“Loving of any kind should not feel like a ball and chain.” || arranged marriage au
When Darcy is captured by frost giants, she is Jotunheimr’s retribution against Asgard’s crimes against their realm. After all, who better to play the role of a sacrifice than the unwanted Midgardian bride of the lost Jotun prince himself, Loki?
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For Asgard’s crimes against the realm of Jotunheimr, atonement shall be granted through a queen’s death by Darcy Jamesdottir, wife of Loki, sister of Thor, who shall be burnt by spark and flame in six days time. Upon her death, absolution will be considered fulfilled.
Thor didn’t know what to say, watching mutedly as Loki read the missive delivered by the courier. His brother’s face was blank when he finally rolled up the scroll, and he simply held it out to Thor without a word.
The emotionlessness of Loki’s reaction made something in Thor’s chest swell with ire. “You are not angry?” Thor asked quietly, carefully watching Loki’s features. “They have taken your wife, brother.”
“They want revenge, Thor.” Loki replied dismissively, dropping the scroll on the table. “Better the mortal than one of us, don’t you think?”
“Mortal?” Thor narrowed his eyes. “Darcy is your wife, Loki – and my dearest sister. You would know better than to speak of her so callously.”
“Not for much longer, I believe.” Loki poured himself a glass of wine from the decanter on a nearby table, humming appreciatively after a taste. “It has been nearly three years since my hand-fasting to the Midgardian, with no child to show for it. I have done my duty, Thor; it is she who cannot fulfill hers.”
Thor had heard the rumors; at first it was only the court ladies who whispered of the barrenness and infertility of Loki’s new mortal wife, but soon tales of Loki’s visits to old mistresses and concubines surfaced. It hurt Thor to see his lightning-sister endure the cruelty of Asgard’s gossip-mill, and to see the fire in her eyes dim more and more each day.
“You truly do not care for her?” Thor stared at his brother incredulously. “… the hand-holding, the kisses… those times I stumbled upon you both in the midst of coupling – were those real or more of your tricks?”
“Simple lies, Thor,” Loki said derisively, smirking over the rim of his glass. “Although I do admit, she is a better actress than I thought she’d be.”
They stood in silence as Loki moved lazily though his study, before Thor said softly, “You know as well as I that she is not pretending, Loki. I know you can sense it.”
Loki froze for a split moment, quick enough to be unnoticed, but Thor knew he had been caught off guard.
“She was, perhaps at one time, infatuated with the idea of me,” Loki admitted slowly, something weighing down his voice that Thor couldn’t place, but his next words were spoken with clear indifference. “However, she has since moved on to other conquests. I will be glad to be rid of her.”
“You may lie to yourself as you wish, but know that you are only denying what everyone else can see so clearly.” When there was no reply to his goading, Thor sighed, taking the scroll from where Loki had placed it on the side table and turned away.
“She loves you deeply, brother.” Thor paused near the doorway, looking back and waiting until Loki met his eyes, knowing that the both of them could hear the undercurrent of envy and sorrow in his tone. “Fiercely, and with her entire being. You are lucky to be the one she holds in her heart.”
With a sad smile, Thor strode out of the room purposefully, and Loki scoffed lightly as he turned back to his books, ignoring the seed of doubt that seemed to be sprout in his chest.
“You know the worst thing about art forgery? You can’t take credit for your work.” || art forger + grifter au
She’s the con-woman always on the run. He’s the detective tasked with taking her down. It’s about the thrill of the game, running circles around each other, but getting attached was never part of the plan.
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“Clever,” he murmured, fingers running over the invisible, sweeping initials D. L. hidden in the brushwork of the painting. Stepping back and studying the piece in its entirety, he couldn’t help but admit it was a brilliant, nearly impeccable replica of the original. “But still a fake.”
There was a slight huff far to his right, easily missed if he hadn’t been listening for it, and when he heard the soft footsteps trailing away, he quickly followed.
He pursued the thief up the emergency stair, slipping through the roof door with his gun cocked only to see the woman standing at the edge of the building, facing him with a hand on her hip.
“You waited for me? I’m touched,” he said, the words nearly lost in the London wind.
“I wanted to see who they sent this time.” She smiled slowly, the sensual quirk of her lips making something in his stomach lurch. “I have to say, you’re definitely a step up from the last guy, Mr. Odinson.”
“Only a step?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. He couldn’t stop his response to her easy, sultry charm, and her throaty laugh brought a smile to his face.
“You’re funny.” She cocked her head, shamelessly appraising him before dragging her eyes again up to meet his. “Have you come to lock me up, de-tec-tive?” She drew out the syllables with half-lidded eyes filled with promise.
“It would be my utmost pleasure,” he smirked at the lilting, coquettish tone of her voice, “but somehow, I doubt you’ll let me catch you.”
“And ain’t that a pity,” she remarked with a sigh, slinging the art storage tube across her body and taking a quick step back. The movement made him tense, and she quipped, “If I didn’t have this lovely Mondrian to reframe, I would’ve let you.”
“Seems like you don’t really have anywhere to go,” he said softly, approaching her slowly, putting the safety back on his gun and taking the handcuffs out of his coat pocket.
“Kinky,” she remarked, and the movement of her hands drew his attention to the harness she was wearing, “but maybe next time, gorgeous.”
She threw him a wink as he began sprinting towards her, and just as he was about to reach her she flipped smoothly over the railing and over the edge, his outstretched hands catching nothing but a whisper of smooth, silken hair against his skin.
A quick glance over the edge saw her rappelling down the facade of the Tate Modern, and he couldn’t help but chuckle when the woman gave him a cheeky wave upon reaching the ground.
“Darcy Lewis,” he breathed, equal parts frustrated and admiring, as she mounted a sleek motorcycle and disappeared down Hopton Street, engine purring. “… interesting.”
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