We’re a family. You can’t choose who you love. Sometimes they choose you. And sometimes, it’s just because you got a really great deal on Craigslist. I got a really great deal on Craigslist. I got all of you.
I’ve read all kinds of posts both from writers and readers lamenting about comments on fic. Authors are upset when they don’t get any, readers don’t know what kinds of comments to leave, etc. And it finally clicked in my brain why I think a lot of people don’t bother writing comments.
And this is what it boils down to:
Writers do not want praise.
We just want to talk about our story.
I can’t speak for everyone obviously - but I think the majority of writers don’t care so much for the “omg you’re a brilliant writer!!” comments as much as we just want to hear your thoughts on the story. Even if it’s just your thoughts as you’re reading of “oooh x happened! I can’t believe y said this! What’s going to happen now that z has happened?!” We literally just want to talk about what we’ve written like you would with a friend about a tv show. We’re not out here demanding praise like some entitled narcissist.
While praising our writing skills or writing style is appreciated, it doesn’t need to be said on every fic and every chapter that you read. If you regularly comment on someone’s work that’s telling enough that you like our technique. Readers shouldn’t feel pressured to have to praise a writer’s abilities every time they want to comment.
In the grand scheme of things, talking about the fic/chapter is actually more helpful to us writers instead of spewing praise. It’s the same with artwork. As nice as it is that people tell me “wow your art is so pretty!” it’s a LOT more useful to me to get comments like “I love their expressions!” or “the lighting on this is gorgeous!” because then I know WHAT people are liking about it. If no one ever comments on my backgrounds, I now know what to improve. If most people comment on liking the expressions, I now know the strong points of my art and can use it to my advantage to make even better art in the future.
The same goes for fic. If multiple people tell me they liked a certain part of the story I now know that things similar to that are a hit. It’s feedback I can use to improve the story and give my readers more of what they want. Without that I have no idea what they like about the fic.
Talking with a writer about their story also gives them inspiration!! Nothing gets us more in the mood to work on a fic than to have people wanting to talk about it. A lot of times just talking about one of my fics with someone will give me that push to continue working on it. Getting a comment that just says “great chapter” or “you’re a great writer” doesn’t do much to motivate us to continue that particular fic. But if you talk about the story and the characters it gives us motivation to continue working on it, may even give us ideas for future chapters. I would hope that those of you with “comment anxiety” find this approach so much easier than trying to praise the writer every time you read.
So that fic the author hasn’t updated in forever that you’re dying to read? Talk to them about the fic and the elements of the story! It will make the writer want to talk to you about it and will get their mind thinking about it, hopefully inspiring them to continue where they left off. Fics that are left in silence are more likely to be abandoned or even deleted because nothing feels worse than putting your heart into a story to have no one say anything about it.
TLDR; Writers do not want praise, we just want to talk with our readers about the story itself, and these are the kinds of comments that inspire us to keep writing more.
Also, this doesn’t have to be in-depth critique. You can just quote a sentence and say “this was my favorite bit!” or “this made me [fill in the reaction]!” or you can say something like “I love the way you write [favorite character/plot point]” or “[idea] was interesting, I never thought about it like that before.”
we haven't really interacted much before but i just really wanted to thank you? i don't know if i can accurately put into words how seeing tcor update made me feel but im going to give it a try. tcor has helped me so fucking much and genuinely it was something i always looked forward to reading and rereading. i don't feel like i have a right to say that this story means so much to me but it does? and i truly hope it doesn't come off the wrong way or appear as if i am saying it is more important to me than it is to you, but just that it holds a very special place in my heart.
i don't want to rant to you or dump my shit on you but i just wanted you to know that tcor hits different. and it's such a cliche thing to say but it's the only way i can think of to convey how tcor makes me feel. sometimes i feel targeted by tcor? in the best way possible? it brings me immeasurable comfort during the early morning hours when i can't sleep and idk i j wanted you to know?
and really i hope you know how much your writing had impacted me and how thankful i am you exist and choose to share your creations with us. i am so sorry some pathetic humans decided to spread their unasked for and toxic comments and i hope they fuck off permanently. idk if it's within my place to say this but i also hope you know how brave and strong you are for choosing to update tcor. idk divine i think you're such a beautiful person and truly i j wanted you to know.
ily darling, sending lots of love.
xx
hi so! i have been trying to figure out how to respond to this for a whole day because it's so sweet and lovely and honest and i feel like i am so unequipped to say anything because for as much of the english language i know, i haven't found words to express how thankful i am.
i don't think that you're trying to say tcor means more to you, but if that's how you feel, i wouldn't mind it. tcor belong to you as much as it belongs to me. i put this story out into the world in the hopes that it would accomplish exactly what you're saying it has - i wanted it to reach people, make them feel less lonely, make them feel like they could love themselves and be loved by others.
so to hear that tcor??? is your comfort fic?? i cannot begin to tell you how much that means to me.
thank you so so much for reaching out to me and letting me know all this!!! like, it's so kind of you to take the time to tell me and it really really means the world to me. it's messages like these that make me keep wanting to write, to keep putting tcor in the world despite the crap that it gets, and to keep pushing through no matter what! so thank you!
i hope that you keep enjoying my silly little loki story, this little thing that i pour my whole heart into, and that it keeps reaching you in any way possible and can continue to comfort you when you need it 💖
Summary: Loki hates the Executive Manager of the Avengers Tower because she’s too loud and too sarcastic and too kind and too soft, especially to him, who really doesn’t deserve it.
Characters: Loki/Plus-sized (f)Reader
Warnings: 18+ (no smut), strong language, anxiety, mentions of torture, mentions of suicide, mentions of violence and war
Word Count: 6176
A/N: Thanks for reading! SURPRISE! I'm back again! I decided that I love this series too much to stay away and it's not fair for a certain selection of people to ruin my happiness just because of their own hurt. So after a much needed break, TCOR is here to stay! Thank you for sticking with me and supporting me through the hard times. Please, if you love this story the way that I do, comment and reblog and come into my inbox and let me know. It's extremely scary for me to be posting this again after the hate, and I could use the extra encouragement. I hope you enjoy seeing our two favorites again 💖 I love you all so much! If you would like to support me, reblog, comment, and donate to my ko-fi! Thank you so much for 2,500 followers and continuing to be incredible. Updates weekly on Saturday. Follow @divine-library and turn notifs on to get notified!
Previous Chapter | Series Masterlist | AO3 | Playlist
Two days left.
You shake your hand out, fingers cramped from holding the black-ink pen too tightly. Pain shoots up your wrist as you try and wiggle feeling back into the appendage, the stack of cards left in the to-do pile still somewhere in the dozens. Each is coated in shiny gold foil, the white insides decorated only by your calligraphy—of which you practiced all last night.
Thank you for your donation to the St. Monica’s Benefit for Brave Faces. Your generosity will help thousands of survivors on their journey to freedom.
There are two days left.
FRIDAY’s playing some mix of indie-pop overhead as you sit on the floor in your office, hunched over the lap desk you’ve been using to write out the cards. Why are you sitting on the floor and hunched over a lap desk instead of sitting in your expensive, comfortable, leather office chair and hunched over your expensive, expansive, oak office desk?
Because you can. And there’s something about sitting on the floor that makes you feel like you’re doing arts and crafts instead of carefully handwriting cards that you’re going to give to rich people donating thousands upon thousands of dollars to your benefit.
You need a drink. Preferably something strong. Because there are only two days left.
Only two fucking days.
The ink is starting to fade in the pen you’re using—one of the thick, felt-tipped ones that help get the letters thick in all the right places and thin in all the others. This is the third one you’ve destroyed, eyes glancing over at the stack of finished cards that threaten to topple over on your desk. You shake your hand out again, the ache starting to spread to your bones.
“Evan!” you call out through the open door of your office. But no sound returns from the hallway where his office is. You want to curse whoever decided to put his office so far away from yours. Probably Tony. “Evan, I think I’m dying!”
When he doesn’t answer, you take the empty pen and aim for the trashcan in the corner of your office. Squinting, tongue between your teeth, you rear back and throw it. It hits the plastic can with a thump and falls to the floor, rolling under a chair.
You sigh and flop back, laying on the ground and staring up at the ceiling. The smooth, unchanging surface wavers as your eyes go unfocused. It’s perfect and pristine and white in a way you could never hope to be. You can’t even make something as simple as these cards perfect—there are at least twenty of them in that same garbage can that were deemed too messy, words too close together or too far apart, ink smudged.
Does perfection exist? It always feels like you’re three steps away, just three steps from crossing into a sacred land, and then it all falls away—you stumble with locked knees and twisted ankles, and your palms scrape burnt earth and reach for dead roots, and perfection slips from your grasp. You hold your hand above you, skin contrasting against the blank canvas of the ceiling. If perfection did exist, would you be the one to embody it?
Or would you be the mistakes left in the trash, to be hidden from view, forgotten about, a source of shame?
You let your hand fall upon your face, the slightest sting of a slap radiating from your palm against your cheek. Obviously you’re too stressed if you’re comparing yourself to a goddamn ceiling. You need a drink like you need a good night’s sleep. In fact, you might have to drink if you want to get any sleep at this point.
There’s only two days left. Two days. Two days.
“Evan!” you yell again, back still pressed against the floor. You’re content to never get up again. Evan will come running at some point.
“You always look this pathetic on the job?”
You pout, craning your head back to see Natasha standing in the doorway of your office. Even from this angle, upside down, she looks gorgeous—black jeans tucked into a pair of knee-high brown boots, a matching leather jacket thrown over her shoulders. Not like you, dressed in slim black slacks and a wrinkled, but tasteful, black polka-dot button down. You look like a thrice-divorced office receptionist who lives off iced coffee. Which at this point, you might as well be.
“Hi, Nattie.”
“C’mon, Zaika. Let’s get you off the floor.”
Natasha steps over you, grabs your hands, and pulls you to your feet, a groan slipping between your lips as the dull ache in your wrist vies for attention. Once you’re vertical again, fixing your shirt and dusting lint from your pants, you flash Nat your Signature Smile.
“What can I do for you?”
She shrugs, adjusting a stack of cards leaning too far to the left. “Nothing. I wanted to check on you now that you’re back to work. See if you were freaking out yet.”
Your grin widens. “Oh, I’m shitting bricks.”
“I know.” She flips a lock of her red hair over her shoulder. “I could smell it from my floor.”
“It’s fine, I’m fine, we’re all fine,” you say, waving her off and plopping into your office chair. “There’s just been a lot of last minute stress. Lots to do. People to call. Things to cry about. Evan’s been great though. Really helpful.”
Natasha raises a slim brow. “Then where is he?”
Your head falls to the side. Where is he, indeed? “He was in his office earlier. Maybe he didn’t hear me call him?”
Suddenly, like an answer from the heavens, your cell phone rings. Evan’s employee ID flashes on the screen and you grab it, answering immediately.
“Hel—”
“It’s an emergency!” Evan’s voice is shrill and panicked on the other side, and you stand up from behind the desk, already gathering your things. Ice floods down the back of your neck, chilling your bones, stricken.
“Where are you? Are you hurt?” Your gaze catches Natasha’s, whose eyes narrow in confusion. FRIDAY hasn’t alerted anyone about an intruder or an accident. If something was happening, her alarm would be blaring.
“I’m downstairs,” Evan nearly sobs. “There’s a problem with catering! I don’t know what to do.”
“You do it. I’ll mess it up.”
“I—You’re, like, a foot taller than me. You do it. It’s just a couple of lights.”
“Then why are we the ones setting it up?”
“Because I sent the people who were supposed to be doing this to handle all the cleaning. Because the people who were supposed to be cleaning are now dealing with the kitchen, which catering was supposed to do. Because for some reason, in one of my past lives, I angered god and now he’s punishing me by having the company I had booked for months pull out two days before the biggest night of my life. And you know why? Because even when there’s ten floors between us, Tony Stark is finding ways to piss me off.”
Evan eyes the ladder set against the wall like it’s a monster hiding under his bed. It’s a little funny, really, how much he’s grimacing. But when his eyes dart to you, there’s a dash of intimidation that almost makes you preen haughtily. Evan should be afraid of you. After the riot that today’s been, you’re surprised flames haven’t burst from underneath your feet and swallowed you whole in fury.
He’s been good about everything, too. Since his call a few hours ago, Evan has been running back and forth on every errand you’ve sent him on—not complaining once, even as you spit biting words in anger at him, stressed. You owe him dinner, and maybe one of those huge bottles of whiskey.
But even with all that owing, you’re not about to get your fat ass up on that ladder. Not when you trip over your own two feet standing perfectly still. If Evan doesn’t get up on the ladder, then the lights just aren’t getting hung.
“C’mon!” You slap your hand on his back, making a quiet noise of disgust when you hit the patch of sweat that’s permeated through his dark button-up shirt. “Isn’t this what we hired you for?”
He shoots you a look out of the corner of his eye. “I know what you’re doing.”
“Yeah,” you snort. “It’s called manipulation and I’m really good at it. So get up on the ladder, Boseman.”
Evan stares at the looming wall, which is sad and lightless, like he’s saying his last rites or something. You bite down on your lip to stop from laughing.
“I feel like this is workplace harassment,” he says, but ultimately bends down and sifts through the box of string lights at your feet. “I don’t think you’re allowed to be mean to me like this. Is there an HR department around here or are they busy too?”
“Technically, I’m your superior so I can boss you around. You work for me, not Tony. Or Pepper. That’s why you get to have so much fun!” You grin at him and help to untangle the fairy lights, fingers picking at the white-coated wires to pull them apart from each other. Evan cracks a smile, but tries to cover it with a stern look.
“I feel like you get enjoyment out of this.”
“Oh, absolutely.” You nod your head. “You just make it so easy, so fun, Evan. How am I supposed to help myself?”
“Hey,” Natasha cuts in, carrying gauzy decorations in her arms. “Less talking, more working.”
Evan immediately seizes up, his heels nearly clipping together at attention, but you just shoot her a dry look as your hands work at the strings of lights.
“Don’t use your mission voice on me,” you snark at her.
“Then don’t rope me into doing stupid shit like this.”
Your jaw drops. “You volunteered!” Immediately, your eyes go wide and your lips set into a pout, looking at Natasha like she’s betrayed you. Even your shoulders slump down, head falling to the side as you stare at her, watching as she rolls her beautiful eyes.
“Only because you look at me like that, Zaika. If you weren’t so cute, I would have to kill you.” Nat shifts the decorations in her arms, regathering the folds of fabric to adjust her hold, and then keeps walking. The translucent curtains you’ve asked her to hang around the ballroom space trail after her on the freshly mopped ground, almost like a bridal train.
“Thank you!” you shout at her back, unable to find a word in this language to convey how grateful you really are.
When you rushed down to meet Evan in the ballroom, Natasha didn’t have to follow after you. And when you nearly broke down and cried about the catering fuss, she didn’t have to rub your back and tell you it was going to be okay. And when you finally made a plan and needed people to help you execute it, she didn’t have to volunteer to help take over decorating. She did that on her own, just like the first time she came to your aid on her own.
The day she found you at the diner you would spend Saturday nights with Tony at until the early hours of the morning, when she took you by the arm and hauled you to the twenty-four hour gym across the street and started to teach you self-defense, when she found you that night and carried you on her back to Tony’s lab even as you stained her clothes red and trailed blood behind her—she didn’t have to do that. Natasha did all of that on her own.
But you hope she knows how thankful you are, time and time again when she does. You hope she knows how much you love her.
“She’s terrifying,” Evan murmurs beside you.
You shake your head. “No, she’s really not. She’s just strong, and maybe a little intimidating. But she’s a really, really good person.”
Evan makes a noise of disagreement but leaves it be, too bothered by untangling a new strand of lights as he glares at the ladder he knows he’ll have to climb up soon. It’s quiet between the two of you for a long moment before he speaks again.
“She’s close with Sergeant Barnes too, isn’t she?”
A little startled at the question, your head whips up to look at him. Evan has enough sense to look sheepish when his eyes meet yours.
“Why do you ask?”
“I mean, it’s not every day that you get to work with superheroes, y’know?” He laughs, but a sigh follows, sobering. “Please, please don’t tell him, but I’m kind of—I’m kind of a fan of Sergeant Barnes.”
Your eyes narrow. “You’re a fan of the Winter Soldier?” A prickle of irritation sears through your skin and a feral, protective urge overcomes you even as his eyes widen and he brings his hands up in surrender.
“No, no! Never! My—” Evan clears his throat nervously. “Every man in my family has served in some war. My grandfather in Vietnam. Both my great grandfathers in World War II, y’know. And my—my father died in service. And my mom, she begged me not to… not to follow. So I’m the only one who’s never served.”
My heart clenches. “Oh, Evan…”
“My dad was a prisoner of war back in Afghanistan.” His voice is thick. “He died there, afterward. So Sergeant Barnes… I just feel a connection, I guess. I’m sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry for accusing you of that. I didn’t mean to push you into telling a story you didn’t want to tell.”
Evan laughs it off quietly. “It’s okay, I don’t mind. I’ll try not to ask so many questions about him. It’s kinda overstepping, isn’t it? Since you two are close, I’m kinda taking advantage.”
You shrug. “I get it. If I was in your shoes, I’d probably do the same. And yes, for your information, Nat and Bucky are good friends.”
He hums at that. “I heard they have history together.”
“A little.” You try to focus on the lights in your hands, your fingers pushing the wires through their own loops. “Not anymore, though.”
“Now it’s just you?”
Your eyes snap to his. Something about the way he says it fries your brain—like you know you need to correct him, you want to correct him, but it almost makes you feel too vulnerable to admit the truth. As if the idea that Bucky is yours might be a shield, one that you don’t mind cowering behind. What are you cowering from?
Still, you open your mouth to tell Evan that no, you and Bucky are not involved, when someone’s phone rings, echoing like a shrill alarm in the large ballroom. Evan drops the lights he’s been untangling and digs through his pocket to answer.
It’s then that you realize you’ve been standing there, not moving, for the past few minutes. Evan exchanges empty words as you stare at the string of lights between your hands, noticing a chip in your manicure on your right index finger. Why aren’t you moving? Why can’t you just say it—tell him that you and Bucky aren’t as close as he keeps insinuating you are. Tell him the truth.
You can’t use Bucky to protect yourself.
What do you even need protecting from? Why do you always feel unsafe? Is that why you keep him around—because you need him to feel safe in your own home? Do you think he’ll protect you? You need him for his security? Is he just what safety he can provide you? Is that all he’s good for?
Are you safe, in that other reality?
“Good news and bad news,” Evan says in a hurried breath as he hangs up the phone, breaking you from your unfocused staring. “Bad news is that the old caterers are refusing to work for a Stark event ever again.”
“Yikes.”
“Good news though! I got a last minute catering company to step up and they just got vetted through. I need to go meet with them and sign the contracts.” He wipes his hands on the thighs of his slacks, a frown on his face. “That means you’ve gotta get up on the ladder.”
You blink, ignoring him. “You contacted a new caterer? And got them vetted?”
“Of course I did. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to try.”
“I—” A sharp inhale. “I just didn’t expect you to do that. I mean, all our usual caterers couldn’t step up and I—”
“You’re stressed,” he says. “I figured I could just give it a shot to call some different vendors. Almost all of them said no, but hey, we got lucky.” Evan smiles, looking all too proud of himself.
“Well,” you swallow, “I’m glad that you took the initiative. Thank you, Evan.”
He nods his head, shoving his hands into the pockets of his slacks. “No problem, boss. I gotta jet over and meet with them. I’ll let you know what happens.”
And then, with one last smile and a two-fingered salute, Evan walks away, and you feel the last bit of control you’ve been clinging onto so desperately slip away with him. You don’t understand why it’s so jarring—why something is twisting your gut and why your hands feel clammy and why you just want to run away. Run far, far away from here.
You want to get in your car and go, top down and music blasting on max volume, the wind in your hair as you scream with the lyrics until your throat is raw, driving toward the ocean and never stopping, never going home, Loki in the passenger—
Would Loki run away with you? He let you, that day, and pretended not to notice as you cried fat tears that didn’t feel like they belonged to you anymore. They belonged to the girl you were running away from, so desperately.
(Bucky Barnes would have made you pull over, wiped your tears from your eyes and taken the wheel, and driven you back home. You don’t know which one would’ve been better.)
It’s stress. It’s just stress. You just have to make it until after the gala. Two more days. Just two more days. Two more fucking days.
A rush of adrenaline runs through you at the thought. You snarl under your breath, ripping a strand of untangled lights from out of the cardboard box, and you stare at the ladder. Then, armed with tiny, invisible hooks, you climb up the steps—two, then four, then eight, and then you’re at the top of the world. Almost literally.
You can touch where the ceiling of the ballroom begins to curve upward. When you look down behind you, all you can see is what your body might look like when it tumbles down and splats against the marble floor.
Not an image you want to have in your head. Instead, you focus on sticking the little hooks to the top of the wall and draping the lights over it to hang what will form a bright, shimmering waterfall.
You carry on like that for a while, completely mindless. It’s the one time in the last few weeks your brain has actually been quiet—too focused on not falling from the ladder and getting the lights in place. You climb, you measure the space between hooks, you press, you hang. And then you climb down, move the ladder, and do it again.
Somehow, between counting the rungs as you take each step, your mind begins to wander from your fear of being smeared across the floor to the handwritten note you found on your coffee table only a week ago. It’s occupied your mind quite a few times since you read its contents, and more often than not, your mind would drift off toward the one who wrote it in the quiet moments.
Loki and Thor have been gone for over a week, but it’s been long enough that your teeth sink into your bottom lip when you think of them. Although most of the time, and you wouldn’t ever admit it out loud, you’re only thinking of Loki. It’s his first mission as a probationary Avenger, and from what little info Nat’s casually—and very illegally—mentioned to curb your anxieties, he wasn’t given an easy one.
You know the general classes of missions: low-risk, medium-risk, and high-risk. The kind of mission Loki and Thor were sent on, agents adorably refer to as “Return-To-Sender.”
As in the body. If they recover it.
Logically, you know that it shouldn’t worry you. Every Avenger has been sent on these kinds of missions and they’ve all returned—worse for wear, maybe, and in need of therapy, but they returned.
And Loki is a God. Loki and Thor are Gods. They have seen worse, have fought worse, have done worse. They can come out of this alive and unharmed, you know.
But the fact that Loki only gets sent on these missions—glorified suicide missions—puts both anger, hot like burning coals, and fear, as numbingly cold as frostbite, in your system. It’s always bothered you, even before Loki left on his first mission. When Tony told you that it’s what Fury assigned, you almost stomped your way over to his office to call Fury up and tell him exactly what you thought about that plan.
And when you found out he left, when you found the note that threatened to sear his calligraphy into your skin with its green glow of magic, when you read the contents—
I truly believe that you are the only one that I would miss if I were gone.
—you thought your heart was going to seize up and fucking shatter, like a crack running through a frozen lake, threatening to upset the still waters below its cap as spiderwebbing threads ran through the ice and weakened its defenses.
Maybe it’s that feeling that assaults you again, makes you flinch just enough for the ladder beneath you to wobble, for you to lose your balance and for your office-appropriate flats to slip from the grip of the rung, for your arms to flail wildly trying to catch something, anything, and for you to plummet off the ladder anyway.
You don’t scream. You don’t even make a sound. You just stare up at the lights you’ve hung from the ceiling and think that of course it’d be you to fall off the goddamn thing. You told Evan. You told him so.
You don’t even think about how much it’s going to hurt.
Except it’s nothing like you expect. You land on something that’s less unyielding than the stone floor, something that’s not exactly soft but it isn’t as painful as you would have thought. In fact, it barely hurt at all.
And then you open your eyes and you’re staring into the same frozen lake you swore you had shattered like your own goddamn heart, because it’s Loki’s arms, strong and unflinching that hold you, saving you from certain doom. If your heart were to beat any faster it would take off, jumping ship from your ribcage and slipping between Loki’s where it so desperately wants to find sanctuary.
Wait, what?
“I leave for one week and you’re throwing yourself off some metal contraption?” Loki raises a brow at you, but he hasn’t moved to drop you from where he holds you against his chest, one arm bracing your back and the other curled around your knees.
“You’re back?” you whisper, and you hate how small and soft your voice sounds, but you’re so close to him, he’s holding you, he’s here and he’s okay—not a scratch on him that you can see—and you’re so confused because when did you start thinking about Loki so much?
No, maybe that’s the wrong question.
When did you start missing him—missinghim like he’s a piece to the puzzle of your life that you need?
He laughs, a little like a huff, as if you would even ask such a thing.
“I’m here, aren’t I? And it seems to be in your favor,” he muses. There’s mischief in his eyes again—something you so rarely see unless the two of you are alone—and it only draws you in under his spell. That green seidr he uses so beautifully, the one which enchants the letters he leaves you, that coalesces like the Northern Lights in the reflection of his eyes. You’re mesmerized.
“Thank you,” you say on a breath, voice shaky.
Then something clatters from the kitchen and you’re startled, and the thread connecting him to you snaps, and you’re suddenly awake again.
“Okay, you can put me down now, hero.” You bite your tongue to keep from making some sort of comment about how heavy you know you are—after all, if he’ll just put you down, he won’t have to carry you anymore.
“I am not sure I can trust you to stand on your own,” he teases—Loki teases! Your jaw threatens to drop. “But if you insist.”
It’s gentle, somehow. The way he sets you back on your feet. Loki’s hold is different than Thor’s in the same way that the two of them are so alike, and yet so different. Thor picks you up like you’re nothing, squeezing you to him and twirling you around until you can’t breathe, and then he drops you softly. It isn’t rough by any means, but it’s different from how Loki treats you.
Loki holds you like you’re fragile. Like if he lets you go, you’ll break. He gently lowers your legs until your feet are touching the ground, and he waits until he’s sure you’re settled and balanced to even think about retracting his arm. He pulls away like it pains him, but when he does, he takes a whole step back and away from you.
And then you remember—Loki hates being touched.
“Sorry,” you murmur, brushing invisible dirt from your clothes.
Loki only gives you that same quizzical look. “For jumping off that thing?” He glances at the ladder, sitting innocently against the wall. “I would hope so.”
“I didn’t—” Your face suddenly feels hot. “I didn’t jump off it! I fell, and I told Evan that I wasn’t getting on the stupid ladder ‘cause I knew I’d fall.”
“And yet you climbed it anyway.” He looks amused, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a would-be smile. It makes him look younger, if possible. The scowl he constantly wants to wear marrs his face and makes him carry the year, as if it were a millenia, he spent under the control of Thanos on his brow.
Still, you put your hands on your hips and give him your best scalding glare. “Did you just come to mock me, Loki?”
He huffs that laugh again. “If I remember correctly, I saved you.”
“Well, yeah, but you mocked me while you did that too!”
“Actually,” Loki says, clearing his throat, “I came to ask you something.”
You freeze at that, taken aback. He looks almost nervous, if you could call it that. His lips are pinched and he’s glancing between you and the wall you’ve been decorating. And, for fuck’s sake, your heart feels like it’s going to explode in your chest from the way your mind fixates on one thing and one thing only.
Is Loki going to ask you to be his date for the gala?
“Have you eaten yet?” he asks instead, and you swear your stomach tangles itself up like fishing line, too thin and too tight to ever be unraveled.
You blink at him. “No?”
He nods, as if he’s expecting such an answer. “I thought, perhaps, that you might accompany me out.”
If this was a TV show, a laugh track would be on loop right now. There should be a big neon sign above your head that says “clown” in bright letters. Because as soon as his words bounce around inside your brain about three times, and you come to the realization of their meaning, you choke on a gasp you sucked down too quick and you’re left sputtering in front of him.
“Huh?” is your intelligible response.
Loki looks flustered now, if that’s possible. He’s fidgeting a little, and if you were anyone else, you probably wouldn’t have noticed. Loki is always so still, unmoving, unwavering. He stands tall and rigid, like a true prince, and moves with purpose. But he’s just a little too twitchy, shifting as he stands before you, and you know it’s not normal.
“You once promised me Greek,” he reminds you. “I’ve eaten nothing but that awful pre-packaged Midgardian slop you call food for a week. I was hoping you’d make good on your offer and remind me why I am not trying to rule your planet again.”
The laugh that bursts from your mouth is loud and obnoxious and you want to slap your hand over your mouth, but it’s just too much. Your arms wrap around your middle as your shoulders shake with glee, tears blurring your vision, but even then you can see the smile that breaks apart Loki’s thin lips and it shines like a silver lining on a cloud and you can’t help but crave its brightness.
You want to steal his smile—see what it tastes like.
By the time you’re reining in your laughter, you’re out of breath and wiping tiny tears from the corner of your eyes, and Loki has his arms crossed over his chest, but at least he’s more relaxed than before. That wide, light-up grin is gone, but in its place is a small smile, and that’s enough for you.
The pit of anxiety growing inside you, however, isn’t something you want to deal with.
“I wish I could,” you murmur, and you watch instantly as that smile melts from his mouth and it hurts, “but I really, really can’t. We had a catering disaster earlier and I have to get this room decorated, and Evan is talking to this new caterer, but if they don’t sign the contract then I don’t know what to do for food, and really I have thank you cards to finish too, and—”
“If I help, then will you come with me?”
For the second time today, you’re not only stunned into silence, but you’re genuinely questioning if you’re awake. And if you’re awake, is this really Loki you’re talking to?
“I—what?”
Loki ducks down a little, closer to your level to meet your eyes. “If I help you with these… tasks, will you join me for lunch?”
Your head falls to the side, eyes glazing over as you lose yourself in the simple thought that Loki, Prince of Asgard, Rightful King of Jotunheim, is offering to help you decorate the ballroom so that you’ll eat lunch with him. And if that isn’t somehow the sweetest and silliest thing you’ve ever heard, and the strangest, and the softest, and the most un-Loki thing you could think up because Loki doesn’t like you, Loki tolerates you because you are the only person who ever extended a hand to him, treated him like he wasn’t just a rabid dog that deserved to be caged up, and a part of you doesn’t even want to think about the fact that Loki doesn’t like you, because you just want to think about the fact that he’s here, and he’s safe, and he’s offering to help you decorate the goddamn ballroom so you’ll eat lunch with him, for fuck’s sake.
“You would do that?” you ask, almost breathless.
That little quirk in his lip returns. “I’m offering, am I not?”
Swallowing, you nod your head mindlessly, unable to meet his eyes. “I really need these lights hung.” You show him the little hooks in your palm. “You’re taller than me, so it’ll be easier.”
Loki gently pries the strand of lights from your hands. “Most everyone is taller than you, Kjære.”
And then he climbs the ladder and makes it look elegant, somehow, his long limbs defying gravity with every step, wiry muscles moving beneath the tight material of his slacks. Emptily, you wondered how his ass would look in a pair of Levi’s, and then your cheeks turn so hot you have to bend over and hide your face in the box of lights.
The two of you work in that companionable silence Loki enjoys, with you untangling fairy lights to hand off to him, and him never faltering on the ladder you swore was rocking back and forth beneath your unsteady feet.
When Natasha passes by you, she raises a slim brow, glancing between you and the God who’s too busy installing a hook to see her. You promptly ignore her.
Between the two of you, the entire ballroom is covered from ceiling to floor in waterfalling lights, and Evan has yet to return. He hasn’t even sent you a text, which worries you, but you don’t have the capacity to think about catering when you realize Natasha is still working on hanging the gauzy curtains, which will dampen the brightness of the lights and add a hazy glow to the room once everything is done.
Loki looks pleased with himself, however, as he descends from the ladder and steps back to take a look about the room. After a moment and a satisfied nod of his head, he turns to look at you.
“Lunch?” he asks, icy eyes not so cold anymore. Not to you, at least.
You hesitate again, and maybe he senses your reluctance, because it almost seems like his shoulders deflate. But of course, you know that’s ridiculous. Or maybe you want to think you’re being ridiculous, because the truth is you know your refusal will be a blunt knife stabbing through his pride, but you have to refuse. You have to refuse.
“The ballroom—” You gesture to where Natasha is. “It’s not going to get done if I don’t stay, Loki. I’m sorry. Why don’t I order you lunch from that place, and then we’ll go out after the benefit?”
But before he has a chance to speak, and before he has a chance to give you that look of betrayal you’re preparing yourself for, the sound of familiar boots clipping across the marble floor steals Loki’s eyes from yours and you turn your head.
“Here are her things.” Natasha’s already pressing your—yes, your—purse into Loki’s hands, that innocent smirk painting her lips better than any red lipstick could. “I want Dolmas, and a Greek salad too. And she loves Baklava, but she won’t admit it, so order it for her.”
Your jaw might as well be on the floor right now, but Nat just shrugs.
“Right,” Loki says, looking amused. And your jaw is definitely on the floor now at the fact that Natasha just ordered Loki to do something and he agreed to it. This is a sign—the world is ending, the apocalypse is on its way, the benefit is going to go down in flames. You just know it.
With a hand on your shoulder, Natasha smiles at you. “Evan will be back soon and he’ll help me with whatever’s left, okay? Go, take a break. If anyone needs it, it’s you.”
Frowning, you glance down at your outfit. It’s probably the first time in a long time you’re actively worried about how you’re dressed, and you don’t want to admit it’s because of the man dressed in black Egyptian cotton standing in front of you, holding your bag in his hand, an impish smile on his face as he waits for you.
Natasha slips behind you and, as if she can read your mind, retucks the back of your shirt into the waistband of your slim ankle pants, patting your ass on the way.
“Have fun,” she whispers in your ear. Her voice says she knows something you don’t, and god, you have never wanted to know a spy’s secrets more than you do in this moment, because you’re sure it tastes like a God’s mouth would.
You’re so fucked.
When you snatch your purse from Loki’s hand, he only laughs and holds out his arm to you. And, god, if you don’t find yourself looping your arm around his, fingers resting in the crook of his elbow, feeling something twisting tight in your stomach like a caterpillar spinning its cocoon out of your amino acids.
“Ready?” he asks, his voice taking that soft tone he uses when he’s alone with you, and you can’t help but nod, and god, you’re so fucked.
IT’S BACK! I absolutely love love love this chapter. I could feel the stress from the event planning (been there several times) and I absolutely ADORED how helpful and devious (and helpfully devious) Natasha was!
Me, culturally Protestant, walking into a Catholic church filled balls to the walls with paintings sculptures candles and god knows what else: why’s there so much stuff
Me, vampire, walking into any denominational holy place: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
“If today ends up being the Best Day You’ve Ever Had Since Joining the Avengers—”
“Being imprisoned by the Avengers,” he corrects.
“—then you have to say one respectful, borderline nice, thing to me every day.”
Or, Loki hates the Executive Manager of the Avengers Tower because she’s too loud and too sarcastic and too kind and too soft, especially to him, who really doesn’t deserve it.
Characters: Loki/Plus-sized (f)Reader
Warnings: 18+ (eventual smut), strong language, graphic depictions of violence, insecurity, trauma (mentions of torture), post traumatic stress disorder, anxiety and panic attacks
Yeah, and you can also get tired of criticizing something you love. You can get completely fed up with it and decide, “You know what? Flaws aside, I love this thing, and I don’t have to waste hours of my life admitting its flaws to strangers on the Internet in order to somehow justify my love of it.” You can get sick of watching others gleefully tear it apart, for no reason other than that it’s popular and they hate that you love it. You can get sick of watching others tearing it apart with good intentions, too.
In the end, it’s just a cartoon, or a book, or a movie. It’s not that serious, and you can enjoy it without hyper-focusing on its flaws. You don’t need to justify your love of something to someone else, least of all a person you don’t even know.
Summary: Autistic!Reader has a meltdown in the cafe. Luckily, there is a Dr. Reid nearby.
A/N: This is purely self-indulgent and I refuse to apologize for it.
Couple: Spencer Reid/Fem!Reader
Category: Fluff, Comfort
Content Warning: Autistic meltdown, self-harm (hitting), sensory overload
Word Count: 3.2k
MASTERLIST
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I have become convinced over my decades of existence that there is no place with sounds more varied and chaotic than a cafe. For all intents and purposes, I should despise this place. The pungent, conflicting smells and the tight spaces filled with grumpy people should repel me like two north poles of a magnet.
And the sounds. Again, the sounds. The cashier till ringing and electric machines whirring. The customer chatter and the clatter of glassware. It was nothing but lawless pandemonium. There was no rhyme or reason to what you would hear, and the patterns were jagged and imprecise. I couldn’t predict what would happen with any better accuracy than I could guess someone’s name. I might get it right occasionally, but would it really be worth the energy to try? My brain would try to focus on everything and succeed at nothing. No matter how much time I spent there, I wasn’t be able to identify anything. But that day, all I could hear was the sound of the faulty faucet.
Anon asked: you said to drop ONE smut prompt but 12 + 22 just seem like they were made for each other
12: “This couch cost fifteen thousand dollars, don’t you dare ruin it.” “Guess I’ll just have to cum inside you.”
22: “You aren’t taking me to bed…ever” “Who said it had to be a bed?”
Pairings: SpencerXReader
Rating: M
Words: 3.1K
Warnings: SMUT! This is just smut; Dom!Spencer, fingering, sexual conduct, slight breeding kink, language
Request: OPEN/CLOSED
Summary: Y/N is an rich entitled socialite Spencer can’t help but teach a lesson.
A.N: This is just a hate-sex smut fic so the reader is kind of a bitch but I love her. The gown for the Fundraiser inspo is this link. Let me know what y’all think. Much love, Cia
Light peeked through the curtains of the guest room. Cate turned over, burying her face in Spencer’s chest. He was also beginning to wake up, and tightened his arm that was wrapped around her. Cate felt at peace; the only sound was some Christmas music coming from downstairs. Cate could tell the music was coming from her mother in the kitchen. The smell of muffins wafted in from the open door.
Flavor shot: Holiday Blend- Blue Christmas: Part 1
Series Masterlist
“See you in like a week?” Cate wasn’t sure if she was comforting Spencer or herself with her words. Despite only being a week and a half ago, it had felt like months since they had admitted their love for one another. The two had spent every night leading up to this morning with each other. Alternating between Spencer’s apartment and Cate’s to make sure Shrimp didn’t get too lonely on his own, though he did prefer the quietness of an empty apartment.
“Yeah, I’ll uh…” Spencer gestured to his gate at the airport. He had begun to walk towards it but turned on his heel back towards Cate. “Are you sure you don’t want me to go back to New Hampshire with you?”
“Go see your mom for the holidays!” Cate gently pushed his shoulders. “We’ll be fine! I think we can stand to spend a few days apart.” she laughed as Spencer drew her in for one last hug. At least, that’s what they had said the last few hugs. With a final quick peck on the lips, Cate stepped backward, extending a hand, barely gripping Spencer’s fingers. “Tell her I said hi and that I wish her a Merry Christmas.” Cate smiled as she finally dropped Spencer’s hand.
