Trigger #1BT: Loki the Enchantress
Major Deity Class: The infamous, genderfluid Norse God of Mischief and the Mistress of Transformations preceding Morgan Le Fey. “God” is a bit of a misnomer. Most of the deities of old were simply incredibly powerful spell-casters, magical creatures, or spirits whose exploits were woven into myth. Some have even been rumored to pierce the OTHER veil between life, death, or other dimensions to continue influencing the mortal world.
In Loki’s case, they have long since “retired” to the Halls of Valhalla, but Morgan swears that every other embarrassing mishap or misfortune is the old goddess playing tricks on her. Given all that I’ve seen of this strange new world, I’m inclined to believe her.
Transformation Type: TG, Size-difference.
Threat Level: Benign. The Norse definition of “Mischief” might be a little more fucked up than the modern one, but Loki is not outright evil as far as Morgan tells me. They are simply a fickle force of nature with a slightly warped sense of humor. And a centaur kink, if Morgan is to be believed.
Subjects: Thora, Goddess of Thunder, F, Aesir, formerly Thor, AMAB (Age Unknown)
Loki, God of Mischief, Half-Jötuun/Half-Aesir, Genderfluid (Age Unknown)
Sif, Goddess of the Earth, F, Jötuun (Age Unknown)
The following is a biographical account based on the testimony of previous Transformistress Morgan Le Fey.
All this nonsense over a lousy hammer.
Thor bashed his head against the icy walls of King Thyrm the frost giant’s palace. Despite his newly feminized form, he was relieved to see he was as hearty as ever, but his strength did nothing to alleviate the humiliation of the situation.
All this nonsense over one lousy, fucking hammer.
The hammer, Mjölnir, had been a gift from Loki, made by the legendary dwarven smithes Brok and Sindri. And it was a mighty hammer, indeed. It could both create blessings and miracles beyond his wildest imagination, but it could also destroy, smashing evil down like so many nails on a board. The hammer was his implement, his sacred tool, the method to his magic.
But to be honest, Thor didn’t really care about any of that. No, what really worried him was that sickening realization he had when he woke up one morning to find Mjölnir stolen in the night by frost giants. He’d heard mortals sing songs and scribe poems of his many adventures and exploits. But in every legend, there was his hammer, his namesake, his “better half.” It was a blunt, dull instrument, a weapon that he used to bludgeon the world into something more suitable to his liking.
And now, he realized, he had no idea who he was without it.
That was why, when Loki had so shrewdly suggested disguising Thor as a maiden to fool Thrym, who had demanded Freya’s hand in marriage as ransom, Thor, begrudgingly, agreed.
No longer was he Thor, God of Thunder, wielder of the mightiest weapon known to man.
Now, he was a humiliatingly feminine facsimile of “Freya”, goddess of love. A shorter, softer version of himself, round in all the wrong places, flat in all the right. He’d protested of course, but Loki was insistent that they be allowed to cast a spell and alter his appearance fully into that of Freya’s. A simple illusion would not do, they said, but a full body change.And they had been especially… thorough, much to Thor’s annoyance.Thor couldn’t make sense of Loki’s trickery most of the time, but this was a new low, even for them. All the more infuriating was the mental enchantments, which made his heart race with excitement upon seeing his reflection in the ice. Honestly, he wasn’t enjoying these changes. Perish the thought.He was empty handed, walking into enemy territory with nothing but a wedding dress and veil to defend himself, and Loki, smug and snickering, posing as his “bridesmaid”.
Thrym was a vile, disgusting old creature. He was slobbering over the sight of his tits so much he hardly even needed the veil. Only thanks to Loki’s cunning words, their suggestion that Freya was saving the best for their wedding night, were they able to stop his filthy hands from touching Thor. He had, however, managed to barter for a kiss, much to the newly goddess-ed “Freya”’s infuriation. During the wedding feast, Thor took his frustrations out on a whole ox, eight salmon, and three entire barrels of mead. Loki barely managed to wave away “Freya”’s strange mannerisms as “pre-wedding jitters.”
“Freya” slammed his head into the palace wall again at the thought, cracking the ice like a walnut. A GOD should not need to endure this kind of humiliation, he growled to herself. He’d managed to excuse himself from the feast for a few minutes thanks to Loki’s stalling, hoping to find his hammer early and end this farce, but had so far come up empty handed.
“Hello? Is someone there?” A woman’s voice called out, down the icy steps that Thor stood atop. Curious, “Freya” snuck away from all of the boastful revelry of the feast and found himself in the dungeons.
There, chained to the wall, was a frost giant woman. She towered over “Freya”, who just barely measured up past her ankle. Despite her captivity, the woman’s voice was stoic and sure. “Who goes there?”
“It is I, Thor- a, uh, I mean, Freya, of Asgard…” the God let slip before correcting himself.
The frost giant woman smirked, her bemused snort sending a puff of hot air that blew “Freya”’s veil back. “Hello, Thora UhImeanfreya of Asgard. I am Sif, Princess of the Jötuun.”
“Princess? Hel of a bedroom for a princess…” Thor said skeptically, giving the sparse jail cell a dismissive glance.
“The one you know as Thrym is a false king. He has enslaved my people, imprisoned me, and cursed us to an eternal winter. His greed is insatiable. He seeks to pluck the fruit of every branch of Yggdrasil until nothing remains.” Her contempt for the king rivaled, perhaps even surpassed Thor’s own.
“I suppose we are united in our purpose, then. I seek the Giant’s head as well.” Thor spoke with a recklessness that betrayed his new form.
“Really? From the revelry I hear going on upstairs, I thought you were seeking his hand,” she said with a smirk. Thor’s face burned, and it took everything in him to not fly into a rage at this prisoner.
“A ruse. A ploy to get into his palace, to retrieve that which he stole from me.” Thor hid his shame as he inspected her new ally’s bonds. “A hammer, one with which I could free you from your bonds. Do you know where I could find such a thing?”
“The answer you seek is lying right under your nose,” Sif mused.
Thor looked down. Two massive, cumbersome mammaries blocked his view, but below those was the ground, a large mound of recently disturbed dirt in the center.
“I’ve no time for games,” Thor said with a sneer and a stomp of his foot.
“Nor do I. You need not a hammer, but a spade. Your Mjolnir has been buried eight miles under the Earth, beneath this very spot. And given how impatient the new ‘King’ is, I would suggest we start digging…”
And so, from blushing bride to humble farmer, Thor lowered to his knees and began to dig. Sif provided what little help she could with her arms chained to the wall, digging into the soil with her massive feet. But the bulk of the labor was up to Thor himself, unrestrained as he was. Loki soon found them, leaving Sif to explain the situation as Thor obsessed over his task. As Loki was well used to doing, they set about buying their “brother” more time, convincing the king that Freya simply needed eight days and eight nights to properly prepare for the ceremony. And for eight days and eight nights Thor dug, his dress blackened with soot, fingernails broken and bleeding. There was so much dirt he hardly knew where his skin began and the grime ended.
He took breaks, of course. Even a God as mighty as him needed to breathe, to eat, to sleep. And there Sif remained, his constant companion.
It’s hard not to get to know a person, being confined to such close quarters for so long.
“...I don’t know how you women do it…” Thor wiped the sweat from his brow as he downed yet another barrel of mead.
“Which part, I wonder?” Sif rolled her eyes, preparing herself for an onslaught of misogyny.
“I don’t know how you manage to keep yourself from plucking the eyes out of every man who looks at you like you’re something to be owned…” Thor growled, shivering with rage at the thought of the King who had been salivating over him since he’d stepped foot in the castle.
His answer surprised Sif, and her walls lowered. “Oh. Well… there is a strength to it, I suppose. Think of yourself as a predator, not prey. You are luring them, mesmerizing them into complacency with your finely colored furs and hypnotic grace. You’re setting the pace, letting them get nice and close, and just when they think they finally have you,” Sif allowed herself a confident grin, revealing fangs like a she-wolf’s, “YOU TEAR THEIR GODDAMN THROAT OUT.”
For a moment, even the great Thor was glad this wild woman was on his side… and even then, for a slimmer moment, glad that she was bound.
“Plus, I mean, think of the MESS if we had to kill every horny man we ran into!” Sif rolled her eyes.
They burst into laughter, Thor almost chortling great bellyfuls of mead back up from whence they came.
“Havent had one of those in a while,” Sif said with a sigh.
“A laugh?” Thor asked, wiping a tear from his eye.
“A friend.”
Now it was Thor’s turn to let his guard down. “I hadn’t thought of it like that, I suppose…” he admitted. Instead of taking another scoop of soil, he placed a hand on his chest. “If we’re being honest, friend… it was never this form that bothered me. I mean, the tits DO get in the way of things a bit, but taking the form of that which gives life, rather than takes it, is a strength that too often is mistaken for weakness, no?”
Sif nodded, letting the fledgling Goddess continue.
“It was always how others saw me. A God of Thunder is expected to be many things. Boisterous. Mighty…” Thor’s gruff, caricature-esque voice gave way to an almost mournful whisper, “...manly.”
“Thunder can be many things,” Sif said, her legs crossing around Thor’s tiny frame in her best substitute for a hug. “Thunder is loud and flashy, sure. But it is also the silence that comes after. It is also the beautiful, light-bringing arc that comes before. And thunder? Thunder is a statement. A fact of life. Thunder does not much care for what others think of it. Thunder is… well, thunder just is. Thunder is whatever the hell thunder wants to be. Woe be to any who stand in its way.”
Thora let her cheek fall against Sif’s leg. “I suppose in that way… maybe thunder could be a woman… if it wanted to.”
Tink!
Thora’s nails clacked against something metallic beneath her. Sif unfurled her legs, and Thora brushed away a thin layer of soil, revealing an old crutch turned new friend. It was Thora’s turn to bare her fangs.
“You ready to get out of here?”
“IT HAS BEEN EIGHT DAYS AND EIGHT NIGHTS! WHERE IS MY BRIDE!??!” Thyrm raged on his throne, like a toddler throwing a tantrum.
“Easy now, your highness! She’s almost ready, we just have to-to finish drying her hair, and-and painting her nails, and-” Loki was running out of lies and they knew it. Thyrm slammed his fist mere inches from where they stood, sending them to their knees.
“ENOUGH! ENOUGH MANICURES! ENOUGH PEDICURES! ENOUGH WITH THE EXFOLIATING AND MOISTURIZING AND-AND I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT MICROTHREADING MEANS!!!! I WILL HAVE MY WIFE NOW, OR I WILL HAVE YOU FOR LUNCH!!!!” Thyrm wrapped his massive hand around Loki’s doll-like frame, raising them to his disgusting, foul smelling maw.
“I wouldn’t do that, my love. You would ruin your appetite for dessert.”
A voice. Melodic, and dripping of the finest milk and honey. The crowd of giants turned, and there stood a vision in white. A beautiful woman in a long wedding gown and veil, holding an intricate bouquet of flowers. Everyone was stunned in surprise, even Loki themself. They had never seen their brother acting so… well, so much like their sister!
“I’m so sorry for the delay, my dearest. I had to wash off the filth of our feast, and in my excitement, I suppose I over-prepared for our union,” the woman coo-ed as she glided down the aisle. Thyrm grinned like a fool, and unceremoniously dropped Loki back to their feet, adjusting his hideous garments and slicking back his greasy hair.
“N-No apologies necessary, my dearest Freya! I can see it was well worth the wait!” Thyrm looked the tiny Aesir up and down, no doubt undressing her with his massive, bloodshot eyes.
“Freya”’s stride did not waver. She smiled cooly under her veil, stood gracefully in front of her “betrothed”, and curled a slender finger to beckon him downward.
“You’ll be wanting another kiss, I suppose?” she asked, and he nodded lamely, crawling on his hands and knees like a desperate animal.
She let him lean in. Closer. Closer. Closer still, until his wretched breath was soaking into her garments.
It was then, at the very height of his hubris, that the thunder struck.
“Kiss this~!”
She sank the bouquet directly into his jaw. Flowers exploded into petals of pure pain, revealing the metallic head of Mjolnir concealed within. As the false king reeled, she was struck by a bolt of lightning, her bridal grown changing instantly intogarments more suited to a warrior of her renown. The lightning crackling from her powerful form burned whatever was left of the disguise until only she remained, war paint smeared on her face from the dirt of her labor. Behind her, an army of now freed frost giant prisoners flooded the ceremony and set themselves upon their captors.
Loki couldn’t help but laugh. After all, it wasn’t very often their little sister was able to get one over on LOKI of all people!
“Y-You…!” Thyrm slurred like a whimpering, wounded dog, missing several teeth, jaw fully unhinged by the blow. “Y-You are not my Freya! WHO ARE YOU?!”
There was lightning. Now it was time for the boom.
“I AM THORA, GODDESS OF THUNDER!”
She rose, her hammer high and poised to strike.
“And you are just another nail.”
And thus, the goddess of Thunder was born. She would later marry Sif, who became goddess of the Earth itself, and they would have children, Thrúd, goddess of the storm, and Ullr, god of winter. Thora of course would be the one to bear them, both times, insisting that the “stronger of the two should bear the weight.” Sif never argued the point, much preferring the act of making to the aftermath.
To this day, it is said that every rumble of thunder is the sound of the two making even more heirs deep in the halls of Valhalla.
From the desk of
Mira Alcott
Head-Mistress of Transformations
(Special thanks to FanofPokemon for the suggestion, to my Test Readers, to VioletVelvet, Maeve Quinzley and Zoey for editing, and to all of my Patrons for your support!)