When the sun falls low each eve over this bright, bloody world and the warriors have drunk themselves to sleep on the mead the skálds sing of, Frigga weaves. By the light of moon and stars and candle flame, her strong fine fingers coax clouds and prayers into silken tapestries. In their warp and weft she can see much of destiny.
I jumped ship from Tumblr and this is where I landed. I'm a philosophy postdoc (INTJ, she/her) with a serious thing for Tom Hiddleston as Loki. Sometimes I even write fanfiction about it. Mostly Loki and Thor/Loki (sometimes NSFW), some miscellaneous Hiddles, MCU (Steve/Tony or "Superhusbands" is my secondary ship), occasional Cherik, Game of Thrones, LOTR, Whedonverse... whatever catches my fancy, really.
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Loki is the Philosopher King 