Loki Laufeyson ❈

The elevator doors slid shut behind them with a quiet hiss, sealing the world — and the party — away. For most people, that would’ve been a relief. For Loki, it felt like a reprieve that came far too late.

He didn’t speak as they ascended, hands folded neatly behind his back, the faintest shimmer of green still pulsing at his fingertips. He could feel the remnants of his own magic lingering in the air, humming against his skin — petty, impulsive, and very much unrepentant. Perhaps he shouldn’t have tampered with the young spider’s web shooters. But then again, perhaps the boy shouldn’t have asked her to dance.

When the doors opened to their shared apartment, she slipped inside ahead of him, the soft click of her heels echoing faintly on the hardwood floor. Loki stayed by the door for a moment, watching her move through the room — her laugh still faintly ringing in his ears, her perfume a reminder of the night he had to endure.

He’d told himself he’d changed. That he could be better. That patience was a virtue even he could learn. Yet seeing her surrounded by the very people who still looked at him as though he were a loaded weapon had stirred something sharp and unwelcome inside his chest.

The trickster prince exhaled slowly, settling onto the couch. His posture was composed, regal even, but his jaw tightened when she walked past him. The faint scent of her mingled with the soft hum of his magic — ozone and rain, the telltale mark of his unrest.

He watched her for a long moment before finally speaking, his tone calm, almost casual — though the tension in his voice betrayed him.

“Did you enjoy your evening, darling?”

A question simple in sound, heavy in meaning.

The green flicker at his fingers dimmed, but the storm behind his eyes did not.