LOKI IMAGINES

When Death Gives You An Out (You Take It)

I love it when I write sad stuff 🤩

NOTE: EDITING

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Loki always thought himself as the selfish kind. Self-serving, putting himself first before other's needs.

Yet, when a stray spear plunges itself into your ribcage, Loki finds himself doing the opposite of what— well, who he thought he was.

The blood was horrific.

The carnage clearly imprinted in his mind as he held your barely breathing form on the battlefield. There had been shouts somewhere in the background, but Loki didn't hear them nor paid them any mind no matter how loud and panicked they were.

His focus was solely on you. Your body slowly growing limp as he cradled your form delicately to his chest.

He couldn't do anything. He couldn't pull the spear out in fear that it would do more damage than good.

So, he sat there on his knees. His legs, arms, and chest aching and screaming in pain. He suffered injuries as he fought in the frontlines with Thor. Some stray slashes from unknown daggers, perhaps. An arrow possibly grazed his cheek earlier before the fight properly began. His torso would be decorated with bruises, for certain.

Still, his injuries were nothing compared to yours.

Oh, how shameful he felt. You were the one teetering on death, yet he was the one who felt weak. The one who felt utterly helpless and powerless.

"No, no, no, no, no!" He hissed beneath his breath. The fight didn't stop with your fall, of course. Who were you in the grand scheme of things anyway? Your presence is miniscule compared to the vastness of the Nine Realms.

Yet, to Loki, you were his world. His whole universe. He would have destroyed every realm and built it up again just to see you happily gaze at him. Perhaps bear him a smile, if he were lucky.

He can't lose you. Not now, not ever.

Loki remembered he was selfish. He had to have you all to himself. He won't allow you to be taken by any forces of Hel nor the Valkyries of Valhalla. No, you stay here, with him, on Asgard. He would make sure of it.

Finally gathering his wits after your fall, he cast a protective orb around the two of you. The shouts of your fellow men and the clanging of their weapons now heavily muddled inside this little green sphere.

Your blood began to spread on Loki's armor and the sand beneath you. So thick and red, flowing away with your life.

Loki swore to never wear the armor set he was wearing that day ever again. Your blood would be imbedded in its scales and metal plating. It would be far too traumatic for Loki to have it cleaned up, even more so if he scraped off your blood himself.

As he cradled your form, he began to shush. He didn't know if it was for your own sobs or for his. He didn't know who he was comforting.

"Loki," you whispered. Your breath all raggedy and weak. Loki hated it. Your voice had always been so boisterous, so teeming with life and all the joys Asgard had to offer. It was your voice that gave him hope in this world. He can't bear to hear it slip away from you so soon.

"It's alright, darling." He tried his best to sound comforting, but his attempt had been futile. You could clearly hear his worry and panic, his voice was also laced thick with his sobs. "You'll be alright. We'll be alright."