, baby, that’s because I’m at home. Remember? You went out tonight?”

There was a long pause, then she said, “Oh. That makes sense.”

He was already out of bed, grabbing his jeans. “Are you having fun at least?”

“Nooo,” she groaned. “It’s kind of hard to stand and I wanted to say hi to you.”

“What?” Harry said. He looked around for his keys, ready to leave the house. “Are your friends with you?”

“No, this man is not my friend.”

Harry felt a kind of panic forming in his chest. “Y/N. What man?”

“I told him you’re a boxer with huge muscles!” she giggled. Then, she whispered, “Can you bring me your big gloves?”

Harry snorts. “I’m not a boxer.”

“Well, he doesn’t know that.”

He put his shoes on and stepped out his door. “Where are you?”

“I’m right here! I’m waving. Can you see me?”

“God,” Harry groaned. “Go into your phone and into my messages and send me your location, okay? Can you do that?” He knew it was a reach.

“Oh my god, Harry! There is a shiny dog here. He’s so cute. Can we take him with us?”

“Okay, stay put. I’m coming to get you.” Harry assumed she was in the club next to the statue of Dixie The Dog. He wondered how he would convince her that they couldn’t steal a statue.

*****

He got his flatmate Zayn’s car, and when he drove up he found her sitting on the pavement with her hands over her knees. She brightened up at the sight of him, and Harry parked at the side of the road and stepped out.

“My boyfriend!” Y/N said loudly. A few heads nearby turned, some of them even the girls Y/N had come out with. One of the girls came over to them. “Hey, are you Harry?” Harry nodded as Y/N clung onto his arm.

“Look, Anna! He’s here. Isn’t he so pretty?”

Anna smiled. “She’s been asking for you for the last hour. Said that you were gonna beat up someone for her?”

Harry nodded solemly. “Sounds about right.”

“She’s all yours.”

“Unfortunately,” he muttered under his breath, but he smiled. “Thanks.”

Harry held onto her waist and guided her to the car. He tried looking around for the ‘man’ Y/N mentioned, but there was not many people around.

“Harry,” Y/N started again, slightly swaying. Harry held onto her tighter.

“Yes, baby.”

“I want to get married.”

Harry chuckled. “Okay.”

“It’s going to be beautiful. You’ll cry.”

“I bet.” He opened the car door for her and guided her in, but she turned around to face him instead, crowded up against the car. She leaned forward with puckered lips to kiss his nose.

“Hi,” she whispered and then broke out into little giggles. Harry smiled. He felt suddenly overwhelmed with affection for this girl. He leaned froward to bump their noses.

“I can’t believe you like me,” Y/N whispered to herself, but Harry felt almost sad at her words. He cradles her jaw in his palm and lifted her face up. “I much, much more than like you, Y/N.” He hoped he sounded sincere to her hazy mind.

She smiled brightly, then said. “You have to be the husband. I will not marry if you are not the husband.”

Harry laughed. She won’t even remember this, but she’d just asked him to marry her. He leaned in and brushed his lips against hers. “Gladly, Y/N. I would love to be your husband.”

Y/N gasped dramatically. “You’re only twenty one!”

“You’re the one who asked me,” Harry shrugged. “Now can we go?”

Y/N nodded, and then got into the car.

On the short drive back, she kept asking Harry random questions, then she kept apologising for dragging him out of bed.

“Sorry you had to come get me.”

“Are you kidding?” he said. “This is the most fun I’ve had all week.”

He took her to his place and tucked her onto the couch while he grabbed a glass of water. She squinted at it like it offended her.

She frowned at it. “I want to eat something.”

“Okay, I have some fruit if you want. But you need to drink this first.”

“No.”

“Drink it before I pour it on your head.” Y/N took the glass from him but rolled her eyes.

Soon, she was curled up under his arm in bed, her makeup smudged, hair a mess, but comfortable in Harry’s clothes. She looked like the msot adorable thing ever to him.

“Thanks for picking me up,” she mumbles. “You’re my favourite person.” She yawned.

“I know. Go to sleep, darling.” he replies, brushing a kiss to her forehead.

She lifts her head to grin. “Were you worried?”

“A bit. You call me at 1 am screeching in the middle of the road.”

“But you like rescuing me,” she says, sleepy. “You can do it anytime you want.”

“I do,” he murmurs. “But next time, don’t try and steal a dog statue, okay?”

She giggles again, already half-asleep. “No promises.”

****

thanks anon for the idea. this was so fun to write!

#harry styles #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fic #harry styles concept #everyone wants him #harry #harry styles blurb #harry styles imagine #harry styles x y/n #one direction #practiwrites #fratrry #frat!harry

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devilish-cherry · 3 months ago

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ᨳ♡₊➳ jujutsu kaisen x reader

ᨳ♡₊➳ crack with plot

"You hate your job. The pay is bad, your manager is worse, and customers are somehow both entitled and clueless. Just as you finish contemplating whether unpaid breaks are a human rights violation, weird new people keep showing up to the café. They all seem to know each other. Sometimes they talk in cryptic phrases. What the hell is this domain and why do they want to expand it? One time, a man with stitches on his forehead walked in, made prolonged eye contact with you, and then left without ordering anything. You’re pretty sure he was a serial killer. Another time, the one with white hair and sunglasses indoors mentioned a "higher mission", and you’re 90% sure this is how cult documentaries start. One of your regulars only speaks in weird food-related phrases. You assume he has some kind of medical condition, but no one explains anything to you. But you are not about to ask questions, because ignorance is bliss and also job security. And unfortunately, they are all weird and they seem very interested in coming back."

꒰ masterlist ꒱ ₊⊹. ꒰ chapter 3 ꒱ ₊⊹. ꒰ chapter 5 ꒱

ᨳ♡₊➳ or read on archive of our own!

ᨳ♡₊➳ a/n: nanami lovers come get y'alls food

screaming and crying rn thank you all SO much for the wonderful feedback oh my god 😭🫶 i really do appreciate them so much and they really motivate me!! 🥹❤️ i got my tumblr properly set up now and if you wanna ask me any questions about this story or send any of your thoughts, headcanons, etc. i'd love to hear them!!

You could tell it was going to be a bad day the moment Greg the Manager said, "You got this!" before immediately disappearing into the back to not help you.

Greg had a habit of vanishing like a mirage whenever actual labor was required. If someone spilled an entire oat milk latte on the floor? Greg was gone. If a customer started a full-blown argument about why they should get free refills on an espresso shot? Greg had already ascended to another plane of existence. You were convinced that if the café ever caught fire, Greg’s survival instincts would have him teleporting to another country before the flames even reached the register.

Which meant that during the morning rush, when three separate customers decided to be human disasters at the exact same time, you were on your own.

Disaster #1: A guy aggressively insisted that his cappuccino did not have enough foam, despite the fact that it was all foam. You showed him. He stared at it like it had personally betrayed him. Then he said, “No, but like… more.” You fantasized about launching him into the sun.

Disaster #2: Some finance bro tried to pay with crypto. Just held up his phone with a QR code and said, “Do you guys take Ethereum?” You had to explain, with the patience of a kindergarten teacher, no, you do not take Ethereum, that this was just a café.

Disaster #3: An elderly woman came in and asked for “Just a plain coffee, dear.” You gave her a plain coffee. She stared at it in disgust and asked, “Where’s the hazelnut, the cream, the froth, the caramel?” You reminded her she asked for plain coffee. She gasped in betrayal, like you had taken her firstborn child.

It was too early for this. You were suffering.

Then when the morning rush finally slowed, and you had approximately thirty seconds to consider faking your own death, the bell jingled.

You turned, sighed, and mentally braced yourself.

Standing in the doorway, looking like he already regretted every decision that had led him here, was Kento Nanami.

Now, normally, you wouldn’t fear a customer. But Nanami wasn’t just any customer.

Nanami was a man with standards.

He stepped inside with the slow, deliberate movements of a man stepping into enemy territory. His eyes scanned the café—taking in the flickering light in the corner, the questionably sticky floor, the espresso machine currently making noises like R2-D2 in distress.

You watched as his jaw visibly clenched. Then, with the air of a man mentally calculating the exact moment his soul left his body, he turned to you and said, flatly:

“…Coffee.”

His tone carried the weight of a thousand disappointments.

You gave him a tight-lipped smile, already reaching for a cup. “What kind?”

“The kind that keeps me from quitting my job.”

"Ah. Great choice."

You started his order, because Nanami seemed like the kind of man who would sue you if you took too long.

As you worked, you could feel him watching you in the way someone watches a building slowly collapse, calculating how much money it’ll take to fix it. You glanced up and, yep. There he was, observing your entire workplace with the deep, profound disappointment of a man who once believed in something.

“…Is this place even up to health code?” he asked, voice heavy with the kind of exhaustion that only corporate life could instill.

You shrugged. “Depends. Does emotional trauma count as a contaminant?”

Nanami inhaled sharply. Like he had so many follow-up questions, but he already knew the answers would only bring him pain

He rubbed his temples. “How long have you worked here?”

“Too long.”

You rang up the order, but before you could say the total, Nanami narrowed his eyes ever so slightly, gaze snapping to the handwritten tip jar sitting next to the register.

You had labeled it “THERAPY FUND (I Need It).”

Nanami stared at it.

Then, very slowly, he turned back to you.

“Barista,” he said, voice as grave as if he were delivering a eulogy. “Are you underpaid?”

Oh no.

You had expected at least a few minutes of polite small talk before things derailed into an existential crisis. But no. Nanami had walked in, assessed your suffering, and decided that labor rights violations were the only thing worth discussing today.

See, here’s the thing: Nanami was not the kind of customer you wanted asking this question.

Most people just laughed when they saw the tip jar. Some customers tossed in a few coins. Gojo once put in Monopoly money just to be annoying.

But Nanami?

Nanami had stopped functioning. He was just standing there, staring at you like this was a personal attack on his fundamental values.

"I mean…" You glanced toward Greg the Manager, who was still pretending to be useful. "I'm paid exactly what Greg thinks I'm worth."

Nanami followed your gaze. His expression darkened. His head then slowly turned toward Greg the Manager.

Greg the Manager, sensing a disturbance in the force, looked up, and gave him a lazy thumbs-up. “What’s up, man?”

"You are a terrible employer," Nanami stated calmly.

Greg the Manager blinked. "Huh?"

Without breaking eye contact, Nanami asked, "Are you even qualified to be a manager?"

Greg the Manager grinned and shrugged. “Dude, I got promoted because the last manager quit in the middle of a shift. Left a note that just said ‘don’t let the void consume you.’”

"Increase their pay. Immediately," Nanami ordered, taking a slow, deliberate sip of his coffee like this was an organized coup.

Greg the Manager looked at you. Then at Nanami. Then at Candy Crush on his phone, like he was experiencing a full-blown existential crisis.

Finally, after what was possibly the longest pause in managerial history, he sighed and said, "We don’t have the budget for that."

Nanami closed his eyes. Like he was counting to ten so he didn’t commit a crime.

"I see," he said, calm but deadly.

You, deeply entertained but also slightly terrified, just leaned on the counter. "Yeah, I kinda figured that was gonna be the answer."

“Do you need me to unionize this café for you?” he asked, completely serious.

You choked.

“Wh—what?”

Nanami took off his blazer.

Oh god. Oh no. Oh absolutely not.

“I could do it,” he continued, rolling up his sleeves like he was about to commit a felony in the name of labor justice. “It wouldn’t be difficult.”

“No, no, no,” you said quickly, waving your hands in surrender. “I need this job. And more importantly, I need Greg to not fire me for trying to overthrow the capitalist machine during an unpaid break.”

Nanami narrowed his eyes.

“So you don’t even get paid for your breaks?”

You realized too late that you had given him more ammunition.

He put down his coffee and walked around the counter.

Fifteen minutes later…

Despite your best efforts to defuse the situation, Nanami refused to leave. Instead, he took it upon himself to observe the café.

"Uh," you said, watching as Nanami surveyed the espresso machine like a general strategizing a war. "What are you doing?"

"Fixing things," he replied.

And then. He started working.

Like, full-on working.

Nanami had entirely taken over.

He was managing the café now.

Not because anyone had asked him to, but because he simply could not stand the inefficiency.

He organized the supply shelves.

He rewrote the entire employee schedule in under five minutes.

Greg was banned from touching anything mechanical.

He timed how long it took for Greg to actually respond to an employee’s request. (Four and a half minutes. Greg was playing a very intense round of Candy Crush.)

He watched you make drinks without proper training, without proper equipment, and without proper will to live then helped you.

And the best part?

Customers actually listened to him.

At one point, a woman tried to use an expired coupon.

Nanami just looked at her.

And she left without arguing.

You had never seen anything like it.

By the time your shift neared its end, the café had never been more efficient. The line moved quickly, orders were accurate, and for the first time in forever, you weren’t experiencing an existential crisis every five minutes.

Nanami took a slow sip of his coffee. Nodded, approving.

“This could be a functional workplace,” he remarked.

Greg the Manager, completely baffled, finally found his voice.

"Uh," he said, scratching the back of his neck. "Do you… do you wanna work here?"

Nanami, in the most disgusted tone you had ever heard, responded with a flat:

"I would rather be hit by a bus."

He grabbed his coffee and headed towards the exit.

Fair.

And before he walked out, Nanami paused at the door, turned back, and said, completely seriously, with the voice of a man who had seen the horrors of corporate greed firsthand and was deeply, profoundly upset that you were willingly suffering through them—

“You deserve better than this place.”

And then he left.

Greg the Manager whistled. “Damn. Do you know if he's single?"

A few days later, your shift had started like any other mind-numbingly average shift.

You were in the middle of contemplating whether or not you could legally refuse service to people who ordered drinks with more adjectives than actual ingredients when you felt it. A sudden disturbance in the atmosphere.

It wasn’t anything obvious, but something about the café suddenly felt... wrong.

The espresso machine sputtered ominously, the fluorescent lights flickered just once, and the muffin guy in the corner finally looked away from his muffin, like even he could sense the disturbance in the air.

The door swung open with all the grace of a police raid.

It was Yuji. Sweet, cheerful, golden retriever in human form Yuji, who usually bounced into the café like he was the protagonist of a slice-of-life anime. But today?

Today, Yuji slinked in like he was some kind of villain in a psychological thriller. His whole posture had shifted—his shoulders squared, his head held high, a smug smirk tugging at his lips like he’d just orchestrated the downfall of a small nation.

Today, something was deeply wrong with Yuji Itadori.

Yuji Itadori, the human embodiment of sunshine, had walked in looking like he had just finished his villain arc.

The first thing you noticed was the grin. It wasn’t friendly. It wasn’t normal. It was sharp and smug, like he knew things you didn’t. It practically screamed, I would gaslight, gatekeep, and girlboss if given the chance.

You blinked at him.

Then you blinked harder.

Because Yuji, your number-one most harmless customer, now had face tattoos.

And red contacts.

And some kind of makeup that made it look like he had four eyes.

What in the Spirit Halloween was this?

“…Uh. You good?” you asked, hesitant.

Yuji (?) grinned at you, and you immediately regretted all your life choices.

“Barista,” he said, his voice deeper, richer, like the audio settings had been cranked to "Villain Monologue."

“...Yes?”

Yuji (??) tilted his head, watching you with an expression that was just this side of amused. “What pitiful existence is this? Shackled to the whims of labor, toiling away for mere scraps. Your suffering is profound, lowly peasant."

…Huh.

Okay. That was new.

You blinked, internally processing the fact that someone had just called you a lowly peasant in real life. You had encountered a lot of weird customers, but never one who spoke like a Final Boss trying to recruit you to the dark side.

“…You want a drink?” you asked, deadpan.

Yuji (???) tilted his head, smirking. Then, with the audacity of someone who had never experienced the horrors of customer service, he said: “Ah, you are not as foolish as you look. Give me a black coffee."

Wow. Okay. Somebody thinks they’re edgy.

For a second, you considered saying just that, but decided against it, because rent existed and so did unemployment. Instead, you just nodded like the underpaid, overworked soldier you were.

“Sure. One black coffee.”

You had seen a lot of weird things working here, but this? This was a new level of concerning.

The face tattoos, paired with the weird four eyes effect (which you assumed had to be some next-level Halloween makeup), it made him look like he was either an anime villain or a kid who got way too into Hot Topic in 2009. And the way he was looking at you? Like he was already planning your demise? Like he was debating whether he wanted to drink his coffee or use it to summon a demonic entity?

You knew exactly what this was.

Yuji had an alter ego.

And apparently not a fun alter ego, like a guy who only comes out on weekends to party. No, this was a full-blown anime villain alter ego. One that absolutely vaped in the school bathroom and got into fights over stupid things like “who looked at me wrong.”

You didn’t get paid enough for this.

"Make it strong," he sneered.

You stared at him. "Wouldn’t dream of making it weak."

Yeah. You were deeply, deeply concerned.

But, like all things in this job, you simply ignored it and did your job. Because you did not get paid enough to ask questions. With your usual efficiency, you made the black coffee, because unfortunately, that was your job, and placed it in front of him. “Enjoy.”

Yuji eyed the coffee cup like it had personally offended him, then looked at you. “You dare serve me coffee in such a humble vessel?”

You looked at the cup. Then back at him. “You want a goblet or something?”

He smirked. “Ah, you do have some wit.”

You didn’t like how pleased he sounded. He picked it up, and took a slow sip. Then, ever so slightly, his eyes narrowed. His upper lip curled.

“…What the hell is this?” he muttered.

“Black coffee,” you said flatly. “Like you asked for.”

Yuji made a noise of profound offense. “It is bitter.”

Your deadpan stare could have melted steel. “Yes. That’s what black coffee is.”

Yuji clicked his tongue in distaste. “This is an insult.” He shoved the cup back at you like you had personally wronged him. “Remedy this.”

You sighed. “Okay. How about I just add sugar?”

Yuji considered this. Then, begrudgingly, he nodded. “Very well. But do not disgrace my drink.”

You poured in exactly one sugar packet, stirred it, and handed it back. He took another sip—

And then narrowed his eyes, looking at you like you had just personally surprised him. His eyes flickered, as if waging a silent internal war. You swore you saw his jaw tense.

Then, after a very long pause, he muttered, “…Acceptable.”

“Uh. Thanks?”

Before you could even process the fact that you had somehow earned the approval of whatever persona Yuji was currently cosplaying, he turned—and proceeded to roast every single customer in the café. He leaned back against the counter, looking around the café with the slow, deliberate assessment of a man who had already decided he was better than everyone here.

Then, with the confidence of a man who believed himself to be a god, he sneered, “This place is full of idiots.”

Okay. Wow.

You stood there, watching as he proceeded to roast every single customer in the café like it was his divine right.

“That weakling in the corner?” He jerked his thumb toward some poor college student trying to write an essay. “His posture is absolutely pathetic.”

The innocent college student looked up, deeply confused and a bit hurt.

Then he turned to some girl at a table near the window. She looked up, mid-sip of her drink, just in time for him to smirk and say, “You look like you order matcha lattes.”

She gasped in pure horror as if he had personally insulted her entire bloodline.

He sneered at an elderly woman. “Trembling hands, weak posture… You are but a breath away from oblivion, hag.”

Oh my God.

She just smiled at him. “Oh, you kids and your funny little jokes!”

He blinked. Then scoffed and turned away, muttering something about "insufferable fools" under his breath.

At this point, you were begging someone to explain what the hell was happening.

You should stop this. You should stop this.

…But you were also kind of invested.

“Oh look,” he sneered, eyes landing on Greg the Manager, who had been doing nothing as usual. “A man who’s mastered the ancient art of pretending to work.”

Okay, well. That one was fair.

And then he set his sights on the espresso machine.

The espresso machine, naturally, took that moment to emit a guttural, otherworldly groan—one that sounded less like it was brewing coffee and more like it was summoning a demon from the seventh circle of hell.

He stared at it. It hissed.

You swore he narrowed his eyes like he was assessing a battlefield opponent. Then, after a long pause, he let out a dark chuckle.

“…This machine is cursed beyond mortal comprehension.”

You stared at him. "You done?"

He exhaled, clearly unimpressed by the café and everything in it. "For now."

Then, without another word, he turned and walked out the door, exuding the kind of ominous aura that suggested he was about to go stand on a rooftop somewhere and monologue about the nature of existence.

Wonderful. You loved your job.

The café was silent and then, minutes later—

The door slammed open.

Yuji rushed in, breathless, frantic, eyes wide with panic. He looked deeply horrified. He looked like a man who had just woken up from a fugue state and realized he had committed multiple felonies.

“Oh my god,” he gasped, hands on his knees, like he had just sprinted a marathon, and looking at you with absolute devastation. “I— I am so sorry— please, please don’t ban me—”

“...What the hell was that?” you asked, even though, frankly, you didn’t actually want the answer.

Yuji laughed nervously. “Uh. Would you believe me if I said ‘don’t worry about it’?”

“No.”

“Cool! Because, uh, I really can’t explain.”

You stared at him. He stared back.

Then, very slowly, you reached for a rag and began aggressively wiping down the counter.

“Alright,” you muttered. “Not my problem.”

“Wait, seriously? You’re just gonna ignore this?”

“Yuji, I have seen so many things at this job that I actively choose to ignore,” you said flatly. “This is just another one.”

Yuji looked like he wanted to argue. Then he sighed, shoulders slumping. “Yeah, okay. That’s fair.”

Unfortunately for you, this wasn’t the last time it happened.

Because 'Sukuna'—as you’d overheard Yuji frantically whispering to himself—returned.

Twice.

In one week.

You were growing concerned.

The first time, he strutted in like a menace, demanded another black coffee, insulted two customers, and then dipped like he had better things to do.

The second time, he walked in, took one look at Greg the Manager, and muttered, "This establishment is doomed."

Honestly? Hard to argue.

₊⊹. tag list: @alpha-mommy69

#jujutsu kaisen #jjk #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #nanami x reader #sukuna x reader #choso x reader #gojo x reader #geto x reader #toji x reader #shiu x reader #higuruma x reader #naoya x reader #mahito x reader #kenjaku x reader

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eddiazx · 2 months ago

Text

you are in love - evan buckley x reader

“I need a date.” Buck announces to anyone who will listen at the firehouse loft.

“Need is a strong word.” Bobby says, quirking his eyebrow from his position behind the kitchen island, cutting bell peppers.

“No, Cap, it’s the perfect word for my situation. Taylor is getting married and I absolutely need to bring a date.”

“Why are you even going to an ex’s wedding?” Eddie asks, not looking up from his game of pool with you.

“The perpetual need to be liked, Eds. Now please, someone help me.”

Hen, Chim, Eddie, Ravi, and Bobby chime simultaneously: “Not it.”

You straighten up with your pool cue, betrayed by the people you consider friends and slightly impressed at how choir-like they said those two words. You then look at Buck, who’s already staring at you with pathetic, pitiful puppy-dog eyes. You sigh dramatically and say, “Fine. I’ll be your date. You better buy me a bunch of booze, Buckley.”

“Thank you, thank you!” Buck says, placing a sloppy kiss on your cheek before bouncing away happily.

This can’t end well.

-----------------------------------

You were right. Because Taylor Kelly decided to get married 4 hours away, and Buck said he’d get the two of you hotel rooms so you didn’t have to wake up early and get ready in a rush.

Because life was like a movie: there was only one room and one bed available.

“I can sleep in the armchair.” Buck tries to offer, extremely unconvincingly.

“I know you need to stretch your bad leg out to sleep well, Buck. We’re friends, we can share a bed.”

“Oh, thank god.” Buck says, flopping onto the bed.

You smile fondly at the dork you call your best friend, and head into the bathroom to get changed.

When you come back though, you hesitate. Sure, you've seen your Buck shirtless and in just his underwear countless times due to glass locker rooms, but sharing a room and a bed was different. It's intimate.

Buck, seeming to know what you were thinking, pats the empty side next to him. "C'mon. I promise I won't bite."

"That's tragic, I do like biting." You tease.

Buck blushes a faint pink and drops his hands in his lap to cover a rising situation. "Good to know."

-----------------------------------

You wake up the next morning extremely well-rested and snug. Sometime during the night the two of you had gravitated towards each other. Buck's front was plastered against your back, and you had woven your fingers with his, resting your linked hands on your stomach.

You slowly turn around to face Buck, watching as he blinks awake. A big, albeit sleepy grin graces his face. "Mornin'."

You smile back at him and respond softly. "Good morning."

"Hey, I don't think I ever thanked you for coming with me."

"You already did, Buck. I just don't understand why you came. You don't really talk to Taylor."

"You know... I think I wanted an excuse to come spend time with you."

"Me?"

Buck nods. He then stills as an epiphany overtakes his entire being.

"You're my best friend." Buck says, voice full of wonderment.

"Don't let Eddie hear you." You joke half-heartedly, but the raw honesty in Buck's voice was making your heart beat so fast, you would think someone was hunting you for sport.

"I'm serious. I always look for your reaction first whenever I tell a joke, I know your coffee order better than my own, and you're the one I want to talk to whenever I have good or bad news. I fell in love with you slowly and then all at once - because you're my best friend."

"You're in love with me?" You ask, barely audible, happy tears filling your eyes.

"I am." Buck admits, uncharacteristic shyness marring his features.

You reach over, smoothing a stray curl back from his forehead before whispering. "I love you too, Buck."

Buck takes those words as an invitation to maneuver you onto your back while he hovers on top of you.

"So, what you said last night about biting..." Buck starts, and you shut him up with a laugh and a kiss.

#evan buckley x reader #evan buckley #911 x reader #evan buckley x you #evan buckley x y/n #evan buckley imagine #911 imagine #911 x you #evan buckley fic #evan buckley fluff #evan buckley fanfiction

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trashremover · 6 months ago

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Evan Buckley had always thought of himself as a pretty straightforward guy. He liked fast cars, loud music, and women. That was it. Simple. Straightforward. No complications.

So when Tommy Kinard walked into the firehouse six weeks ago, all tall, broad-shouldered, and blue-eyed, Buck’s first thought had been, Wow, that guy looks like a G.I. Joe action figure. A totally normal, dude-bro thought.

The second thought had been less normal: I wonder what it would feel like to have him look at me like that.

Buck didn’t know what “that” was, exactly, but it kept happening. Tommy would talk to him about a call, or glance his way during a basketball game, and Buck’s brain would short-circuit. The worst part? Buck couldn’t even blame adrenaline for it.

And today, it finally hit him—like a truck, like a ten-car pileup on the freeway, like Bobby’s disappointed face when Buck forgot to check the truck inventory. He wasn’t just thinking about Tommy a lot; he was thinking about Tommy a lot.

It happened mid-lunch. Hen, Chim, Eddie, and Buck were eating in the kitchen when Tommy strolled in, looking stupidly good in a plain black T-shirt and jeans. He grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, gave everyone a casual nod, and leaned against the counter.

Buck, mid-chew on a sandwich, felt his brain betray him. God, his forearms look amazing. How is that even possible? Who has hot forearms

Hen squinted at him. “You good, Buckaroo? You’ve been chewing that sandwich for about five years.”

“Fine!” Buck practically yelled, swallowing the bite with an audible gulp.

Tommy raised an eyebrow. “Uh...okay?”

Buck fled the room, muttering something about checking the inventory.

---

“Let me get this straight,” Hen said later, cornering Buck in the locker room. “You have a crush on Tommy?”

“I—what? No!” Buck’s voice cracked, which immediately betrayed him. “I mean, no. Of course not. That’s ridiculous. I’m...straight.”

Hen crossed her arms and leaned against the lockers. “Sure you are, Buck.”

“I am!”

“Uh-huh. So that’s why you’ve been staring at Tommy like a lovesick puppy every time he breathes in your general direction?”

“I don’t—” Buck stopped. He did. Oh God, he did.

Hen smirked, clearly enjoying herself. “You know what? This is going to be fun. I can’t wait to see how you try to deny this while making a fool of yourself in front of him.”

Buck groaned, slumping against the lockers. “Hen, this isn’t funny. What if...what if he realizes?”

Hen shrugged. “Oh, he won’t. Tommy thinks you’re straight. Chim told him.”

“Chim told him?!”

“Yep.” Hen’s smirk widened. “So, uh, good luck convincing him otherwise.”

---

That night, Buck lay awake in bed, staring at the ceiling. His mind was a whirlwind of questions. Was he really into Tommy? Or was it just some weird, temporary thing?

It’s just a phase, he told himself. Like when I was obsessed with pineapple pizza for two months. That went away.

But then he remembered Tommy laughing at one of Chim’s dumb jokes earlier, the way his whole face lit up, and Buck felt his stomach do a stupid little flip.

Nope. This wasn’t a phase. This was something else entirely.

By 2 AM, Buck had spiraled so far that he found himself googling, “How to seduce a man when you’re not gay but you think you might like him?”

The results were...not helpful.

Step 1: Be confident.

Great, I’m confident. I can do this.

Step 2: Compliment him often, but not too much.

Okay, I can say nice things. Like...“Nice arms, bro.” Wait, no, that’s weird. Damn it.

Step 3: Physical touch can help build chemistry.

Right. Totally casual. Like a shoulder pat. Or...I don’t know, leaning against him during movie night? Would that be weird?

By the time his alarm went off a few hours later, Buck had decided on a plan: he was going to be subtle. Just ease into it. Maybe start with some compliments, see how Tommy reacted.

It would be fine. Totally fine.

---

It was not fine.

By 9 AM, Buck had already managed to embarrass himself twice.

First, during morning roll call, when Bobby was assigning roles for the day. Tommy volunteered for a routine inspection, and Buck, for reasons he couldn’t explain, immediately blurted out, “I’ll go with him!”

The entire team turned to stare at him.

Bobby raised an eyebrow. “I was going to assign Eddie, but...sure, Buck. If you’re that enthusiastic about fire extinguisher checks.”

Tommy just shrugged, but Hen was smirking again.

Second, during the actual inspection, Buck tried to compliment Tommy’s skills. What he meant to say was, “You’re really thorough.” What came out was, “You’re, uh...really good with your hands.”

Tommy froze, extinguisher in hand, and gave Buck the most confused look of all time.

“Thanks?” Tommy said slowly.

Buck wanted to crawl into a hole and die.

---

By lunchtime, Buck was ready to give up. He was a disaster. A walking, talking disaster. Subtlety clearly wasn’t his thing, and Tommy probably thought he’d lost his mind.

But then Tommy walked past him in the kitchen, gave him a brief, curious look, and smiled.

Buck’s heart skipped a beat.

Maybe he wasn’t as hopeless as he thought.

#bucktommy #tommy kinard #tevan #evan buckley #bucktommy crack #crack fic

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quinn-of-aebradore · 4 months ago

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The fact that the Hells are supposedly destined to be here and yet it’s becoming more and more indisputably apparent that they are the wrong people for the job. They are physically and magically capable, yes, but other than some now-severed family ties (Zathuda is dead, Liliana is no longer allied to Ludinus) they don’t have any personal stakes in being here. They’re just… are. And I think that really contributes to the fact that the Hells have no concrete reasoning for wanting the gods gone. They talk about the world needing change and the gods being Bad™️ but the only examples they have of that are that village in Issylra—which was 90% the actions of Pelor’s mortal followers and 10% extenuating circumstances making Pelor jumpy and sending an angel down to his temple being attacked. Seriously, context matters there—And Downfall, which was EXTREMELY extenuating circumstances. That’s it. Ashton can rave about how miserable their childhood was and how the gods never did anything to help them, but that’s the same argument Ludinus used and Ashton themself called it how selfish and immature that was.

At the end of the day, the Hells writ large don’t have an opinion on what should happen here because they have no personal ties to the gods. Ashton is only of the only ones who does, but their opinion consists of being a miserable contrarian, which is miles away from constructive. FCG had an opinion but their newness to faith made the Hells largely discount their thoughts. And they continued that discounting with Braius, despite his long-established faith! Really, it’s no wonder at all that he’s “betrayed” them; they want to take away the thing that gives him purpose! Of course he’s not okay with that!

And it comes back to them being the wrong folks for this job; they have limited personal stakes and they only care about the core conflict because they’re required to by the narrative. Every episode it feels more like they’re stumbling around in the dark trying to decide things they never should’ve been allowed to decide. Multiple times now, one of them has asked the group why they’re the ones who should be doing this and Ashton each time has responded with some variety of “why not us?”

Because you don’t care. Your closest connections in the world are in the room with you. You may claim to care about the world in an abstract sense but there’s nothing tethering you to it. How can you claim to know the world needs to change when you’ve hardly lived in it yourself?

#critical role #cr spoilers #cr discourse #bell’s hells

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lortsyall · 5 months ago

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Echoes of Eywa's Child.

chapter 1.

(Neteyam x Human!Reader series)

Pending....Pending....

Date: December 21st,2174.

Location: Office,Unit 4,Avatar Department,Human Outpost Biolab,Hallelujah Mountains,Pandora.

Time: 10:15 AM.

A long time has passed since I've known about this once alien planet. 4.4 light years away,a world full of life,like a lost paradise,sat idly in silence,away from the death and destruction that has scattered over Earth like a goddamn plague.

The ones before us saw the danger of it all,and yet they turned a blind eye,all because the climate change and the fractures in the atmosphere caused by the heightened levels of carbon dioxide wouldn’t affect them in the long run. They’d be dead anyway by the time it got too serious. So much for doing the right thing.

I wasn’t even born when they discovered Pandora,though until I actually got a grasp of reality and gained consciousness like everybody does at 5 years old,I’ve actually wondered if the so-called “Goldilocks Zone” existed somewhere else. If God smiled upon the universe and gave another planet the privilege of life.

Trust me,I have no idea how I even got here. So much time has passed since I’ve breathed in the polluted air of Earth,but I guess it’s for the benefit of all.

Guess we'll do it like they always do,huh?Start from the beginning of it all.

Pending...Pending...

Date: January 26th,2170

Location: Home,New York,USA, Earth.

Time: 12:43 PM.

Nobody ever thought that a girl like me would end up as the head leader of the Avatar Department,or an important person in the Resistance. And I gotta say,I never quite imagined myself becoming this. I dreamt of stages full of fans,as my fingers gave birth to heart-shattering riffs. Of poetry books released under my very own name,painting the pages with complicated feelings and sensations,all of a broken and imperfect human heart. Of having my own star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame,making my country proud as a well known actress overseas. Though all those dreams were scattered away,like a feather in the wind,the moment I decided to do what any other scared yet artistically talented person who wants to make her parents proud does.

I got into STEM. Mechanical and Biological Engineering.

And between the sleepless nights of studying,drowning myself in math equations and lab reports,I got a one-way ticket to Pandora in my first year of college,from the one and only Parker Selfridge. Head administrator of the RDA’s operation in Pandora. I can still feel the anxiety lingering on my tongue. They never came with internships for first years,so what was he here for?

He came in to give out 5 internships at my college,yet he left with a new potential piece for this chess game. Me. All thanks to a question he asked that I knew the answer of. And to think I almost didn't say the answer because I thought everyone knew it,but as it turns out,only I did. I sat in the hallway with my friends,staring dumbfoundedly at the bussiness card he gave me.

Only back then,the RDA were treated as heroes,important people who made way for a better life. For an undead Earth. The propaganda was all enough to trick a little mind like mine,though it’s funny how I always thought I was a step ahead of everyone. Life on Earth as I remember it was,to say the least…grey.

The cities were gray. The people were gray. The sky was…well,grey. And between spending the rest of my life here,with my dreams crumbling before my very own eyes,and going out there to actually fight for a new home for humanity,you can guess why I chose the latter.

Nothing out of the ordinary was happening for me here anyway. Gorgeous girl,great personality,they all said,but nobody ever settled. Nobody ever stopped in their tracks to take in the pure and total beauty of the chaos that is me,so I never had a serious partner before. And…I guess I was also excited to see if the stories are true.

How an actual human betrayed his own race for a…Na’vi tribe princess?At least that’s how they put it,and I don’t even want to mention how embarrassing it was for the RDA to come back to Earth with their tails between their legs back in 2154. No unobtanium. No money. No Avatars. No nothing. I was three when that happened,and I remember playing with my cousins with our cardboard toys as our parents watched the TV in confusion and…disappointment,so you can guess why they made Jake Sully seem like an actual demon,and the death of a colonel was a pretty big deal,after all.

Thing is,the RDA only shows you the pearl in their hands,and not the mouth getting ready to swallow you whole. And now I know why they were so understaffed. That total failure after 2154 made people lose trust in the RDA over the years. But to me?

The decision came easily. I needed something new.

What didn’t,though,was the pure work I’d have to do in just 6 months. Learning the language of the natives,the Na’vi. Getting to understand the differences between our anatomy and theirs. The fauna and flora. The tribes. The ecosystems. And…of course,Eywa herself,though I learned that from Dr. Grace Augustine’s botany books,not from the RDA’s training program. I honestly don’t know what Selfridge saw in me,when I know I have friends better in college than me,but I better not question it too much.

I tried telling myself that as soon as I got in cryo,it wouldn’t be a goodbye,rather a…see you later. Looking back at it now,I think it was just wishful thinking. For now,I was me,the girl nobody ever really took seriously. Just another face in a sea of others. Next time I wake up,I’d have to work in an entire department with people twice my age.

Pending...Pending...

Date: July 31st,2174

Location: Pandora????

Time: ?????

The cryo-sleep thaw was a nightmare and a miracle all at once. My lungs burned as they dragged in air for the first time in four years, my throat raw and dry, every breath tasting metallic. My joints ached as if I’d aged a century.

“Subject revived.” the sterile voice of the AI announced, flat and emotionless. I tried sitting up, only to slump back down against the cryo pod’s restraints. My body wasn’t mine yet—not entirely.

“You’ll feel like shit for a while,” said a woman in a crisp lab coat, her voice muffled as she checked my vitals. “Side effects of long-term cryo. It’ll pass. Welcome to the ISV Valkyrie, and congrats on making it to Pandora.”

The word hung in the air, heavy and surreal. Pandora.

The next few hours were a blur of debriefings and medical checkups. My body eventually began to cooperate, but my mind lagged behind. I shuffled through endless corridors with other groggy personnel, each of us too stunned to speak. We were like ghosts wandering through a ship that pulsed with life—technicians barking orders, holograms buzzing with real-time scans of the moon’s surface, the low hum of engines preparing for atmospheric descent.

When the ship finally broke through Pandora’s atmosphere, I felt it in my chest. The vibrations reverberated through every bolt, every panel, and through me. The world outside the viewport was alive. The dense, green forests sprawled endlessly beneath the floating Hallelujah Mountains, their bases wreathed in ethereal clouds. The sky shifted from pink to blue in the blink of an eye, its colors alien yet breathtakingly familiar.

For a moment, the hum of engines and the chatter of voices faded away. It was just me and the sight of this strange, beautiful moon—a place that could have been paradise if we weren’t here to ruin it.

The ship landed with a jarring shudder, and the real work began.

Adjusting to life on Pandora was like learning to breathe all over again. Everything about this place demanded respect—the gravity was lighter, the air richer, and the biology... unfathomable. Days blurred into weeks as I threw myself into the work at the Avatar Department.

My mornings began with syncing sessions in the link pods, my mind slipping into my Avatar body like stepping into a cold pool. It wasn’t seamless—at first, every movement felt foreign. I stumbled through training exercises, my longer legs and stronger muscles betraying me at every turn. But slowly, the body became mine.

Afternoons were spent reading over files on Na’vi biology, studying their neural networks and learning their language. The words felt clumsy on my tongue, but I persisted. When I wasn’t in the lab or out on field assignments to observe Pandora’s ecosystems, I was immersed in RDA briefings.

That’s where I first heard his name again.

Jake Sully.

The briefings spoke of him like a ghost, a legend who had long since passed into myth. But here, his name was a warning.

“Resistance forces led by Sully attacked the rail line near Sector 7 again,” one of the military officers growled during lunch at the canteen. “Three shipments of amp suits lost. That bastard and his little insurgents are crippling our operations.”

The room buzzed with tension as reports of attacks piled up. Sabotaged trains, stolen supplies, and destroyed equipment—it was chaos. To the RDA, Sully wasn’t just a traitor. He was the personification of everything standing in the way of their plans.

But the more I learned, the more conflicted I felt. The propaganda painted him as a terrorist, a man who had betrayed his own kind for a primitive cause. But every whisper I caught from the scientists who had been here longer told a different story.

“Maybe Sully isn’t the villain they make him out to be,” I muttered to Dr. Ellison one evening as we worked late in the lab.

He glanced at me, his expression unreadable as he pointed towards a CCTV with his head,as if to say "Shut up. They're listening."

"That’s dangerous talk,you know. Keep your head down. Do your work. They don't like questions.”

I nodded, but the seed of doubt had already taken root.

The attacks continued, each one more brazen than the last. The RDA ramped up their operations in response, sending more troops and machinery into the wilds of Pandora. But for every move they made, the Resistance seemed to be one step ahead.

And then there was the tension between the people I worked with. Some were diehard loyalists, determined to see the mission succeed no matter the cost. Others—mostly the scientists—spoke in hushed tones about the beauty of the Na’vi culture, the interconnectedness of the flora and fauna, and the destruction we were bringing to this world.

I kept my head down, just as Ellison had warned. But at night, as I lay in my bunk staring at the ceiling, I couldn’t help but wonder: which side of history would I be on?

Pandora had a way of getting under your skin. The longer I stayed, the more I realized it wasn’t just a place. It was a mirror, reflecting humanity’s best and worst instincts back at us. And somewhere in the middle of it all was me—a girl who had come here for a fresh start, only to find herself caught in a war she didn’t fully understand.

The attacks became more than background noise; they became a constant undercurrent to life on Pandora. At first, they were just distant explosions, reports in the briefing room, or muttered curses from the military personnel in the mess hall. But over time, the Resistance started to feel like a presence, a shadow that loomed over everything the RDA tried to accomplish.

Jake Sully wasn’t just a name anymore—he was a force of nature.

The first time I felt the Resistance's impact directly was during a supply run. It was supposed to be routine—a quick trip to outpost Beta-5 to deliver Avatar-linked monitoring equipment. I was tagging along as part of my training, mostly to observe.

But the Resistance didn’t care about schedules or safety zones.

The attack was fast and chaotic. One moment, the AMP suits ahead of us were trudging through the dense forest, their movements mechanical and predictable. The next, arrows rained down from the trees, followed by explosions that sent the towering machines toppling like broken toys.

The ambush hit like a storm—sudden, violent, and unstoppable.

One moment, I was riding in the back of the supply truck, surrounded by crates of equipment and two guards sharing a nervous laugh. The next, the forest erupted in chaos.

The first explosion flipped the lead AMP suit, its towering frame crashing to the ground with a deafening roar. The convoy came to an abrupt halt as arrows rained down from the trees, their sharp points glinting like falling stars.

“Get down!” someone yelled.

I hit the truck bed hard, the impact knocking the wind out of me. My mask rattled against the metal floor as I scrambled for cover behind a crate. The world around me dissolved into a cacophony of gunfire, shouting, and the eerie war cries of the Na’vi.

The guards fired blindly into the trees, their exo-packs hissing as they struggled to maintain their aim under the pressure. I peeked over the edge of the crate just in time to see one of the AMP suits stagger, an arrow embedded in its cockpit.

Panic set in. My heart pounded so hard it felt like it might burst. I wasn’t a soldier. I wasn’t trained for this. My human body was fragile here—one wrong move, and I’d be dead.

I clutched the sidearm they’d insisted I carry, though my hands were shaking too much to use it. What was I even doing here? This wasn’t supposed to be my fight.

A shadow passed overhead. My breath hitched as I looked up to see a Na’vi warrior leaping from a tree, his bow drawn, his movements impossibly fluid. He landed on the roof of the truck with barely a sound, his golden eyes scanning the scene below.

And then, those eyes locked onto mine.

For a moment, the chaos of the ambush melted away, leaving only silence between us.

He stood above me, perched on the edge of the truck’s roof, silhouetted against the glowing forest. His figure was tall and commanding, every line of his body taut with a warrior’s grace. The flickering bioluminescence of the nearby trees played off his skin, casting shifting patterns of light and shadow across his lean, muscular frame.

His face was angular and strong, the high cheekbones and sharp jawline unmistakably Na’vi, yet there was something softer in his expression. His golden eyes, large and luminous, fixed on me with an intensity that felt like a physical force. They weren’t filled with rage or cruelty but something far more unnerving—calculated curiosity, as though he were trying to read my soul in that single moment.

The streaks of blue war paint decorating his face didn’t fully mask the smooth, rich azure of his skin, which gleamed faintly under the pale light of Pandora’s twin moons. His braids, adorned with small beads and feathers, swayed gently with each subtle movement, a testament to the culture he carried with him like armor.

But it wasn’t just his appearance that struck me—it was his presence.

He radiated confidence, a quiet power that demanded attention without arrogance. It was the kind of aura that made the world around him seem smaller, less significant. The chaos raging around us felt like a distant hum compared to the weight of his gaze.

And yet, beneath that commanding presence, there was something deeper—an unmistakable grief, perhaps, or a burden that someone so young should never have to carry. It was in the set of his shoulders, the faint downturn of his mouth, and the way his hands gripped the bow with both precision and purpose.

“Drop it,” he said, his voice deep and steady, but with a softness that caught me off guard.

The words hit me like a command, though they weren’t barked or shouted. It was the tone of someone who expected to be obeyed—not out of fear, but respect.

For a second, I couldn’t breathe. The sidearm in my trembling hands felt heavier than it should, as if the very act of holding it was a betrayal. His gaze flicked to the weapon, then back to me, and I realized with a jolt that he wasn’t looking at me like an enemy. He was looking at me like a question.

“You are… different,” he said, tilting his head slightly, the movement as fluid and deliberate as everything else about him. His accent curled around the words, each syllable infused with the lyrical cadence of his native tongue.

I wanted to speak, to ask him what he meant, but my throat felt dry, my voice lost in the weight of the moment.

He crouched slightly, lowering himself onto one knee so we were nearly at eye level. Even then, his presence dwarfed mine. Up close, the details became sharper—the faint patterns of his skin, the slight twitch of his ears as they picked up the sounds of the battle behind him, the faint rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.

“You do not fight,” he observed, the faintest hint of curiosity threading through his words. His eyes lingered on mine, their golden glow unwavering. “And you… fear.”

It wasn’t an accusation. It was a statement of fact, delivered with neither judgment nor malice.

His hand shifted slightly, and I flinched, but he didn’t reach for me. Instead, he pointed at the weapon still lying on the ground between us.

The Na’vi reacted instantly. He grabbed my arm and pulled me to my feet with startling gentleness.

“You do not belong here,” he said, his voice low and urgent. “Run.”

“What—”

“Go!”

He released me and darted back into the fray, moving with the grace of a predator and the determination of someone who had everything to lose.

I didn’t run. Not immediately. Instead, I crouched behind the truck, my legs trembling as I watched the battle unfold.

He moved like the forest itself, blending into the chaos with a skill that seemed almost supernatural. He wasn’t just fighting—he was leading. The other Na’vi warriors followed his signals, their coordinated strikes overwhelming the RDA forces.

For every bullet fired, they had an arrow. For every shout of anger, they answered with a battle cry that sent chills down my spine.

And yet, amidst the violence, there was something strangely... noble about them. They didn’t kill indiscriminately. They targeted the machines, the vehicles, the weapons. It was as if they were trying to make a point rather than simply annihilate us.

When the ambush finally ended, the Resistance had melted back into the forest, leaving behind a convoy in ruins. Smoke rose from the wreckage, and the air was thick with the smell of burning fuel.

I stumbled out from behind the truck, my legs barely holding me up. Around me, the survivors were regrouping, their faces pale and shell-shocked.

“Medic!” someone called, dragging a wounded soldier from the wreckage.

But I couldn’t move. My mind was stuck on him—the way he’d looked at me, the way he’d spared me when he could have easily ended my life.

“You do not belong here,” he’d said.

The words echoed in my head as I stared at the destruction around me. For the first time, I began to wonder if he was right.

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teriri-sayes · 2 months ago

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Reactions to The Light's Chapter 421

Brief summary: Cale's group escapes. The twins decide to escape too. Cale realizes that the hunters now knew of his involvement. Cale proposes a main quest to System AI. Alberu is pretending to be asleep like Cale too.

==========

The leader of the jungle's dark elves was the Witch, but she was not here. Rather, it was her right hand person who was present. That dark elf told the other Hellhole forces that Cale's group were their allies and that the GoC cult and wanderers were enemies. Afterwards, they helped Cale's group escape.

The twin wanderers let Cale's group escape, not wanting to turn the entire Hellhole into an enemy. But they figured out Cale's identity, recognizing him as the main culprit behind the failure of the White Star Project.

They also suspected Cale to be a transcendent, a godlike being who was not bound by any name and had transcended all limitations by being themselves. 😂😂😂 So they thought of leaving Cale to their leader, the FW, who was on the way to becoming a transcendent.

Of course, since the GoC cult betrayed them, Ryeon killed one surviving bishop before escaping the place. The Hellhole residents dealt with the GoC cult survivors.

Cale thought it was a problem that the hunters recognized him, and thought of a diversion. He would show his face in the Demon Realm. After all, he needed to save CJG. As for the hunters, he thought of pitting the game users against the Five-Colored Bloods in the game via a main quest.

He suggested that to System AI, and the AI accepted it. The main quest name he proposed for it though was... "The Birth of a Hero." 😂😂😂

Unfortunately for Alberu, it seemed like he was also having his own legend and birth of a hero. 🤣🤣🤣

The next day. “Uh… um…….” Cale looked up. A pure white space, holy and beautiful. Brilliant sunlight streamed in from a hole in the ceiling, enveloping Cale and Alberu. “Th-This can't be happening- No way!” “Ah, the sun!” Boom! The paladin, Sir Boltien, in a fit of passion, fell to his knees in prayer. Sniff. The saintess wept. The pope was already wailing loudly. “Alas, this warm light! So dazzling that it almost blinds the eyes yet its gentle touch brings the only warmth from the cold! Alas, the sun, the most splendid, beautiful, and wonderful sun in the world! The sun, the suuuuuuuuunnnnn!" He almost cried out. And this Pope talking was not unusual. “Sniff.” “Aaaah-” Behind the three of them, in a circle of space, the bishops were kneeling. In the center of the circle. Where the light shone. There, Cale sat meekly beside the still unconscious Alberu. 'How did this happen?' . . . “Ah, the loving sunlight that reminds me of my mother's touch as she stroked me as a newborn eighty years ago- Ah, I will dedicate this body and throw everything I have at this sun!” Cale thought, as he listened to the pope's exuberant exclamation. 'I'm tired.' I'm already tired of this. Shake. 'Huh?' Cale, who had been sitting quietly on his knees, glanced sideways. Shake. Alberu's closed eyelids twitched. 'Oh.' The corners of Cale's mouth turned up. 'He's awake, but he's not getting up.' Perhaps, he must be trying to figure out the situation now. “Heh.” Alberu's body shivered slightly at Cale's uncontrollable laughter. Looking at him like that, Cale remembered what had happened yesterday.

Alberu pretending to be asleep too. 😂😂😂 And why was the Sun God church's pope here? Why were the Sun God church clergy crying as if in worship at the lying Alberu who was being shined down by a sunlight beam? 🤣🤣🤣

Ending Remarks Alberu on the start of his hero journey. 😂 Next chapter would be Alberu finally waking up. I look forward to his reaction at the Sun God church NPCs. 😂

#tcf spoilers #trash of the count's family

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cryrubxz · 5 months ago

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Beneath the moon.

Fanfic type: Soft One Shot

Word count: 5,5k+

Pairing: Friar Malthus (Saint) x afab!reader

Summary: After a quiet night at the church, the friar, Malthus, follows you into the forest, unable to resist the pull he feels toward you. Your encounter by a moonlit lake forces him to confront his growing feelings and the vows he’s sworn to uphold.

The candlelight flickered softly against the stone walls of the church, shadows dancing as you sat in the quiet pews, somehow meditative. The friar —“Saint,” they called him— lingered near the altar, pretending to busy himself with extinguishing the candles, but his eyes kept drifting back to you, though it wasn't the first time.

≪She’s leaving late again.≫

He had noticed that you have this kind of routine where you'd just leave the church late at night and, right after you'd go out for a walk on a nearby forest.

When you finally decided to leave and slipped out through the creaking church doors, something in his chest tightened. For a moment, he stood frozen—then he grabbed his cloak. ≪It’s just to make sure she’s safe≫, he thought to himself, in a sort of exculpatory manner, but the flutter in his chest told a different story.

You were walking in an easy pace, enjoying every step on your way to ≪God knows where≫, while behind you was him, following the footprints of your steps at a prudent distance. They take him to the edge of the church's grounds, where the snow-covered forest begins. He hesitates for a moment, knowing he shouldn't go further, but watching you get away he just let his impulse win and went behind you.

He tries to hide behind the trees as he walks, not wanting you to spot him yet. He watches you walk, admiring how serene and beautiful you look.

As you keep walking, you suddenly get the chills, and can't figure out quite yet if it's because you're cold or because you're feeling someone looking at you, but you quicken the pace... just in case.

His heart is pounding hard, his hands shaking a little. He's nervous and scared, but he knows he has to go on. He silently prays that he won't get caught as he continues trailing you, keeping enough distance to not be seen. He can't help but wonder where you're going and why you're out here in the cold, isolated forest.

After a few more minutes walking, you arrive at a place with no trees at all, a part of the forest that actually has a lake in it and just a few trees around... you try to be as quiet as possible, just to be able to listen if there's anyone's footsteps behind you.

He can see you becoming more alert. His heart is racing, the tension in the air palpable. He takes a slow, deep breath, trying to steady his nerves. He knows he's at a crossroads - he can either make himself known now or slip away back into the forest. But the pull you have on him is too strong. He steps into the clearing, his footsteps now audible in the quiet. His heart is beating so fast he can feel it in his ears. He looks at you, standing by the edge of the lake, the moonlight illuminating your figure.

He can see in your stance that you're tense and alert, clearly aware of him being there, and still not turning back to see who is it.

"Why are you following me?..."

He seems taken aback by your question. He wasn't expecting you to guess that he was following you. He takes a few tentative steps closer, his heart thudding in his chest.

"I... I'm sorry," he says quietly, his voice betraying his nervousness, "I wasn't trying to hide. I just... I just couldn't stay away."

Recognizing the voice, you immediately turn back, facing him. "Saint? Why are you..."

He stands there in the clearing, the moonlight illuminating his face, his hands clenched into fists at his sides

"I... I don't know," he admits, his voice barely more than a whisper, "I couldn't stop myself. I wanted to... check if you were okay..."

All you can do is smile at how obvious he's being. You turn around once more, facing the lake again and after a few minutes he can hear your voice again. "You see... this is my favorite place, I come here after praying or confessing something... it's like my own made ritual."

He takes a few more steps towards you, closing the distance a bit more, looking at your back as you face the lake.

"It's beautiful here," he says softly, his voice tinged with awe, "I can understand why you'd come here. It feels... peaceful."

Silence. A comfortable silence. The cold air and the moonlight reflect in the water.

"May I know your name, Saint?"

He hesitates for a moment, his mind racing. He knows he should keep his distance, keep himself apart from you. But his heart is overruling his judgment.

"Malthus," he says quietly, his voice catching slightly, "My name is Malthus."

You smile still admiring the lake "I like it."

Malthus feels a small thrill at your response, a flutter in his heart. It's such a simple comment, but somehow it means a lot to him. He steps closer still, emboldened by your reaction, his eyes never leaving your silhouette.

"Can I ask you something, please?" he asks quietly, his voice slightly hoarse. You nod, silently.

Malthus takes a deep breath, bracing himself. He knows he's walking on thin ice, but he needs to know.

"Why didn't you tell me to leave?" he asks softly, "You knew I was following you... Why didn't you send me away?"

"You're a friar, my saint, I would never tell a friar to leave me alone."

He feels a mix of relief and disbelief, that you would respect his calling so much that you wouldn't reject him outright. He looks at you, the shadows cast by the trees and the light of the moon creating strange patterns on the ground.

"You… you didn't think it was strange?" he asks, his voice betraying the turmoil inside him.

"Yes, it is strange, but I guess you have your reasons, right? You're God's voice after all."

Malthus nods slightly, his throat feeling tight.

"I... I have my reasons," he admits quietly, not knowing how much more he should reveal.

You sit in the thin layer of snow, still contemplating the cold water of the lake.

After a moment, Malthus gingerly lowers himself next to you, careful not to intrude too close, but close enough that he can almost feel the heat from your body. You both sit in silence for a few moments, the quietude of the forest only heightened by his proximity to you.

He can't help but steal a glance at you out of the corner of his eye, taking in your profile, the sharp angle of your jawline, the curve of your lips...

Malthus feels a strong need to speak, to break the silence between you, but he's paralyzed by the intensity of his feelings. His heart beats so hard it's almost painful, his breathing shallow and ragged. The word that finally comes out of his mouth is barely a whisper.

"Why?"

You quickly turned your gaze toward him. "What do you mean, why?".

Malthus feels his breath hitch in his throat as you look at him. The soft light from the moon bathes your face in a silvery glow, making you look almost ethereal. He hesitates for a moment, gathering his thoughts, the question burning in his mind.

"Why... why don't you mind... me being here with you...?" he asks, his voice barely audible over the pounding of his heart.

"I'm mostly alone, I don't mind some company" You turn your gaze back to the lake again.

Malthus feels a strange mixture of relief and disbelief at your answer. He's still unsure why you're not rejecting him, why you're accepting his presence, but he's too drawn to you to question it to much.

"You... you don't think it's... inappropriate...?" he asks hesitantly, "A friar... alone with a woman... in such a secluded place..."

"Do you?" you ask back.

Malthus bites his lower lip, his mind racing. Of course he knows it's inappropriate. But the pull he feels towards you overrides any sense of caution or danger.

"... no," he admits quietly, his voice almost a whisper, "I don't. I don't think it's inappropriate"

"Then is not" you smile as you notice a swan sleeping in the calm water of the lake.

Malthus nods quietly, feeling a strange sense of contentment at your casual acceptance. He keeps looking at you for a few moments more, the moonlight illuminating the soft contour of your face and he can only feel a strange mixture of guilt and bliss.

He turns his gaze back to the lake, letting the peacefulness of the lake and the quiet of the night settle over him. But his thoughts keep returning to you, to how close you are, to the smell of your hair and the memory of your smile.

He glances at you from the corner of his eye, feeling as if he's on the edge of a precipice.

The different situations you two were in were so contrasting. On one hand, you were calm and relaxed, enjoying the cold of the place, the view of the lake illuminated by the full moon's light, and the company of the friar by your side. On the other hand, he was fighting an internal war between his feelings and the guilt he felt because of them. He wanted to be close to you—oh, fuck, he did. He even wanted to feel you, even if just in a hug, but he knew that a saint shouldn’t feel that. He felt so guilty for thinking that…

Malthus was struggling internally, the turmoil of his emotions boiling just under the surface. His breathing was ragged, his hands clenching and unclenching unconsciously, his heart thudding so loudly he was sure you must be able to hear it. You notice his palpable nervousness.

"Are you okay, saint?"

His heart skips a beat as he realizes that you've noticed his unease, and he quickly tries to compose himself

"I... I'm fine," he manages to say shakily, his voice betraying his inner turmoil, "I'm... just... a little cold, that's all..."

You tried to reach out for his forehead, but leaving your hand a few inches apart of it "Oh... I forgot you're I friar I'm not supposed to... touch you but... are you feeling sick or something?"

"No... no, I'm not sick," he stammers, the words coming out like a plea, "I... I'm just..." he trails off, his voice catching in his throat.

He wants to lean into your touch, to feel your skin on his, to know what it's like to be closer to you. But he knows he can't, that it would be a violation of his vows, a sin against God and against yourself

"I... I'm just... cold," he repeats, his voice barely above a whisper, his eyes fixed on the slender fingers that are almost but not quite touching him.

"Oh, well then..." you pull your hand apart and turn back your head to the beautiful lake.

He had been so close, so close to feeling your touch, to quenching the burning hunger that was consuming him.

"Please..." he blurts out before he can stop himself, his voice filled with desperation, "Please, don't... don't pull away..."

You look at him, surprise reflecting in your eyes. "Excuse me?.. Have I heard.. well?"

He closes his eyes and takes a deep, shuddering breath, the words spilling out like a dam has burst

"Don't... don't pull away," he repeats, his voice ragged, "Please..."

"But I'm not supposed to-"

Malthus almost laughs at the irony of it all. Here he is, a man of God, begging to be touched, to be allowed to break his vows. But he can't help it, the need to be closer to you is overriding everything else. He opens his eyes and looks at you, his gaze pleading.

"I know... I know that but... but please... it's killing me..."

You look at him with empathy as you tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. Your hand lingers for a moment, gently running through his hair, a quiet gesture of comfort and understanding.

Malthus feels your fingers brush against his hair, the simple gesture sending a jolt through his body. It's the first time you've touched him, the first time he's felt your skin against his in what feels like an eternity.

"I... I..." he tries to speak, but the words get stuck in his throat.

You smile, opening your arms in invitation for a hug. "Come here" your voice as soft as it can be, almost sounds like the new favorite melody to his ears.

He wants to accept your embrace, he wants to bury himself in your warmth, in the safety of your arms, but he hesitates, his mind still caught in a battle between desire and duty

"I... I shouldn't..." he protests, his voice quivering, "I can't... I can't… I'm a friar…"

But even as the words leave his mouth he can feel his resolve weakening. The need to be close to you, to feel your body against his, is becoming too strong to resist any longer. He takes a deep breath, his whole body trembling, and slowly, almost hesitantly, leans into your arms as you immediately start caressing his hair.

He's lost in a storm of emotion, relief and bittersweet pleasure warring inside him, the feeling of your body against his is so much more than he ever thought he'd have. After a few moments he speaks, his voice soft and quiet.

"Why are you... being so kind to me...?"

"Why not?"

"I... I'm a friar," he says again, almost as if he needs to hear himself say it to remind himself of his duties and obligations, "I'm not... supposed to…" he trails off, not knowing how to continue.

He was supposed to remain aloof, above worldly desires and attachments. He was supposed to be an example, not a man plagued by forbidden feelings... but being in your arms right now, feeling your body against his, all those rules and expectations seem so distant, so unimportant. He buries his face deeper into your shoulder, breathing in the scent of your skin, letting the simple pleasure of your touch wash over him.

You don't give him an answer, instead you just keep holding and caressing him. You both stay minutes like that, just enjoying the calm silence of all this situation.

"You're a nice person.. I've seen you at church, looking at me..." you say breaking the silence.

Malthus feels both guilty and caught out as you mention how you've seen him looking at you. He hadn't thought it was that obvious, hadn't realized you'd noticed his silent glances and stolen glances. He hesitates for a moment, then reluctantly nods

"I... I've been watching you," he confesses, his voice a whisper, "I can't... I can't help it. I..."

"Shush, no need to confess anything, I'm not recriminating you" you reassure.

"I know... I know you're not," he murmurs, "But it still... it still feels like I'm doing something wrong. Like I'm violating the vows I've made, the trust the community has in me…”

"No one will know about this though" you say, trying to comfort him.

Malthus feels a pang of guilt mixed with relief at your words. He knows what you're saying is technically true. No one would know about this, about their quiet embrace in the night, about the way he was clinging to you like a lifeline. But even so, the idea of keeping this secret, of deceiving the people who trusted him, of going behind their backs…

"It... it feels wrong," he murmurs, his voice thick with internal conflict, "It feels like a betrayal..."

You sigh at his words, knowing how guilty he might feel.

He hears your soft sigh and feels a fresh wave of guilt, thinking that you might've deceived or something. He glances up at you, his eyes full of regret, his heart torn between his feelings for you and his duty. He pulls back slightly, his hands still resting lightly on your waist, but creating a slight distance between you.

"I... I'm sorry," he says, his voice barely above a whisper, "I'm sorry I'm being so weak. I'm... supposed to be a friar, a holy man. I'm not… I'm not supposed to feel like this...."

You cradle his face in both your hands, making him close his eyes at the feel, and plant a quick, tender little peck kiss on his lips. "Calm down..." you say right after with soothe voice.

Malthus is stunned into silence for a moment as you brush your lips against his, his breath catching in his throat. It's the first time he's ever kissed anyone, the first time he's ever felt the sweet, gentle pressure of a kiss. His heart is racing, his mind reeling, and all he can think is that he wants, for the first time in his life, to go against his vows, to ignore his duties, to do something solely for his own pleasure.

He looks at you, his eyes wide and his face completely red. He's silent, as if he's afraid that if he speaks he'll say something he'll regret. With embarrassment in his gaze he buries into your embrace again, as if hiding. You chuckle softly at his action, your hands automatically holding and caressing him, just like before.

"You should have followed me earlier."

#frei malthus #saint malthus #malthus x reader #hilda furacao #friar malthus #fanfic #one shot #oneshot #soft #fluff

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