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It started with a dress.
Actually, it started a bit before the dress, but only in little ways that he couldn’t quite put a finger on. But the dress was the first big hint.
It wasn’t a particularly fancy dress, but neither was it something that a farm girl would wear on her day to day duties. It was long, but not too long to touch the ground and impede one's walking. It had a bit of boning sewn into it, the kind that isn’t so much to shape as it is to enhance, and it came with a black belt that rested on the waist and a capelet that covered theoretical shoulders, because the dress itself was without sleeves. Of course, it wasn’t his, it was his mother’s. But there was a small stain on the hem of the skirt that refused to budge, and the servants had been told to throw it away. So he wasn’t really stealing when he slipped it into his bag and covered it with the books that he’d been in her room for in the first place.
Now the books lay forgotten as he stared at the fabric laid out over his bed. He’d locked the door and placed a spell around it, just in case Thor or his parents decided to barge in without knocking. His heart was racing, and he wasn’t entirely certain why. Certainly, the dress was beautiful, but he couldn’t fathom why he’d had such an urge to take it. An urge that was becoming dimmer only in the presence of another. The urge to put it on.
There wasn’t any harm in doing so. It was just fabric, nothing more. Fabric that was far lighter than his usual attire, yes, but fabric all the same. His chest ached something horrible as he debated with himself on whether or not to give in. He knew what would happen if someone came in and saw him. He knew that one wrong move could create far more of a reason for people to call him ergi than there already was. But the green fabric beckoned to him like it was spelled, and it was almost as if the dress had been made to captivate him.
It was his favorite green, after all.
So, after double checking his wards and making sure that there was no way anyone could glimpse him through his window (they couldn’t, his room was far too high up, but the fear was there) he slipped off his leathers and clothes until he stood in nothing but his undergarments, the ache growing as his body was revealed to him in the mirror. He ignored it as he had so many times in the past, swallowing the lump that rose in his throat as he turned back to the dress and untied the lacing in the back. He hadn’t noticed the lacing before now, but the waist of the dress was accentuated with boning in just the right places, and the laces in the back were black. All it needed was a bit of gold trim, and it would positively scream Loki.
He knew that the longer he hesitated, the more likely it was that he would be interrupted, so he took no more time before stepping into it, awkwardly shimmying into a garment that he’d never had the chance to wear before.
The flow of the soft fabric around his bare shins seemed to loosen that odd ache in his chest, the chiffon overskirt moving with the little breeze that his own movements kicked up. He laced it gently, almost like he was afraid of snapping the cord or breaking the grommets. It hugged his waist tightly, the light pressure oddly comforting, if unfamiliar. The capelet was a separate piece, the same see-through fabric that made up the overskirt resting on his shoulders. Once it was on, he turned to the mirror.
The person standing in front of him wore the same wide-eyed expression he could feel stretching his face, but he didn’t mind. He took a shaky breath, his gaze traveling over the garment as it flowed softly around his legs. It was even more beautiful as he could fully appreciate how the dark fabric contrasted with his own pale skin, how it nearly perfectly matched his eyes, and how the fullness of the skirt filled out what was missing on his hips.
Nothing was missing on his hips. He was a man. He just wasn’t built for a dress. It fit as well as it could, all things considered.
And yet as he started to look over it again, nausea began to creep up on him. It didn’t rest right on his chest, the dip between the cups filled with air where there should have been the slightest bit of breast to fill it out. The boning strained and warped against his too-straight waist, wanting to curve and sticking out at the bottom because of it. The capelet only served to enhance the sharp square that was his shoulders, and he quickly discarded it. His attempts to replace it with a necklace were quickly thwarted as he realized that he only had corded wooden beads and symbols of his lineage that felt like a mockery to don while he was wearing something that none of his line would appreciate.
So his upper chest felt empty, and his hair felt too short along the nape of his neck, and his jaw was far too harsh and his waist far too boxy. The thrill that he’d felt for just a moment had vanished, replaced by a pit in his stomach and the urge to vomit.
This couldn’t possibly be right. Thor had never expressed any interest in this kind of thing, and had only laughed it off when Loki had suggested the possibility. Mother would gently remind him of his status, urge him to wear something proper for a boy his age, and Father would have none of it.
Standing in a warded room with no shoes, in a dress that was starting to feel like a prison, Loki began to cry.
He sat down on the floor, leaning against his bed frame as he muffled small sobs into his palm. He had no idea why he was having such a visceral reaction to something so insignificant. He was certain that he looked unsightly, and he couldn’t do anything about it but wait for the tears to stop themselves. He wanted desperately to take it off, but more than that, he wanted it to fit right. He wanted it to hug nonexistent curves, wanted long hair that mixed with the fabrics and got caught in the right places, wanted softer features to go along with the soft fabric, wanted it to touch his ankles instead of his shins.
He didn’t realize that he had changed until he dared to look up again, and saw a stranger in his mirror.
Without the energy to jump, he just stared. The woman in the mirror had red-rimmed eyes and high cheekbones, and her shoulders shook in tandem with his own. Her hair reached her shoulders, jet-black and softly curling in the sort of fashion Loki had attempted to smooth out for years. A necklace lay across her chest, gold lace decorating the edges of the skirt.
“Oh.” He said out loud, and she echoed him. Except she was he, and he was she and his voice was high and soft and slightly strained from crying. “Oh.” He said again, but this time to test it. “Hello.”
He wiped his eyes and used the bed to help himself stand, never breaking eye contact with himself in the mirror. His face was free of makeup, but he didn’t mind that, staring at his body with a fascinated sort of relief horror. Fresh tears began to slip down his cheeks, and he wanted nothing more than to run, to show someone to prove to himself that it was real. But he was rooted to the spot, staring at a woman that looked just like him, looked just how he wanted to look, how he did look.
How he shouldn’t look.
He wasn’t her. He could be her in the same way he could be a horse, in the same way he could be a bird, in the same way he could make a house look like a castle. It might look and possibly even feel that way, but it wasn’t true. It would never be true. It wasn’t him.
So he forced himself to change back, to fill out the dress with those boxy angles and rigid lines and empty spaces. To cut his hair and put his tunic back on, to bundle the dress up and throw it in the back of his closet, promising to burn it the next day.
Then he went to the bathroom and promptly threw up.
It wasn’t that he disliked being a boy. He liked being a boy very much. But only sometimes. Sometimes he watched the girls run around in their dresses with their long hair in the wind and their jewelry clanking against other jewelry.
When Thor came over to poke fun at him for staring at the girls, Loki mentioned wanting to grow his hair out. Thor, who’s own hair reached his shoulders anyways, simply clapped him on the shoulder and shrugged, saying it wasn’t very strange, but that he should stop watching the girls lest they think that Loki wanted to bed them.
Quite frankly, Loki found that idea repulsive and quickly changed the subject.
Thor and Father’s hair wasn’t shiny or soft or gently curling like some of the girls he admired, even if it was on the longer side. They only ever wore ceremonial beads or styles, if at all, and never seemed to put much effort into it. Mother did. Mother wore clips and bands and beads and ribbons and made Loki’s stomach ache with envy.
Sometimes Loki loved being a boy. Sometimes he wanted nothing more than to don a pair of trousers and run through the woods with his brother, coming back to the palace with bleeding scratches and purpling bruises and nothing else to show for it. Sometimes he stood by the side watching couples dance, waiting for Thor to bring a young lady over to force him to dance, lest he offend her.
But sometimes he wanted to be the young lady. Sometimes he wanted to be twirled around by a man who had nothing more on his mind than a pretty girl. Sometimes he wanted to braid his hair like his mother, or wear earrings that glinted in the sun, or get the hem of his skirt wet in a river.
Sometimes he wanted neither. Sometimes he was simply Loki, and that was that. Those times were the most confusing, because while he didn’t ache and burn and hurt, he also wasn’t satisfied, like there was an itch he couldn’t scratch just below the surface of his skin.
The first time he… experimented, for lack of a better word, Loki was halfway across Asgard in a little pub, having decided a while ago that if he was to properly advise his brother and care for the citizens of his world, he had to mingle with them. He’d been disguising himself as different men so as to not stir up a fuss about his royal status, and while the occasional rough spout was had, he had been happy. Happy to mingle with regular people, happy to get spoken to without fear or ridicule, happy to relax and watch people be people.
The ache that sometimes appeared in his chest was normal now. Some days, he would get up and get dressed and think nothing of it, but sometimes he would wake with an inherent feeling of wrong, and it was a struggle to get through the day. Sometimes it would happen out of nowhere, and sometimes it would creep up on him slowly.
The former was today’s problem.
As Loki led his horse to the stables, his bag swinging around his hips and disguised as a redheaded brute that could very well be Volstagg’s distant relative, it hit him hard. So hard, in fact, that his body had a physical reaction to it, pausing as his breath hitched in his throat. His body, which had felt perfectly fine that morning, suddenly felt like a hole that he couldn’t get out of, like everything was just slightly off, like he’d been cursed with something that he’d mostly gotten rid of, but not quite.
His pants were too tight around his legs, his shirt too flat against his chest, his hair too short where it barely scraped the nape of his neck, slicked down to avoid the odd curls that no one else in his family seemed to have under the spell of a man that was even worse. At least his real body was somewhat compact, a bit more like Fandral's than Thor’s.
Loki ignored it, as he so often did, paying the stable master a day and nights worth of time to watch over his horse, and headed to the center of town. The ache was horrendous this time, a physical stiffness that was sure to leave knots in his shoulders spreading from his chest. A passing woman looked up at him and gave him a sweet smile, a compliment on her lips that hurt him more than a dagger would have in that instance. “Sir, I hope you don’t mind my saying so, but I’ve never seen a more handsome stranger!”
He thanked her, let her pass him by, and promptly turned invisible, his eyes stinging something horrible.
It was so bad today.
He wanted to curl up and cry, but doing so would put more shame on his already aching shoulders, and he didn’t want to waste his time doing something that would do nothing to help anyone in the end, so he forced his tears away and went to find a distraction.
Helpfully, the local pub was full to bursting in the evening light, music and cheers swelling up and down like the tides of the ocean. Loki normally avoided those kinds of places like a plague, as they were often far too loud and the patrons far too drunk for his taste, but at the moment he wanted nothing more than to get lost in the sounds of people.
But in order to properly enjoy the local nightlife, he had to be perceived, and to be perceived was the worst kind of pain when he was like this. So he hesitated outside of the door, invisibly watching through the windows as a dance began, people pairing up and moving in the messy way that only drunks and people without high duties could. The men held their hands up as the women curtsied, and Loki knew he would only feel envy if he went inside like this. So for the first time in a while, as he watched the ladies swish and sway in time with the instruments, he let himself consider changing again. He hadn’t changed in that way for a long time, but no one would know. No one would guess that the lady stepping into their fold in their small village on an unimportant day was their prince. No one would suspect a man if they saw long hair and soft lines and a small waist. No one would know. He was safer here than anywhere else.
So, taking a deep breath, he focused.
It was shockingly easy, changing into his feminine form. Easier than turning into someone or something else. Normally when he changed his shape, it was simply an illusion, and it felt that way. It felt like a too-small shirt, easy to wear and walk around in, but uncomfortable and relieving to take off. He had to focus on the details to get it right, lest it be off in ways that were perceivable to the naked eye. But as he let himself, for the first time in so long, indulge in the ache, he noticed that he needed not to think of his shape, his color or his size. His body seemed to fill itself out, like it was a pre-written script or a shape that he’d taken a hundred times. His hair, once more jet-black, fell in soft waves around his quickly curving waist. His chest bloomed, straining slightly against his tight shirt, and he felt a distinct lack of anything in his pants, though he knew the thought hadn’t even crossed his mind to take it away.
It felt correct.
The ache was…not gone completely, but nearly.
And Loki stayed invisible as he entered the pub. He wouldn’t let strangers be the first to see this form, this form that felt so right and confusing at the same time. A form that he knew he didn’t have the right clothes for.
He was still a prince, after all, and appearances mattered to him.
So he slipped quietly and carefully into the bathroom, locking the door behind him and dashing to the mirror, taking down his spell.
He knew the woman in the mirror. She stared back at him, her eyes the same deep green that his were, the same black hair as if he’d been growing it out all his life. The awkward curls had turned into loose waves, stretched out by the length of it all, and his jaw was soft, his eyebrows a bit more thin.
He listened carefully to make certain that no one was going to come pounding on the door any time soon, and quickly slipped his outer garments off before turning back to the mirror. He had no bra, but he didn’t really have a reference to the size or shape of breasts without it, so he simply passed his eyes over them once before turning to other places. His lower face and neck were unmarred from any shadow of a beard, though he’d never been able to grow much of one in the first place. His chest, too, remained bare of anything but peach fuzz, and while he wouldn’t call himself an hourglass, his waist curved ever so slightly inwards. His undergarments clung to his hips, which dipped in the middle, and his legs were slimmer, though unshaven.
He only snapped out of his trance when a knock on the door sounded, and he inhaled quickly, spinning around and gripping the sink, “Just a moment longer!” He called, surprising himself with the soft tone of his voice. It cracked slightly, his vocal chords unused to the higher pitch, but he barely registered it.
Quickly, he gathered his clothes and murmured a fairly basic spell over them, transforming them from a tunic and pants to a summer dress, slipping them on once he bound his chest loosely with a roll of bandages from his bag. It was nothing special, but the light brown skirt swaying around his boots made a smile pull at his lips. His shoulders were exposed, and he magicked a necklace to accent his collarbones. Just a silver pendant, for if he wore his usual colors, wiser witches could possibly clock him, even if it was unlikely.
Just as the patron seemed to be getting impatient and pounded on the door again, Loki stepped out, nervousness curling in his gut as the man - a blond, younger fellow with a large beard and hazy-drunk eyes - stared at him. A million thoughts flashed through his mind, ranging from; Does he see through me? To; Oh, I hope he isn’t a violent drunk, but in the end, the man just smiled.
“Excuse me, miss. Just had a few too many pints, if you catch what I’m fishing for.”
Miss.
The euphoria that one simple word brought was like a high, and Loki grinned, “It’s not a bother. I’m quite finished.”
She felt better now.
Loki wouldn’t say that everyone stared at her when she walked into the room, but she certainly got a few glances and even a wink before she got to the bar itself. Fearing what alcohol would do to her magic, and fearing even more what would happen if it did something to reverse her form unintentionally, she said, “Do you have tea?”
The woman behind the counter snorted, her bushy red hair bouncing around her ears as she shook her head, “Nay, we don’t serve that here. But we've got some sweet ciders, and there’s always milk.”
“I’ll have a cider.” Loki smiled, pulling a few coins from her pocket.
The woman raised an eyebrow, “It’s not that much.”
“Keep it, then.” Loki dropped them into her waiting palm, “I’m having a good day.”
The woman stuffed the extra into her shirt with a crooked grin, “Well quite frankly, now I am too.”
The rest of the night was a blur. Loki danced with so many people their faces began to blur together, and her excitement was enough of a high even without the drinks. The men were handsome and the ladies that didn’t mind dancing with another woman were stunning, and Loki felt more free than she had in a long time. A man even managed to steal a small kiss from her, after she’d finally had one drink and didn’t mind the attention, though she had to decline when he asked her to bed. That was a road she’d never been comfortable with, even in her usual body.
Her cheeks were aching from smiling at the end of the night and as she left the building, the cool night air was a balm on her warm skin. She swayed gently as she walked, her feet sore from dancing and being spun around.
She’d been spun around. The men had taken her waist and spun her like her Father did with her Mother, like Thor did with delegate's daughters, like Loki herself did with many a woman. But tonight, she’d been the one to be lifted and held. She was pressed against the wall as she met a strange man’s lips, and she was so lost in it all that she nearly forgot that boys didn’t kiss boys.
But she wasn’t a boy, was she?
Right now, she was a lady. She felt pretty, felt feminine, felt right in a way that she hadn’t for a long time. Her fake jewelry disappeared as she sat in the grass, her skirt riding up slightly. She didn’t mind, bringing some of her hair forward to cover her shoulders. It was tangled, but she only ran her fingers through it for a moment, too enraptured with the thrill of feeling correct .
She was correct.
She stayed the night in that little town, and when she woke, she felt like a he again. It annoyed him slightly, so wrapped up in the thrill of the night before that he almost didn’t want to change. To go back to the way he was supposed to look. But the ache was returning and he didn’t want to go through that for an arguably less dangerous form, so he shifted again, his hair coming to rest at the nape of his neck and his chest becoming flatter and flatter.
But that didn’t feel right either.
He sat up in bed, running his hands down his body to check that yes, he had in fact changed. It still felt wrong. With a groan, he pressed the palms of his hands into his eyes, the euphoria she’d been feeling the night before utterly gone.
He?
She?
Fuck.
Loki gripped her hair, his eyes stinging slightly as she debated the feeling. He hated it, she wanted it to go away, but it wouldn’t because it never did. The night before had been almost a fever dream, the amount of happiness he had felt nearly overwhelming, but she couldn’t feel like that forever.
But he could try.
So she stood up and looked in the mirror (much smaller than the one in the pub, but he didn’t have a problem with that) and took off her sleepshirt, biting his lip at the body underneath. He could work with this, she could change something.
So he got to work. It wasn’t an easy change, like the night before, because she wasn’t even really sure what he wanted to look like. But she started anyway, making his hair a little longer, her jaw slightly softer, his waist dipping slightly. She changed his clothes too, turning the pants into a skirt but leaving the tunic as it was.
And she felt…better. Not as good as he had the night before, but…better.
So she grabbed her belongings and left the room, descending the narrow stairwell to the street below after thanking and paying the owner. The few patrons that were getting rooms all stopped and stared at him, and she felt his neck burn under their glares. But as she passed them by, she nearly faltered when he heard them speak.
“That person’s got something going on.”
“Mhhm. You don’t see many people like them running around.”
Them.
The word rattled around in Loki’s brain as they shoved their bag into their dimensional pocket, a small smile creeping onto their face. Them. They were a them today. And they’d been a she the day before.
Oh, that was interesting.
Back to the castle, back to being a boy.
The first few days hurt, they weren’t going to lie to themself. The first few days where their brain refused to come out of it’s them mode, and the he’s and his’s started to wear on them. But after a while, they got used to it again. They got used to the permanent ache, got used to the too-boxy body, though it seemed almost worse now that they knew what it meant.
But then he woke as a he one day, and he was okay. But he knew it wouldn’t be forever. Because he would be a she or a they or something else entirely someday, probably sooner than later, and it would hurt again. He couldn’t be himself around the castle, at least not yet. Not while he was still figuring things out and waiting to understand how his family might react. But he could sneak out, he could go on adventures and to different towns. He could still be Loki sometimes.
And he would be prepared this time, too. He could wear real jewelry and real makeup and-
And the dress. The one with the stain.
He’d never burned it.