Why I Write Loki the Way I Do
A lot of people seem to love the “chaotic little housecat” version of Loki, the one that is all mischief, sass, and soft sweaters. I get it. That side of him is fun. But that’s never been my Loki.
I see the emotions under all that noise, the quiet ache, the need to be seen, the grief no one helped him unpack. Before everything fell apart, he was full of minor mischief and playful schemes. (Let’s be honest: stabbing Thor barely counts when you’re immortal warrior gods.) But once he was hurt, no one reached in to help him understand himself.
He doesn’t need a therapist; he needs someone to look at him, see through the masks, and still choose to stay. That’s where Gwen comes in. She’s patient in the ways he never expected anyone to be. With her, I think he could finally stop clawing for worth and start resting in it.
And as a father? He’d be fiercely protective. He wouldn’t want his children to grow up behind the same lies and distance that shaped him. A true partner and a family would give him something that’s completely his, something to defend instead of destroy.
Even the invasion, the Battle of New York, I see differently. He’s a god and a prince, not an American. His world’s history (and ours) is built on kings conquering. What we call monstrous, his people would call inevitable. It doesn’t excuse it, but it does explain it. He was following the only examples he’d ever had: Odin’s conquests, Asgard’s wars, humanity’s cycles of empire.
So that’s my Loki. Still clever, still sharp-tongued, but layered with longing, logic, and a deep, bruised kind of love.
