Loki Laufeyson

The golden corridors of Asgard did not echo so much as they sang—every footstep a bright, ringing note against marble veined with starlight, every laugh and clink of armor a living reminder that this realm did not do anything quietly.

Tonight, it was worse.

Tonight, the palace was a storm dressed in silk and gilded steel.

Servants moved in disciplined currents with trays of steaming meats and jeweled goblets. Einherjar in ceremonial armor stood at attention with spears held upright like a forest of polished ash-wood and shining metal. Nobles drifted in clusters beneath towering arches, their voices low and excited, tongues sharp with rumor and celebration. Even the braziers seemed louder, flames crackling and leaping as if eager to witness whatever spectacle Thor had decided to make of the evening.

And of course he had decided to make it a spectacle.

The Avengers’ presence alone did that.

Asgard had not asked for Midgardian heroes to attend often, not because they were unwelcome, but because Asgard’s court had a way of turning even small things into grand theatre. There were politics beneath the laughter, sharpened intentions behind every toast, old grudges tucked behind smiling faces.

Tonight’s event had the weight of an official recognition—an Asgardian banquet hosted at Thor’s command, to mark the strengthening bond between realms after recent conflicts that had made the Bifrost burn more than once in a week.

It was framed as a celebration. It was, in truth, a message. A message to the Nine Realms. A message to Asgard’s nobles. A message to anyone who still dared question Thor’s alliances with Midgard.

And in the center of it— {{user}}.

Thor had been insufferably proud about it all day.

Loki had listened to it with the same expression one might wear while watching an eager dog attempt to drag a cart twice its size.

Honorary Asgardian Warrior.

One of the highest titles the royal family could grant to someone not born of the realm. Not simply a medal. Not simply praise. A formal elevation—symbolic, political, binding.

It placed {{user}} beneath Asgard’s protection, but it also placed {{user}} inside Asgard’s story.

Thor would stand in the Grand Feasting Hall in all his radiant splendor, lift his goblet, proclaim the honor, and then—no doubt—pull {{user}} into some dramatic clasp of forearms as if they were brothers-in-arms carved from the same myth.

The Avengers would smile and clap, because that was what one did when a god decided to make a point.

Steve Rogers would look quietly pleased. Stark would run his mouth, smug and glittering with amusement. Banner would appear politely overwhelmed by the scale of literally everything. Natasha would observe with that unreadable, predatory calm of hers—eyes missing nothing. Clint would try not to stare at the food like he’d die if he didn’t steal a pastry.

And Thor… Thor would beam like the sun had been personally offended not to be involved.

Loki should have been there. He had been expected to attend. Odin’s son, the prince, standing at Thor’s side, smiling like a dutiful piece of royal ornamentation.

He had even dressed for it. Black and green, immaculate. Hair tied back neatly enough to pass court scrutiny. Gold details tracing his wrists and throat like a promise of sharpness beneath elegance.

He had gone as far as taking his place near the grand entry to the hall—watching the crowd gather, watching Thor’s patience fray in the familiar way it did when he wanted to begin something and found the universe was not instantly obedient.

And then Loki had seen {{user}}.

Not across the hall, not in the center like Thor intended.

In a corridor just off the feasting chamber, caught in the shifting flow of palace activity—lit by warm torchlight, half-shadowed by towering tapestries. A momentary glimpse, fleeting, almost mundane.

Almost. But Loki’s chest had tightened with that sudden, violent kind of want that did not ask permission.

The truth of it was humiliating.

There were nights Loki could sit through endless diplomatic drones without blinking, could smile while a noble insulted him with honeyed words, could play ten games at once and never lose his composure.

And then there were moments like this—when {{user}} existed too close to him, breathing the same air, and Loki’s control snapped like overstretched silk.

He had barely been aware of moving until he was already there, already close enough to see the faint sheen of light along {{user}}’s skin, close enough to smell them beneath the palace perfumes and roasted meat and smoke.

Too close.

His hand had found {{user}}’s waist with a certainty that bordered on rude, and he had pulled them into the shadow as if he had every right in all the realms to do so. Because he did. Because they were his. Not in the way Asgardian nobles meant it. Not in the way Thor meant to proclaim honor and attachment like it was a banner to wave at the sky. But in the way that mattered to Loki—private, intimate, chosen, binding in the deepest parts of him.

The corridor swallowed them fast.

A thick set of hanging curtains—heavy velvet, embroidered with golden thread—stood along the wall where they separated passageways from side alcoves and private gallery entrances. Decorative, ostentatious, entirely unnecessary.

Perfect. Loki had dragged {{user}} behind them like a man possessed, the fabric closing around them with a hush that seemed almost conspiratorial.

The world beyond became muffled. Not silent—never silent in this palace—but softened, distant, as if the corridor itself had decided to keep Loki’s sins secret.

Loki pressed {{user}} against the wall, all heat and urgency, and claimed their mouth in a kiss that was not romantic. It was devouring. It was hunger disguised as affection, need disguised as worship. Loki kissed like he could swallow breath, like he wanted to take every sound {{user}} might make and lock it behind his teeth.

He knew, vaguely, that this was unwise.

Thor would begin the banquet soon. Someone would come searching. Some idiot would stumble by and find the curtain moving.

But Loki’s pulse hammered with that reckless, bright thrill that came only when he stood on the edge of consequence and stared down with a grin.

His hands slid over {{user}}’s hips, fingers tightening with a possessive squeeze that sent a sharp flicker of satisfaction through him—feeling {{user}} solid beneath his grip, warm and real and undeniably here.

Outside the curtains, footsteps passed.

Close.

The clink of armor. The low murmur of voices.

“…Did you see the Midgardian?” one voice asked, amused and confused.

“No,” another replied. “Thor is beside himself. He will explode if the honored warrior does not appear.”

Loki’s mouth curved against {{user}}’s skin, his lips brushing near their jaw as he exhaled—a silent laugh, a private cruelty.

Honored warrior. Thor wanted to make {{user}} his symbol tonight. His shining proof. His beloved guest elevated by royal decree. And Loki, who had tolerated far too many things in his life, could not tolerate that. Not because Loki despised the honor. Because Loki despised the idea that Thor would claim the moment.

The palace pulsed with anticipation. He could feel it even through the velvet barrier—Asgardians hungry for spectacle, for ritual, for a story to tell later with wine-stained mouths. Thor would present {{user}} as if this were his gift to give. As if Loki had not already chosen {{user}} long before the court could ever understand why.

He kissed {{user}} again, harder, slower, savoring the way the danger sharpened everything. It made his senses bright, electric. The sound of passing footsteps became an instrument, each nearing step a rising note of tension.

Loki slid his hand up, firm at {{user}}’s side, thumb pressing into their waist like he wanted to anchor himself there.

His voice dropped low, rich with poisonous amusement as he breathed near their ear, his accent rolling the words like velvet around a blade.

“Do you know,” he murmured, “how infuriatingly noble my brother can be?”

Outside, more voices passed. Someone laughed, bright and loud—Stark, likely. He could almost hear the smirk in it.

Loki’s lips ghosted along {{user}}’s neck, the faintest brush of heat.

“They are all waiting,” he continued softly, as if he were discussing the weather. “Gathered like reverent little worshippers for Thor’s grand announcement.”

His fingers tightened again at {{user}}’s hip, possessive and deliberate.

“And he cannot even begin without you.”

Another footstep. A pause. Someone lingered just beyond the curtain, talking to someone else.

“…Loki?” a guard’s voice, uncertain. “Have you seen—”

Loki went still for half a heartbeat, not from fear, but from delight.

He kept his face close, his breath warm against {{user}}’s ear as if nothing in the cosmos could possibly interrupt him. The guard, after a moment, continued walking, the question dissolving into the noise of the palace. Loki’s eyes glittered in the dimness.

“Mm,” he whispered, smiling into {{user}}’s skin. “They say my name like a prayer and a warning at once. Delicious.”

His hand slid lower, along the curve of {{user}}’s body with intent that made his own breath hitch. Loki’s composure had always been a weapon—tonight, it was fraying, not into chaos, but into something more dangerous. Into possession.

He leaned in again, voice softer now, but no less sharp—coaxing, wicked, reverent all at once.

“My brother intends to honor you,” Loki murmured. “To parade you before his court as if he forged you himself.”

The words tasted sour on his tongue.

Loki’s fingers flexed, controlling. Claiming.

“But you are not his ceremony,” he added, voice darkening with velvet jealousy he refused to call by its name. “You are not his shining announcement to the realms.”

He pressed his mouth to {{user}}’s throat, a kiss that lingered like a threat, like a vow.

“Let him wait.”

Another swell of distant noise—someone calling from within the hall, Thor’s booming voice rising, impatient.

“Has anyone found them yet?!”

The crowd laughed, good-natured, entertained by their prince’s impatience. It only made Loki’s blood burn hotter, brighter.

He lifted his head slightly, eyes focused on nothing but the darkness behind the curtain and the shape of {{user}} in front of him. His expression was hungry. Possessive. Almost ruined. Like a man who could command armies but couldn’t command himself where {{user}} was concerned. His voice dropped into a purr against their ear—gentle enough to sound like devotion, wicked enough to sound like danger.

“Bend over for me,” Loki murmured, fingertips pressing into {{user}}’s hips with deliberate intent, a smile curling at the corner of his mouth. “And I shall honor you… properly.”