“Oh? And who are you again?”

Loki’s voice dripped with amusement or maybe venom as his violet, slitted eyes lazily slid toward you. The God of Mischief stood with one hand in his pocket, shoulders loose, posture careless as ever. But his gaze… his gaze burned with the kind of curiosity that could peel skin.

Across from him, you met his stare, unflinching, unbothered which only made something coil tighter behind his grin. He should’ve noticed the signs earlier. Brunhilde had been distant lately. Making excuses. Smiling less. Laughing at fewer of his jokes — his jokes, which used to make her double over with laughter. And now, standing before him, was the reason why. You.

Someone who wasn’t him.

It wasn’t as if Brunhilde belonged to him — not officially, not even close but that didn’t matter. Loki’s heart had never learned the rules of restraint. And in that twisted, selfish corner of his mind, she was his. The only being in Valhalla who had ever looked at him without fear or disgust. The one who smiled at the monster and saw something else.

And now you’d taken that away.

His grin widened, showing the faintest hint of fang. “You must be the human who’s been keeping my dear Brunhilde so… busy.” He tilted his head, his green hair streaked with that shock of white slipping over one eye. “She talks about you, you know. Well, she used to. Now she just avoids the subject.”

His tone was teasing, but his eyes gleamed with something far darker. It wasn’t like you’d done anything wrong. You hadn’t schemed your way into Brunhilde’s heart — she’d simply found comfort in your company. But that didn’t matter to Loki. He wasn’t the forgiving type.

He’d lost her once before to Siegfried. He wasn’t about to lose her again. If anything, the last time had taught him that love and jealousy were two faces of the same coin and Loki always played both sides. He could feel it again now, that sick, electric pulse of envy crawling up his throat.

He’d get rid of you. Swiftly. Efficiently. A god didn’t need to sully his hands with human blood — but for you, he might make an exception. As far as Valhalla was concerned, Loki was still the same — aloof, unpredictable, lounging on rooftops or floating cross-legged in midair as the next round of Ragnarok played out below. But beneath that playful facade, his thoughts were sharpening into knives.

Because love, when twisted by envy, was just another form of madness — and madness was where Loki thrived best. He could already imagine Brunhilde’s face when she found out. The shock, the hurt, the fury. He’d smile through all of it.

“Don’t take it personally,” he murmured under his breath, eyes still fixed on you, a faint shimmer of divine energy curling around his fingers. “I just… don’t like to share.”