I'm watching the edited version of the War Games (it's on BBC4 right now and my parents wanted to see it), so, have some thoughts.
I'm normally a bit iffy on colourisation but this is genuinely very well done. The titles are gorgeous.
Squishing it into 90 mins makes the opening very zippy. The pace feels a shade too quick if anything.
It also gets a bit weird when the cliffhanger is turned into continuous action.
This is despite the fact that they only cut about 10 mins of episode one.
They drink a lot of tea in the War Games but it comes across as even more when you cut out of the non-tea-drinking bits.
OK, there's some very fun editing around the redcoat and Buckingham remembering the mist coming down. (Dare I say possibly an improvement on the original?)
But then it goes back to feeling too zippy, but least because episode 3 is brutally cut. Very little of it left.
Gah, I'm trying to like this, because it's clearly been lovingly made and the colourisation is genuinely superb, but the grinding relentlessness of the War Games has been replaced by rattling through the plot at a frenzied pace and it's not really working for me.
Ooh, Murray Gold's Master theme has been added over the War Chief's appearance. Not sure how I feel about that, but it's certainly an interesting choice.
They've dealt with the cliffhanger issue at the end of episode 4 by taking it out entirely.
The little added CGI bits are not hugely successful - they look oddly plasticky. Which is a bit disappointing, because have I mentioned how good the colourisation is?
It's taken my dad until the episode six cliffhanger to note the place where the original cliffhanger was.
(My mum has given up because she doesn't like how much fighting there is. Not sure if the original edit would have been any better on that score.)
Episodes 6 and 7 are so thoroughly chopped up that it's tricky to trace the original storyline. It's neatly done but it's not really the War Games any more.
More of the Master's theme when the War Chief admits to knowing the Doctor.
My dad comments that this bit seems like it was inspired by the Prisoner (which he also watched when it first aired).
It feels a bit weird when it switches from Murray Gold to 1960s incidental music.
This really centres the War Chief et al over the rest of the storyline.
"Complete loyalty and devotion" - oh, Jamie. This loses a lot of character beats in favour of the Time Lord-centric storyline, but not all of them.
Oof, their last desperate attempt to escape is still just as grim and desperate in the edit. Like there's still part of me wondering if they might somehow get away this time.
There are new Who-style images of Gallifrey on the view screen.
"Is the next episode The Trial of a Time Lord?" asks my dad, who has seen all of Doctor Who, but mostly not very recently.
The middle bit of episode 10 is cut, which means that I can watch the ending without crying for once.
Lots of establishing shots of Gallifrey.
The too old/too young/too thin shows a series of New Who Doctors. Not entirely sure how I feel about that choice either.
And it ends with the Doctor regenerating in the TARDIS - again, New Who style - before the date ticks back and forth erratically between 1970 and 1980, a joke that will appeal to a small number of people that includes me, and finally the very opening scene of Spearhead from Space.
I think if you accept the premise that a 90-min version of the War Games could be done, it's about as good as it could be. A few of the choices make it pretty clear that this is primarily for a New Who audience - particularly that it becomes a very Time Lord-centric story - not really for existing fans of the War Games.
Still, I wasn't expecting to love the colourisation as much as I did, and it made me wish I could watch a colourised version of all 10 episodes.
Tagged by my dearest @theawkwardterrier - thank you for the excuse to do nonsense in between my last sessions of the longest Friday!! 😘
How many works do you have on ao3?
Nine
What’s your total word count?
297,842 words (I'll hit 300,000 total and 100,000 in Seaside in the next chapter so I'm feeling very 🥺)
What are your top 5 fics by kudos?
the best by far is you
Beside the Seaside
The Lost Ones
Soften Every Edge
When My Love Reaches to Me
Do you respond to comments? Why/why not?
I try to because I really love the community around sharing stories and appreciate the time people spend reading and leaving a nice comment. Sometimes I get overwhelmed with responding if I get behind on it and need to just do a reset with responding on the next chapter/story though.
What's the fic you've written with the angstiest ending?
In high school, I wrote a One Tree Hill fic that was very dramatic and soapy (not unlike the show) and I don't know that the ending itself was that angsty (I honestly don't remember), but I killed off one of the characters within the first few chapters and the rest of the fic was dealing with that and yeah, very angsty and over-the-top drama 😅
What's the fic you've written with the happiest ending?
I think Soften Every Edge is pretty darn happy 🥹
Do you write crossovers?
I'm not against it, but I haven't felt compelled to write one yet.
Have you ever received hate on a fic?
Yes, but I will say most of what I get now is more in the vein of feeling entitled to quick updates/being rude more so than mean/hateful (also with my fics locked to users, I can't get anon replies and that probably helps...).
Do you write smut? If so, what kind?
Before writing Outlander fic, no, and I only started because Jamie and Claire are so damn horny for each other all the time 😂 but I would say I usually write more m-rated stuff and only if it feels necessary for the story as part of their relationship or if I feel particularly inspired.
Have you ever had a fic stolen?
Not to my knowledge beyond getting scraped and posted elsewhere.
Have you ever had a fic translated?
No, but I would love that if someone wanted to.
Have you ever co-written a fic before?
I haven't and I used to have a chip on my shoulder about this in a previous fandom that did a lot of co-writing and it felt very clique-ish, but I can't wrap my mind around the logistics of how that would work to write with someone else, so I think I'm okay now lol.
What's your all-time favourite ship?
I can't pick just one!!
What's a WIP that you want to finish but don't think you ever will?
Oof. I guess my super niche Smallville wip that I worked on and had several chapters written, never posted any of it and never finished it, so really, the only person suffering over the unfinished wip is me, but I still wish I'd been able to write that one and share it.
What are your writing strengths?
I think I'm good with characterization and weaving in canon moments in an au.
What are your writing weaknesses?
Plotting sometimes, because I rely on more of a vague outline/direction that I'm going and have to just trust myself to find my way through the details and that can get tough.
What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?
I feel super uncomfy about butchering a language without realizing it, but at the same time, especially with Outlander, these other languages are an integral part of some of the characters, so I still want to include that aspect.
What was the first fandom you wrote for?
I think it was One Tree Hill or Grey's Anatomy, at least that I actually started posting. I was tinkering away with some other stories in a few other fandoms too, but I definitely lurked for a while and wrote in my noteboooks before I felt brave enough to share online!
What's a fandom/ship you haven't written for yet but want to?
I want to finish my Avalance fic that I started in January because season 7 was so good and then the CW cancelled them on a cliffhanger and we never got to meet THEIR BABY and this will be my villain origin story!!! (not the fic though, the fic is super soft and sweet 🥰)
What's your favourite fic you've written?
I can't pick my favorite of this one either! Rude to even ask!! 😭
Tagging @walkinginland and anyone else who's interested, consider yourself tagged!
I know I haven't posted a fic in some time, but that's because I'm working on Maedhros & Maglor week prompts. And to prove that I have been writing indeed, here are some snippets of what I've been working on:
For Day 1: Children, using the prompts Valinor and Innocence
Maitimo sang adorably to his sibling inside Nerdanel, his voice as pretty as an untrained elfing's. And just as an untrained elfing, he was not perfect at hitting all the notes. He struggled especially at a particularly high note, sounding off, coming out more as a breathless squeak.
The baby, making sure their opinion was known of their brother's ability to sing, kicked her mother in the side.
"Oof," Nerdanel grunted, just as Maitimo hopped up from her lap and excitedly shouted to the whole room his delight over the event.
"Someone is a music critic," she muttered, rubbing her belly.
All the while Maitimo ran up to Fëanáro, tugging on his father's sleeve in delight and bouncing on his tippy-toes.
"Atya, Atya! I felt the baby! The baby moved!"
For Day 4: Strategists, using the prompt Mereth Aderthad
Maedhros watched as his younger brother padded over to his pack, humming a little tune all the way, and unfurled three different outfits, spreading them over his bed. Maglor surveyed all three with a careful eye, the carefree mood of the air shifting as he let the last bars of his melody trail off.
“So, what’s the plan?” he asked Maedhros. “I know you have been plotting all throughout the ride here.”
He did not dispute Maglor’s words, for he did indeed spend most of their journey to their uncle’s feast making plans of the diplomatic and reconnaissance kind.
“I shall stay close to Uncle Nolo and ascertain his future plans. I will also approach the other elven ambassadors in the hopes of initiating further diplomatic relations, perhaps make some alliances, and I will prod around to see what the general opinion among the lords are,” Maedhros outlined. “You, Káno, should make nice with our Arafinwëan cousins and listen out for the usual things.”
“Rumour, gossip, our current reputation, news of the Enemy, and any secrets that pass drunken loose lips,” Maglor listed by rote and discarded the stuffiest, most stately ensemble from his three clothing options, narrowing his eyes at the other two.
For the Day 6 prompt Reputation and Legend
Subject: Itemised Record of the Elven Relics Sold from the Elrond Peredhel Collection
Date: Fourth Age 2100, the 7th of Nárië
Location: The Restored Halls of the historical sight known as The Last Homely House, Rivendell, Eriador
Auctioneer: Master Eadric, son of Wermund, representative of the Royal Preservation and Storage Houses
Attendance: A total of 53 persons, of which 11 were representatives of cultural establishments, and 42 private collectors
About the Collection:
Entrusted in the keeping of King Elessar Telcontar by Lord Elrond Peredhel at the turning of the Ages (FO 1.), these elven relics were kept and preserved as per Lord Elrond Peredhel’s last will made upon the shores of Middle-earth (Royal Archive, sect. 15, E.01.). As outlined by said will, the Elrond Peredhel Collection was to be held within the King’s Storage Houses for the minimum of 2000 years, and the maximum of an additional century, or if within that timeframe should such an event come to pass that an elf of black hair and shining silver eyes with a hand possessing a burn scar, and may possibly give any combination of the names: Kanafinwë, Makalaurë, Maglor, or Fëanorion, should he seek out the Collection, any and all items of his choosing must be released into his care.
Since no elf of such description has come forward to claim these relics in the past 2100 years, the Royal Preservation and Storage Houses put the items of the Elrond Peredhel Collection up for auction for the display of both public establishments and private collectors for historical and educational consumption as per the wishes of Lord Elrond Peredhel’s will.
Note: In the past several centuries there has been no sighting of any elvish presence in Middle-earth, and their continued existence are put to question and is largely debated. However, in light of the myths and superstitions surrounding elvish contracts and oaths, experts of both the Royal Historians and the foremost scholarly circles in Eriador, Rhovanion and Gondor have agreed to honour the maximum deadline appointed in the will for fear of invoking some curse or Doom for accidentally breaking the terms early.
And finally for Day 7: Partners
Maitimo started small and simple with his first gift, if it could be even called one. He timed it right and came upon Makalaurë in the woodworking shed from behind, where his brother worked on mending the snapped neck of a broken lute, and tapping him on the shoulder Maitimo played his hand.
The minstrel looked up from his project, all covered in dust and wood shavings, frazzled dark curls escaping his braid. It was an endearing look that Maitimo had caught him in, and he greatly regretted not bringing paper and charcoal to capture his brother's image to keep.
Then Makalaurë noticed the gift in Maitimo's hand and all but pounced on it.
"Yes, this is exactly what I need," he cried and took the bundle of silver strings, immediately restringing the newly fixed lute. He just as soon all but forgot about his elder brother's presence, turning the pegs with a single-minded focus, until Maitimo pointedly cleared his throat.
Makalaurë's gaze snapped up at Maitimo's face and aimed him a crooked smile, slightly embarrassed for being so absorbed in his project.
"Thank you, Nelyo. I do appreciate the strings."
I used myself as a pose model for this one and I am happy to report that it went about as well as you would expect with cats.
Laudna’s miniature Castle Whitestone originally appeared in Remember Us in a flashback, in which she has made a dollhouse out of a fruit crate and other odds and ends. The scene then leads into the consequences of her brief friendship with a child that until recently, we knew nothing about, just that Laudna had once been friends with a little girl who wasn’t afraid of her. Since we had such sparse information at the time I avoided going into detail about the girl or their friendship, just the aftermath of it (in the fic it is implied that Laudna was thought to be the little girl’s “imaginary friend,” until the adults in her life found out that she was real, and then suspected her of having ill intentions and her dolls of being tools of witchcraft) that led to her channeling Delilah’s power to kill someone for the first time.
Here it was supposed to be a slightly-abridged version of the same incident, combined with her learning that she wasn’t ever anything special to Delilah, and not chosen as a dinner guest or even as a vessel because of her magical abilities as she’d hoped. She was just convenient.
The script for this mini plot arc was, until very recently, as follows:
82
Panel 1: A long time ago, Laudna is fixing up a different house. She has built a dollhouse out of a fruit crate and is filling it with furniture made of odds and ends. Laudna looks the same age as ever but her mien is particularly childlike, suggesting she hasn't been dead for very long. She's wearing a pinafore dress.
Panel 2: Looking closer, we can see that it's an approximation of a fine manor or castle, inhabited by a lord and lady and seven others made of clothespins. There's also a bear made out of a spool.
Laudna:
There you are, D. Home sweet home.
Delilah:
A good likeness, to be sure. You remember it well.
Panel 3: She moves the dolls into the dining room, where a feast is laid out in miniature on dishes of acorn caps.
Laudna:
Delilah?
Delilah:
Yes, poppet?
Laudna:
Why did you invite me to that party? I mean . . . why me, specially?
Panel 4: Laudna's shoulders droop as Delilah laughs.
Delilah:
Oh, darling girl. It was never about you at all. You were only ever a means to an end.
Panel 5: Leaving the dolls inert at the table she lies down on the floor, limp with disappointment.
Delilah:
There, there. Don't sulk so. Your little friend should be along to play soon.
Panel 6: Outside she sits on a swing she has made, looking forlorn and still a little sulky. Pâté is curled in her lap.
Laudna:
She's late. I hope nothing bad has happened. I hope she hasn't forgotten about me.
Pâté:
Naw, she wouldn't forgetcha. {heh} You're not an easy face to forget.
83
Panel 1: Hearing noises from the surrounding forest, she raises her head.
Delilah:
Be mindful, child. Someone is coming.
Panel 2: It isn't whom she was expecting, but a group of three angry adults carrying torches and pitchforks and other implements of mob violence. Laudna gets up from the swing.
Laudna:
Oh . . . hello. May I -- may I help you?
Panel 3: The mob leader, a well-muscled man in a blacksmith's apron, seizes her by the arm.
Leader:
So this is the “imaginary friend,” is it?
Laudna:
What? I think -- I think there's been a misunderstanding, I --
Leader:
Speak, witch! What devilry have you done to our little girl?
Laudna:
We were -- we were just playing, she's my friend, I -- I -- is she all right?
Panel 4: He throws her to the ground and pins her there with his boot.
Leader:
Search the place!
Panel 5: A handful of clothespin dolls is flung to the ground near her face.
Mob:
Poppets! I'll wager she's been casting an ill-wish on us.
Laudna:
They're just -- they're just dolls! Oof.
Panel 6: The blacksmith cuts her off with a stomp to her ribs.
Leader:
Burn it down!
84
Panel 1: With her arms wrapped around her head, Laudna consolingly strokes her own hair while Delilah speaks to her.
Delilah:
It's not fair, is it, dear heart? I did try to warn you that this is what comes of opening your heart to others. All that ever comes of trust is betrayal.
Laudna:
No, she wouldn't -- she wouldn't betray me. She's my friend!
Delilah:
Oh? Then how did these men know precisely where to find you?
Panel 2: The mob leader grabs her by the hair and begins dragging her towards the burning cabin. Laudna tugs at his steely arm, trying in vain to free herself.
Panel 3: A splotchy ring of grey starts out on his arm where she's touching it, dark veins snaking under his skin from her fingertips.
Panel 4: As she screams in rage and pain and terror, a circle of necrotic energy spreads around her, withering all the surrounding plant life.
Panel 5: She sits up. In a circle around her, everything -- the three men and all of the vegetation -- is as colorless and dead-looking as herself. Wildflowers are sprouting from her hair. She covers her mouth with her hands, so surprised to find herself the most alive thing in the vicinity that she can't tell whether to laugh or cry.
Panel 6:
Delilah:
There, there. You're safe now.
Laudna:
I . . . I killed . . . all those men?
Delilah:
Yes.
Laudna:
I'm so sorry. I didn't -- I didn't mean to.
Delilah:
No, child. But you did.
Panel 7:
Laudna:
Am I a murderer?
Delilah:
You are extraordinary. So much more than you ever could have been on your own.
Well, following the release of What Doesn’t Break this is now verifiably not what happened. I’m not planning to make any drastic revisions to my comic script based on the book (in particular I’m leaving the dinner party and what followed the way I already have it written, which is why Clothespin Grog here is . . . just one guy . . .) but since I’d really just included the mention of the little girl to ground the scene in something we knew had happened in Laudna’s past and since this plot arc is happening SO soon after the book came out I decided to just drop the mention of her at all and go in a different direction with the rest of this scene. (There is a slight nod to the book now in that one of the castle rooms is the parlor with the miniatures where Matilda and Delilah meet.)
The book did confirm something I’d hinted at in Remember Us and everything else I’ve written that touches on Laudna’s time before Gelvaan, the idea that her death and un-birth kind of reset her into a childlike mentality and she had to grow up again, this time being raised by Delilah. (The inclusion of Pâté as a live rat in the new version pushes this back even further than it was originally so she is at most only a few years dead here.)
The dollhouse was very fun to create! As it was described in Remember Us the miniatures are made out of salvaged odds and ends Laudna has collected. The dolls are clothespins (like we saw on her childhood bedroom floor back on page 24 as well as featured in her puppet show on Astoria’s guest pages). The castle itself is a crate she has painted white to emulate Castle Whitestone and the rooms depicted are the ones she has mentioned seeing. (The foyer, the dining room, a fancy bedroom, Delilah’s laboratory, and the miniatures gallery.) The bed is made of a chocolate box, the mirror is a monocle, the dressing table stool is the top of a cork, the pictures on the walls are postage stamps (featuring Zan Tal’Dorei, Aeor, and the Sun Tree) and advertisements framed in bottlecaps. The fireplace is made of pebbles, the plates are buttons, and the dining room chairs are the blades of a wooden folding fan. The chains in the laboratory are a broken necklace and the figurines are charms. The staircase banister is made of matchsticks.
Delilah’s face never being seen wasn’t something I had planned, the layout of the page she first appeared on just hid her eyes because I thought it was aesthetically interesting, but since her real identity being unknown to Imogen is a running theme in this chapter I decided to keep up the motif.
Correcting my previous ask (since I was informed some of them were duplicates, and I wish to gain more knowledge! [ominous hand-rubbing]), may I ask 😠, 🤔, 🌅, 🎶 for the fic-writing ask game?
Lol, I'm so sorry, but it seemed like both you and Hlozt wanted to know the same things 😅 Thank you in any case for the updated asks!!
😠 whats your least favorite part of your writing process?
Oof, definitely editing! I hate editing with a passion. Sometimes it makes me second guess myself and I'll do that silly thing of correcting a sentence only to mull on it for 30 minutes or more, and then reverting it back to the original sentence 😭
🤔 why do you write fic?
Back in the Leon fandom, I started out writing it as a form of escapism (and obvious simping for a virtual man 🤣) where I thought I wouldn't be judged as harshly. It then turned into exploring topics I was interested in and writing about experiences outside of my own, yet trying to make it as authentic as possible. These include: world building in crossovers, darkrooms in night clubs, how to approach writing a non-binary reader in a sexual setting, etc. Sometimes, writing even became a healing process for me.
When I got into the VTM fandom, I wanted to move away from writing canon characters and reader fics, and go more into creative writing with OCs. I was beginning to find a writing style I particularly enjoyed and writing in this universe opened up a lot of avenues for experimentation, which has been incredibly freeing. I also write to give the characters I play in ttrpgs more depth and find out little known qualities about them by playing through writing.
🌅 do you typically known the ending to something before you start writing it?
Most of the time, I usually know where I want to end, even before I know the start. So, it's typically a journey where I plot how I want to get there, or write to see how the story unfolds. I think one has to be comfortable with uncertainty, because I don't always know how a story plays out, and I have to write to find out, which can be pretty fun! I think there's also a natural point you can feel as you write it which tells you "this is the end."
🎶 do you write with music? does the music you’re listening to influence your writing?
Yes, yes, and YES!! Music is such a big influence in my writing, and I can assure you that I have at least one song, or if not, a playlist that's on repeat for every single piece. I use it to inform the mood, and at times it's so perfect that the lyrics align exactly with what I'm trying to say.
I can give you a recent example, since you've read my story starring Lucien and Wynter that I'll be publishing soon. This was the playlist I was listening to the most:
Pretty apt, since a tiny piece of Lucien was vaguely inspired by Simon from Sally Rooney's Beautiful World, Where Are You, as well as Park Chan-wook's Stoker, and Nicole Dollanganger's Uncle.
hey!! i saw you write the maze runner and stuff and i was wondering if you could write a newt or thomas one-shot or blurb eventually. i know you have a lot of requests but your thomas one was so good and id love it if you wrote more. i’m pretty open to any sort of plot (although angst pains me too much lol), thanks!!!!
(okay, I’m a sucker for some thomas fluff!)
“When are they gonna be back?” Dripping off your tone of voice is a hint of desperation, eyes wide and pleading as you sit down beside the freckled blond pulling weeds out of the ground.
“I dunno. Why aren’t you in the MedJack hut?” Newt inquires, raising a dark eyebrow at your presence as he pulls at a particularly tough one.
“Because I’ve organized the cabinets for the third time today and I’m sure Clint and Jeff can manage the place on their own for a little while.” You retort with an exaggerated sigh, leaning back until your back collides with the soft earth. “It’s been so long since they’ve left. When are they gonna be back?” You restate.
“Like I said, I have no idea.” Newt’s response has a smile tugging at the corner of your lips as he accidentally drops some dirt over your sprawled out figure.
“Hey!” The yelp of feigned discontent has your attention momentarily pulled away from the large maze doors as Newt dips down, fingers prodding at your sides and pulling bouts of giggles from your grinning lips.
You’re so busy that you barely manage to catch the shouts of merriment coming from your fellow gladers, but they catch your ear, pulling you out of your contented trance along with Newt. Your eye quickly finds the perspiring brunet that’s almost doubling over as he tries to catch his breath as both he and Minho exit the maze.
Your head whips to meet Newt’s gaze, and his brown irises crinkle with the effort it takes to share a weary smile with you. “Go on then, you bugger.” He quips playfully, allowing you to scramble to your feet in a desperate effort to find Thomas’ embrace.
You’ve never been one for running, but your feet are making quick work as you bound over to the boy.
It takes him a few moments, but he notices you halfway through your journey, lips turning into a gleeful grin as he turns to your running figure.
He’s fatigued after a long day of running and thus he remains rooted in his spot, arms opening for your embrace as you come running, albeit not that fast, but quickly nonetheless. You slow down just mere feet from him, slowing down to a light jog, looping your arms around his neck and pressing your torso close to his own.
“Hi, baby.” Thomas croons, lips pressing against the shell of your ear as his arms wind around your abdomen. He shuffles a bit, nosing at your jugular and taking a delighted whiff of the lilac scent that you exude.
“Hi, Tommy.” You laugh breathlessly, squeezing tightly and chuckling at the pained oof that falls from his tongue. At that, you release your hold on him, pulling away just enough so you can capture his jaw in your palms. “Have a good run?” You whisper, just now coming to the realization that his cheeks are shining with sweat. But it doesn’t matter. He’s here.
Thomas nods, pressing his lips against your cheek before his hand dips down to smack your bum. “Yeah. It was great.”
Your jaw falls slack as you thwack playfully at his firm chest. “You’re insatiable!” You scoff, pulling away from his embrace, but not without a taunting wink in his direction. “And you also need to shower.”
“Nonsense. Sweat is the shower of champions, baby.” Thomas’ tongue peeks out to sweep over his plump lips, and then you’re biting into your own.
“Yeah, well, this champion, needs to go take an actual shower.” You chastise, fighting at the smile that threatens to make an appearance.
You pull your arms up to cross over your chest, cocking an eyebrow.
“Fine, fine.” He throws his hands up in defeat, and before he departs to satisfy your wish, he dips forward, left forearm curling around the bend of your back while his right hand curls around your jaw. “But first, I wanna kiss.”
“Alright, alright then.” You whisper, leaning up until your lips are smeared together in a delicate lip-lock.
Only he could make a bad situation such as this seem better.
I have not posted in possibly over a year which is... my bad. Life just kinda hit me and I loved the community here but, y’know, life.
But anyway so I finally finished Picard season 2, albeit late because my brain was definitely actively avoiding it and just... yike.
I think I ignored a lot of the glaring holes in season 1 because I liked the characters so much. As in, truly fell madly deeply in love with Soji and Elnor and and Rios and then Seven all over again. Picard was kinda fun as a grumpy grandpa, more Romulans and androids were neat, Raffi was frenetic but interesting, Agnes had potential but just wasn’t my fave... The plot was whacky but I was interested enough in the concepts and characters.
Now, to give some lenience, I am not a huge fan of Star Trek time travel episodes. At least particularly not the “to modern or near-modern day” ones. So I knew this would be a hard sell of a season for me, period. But by the end of it... Oof.
Elnor (my definitive fave) yeeted off into oblivion, Soji not even there and replaced by a random Soong tie-in, Rios’ character very strangely mishandled, Picard getting a female love interest when Q dying and wanting to be with him before he went was *right there* (I kid... kind of), Agnes turning into a borg (which tbh I think could’ve worked if they actually gave more time for Agnes to evaluate her struggle to communicate instead of sorta liking it, rejecting it, and then being slowly bullied into an okay fine I’ll do it. They did it super weird). I mean I get her “chemistry” with Rios was weak at best but yike.
I am a huge defender for NuTrek because I like bringing new things in. I like evolving stories, and I like giving new diverse voices a place in the scifi/fantasy world. Discovery has been getting better over the seasons, at least in my opinion, and has given us some great characters and representations and relationships.
But Picard just felt like... nothing. Like a strange b-tier TNG episode that went on for 10 episodes.
I wanted it to be good but it just wasn’t.
I wish I could be more thoughtful and analytical in this but I’m a little out of practice, and I’m just kinda... disappointed.
At least I finally watched the first episode of Strange New Worlds, because that felt better than Picard’s felt in a long time.
A Loki Oneshot for the Spring Time with Loki Collab Collection on AO3. Also on my AO3.
Rating: Explicit
Words: 8.9K BIG yikes
Tags/Warnings: Sex Pollen (therefore Mildly Dub-Con), Smut, Vaginal Sex, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay, Orgasm Denial, Sex in Space, and some hints of a Praise Kink
Summary: Plant samples from Alfheim and a brooding god as your only companions in a small Quinjet sounds like a recipe for disaster, but some good things can happen in ten hours.
A/N: All I can say is... whoops, my hand slipped?
THE RIDE BACK to Earth is longer than you anticipated.
The small Quinjet is a sturdy and silent thing, the engine’s muffled hum a constant as you hurtle through space. It’s a drawn out, unceasing sound; it brings your boredom to the forefront of your consciousness and warps it into a false sense of steady calm. You might even be able to close your eyes for a second, seeing as there’s nothing but blackness before you—
“Wake up,” a voice snaps from behind your pilot chair, punctuated by a sharp snap of fingers. “You will not crash this ship.”
You straighten in your seat, unfazed by the bite in your companion’s tone. You blink a couple times, squeezing your eyes shut as you stifle a yawn.
“There’s literally nothing to crash into, Loki.”
Heavy boots thud against the metal floor of the ship until they stop by the copilot chair a few paces away from you. “You never were the vigilant type to begin with.”
This time, you sigh. “Look, if it makes you feel better, I’m turning on autopilot. If you can’t trust me, trust Stark. His tech is unparalleled. We will be fine.” You punch a button on the control panel, and the low hum of the Quinjet rises slightly in pitch. Swiveling around in your chair, you turn to face the god with raised hands. “See? No hands. All good. Course set.”
Loki stares at you, his features set in an unamused scowl, before turning on his heel to the farther side of the ship.
It takes a little more willpower than usual not to allow yourself to snap back at him, but you manage. After all, you’re both pretty tired, and he’s most likely antsy because of how long you’ve been cruising through the void of space. You’re sleepy, he’s irritable.
Still, your estimated time of arrival isn’t for another eight hours, and seeing as you’re going to be stuck with each other you might as well try to maintain some semblance of cordiality.
“So,” you begin, pushing up and out from your seat, “Alfheim was pretty.”
Loki stands by the glass window that shows you nothing but the expanse of space. His reflection is so clear that the details—like the strong slope of his nose, his aristocratic cheekbones—are unmarred.
“Yes,” he answers curtly. “Home to the Light Elves. As Stark briefed earlier, if you had been paying any attention.”
You swallow the retort, letting it fizzle out on the tip of your tongue. Stark did brief you on your mission, alright. You just wish knowing how to handle a brooding, irritated god was one of the things on Tony’s agenda.
Your mission was simple enough—collect some plants and flowers and shrubs and cuttings, he said. All the planty things. It’ll be quick, he said. Two rides through the Bifrost from Earth to Heimdall’s Observatory in Asgard, and then to Alfheim, followed by a short Quinjet ride to the nearby planet-slash-moon-thing, he said. Piece of cake, won’t take too long to get there.
He failed to mention how long it would take you to come home since you couldn’t use the Bifrost for reasons that were “none of your damn business.”
“You know, you’re not usually this much of a pain in the ass,” you find yourself saying as you stand side by side.
“And you’re not usually this mouthy,” he replies. He cocks his head at you. “Are you certain the coordinates have been set for Midgard?”
“Yes, sire,” you say, unable to keep the mocking tone from your voice at bay. “I told you. Trust me. If not me, then Stark.”
You lapse into silence, watching distant planets and stars twinkle against the dark backdrop of the void, the unending vastness pulling you into thought.
You’ve been working with the Avengers for just about a year. In this time, you’ve gotten to know everyone in the tower.
Including Loki.
He’s… quite a character, to say the least. Silent. Calculating. Not plotting his next attempt at world domination, but still, many are wary of his presence. You’ve spent enough time with him to know he’s a different Loki from the one in New York, though. You’d even go as far as to say that he’s… almost kind of good. Wreaking chaos, sure, by way of annoying the hell out of Steve and Tony especially, but… good.
And you’ll even admit to yourself, just a little, that he’s nice to be around. Not right now; no, he’s unnecessarily bitchy at the moment. But when it’s just you and him in the tower while the rest are either off-world or taking a day off outside the tower, it’s almost refreshing. His presence is companionable. When you watch a movie, his comments are genuinely witty and they make you laugh. He’s more aloof—more himself, you feel, and he allows himself to actually fucking smile.
And hell, when he does, looking at you with those green eyes and that heart-wrenching, happy smile—
You huff, squashing the blooming feeling in your chest. Pivoting on your heel, you make towards the other side of the ship: the small corner by the hatch that holds your collection of plants from today’s excursion. Maybe the weird, exotic flowers will keep you from acknowledging your tiny (but growing) crush.
“Do you have plants like this on Asgard?” you ask, hoping to inject some light into the heavy and tired air that hangs between you.
It takes Loki a second to move from his stance by the opposite window, but he ends up by your side eventually. He picks up a glass jar that houses a plant with blue, stunted leaves. “No.” He brings it up to eye level, examining it and rotating it in his hand. “The plants we’ve acquired are native to the Alfheim regions, it seems.”
“What does Stark want with them?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea.”
He sets down the jar with a dulled thunk and picks up another. The flower inside this one is pretty: curling petals with an orangey, reddish, and golden iridescence to it. It glitters in the low light of the Quinjet’s interior, and you can’t help but voice your admiration for it.
“Do you know what that one’s called?”
“No.”
“So why’d we get it?”
Loki’s eyebrows scrunch together, shifting his weight to the other foot. “Are you a child, mortal? Why must you ask such—”
You never get to hear the rest of Loki’s question; the Quinjet makes a hard, stuttering sound, almost as if it’s skidding over gravel, and the entire ship lurches forward and then sideways. The scraping sound of metal doesn’t cease as the ship continues to vibrate from the turbulence. You lose your balance, clutching at air to steady yourself, only one particularly hard jerk to the side causes you to stumble into Loki with a soft oof.
The pair of you are jostled to the floor, and the next thing you register is the distinct sound of glass shattering.
After a few seconds, the vibrations stop. Thankfully, because you were really starting to worry that dying in space was going to become an actual thing. The lights flicker before steadying and it resumes its normal hum as though it didn’t just go through the most unholy turbulence you’ve experienced. Granted, this is only your third time in space, but the unexpected collision leaves you spooked out nonetheless.
“What was that?”
It’s this moment that your mind chooses to notice that Loki’s chest has seemingly cushioned your fall, the top half of your body splayed on top of him.
Feeling the heat rise to your cheeks, you hastily clamber off him. “Shit, I’m so sorry.”
He doesn’t say anything, only rises to his feet and dusts off the front of his clothes. “You and I are in big trouble,” he says.
You hurry to the cockpit, which isn’t much of a cockpit considering how small the ship is compared to what Stark usually provides. A space rock just about the size of the ship lazily rolls away. “Looks like an asteroid?” you say, uncertain. “Are we caught in a belt?”
“No, it was a rogue one. The trouble I pertain to is not that, mortal. I’m afraid we’re one plant short now.”
“What?” Your head whips to the back so fast that your neck cricks, and you rush to the spot Loki points at.
Broken glass, and a flower that’s lost some of its iridescence. Some particles glitter on the metal floor, and you curse.
“There’s a spare jar in one of the overhead cabinets. Maybe we can still salvage this one.” You sigh. “What if this had some super special healing power and we just ruined it?”
“I told you not to crash this ship, and yet—”
“Shut it, Reindeer Games.” At this, you can see in your periphery how Loki’s nostrils flare just the slightest at the nickname. He hates it. Hates it because Stark uses it.
You manage to pick up the bigger pieces of broken glass without inadvertently cutting yourself and throw it into the waste bin. Loki hands you—well, more like shoves into you—another glass jar, into which you carefully place the flower. You slot it with the other plant samples and straighten up.
“There are still some smaller shards of glass around here,” you say, gesturing vaguely at the floor, “so we just need to be careful when we walk here.”
The floor shimmers in some angles: some attributed to the minute glass shards, some from the flower. Loki dips his chin in acknowledgment before resuming his perch by the window, staring out at the abyss of space as he was doing before you and he decided to look at the Alfheim plants.
A decision you’re regretting more and more with each passing minute.
You’re back in the pilot chair, scanning for any possibility of crashing into another space rock. If what you were feeling earlier was sleepiness, how you’re feeling right now is that tenfold with an extra weight of ten pounds on your head. Your eyelids are heavy and your body is beginning to feel warm. You sniffle, your nose a little congested, and a sneeze permeates the silence.
You swivel around to face Loki. The simple action of it causes your head to spin; you feel almost lightheaded, the same feeling you get when you’re sick. You steady yourself by planting your feet on the floor. “Hey. Are you feeling a little woozy?”
Loki’s eyes snap to you, concern written on his features. “Are you feeling unwell?”
“Not really. Feels like… like an allergy. From the flower.” You sneeze again. “Head’s heavy. Wanna sleep.”
“There’s a pull-out cot you can rest in.” In a flash, Loki’s helping you up, one arm around your waist. You can’t stop your eyelids from closing this time, feeling your grip on consciousness slip from you as your head lolls onto Loki’s shoulder. It’s a weird feeling. Heavy and light at the same time. You want to voice how it feels, but all that comes out is another sneeze.
“Perhaps the Alfheim flowers are a little too intense for your mortal body.”
Maybe it’s the allergies, but you swear you hear the hint of a smile in his voice. Loki drapes a blanket over you—wait, is he tucking you in?—and cards his fingers through your hair. You’re not sure if it’s real or not, but it feels nice.
“Sleep,” he says, voice distant and muddled. “I will take care of the ship.”
It doesn’t take you long to fall asleep to the Quinjet’s comforting hum.
--
It’s hot.
Way too hot.
You blearily open your eyes, the feverish warmth that’s spread over your body the first thing you notice. The funny thing is you’re hot but you aren’t sweating. At all.
Just warm.
Excessively so.
“It’s hot,” you blurt out dumbly, sitting up on the strangely comfortable cot. The blanket falls away from you as you squint at Loki’s silhouette in the pilot chair.
The lights are a little dimmer, you think. Not as harsh and cold, blinding white too, but almost warm. You didn’t even know the ship had that feature.
Loki doesn’t answer you. You realize this a little late after marveling over the Quinjet’s new lighting. “Are you hot?” Your voice sounds foreign, different to you—a different timbre, a little more hoarse.
“Not particularly.”
Your stomach does a little flip because shit, his voice sounds different too.
You swallow, rising to your feet. “How long was I asleep?”
“I did not keep track. Perhaps an hour. Maybe two.”
He swivels in the pilot chair, and your stomach does a funny kind of flip. He’s the perfect picture of a confident, cocky prince with a sort of casual regality; he’s leaning back just a little lower with his legs spread open, one arm hanging over the armrest while the other is bent at the elbow, a closed fist by his face. Like he sits on his own throne, proud and powerful and incredibly sexy.
And you’ll be damned if you don’t admit it’s an attractive sight.
“Did you sleep well?” he asks, his head falling to one side. The intensity of his gaze burns into you, and something inside you coils unmistakably. What the hell…?
“I…” your voice catches, and you clear your throat. “I did. Maybe—do—uh, do you want to take a nap this time? ’Cause I can keep watch.” You hurry to your feet, and your legs feel like jelly as you stand. It’s as if they aren’t a part of your body as they take you to the heart of the ship, the halfway point between the cot and the cockpit.
Loki stands, still staring at you, and even in the dimness of the ship you can see that the intensity with which he looks at you hasn’t waned. He reaches you, standing a good foot away, and stops.
You try to calm the wild beating of your heart, rooted to the spot from his attentions, and you fidget. Your eyes are flighty in contrast, flitting from his face to his chest to the void outside the Quinjet and back again.
He lifts a single finger up to your face, tipping your chin upwards so your eyes meet. Heat begins to pool somewhere specific now, and you’re not sure what to do about it.
Obviously nothing, your brain screams in protest. It’s like your mind is swimming, your afterthoughts delayed and your actual thoughts heady, private wishes just bubbling at the surface.
“Your face is red,” Loki comments, his voice low and soft. Like the blanket he tucked you into. No, a part of you thinks, stop this right now—
He brushes his knuckles against your cheek, regarding you with great interest. “You’re burning up as well. Shall I take you to bed?”
Surely he doesn’t mean for his words to come out as much of an innuendo as they do, but that’s immediately where your mind goes: into the gutter.
“A-aren’t you tired?” you say instead, allowing Loki to steer you by the shoulders back to the pull-out. “I can definitely—”
“No, you need to rest,” he insists. As your butt hits the mattress, Loki’s expression shifts into a thoughtful one. “Although your suit seems to be an unfitting set of clothes, considering you’re quite hot. One moment.”
Loki disappears, walking to a hidden part of the ship and you take this time to fan yourself. It’s still unbelievably hot, and the way your folds are slippery without any stimulation (except, you think with a small smirk, Loki’s little pilot chair moment was visual stimulation enough) causes alarm bells to ring faintly in the distance of your mind.
You experimentally flex your lower muscles and—oh. Oh.
“Here,” Loki says as he saunters back into view. He tosses you a dark green shirt. “Wear that.”
You stare at the bundle of fabric in your lap and realize it’s his.
And just like that, a fire is lit within you.
You bring up the shirt to your face, inhaling his scent when he turns his back, and fucking hell does he smell good. Your mouth practically waters at it, your eyes trained on Loki’s back as he settles back into the pilot’s chair.
Unconsciously you bite your lip as you wonder what his skin might look like underneath his armor.
“Don’t turn around,” you say, fighting the urge to jump him right then and there that surges to the fore. You’re tempted. You really are. And you also want him not to listen to you and turn around, watch you undress and change into his shirt.
Again, what in the hell…?
You shimmy out of your clothes and pull Loki’s shirt over you. It’s Asgardian in design, likely tailored specifically for him. You wearing it just feels so intimate. The smell that’s so distinctly him envelops you and quite frankly, it’s intoxicating.
You stand, and the shirt falls just to your mid-thighs. He didn’t bother getting you any shorts; you’re not sure if you’re grateful or angry, or maybe a heady mix of both.
Bundling up your used clothes in your arms, you clear your throat. “Thank you.”
Loki swivels around, stuttering to a stop when he sees you. His eyes rake over you, from your messy bedhead down to your exposed legs. His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat quite visibly, and your pride rears its head in victory.
“No shorts, though?” you ask innocently, one eyebrow shooting up.
“Unnecessary,” he answers with a devious grin that makes your insides melt and ignite all at once.
He turns his attention back to the controls, and you lay your clothes by the side of the pull-out.
Wearing Loki’s shirt does little to cool your temperature—in fact, it’s still blistering despite the Quinjet’s air conditioning.
“Are you sure it isn’t hot?” you ask again. You know you’re asking unnecessary questions, but you want to get him talking, speaking to you in that gorgeous velvet full voice of his.
You hear him chuckle, a gush of heat rushing towards your center. “I’m afraid that’s all you, little one.”
Sighing, you flop onto the bed, pulling a pillow over your legs. Maybe if you take another nap, the heat will subside from your body.
Your arousal, on the other hand…
A thought enters your mind, fleetingly, because you immediately push it away and chastise yourself through the murky fog of your brain. Pleasuring yourself? In Loki’s presence? The absurdity of the idea. You should be feeling shame… only you don’t. Not really, at least.
You shift onto your side, squeezing your eyes tight. Sleep does not come to you. You try lying on your back, on your stomach, and then again—
“Are you alright back there?”
The normal tone Loki uses astounds you, seeing as you’re somehow a feverish, horny mess and he isn’t. It puzzles you, and some deep part of you wants to figure out why. Only your brain seems to refuse to cooperate unless you’re thinking of doing certain things.
Things you certainly don’t mind doing with Loki.
“I-it’s hot,” you explain, embarrassed defeat lacing your words. How many times have you said that to him? You probably sound like a broken record.
At this, Loki lets out a full peal of laughter, husky and with a sensual edge to it. You wish you could make him laugh, hear it one more time. Or twice. Or on loop. It doesn’t really matter.
He swivels again to face you, his sitting posture similar to the one earlier, and it does things to you. Causes an uproar that’s novel to you, a need rising within you that must be sated.
Loki makes a smooth come hither motion with his fingers, curling from his pinky to his index. A beckoning you can’t refuse. “Perhaps I can help. In case you’ve forgotten, I’m quite adept at magic. It may help the current predicament you face.”
You slide off the cot and walk barefooted to the copilot chair. He looks a little different, you realize as you amble towards him. Maybe it’s the allergies, but just as he sounds different, there’s something different about him now that you’re really looking. He’s always been a pretty face and you’ve always found him extraordinarily handsome, but right now is different. You just can’t put a finger on it, so you chalk it up to his aura changing. Or the allergies. Most likely it’s the allergies.
You’re about to sit in the copilot chair beside him, only to be stopped when Loki laughs again and wraps his fingers around your wrist. All you hear is a faint, “No, silly girl,” before he pulls you in between his legs.
Pulls you with surprising strength, it seems, because your butt lands almost unceremoniously in the crook of his groin and lap. Your knees are hooked over the opposite arm rest, which means if you shift even just the tiniest bit to the side, your hip will come in contact with a certain part of him.
It’s a dilemma, you think with a giggle, if you want to be caught in a hard place.
His arms snake around your waist, pulling you close to him, and it just registers that you’re sitting on his lap holy shit you’re sitting on his lap.
“Are you comfortable?” he murmurs, adjusting your position so he can rest his chin on your shoulder. Instantly your mouth goes dry; it’s the proximity. You’ve never been this close to him before, and being in such a… an intimate position has you tense and rigid on top of him.
“I think so?” you squeak, stilling further as Loki’s nose burrows into your hair. He parts the curtain of your hair with side to side movements, until he buries his face into your neck. He inhales, and a delicious shiver runs down your sides.
“Good,” he breathes.
You’re frozen on his lap, afraid to even let out the smallest puff of air. His face just stays there, in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply.
“Are… you okay?”
And then your heart stops, because he’s lifting his head, his fingers brushing your hair to the back and exposing your nape to the cool air. The next second he’s tracing the tip of his nose from your chin up to your earlobe, where he pauses. You’re acutely aware of his lips against your skin, just barely brushing against it. “Never been better.”
He inhales again, deeply, and another shiver runs down your spine. You were wrong to think he was unaffected; something’s changed between you as you slept, and you aren’t sure why or what it is.
“You smell…” He trails off, moving down and back to the spot behind your ear. You swear you feel the slightest whisper of a kiss there, and it takes extra effort to hold in the sigh that’s caught in your throat. “…different.”
“I have a smell?” It comes out with a halfhearted, short laugh; an attempt to ease the thick tension that hangs over you.
Loki only hums in response. This time, with the pressure on your neck and the puffs of his breathing against your skin, you’re sure Loki’s lips are on you. Not a kiss, nothing more—just a steady weight that anchors you in his lap.
Anchors you to the reality that you are in his lap.
“And you are so warm.” The way he says it, his mouth moving against your skin, it’s almost as if he’s talking to himself. His arms around your waist tighten, and your hip comes in contact with a little bulge.
Well, not very little, but…
“Y-yeah, I thought you were going to do something about that.”
“Hmm? Oh, yes.”
His hand rests on your exposed thigh, his thumb rubbing hypnotic circles into your skin. “Better?” he asks with his face still buried in the crook of your neck.
“I don’t think so.” Coherency becomes increasingly difficult to achieve; you’re too focused on the sizzle of electricity thrumming within your veins, spidering from where he touches you.
“How about…” His hand glides up your thighs, skimming over your underwear and underneath the baggy shirt until they come up to rest on your hip. “Now?”
You’re sure he kisses you this time, on that sensitive spot below your ear, and you bite your lip to stop yourself from making a sound.
“Still nothing,” you whisper, strained. “As hot as ever.”
There is no second guessing anymore: something wet and hot darts out behind your ear, and Loki’s lips press a firm, lingering kiss there as his hand skims to the center of your stomach. You suck in a shaky breath, your eyes slipping closed at the spark you feel.
“And now?” he questions, just by your ear. The conspiratorial tone and the volume he uses makes you clench in anticipation.
Instead of answering, you shift on his lap—purposefully grinding a little bit on his evident erection. You hear Loki’s breathing change just slightly, his fingers curling on your stomach.
You think he’s about to do something to break the sexual tension and turn it into something tangible, something you both can actually do to ease the ache you’re sure you both feel, but you know the God of Mischief enjoys his games. He enjoys acting unaffected when in fact he is, and you intend to play that to your advantage. Somehow.
“I’m not sure I’m feeling anything,” you say as nonchalant as possible. A plan quickly brews in your mind, and you pretend to notice something on the dashboard. You wriggle in Loki’s lap, making sure to rub him in all the right places as you tell him you swear you saw something whiz past.
The way Loki tenses underneath you brings you a small bout of satisfaction.
“Perhaps,” he starts, his voice clearly strained as you begin to rotate your hips ever so lightly against him, “perhaps a nap is what you need.”
“But Loki,” you say, exaggerated and almost whiny as you lean back against his lean chest, feeling the full extent of his arousal against your lower back, “who’s going to see if the asteroid comes back?”
You yelp as Loki stands, one arm hooked under your knees and the other around your waist. He’s carrying you, the thought floating through your muddled brain.
“Stark will handle it. Like you said. Trust him and his technology, or something like that,” he says, voice a little rough. “It’s bed for you.”
Loki lays you down with surprising gentleness, smoothing the covers around you. You think you might be able to sleep a little now that a little pent up energy has been released, but you only become shell-shocked when Loki climbs into the cot beside you.
It’s not a very large bed, mind you, which means that you’re trapped between his body and the wall of the ship. There isn’t much room to lay on your back when Loki’s in it with you, so you settle on your side while he does the same.
Loki pulls your back to his chest, completely flush against his body. “Relax,” he murmurs. “Try to sleep.”
Yeah, as if you can with something very hard poking into your backside.
For the record, you do try to sleep. You let your eyes drift closed with Loki’s arm draped over you, but even when you reach that half asleep state you’re focused on his erection behind you and his arm slowly making its way under your shirt again.
And somehow, whether it’s of your own doing or your body on autopilot, your hand slowly makes its way behind, reaching between you and placing it flat against his erection.
It’s like time stops. There’s nothing but static in your brain, the only sound the ever-present hum of the ship. As if neither of you dare to breathe. Loki’s fingers rest on your hipbone, where the garter of your underwear rests.
Neither of you move. You stay like this, for how long you don’t know, until Loki exhales a little, pressing his length against your palm.
“Can’t sleep,” you whisper, shifting to ease the budding strain in your arm. “Still hot.”
“So am I,” Loki replies softly.
You don’t think you can tense up further, but your body surprises you. “Maybe…” You don’t know why you’re allowing your question to form and where you’re getting the boldness to ask. “Maybe you should take something off.”
He’s quiet for a moment, and you don’t turn around to face him. The sound of the sheets rustling and the mattress shifting is enough to tell you that he got up. Cold dread begins to replace the delicious fire that was coursing through your veins—have you scared him away? Offended him?
The mattress dips again, and Loki’s pulling you against him, in the same spooning position you were in earlier. Only… only he’s shirtless, you realize when your back hits his chest.
Shit, you really want to turn around and take a good look at his gloriously naked chest first.
You’re not sure your heart can take any more when Loki slowly guides your hand back to the evidence of his arousal. Once he places your palm on his erection, his hand is sliding over your skin underneath what you’re wearing, resting just underneath the swell of your breast.
“You know, mortal, you are very pretty,” he admits quietly, his finger dashing against your skin. “And your company is… tolerable.”
“Yeah, you’re not too bad yourself, Reindeer Games.” It comes out rushed, breathy, and a small moan of pain (or is it?) punctuates the end of your sentence as he drags a nail over your skin.
“Do not call me that. Or I will have to punish you.”
When did you decide to court danger?
“Are you threatening me with a good time?”
“Perhaps I am threatening you with the absence of one.”
Fast as lightning, Loki removes his touch from you. “You are still feverish. Perhaps you should take off your shirt.”
“You mean your shirt.” Your heart thumps loudly against your ribcage, your hands now toying with the hem of the fabric. The tone between you two has shifted so drastically, the tension so thick it’s almost suffocating. You sit up, twisting to see Loki lying on his side, his eyes dark and half-lidded.
You maintain eye contact as you grip the end of the shirt, slowly pulling it as it exposes, bit by bit, the upper half of your thighs, your underwear, your stomach, your breasts, until you pull it over your head and toss it to the side. Loki stares at you all the while, a hungry look in his eye, but does nothing.
“Lie back down,” he commands, running a finger over your bare side. “Perhaps now you will be able to cool off.”
He twirls the ends of your hair around his fingers as you do as he says, the warmth of your center now the focus of your attention as it thrums.
Loki props you against him, on your side again, his fingers dancing across your midriff, moving up until he’s tracing the tops of your breasts and ghosting over your nipples.
Your back arches almost unconsciously, pressing into him where he meets you with equal pressure.
Experimentally you gyrate over his erection, making sure to keep your movements slow and agonizing. His hands skim over your breasts until he takes one in his hand, rolling your nipple between his fingers until they pebble.
His head falls onto your shoulder as you keep with your tantalizing dance over his hips, his breathing growing ragged. He tweaks and pulls at your nipples, squeezing and palming your breasts until it’s the only thing that clouds your mind.
“Are you—are you still warm?” he asks, evidently trying and failing to keep his composure as you buck your ass against him particularly hard.
“You tell me.”
He flicks over your breast in response, your head falling back with a barely held back moan.
“Maybe you should take off your pants,” you suggest with a sigh.
“Maybe I should take off yours.”
“I’m not wearing any, remember?”
Loki stills, which makes you do the same. He shifts, gently guiding you to lie on your back. The confusion must be clear as day on your face, because Loki stares at you with those intense green eyes of his as he climbs on top of you.
Your faces are level, his eyes scanning every inch. You’re not sure where this is coming from; one minute he’s all over your breasts and the next he’s quiet and on top of you. He buries his face in your neck for what feels like the millionth time today, setting off a reaction that sends another wave of want to your core.
This time he sucks on your neck, and you gasp. Your hands move to bury into his hair, but Loki pins your arms to the sides by your wrists. You writhe underneath him as he marks you with tongue and teeth.
He peppers kisses around your neck, your throat, your collarbone as he grinds into you. Letting out a small groan, he moves to hover over your lips.
“Tell me to kiss you,” he whispers hoarsely. “Do it. Now.”
The grip on your wrists has slackened and you take the opportunity to pull Loki’s face to yours. Hungry and passionate is what the kiss is: his mouth moves quickly, in sync with yours, as though to make sure every bit of this is real and not just a fever dream. You savor it, the taste of him, leaving you dizzy and delirious with every swipe of his tongue and graze of his teeth against your lips. It’s almost rough, the way he kisses you, but it fits the urgency you feel. You don’t want to have it any other way.
He travels down until he’s suckling at your breasts, and you do everything in your power to hold in the moan that rises in your throat. All you can feel is heat and slick and the pulsing of your blood, overcome with the need to be filled to the brim by him.
You’re about to fumble with his pants when he trails a path of kisses down your torso, stopping when he reaches between your legs.
You’re practically trembling with anticipation now. Seeing Loki in between your legs, a wicked grin on his face, has you wetter than you’ve ever gotten in life. He spreads you apart, settling between them, and feathers kisses over your inner thighs.
“Loki,” you say through gritted teeth, your pussy clenching as he nears your sweet center. “Stop teasing.”
He shifts forward, kissing your hips, your stomach jumping underneath him. Then, with a mischievous glint in his eyes, he bares his teeth, scraping over your skin and biting down on the fabric of your underwear.
He slides one side down, his mouth dragging over your thigh, your underwear between his teeth; he does the same to the other side, and again he goes. All the way, pulling your underwear down with his teeth until they’re around your ankles. He discards it lazily, adding it to the growing pile of clothes, and at this point you’re nothing but a whimpering mess.
“So this is the source of your sweet smell,” he mutters as he lowers his head between your legs. You’re shaking lightly, wound tight from the excitement, and when Loki inhales the scent of you, long and drawn out, you almost want to cum right there and then.
“Absolutely divine,” he comments. Then he’s placing his tongue flat against you, your head falling back against the pillow, unable to hold in the moan that spills from your lips.
It’s like an explosion of little lights, you think distantly. Little stars bursting from one touch.
He lifts his head from your cunt with a mischievous grin. “I like that sound, little one. Let’s see how many times I can make you do it again.”
The feeling of Loki’s head between your legs, his mouth inside you, is incomparable. He dives into your cavern, his dexterous tongue causing you to sigh praises that seem to only spur him on. It’s a steady, swirling motion that drives you insane, your pelvis arching.
Then he’s moving up to swipe over your clit, and every nerve ending in your body sizzles and frays, another loud moan of his name ripped from your throat. With a grip of steel, he holds your thighs down, parted wide, as he assaults your clit with sucks and nibbles and licks.
“Loki,” you pant, hips bucking against his mouth. Your insides begin to coil in preparation, your walls clenching around Loki’s tongue. “Loki, I—”
He hums, almost like he’s questioning you, and the vibration on your sensitive parts is enough to send you over the edge.
The orgasm that overtakes you is powerful, pulsing through every part of your body as you whisper his name like a prayer. Only Loki doesn’t stop—he licks up every drop that leaks from you, and it’s enough stimulation for another powerful orgasm to build.
His lips latch onto your clit, sucking rhythmically, as his tongue swipes and swirls around the bundle of nerves.
“Loki,” you try to say, only it comes out a breathy whine, “I want to go down on you too—ah—”
He plunges a finger deep within you, curling against your G-spot in time with his sucks.
“Fucking hell, Loki,” you grind out, your fingernails digging into his scalp as you rotate your hips on his face. You can feel the steady climb to another precipice of an orgasm, as well as the tiny smirk that plays on Loki’s face against you.
Your grip tightens on his hair as he speeds up his movements; rapid, quick swipes on your clit, his fingers pumping in and out of you shallowly. Your walls begin to clench at the splinters of release—
“Not yet,” he says, removing his lips and fingers from you with a dark grin.
Frustration wells up within you, but it’s shadowed by the undeniable thrill that shoots towards your center. If you’re understanding Loki right—which you do most of the time—he isn’t finished with you just yet.
He crawls on top of you like a prowling animal, the pure lust in his eyes mirroring what you feel. He captures your lips in a kiss, languid and seductive, his hands cradling your face.
The juxtaposition of the entire situation hits you like a freight train. He’s gentle when he’s holding you like this, like you’re made of glass, but the urgency with which he grinds into your naked mound detonates another explosion of emotions. One action is delicate, the other rough. Contrast bolting through you at the same time and colliding into one as pleasure.
“You’re amazing,” you sigh into his mouth, and you can feel Loki suck in a breath, pausing at your words. Spotting your chance, you roll on top of him, straddling his waist with a smirk.
Loki’s eyes open, a ghost of bewilderment etched onto his face at the sudden shift, and then when he sees your expression he transforms his own into his usual confident half-grin. As though he’s merely amused by this whole situation—but he isn’t fooling you.
“I didn’t think you had it in you, little one,” he drawls, sliding his hands up your sides.
You grab his forearms, pushing them down to his sides as you rock against the clothed tent in his pants. Loki could easily overpower you, you know that, free his arms from your not so vicelike grip, but he lets you. Lets you pin his arms to his sides just as he did to you.
Lowering your head, you run your nose along the expanse of his chest, up to his neck where it’s your turn to inhale deeply. He smells just like the shirt you were wearing, only ten times more potent, and it sends a fresh wave of heady arousal to wash over you.
“Not yet,” you echo his words from earlier, your grip tightening on his wrists as you grind down into him. You can feel Loki about to respond with a snarky remark, so you silence him by suctioning your lips on his neck. Your one track mind has only one goal: mark him with bruises that are of your doing. Claim him as yours.
You lift off him with a little pop; not a very sexy sound, but Loki seems to enjoy it with the way his hips seem to be moving of their own accord. You kiss across his throat before suctioning again on another spot right below his jaw.
This time, you play a little rough.
Loki’s hips jerk upwards as your teeth rake over his skin, his breath fanning over your hair. “Little minx,” he utters, groaning a second later as you push your center against him with a harder bite to his neck.
“Pants off, Loki,” you whisper.
He frees one arm from your grip and haphazardly waves his hand, and your swollen sex comes in contact with the flesh of his hard and heavy cock.
Just as Loki’s about to jerk up and into you, you lift your hips off of him. It kills you to do it, but the teasing, the foreplay, causes you to feel a smidge of power.
“I said, not yet,” you say, sliding down his body until your face is level with his cock.
His length throbs in front of you, and somehow, somewhere in the deep recesses of your mind you think you’ve never seen a cock as beautiful as his. Curious, you lick a stripe down the underside of it, from the base up to the tip.
Loki masks his hiss, turning it into a cheeky exhale, folding an arm under his head. “Go on then. Impress me.”
Whatever intimidation game he’s trying to play, feigning nonchalance, it’s not going to work on you. You take a moment to examine the bead of precum that leaks from his slit, your fingers at the base of his erection, and drag the tip of your tongue over it before sliding your lips over the blunt head.
You don’t bob up and down; unmoving, merely suckling and swirling your tongue around the head of his cock. His hands fist into your hair as your hand and mouth begin to pump up and down his shaft, and just like that promises and praise fall from his lips like wine.
You chance a glance at him, and are utterly pleased by the sight. Loki’s eyes are scrunched shut, barely containing his pleasure, breathing hard through his nose. To have him, a god, reduced to his most carnal needs at your ministrations fills you with gratification. You take him further into your mouth until you can feel him pulsing with almost release, and then you lift off him with a sly grin.
“Not yet,” you repeat in almost a teasing, singsong kind of way.
Loki glares at you, but it’s hardly threatening. You manage to laugh as you level your faces, kissing him hot on the mouth and guiding your slick entrance to his throbbing cock.
You hover over him, not fully seated, his cock just stretching you the slightest bit. Your self-restraint cracks with every passing second you remain unmoving, until Loki takes your hips in his hands and brings you down on top of him, seating you on top of him.
He stretches you in a way you can only describe as full. You lean forward, planting your hands on his lean chest, and rock against him, eyes closing at the feeling.
It’s nothing you could ever conjure up in your wild dreams—he fills you, grinding in time with you and sending you into a barely controlled frenzy. But you keep your movements slow, relishing the way you can feel him throb inside you. Everything feels so new, a first you’ve never experienced: each touch, movement, kiss, no matter how small seems to be amplified in the small ship. It fills you with an unfamiliar, delicious kind of fire, boiling inside you.
“Not—not bad,” Loki grunts, unable to maintain the once casual tone he used before. “For a mortal.”
You swivel your hips and rake your nails over his chest, and Loki’s mouth parts lightly. “Not bad,” you remark, squeezing your muscles around him, “Reindeer Games.”
It’s Loki’s turn to seize his opportunity, it seems, because his eyes fly open, a wild, hungry look to him as he flips you underneath him, his cock still buried in you. The shift in position drives you a little mad, your pussy clenching unconsciously around him.
“What did I say,” he asks dangerously, plowing in and out of you with slow, agonizing strokes, “about calling me that?”
“You’d punish me.” A delicious shiver runs down your spine as the words come out.
“Wonderful that you remember. Because you’re about to forget everything except my name.”
And with that promise, Loki brings your wrists over your head, pinning them above you with a firm grip, his mouth seeking yours as he begins to rut into you more senselessly now. He swallows the moan you make when the tip of his cock hits a particularly sensitive spot inside you, making sure to angle it right where you’re most sensitive.
He doesn’t cease his movements when he latches onto your breast, roughly biting and sucking until you’re whimpering soft cries and pleas and praises. His other hand caresses the curve of your hip and ass before he presses on your clit.
If you were seeing stars earlier, right now you’re seeing entire galaxies explode behind your eyes. The sensations are overwhelming, your legs spread wide open, and just when you think you’ve felt it all, Loki takes you by surprise and pulls you both into a kneeling position. He bounces you on his cock with unrelenting speed, and your arms find their way around his shoulders as you approach orgasm yet again.
You subconsciously flex your walls around him, biting down on his shoulder to prepare you for an orgasm—only Loki slows to a stop, gently laying you back down on your back.
The release that built inside you ebbs away, and you clench around Loki, a silent signal for him to continue. Only Loki pulls himself out of you, resting atop you with his face buried in your neck, suckling another bruise into your skin.
“Loki,” you breathe, his hand cupping your breast, “Loki, please.”
The god has the nerve to smile against you, you feel it. “What did you say to me earlier?”
“You said it to me first, in case you’ve forgotten.”
Loki lifts his head, his eyes boring into yours, blown with desire and yet… something has shifted. Something else is there.
“You are extraordinary,” he tells you, brushing hair away from your forehead. “You have always been the object of my attention, ever since you walked into the board room on your first day.”
Your throat closes with the genuine admission, and you swallow the lump in your throat. “Yeah, well, I always thought you were pretty neat. Maybe we can talk later and finish what we started?”
Loki chuckles, his eyes crinkling, and presses a kiss to your lips. “Smart woman.”
It’s almost as if the tender moment doesn’t happen at all, because Loki’s arms snake underneath you to bring your hips closer to his, plunging into you and reaching a deeper spot that makes both of you groan in earnest. Whatever just happened, you can probably mark it for later with a good sit-down conversation. Right now your focus is on his cock inside you, and you don’t hesitate to tell him how good he’s making you feel.
“Hands above your head,” he commands.
You oblige, and his head immediately dips to your breasts. He’s kissing, licking everywhere he can reach, while your hands tangle in his hair, his shoulders, his muscled back. Your back arches, his cock thrusting mercilessly into you, burying himself to the hilt and brushing against that sweet, sweet spot over and over.
You don’t know how you’re ever going to come back from this. Loki buried within you, your cunt stretching to accommodate him, perfectly slotting into each other. His fingers rub against your clit, adding to your already overloaded senses and fuck, it’s as if all the effects from the foreplay and your heat come crashing down in one big tidal wave.
The speed at which Loki’s pounding into you is almost ungodly, unreal. Your mouth hangs open, your orgasm building with extraordinary intensity—
Almost as quickly as it builds, you’re tipped over the edge, a broken wail of his name accompanying the spasms in your lower body. You’ve never had an orgasm as shattering as this one, your cunt fluttering around Loki even as you slowly come down from your high.
“That’s it,” Loki says, jaw set. “Very good, little one.”
He doesn’t stop, doesn’t even slow down—he continues to wreck you, the sounds of your coupling obscenely filling the air. You want him to feel the seismic pleasure you just did—so you clamp around him, rotate your hips in little circles in time with his thrusts.
“You’re absolutely amazing,” you tell him, watching how he slowly unravels with every new praise. You tell him how good he makes you feel, how good he is, perfect and incredible and oh, the things you would do to—
Loki bends down and kisses you ferociously, licking every part of your mouth and biting on your lips as he bucks, going rock hard and cumming inside you. His movements slow, just a fraction, as you let him ride out his high.
“Glorious woman,” he mutters, his eyes still closed as he kisses over every inch of your face.
You’re about to return with a compliment of your own, but are cut off when Loki grinds into you again.
“A-are you still hard?” you ask, a giggle rising to your throat whose tail end turns into another moan.
“I’ve lost count how many times I’ve made you make that wonderful sound,” he says, hips stirring back to life as you feel a fresh bout of slick moisture gush down your legs. “I think that’s quite a success.”
And then he’s flipping you over, on your stomach, pulling your ass up and sliding his still-hard cock back into your dripping folds, reaching depths you didn’t even know you had, evidently ready for another round.
Through your half-lidded eyes, you make out the faint outline of stars—whether they’re from the pleasure you feel or actually there, you don’t know.
-- -- --
You’d think overstimulation would best you, but your entire afternoon—evening, morning, you can’t really tell, space is just completely dark—has been you and Loki all over each other all over the ship.
You can’t tell how long it’s been, but you can feel the ship beginning to descend into Earth’s atmosphere.
“Hey. Hey, Loki—ah, yes, there—”
You’ve also lost track of how many orgasms you’ve had.
You writhe underneath him, searing hot ecstasy blistering in your core as Loki sucks on your clit, his teeth just lightly scraping over it, his fingers smoothing over your inner thighs.
“You taste so sweet, little one,” he murmurs against you, licking through your folds.
“Don’t distract me.” You swat at his head weakly. “I think we’re here.”
“Haven’t touched the ground,” he says, shrugging, making to dive back into your well-spent cunt.
You stop him before he can seduce you into letting him taste you again, and again, as he’d been doing all day.
Whatever warmth you were feeling earlier has completely subsided from your body, and even your mind feels clearer. As soon as you came down from whatever it was, all that was left was a blissful afterglow that you still feel until now.
Surprisingly, you and Loki haven’t had any awkward, dead air—granted, he has been buried in your thighs and yours in his most of the trip. You thought maybe as soon as the strange fever subsided, you’d both be back to whatever it was before this, but apparently not. It seems to have opened up a door, an opportunity, one you both mutually want to walk through together.
“We still have time,” Loki purrs, caressing your folds with his thumbs.
“You’re insatiable,” you sigh, and Loki takes this as a sign to delve back into your warmth, his tongue gliding into you for the umpteenth time today.
“You love it.”
--
You and Loki disembark the Quinjet, you with shaky legs and him with a sort of spring in his step. You’re not sure what to tell the others when you see them, a tinge of worry sneaking into your bubble of sexual satisfaction.
As soon as you walk into the board room, you’re met with the expectant eyes of the Avengers, studying the pair of you with varying expressions.
And then Loki’s sliding his arm around your waist, bringing you closer to him, and the room erupts into shouts of “Called it!” and “No!” and you can’t help but laugh at the raucousness of it all.
“I’m glad we couldn’t take the Bifrost coming back here,” you tell Loki quietly.
“As am I,” he whispers back.
“Yeah, about that,” Stark cuts in, stepping forward, “yeah… you totally could have used it.”
