please please please give me more domestic avengers tower loki
You think that you and Loki are dating. Maybe. Probably.
Two months ago, Loki waltzed up to you in the common room kitchen and instructed you—instructed being the apt word, because his snotty tone implied that there was absolutely no arguing—that you would be going to the theatre that evening.
“What should I wear?”
“Something nice.” His eyes had practically shredded your clothes, raking over your body with a devil’s intent. “Send me pictures. So we can match.”
He never called it a date, though. He just took you places. And held your hand. And offered you his coat, even when you insisted that you already had one, which he took from you with a rolled eye and held under his arm instead so that you had no choice but to wear his. In public.
So you had to be dating… right?
You’re lost in a daydream when a hand slides over the small of your back. You startle, spinning around to confront your assailant with enough force to scatter the onions you’re chopping in perfect semi-circle. Bewildered (and a little condescending), Loki blinks down at the shards of root vegetable scattered across his socks. “Did I scare you?”
You sigh, leaning your forehead on his shoulder. “Yeah. Yeah, give me a second.”
His hand rises absentmindedly to rub your arm, soothing up and down your bicep until your heartbeat slows. “It’s only me, dove.”
“You were scary, once.”
“Hmph! I'm still scary.” The onions disapparate with a wave of his hand and a little sizzling sound. “What are you making?”
“Soup.” He smells good. You press your nose against the slip of skin between his shirt collar and his throat, trying not to be too obvious about how you’re drinking in his cologne. “Everyone’s leaving for that peace conference in New Zealand tomorrow, so I thought we could do a big dinner before they go. Wanda’s coming to work on the main course in a bit but this needs to sit in the Crock-Pot for a few hours.”
“You were planning on cutting a hundred onions by hand?”
“Help me?”
Loki's devious fingers trail along the side seam of your t-shirt. “For a price.”
“What price?”
He peels you off his shoulder, just far enough to look at you, and you can tell by the way his skin crinkles around his eyes that he’s aware of your secret snuffling. He doesn’t call you out on it, though; only rakes his gaze over you and smiles. “I haven’t decided yet.”
“That’s not fair. I can’t agree to something I don’t know the stakes of.”
“You’ll have to, if you want my help.”
“I could just refuse and work alone.”
“Oh, but then I’ll grow so horribly bored that I will have no choice but to act out. And who knows what I’ll do.” His hands creep under your hem, admiring the give of your skin when he paws at it. “I can promise you that we won’t be finished in time for dinner.”
“Fine.”
You put him to work chopping vegetables while you start on the roux. He’s only half-hearted in his efforts though, more concerned with staring at the side of your face. He loves to study you. Sometimes you catch him trying to pace his breathing to match yours, late at night; or you’ll spot his cheek twitching to mimic your smile whenever you laugh. He’s picked up certain mortal turns of phrase, only to use them incorrectly in the hopes that you’ll lecture him.
Your eyes connect for a heartbeat, and the clock display on the oven is wiped clean by Loki’s seidr.
“Are we dating?” You only half-mean to say it; it was more a fleeting thought than a real concern, but the silence that had settled over the two of you was begging to be broken. The rhythmic chopping sound ceases, and you internally wince without looking back at him.
“Have I not been taking you on dates?”
“Yeah, but—”
“But, what?”
“Are we… dating dating?”
“Speak earnestly, sphynx. I don’t have time for riddles.”
“Is this just for fun? Or is it for serious?”
Loki Laufeyson is holding a knife. A year ago, the Avengers wouldn't have let him within ten feet of anything with a decently sharpened edge, and now he blinks his pretty eyes back at you—covered in onion skin and scraps of carrot—like you’re a particularly unreasonable puzzle that he is remiss to solve. “‘For serious’?”
“Like, together. Boyfriend-girlfriend.”
“Am I not sufficiently domesticated?”
“Well, yeah.”
“Then why are you asking me such asinine questions?”
“You know what? Nevermind. I get it.”
“Sphynx. Faerie. Look at me.” He turns you around by your waist, holding you in place so he can shoot you an irate-but-loving glare. “Stop speaking in riddles and tell me plainly: do you love me?”
“Of course I do.”
“Well, then that answers everything, because I love you, too.”
“Oh.”
His mouth curls with a certain rose-coloured cruelty. Loki leans in just near enough that his mouth ghosts over yours, but his hands hold you firm, thumbs digging a warning into your hips when you try to cross the rest of the distance. “You’re so verbose. Oh.”
“Stop making fun of me.”
His lips slide to the curve of your jaw. “I’m afraid that is an impossible request, darling. Now, can you get these into your pot-of-crock? I have a very short fuse left before I must ravish you and it burns hotter every second.”
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