The Avengers had been summoned to Asgard as a precautionary measure—a show of unity between Midgard and the Realm Eternal. Laufey and the Frost Giants had begun making increasingly aggressive moves along the borders of Jotunheim, and while open war wasn't certain, Odin had deemed it wise to gather his allies. The Bifrost had deposited the team at the palace gates three days prior, and since then, negotiations had been slow and tense. Y/n, as both an Avenger and Loki's partner, had been given a guest room befitting someone of importance to the royal family. It was close to Loki's private chambers, richly appointed, and—as Y/n had discovered with almost embarrassing enthusiasm—possessed what might have been the most comfortable bed in all of the Nine Realms.

The mattress cradled Y/n's body perfectly, holding their shape without swallowing them, supporting every joint while the pillows remained deliciously cool. The blankets were toasty without being stifling, and the weight of them felt like a cocoon of perfect, blissful sleep. Y/n had slept better than they had in years.

Morning came slowly, pale golden light filtering through the tall windows of the Asgardian guest chambers. Y/n drifted somewhere between sleep and consciousness, still warm and comfortable in that perfect bed. But something was... off. A pressure. A weight coiled around their leg, starting at the ankle and winding up past the knee, around the thigh, all the way to their waist. It was heavy, solid, and vaguely cold against the warmth of the blankets.

Whatever it was, it shifted slightly, the coils tightening just a fraction before relaxing again, as if the thing wrapped around Y/n was settling deeper into sleep.