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Loki’s hand cradled her face as if she might vanish again if he loosened his grip even a little.

Astrid trembled under his touch, her breath shuddering against his mouth — so close now, so heartbreakingly close. Her fingers tightened in his coat, clinging to him like a drowning woman might cling to a shred of wreckage.

He saw it all in her eyes: the grief, the rage, the love she had no right to still carry, the war between running and falling that she was losing.

And Loki — Loki, who had survived gods and monsters and centuries of emptiness — realized he could not survive losing her again.

Not now.

Not when she was real in his arms.

"Astrid," he whispered, voice wrecked and raw, "I mourned you until there was nothing left."

The words cracked something in her — visibly, terribly.

A broken sob tore from her lips — and then she surged forward, crashing into him like a storm breaking against the shore.

Their mouths met in a kiss that was not gentle, not tender — it was desperate, ravenous, ruined.

It was the kind of kiss that tasted like tears and blood and centuries of loneliness.

The kind of kiss that said I hate you for leaving me, I love you for surviving, I will never forgive you and I will never let you go.

Loki crushed her against him, his hand fisting in her hair, anchoring her there. Astrid clutched at him with shaking hands, pulling him down to her, as if she could crawl into his skin and hide from the agony.

They kissed like they could undo the years between them.

Like they could bleed the grief out with their mouths, with their hands.

When they finally broke apart, gasping, Loki pressed his forehead against hers, his eyes squeezed shut, breathing her in like a man on the edge of death.

"You’re mine," he whispered, voice shaking, fierce and broken and unbearably soft.

"You’ve always been mine."

Astrid didn’t answer.

She only pressed another kiss to the corner of his mouth — soft, ruined — and clutched him harder, as if she could keep the whole world from tearing them apart again.

And for now — just for this stolen moment — Loki let himself believe that maybe, just maybe, he would never have to let her go again.

[souls-made-of-autumn]

[souls-made-of-autumn]

Title: “Wicked Games”

The ruins of Alfheim smoldered in the distance, pale smoke twisting through the dusk like ghosts refusing to let go. Astrid stood at the edge of the broken temple, her black cloak snapping in the wind, strands of her hair lashing against her face. Magic clung to her skin like frost—dangerous, beautiful, and laced with sorrow.

She didn’t hear Fandral approach. Of course she didn’t. He had always known how to step carefully around her storms.

But she felt him.

His presence sank into her bones, familiar and maddening, like a song she couldn’t forget.

"You shouldn't have come," she said without turning.

"And yet," Fandral’s voice was quieter than she remembered—rougher, as if he'd fought his way through fire just to speak to her again. "Here I am."

She turned then, slow, measured, eyes like sharpened dusk. "This place is cursed. Like us."

Fandral didn’t flinch. He never had. "I don't believe in curses," he said. "Only choices. And I keep choosing you."

Astrid let out a bitter laugh that echoed through the hollow stone. “That’s foolish.”

“Then let me be a fool,” he said, stepping closer, every line of his body aching with restraint. “Let me play this wicked game. One more time.”

Her fingers clenched. "You always say that like it's romantic—like loving me hasn’t nearly killed you more than once."

"It has," he said simply. "And still, I would do it again. Every wound. Every lie. Every time you walked away from me."

Astrid’s mouth trembled, and for a moment the magic in the air dimmed. “You don’t understand,” she whispered.

Fandral reached out, brushing his fingers against hers, careful, reverent. “I understand everything except why you still won’t let yourself be happy.”

She didn’t pull away. Couldn’t. Her eyes met his, and for a heartbeat, the world forgot how to breathe.

“You love me,” he said, soft and steady. “You always have.”

Astrid nodded once, as if confessing to a crime.

“And you’re afraid,” he continued.

Another nod. Her voice, when it came, was almost a sob. “You make me want things I was never allowed to keep.”

He cupped her face, thumbs brushing the corners of her eyes. “Then steal them with me. Damn the rules. Damn the gods.”

A beat passed.

Then she kissed him—fierce, desperate, and drenched in every wicked, beautiful thing they'd been denied

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Fandral’s POV – “Wicked Games”

He found her in the ruins.

Not by accident—not this time. He had followed the trail of scorched magic and cold wind, the kind of cold that seeped beneath armor and hope alike. The broken temple rose like a memory from the ash, and there she stood. Alone, as always. Beautiful, as ever. Dangerous, as he remembered.

Astrid.

Her name was a prayer he had never stopped saying.

She stood with her back to him, facing the horizon like she was trying to outrun the past. Or maybe she was daring it to catch her.

He didn’t speak at first. He knew better. Astrid met silence like a sparring partner—tested it, studied it. If he said too much, she’d vanish like a ghost in smoke.

So he just stood there, letting her feel him.

When she finally spoke, her voice cut through him like glass.

> "You shouldn't have come."

He exhaled once, slow. “And yet. Here I am.”

Gods, she looked like war and grief wrapped in midnight—cloak billowing like a stormcloud, her magic curling at her fingertips, threatening to tear the sky apart. He should have been afraid of her.

But he wasn’t.

He had never been afraid of Astrid. Not even when she’d told him she would break him if he ever dared to love her. Not even when she had.

> “This place is cursed. Like us.”

He stepped closer, ignoring the taste of ash on the wind.

“I don’t believe in curses,” he said. “Only choices. And I keep choosing you.”

He watched her laugh—sharp, bitter, the sound of someone who still bled beneath all that armor.

“You always say that like it's romantic,” she said. “Like loving me hasn’t nearly killed you more than once.”

“It has.” He let the words land, bare and honest. “And still, I would do it again.”

Because he remembered what she looked like when she let her walls down—just for a second. The way her fingers would brush his jaw when she thought he was asleep. The way she’d whisper old poems against his skin like spells. The way she let herself want him when she thought no one could see.

> “You make me want things I was never allowed to keep.”

His chest ached. He reached for her—not to take, not to demand. Just to touch. To ground her.

“Then steal them with me,” he whispered. “Damn the rules. Damn the gods.”

She hesitated, just for a moment.

And then she kissed him.

And he swore the broken temple began to breathe again.

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The odd little witch with the ink-stained fingers,

scribbling truths in margins no one dared read,

wove curses into lullabies

and kissed ghosts on the brow.

The golden knight who roared like a lion,

laughter bright as midsummer sun,

cut paths through thorn and shadow

with charm sharper than any blade.

My lore began with the raven and poison apple.

A girl alone in velvet dark,

heart stitched in secrets,

taught to be wary of mirrors

and wary still of love.

Black capes and woodland cottages,

a thousand myths pressed into my bones.

I knew wolves by their names,

danced with shadows under blood moons,

and still—

Still, he came with sunlight in his hands.

Not to save,

but to stay.

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Fandral and Astrid

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Just the smallest slip—barely a breath between caution and craving.

Her fingers, traitorous things, finally traced the line of his jaw. Just once. A soft, curious touch as if to prove he was real, warm, here. Fandral drew in a subtle breath, his lashes lowering, not quite leaning in, but not pulling back either.

It would’ve been nothing—a moment, a ghost of something more—had the hallway remained empty.

But it didn’t.

“Fandral?” came Volstagg’s unmistakable voice from the far corridor. “There’s something you need to see… Oh—” A pause. “Well then.”

Astrid startled slightly, her hand retreating, her cheeks warming fast. Fandral didn’t move right away—just let out a slow breath, half-laughter, half-resignation as he turned his head slightly toward the voice.

“I’ll be right there,” he called back over his shoulder, still close enough that Astrid could feel the whisper of his breath along her skin.

When he finally stepped back, it was gentle—reluctant. His gaze lingered on her a moment longer before he smiled, softer this time.

“We’ll finish that thought another time,” he said, voice low so only she could hear, and then he turned and disappeared down the hall with that easy, unhurried gait.

She stood there a moment longer, fingers tingling, heart a little louder than before, and not quite sure if she was breathless from the closeness—or from the promise in his voice.

[souls-made-of-autumn]

Zachary Levi as Fandral the Dashing in Thor: The Dark World

[souls-made-of-autumn]

Zachary Levi as Fandral in Thor: The Dark World

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The garden was quiet, save for the rustling of leaves in the evening breeze. Fandral found her by the stone wall, hidden away from the world, her shoulders hunched as though bracing against an invisible weight. She was breathing heavily, as if trying to steady herself—but every inhale seemed to grow more frantic.

Astrid didn’t notice him approach at first. Her thoughts were elsewhere, locked in the painful loop of cruel whispers she’d overheard just moments before. She could still hear their words, sharp and unforgiving, echoing in her mind.

“Why does she think she belongs here?”

“She’s a shadow, not one of us.”

“No one could love someone like her. Not truly.”

Her pulse raced. Her eyes were wide, fixed on the ground as if willing the earth to swallow her whole.

Fandral’s footsteps were soft, but the moment he stepped closer, she straightened instinctively, but not enough to escape. The space between them felt too heavy. Too intimate. He was too close.

She didn’t want him to see this side of her—the vulnerable, broken part she hid from the world. He was supposed to be different. But even Fandral couldn’t escape the cruel weight that pressed against her.

“You’re not alone,” he said gently, his voice almost a whisper in the still air.

Her chest tightened. She bit her lip, fighting the tears. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He wasn’t supposed to be here, not when she was so broken. But he was.

And it hurt. It hurt more than she could put into words.

“I don’t need anyone’s pity,” she said, the words barely escaping her lips, raw with the hurt she’d been trying to suppress all day. “I’m fine.”

But her voice cracked.

Fandral took a step closer, his presence filling the space, close enough now that she could feel the heat from his body, see the intensity in his eyes as they searched hers. He was close. Too close. She could feel his heartbeat in the air between them.

Her chest rose and fell unevenly. She wanted to push him away, to run, to hide—but she couldn’t move. Her heart beat too fast. It was too much.

There it was again—the pull she couldn’t ignore. His scent, the way his warmth enveloped her, the way his eyes held her. She wanted to kiss him. The urge was overwhelming, but her mind screamed at her to stop.

Fandral’s hand hovered near hers, uncertain. “Astrid—”

She placed her hand firmly on his chest, the thundering beat of his heart beneath her palm. Her breath caught in her throat, the proximity making her dizzy.

“I’m not your next conquest, Fandral,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. Heartache ripped through her as she spoke, the words tearing at something deep inside her. She wasn’t angry at him—not really. But she couldn’t bear to think of herself as someone to be won, someone to be forgotten once the thrill was gone.

Her eyes locked with his—her gaze glassy with unshed tears. He could see the hurt in her, the raw vulnerability that tore through her carefully constructed walls. She wasn’t ready. Not yet. But all she could do was say it.

“I don’t want to be another story to you.”

Her words hung in the air between them like a final confession. And for a long moment, Fandral didn’t speak. He simply stood there, too close, unable to pull away, and she couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.

Then, a dark mist rose between them—slow at first, then more intense. Her chest tightened, the magic surging beneath her skin. She looked up at him, her lips trembling, unable to keep the sorrow from her face.

“Don’t,” she whispered, but it was too late.

In the blink of an eye, the garden was empty. The black smoke swirled where she had been, dissipating into the cool air. She was gone.

Fandral stood frozen, his heart hammering in his chest, his hand still reaching for her.

He should have said something. He should have done something. But as always, his golden words failed him. And she—she had vanished.

He cursed under his breath and slammed his fist against the stone wall.

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A golden knight not bound by thrones... but by the thrill of adventure and the promise of a stolen kiss.

Fandral found her in the palace gardens, where no proper lady ought to be at this hour—kneeling in the dirt, fingers smudged with ink and ash, mumbling spells under her breath as if the roses needed protection from something only she could see.

She looked up just as he leaned against the nearest marble column, arms crossed, smirk as bright as the sun on his polished armor.

"You know," he drawled, "I’ve faced dragons, sirens, and a very territorial pegasus this week, but not one of them looked quite as dangerous as you do right now."

Astrid squinted at him. "Then you’d better step back, knight. I’ve just enchanted this soil to bite."

He laughed, delighted. "So fierce. So clever." He took a step closer anyway. "But I must ask—do you always threaten men who come bearing compliments?"

"I threaten men who think flattery earns them kisses," she said, standing, brushing her hands on her robes. A little ink smeared her cheek.

Fandral tilted his head. "Ah, so it doesn't?"

"Not unless you're brave enough to try stealing one."

"Tempting," he murmured. "Though I suspect you'd hex my lips shut."

She smiled, sly and sharp. "Only if you missed."

[souls-made-of-autumn]

᭄᭡ ͏ ͏ ͏𝙶𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚗𝚢𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚜 ᭄᭡ ͏ ͏ ͏

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Fandral  ||  Thor: The Dark World (Deleted Scene)

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Fandral || Thor: The Dark World

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For Asgard!

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It’s as if they resent being imprisoned! There’s no pleasing some creatures!