intensitystoner

[intensitystoner]

– Until I was yours, I was not free – 

She thought at first that she was seeing a twin or a clone, perhaps hallucinating or having a wishful vision in someone vaguely similar. The man under suspicion was one of the free, walking slowly along the main path and immersed in a light-mooded chatter with his companion. His deep-set eyes a faded shade of teal, his face lean and shadowed around the cheeks. His hair dark and wavy, chin-length at most, loosely combed back to introduce a remarkable forehead. The attire he wore fit the environment: an elegantly collared jacket all free men wore, unique in some subtle traits like each other one. The shirt under it ran up the entire length of his neck, like he enjoyed suffocating in the scorching, stuffy air of the market. 

Only after several steps with the walking rod in his left hand did she notice him limping. What battle had he just recently emerged from, if he wasn't being hunted? 

By the end of her observation, she wondered if he was deaf or a coward. Or just his usual cunning self? He was namely ignorant to her angered calls over the crowd from a row away. And his well kempt appearance had induced a great deal of rage in her to tug on her groaning chains. Her ruckus awoke startled attention in her immediate surroundings. 

And he, he bent to his companion, a somewhat shorter, elderly man, sharing a delightful story that his widely gesturing hands had just remembered. 

Her vengeful snarls at his distant form earned her a punch on the jaw from a metal rod, and crude, foreign scolding from a captor. Her temper was heated, so she spat her rapidly accumulating blood into the intruder's face in the middle of his crudely scolding sentence. 

Her voice – and breath – faltered as she was kicked by a spiked metal boot on the ribs in response, her balance quickly overthrown and sending her onto her knees. The cuffs attaching all four of her limbs onto the pedestal didn't allow her to reel away from the continuing assault. The thin linen tunic didn't yield protection. The cracked pride she had trusted in proved to be frail against the unexpected occurrence, and she kept on calling for the first familiar face she had seen in an eternity, even while her eyes shut and her jaw clenched from the pain: her voice alone clung onto the possibility, which she hadn’t even noticed growing in her awareness. She barely noted her tone turning to pleading from the challenge she had thrown towards him at the beginning. 

Other captors held back her attacker before her demeanour could have been damaged significantly. When the brawl dragged out and increased the audience, the older man’s attention was drawn to her first among other passers-by, a hand on his partner’s arm modestly requesting a break in the flow of words. The green-grey eyes then turned to look as well; though her glare attempted to bore into his through the curtain of her hair, they swept over her urging gaze without a sign of recognition, more amused by the bicker that the captors were now having over the maiden’s head. He had his wit ready for a quietly shared comment on it, which made the older man chuckle along. As he responded to the older man's curious mumbling while staring at the ruckus, the familiarity in his arched eyebrows and pouting lips grew certainty inside her. Her voice was abandoning her as she called for him in vain. And then his polite touch on the shoulders guided his companion away from the appalling incident. She stared at his back through her tangled locks with a force that meant to toss him, kick him, burn him up, but the notion never reached, and she feared that he had just taken a piece away from her with himself: her sanity perhaps, or her faith. In what? People? Friendship? Alliance? Destiny? The future? She had plenty of time left here to figure it out, it seemed. 

She'd been captive for some months now, maybe. Captive, yes, and not what her fellow sufferers were called. She was stranded on this planet, wasn't sure what realm; she'd been swept here among hundreds of that planet's people, after the borderland she defended had fallen against the forces invading from outer space. While being carried in chains to the victorious foreign homeland, something unknown tore the ship apart, and she fell in here helplessly after a lengthy tumble through space, for her exhausted body to be found and restrained before she would even come to herself. For her to be exhibited on sale for the pleasure of the local folk. 

She'd never lost a battle before. Then again, Asgard had never been late with reinforcements either. Heimdall had never failed to open the Bifrost. She'd been wondering ever since whether her decision to assault boldly, counting on Asgard's help in this pathetic way had earned her shame great enough for exile. Whether the decision came from the fake Odin that had sent her away when it occurred she was no fool like the others. Whether anyone else knew. Whether she had been announced dead back home, or she'd been proclaimed unworthy to set foot into the land of gods. Whether the land was coping well under the self-righteous trickster's false reign. 

And now, even more questions. And the blackest one: whether she really came from what she remembered, or she'd been here since the birth of the Universe, to stay until its last light flickered out.

#tbc #sifki #sif #loki #master/slave au hehe #au during EG #da orky writing

[intensitystoner]

“You scare me in the best way.”

[intensitystoner]

social media has really warped our perception of creativity and hobbies. Stop doing things to post them. Just write. Just journal. Just sketch. Just read. Just annotate. Just sing. Just crochet. Just do the thing you’re going to do with the assumption no one will ever see or know you did it. Stop performing. Just enjoy it.

[intensitystoner]

Scribble for @sifkiweek

Day 2 - Time

~1600 words

-

His return goes unnoticed by Earth's defence mechanisms – it’s about the third time, after all. Sif alone is allowed the knowledge. And her curiosity – so she names it – quite swiftly wins over her desire to keep an angered distance. She manages no longer than a day in New Asgard, then she’s on the way to London with a morning flight. 

He waits for her outside the airport leaning on a sleek dark vehicle, sporting a rich man’s attire and sunglasses, his hair only carelessly swept backwards, winding dark and shiny behind his ears. She keeps a straight face, like she had long been used to his capricious jumps between life and death. Her breaths are bent on betraying her as she walks up to the spot in a strictly regulated pace and taps the car’s engine hood as a greeting. 

“A fine illusion,” she notes. “Did you obtain it in a local junk yard?” 

“I can’t believe you hold me that cheap,” he complains. 

She shrugs. 

“It’s how most of us started out here, no need to be ashamed of it.” 

Loki opens the front door for her and then hops in behind the wheel, meanwhile admitting somewhat bashfully: 

“To tell the truth, I’ve been here for a while.”

The note makes her blood heat up a notch. She gazes out at the streets rushing by to hide any traitorous signs of insult. She shall remain as detached as she was left in the past two decades while he was busy destroying himself and some realms in numerous attempts. She was clearly indicated to be of no priority any more, her rather self-humbling attempts to contact him met firm rejection when he reappeared in Asgard as a convict. She can read a message well, and what reason would she have to forget it just now? 

“Would you be interested in a late breakfast, or perhaps an early lunch?” he inquires breaking the stretching silence. 

“I’ll get my own meal, thank you.” 

“Understood. Street hot dog it is.” 

“I hate that,” she breathes to the window with her thickest disinterest. 

“Thank you,” Loki mutters with genuine relief in his tone, which steals an undesired smile onto her lips. 

Giving up the sulk that she knows he’d easily counter and is only letting her keep up to appease her, she steals a glance at him from the corner of her eyes. He’s guiding the soft-humming earthen vehicle with the knack he has for any machines of the Universe, rolling the wheel with a loose palm like it’s unworthy of his touch. It’s his way of touching anything while in public, really. Sif remembers, even though she’d have plenty of reasons to forget. She is desperate to forget, in fact, especially now, while locked in a small space with the subject of her increasingly detailed memories, at least one for each knuckle on those long fingers. 

She all but flees from the metal box when the car stops in a parking lot. 

“Is this where you’ve been lurking around?” she asks to prevent the conversation from slipping out of her control. 

“Indeed. Not the most appealing location, but a tad better than those huts in… New Asgard.” He utters the name with a short chuckle. 

He guides her up to a loft with a view over the river: quite pleasant indeed. 

"And yet," she notes with a glass of wine in her hand and a purposefully nurtured grudge in her eyes, "it's not the kind of grandeur that’s rightfully expectable from you. Where are the servants? The garages? The library wing?" 

"Well, this complex does belong to me," he admits humbly, "as does 6 Chesterfield and Maughan Library. But you noted well that I'm trying to lay low; it's not my intention to stir the defence squads of Midgard just yet." 

"What makes you assume they don't know you're here?" she inquires. 

"I don't." He walks up to her and places his own glass on the windowsill. He speaks huskily, his eyes searching her face. "Would I have informed you if I did?" 

She makes effort not to turn her gaze away: not to give in to the welling up shame that she has helped SHIELD out a few times, and that he knows. It was her rightful choice, as she doesn’t owe anyone anything. 

He speaks through the silence while they face each other up close like this. 

“I wish to stay.” 

“Alas,” she fakes soft surprise. “the God of Mischief wasn’t welcome anywhere?” 

“It’s not that. I’d want to be where you are.” 

“Big words,” she breathes through her turmoil of doubt, sarcasm, joy, and some unnamed things. 

“No, they aren’t. You’ve always been the world for me, Sif. You’re the wisdom that I lack. You’re a haven for my rampant mind. However, I've never been able to tell what truly resides in your heart. It’s terrifying… But I don’t want to… " His lips tighten as he falters for a moment. "I don’t want to run from it any longer. It’s high time to face you.” 

She watches Silvertongue rummage through words. She interrupts before she’d think to stop herself. 

“You had clear priorities. Remember? You’re the one who refused to see me. You went out of your way, Loki, to avoid having to talk with me.” 

“Because, my dearest Sif, how would it fit your greatness to be the widowed mourner of a criminal, a fugitive, a usurper?” His hands move to hold her by the shoulders but cower halfway. 

“What has changed now?” She demands mercilessly, with the torn-up ache of her heart. 

“The Universe.” 

She sees the Universe light up in his eyes while he utters the answer. And she knows what he means, as she has always known; unlike others, she's had a knack for deciphering the tangled half-truths forged by his clever tongue. It may have been, she guessed, due to her pinpointed attention on his slightest moves. He made her addicted very early on, to the feeling of having him in a way no one else did. 

“I would have been there,” the words escape her on their own, her tone bends into accusation. “You should have trusted in me while you had the chance. Haven’t you seen me stand my ground through centuries of your self-abasement? Was I not worthy of being by your side at those times?” 

His eyes close for the moment at the cruel word. There is no place for regret, however: she knows her case is lost since the dam broke. He has gained insight, into her very core, and he's going to play it as he likes. He'll use her before leaving her behind once again, and she'll feel rewarded. 

"I did not honestly think you still had me in your heart after all this," he admits softly. "You serve Midgard now."

"To build relations, to earn a place here for our disheartened people." 

"Have you never been asked to help them entrap me?" 

Her suppressed breath is an attempt to contain her anger and pain. 

"They wouldn't dare," she tells him in a tone low, and for once, he’s clueless about whether her contempt is for him or for the humans. It daunts him, as she does whenever something else obscures her from him. Because he is exposed to her, free for grazing or clawing or cutting in, whether she’s aware of it or not. 

“How many times have I let you go?" she whispers into his silence. "How many times have I mourned you? Can you tell, or have you lost count by now?” 

He doesn't answer, unless the vast world in his eyes counts as one, while he takes a last look before he retreats to the couch. He's got nothing else to offer. It's up to her now, and she lingers by the window in futile hope that her stirred emotions settle into something tangible. 

After a lengthy silence, she leaves her glass as well and sits next to his comfortably settled form, seeking his reaction from the corner of his eyes, to see if this is all right. She knows she’s struggling with her own broken trust, but so does he. How long he will stay on this planet, she burns to know, but she also knows it will never be asked, let alone answered. So she scoots over and cuddles up to him wordlessly, unsmiling, legs hung over one of his thighs without requesting affordance. She feels an arm slide across her back in response, a hand ends up on her waist. Looks rest against each other, both questioning. He leans in then, his lips reach her hair around the temple, he remains like that for a while, breathing in her scent, listening inwards to the stir settling down from the contact. Their hands meet, her fingers softly hook into his palm atop her knees, their warmth is equal.

He lifts her hand, places a languid kiss on each of her fingernails. 

“Would you marry me if I asked?” he asks them in a very personal whisper. 

They say love is different for everyone. For her, it’s him, with a big, empty void all around him in the rest of the entire Universe. She has experienced sufficient time of both having and lacking, to learn by now which one is her path. So yes, she would. If he could ever prove he knew what he was asking. But only then. So she refuses to answer, braving the greatest menace she’s ever encountered: letting this coward slip away for good. (One more time couldn't hurt any bigger, could it?) 

And it eases him visibly. 

"I will earn your answer," he says into her eyes. 

Though she feigns nonchalant routine while leaning in for a kiss, her smile eventually spreads against his captured lips. 

#sifkiweek #sifki #da orky writing

[intensitystoner]

Arguing.

Loki: *raises eyebrows in amusement*

Sif: Put those back down!

Loki: *lowers eyebrows*

[intensitystoner]

So ready for the party~

Hello fellow Sifki shippers! The Loki series just had its one year anniversary and starts shooting S2 soon, and Love and Thunder is just weeks away! So why not dive head first into these exciting times for our favorite space vikings? Sifki Week 2022 is here!

How does it work? Each day of the week will come with two general prompt to give you inspiration for your work. You can follow the prompt(s) as loosely or closely, as literal or abstract as you want; prompts are mainly there to give you a starting point to create from. Or you can completely ignore the prompts if you don’t feel particularly inspired but have your own great idea. You can also submit for as many or as few days as you’d like, and creations can be any length or size. We want to see as much new fan work in the fandom as possible, so don’t feel limited. The schedule for this year’s celebration is as follows: 

Day 1 (Sunday July 17th) - Battle | Bond

Day 2 (Monday July 18th)  - Time | Temptation

Day 3 (Tuesday July 19th) - Captive | Costume

Day 4 (Wednesday July 20th) - Persuasion | Permission

Day 5 (Thursday July 21st) - Soulmate | Stranger

Day 6 (Friday July 22nd) - Dare | Deadly

Day 7 (Saturday July 23rd) - Expecting | Exile

What’s acceptable? Fics, Artwork, Graphics, Manips, Gisfsets, Videos, Playlists, Moodboards, Aesthetics, Headcanons, and pretty much anything else!

To participate, please mention @sifkiweek in your post and tag your work with #sifkiweek22 in the first 5 tags (and tag all mature, not work safe stuff with the appropriate tags). We ask that Loki/Sif be the main pairing for your work. Each day we will reblog the creations, and encourage you to do the same. If you have any questions, feel free to shoot us a message or ask here. Have fun and happy creating!

[intensitystoner]

“Someone’s going to die.”

“I hope you mean ‘of fun.’“

“Well, it’ll be fun for me.”

[intensitystoner]

1852

"Weapons or armour? You can only choose one."

"Weapons!"

"Wrong. Here's your armour."

[intensitystoner]

1860

"You don't have to bribe me into helping you. I'm your friend."

[intensitystoner]

1862

"You're mature and responsible. That sickens me."

[intensitystoner]

1868

"I'm worried."

"About what?"

"That I'll be me forever."

[intensitystoner]

1881

"How on earth does someone like you even survive?"

"Luck, mostly."

#frostiron #I tag what I want Thor

[intensitystoner]

“I see who you really are now.”

[intensitystoner]

“That brings back memories.”

[intensitystoner]

“Do you think we could have been friends, in another life?”

“We could be friends in this life if you weren’t such an ass.”

[intensitystoner]

“You make me sick. Do you know how noxious you have to be to turn a god’s stomach?”

[intensitystoner]

It’s good for the soul okay