weaver-of-legends

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i am literally beyond the point where I consider Loki being tortured and mind controlled in A1 to be a headcanon with gentle nodding toward canon, like. I do not think of MCU without it. The other day someone was telling me about their Loki fic and I was like “wait is this before or after they find out about the torture” and the person was just like “….what torture?” and I was like “ah.” But inwardly I was screeching. 

???????????????????????? DID LOKI STRIKE YOU AS A PERSON WHO WANTED TO BE THERE????? DID WE WATCH THE SAME MOVIE??????? I literally CANNOT compute how anyone thinks Loki WASN’T tortured by Thanos anymore and I believe this is a Problem TM. 

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Loki’s boot-steps rang softly on the smooth, shining red-yellow marble tiles as he and his guards passed into the dimly lit, cool hall before the council chamber, leaving the humid warmth and coming rain behind. It smarted, walking down these halls as a prisoner with no say in if he wanted to turn to the right or verge to the left—it stung, his absolute inability to decide how fast or slow he wished to proceed.

It happened all at once, too quickly, too soon—he had been deep in his thoughts and then suddenly they were upon the doors before the Council Room. He felt fidgety, a war horse sensing the coming battle but unable to flee without knowing if turning away would be safer than risking what lay ahead. He wanted to turn and run, to beg for more time, but there was no more time, there could be no more delay. Ragnarök would come, and they must have him dealt with beforehand. He knew it like he knew each breath he took.

The large, brass-colored double doors boomed as they opened inward to admit him. The torchlight and sunlight bounced off of the engravings inlaid into the metal—one of Bor’s great battles with the monsters of Niffelheim.

Loki swallowed, his mouth felt dry.

“Proceed,” the Einherjar holding his chains prompted in a low voice.

Loki’s eyes widened, the unshed tears burning at the edges of his eyes again. His lips parted, letting out a whisper of a breath. He tilted his head forward, chin down, eyes straight ahead, and strode into the room as grandly as any parade horse, sending the chains swaying and slapping dully against the leather panels on his war jacket once again.

He came up in front of the dais where Odin sat in all his glory, one hand closed lightly around Gungnir and the other lying in his lap, the useless arm hidden neatly in his crimson mantle, his gnarled, broken hand concealed in a doeskin glove.

Ægir and Tyr flowed from behind him silently, only their steps sounding and their mantles rustling gently, to take their seats on the Council. Eight lords and one king—the Council of Nine.

The Einherjar holding his chains jerked him to a halt just before he came to a full stop, making him stumble back, and Loki grit his teeth, seething at the disrespect. He looked up at Odin, searching for some sign in the old god’s face as to what his punishment might be—for some sign that Odin would hear him, and listen, and believe him; and not deny his words as the desperate ravings of a murderous liar. But Odin’s scarred and weathered face revealed nothing, and his single good eye held only the cunning wisdom of an ancient monarch long-seated and much-revered.

Despite it, Loki hoped vainly that he would be allowed to say his piece. Hiding his mounting terror, he smiled, friendly and nonchalant—as if he had been brought in for committing a trick on a servant and not guided in with chains strung off of him like so many May-day streamers.

“You decide to see me at last—” he spread his hands as if encompassing the whole room, still smiling, “I was beginning to suppose you would leave me in the dungeons and forget me.” Loki canted his head to the left. “But here, thank the Norns, I am.” He dropped his hands back at his side.

Odin shifted his hand on Gungnir as he rose slow from his seat, moving the spear so its end struck the floor. It rang—ominous, and quietly into every corner of the large chamber.

Loki watched him steadily. He ignored the shifting of the lords; Ægir's bad habit of fiddling with the rings on his right hand when he felt ashamed.

“Do you feel so little for the anguish you have caused?” Odin’s voice moved through the air softly, yet it could be heard as clear as a pan-pipe’s high call. The gravity of it made Loki stiffen, and his heart began to beat erratically in his chest.

Loki feigned curious ignorance, peering exaggeratedly about the room. He lifted his hands again. “I see no pain inflicted by my hands—but then, I have been gone for a very long time, so perhaps I have forgotten of some old trick or spell I set in place; I will right it, if I can, only tell me so I might mend the damage.”

“You cannot redeem what the dead have taken, Loki! Or do you truly feel so little for the death of Baldr? Is your heart that cold toward the pain of your people, the tears of your mother, the grief of your siblings, that you dare make such a show of ignorance? After you fled from Asgard the night the despicable deed was done, and hid from all responsibility!” Odin’s voice rose in sharp command, in cutting judgment. Loki’s breath shortened, he heard a far-off ringing in his ears.

“I never would have, I only mean to say that I—”

“I wanted to hear of you, to listen to your words, and yet your absence reveals your character! You laugh and delight in suffering, you sit eagerly and watch wrongdoing commence—” Odin’s voice strained as he nearly shouted, sounding weary despite his outrage. “—and what is more egregious to my sight is that you revel in the unfortunate circumstance of others; would willingly cause them discomfort for your own pleasure!”

“No, that is not what I have done! I would tell you if you would only hear me, Father—” Loki leaned toward him, curbing his anger and looking at Odin imploringly.  

“Too often have I heard you, too often have I let you speak lies into my face; let you pacify me with shallow promises and gilded words concealing poisonous barbs beneath, thinking you mended of your ways. No more shall I allow this deceit in my presence, I cannot be wounded again with the blinded faith of a hopeful father, only to be laid low with your tricks!” Odin pressed Gungnir against the smooth stone again, and it rang like a peal of thunder.

Loki stepped back, eyes bright and watering. Odin set Gungnir into his damaged hand and then descended the steps from the dais, approaching Loki, deep red mantle swaying in his wake.

“It has been considered and thought out among the council, and it has been decided—I, Odin, king of this realm and protector of the Nine, now take from you your titles!” Odin reached out with his hand and caught Loki’s hand in his, wrenching the rings from his fingers to fling them to the ground; distantly they bounced and rolled across the marble. “I strip you of your place among my ancestors, and among my sons,” Odin took hold of the braid nearest Loki’s ear and pulled the golden clasp from it, and then from the next braid, and the next. Finally he combed the braids out with a rough downward motion of his fingers. Loki jerked his head. “For the crime of killing another Æsir who was your friend and companion, who trusted you—the son of your mother’s sister—I proclaim that you are no longer welcome within the gates of Asgard, and shall evermore be spurned by her citizens.”

Loki parted his lips, but no words came. He stared at Odin in soundless horror, waiting for the final blow sure to fall.

Odin had turned from him and taken two of the ascending steps to his throne, his shoulders hunched, and his stance tired, leaning heavily on Gungnir. But now he paused, looking back, forcing Loki to look up. “A life must be paid for the theft of a life. Loki Liesmith, for the crime you have committed—the cruel act of murdering Baldr in cold blood—you are sentenced to death. You will be taken hence to the Falls of Brunnr and deep into the caverns beside them, and there you shall be bound to the stone beneath the head of Franang. To suffer the poisonous venom that drips steadily from his fangs, until you are dead; however long the Fates decree that end shall take.”

Loki panted as the verdict reached its end and Gungnir rang out—loud and final through the chamber, symbolizing that the sentence should stand for all time. He yearned to breathe but felt as if someone had checked his flow of air. Staggering backward, he went easily into the hold of the Einherjar. His wild eyes found Ægir, looking ill and pale and pained. He had known this, and he hadn’t told him. He had known Odin would not hear him.

Franang.

Darkness.

Suffering.

Death.

Loki’s heartbeat pounded, he felt faint. The Einherjar dragged him toward the doors, away from the Council. Suddenly he rallied, fought against their relentless pulling, strove against the chains.

“No, no, you must hear me!” He twisted in the Einherjar’s grasp, broke loose, scrabbled across the marble as the guards raced after him. One stepped on the hem of his cape, and he fell headlong at the foot of the dais stairs. Loki reached out, fingers catching the edge of Odin’s red mantle. He stared up in mad desperation, feeling every single boyhood anxiety brought to bear. He pulled hard on the fabric like an adamant child, even as the Einherjar grabbed him and heaved him backward, tearing his hands out of Odin’s cape.

Loki twisted and arched his back, writhing fiercely. His tears fell hot and fast down his face. “You must, I beg you, hear me! All-father—my father, Father, do not let them do this to me—Do not let them put me in the dark, alone, to die! Hear me, hear my words! I am innocent of the crime you accuse me; I have done nothing wrong! Father!”

His voice resounded as the Einherjar took him from the council chamber.

But Loki only stared at Odin as the king stood there on the steps; silent, unmoved. Unfeeling. He felt his soul shatter into nine thousand pieces. Odin would not hear him. Angrboda had spokenthe truth; he had been only a pawn in the chess-match of politics, and he had been found wanting, so he was outcast; eliminated like so much refuse. It stung to understand in full how much a father could abandon a son. For the first time since his childhood, Loki wept bitterly.

[weaver-of-legends]

“I would think that one of his spies would look hotter but like... have ugly vibes, you know?” said Frodo.

“Ah,” laughed Strider, “And I look ugly and have hot vibes?”

[weaver-of-legends]

Okay. Listen. I REALLY REALLY REALLY am not equipped, mentally or physically speaking, to handle Tom Hiddleston being in such close proximity to me in a geographical sense.

Four plus months of this? They don’t have a show on Thanksgiving Day. You know what happens in NYC on Thanksgiving Day? The Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, that’s what. He could turn up in the crowd. He could volunteer to be a balloon handler. HE COULD BE IN THE PARADE RIDING ON A GODDAMN FLOAT DOING STUFF LIKE SMILING AND WAVING AND RUNNING HIS HANDS THROUGH HIS HAIR.

MAYBE IN COSTUME AS LOKI.

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I really gotta know. is this all a joke? is this blog one big shitpost?

Well, you seem bitter.

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Oh my gosh, that’s disgusting. I can’t believe that! Twilight is literally one of THE WORST book series ever. I read it when I was like 12 and couldn’t get beyond book 1 it was so miserable and vomit-inducing; I tried to read it again in my later teens and nearly died of rage. lol

These people are all brainwashed, that’s what it’s gotta be. Brainwashed. 

The fact that people suddenly think Twilight is "woke" only proves that we're doomed as a species.

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WHAT? Seriously???

The fact that people suddenly think Twilight is "woke" only proves that we're doomed as a species.

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OHMYGOD YES PLEASE

What if the Loki show gave us Loki with facial hair lmao

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Night air, good conversation, and a sky full of stars can heal almost any wound.

Beau Taplin, Remedy (via books-n-quotes)

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I stayed in my dreams a little while longer because I wasn’t ready to get up.

Windy Darlington, Private Notes (via mentallydatingahotcelebrity)

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Wow, actually some panels of GOOD WRITING from Marvel Comics. I wonder how long this’ll last before they interject some sort of political narrative into it. 

This is just gorgeous and everything Jane Foster deserves; I only wanna see Loki’s reaction for it to be complete!

War of the Realms: Omega #1 - “The Job I Have to Do” (2019)

written by Al Ewing & Jason Aaron art by CAFU & Jesus Aburtov

[weaver-of-legends]

Loki

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Life is what we make of it. Travel is the traveler. What we see isn’t what we see but what we are.

Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet (via books-n-quotes)

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“It has long been an axiom of mine that the little things are infinitely the most important.” - Arthur Conan Doyle

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Steel Angel with Butterfly Wings

Genre: fanfiction, Crimson Peak

Type: one-shot

Rating: none, though suggestive of psychological and emotional abuse, as well as physical. I dunno how to do trigger warnings on writing, whatever, advance at your own risk.

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He walked in, and the light fell on her, and for a moment he didn’t understand. She was an angel, come to save him. Perhaps she could save him, he wanted to believe it. For one beautiful day he wanted to hold on to the idea. Edith was an angel, and she could make him clean. He fancied it and daydreamed fervently until he came back to their hotel suite.

“She’s perfect, Thomas. Far better than we could have imagined; so gullible and desperate.”

It was happening again.

All over again.

He could cry, but he wasn’t twelve anymore. He wanted to cry and cry and cry and scream. But he only nodded and swallowed and closed his eyes when she put her hands up in his hair.

“Yes, perfect.”

He kept his eyes closed as she kissed him and pushed him down on the bed and hummed and sang. Give in and it would be all right. She knew what was best for them; he was good at playing follow the leader; he always had been. She knew what must be done, even if he hated it; even when it made him terrified and sick.

“But must we?” he whispered, barely to be heard over her singing.

She pulled back from him and he dared to open his eyes, horrified his tears would fall.

“What did you say?” She was ferocious in her protection of him, in her love. He hesitated, reached out to pull her back to him in hopes that she would be pacified by another kiss.

“Nothing… nothing,” he replied hoarsely, quickly.

She smiled slowly, put her hand on his chest. Her fingers traced cold circles and he wanted to die, but he breathed instead, faster and less even as he gazed up at her, mesmerized by her eyes; so blue, like his—bluer, he might think.

“You know I love you, brother. So much.” She leaned over him, set a soft kiss to his cheek. He nodded and closed his eyes in a slow blink, pressing his lashes together tightly. “I’m the only one who truly understands you.”

“Yes, I know. I love you, too.”

She kissed him with more fervency, pressed closer. “Say it again.”

“I love you, I love you.” He panted it as if the mantra meant as much as it once had to him, feeling somewhere between dead or dying or hollow or ill. He did not know which word could describe this. Was it love or was it wretched? Were they right or were they wrong, doing what they did? He kept his eyes closed to it all until it was over, and she was lying beside him pressed against his body while she slept, her fingers curled tight in his hair so it hurt, but he didn’t move.

He just breathed, in and out, in the dark, and his breaths came in small shuddering gasps; gentle sobs, but his eyes stayed dry. He was not twelve. Tears were for little children.

His thoughts fell on Edith. Her smile, her golden hair—so different from his own dark curls. Her eyes were not sad like his, or wild like his sister’s. She was so beautiful, so bright. But American strong, he had seen it. Her eyes were steely with determination to be independent.

His heart raced in his chest beneath Lucille’s still hand.

He was not independent; he could not be. No, he needed Lucille to explain to him what to do. He admired Edith, she was brave. She was not weak, like he was. She was not pathetic and childish and desperate for understanding, for the love that she knew so little of. Unlike him.

“You’re wrong about Edith.” He whispered into the night, and he got away with it, though he listened with soundless terror for his sister’s even breathing in the darkness—for her to slap him for being so stupid. So stupid to think that he knew something better than she did. He didn’t, but he… he just felt it. Somehow. He put his hand over his heart in the dark, absently. It beat wildly, and he couldn’t close his eyes because he couldn’t sleep. He whispered her name again, Edith. It was as beautiful as her golden hair and bright smile.

Edith.

Edith, I do not want you to die. But I don’t know what else to do.

I don’t understand. I don’t know. I don’t know.

Lucille knows what is right and I must believe her, because she loves me. She’s the only one who loves me and does not look at me with disgust.

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A/N: Crimson Peak really annoys me. I despise it adamantly as garbage tier writing. In the beginning Thomas behaves dominantly and manipulatively. I thought that he was going to be very dark, a very demented antagonist; but then in the third act of the film it flipped and suddenly he’s this crying, whiny mess who’s never killed anyone and it just turned into a dumb bitch-fight between two girls over a dead boy. 

That was a blow to his character build-up in the first act. If you’re going to write characters, Del Toro, Be Consistent!

I wrote this because I wanted to experiment with Thomas’ physical abuse and emotional conditioning by Lucille, (if you go with his character’s behavior and development in the third act, this one-shot is more in-character) and the psychological abuse he’s suffered through his sister and the harsh emotional/physical landscape of his home-life. Judging by the third act, Thomas retained a great deal of immature, naif, childlike tendencies. Which is a coping mechanism of abuse victims. So it was very odd to me that (especially given the time-period) this wasn’t more obvious in his behavior with and around his sister. 

Also I wanted to expand on that “I close my eyes to thinks that make me uncomfortable” or whatever it was line from the ballroom/waltz scene.