Endorphins
synopsis: you're working yourself to the bone in preparation for a big event, unwilling to take a break or de-stress, so Loki takes matters into his own hands.
pairing: Loki x female reader
wc: ~3400
cw: mostly a whole lotta fluff! but some swearing, tickling, and mentions of stress/burnout
minors DNI: this fic does not contain smut, but includes an adult-aged character experiencing attraction towards the reader; I am not comfortable with engagement from anyone under the age of 18. thank you for your understanding and respect.
note: a little fluff-bomb palette-cleanser after the intensity of my last couple of Loki fics. if you'd like to read more fics like this i'd love for you to let me know!
The common room of the residential wing of the Avengers Compound wasn’t empty, but it was quiet. The kind of lived-in calm that came after half a morning’s worth of coffee and sleep-laced banter.
A newscast flickered on the television with the volume mostly down, just enough for background noise. Steve was reading something on a tablet with that technology-induced furrowed brow. Bruce sat nearest the windows, flipping through a medical journal with one socked foot tucked under the other knee, looking up only when Natasha approached, all too quietly, and wordlessly refilled his coffee with a small, satisfied smile.
Others were scattered amongst it, all were uncharacteristically peaceful.
Except for you.
You were perched on the edge of the sectional with a stack of reports beside you, laptop open on the coffee table, pen cap clenched between your teeth. Your eyes were sharp, shoulders high with tension, jaw visibly set. You’d been like this for days - edgy, overworked, quiet, insular. Everyone knew why.
There was a summit in two weeks. A UN delegation. An avalanche of new diplomatic threads to untangle, several of which involved countries you’d gone on missions in recently. Your name was on every page of briefing notes and draft statements, and now you’d been snowed under.
"Hey. You good over there?" Sam broke the calm, directing his attention pointedly to the way your leg was bouncing.
You didn’t look up, but some kind of awareness flashed across your face and your leg fell still.
"Yeah. Good. Just focused."
Curt. Efficient. Not unkind, but final.
Loki, from his armchair, eyes appearing focused on the book in his lap, quirked a brow.
Bruce glanced up. "You've been at it for a while. You should really take a break."
"I was at the punching bag this morning."
Steve chimed in, not looking away from his tablet. "That’s training. Not a break."
"Feels like a break; I like training."
"You need to do something that isn’t work," Sam offered gently from his couch, falling easily into counsellor mode. "Take a beat. Do you have a hobby? A creative outlet would help."
You didn't look up. Just exhaled slowly through your nose. It was the kind of breath that meant I’m trying to be polite.
"I appreciate the concern," you said, very diplomatically, "but I have a pile of actual responsibilities in front of me, and knitting or bouldering is not going to rewrite the second paragraph of this response to the Wakandan delegation. If you'll excuse me."
You stood, gathering your laptop and papers, and exited the room with a measured grace that only barely masked how tense you were.
There was a moment of quiet as everyone waited for you to be out of earshot.
"She’s gonna snap," Bruce said, setting his mug down.
Sam sighed, arms crossed. "She’s in pressure mode. Doesn’t mean she’s angry. Just means she thinks stopping will make it worse. But we let it sit too long and it’ll turn into the wrong kind of burnout."
Steve sipped his coffee. "I’m watching it."
"She has been boxing," Natasha pointed out.
"She doesn't need more cortisol," Bruce muttered, "She needs a damn serotonin drip. Or something. Or someone. Honestly, just- someone make her laugh."
Natasha shrugged. "I could try."
Bruce winced. An unspoken: maybe it's best you don't.
"Wilson," Loki said aloud, not looking up from his book.
Sam turned. "Yeah?"
"You fancy yourself a comedian."
Sam's brow furrowed. "I mean... I am funny-"
"Then for Norns’ sake," Loki said, flipping a page with precise disdain, "do your job."
Natasha choked on a laugh.
Steve chuckled under his breath.
Loki felt his chest tighten.
The discussion annoyed him more than he expected. Not because of the concern - no, that part made sense. It was how they discussed it. They were talking in circles, wringing their hands, musing about serotonin and yoga, all while you were in the next room slowly grinding yourself down to the bone doing work that, if Loki wasn’t mistaken, concerned all of them.
Yet... you wouldn't allow a single report to be taken.
"Rogers." Loki snapped the book shut and settled back into his chair, perching his elbows on the upholstered arms. "Might I ask," he drawled, "are you the leader of this team or not?"
Steve’s brow furrowed slowly. "Excuse me?"
"You," Loki said plainly. "Stars and stripes. Human embodiment of a rousing inspirational speech. Are you in charge, or do you all simply loiter in proximity to each other?"
Sam raised his brows.
Loki didn't wait for an answer. "Delegate."
Steve sighed, long and deep.
"I’ve offered. But she’s protective of it; she cares a lot about the work, and her name is all over it. I can't just take it from her."
"Then order her to accept help."
"That's not how we do things," Steve said firmly.
Loki hummed under his breath as the others went back to their own little worlds.
Fascinating.
A room full of soldiers, spies, and scientists...
And yet none of them, not one, had the teeth to intervene.
The following morning, Loki found himself happening across an tiresomely similar scene, this time in the kitchen. The room smelled like toast and bacon and freshly ground coffee and the underlying tension of one person trying very hard to pretend they didn’t have basic human needs.
You sat at the island, dressed in your running tank and leggings, one foot planted on the stool, knee tucked to your chest. The thin veil of control you were clinging to was starting to crack, but you kept working, stubborn and relentless.
Sam leaned against the counter, nursing his coffee like it was a tactical manoeuvre.
"Just saying," he offered gently, "summit’s a couple weeks out. You could afford a break."
"I'll take a break," you said without looking up. "Once this section’s clean. It’s almost there."
Sam glanced over his mug, still trying to be gentle. "You said that yesterday. And the day before that."
"And when you said it Monday, it was 'just a few more paragraphs.'" Steve was crouched by the oven, checking on the bacon.
"I finally got a response I've been waiting for just before I was about to go for a run," you muttered, tapping a line of text and deleting it without mercy. "I'll go outside once I edit this section with this new info."
"Running is training. Training is work," Sam said. "You need something that’s not work. Something for you."
You sighed, long-suffering. "Something for me - something that'll make me feel better - is having this done."
"You know this is how burnout starts, right?" Sam’s voice was calm, but not soft. The therapist was peeking through. "You run hot for too long, you crash hard. You'll think better when your brain’s had room to breathe."
You gave him a look. It wasn’t angry. Just tired.
"And you think a watercolour landscape will clear my head?"
"You need fun. Your body needs endorphins."
"Exercise gives me endorphins."
"And cortisol. Which you've been running high on for almost a week. You need to let loose. Laugh. Give your body a break from the tension."
"I laugh," you said, with the driest tone possible. "You’re all very funny."
"Nope," Sam shook his head. "That’s not real laughter. That’s the social ‘ha.’"
"My ha is perfectly adequate," you snapped, deadpan, looking back to the screen.
Steve snorted.
From the other side of the kitchen, as his coffee trickled through the filter, Loki’s gaze narrowed on you, his eyes sharp as he observed the exchange. It didn’t escape him - your composure had cracks in it, the way your shoulders were wound tight, the way you barely breathed between sentences. His lips curled into a faint, knowing, endeared smile.
So stubborn.
Sam leaned his elbows on the island across from you, clasping his hands together. "What can I do?"
You raised a brow. "I’m not your responsibility, Sam."
"You’re my teammate."
You looked up. And to your credit, there was no venom in your eyes. Just that same brittle exhaustion that’d been following you like a shadow for days. You blew out a breath.
"I’m fine."
"You’ll think better with food," Sam coaxed.
Your jaw tensed. "I know. I'll eat in a bit."
"C'mon," Sam pressed, his voice light but serious. "Sit with us for half an hour, eat something, then you can get back to your 'almost done' report, and we'll all leave you alone."
You looked back at your screen. "I can’t tell if that’s a bribe or a threat."
"Bruce says the stress will kill you," Sam said, half-joking.
"Your jokes might beat it to the punch," you muttered back.
"Wow."
You resumed typing. "I promise, once this summit is over, I'll watch a Netflix special of your choosing and get more than my fill of endorphins."
Loki uncrossed his arms and stepped forward, smooth and deliberate. Unhurried, but with the weight of purpose behind them. He could feel the tension rolling off you, and for reasons he wouldn’t fully admit - couldn’t fully understand... he couldn’t stand it.
"Why," he began, his voice calm but with undeniable mischief laced beneath, "do you all insist on doing this the hard way?"
He rounded the island and approached you from the side, calm, not rushed, but without delay.
He had nothing to do with this - he told himself. This wasn’t about you or your exhaustion. This was just him solving a problem. A problem they were clearly too inept to fix.
Your shoulders didn’t move. You didn’t acknowledge him. You kept typing as he stood behind you.
His hands were on you before you registered the intent.
Loki’s fingers dug into your ribs, pressing and wiggling into the soft spots just beneath your arms with an expert precision.
You jerked, hands flying off the keys with a sharp sound of protest, an involuntary giggle bursting from your throat as you half-twisted, elbows snapping protectively to your sides.
Loki dropped his tickling hands, looming behind you like an impending storm, and let out a sharp and satisfied puff of air. "Thank the Norns."
And then, before you could gather your wits and react, he grabbed you around the waist and hauled you effortlessly off the stool.
You kicked and cursed in wild shock, flailing against the solid vice of his arm around your middle. "HEY!"
Loki looked to the others - their faces painted in quiet hesitance.
"Oh, don’t look at me like that," the god said with cool amusement, adjusting his grip as you writhed in his arms. “You’re all too bloody soft. Someone has to be the villain, and I rather enjoy the role." He then shot a sharp glance to Rogers. "You’re welcome."
He turned and started walking towards the living room.
"LOKI!" You snarled through gritted teeth, pushing at his forearm.
You were squirming like a snared hellcat in his arms, but your body gave you away. You were tired. Overextended. Tied in so many knots you couldn't tell where your own edges begin anymore.
"Let me go!"
"Yes, yes…" he sighed, striding into the large common room. "Once this matter is dealt with."
Bruce glanced up from his usual armchair, blinking behind his glasses. He took in the scene - you writhing in Loki’s arms, Loki’s expression impassive and focused, the faint storm in his stride.
From the threshold, Sam and Steve peered out with matching expressions of amused disbelief.
"Uh…" Bruce looked to the others, eyes wary and uncertain, coffee half-raised to his lips. "So we’re all just cool with whatever this is?"
Loki looked at the doctor briefly. "You said she needed endorphins. Laughter. Yes?"
"Well yeah but-"
"Lovely."
And then he threw you onto the couch.
It wasn't a gentle toss, but not cruel either. It was precise. Designed to disorient, and it did a hell of a job.
You landed on your side with a sharp bounce, half-seething, pushing yourself up with both murder and a giddy sort of nervousness in your eyes. You twisted and moved to scramble away, but he was already there - moving fast and smooth, settling down beside you.
He sat side-on, one knee on the cushion, the other foot braced on the floor. His hip pressed flush to yours, caging you in where you lay half-twisted against the backrest of the couch. His torso leaned across your waist, the angle perfect for blocking your every attempt to curl or wriggle away.
"You son of a-"
You reached up, maybe to push, maybe to slap, maybe to claw his face off - but it didn't matter. He caught your wrist easily, trapping it in mid-air.
"Easy," he said, voice low and warm. "Let’s not make a scene."
"Don’t you dare."
You didn't stand a chance.
He released your wrist and his hands darted fast - intentional, no wasted movement - his fingers dragging and digging into the sensitive space between your ribs and waist, thumbs pressing with precision.
You slapped at his hands, trying to hold back your giggles, still trying to fight, but he already had you.
Fingers spidered across your sides, precise and ticklish, pressing into the spaces between your ribs, the grooves of your waist. You jolted like a live wire. And then-
"Nnn-shit!"
You broke.
Giggling laughter exploded out of you, bright and helpless, like it had been waiting days to claw its way free. You bucked against him, hands slapping at his chest, knees curling up against his back.
He smirked, not even looking up at you, just watching his own hands move, thumbs circling, working the lines of your waist like a musician playing a their attuned instrument.
"Gods above," he muttered with an exhale, actually smiling. "You’re so ticklish."
"Asshole," you managed an adorable little snarl between breaths, but the laughter didn't stop. You were so consumed by the giggles that your protest didn’t sound as defiant as it should. "I ha-hate you!"
He chuckled, low and dark, his voice so teasing. "Oh, you’re going to have to try harder than that."
You let out a squeal when his fingers dug under your arms for half a second - then lower, finding the softest edge of your waist. You shrieked, bucking again, and Loki's grin deepened. His hands settled there with ominous precision.
Oh, he’d found something.
The spot just under your ribs, where nerves tangled and skin jumped at the slightest pressure. He focused there, thumbs pressing maddening circles, fingertips dragging with infuriating care.
You gasped, laughed, cursed - tried to twist, tried to curl - but it was useless. Your muscles had gone soft with the laughing. Your hands pushed at his chest, but there was no strength in them anymore. You were melting under him. And gods, he liked it.
"That’s it," he murmured, low and amused.
You didn't respond. You couldn't. Instead, you started going boneless beneath him.
He tilted his head, fascinated.
So expressive, mortals. All heat and breath and sudden collapse.
You could be a fury incarnate at any waking moment - sharp-tongued, iron-willed, as comfortable with a combat knife as you were in geopolitical briefings. And just as precise.
You’d spent the last week grinding yourself into steel and silence, undereyes shadowed with exhaustion, soaked in irritation, swatting away gentle jokes and light-hearted concern.
And now - reduced to this. Caught somewhere between defiance and surrender. Giggling, shaking, flushed and boneless beneath his hands.
Adorable.
He narrowed his eyes.
When had that word started surfacing in his brain so often?
God of Mischief, he reminded himself. This was simply the application of chaos toward emotional regulation. A necessary correction. Nothing more.
And yet, he could not look away.
He was a trickster, schemer, a thousand-year-old weapon of mass destruction. He had absolutely no business finding a mortal this... this charming.
And yet, he did not want to look away.
What a ruinous little thing you were becoming.
Your slaps were weaker now, your kicks barely jostled him. Your body had given up trying to fight and was just reacting, all frantic little spasms and helpless gasps. Your hands swatted for a second more- then simply curled around his wrists.
Not to push him away.
Just… to hold.
Your knuckles pressed into his sleeves, clinging without purpose, your palms warm against his skin. You were laughing, really laughing now - wild and breathless and beautiful, the sound pouring out of you with no control, like your body had finally found a way to purge the stress.
He watched you unravel under his hands, and it did something to him. Bended something inside him.
The laughter had knocked the fight out of your limbs. You were still squirming, yes, but without aim now. Pure reflex. He could feel the tension in you - the pressure that had been building for days - finally start to release.
He slowed his fingers, letting them glide lightly now, teasing, drawing out that helpless warmth until your laughter turned soft. Sweet. Still squirming, but relaxed.
When you went completely pliant, Loki stilled.
He watched your chest rise and fall, fast but looser. He'd felt the fight seep out of your shoulders, the weight in your brow gone. Your laughter trailed off into a breathless smile, your lips parted, eyes dazed with that post-laughter glow.
"There you are," he murmured, low and quiet, brushing his thumbs gently over your sides, not tickling anymore.
Something knotted tight in his chest as he looked at you - you, who could break bones and weaponise words. You, who had glared at the others like you wanted to bite them for suggesting a break. You, who hadn’t smiled in days, eyes heavy and sleepless with the unbearable weight of caring so very much.
Now a flushed, giggling heap on the couch. Under him. His body curved over yours, his hands still warm at your waist. Your fingers still wrapped loose around his wrists like you didn’t even realise it.
He swallowed.
This had been about endorphins. About tricking your nervous system into resetting. That was all.
Just… good strategy.
Right?
He kept his weight over you, hands still in place, but his voice dipped - lower, closer, with that subtle edge.
"I think your teammates are perfectly capable of helping you finish off those reports," he said. "Wouldn’t you agree?"
You nod without thinking, eyes unfocused. "Yeah."
Loki glanced up. Met Rogers’ gaze. Held it.
Steve was standing there in the kitchen archway, arms crossed, brow lifted. Loki didn't say a word - but the look was pointed.
"Captain Rogers will have Sergeant Barnes review the response to the Wakandan delegation," Loki continued, speaking to you but keeping his eyes on the one apparently in charge. "The others can proofread the rest, and deliver you notes... tomorrow."
"Yeah okay," you sniffed, still dazed, still sputtering residual giggles, but fully aware of your defeat.
Steve's mouth twitched. Not quite a smile.
Loki turned towards the good doctor.
Bruce was still watching from his chair, coffee in hand, one brow raised. Loki cocked his head, gesturing to your giggling form.
"Well, Bruce? What’s your diagnosis?"
Bruce watched you for a long second - your loose limbs, your lazy grin, the visible ease now where tightness had controlled your frame just minutes before. The corners of his mouth turned down in an analytical frown.
"Tension’s down. Endorphins kicked in. She looks lighter. I’d say she could use... another minute or so."
Loki’s smirk turned feral.
You didn't even protest.
You barely registered it, not until his fingers at to your sides started tickling with that same precision, but just a little gentler now, and your body danced with a squealing giggle you didn’t know you had in you.
The couch shook with your laughter again, the sound of your heels thudding against the cushion. You were completely wrecked. And you let it happen. You let him ruin you with laughter, your body betraying you, all your sharpness and strength replaced by unguarded sound and colour and heat.
And Loki...
He was half-smiling down at you like you were dangerous.
Like he was just realising you might be the only thing on this wretched planet that could bring him to heel. That could... soften him. That could make him enjoy softening.
And that, in itself, was terrifying.
But your laughter hit that beautiful, breathless pitch - and he knew he’d be doing this again.
.
.
.
end note:
i need to be clear that the tickle fluff in this fic is not meant to present as the solution to the reader's stress; the delegation of work is. tickling can be fun and sweet and help with relaxation, but it does not fix systemic issues or mental health concerns. this may seem like a weirdly intense note to end on for a fun and fluffy fic, but it wouldn't sit right with me to leave this up to interpretation. lots of love xo
