Face of Gold, Heart of Coal (That's my Cross to Bear, Baby!)
You and Loki have an agreement - just sex with absolutely no feelings. None. Nu-uh. Zero.
(Unfortunately you both signed that agreement with your fingers crossed)
Seems untrue (but I know I do)
Woken from a deep sleep by an emergency alert, you and Loki help each other get suited up to save the world.
Long Fics/Series
Nomad!AU - Loki joins you and Team Nomad on the run from the authorities post-Civil War/Ragnarok
masterlist
Baby fever AU - Loki + you + baby makes three... or four.... or five...........
masterlist
The Weight - Soulmate-identifying marks AU - When a picture of Loki's soulmark goes viral, his mood takes a dramatic turn. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that your soulmarks match.
chapter 1 / chapter 2 / epilogue
Bite The Hand - !dubious consent warning! You are a disciple of the God of Mischief, Loki. After accidentally discovering just how cruel your master an be, you find an equal appetite awakened in yourself. Perhaps... there are more ways to worship a God than at an altar.
masterlist
Loki's (Humiliating) Alien Biology
(You and Loki try to navigate your cultural and biological differences where love, sex and marriage are concerned.)
Love At First Sight (Or Should I Walk By Again?)
(the one where Loki keeps giving you mixed signals and you decide to take matters into your own hands. To mixed results.)
chapter 1 / chapter 2
Must be a Dream
(or - frost giant biology is weird and Loki has to suffer the consequences.)
chapter 1 / chapter 2
Reblog this if you want readers to come into your ask box and ask for the “director’s commentary” on a particular story, section of a story, or set of lines.
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unironically love the updates on your escapades just as much as your wonderful writing <3
Asjdjfjfjfjdjjfjjf you might enjoy this tidbit, then - I'm currently learning how to SWORDFIGHT (rapier) for Romeo and Juliet. I'm um... not very good, but I've got the spirit.
Between sword rehearsal and ballet class, my abs do kind of feel like someone has tenderized them with a hammer. But the "special skills" section on my theatre resume is popping OFF rn so it's worth it lol
Oh also I miss you. We all miss u. Ik ur busy being an incredible actress and living like a normal human but… I miss our little talks…
ajfjks hi anon I miss you too
I HAVE been busy being an incredible actress. I've just finished a three-week-long run production (I was something of an audience favourite). No time to rest, though, because rehearsals have already begun for Romeo and Juliet, which opens in July!
I am still writing, albeit slowly. I have a lot of free time on the train to/from rehearsal to write, but the words are elusive right now because of how tired I am. As proof of my efforts, I give to you a humble preview of a request I've been plunking away at - lots of yearning and pridefulness in this one.
thinking about washing loki’s hair. that is all :)
Steam clings to each inhale, carrying the scent of water and perfumed soap. Loki luxuriates at its source, cloaked in pale bathwater while he traces lazy circles over his breastbone, skin pinked around the edges from the heat. Every inch of him is posed to entice, each lovely fibre of muscle flexing under soapy skin. He'd called you into the bathroom under some paper-thin pretence—what had that been, again? You can’t remember.
As soon as you drift within an arm’s reach, Loki is hooking a finger under your t-shirt, drawing you near until your shins kiss the porcelain tub. “Maid,” he drawls from the parted shower curtain. “Come wash my hair.”
You would have been offended, were it not for the coy curl of his bottom lip. “‘Maid’?”
He kisses your palm with smiling eyes. Then your wrist. The crease of your elbow. “Lovely maid.”
“You’d like for me to serve you, master?”
He groans, walking his fingers up what remains of your arm that his mouth can not reach. “I love it when you know your place.”
Loki is an indulgent type, eager to take a moment to stare through hooded eyes while you idle. The type to find the erotic in insignificant details, kissing over pockmarks that you didn’t even know existed, but that he has categorized to a clinical degree. Even though he is the naked one, his eyes leave you feeling exposed; he’s looking at you like he intends to pick you apart, seam by seam.
You sink to your knees and trail your free hand over the water’s surface, trying to play the role of ‘shy maid' to the best of your abilities. “How would you like me, master?”
His mouth curls with the most indulgent of smirks. The hand around your wrist elbow glides to your cheek, guiding your faces together for a kiss, while the other draws your hand to the centre of his chest, where fine baby hairs curl with humidity. “Touch me,” he groans against your mouth. “Tend to me.”
If you continue like this, you’ll never get him clean. Though it pains you to part, you return your hands to safer territory and guide him to sit upright. He hands the bottle off to you without comment, allowing you to work a generous amount into a lather. It smells floral, a little bit like amber in an effeminate way, closer to sunshine than musk.
The world narrows to only the task at hand; for a short, intimate minute, there is nothing but the silky glide of hair through your fingers, his skin warm and your heart racing. You watch his lips tilt with a smile like a hundred others before it, overlaid one on top of the other: across the aisle in a quin-jet jumpseat; in the library with an overgrown stack of books balanced in both arms.
Your relationship has been defined by those lovely moments. Loki is loud, yes, but he loves in silence, in threaded fingers and hands at your back; he takes great pleasure in knowing that you are comfortable around him—unguarded, even. After spending so long unsure of where he stood in any relationship, you imagine that there can be no greater joy than a confidante.
“Tip your head back a bit.”
Loki follows the direction without complaint, trusting you to shield his eyes while you pour water over his hair. Once you’re satisfied, you tap his shoulder, wordlessly requesting that he hand you his ridiculously expensive conditioner.
You hum while you work the product through the ends of his hair. “Do you know what the best part about conditioner is?”
Your rhetorical question leaves him practically vibrating with excitement. Loki rises to his knees in the tub, half-leant over the edge to drip luke-warm water across your lap. “We have to wait.”
“Yes, we—” You laugh around his mouth, which he has clumsily tried to lay over yours. “We have—have to—”
The fact that you’re laughing (and not kissing him, as he so clearly desires) frustrates him; both of his hands, still wet with bathwater, rise to cradle your face. “You’re laughing at me,” he catastrophizes. “I am at my most weak and vulnerable and you’re laughing at me.”
“You’re silly.”
“You are mean. Laughing at me.”
“I can hold it in. Kiss me.”
“No.” The overflow valve gurgles unpleasantly as he sinks underwater, right up to his chin. “I will simply have to stew in silence.”
“Loki—”
“Rejected! Mocked! Jilted!” He cries. “Oh, how my heart aches.”
A stubborn droplet clings to his lip after he resurfaces. You swipe it away with your knuckle and then let him catch your hand as penance. “Come here, you goose.”
“Insult on top of injury!” Despite Loki’s best efforts, the corners of his mouth curl with a hint of mischief. “You come here, maid.”
“I’m sorry.” Your tone lands somewhere nearer to mocking. “Let me dry you off, master. Maybe that will help.”
Loki scowls but lets you pull the plug from the drain. Though standing from a bathtub is never graceful, he somehow manages to make it look attractive. He’s all classical portraiture, sharp, angular features softened by the humid air, and tall enough that he has to duck under the shower curtain rod to avoid brushing his head. The bathmat soaks up the water pooling around his feet, some fluffy green monstrosity gone dark in the impression of his arch and heel. You press a kiss to his knee and your lips come back wet.
“Well,” he sings, tracing a pruned fingertip over your cheekbone. “Are you going to dry me off?”
Your heartbeat swells in your throat. “Yes, sir.”
You carefully drag the towel up one of his legs, over the curve of his calf, the dip of his knee, the strong muscle of his thigh, then again on the other side. When you stand, you do so slowly, taking your time to admire the way goosebumps follow your fingers over his hip.
You pay special attention to his hands, kissing his knuckles as you dry them. Old scars speckle his forearms from years of combat, a striking offset to his already pale complexion, shining opalescent under the bathroom vanity lighting. There’s a particularly large one at the top of his ribcage, mirrored on his bicep where the blade must have been caught by his arm. Some of them sizzle with magic—old wounds, Loki had told you, once, that would never heal quite right, like some perpetual electrical rash. You pay attention to those ones, knowing from experience that they can be tender.
One of Loki's hands lingers on the small of your back to keep you steady, or perhaps just to be there, in the moment with you.
You finish by patting Loki’s cheeks dry. First the left, then the right. “All done.”
There’s something a little shy about his smile. Something vulnerable—-perhaps on account of his nakedness, or because he’s soft, or because he feels so wholly loved in that moment that all he can do is marvel at the fact. “You make a very lovely maid.”
“Let’s get you dressed, yeah?”
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Lead the way, love. I’m following.”
Baby Fever Request: Frigga and Loki have a daddy daughter date.
baby fever AU (1.4k words) :
Loki comes home after a long day with the baby... but he doesn't mind being a chaperone, really
Loki considers himself, reflected back by the polished glare of the Avengers’ Tower windows. Spring has nearly turned over, but as the sun sets the air has begun to take a chill. His cheeks are flushed with it, his hair a little windswept and his hands too full to fix it. He’s spent most of the day running errands with Frigga (something he would have gawked at, once upon a time, but now does with only minor complaint), who sits contentedly in her carrier on his chest, considering her reflection with an equal amount of scrutiny.
She’s wearing a onesie patterned with rubber ducks and strawberries, something so gaudy that Loki should have sneered at the mere thought, but he finds himself hopelessly endeared by them, if only for the novelty that she will only be a baby for so long (and sometimes the patterns are ugly enough that it feels a little like a prank.) She’s a bright spot of colour against his otherwise monochromatic outfit, all gummy smiles while Loki scowls, or maybe deigns to smirk if he’s feeling particularly sociable.
(Secretly, it thrills him that he had a hand in creating something so joyous. She has a bit of his brother in her, somehow, even though he and Thor share no blood.)
FRIDAY greets them as they enter, calling an elevator to the lobby without needing to be asked. The door dings upon arrival, and Loki can finally set his bags down in the corner as they begin their ascent home.
"We're almost there, Fryr," he sighs, taking one of her hands and idly tracing her tiny knuckles with the edge of his cupid's bow.
(That was how his father used to refer to his mother in private moments. The Avengers all have different, distinctly American-English nicknames for Frigga—like ’Frig’, which Loki hates; ‘Ria’, which he tolerates—but Loki, ever the traditionalist, prefers to use the traditional Asgardian diminutive.)
The two of them have had a long day. First the grocery store, then the bookstore, the bakery, the duck pond. Frigga only fussed a little bit, but Loki managed to calm her before she reached a true meltdown.
“I find myself trapped by your existence. On the one hand, I desperately need you to grow up so I can return to my former glory. I’ve gone soft, you see—though I suppose you never knew me then, so you might not be aware of how magnificent I once was—but, regardless, I really was quite fearsome, and now I wear a baby like an accessory…” He sighs again. “But on the other… you must never grow up, darling. I forbid it. What will I do when you’re grown? I highly doubt you will let me count your toes when you are an adolescent, and I do so love to take stock of your phalanges.”
He drops his nose to the top of her head. Norns, he is ruined. Where did that storybook villain go? Now, he finds that his only aspiration in life is to be the foundation of a puppy pile. Your weight over his legs, Frigga on his arm—he would happily take one, two, seven more children if only to spend the rest of his life being crawled on.
“We’ll still have our fun, though. Once you are big enough, I propose we usurp these Avengers and rename the city in your honour. They’ll bow to you, I have no doubt, darling, and I suppose I could suffer being your advisor instead of King, as long as you promise to listen to me on occasion. Your mother will take some convincing, so we had better begin to plot now.”
Frigga’s hands reach for the elevator buttons, undeterred by the three-or-so feet that remain between herself (strapped to Loki’s chest) and the wall. She likes to watch them light up, which is a pain, because Loki often ends up stopping on every floor.
“You may press one floor, Fryr. Fr– Frigga, one—”
She manages to light up four, all in a row, and FRIDAY (who is only a stickler for the law when Loki is concerned) refuses to skip Frigga’s selections. In fact, FRIDAY lights up one more button, just for Frigga’s amusement.
Loki is greeted by the smell of dinner when he finally arrives at your floor. You’ve left the television on in the background for company, and some idle pass-time plays at a low volume under the sound of sizzling vegetables. Frigga perks up when she hears your voice, wriggling her little socked feet madly. Sensing an inkling of a headache brewing, Loki shuts the television off with a flick of his wrist while he toes off his shoes in the entryway.
Your face peers around the corner, and he finds that his irritation lessens just a little bit. “Hello, my love.”
“Let me wash my hands.” The sizzling quiets as you finish plating dinner, and then you return to take Frigga from her carrier. “Hello, beautiful. Have you had a long day?”
Loki groans as he finally rids himself of the harness, rubbing dramatically at his shoulders where the straps were digging in. “Endless.”
“Sorry, I was talking to the baby,” you deadpan.
“Rude! I went to two separate grocery stores to find that import beverage you like. Frigga’s only task was to be the most beautiful baby in the galaxy in order to charm the baker on Seventh.”
“Well, Daddy? Did she succeed?”
Something funny turns over in Loki’s chest when you refer to him as Daddy. He can hardly believe that that's him—Frigga’s daddy, spoken so casually. Not a monster, or a disappointment, or a burden; rather, her first and truest love.
In lieu of an answer, Loki holds up a brown paper bag speckled with grease stains. Inside is an assortment of your favourites, as well as a few treats for Frigga to try, now that she has been given the all-clear for the occasional soft food.
“Have I ever thanked you for giving me a beautiful baby?”
“It was a joint effort, I assure you. There is no conceivable universe where we have a less-than-beautiful child.”
You smile, leaning your back against Loki’s shoulder while you smooth Frigga’s hair off her temple. “What else did you do today?”
“We went to the bookstore. Frigga quite enjoyed the Sociology section today.” Loki has never really understood Midgardian picture books. Frigga follows along perfectly well when he reads his astronomy texts to her, so why should he stoop to such a mundane level as the picture book?
(No matter how many times you try to explain the human brain to him, his response is always a rolled eye, because his baby is different from those other, boring babies, and Frigga will outsmart Banner by adolescence, of course.)
“What was her review?”
“She tried to eat a book by Margaret Mead, and then a collection of poems by a Mr. Robert Service.”
“High praise.”
“She almost made it through the cover, so Service must have made quite the impression on her.”
Frigga blinks up at you with an adoration that only a child is capable of, tracing the lines of your face as if seeing it for the very first time. She hardly fusses as you clean her up for dinner. “Anything else?”
Loki selects a pair of green footie pyjamas from a fistful of options. “We fed some ducks.”
“Mhm?”
“We also discussed the strategic advantages of longswords over broadswords.”
You shove at his shoulder with a laugh. “Boo!”
“We did! Frigga had some very insightful commentary.”
“Dinner is ready. Get her dressed while I make a bottle?”
“We can continue the conversation in a moment. You see, the broadsword—” You’ve already left, but the sound of your laughter carries all the way down the hall.
The sun is nearly set. A sliver of warm, orange light spills through an open curtain, giving the room a dream-like quality that he is sure will infect all memories of Frigga’s infancy. Loki indulges in it all for a moment—the weight of his tired baby; the smell of dinner; your footsteps on the hardwood floor. If this was a poem, he thinks, he would try to eat this moment.
Frigga yawns, and it is the most incredible sight his eyes have ever seen.
➳ Feb. 11th - Flowers + Getting Too Handsy on the Dance Floor (Swap Out!)
➳ Swap Out Prompt! (The prompts listed for this day are different, but I didn't get inspired from them so I used a swap out prompt here!) However, there are flowers included in this fic, so I guess it does technically count as me using the prompt.
➳ Fluff, xF!Reader
➳ CW: Loki is actually super smooth here guys (why does it feel kinda ooc for me and how I write him lmao), Loki and his shenanigans, Loki steal-your-girl Laufeyson (but not really), no mention of y/n, they dance but I did not want to deal with making up movements/dances so please accept my meager descriptions, Thor is living his life (good for him), Everyone is playing checkers while Frigga is playing chess, honestly just cheesy again, UNBETAED as hell (pls forgive me).
➳ A/N: day 11... why is it that I seem to write a story set in an Asgardian feast hall 90% of the time? What have I seen, what is causing this??? (the people yearn for Medieval Times-esque entertainment and communal dinners) Also this is my (unplanned) twist on those stories where reader is betrothed to Thor but ends up with Loki (I love those so much).
➳ (2.1k words)
➳ link to event masterlist!
(gif by @themskteam !!)
You wanted nothing more than to leave. The evening was very clearly at its end now, with the pleasant atmosphere well and truly devolving into unseemly merrymaking. You watched on from your unexpected seat at the royal family’s table. The Queen had invited you to join them tonight, a gentle smile on her lips when she’d relayed the invitation. You were no fool, and so you obviously accepted as gracefully as you could, though you could guess at her motives fully well. You were a lady of the court, and efforts had recently been made to bridge the nonexistent gap between yourself and prince Thor.
They did this every few months, finding a new lady who would suddenly somehow end up near the God of Thunder at every opportunity through what seemed like sheer luck. A potential wife for him. It seemed that now, it was your turn. You wondered if Thor noticed or was even aware of the way his parents plotted, all because he did not care to concern himself with finding a wife. He was a kind man, and pleasant company, but he was far more focused on playing at war and entertaining the people that seemed to always stick to him like a second skin.
That is why you'd found yourself quite bored as the evening had gone on. Thor had addressed the entire table for a while, and then he'd gone off to make merry with the Warriors Three.
All your focus was currently on the musicians and their playing, cheek resting on your hand, elbow on the table.
Someone cleared their throat lightly, to your right. You turned, and met the eyes of prince Loki. He'd always been rather quiet around you. Well, around everyone, really, when he wasn't feeling desperate for attention.
"Forgive me, your grace, did you say something?" You asked, sitting up in your chair.
"No, my lady. I simply wished to rescue you from boredom. It seems your conversation partner for the night, the reason you are here at this table at all, has abandoned you."
"Oh, I do not blame him. Neither of us expected my invitation to this table tonight."
"Nonetheless," He hummed. "My brother clearly does not have proper manners. He should have made it his duty to make sure his lady is well taken care of and entertained for the night. As his guest."
"I actually am more a guest of the All-Mother, your grace. And I am not prince Thor's lady."
"Is that so?" He said, raising a brow. Then, he stood, reaching out a hand towards you. "Then, a guest of my dear mother is a guest of mine, and it comes to me to take up the duty of entertaining you. A dance, my lady?"
"A dance? I did not think of you as a dancer, my prince."
"I do not often partake, but I have had several lessons over my life. I can certainly lead well enough, if that is your worry."
"It was not my worry, no. Rather, I do not wish to disturb your evening."
"Nonsense, my lady. I am offering, am I not? A prince knows his limits best." He said, looking down to his outstretched hand pointedly, and then back to you.
You sighed ever so lightly and took his hand, allowing him to pull you up. He led you down the steps leading to the rest of the feast hall, and through the throng of people hanging around the long tables, onto the area left open for dancing. A dance was just ending, and Loki took the opportunity to lead you into position for the next. It started off well, but with the immeasurable spins around the floor, you both eventually ended up far away from where you'd started, in a quieter corner. Your gaze turned towards the rest of the dancing pairs, waiting for Loki to lead you, as well as he had been so far, back towards them. But it did not come. He kept you both there, the two of you following the moves without rejoining the others.
“Have you forgotten the spins?” He chuckled at your question.
“I do not forget essential information, my lady. Least of all when it concerns me and my reputation.”
“Then why, if you allow me to ask, are we not dancing with the others, but remain in this corner?”
“I wished to speak to you.” His tone was serious, and it immediately drew your attention.
“What must we discuss apart from the others that we could not have discussed at the table, my prince?”
“It is… rather personal. Do you enjoy my brother’s presence?” You could feel his hands on your waist. He’d not removed them, even though you’d both essentially stopped dancing a few moments ago.
“Your… Prince Thor is kind, and generous, and tells pleasant stories.”
“Hm. Not a very elaborate answer.”
“Why would it be? We do not know each other well.”
“No? Why is it, then, that you seem to be walking with him daily?”
“I am but one of the many ladies due for this treatment, prince Loki. There have been countless others before me.” You smiled, feeling his fingers flex slightly as they held you.
“Yes, I have noticed the patten. Unlike my brother, apparently.”
“And so you have interrogated every lady that has come before me in this way? You care much for your brother, then.”
He chuckled dryly, turning his gaze to look at Thor, in the opposite corner of the hall, laughing and drinking with his friends, not a care in the world.
“No.” Was his simple reply.
“No… to which?”
He turned back to look at you.
“I have not interrogated every lady that has previously found herself in my brother’s anticipated company. And, I do not much care what he does in his bed.”
“No one is talking about any beds.” You said, eyes widening.
“Nothing of the sort has occurred between you, then?”
“No!” You said a bit too loudly, looking around. Thankfully, the musician’s instruments were loud enough to distract from your outburst. Loki seemed surprised, and amused.
“I simply entertain the wishes of your parents because it is my duty to play along. But… I am not interested in him.”
“Someone has your attentions, then?” One of his eyebrows rose as he asked.
“Yes… but it does not matter.”
“It matters much, my lady. All guests of the royal table deserve all the happiness they might want. Or, that is how I see it, but I am called a pleasure-seeking individual by many, so my opinion might very well be tainted by a pursuit of gratification.”
You looked at him, and tried not to let it show. Tried to not let it show that you hoped every morning, before your walks with Thor, that Loki would somehow find himself alongside you both. Tried to not let it show that you’d made yourself look especially nice for tonight’s dinner, with the knowledge (and hope) that you’d get seated next to Loki. And trying not to let it show that his voice, and the mere sight of him, had your insides trembling with excitement, making you yearn to be close to him, to get to know him and his own stories, rather than the ones Thor told, where Loki only ever appeared in the background.
“The person… is not someone you know.”
“I know everyone.” He insisted stubbornly, watching you carefully. His hands were still at your waist, and although they weren’t even close to hot, his touch felt scalding (and exciting).
You shook your head, looking around at the dancers. A slower dance had started.
“We ought to rejoin them. A prince cannot go missing with a lady.”
“On the contrary, I assure you, he can.” Loki murmured, but led you back towards the others, nonetheless.
This time, you followed the steps of the dance dutifully, but it did not take you long to notice that Loki was holding you closer than what was required.
“Prince Loki… I understand that I might not be up to your standards of a dancing partner, but I do not require you to supervise my every move from this close.”
“No, I assure you, my lady, your movements are perfection.”
“Then, why hold me this close?”
“Because I can tell when someone has told a white lie. It does matter who holds your affections.”
“Why does it concern you so?”
“Because you hold his own affections.” He murmured, the hand on your lower back pulling you closer to him.
You pulled back slightly, your eyes meeting his. They were open, open for you to read his intentions and his emotions. A rare thing, from all you knew about him. And you liked to think that you knew a good amount, but were hungry for more, all the same.
“I do not know what you mean.” You whispered, not wanting to show that he’d caught you just yet.
“I wish very badly to kiss you, and have for a long while now.” Was whispered against your head, and with it, your doubts were burned out forever.
You looked around at the others, and noticed no eyes on you, and so you dared to move closer to him, your hand on his shoulder, moving down to his bicep, allowing yourself to feel the firmness there. It was perfectly delightful, and you suddenly wanted to see and feel much more of him.
Loki, in turn, slipped his hand lower down your back, nearly at your backside now. Your eyes shot up to his, but he remained entirely unbothered, as if unaware of what he was doing.
“We cannot…” You insisted.
“Whyever not? Everyone remaining in this hall is far too inebriated. They would not notice it if Fandral and Volstagg suddenly began to perform a romantic tragedy.”
“They likely would not notice it, either.” You agreed, watching those same men across the hall guffaw at some ridiculous tale.
“Precisely. So, we are very likely safe through the beauty of drink.” He said, sneaking a featherlight kiss to your temple, making your breath hitch.
“I still believe we should not. I am Thor’s lady.”
“You are not. You told me so. And right now, you are mine, and I thank the Norns for that.”
“I meant for the present moment, because of your parents’ sudden interest in Thor and I as a pair.” You riposted, but it didn’t come off as dry as you’d hoped, his words softening your slight frustration.
“That interest will fade. There is a large gap in intelligence between the two of you. You are much better matched to me.”
“Loki, that was cruel.”
“As is life, I’m afraid.” He said with a weary, all too dramatic, sigh.
“Desist, please.” You sighed, trusting him entirely to lead you through the steps as you focused all your attention onto the feeling of being in his arms.
“As my lady commands. Speaking of, should my lady command I walk her through the gardens tomorrow, or meet her in the library so that we might read together, I shall follow.”
“Your lady will consider.”
He nodded, satisfied.
Neither of you noticed, because you were too caught up in dancing together, the pleased grin on the All-Mother’s face as she watched you from her seat at the royal table. Yes, indeed, she had been attempting to find Thor a match, but she was not nearly foolish enough to try and pair you with Thor. Not when she saw perfectly well the truly wonderful match she could make of you and her elusive son, Loki. And in the end, she’d done nothing at all, it had happened on its own. All she’d done was give it the final push by inviting you to dine with the royal family.
Not long after that, you’d been walked to your rooms most chivalrously by Loki, and he’d ended the night with a long kiss to your knuckles. You’d, naturally, responded by bringing him in for a true kiss. He’d sported a wide grin after that, the entire time he’d bid you goodnight.
Now, in the morning, you woke wishing it could have been in his arms, or at the very least with him nearby. Just as you’d begun to sulk, you took the few steps to your vanity and found a bunch of your favourite flowers waiting for you there, an unassuming note to the side of them.
“An incentive, so that my lady might make another one of my days blissful through her presence and through her commanding of me.” It read.
You found yourself smiling, much like Loki had been the night before, clutching the note to your chest as if it was its author.
christmas fluff perchance? i want to see loki being forced to wear an ugly sweater
(sorry bestie, this turned into a NOT ugly sweater drabble lol. what if you both wore beautiful sweaters?)
1.2k words. natasha has recently taken up knitting, and you have to reap the consequences.
“Am I good or what?” Natasha murmurs, quite smugly. Her knee digs into yours where she’s sitting cross-legged on the couch, something you would normally complain about. You can’t really find it in yourself to complain about her knee, right now. You can't even find words at all.
Loki’s sweater is candy-striped. Closer to cream and maroon than a true red-and-white, a beautiful off-set to his pale complexion. Boatnecked, sitting an inch lower on his shoulders than strictly necessary, and so snug that it fit just shy of obscenity. To allow for a better range of motion, Loki had to shove the sleeves up his forearms.
“You are evil,” you hiss back.
Natasha doesn’t like Loki. She allows him to exist in her vicinity solely because she loves Thor, and because Loki has proven too good an asset to waste. She wouldn’t hand-knit him a sweater under normal circumstances, unless of course it proposed an opportunity to bully you.
“Evil,” she agrees, draping one elegant hand on your shoulder to pillow her cheek. “I should have made Morgan a matching sweater. That would have made Tony blow a gasket.”
Morgan is currently balanced on Loki’s hip, both of her little fists knotted in his sweater for support. She’s wearing little shoes that look like dragons, with matching wings woven into the laces, in a deep green that you know probably delighted Loki. When she raises a hand to inelegantly push Loki’s hair out of his eyes, the tension of her grip pulls the hem of his sweater a few inches higher.
You suspect that she’ll still be cradled like a toddler well into her teens, until she develops a sense of embarrassment. She’s already larger than strictly appropriate to be handled so casually, but all of her uncles and aunts possess super-human strength and barely bat an eye when hiking her into their arms. Loki seems to barely notice when she squirms, as if she’s a fussing baby and not a girl of five-and-three-quarters.
Morgan likes Loki to spite her father. Tony should have known better than to let on how much he dislikes Loki, because Morgan is every inch her father’s daughter and lives to be a contrarian. As soon as she realized Tony was wary, she had to prove just how unwary she was, marching up to the former would-be-tyrant and declaring him no more dangerous than a bug.
“A bug?”
She had nodded sagely. “A beetle.”
“Am I at least a venomous beetle?”
Her consideration was short. “No.”
They were thick as thieves, now. She’s practically his protegé—if she could manifest having magical powers just to cause more chaos, she would.
Loki leans in theatrically, allowing Morgan to whisper something in his ear. One of his hands rises absentmindedly to push her hair behind her ear, a loving sort of gesture that betrays just how endeared he is.
His eyes flicker toward where you and Natasha sit on the couch, and just a brush of his attention is enough to send an immediate bolt of heat down your spine. You turn your cheek and pretend not to notice him, some lame attempt at a comment on last night’s hockey game on your tongue, but Natasha is already sliding off the seat and sauntering away, as if she knows you’re about to fall into despair and would like very much to see it happen.
Loki, divested of his tiny accomplice, leans over the back of the couch. “I have been informed that you have a staring problem.”
You glare at Morgan, who is dozing happily on her father’s shoulder. When she catches your eye, she throws you a sleepy wave, having already forgotten her earlier misdemeanour.
“I do not.”
“She says you’re making… what was her simple, Midgardian phrase… ‘goo-goo eyes’?”
“Morgan is a snitch and a tattle and can’t be trusted.”
Loki hums, leaning in under the guise of hearing you better. “Then you haven't been ogling me and my incredibly well-tailored sweater all evening?”
Your cheeks prickle with embarrassment. “Nope.”
“Shame.” He’s practically melted onto your shoulder, half-draped over the back of the couch in order to lord over your personal space. The angle hides how his left hand has slipped between the cushions and your back, tracing a little knot over the curve of your spine. “I’ll have to try harder.”
“You’re going to give away the charade,” you whisper.
“You were the one making eyes at me, darling.”
“You’ve been parading around all night with a hickey right under your collar.”
“And who, pray tell, is the culprit? I am just wearing a lovely present from an esteemed colleague. It’s not my fault that some hellcat sank her teeth into me last night.”
“I’ll put my teeth somewhere much more public, next time.”
He groans. “Promise?”
You turn your cheek, just far enough to brush your mouth over the ball of his shoulder. It’s casual enough to be an accident, just a misjudgment of distance, but it makes Loki shudder none the less.
“Will I be seeing you tomorrow morning?”
It’s Loki’s sly way of asking whether or not you'll sneak into his room after everyone else has gone to bed. He prefers the fantasy of an early morning—the low light, the sleep-dulled awareness. You think that it soothes some neglected part of himself to be trusted in such a vulnerable setting as the waking hour.
(In the very early days of your relationship, back when you were barely flirting and mostly making heart eyes at the other, you and Loki had found yourselves under the wing of a quin-jet before a reconnaissance mission. Your secret rendezvous were never for any untoward reason; you would often just sit in silence, playing with the other’s fingers. Never quite committing to holding hands, tracing stars and hearts over clammy skin while avoiding eye contact.
“Might I climb into your bed when I return?” He had asked. Under any other circumstance, it would have been a strange request—uncouth, even—but his light eyes had blinked back at you so earnestly that it seemed like the natural progression of events. From hand-holding to sharing a bed. You hadn’t even kissed, yet.
“I’ll be asleep,” you’d said, awkwardly. “But you can, um… wake me up.”
“No. No, sleep. I’ll wait for you to wake.”
True to his word, Loki had not disturbed you. Instead, you woke with a dim awareness that there was something else in your bed. He kept to his side of the mattress, curled up tight like a new dog, with one tentative hand outstretched to test how close you would let him get.)
In the present, you nod, admiring the scratch of his wool sweater against your cheek. “I’ll see you when we wake up.”
You have a feeling that Natasha knows about you and Loki. Actually, you think that everyone knows, and they're all just too polite to say anything.
His eyes linger in such a way that makes your skin feel too tight. "This is a nice sweater."
"Natasha's really good, isn't she?"
Loki's mouth twists, and you have a feeling that you're being left out of a joke. "Allow me to rephrase," he says deliberately. "Morgan Stark said that you were making 'goo-goo eyes' at my sweater. And then she turned her deplorable all-sight onto me and declared that I was worse by a wide margin."
"Oh."
"Remind me to thank Agent Romanoff later. She is very talented, indeed." With a theatrical flourish, Loki shoots up off the back of the couch and stretches his arms high over his head, just to flash a few inches of stomach where his hem rides up. When his hands drop to his sides, his knuckles just brush the back of your neck. “I'll see you when we wake.”
I absolutely love love love your dad!Loki posts. And I don't think I'll get enough of it anytime soon.
On another note. I was checking your masterlist and noticed the link to the nomad!au is leading nowhere. Is that intentional?
THANK YOU!!!! I ALSO LOVE DAD LOKI I LOVE MY GUY!!!
((and no, I've just been really crazy busy and KEEP FORGETTING to update my masterlists. Sooo many dead links and things not properly sorted but my intention is to hopefully get it sorted this weekend!!))
