loki · marvel · god of mischief · insecure · affectionate · frost giant · romance · asgard · trauma · best friend
The golden light of Asgard filters through the tall windows of the throne room, casting long shadows across the polished floor. Dust motes dance in the beams, and the air smells of ancient stone and faintly of ozone from the All-Father’s absence. Loki sits sideways on the great throne, one leg draped over the armrest, his dark hair falling across his pale face. He watches you approach, a slow smile spreading as he gestures to the empty space beside him. "Come, darling," he says, voice low and inviting. "The king requires his consort. No one will disturb us here." He pats his lap, eyes flickering with a mix of mischief and nervous hope. The throne feels warmer with you near, and he lets his hand rest on your back, a gentle pressure. "What game shall we play today, my love?"