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Chapter Text

Loki is not allowed to leave the circular dungeon, with its single bed and water pipe and drain in the floor and high, solitary, unreachable window in the wall (he knows this, this tiny gesture, is one Odin is aware causes Loki the most pain; to dangle before him the freedom that he can never have). This is the first rule that was enforced.

 

He is also not allowed to speak (or make any noise at all; they’ve sewn his mouth shut again and Loki tastes the blood on his tongue long after it’s washed away) and his magic has been bound by the braided rope twined around one ankle like a terrible bracelet (it’s made from a unicorn’s tail and dragon’s heartstring, woven with runes, among other things; Loki wonders how long Odin has planned this, for the last dragon to have lived was a millennia ago and it takes centuries more before a hatchling is old enough to be slain). It is not strong enough to prevent him from healing himself after his ‘sessions’, but enough that he is unable to fight anything larger than a raven.

 

In the dungeon, he is always alone (except when he is not, when Odin throws in another monster) and never busy. Odin has had his armour taken away from him (Loki has been told that they have been melted down; made into trinkets that decorate Odin’s throne room) and Loki is brought only a loose, peach-coloured shift that serves as little more than a sheet to cover himself with.

 

The shift is perhaps the most humiliating thing about his situation (never mind that his punishment itself is enough humiliation to last ten Asgardian lifetimes); it serves as a reminder of how low he has fallen for Loki knows clothing like these are worn only by servants of the lowest births. The guards are not allowed to see him, but their eyes wander (as eyes were wont to do in Asgard) every time they are ordered to open the door and make way for another beast and Loki knows there is equal measures lust and contempt in them. He fails to not feel vulnerable, each time he is met with this, though he hides it well.

 

Thirty moons since the day that Thor had dragged him back from Midgard (and twice that number of beasts which Odin has had Loki lay with) later, Loki is faced with a Jötun.

 

It is a shock that leaves him breathless (for why would Odin wish for a Jötun child?) until the Jötun (so much bigger than Loki remembers them being) snarls at him and sends him flying across the dungeon with a backhand.

 

Loki hits the wall hard enough to shatter his elbow, and lands in a painful heap on the stone ground. Before he recovers, the Jötun strides to him (it takes only two steps to cross the room; the idle observation serves only to drive the knowledge of its size deeper into Loki’s terrified mind) and carelessly grips his hair to pull him to his feet.

 

Loki would beg (he is beyond shame now) had he the voice, but as it was, he could only flinch and stare up at his chosen mate (for the night; always only for one night) pleadingly. The Jötun is not blind to Loki’s pleas for he throws his head back to release a loud, barking laugh.

 

“Do you recognize me, brother mine?” sneers the Jötun, pulling Loki higher and bringing the smaller being closer to his face.

 

Loki does not, in fact. But he knows. Laufey had had three sons; one had been blinded during the war, and another, well… The last was the youngest and Loki had heard of him, had probably even bypassed him in Laufey’s icy halls when he’d snuck in to speak to the Jötun King.

 

Býleistr, he wants to say, but he cannot.

 

The Jötun (his younger brother) smirks when he sees the realization in Loki’s eyes and throws the Trickster to the ground. Loki nearly cries out when his injured elbow is slammed against the ground, but he chokes back the sound in time (he doesn’t need to aggravate the threads in his skin; it is much more painful to heal than any broken bone or torn flesh, such was the curse of enchanted punishments).  When Loki looks back at him, Býleistr is removing his loincloth, his manhood standing tall and hard as the stalagmites that litter the lands of Jötunheimr.

 

It is bigger than a normal Asgardian’s but nowhere near as large as some monsters that Loki has been forced with already. Somehow, this does not make it easier to bear.

 

Loki does not struggle as Býleistr moves towards him, simply closes his eyes and bites down on his tongue (once, with a demon from Múspellsheimr with burning skin and scalding cock, the pain had been too great and Loki had screamed; the threads sealing his lips had ripped clean through and magically re-sewed themselves immediately after, only to rip again and re-sew again when Loki could not stop screaming), ready to swallow any pain to come.

 

Loki’s legs are spread, Býleistr’s massive, calloused hands rough (and cold, oh so cold) against his skin, and Loki feels his younger brother’s head pressing immediately against his tiny entrance. Býleistr leans close over Loki, one hand gripping tightly at a narrow hip, the other pinning one of the Trickster’s wrists over his head unnecessarily, and blows cold breaths against his cheek.

 

“You must wonder why Odin has allowed me this… privilege,” the Jötun murmurs, deceptively gentle. Loki opens his eyes to stare.

 

Býleistr’s mouth stretches into a cold smile when he says, “You took our King, brother, and fanned the flames of war. Odin saw it fit that it be you to birth us a new Prince. As a show of good faith, of course.”

 

Loki’s eyes widen at the words, but he is distracted soon after by the tearing pain of Býleistr breaching him. His brother is not gentle, but Loki notes, subconsciously, that he is also not unnecessarily violent. His thrusts are steady and sure, with only the purpose of release in mind. Loki is quietly grateful Býleistr does not force him to enjoy this.

 

It does not take long for his brother’s seed to spill within him but Býleistr does not pull out immediately afterwards. Loki is breathing heavily through his nose, cheeks red from the strain of holding in his cries. He does not understand why Býleistr is still seated within him (though he is smaller now, he is still large enough to snugly fit within Loki) and it is uncomfortable and foreign. But Loki dares not move.

 

When Býleistr finally pulls out, Loki is waiting to begin healing the shatter of his elbow. He does not rise from the floor, but lies on his back, eyes locking automatically upon the lone, small window on the wall. He sees a sliver of the dark sky outside and the ache to see more of it is too familiar by now.

 

Býleistr moves to block his view and Loki starts when the large Jötun bends down to lift him by the waist. The handling jars the pain in his lower regions, but Loki squirms minimally as he is carried over his brother’s shoulder and deposited on his small cot.

 

“If the next child to take root within your womb is mine, know this, Loki,” Býleistr says casually as he leaves a stunned Loki sprawled over the cot, to retrieve his loincloth. The Jötun turns to smile coldly again. “I will have it grow to become the monster that you so hate within yourself and have it kill you.”

 

With that, he leaves, crossing the room in only two steps again and pounding upon the cell door. It opens immediately, as if waiting for his signal all along and Loki does not even care that the guards are slow to shut it close again, their eyes growing bolder each passing day.

 

The moment he knows the door is closed firmly, Loki stumbles towards the pipe in the cell, lifting his shift over his head. He turns his back on it and blindly reaches down inside himself, ignoring the pain his fingers elicit from his swollen channel. Býleistr’s seed is plenty and it takes him a while to purge it all (he understands now, with dull horror, why Býleistr had stayed within him long after he’d spilled). When he is finally sure that none is left inside him, Loki slumps to the ground, leaning against the wall in exhaustion and pain. The pipe is still flowing, but Loki doesn’t care that he is wet and naked. The cold should be biting, but he finds it more a comfort than anything else.

 

He wakes the next morning still on the floor, but Odin is in the cell with him. The Allfather’s single eye is unreadable as he watches him, but Loki is too tired to care anymore.

 

Loki is given a new, clean shift to wear for the day, and Odin is silent as he unravels Loki’s threads. Loki, too, says nothing as he is fed, not even a whimper of pain, though the juices of the apple he eats sting his wounds (this is the only way left that he can fight against the Allfather, petty as it is). Odin leaves when he is done and the threads weave his mouth shut with invisible hands.

 

Loki bites harder on his tongue this day when a large serpent is led into his cell later on.

 

Chapter Text

Loki’s belly only begins to swell another sixty moons after Býleistr’s visit (which bends Loki with immense relief, but also dread for he knows not which monster’s child has taken root instead).

 

Odin stops throwing beasts into his dungeon during this time, but he also stops coming to feed Loki himself and though the Trickster still hates him so, he is a much better jailor than the leering Asgardian guards. They no longer merely stare and look, for now they have an excuse to linger and touch.

 

Loki’s skin crawls when they take his shift and force another over his head, every morn, and it burns him, to be unable to refuse them when he is groped on the pretense of ensuring his wellbeing. Some days, he is forced to kneel before they allow him to eat, and other times, they will force themselves in his dry mouth and spill before he can have food pass his lips (he can refuse, of course, but his child, monster though it may be, needs the sustenance and Loki has done far worse for far little).

 

The first time, he had immediately retched, soiling the floor and half the guards’ boots. It very nearly ends in them beating him but Odin wants his children alive and the guards know the Allfather would not be kind in punishment were the first child to die by the guards’ hands (Odin may or may not know of what it is they do to Loki; Loki is not sure, does not want to be sure).

 

Instead, they play with him until he is crying from the pleasure and Loki is careful to not displease them again in the future (he would rather bite his own tongue out, than to let them have this part of him again).

 

It takes the child within him very little time to grow and within a few dozen more moons, Loki is on the floor, writhing in pain.

 

He is alone as he tries to force the child out, nails digging into the skin of his palms as he struggles to push, to breathe, to not scream aloud. The child is certainly a monster, for Loki feels its size, not just sees it, senses the foreign shape that is trying to escape from inside him. It is nothing like when he had birthed Fenrir (for his wolf-son had been small, before he grew to be too big) or Jörmungandr, and Loki is utterly unprepared for this tearing pain, unable to wield enough magic to assist him.

 

It takes hours before the child is completely out of him and Loki is exhausted, covered in sweat and blood and fluids. The child is a boy, a scaly lizard of a beast that is half the size of Loki. He had scraped his mother’s insides raw with the dull (though they will sharpen, Loki knows Odin will ensure this) bone claws which protrude from his forearms and the rough texture of its brilliant green scales. He does not cry, or open his eyes, and for a short, dreadful moment, Loki fears he is dead.

 

But then the boy moves and Loki weeps, clinging to him tightly (he is still unsure of the child’s father, but he faintly recalls a Dwarven beast with six eyes and the build of a giant tortoise).

 

He names it Hljódr (in the privacy of his mind) and he cradles him until Odin comes for him, humming under his breath and tracing the lines of his son’s (his beautiful, beautiful child) face. When Hljódr’s eyes blink open (they are golden, his eyes, bright as the shine of Asgard’s suns) and stare up at him, Loki smiles, despite the pain from the threads.

 

When Odin takes Hljódr away, Loki does not fight. It hurts, of course, when Hljódr is torn from his arms, but Loki knows he, at least, will not be locked away (not like Loki, like Hljódr’s other brothers), like a shameful secret to be buried.

 

This time (and every time in the future from now), Loki has birthed a warrior worthy of Asgard.

 

---

 

Loki bears three more children after Hljódr (a flaming serpent from Múspellsheimr, a thrice-horned ox from Nidavellir and a wolf-like, undead beast from a Jötun creature even Loki knows not the name of) and it is when he is recovering from his ox-child (Styrkr, he named him) that Thor comes thundering into his dungeon.

 

“What is the meaning of this?” demands the Prince, his voice trembling beneath the bellow.

 

Loki can only look up at him blankly from where he lays on his cot, too tired to muster even anger at Thor’s presence.

 

Thor’s blue eyes are misted over with unshed tears and they are stormy with anger and confusion beneath that. Loki knows all too well that combination of feelings within Thor, for he is often the hand that plants them there.

 

When Thor sees the threads that seal Loki’s silver tongue, he is horrified.

 

The Golden Prince of Asgard falls to his knees next to Loki on the bed and reaches out to touch him. His hand stills before they reach the Trickster and he clenches it instead, letting it fall to his lap.

 

“What has Father done to you, Brother?” he whispers hoarsely.

 

Loki wants to tell him that they aren’t brothers, but he has no strength left to even think it. Thor looks heartbroken and a small, tiny part of Loki (the part that has always loved Thor more than he ever loved himself) wants to curl up and die.

 

“Believe me, Loki, I knew not what Father had planned,” pleaded Thor, and Loki knows he speaks the truth (it does not lessen the hurt that it is Thor who has brought Loki to his Hel). “If I had known, I would never have brought you back.”

 

Loki hates him for this.

 

Because this, this foolish nobility that Thor effortlessly displays. This is what makes Loki want him dead (because this is what makes Loki want to forgive him, want to pull him close and beg for forgiveness himself, for who can do wrong to someone so good, even when they are so terrible to look at?). Loki hates that Thor can make him feel guilty even when Loki is right.

 

But Loki is tired and when Thor gathers the courage to touch his hand, Loki does not pull away. Thor is warm and strong, as Loki remembers, as Loki is not. His touch does not bring Loki happiness, but it grants the Trickster a small amount of security which he has not felt in a long time.

 

When Odin comes (as Odin always does), he is furious.

 

“Thor,” he bellows, but the Prince stands with his chin held high, equally angry and twice more defiant. “Loki is not allowed visitors; it is part of the punishment he deserves, as you very well know.”

 

Thor (still clutching Loki’s hand in one of his own, though the Trickster does not move a single muscle on the bed, not even to turn his head and watch the King fight with his first-born) does not back down.

 

“What you are doing is wrong, Father,” he argues. “Loki deserves punishment, not this.”

 

Odin is red in the face when he replies, “This is punishment, Thor. You know not what he deserves for you are blind to his evils. Loki must learn his lesson-”

 

“As I had on Midgard?” Thor cuts in quickly. “As I had learned as a mortal?”

 

“It is different,” Odin hissed. “Loki has killed many on Midgard, destroyed nearly half of Jötunheimr. His crimes far outweigh yours.”

 

“I was just as ready to crush Jötunheimr before!” roared Thor. “The only difference is that I failed, where Loki had succeeded! It does not justify using him as a- a- a breeding mule!”

 

“Enough!” Odin roars and Thor is too horrified by what he has said himself to defy that.

 

His hand tightens around Loki’s as Odin glares at him with his one eye.

 

“Leave, Thor,” orders the King, raising a hand when Thor looks about to protest. “I will speak of this with you later. I must attend to Loki, now.”

 

It is clear from the way he holds himself that Thor does not want to, but Thor glances at Loki and must see how tired he is, for he relents. He stares at him for a long time before he stomps out of the dungeon, not once looking back.

 

Once Thor is gone, Odin sets about Loki’s usual morning routine. He says nothing of Thor’s appearance and disapproval, but Loki feels the restrained anger in the Allfather’s steady hands.

 

He feels nothing when Odin sends another monster later the same day.

Chapter Text

Loki has lost all track of time that has passed when he is pregnant with his fourth monster spawn (Thor has not come to visit again and Loki has learned to ignore the stab of betrayal in this knowledge).

 

This one takes longer to fully form than the others (it is another serpent-child, though it does not burn like his previous one, the one he’d named Villieldr) and he is only half-swollen when the Warriors Three break down his prison’s door.

 

Their shock at his pregnant state is nowhere near his own at their appearance and there is a long moment of silence where no one speaks or move.

 

Then Volstagg grunts and everything moves too fast.

 

“Thor has Heimdall’s attention, but we do not know how long that will last,” the stout warrior says, moving close to Loki and pulling the bewildered Trickster to his feet. “We must make haste.”

 

Hogun’s face is grim as he nods, leaving the dungeon as Fandral flanks Loki’s other side. He pauses to look into Loki’s gaunt appearance and flinches.

 

“I have never believed the Allfather to make mistakes,” he says roughly. “But this time, I am inclined to feel differently.”

 

Loki does not know what is happening, but he does not struggle as they lead him out, mindful of his pregnant state. They move as quickly as they can, keeping silent as Hogun leads the way through the dark stone halls of Asgard’s underground prison. When they enter what Loki recognizes as the Palace’s lower floors, they are met with Sif, dark eyes blazing with anger and a maniacal glint Loki has only ever seen in his own eyes (and Thor’s once, when they had all gone to Jötunheimr and started all this madness).

 

She sneers when she sees Loki, but he suddenly understands. Her anger is not directed at him.

 

“I still do not forgive you for your crimes against Asgard and the mortal realm,” she says quietly. “But I cannot let this continue in good conscience.” Not when such a thing could just as easily be done to me, Loki hears her unspoken words.

 

And Loki wants to laugh. Of all people, he realizes, of course Sif would find his punishment most unfair. For who better than a woman could understand, to have your very nature be used against you? To be forced to carry children within you, and have them torn away from your arms?

 

Loki wants to laugh at the absurdity of the situation but the threads are still in place. They, the Warriors Three and the Lady Sif, are helping him to escape, from a punishment meted out by the Allfather himself, and Loki wants to laugh but he cannot.

 

Someone throws a cloak over his shoulders, and they carry on their journey, staying close to the shadows and away from guards. It seems like forever before they finally exit the Palace, heading in the direction of the stables.

 

Loki feels a centuries-old ache when he sees Sleipnir but the Warriors Three and Sif are quick to bundle him upon a waiting, non-descript horse. Fandral climbs behind him and coaxes the horse outside, waiting only for a moment to make sure the others are close behind before galloping towards the fields that make up the Palace’s backyard.

 

Loki knows there is nothing but wilderness beyond that but he does not care. He is away from the dungeon, from the beasts Odin would have him lay with, and it is enough to fill him with the barest hints of happiness.

 

They ride for a night and half the next day, and stop at the base of a mountain Loki knows Thor had once been determined to climb, back when they were much younger, to prove his worth as a warrior. They do not set up camp, but simply waited.

 

No one speaks (Loki because he cannot, the others because they dare not) and it is a tensed, awkward scene that Thor finds when he arrives.

 

“Brother,” he breathes in relief once he sees Loki, huddled in the cloak he had been given. The blonde does not hesitate to engulf him in a tight hug and Loki needs to press his chest in warning so that Thor does not inadvertently crush his unborn child.

 

He looks shocked when he sees Loki’s swollen belly and his eyes immediately darken. “I was too late,” he says morosely.

 

Loki feels the urge to correct him (he had been too late a long, long time ago already) but it is too much effort and so he simply turns his face away. He takes a hold of Thor’s hand and writes into the firm palm.

 

“What now?” the blonde reads slowly and once the question registers, he squares his shoulders. “Now, I find a way to bring you to Midgard.”

 

Loki hesitates before he writes another question. This one brings a pained but determined expression on Thor’s face.

 

“Father fell into Odinsleep yesterday eve,” he said gruffly. “I confess that I have been waiting impatiently for this. Even if Heimdall were to see us now, there is no one to stop me.”

Thor grabs a hold of Loki’s shoulders, gently, and looks into his eyes.

 

“There is no realm you can run to that will not turn you away for fear of Father’s wrath, save for Midgard,” he says quickly, eyes beseeching. “It is under my protection and Father will have no rights to you once you touch its soil, this I swear. But you must promise me one thing, Loki.”

 

Loki knows what Thor will ask of him before Thor has even thought to say it, but he waits patiently, anyway.

 

“Promise me, on your silver tongue and the darkness of your sorcery, promise that you will do no harm when you are there,” Thor pleads.

 

Loki wants to say I never meant them any harm, wants to say I made a mistake, before. But though the words are true, no one will believe him, not even Thor. So instead, he nods. Slowly and hesitantly, for Thor will never believe it for the sincere gesture that it is, otherwise.

 

Thor breathes a sigh of relief and embraces Loki once more. When he lets go, his eyes are suspiciously shiny, though his voice is steady when he addresses the others.

 

“Friends,” he says grandly, “I cannot thank you enough for your aid, though I know you have risked much in doing so.”

 

“You know we would travel to the deepest parts of Niflheimr for you, Thor,” Fandral says grinning.

 

Sif is grim when she says, “You could not expect I to stand by such a method of punishment, either, not after telling me.”

 

Everyone’s eyes fall to Loki’s belly at her words, almost instinctively, but they look quickly away again. It seems to dampen the mood severely, but Thor just looks more determined than ever.

 

“Now, to get my brother to Midgard,” starts the blonde.

 

“The Bifrost is still damaged and even if it were not, Heimdall would never let us pass, even if you are King while the Allfather Sleeps,” Hogun says quietly.

 

Volstagg nods, “We must find another path to Midgard, then.”

 

“One that not many would know, preferably,” adds Fandral. He turns to Loki. “I seem to recall that you know of many such paths, nay?”

 

Loki lets out a sigh through his nose and pulls away the cloak to push out his bare right foot. The rope about his ankle very nearly gleams in the sunlight.

 

“What is that?” frowns Fandral, as Hogun moves to kneel and inspect the binding closer.

 

“It is magical,” he says, pulling at the rope with one finger. “I assume this is dampening Loki’s magic, and Loki would need it to find the pathways between the realms?” He looks up at Loki for confirmation and the Trickster nods.

 

Thor moves close to kneel next to him and touches the rope himself. He tugs on it experimentally and gasps when the braid falls apart between his fingers. Loki’s eyes close as he feels his magic flow back into him in full form, when Yggdrasil’s call echoes once more in his ears. He can feel now, more properly, the child that is slowly taking shape within him and for the first time since his entire ordeal, he feels a sense of confidence that this next birth will not be as painful as the others before.

 

When he opens his eyes, he sees Thor and the others staring at him intently.

 

“Can you-?” starts Fandral.

 

Loki turns and makes a smooth, fluid motion with one hand and in an instant, a green trail is visible to them (alone, he doesn’t need to do this; alone, he can see the paths without seeing them). There is a collective gasp among them and Loki feels a tiny spark of pride from being able to do something none of them can even imagine.

 

“This path leads to Midgard?” Thor asks and Loki nods once without looking back at him.

 

Hogun has already scuttled forward to have a closer look at the trail and Loki is half-tempted to banish it again, if only to see the look on his stoic face. He is too tired to face whatever consequences any of his tricks will wrought now, though, so he looks away to distract himself. Thor is speaking lowly with Fandral, while Volstagg and Sif are rearranging the saddles upon their horses.

 

Everything seems so surreal at that moment that Loki truly wished he could have laughed. Here he was, escaping from Asgard, from Odin’s punishment, with the help of Thor and his friends, people Loki has tried to sincerely kill in the past, and all of them acted as if they did this sort of nonsense every day.

 

(and this is why, this is why Loki loves Thor, again; why Loki must kill Thor one day)

 

Loki is pulled from his thoughts by Thor placing a hand around his elbow, gently guiding him to one of the horses.

 

“We must move, now,” he says.  “I do not wish to tempt the Norns.”

 

Loki stops suddenly when they are nearly right next to the horse and Thor shoots him a questioning look. Loki does not want to appear any more weak than he already has in front of them, but he must know.

 

The question he traces on Thor’s palm this time trembles with uncertainty and unspoken anguish.

 

“Others?” Thor echoes in confusion. “Who else, Loki?”

 

Loki’s eyes narrow and the next words he traces are just as well scratched into Thor’s skin.

 

“You- You have had other children, besides this one which you are carrying now?” Thor gasps.

 

Loki nods viciously and tugs on Thor’s arm. He traces frantically, words for monsters and Odin and warriors.

 

Thor’s eyes seem to lighten in realization as Loki draws more words, and suddenly, he pulls his hand away and takes a step back, looking at Loki as though he has never seen him before.

 

“Loki, what you are saying…,” he gasps. He looks horrified. “This is madness!”

 

Loki understands the disgust; he knows that his children are beasts in the eyes of Asgard. But Thor’s reaction stings in ways he cannot explain and he turns to glare at the ground, tears prickling out of the corners of his eyes. He feels the Prince’s hands grasp his arms but he refuses to look up.

 

“Loki, no, you misunderstand me!” says Thor. “I didn’t mean- You must believe me, I simply-,” The blonde lets out a growl of frustration and breathes in deeply before he says, calmly, “Loki. I do not know how to say this without causing you further pain, however…”

 

Thor’s voice breaks at the end of his sentence and it is that which makes Loki look up.

 

“Loki, your children are dead,” he says lowly, so soft that Loki can barely hear. “If your children are in the form of beasts, as you have said, then they are dead. I am sorry, brother.”

Chapter Text

Loki is numb as he rides, cradled close to Thor’s chest.

 

It is not the coldness of the barriers which divides one realm from another, and neither is it his own heritage which is the root of his state (or perhaps it truly was; if Loki were not a Jötun, would Odin not have loved him as his own? Would he not have been an equal to Thor from the moment he was conceived? Would Loki not have been given a different punishment, after all, had he not been a fertile runt of a Jötun Prince?).

 

No, Loki feels nothing for there is nothing left for him to feel.

 

“Father said the beasts came as tributes from the other realms.”

 

Loki had lost children before, of course (Sleipnir; Fenrisúlfr; Hela; Jörmungandr; Narfi, beautiful, perfect, normal Narfi, whose only crime was that he was Lokason). Odin takes them away every time and Loki never sees them again (Odin’s magic is weaker than Loki’s but it is old; Odin has made Loki forget and Loki cannot find his children if he cannot remember where they are, even when someone tells him).

 

But Hljódr, Villieldr, Styrkr, Valdyr. They had all been promised a life, an existence that did not require them to be kept in cages or mountains, away from people as if they were rabid monsters. Odin had said he would use them as soldiers, and Loki would never see them again. But Loki had accepted that. A soldier’s life was better than any life his other children had been granted. It still burns whenever he thinks of the sword that is skewered through Fenrir’s jaws, the abyss that had swallowed up Jörmungandr, in Midgard’s deepest oceans (but Hela, his darling daughter Hela, she was the only one Loki had come close enough to nearly save; he had not been able to retrieve her, but he had secured her a throne, in a realm Odin could not traverse).

 

“He offered the warriors a battle. Tyr was the first to accept; he nearly slew your serpent and she claimed his finger in kind.”

 

Entertainment; that was what they had become.

 

His children, all slain in the arena like a common beast, jeered at by all of Asgard. All those monsters he’d lain with, all that pain he’d suffered. It was for naught but Odin to make a show of him. Look at this, this ugly fiend which I have brought! Is it not fun to tease, mock, kill? Go ahead, do what you will; take this child of Loki!

 

Loki knows cruelty but he has underestimated Odin’s grasp of it.

 

“They lasted for many cycles of the moon, each of them. Your children were strong. None ever met the other, but the oxen lived long enough to fight aside your wolf-child. I should have seen it, then, for they fought like brothers, not mindless animals.

 

I am so sorry, Loki.”

 

Sorry, Thor was so very sorry.

 

Chapter Text

“We cannot come with you, Brother,” Thor says, face frowning with regret. “Asgard cannot be left without a King for too long and Mother will be suspicious of our absence, as well. I would prefer to keep the knowledge of your disappearance a secret for as long as possible, to give you time to recuperate.”

 

Loki nods to show he is listening, but in reality, he is not. Not really. He is still reeling from the news of his children’s demise and beneath the apathy, he can feel an irrational sense of growing resentment for Thor (why had his so-called brother not saved them? They were his children, Thor’s very niece and nephews! Had he himself not insisted that though they shared no blood, they were still brothers?). He knows, deep down, it is not Thor’s fault (though Thor had given him to Odin, hadn’t he?), but Loki needs time; time to think, to sleep without fear of being mounted, to re-acquaint himself with his sorely-missed magic.

 

 Loki needs time alone and what Thor sees as unfortunate news is Loki’s silver lining.

 

He is uncertain of how many he can bring with him through the veils on the pathways, anyway, and in his malnourished state, he is glad to not have to try. So Loki allows Thor one last embrace, allows the Warriors Three and Sif to clasp his arm in goodbye (though he itches to leave and never return).

 

When he climbs back onto his horse, alone this time, he looks down at Thor. The Prince is close to weeping, Loki can see, but he forces a smile to hide it (futile as it is, for Thor has never been as good a liar as his brother). Loki does not smile back (not because he cannot), but he finds enough kindness in himself to reach out and brush away a stray lock of hair from Thor’s face.

 

Miraculously, Thor understands the gesture for what it is (a goodbye, a mercy, a surrender, a singular symbol of a love Loki had never shown because it was never enough, not even for Thor, much as he claimed to care) for his smile crumbles and his tears fall freely from eyes burdened with grief.

 

His name is a broken, ugly sound escaping Thor’s lips when Loki turns and guides his mount towards the veil to Midgard.

 

---

 

Veil-crossing has never been as smooth as transport through the Bifrost, and Loki retches as he drops from his mount to the ground. His mind is dizzy with vertigo and it takes him an uncomfortably long moment to reorient himself.

 

When he rises, he sees that he has landed somewhere in the middle of a forest, though a part of Midgard which he is unfamiliar with. It is night time and the only light he is granted is that from the stars, but Loki has always been a friend to darkness and he easily finds a dirt path that seems to be frequently used.

 

He hopes, in his mind, that he stumbles upon no mortals (not just because he has no love lost for them but also because he cannot afford to waste energy on glamour spells, not when that energy is better used on ascertaining his child’s well-being) and for once, the Norns smile upon him for he encounters no other life but the wilds by the time he reaches a nearby stream.

 

The water is clear, and it cools his parched throat as he trickles it between the threads. After his mount has taken its own fill, Loki carries on, following along the stream where he can sense the presence of animals suitable for hunting (he dreads the pain he will have to endure for feeding, but his child needs it, needs the sustenance that Loki cannot provide with simply magic).

 

The doe he encounters is young, but heavy with meat and it is a simple affair to enchant it enough that it does not run away from him. He slits its throat quickly and builds a small fire. Loki does not bother to bind his mount to a tree (it is intelligent enough to not run from its master) and leaves it to find its own rest as he slowly drags a fallen log with his magic to settle before the flames he has conjured.

 

He skins the doe methodically near the stream, letting the blood seep out and cutting out its innards. The bones are hard to break for a mere mortal, but Loki snaps them like twigs (the bones of a Bilgesnipe is far more challenging) and once he has severed the doe into parts, he washes the bloodstains still clinging to the meats and brings it all back to the fire.

 

There is nothing to distract him as he waits for the meats to cook and his thoughts return, overdue, to his (dead) children.

 

He thinks of Hljódr, his firstborn in that terrible dungeon, of his golden eyes and strong form. He thinks of how he could’ve grown, to live up to his greatness as a fearsome warrior. He thinks of Styrkr, Hljódr’s younger brother, the oxen-child with his blunted, barely-visible horns that nearly tore Loki in half during birth. Loki imagines the strength in those horns when Styrkr had fought alongside Valdyr, had protected the younger brother he’d never met, but knew from sense and smell that he was kin.

 

Loki finally allows himself to weep when his thoughts turn to his beautiful, burning Villieldr, the bright flame of his hope for his children. He had barely survived her birth, but the moment he had seen the reds of her pupils blinking up at him, he had been filled with love. She had been the hardest child to carry (like her namesake, she smoldered, burning him alive from inside his womb; the constant healing with his miniscule amount of magic was terrible) but it had been worth it, just to see her look at him. The thought of Tyr, the very Áss that had sealed Fenrir’s fate centuries before, touching her and bringing harm to her…

 

Loki wishes he could have seen them all fight with his own eyes, wishes he could have been there to save them himself.

 

He wishes he had not been so naïve, still, to believe Odin would not harm them this time.

 

Loki ends up eating less than a quarter of the meats he has cooked (his musings had chased away his appetite and the pain of the threads is less than encouraging) and strings the rest of the raw pieces over a thin, low-hanging branch, enchanting them so their smell would not attract other predators. He transforms a stone in the ground into a pillow and lies on the hard forest floor, wrapping himself in the cape he had been given by the Warriors Three.

 

In his dungeon on Asgard, the walls had been enchanted so that no dreams could enter his slumber, whether good or frightful (Loki does not know if it had been a mercy on the Allfather’s part, or merely an act of efficiency to avoid him being fatigued by things other than breeding; he knows either answer will unsettle him greatly).

 

This will be his first night unprotected from such dreams and Loki hopes, as he stares up at unfamiliar stars, that his first rest in freedom will not be burdened by nightmares.

 

Chapter Text

The beast was hideous, over ten feet tall with a glutinous-looking torso that stretched nearly twice its height across the dungeon. Its skin shone a sickly purple hue and from underneath it, thirteen vicious tendrils stemmed and hovered above the ground all around it. Each tendril had a rounded point with a slit that oozed a thick liquid; it smelled sickeningly sweet and Loki had to fight not to gag, lest he choke on his own bile.

 

The Trickster instinctively sidestepped one of them as it moved to encircle his waist. He was unprepared when another caught him from the opposite direction, three more twirling around his ankles and spreading his legs apart easily, despite his squirming.

 

He knew it was pointless to struggle, but Loki couldn’t stop himself from fighting the beast’s unforgiving grip, whining in the back of his throat when he felt something wet poking against his entrance. He tried punching the thing’s tentacles wherever he could reach, but its skin merely rippled under his weak assault.

 

His wrists were caught soon enough in two more of the beast’s ‘hands’ and stretched firmly above his head, making Loki feel impossibly more vulnerable. He was trembling as another tentacle pressed against his entrance alongside the first and without warning, both pushed into him together, stretching him beyond his natural capacity.

 

Loki’s back arched tautly in pain and his eyes widened with shock as he stared up at the ceiling, feeling the prickle of tears in the corners of his eyes. He would have screamed if he could, but he stopped himself in time (because the pain from the threads would outlast any the creature could cause him at that point).

 

After what felt like an eternity, the beast finally moved inside of him, and Loki whined again as he felt the two tendrils scrape against his inner walls, spreading the leaking liquid deeper into him.

 

It was a ridiculous notion, but Loki imagined he could taste the disgusting substance creeping into his womb and infecting him with the beast’s essence.

 

He clenched his jaw and fists against the assault and tried to ignore the blood trickling down from his torn entrance, tried imagining he was anywhere but there, anywhere but where the pain was. He was nearly successful in blocking out the whole session when he felt something wet grazing his inner thigh, eyes snapping down quickly to see one of the beast’s appendages stroking him there gently in a manner that greatly unnerved him.

 

Loki watched with growing horror as the tentacle slowly moved further up his body, caressing his stomach under his shift and leaving a trail of gooey liquid everywhere as it curled up and around his neck. The Trickster turned his head away when it tried to cup his cheek, but his defiance did nothing to discourage the beast as it simply wrapped the whole tentacle around his head and chin, resting the tip near a corner of Loki’s stitched lips.

 

Meanwhile, the thrusts of the two tendrils inside him hadn’t faltered in the slightest. If anything, the beast had managed to find a steady rhythm that suited it greatly as Loki heard a low growling noise coming from its torso. Another tentacle inched towards Loki’s lower regions and for a moment, he feared it would join the other two. Instead, it stopped at Loki’s groin and fondled his flaccid manhood, encircling it in wetness and curling around his balls.

 

Loki shuddered at the touches and bucked his hips in an effort to make it let go, but his actions only made the tentacles still inside him sink deeper with every drive.

 

The smell of blood and the creature’s secretions was beginning to make Loki light-headed and he soon became limp in the beast’s hold. He just wanted it to be over.

 

A long, agonizing stretch of hour later, the creature stilled inside him, its grip on him tightening a fraction. Loki inhaled loudly through his nose as he felt a heavy amount of thickness filling him before he was abruptly released and dropped onto the cold ground.

 

His entrance throbbed in pain as the creature’s seed stung the parts of him that were torn and Loki curled onto his side, wiping half-heartedly at the drying substance from the creature that still painted his chin and neck.

 

He felt so full, shuddering when every movement he made unsettled the beast’s seed inside him.

 

Loki almost sobbed out loud when, not even half a turn of the hourglass later, a giant stag with enormous horns and blazing, demonic red eyes sauntered in, its giant erection hard and ready.

 

---

 

Loki wakes with a jerk, his whole body rigid with tension.

 

Something licks the side of his face and Loki startles before realizing it is just his mount, trying to offer what meagre comfort it could. Loki pats its head gently in appreciation and sits up, eyes narrowing from the brightness of the afternoon sun. He sighs internally when he remembers that he is still in the middle of an unknown forest on Midgard, with nowhere to go and no one to turn to for aid.

 

He decides, as he fastens the cloak around him securely, that he will stay in the forest for a while yet, perhaps even find shelter in an empty cave if he can find one (the less contact he has with the general populace, the easier it will be to keep his promise to Thor; Loki has always lived in hermitage when he had carried and birthed children before, anyway).

 

Later, Loki will blame everything on account of him not being at his physical best. Later, Loki will tell Thor that Loki hadn’t started it, so Loki had not broken his oath to his brother. Later, Loki will be more cautious of his surroundings and never allow himself to be caught off-guard again.

 

But now, Loki is startled by an unexpected blast off energy aimed in his direction and it is only reflex that saves his child’s life when Loki sidesteps to avoid it, only to have his mount be hit squarely in its middle.

 

The horse whinnies in pain and is thrown against a tree, landing motionlessly on the forest floor. Loki stares at it with wide eyes before turning to glare at whoever had attacked them. The Trickster hears him first before he sees the familiar red iron suit.

 

“Aren’t you supposed to be in prison on another planet?” enquires the buffoon, landing nearby.

 

Loki answers by throwing a conjured dagger at the Ironman, which the mortal easily deflects. The Trickster, however, is quick to redirect its trajectory so that it cuts cleanly through a tree behind the mortal. It breaks in half and falls towards Stark, and the idiot curses before jumping out of the way, landing nearer to Loki.

 

“Hey, hey!” he says defensively, “You know how long it takes to grow one of these things? This is why we have global warming!”

 

Loki ignores the words (they make no sense to him, anyway) and throws another dagger at him, using his momentary distraction of swiping the dagger away to move in closer and press a hand flat against the iron suit’s chest. Loki watches with silent smugness as it shuts down, lights dimming as the energy which powers it flows into Loki’s hand.

 

“What the fuck?” he hears Stark say, sounding close to panic.

 

Before Loki can finish draining the suit entirely, Stark manages to regain control of one arm and swings it at Loki blindly, hitting the Trickster in the side and pushing him a few feet away. Loki nearly falls to the ground but quickly finds his footing again, glaring at the Ironman.

 

“No tag-backs,” Stark says, his suit lighting back up again, and flies backwards to a safer distance away.

 

Loki does not follow. He senses the mortal he had taken control of, the one with sharp eyes and deadly instincts, behind him, drawing an arrow into his metal bow. Loki catches it just as he had before and that is where he makes his mistake.

 

He does not expect Captain America to come barrelling into him from his left, seeming to have melted right out of the trees. The impact alarms Loki (his child), but he has no time to move, no time to stop their fall into the ground, where the mortal presses Loki into the dirt. Loki curls an arm around his belly reflexively, the other still clutching Barton’s arrow.

 

Rogers straddles him and presses an arm against his throat, shouting over his shoulder, “The cuffs!”

 

Loki, struggling, stills at the threat of his magic once again being sealed away, beyond his access. Thoughts of being helpless again, of being at the mercy of those who would happily watch him die, makes Loki lightheaded (and the shackles, they are so much worse than the torque Odin had put on him; while the torque had merely diminished his powers, these shackles would cut him off completely).

 

In pure panic, he tries to stab the Captain with Barton’s arrow, grazing the man’s cheek. Rogers pulls back in surprise and Loki takes the opportunity to squirm out from under him, holding the arrow, sharp point first, in front of him like a weapon as he scrambles backwards. His other arm is still wrapped around his belly.

 

Upon realizing that Loki’s little attack was not fatal, the Captain immediately starts after him, about to pounce. Halfway through his actions, though, he stops abruptly, eyes widening and mouth gaping.

 

“What-?” he stutters, staring at Loki. “What happened to your-?” Rogers doesn’t finish his sentence, but his hands move in stiff, aborted gestures in Loki’s general direction. His eyes, Loki realizes with a start, are fixed on Loki’s lips; his gruesome stitches.

 

Hawkeye appears at that moment, Asgardian cuffs in hand and face stormy with anger.

 

“Captain?” he says, voice sharp. He does not spare Loki even a glance.

 

Rogers jumps at the sound of the other man’s voice, turning to look at him.

 

“Hawkeye, his lips-,” Rogers says, voice pitching. “What, I mean, who would-?”

 

Barton frowns at the state of their beloved leader and finally deigns to look upon Loki, who is growing more and more confused at Rogers’ reaction himself as he tries to think of some way to escape the Avengers. He is further mystified when Barton’s expression, too, contorts into one of disbelief and muted horror.

 

“What the fuck,” Loki hears him mutter and the cuffs drop to the ground when his grip on it slackens.

 

Loki scowls at them both, though he is certain the severity of his expression is belied by the very noticeable trembling of his hand that still clutches Barton’s arrow in front of him. He is not afraid, per se, but he is concerned (about his freedom, his magic, the safety of his child) and the concern makes him weary, makes him not in complete control of his limbs (and how he hates that).

 

Stark suddenly lands next to them, then, and Loki’s breaths become heavier when he realizes that they have him cornered, the three of them standing in a semi-circle around him while he is on the ground, outnumbered and not at his strongest.

 

“Guys, we have a serious problem,” Stark announces, the face plate of his iron helmet disappearing to show his face frowning deeply.

 

“No shit, Sherlock,” Barton shoots back venomously, looking away from Loki to glare at the Ironman. Loki feels the apprehension roiling off of him in waves, senses the way the mortal is torn about what he has just discovered, but Loki does not understand why.

 

Stark shakes his head, glancing at Loki before turning to Rogers.

 

“No, I mean, like, a serious problem,” he insists. “A serious problem that means we can’t arrest Loki.”

 

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Barton replies dubiously, though he seems to relax slightly.

 

“I would,” Stark replies quickly. “I totally would go that far, probably even further. Hell, I’d run back to the desert and never come back.”

 

“What are you talking about Tony?” Rogers interrupts, looking half-relieved that he does not have to look at Loki and half like he doesn’t understand what is happening at all (Loki can relate to the latter, at least).

 

“You aren’t going to believe it,” Stark warns.

 

Rogers glances at Loki’s lips again before quickly turning back to Stark. “Just tell us.”

 

“Loki’s got a bun in the oven.”

 

Chapter Text

“Sir, I’d suggest you stay away from his hands,” JARVIS says as Tony scrambles to maintain airborne status with less than a quarter of energy levels left in the suit.

 

Tony rolls his eyes while simultaneously scanning the suit’s readings. “Yeah, no shit. Thanks for the warning, by the way.”

“Transference of energy sources was not a part of Loki’s SHIELD resume,” JARVIS replies swiftly before adding, “I suggest you also stay away from his abdominal areas.”

 

Tony’s stubbornly ignoring him, looking around for signs of Hawkeye and Cap, when he hears JARVIS continue to say, “Unless you and the rest of the Avengers would like to become baby killers.”

 

That startles Tony enough that he stumbles in the air on nothing. “What. What did you say? What’s that supposed to mean?”

 

“It means, sir, that Loki is expecting,” JARVIS answers unhelpfully.

 

Tony freezes just like that, eyes staring at the readings without really seeing anything. It must be a joke, JARVIS can’t be serious, but he knows JARVIS doesn’t make jokes like that (his sense of humour is still pretty rusty, Tony’s been working on that for a while now) but really. It’s not at all possible.

 

Or is it?

 

It’s been nearly three years since Thor had brought Loki back to Asgard, three years of relatively nothing major happening on Earth. Three years worth of time that Tony had marginally used to look up Norse myths so he’d have at least a basic understanding of Thor and the rest of whoever could be coming down to Earth next time they got bored or daddy didn’t hug them often enough. Tony knows all sorts of shit now, shit he really wish he didn’t know after the first three nights.

 

One of these things is the fact that Loki has been recorded as having given birth to at least two of his mythological children. It doesn’t matter that the myths are just myths, the fact that Thor and Loki exists at all is proof enough that there’s some grain of truth in the stories Tony’s read.

 

(and it’s a sickening revelation, isn’t it, considering how Loki had been impregnated, considering he is apparently now pregnant again)

 

“JARVIS, scans,” Tony barks once he regains full cognitive responses.

 

Instantly, Loki’s scans come up before him, and Tony wants to cry or laugh, or something, because sure enough, there’re two heartbeat rates instead of one. There’s a small, abnormally shaped form in Loki’s belly, and Loki’s own readings show books worth of hormonal imbalances (and signs of the first stages of malnutrition, but that’s another story Tony’s sure he doesn’t want to know).

 

“God fucking damn it,” he declares.

 

When Tony finally spots Cap, he sees the Trickster on the ground, one arm wrapped around his abdomen tellingly and the other trembling as it points one of Hawkeye’s arrows in the direction of the two Avengers. His teammates are looking at each other with twisted features and Tony understands why when he touches ground next to them.

 

Tony hadn’t gotten a good look at his face before, but now he sees the skin of Loki’s mouth is stained with dried blood, streaking from evenly stitched threads woven in and out of the Trickster’s flesh (and Tony has to fight not to hurl in the suit, images of hands holding down the younger Prince so that Dwarves could sew his lips shut running rapidly through his mind like a twisted, mind-fuck film; sometimes Tony wishes he doesn’t have such an overactive imagination).

 

He manages to maintain his composure, because he’s Tony fucking Stark and he’s seen worse things before, he’s sure (no, he’s really not, he doesn’t think he has, and  he definitely does not wish to, at all), but he still can’t help the frown on his face as he speaks to Steve and Hawkeye.

 

“Guys, we have a serious problem.”

 

“No shit, Sherlock,” Hawkeye snaps, shooting him an agitated glare (Tony knows why, knows Barton hates seeing the SOB who’d taken over his mind, hates that despite that hatred, he still thinks Loki’s sewed mouth is something god-fucking awful; no one, not even someone who’s done what Loki’s done, deserves this and Tony almost feels sorry that he has to make Barton feel worse because the lips are not even the half of it and Tony can’t not tell them).

 

Tony shakes his head and he can’t help when his eyes drift over to Loki. He looks quickly away and tries to convey his news without actually saying it out loud by looking right at Steve in what he hopes is a pleading expression (it’s probably not, though; Tony’s never been good at begging, and he’s never had to be, never planned to ever be if he can help it). “No, I mean, like, a serious problem,” he insists. “A serious problem that means we can’t arrest Loki.”

 

Tony sees Hawkeye’s tensed shoulders relax ever so slightly and again, he’s struck by an alien twinge of guilt. Hawkeye wants any excuse not to have to take any part in Loki’s apprehension (he hadn’t even wanted to come, really, when Bruce had announced that the sudden burst of gamma signatures he’d detected in North America were all too familiar) because he’s tried so long to get over what the Trickster had done to him, done to his mind. And Tony’s gotta tell him something worse.

 

They can’t arrest Loki, not if it’s going to affect the baby (because JARVIS is right; the Avengers are not baby killers and the ensuing fight they’d get into when Loki resists, because how can Loki not resist, might put it in danger and Tony doesn’t want to risk that kind of blood on his iron-clad hands) but they can hardly leave him to run around freely.

 

Whatever the story behind Loki’s situation, he’s still murdered people (murdered Phil, Tony thinks and it makes him itch for a drink, all this thinking), still destroyed half of New York (and Stark Tower; that took months of repairs, longer than it took to rebuild Manhattan because Fury thought the building was of ‘less import’, the bastard, and Tony had to help with that first), which makes Loki a criminal in SHIELD’s (and everyone-else-on-Earth’s) books.

 

The baby complicates things.

 

They can’t arrest Loki but they need to bring him in.

 

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Hawkeye says, and Tony can tell it’s half-hearted. Clint doesn’t want to arrest Loki, Clint wants to arrest Loki. Tony doesn’t envy the man’s inner turmoil.

 

“I would,” Tony says quickly in reply instead. “I totally would go that far, probably even further. Hell, I’d run back to the desert and never come back.” And he really wants to, at this point, he’s really not entirely joking.

 

He wishes it were that easy.

 

Cap has that Look on his face that he makes whenever Tony does something he doesn’t understand and thinks is not entirely as normal as Tony tries to pass it off to be. “What are you talking about Tony?” he interrupts before Tony can keep rambling.

 

Tony internally curses the fact that he’s not really telepathic, despite his super genius (which, seriously, not fair; all super geniuses were supposed to have mental powers, damn it) and says warningly, “You aren’t going to believe it.”

 

Steve glances over at Loki briefly (and Tony pities him; he has the urge to do it again himself, and he’s not quite sure if it’s a masochistic urge or he just needs to keep verifying that this is all really happening) before giving Tony that Look again.

 

“Just tell us.”

 

Tony sighs internally and states, with a steady voice, “Loki’s got a bun in the oven.”

 

His words are met with a round of silence and Tony notices out of the corner of his eyes that even Loki has frozen over (Tony’s pretty sure he doesn’t know what Tony just said, though; did Asgard even have ovens, or they do, but they call it something else?).

 

Hawkeye’s the first one to break the silence, penetrating eyes glaring full-throttle at Tony.

 

“You’re fucking kidding, right?” he says flatly. When Tony just shrugs, Clint growls and punches a tree that is unfortunate enough to be behind him. “What the fuck. What the fuck,” he chants, before his eyes fix on Tony again. “I didn’t sign up for this,” he hisses. “I’m not- this is fucked up. It doesn’t even make sense.”

 

Tony shrugs again. Steve’s brows furrow and he asks, “Wait, what does that mean again?”

 

This time, Tony actually does sigh out loud. “Loki’s pregnant, Cap.”

 

Steve’s brows are still furrowed. “But that- I mean, I thought that’s what it meant, but Loki’s- Isn’t he a guy?” he stammers.

 

“As far as we know,” Tony confirms. “Unless everything’s backwards in Asgard and girls are ‘brothers’ and guys are ‘sisters’. Then again, Loki’s called Thor ‘brother’, too, and I don’t think Thor’s ever been pregnant before.”

 

Steve makes a strangled little noise in the back of his throat, eyes widened in disbelief.

 

“And no, this is definitely not a normal thing in 2012,” Tony adds, just in case.

 

Steve makes that noise again at that and Hawkeye glares at Tony, except this time it’s less the ‘I-hate-you-for-ruining-my-life-by-springing-fucked-up-shit-on-me’ type and more the ‘congrats-you-asshole-you-just-broke-our-fucking-leader’ type.

 

“Okay, fine,” Clint spits. “He’s fucking pregnant. So, what, we gonna let him loose on Earth so he can feed people’s blood to the baby when it’s born?”

 

Tony grimaces at the image and shakes his head, “No, we’re not. But we’re going to have to be careful. Loki’s kid or not, it’s still a baby, Clint. I’m not killing a baby.”

 

Hawkeye’s face is grim, but he winces at the words, regardless.

 

A weight he hadn’t known had been on his shoulders lifts and Tony’s about to make sure Steve isn’t permanently broken when said Captain suddenly shouts in surprise, face turned away from the other two Avengers.

 

Tony’s gaze follows his and he just about catches a brief glimpse of Loki’s disappearing foot before it blinks out of existence.

 

“Fuck,” curses Tony, crouching into a defensive stance as his faceplate falls back over his face. Stupid, stupid, Tony thinks to himself. Loki’s pregnant, not powerless, he remembers belatedly. The question is, has he teleported (can he even do that?) or is he just invisible?

 

“Where did he go?” Hawkeye says rhetorically, drawing an arrow on instinct as he scans their surroundings. “Is he still around here? Tony?”

 

Tony grunts in answer. “JARVIS, get Bruce on the line,” he says.

 

“Of course, sir.”

 

Bruce’s face appears on his left in an instant, seated in his lab in the Avengers’ Mansion back in Manhattan.

 

“Bruce, help,” Tony says. “Is Loki around here?”

 

“There haven’t been any other bursts of gamma radiation in the area or anywhere else in the world,” Bruce says, eyes flickering over to what must have been the monitor. “He’s still there. You guys haven’t found him?”

 

“More like we found more of him than we expected,” Tony retorts.

 

Bruce raises an eyebrow at that but doesn’t say anything. “I’ll call up if any bursts occur,” he says before the call ends.

 

“Loki’s still here, guys,” Tony announces to the others. He doesn’t bother to keep his voice low; whether Loki hears him or not, they’ve still got the advantage of number and Loki’s weighed down by his pregnancy (and god, that is never going to stop sounding weird in Tony’s head). Well, he hopes the latter is true.

 

Hawkeye nods in acknowledgement and keeps his bow raised, backing up against the tree he’d punched. Steve, seeming to recover from his shock (or maybe he’s just ignoring it, Tony’s not sure), moves closer to Tony.

 

“Tony, we can’t attack him,” he says lowly, keeping his back to Tony’s as they both look around for any signs of movement Loki might make (hopefully, Loki’s still solid, even if he’s not visible; if he walks into anything, it’d give him away). “I don’t- It’s still weird and I don’t understand how it even works, but I trust you and if you say that Loki’s pregnant, I believe you.” Tony glances over his shoulder at Steve, who shoots him a brief, wry smile. “Unfortunately, that means we can’t attack him. I don’t want to risk the ba-bab- The child’s safety.”

 

“Me neither,” Tony confesses, all brevity in his tone gone (he doesn’t even make fun of Steve’s discomfort over what to call Loki’s unborn kid, he deserves a fucking medal for that). “We need to figure out a way to catch him without actually fighting him.”

 

Steve nods, face weary. Then his eyes widen suddenly and he turns around to face Tony completely.

 

“What if we talked to him?” he says.

 

Tony almost stumbles back in surprise.

 

“What?” he says blankly, not quite sure he’s hearing what he’s hearing.

 

Steve is not discouraged. His face is determined now, all signs of disbelief or uncertainty gone. “Talk to him, Tony. Maybe we can convince him to come in willingly? I mean, think about it. He’s out here, alone, and p-pregnant. What other choice does he have? We can come to an agreement. I mean, we don’t even know what Loki wants, this time, why he’s even on Earth with those s-stitches in his- you know.”

 

Tony stares at Steve for a long moment, during which Hawkeye slinks over to their side to find out what’s going on.

 

“Cap wants us to have a chat with the God of Lies,” Tony informs him, emphasizing on the last word (he’s not sure if it’s a good idea to talk to Loki, of all things; he’s pretty sure the guy could mind-fuck you even with his mouth sewn shut, it’s fucking Loki, for fuck’s sake).

 

His statement is not met with the reaction he’d expected.

 

Clint actually looks like he’s considering it.

 

“No,” Tony states before Clint can say anything. “No way. Are you guys out of your fucking minds? He’s not going to fucking listen to us, don’t you get it? He’ll skin us alive! And how would you know for sure that he’s alone, anyway? He could have a whole army of earthworms crawling under our feet!”

 

“If Loki wanted to attack us, he’d have done it by now,” Steve says, though he doesn’t sound too confident. “Right?”

 

“Maybe he can’t,” Clint says. “In which case, we win, either way.”

 

“It’s worth a try, Tony,” Steve sighs when Tony just shakes his head at Clint’s deduction.

 

“You’re the one who made a big fucking deal about the baby,” Clint barks in annoyance. “What’s your problem?”

 

“My problem is that I don’t really feel comfortable making deals with someone who’s famous for being a liar and feeding off of chaos,” Tony snaps back, losing patience himself. “Yeah, I don’t want to get the baby killed, but talking to Loki is like taking off your clothes, dousing yourself in gasoline and inviting a bon fire to come barbeque you while you stand there like a sitting duck.”

 

“That’s a disturbing image, Stark,” Clint says, looking at him oddly. “And not what we’re doing.”

 

“It’s an analogy!” Tony shouts in frustration.

 

“Then what do you suggest we do, Tony?” Steve interrupts, sounding exasperated. “We’re wasting enough time as it is.”

 

Tony purses his lips. For once in his life, he doesn’t have an answer.

 

But there has to be another way. He wasn’t exaggerating when he’d described what it’d be like to talk to Loki (at least, that’s the idea he has of it- he remembers when he’d shared that talk with Loki, years ago, in Stark Tower, while everyone else was outside scrambling to fight back the first wave of Chitauri; Tony had come off as cool and unaffected, but deep down, he’d been terrified of Loki, scared, even now, of that threat of magic and unexplainable things Tony hated, that Loki waved around like mere toys). He doesn’t want to be in that position again, not if he can help it.

 

Steve’s face shifts into something sympathetic (and Tony wonders if Steve is the one with the telepathic power ‘cos seriously; he can’t even fucking see Tony’s face, but it’s like he can tell exactly what he’s feeling) and he reaches out a hand to touch Tony’s shoulder.

 

“I’ll do most of the talking, Tony,” he assures him. “Besides, Loki can’t- well, you know. With his,” Steve gestures vaguely at his lips, looking green again.

 

Tony wants to tell him what he thinks, tell him that Loki probably doesn’t even need his tongue to be a Liesmith and manipulate people to hell and back. But he doesn’t have any answers and Steve’s right; they’re just wasting time.

 

“Fine,” he bites out, finally, taking a step back so that Steve’s hand falls from his shoulder.

 

He ignores Steve’s face falling at the action and turns to sweep a gaze over the surrounding vicinity.

 

“Hey, Loki!” he shouts, ignoring Hawkeye and Steve’s shouts of surprise at his actions. “Dude, show yourself! We got a deal for you, Princess!”

 

“Tony, what are you doing?” Clint hisses furiously, kicking Tony in the shin (and really; who did he think that was supposed to hurt?).

 

“I’m talking to him,” Tony snapped, petulantly kicking back, though he made sure to not really injure Hawkeye (see, he could play nice; fuck Fury and his team of ‘professional’ psychiatrists, they didn’t know shit). “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

 

Clint looks taken aback at that and frowns before crossing his arms with a huff. Steve’s too busy hiding his face behind his hands in exasperation (or maybe it’s more like he’s trying not to cry; again, Tony can’t be too sure).

 

Deciding that to be enough agreement from his aggrieved team mates, Tony opens his mouth to call the Trickster again when said Trickster suddenly materializes right up in his face. Tony shrieks (it was a manly shriek, though, so yeah) and jumps a foot in the air, arms flailing as he tries to blink away an up close image of those nasty threads stitching Loki’s mouth closed.

 

“Tony!” he hears Cap shout, before he’s shoved aside and all he sees is Steve’s blonde and blue back.

 

It really shouldn’t be a surprise to anyone when Loki reaches out and touches Steve’s forehead, all Jedi-like, and Steve drops to the ground like a sack of potatoes. It is, however, a surprise. A much bigger one is when Loki follows Cap right after (though Tony vaguely notices that Loki’s landing on the ground is much smoother than Steve’s, that little bastard).

 

“This is really turning out to be a shitty day,” Tony hears Clint mumble, breaking the stunned silence in the air that had fallen when Steve and Loki had collapsed.

 

Tony maybe cries a little (on the inside).