Loki Fanfction - Blog Posts

no bc why would a loki friends to lovers be so good?? 😭 ✋✋✋

can i request loki trope best friends to lovers with female avenger!reader from love is in the air? i have a whole plot and i am so sorry in advance so here we go:

reader is lokis best friend and they became friends bc she was the only avenger who was nice to him when he first came to the compound and they got really close. he still gets bad nightmares and when he does, he goes to readers room and she just accepts him and holds him while he cries until the nightmares are over!! (she’s so book boyfriend coded i literally can’t) and then this happens a lot but is only mentioned like a few times in the story (i really hope you understand this im so sorry my thoughts are literally all over the place) and then one night he goes to her room again bc of another nightmare and she comforts him and they fall asleep and he doesn’t have any nightmares while sleeping and then in the morning when they wake up (tangled in each others limbs) he goes ‘i love you’ and she smiles and goes i know and then he goes like ‘no, i LOVE you’ and she smiles more and whispers ‘i know’ and then kisses him!!!

thank you for making this new game and always specifying the as much detail as we want part i love u and ur writing soso much and you are so amazing and im so sorry for making you read this super long request

— anon 🌷

NIGHTMARES

⤷ LOKY LAUFEYSON

ᯓ★ Pairing: Loki Laufeyson x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: romance, some angst and some fluff

ᯓ★ Story type: one shot

ᯓ★ Word count: 4.3k

ᯓ★ Summary: just what the ask said

ᯓ★ TW(s): nothing I think, just some angst

ᯓ★ Love is in the air - Valentine's Day special game

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ MARVEL Holiday Special

ᯓ★ MARVEL Multiverse - choose an AU, pair it with your favorite character and make a request!

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

Loki has no choice but to be here.

It is a punishment, though not the kind he expected. No dungeons, no chains—just the ever-present weight of Midgardian hospitality, which is its own sort of prison. After Asgard’s fall and the madness that followed, Thor petitioned to bring Loki to the Avengers Compound rather than leave him to whatever grim fate awaited him elsewhere. It was a mercy, Thor claimed. Loki knew better. It was just another way to keep him under watch, to keep him leashed. So he plays along, lets them believe he is something tame and manageable, even if the mere presence of this place makes his skin crawl.

The others do not trust him. That much is expected. Even if Loki had miraculously decided to change his ways, there is too much blood between them all. Stark especially watches him like a vulture, always ready with some barbed comment, some clever little jab to remind Loki that he is not welcome. Rogers is quieter about his disdain, ever the noble soldier, but he does not mask it well. Romanoff does not bother with pretense—she does not speak to him at all. Barton is much the same, still nursing whatever wounds Loki left behind in New York. Maximoff has her own reasons to hate him. Strange treats him as one might treat an unpredictable wild animal, barely interested beyond the occasional veiled threat.

Thor is the only one who does not look at Loki like an enemy, though his efforts to bridge the gap between them are clumsy at best. Loki does not want his brother’s pity. He does not want to be here at all.

And yet, somehow, against all odds, you happen.

You are the only one who speaks to Loki without venom in your voice, the only one who does not look at him like a problem that needs solving. From the very beginning, you offer him kindness. Not the strained, obligatory sort Thor extends, nor the artificial niceties of someone waiting for him to slip up. You are simply… kind. It baffles him. It frustrates him. It keeps him awake at night, replaying your words and gestures in his mind, trying to decipher your angle.

He tests you at first. He is cruel, the way he has always been, sharp-tongued and dismissive. He tries to chase you away, because he cannot fathom why you would want to be close to him. But you stay. You take his barbs with an infuriating sort of patience, countering his wit with your own, refusing to let him push you into the shadows. And slowly, against his better judgment, he stops trying to push at all.

Loki does not know when exactly things change. One moment, you are just another foolish Midgardian trying to play nice with the villain, and the next, you are something else entirely. A constant. A presence that lingers in his mind even when you are not there. He finds himself seeking you out, watching for you when he enters a room. He makes excuses to be where you are, though he is certain you see through them all.

You are different from the others. Perhaps that is why he lets you in. Perhaps that is why, when you tease him, he does not feel the usual bite of mockery. When you speak to him, he listens. When you laugh, he does not wish for silence.

It is strange, this… whatever this is between you. He does not know what to call it.

There is a night, early on, when he realizes how much he enjoys your presence. The others are away on some mission, leaving the compound oddly silent. You do not know he is there when you slip into the common room, curled up in the corner with a book, lost in the pages. Loki watches you for longer than he should before making himself known. You do not startle when he speaks, do not tense like the others do when they notice him lurking. You simply glance up, meet his gaze, and smile.

It is a small thing. A meaningless thing. And yet, Loki feels it somewhere deep in his chest, in a place he thought long since turned to stone.

From then on, things are… different. You and Loki fall into an easy rhythm, one that does not require explanation. You are his friend, though he still struggles with the weight of that word. It is unfamiliar on his tongue, but there is no other way to describe what you are to him. You speak to him as though he is not a monster. You listen when he speaks, even when his words turn bitter. You do not pity him, nor do you fear him. It is a delicate balance, and yet, you hold it effortlessly.

The others notice, of course. Stark makes his comments, forever incredulous that you would willingly spend your time with Loki. The others exchange looks when they see you together, silently wondering what exactly has formed between you. Even Thor is perplexed by it, though he does not question it aloud.

Loki does not care what they think.

For the first time in what feels like centuries, he is not entirely alone.

---

The first time it happens, Loki does not intend for it to happen at all.

It is late—long past the hour when even the restless find sleep. The compound is silent, steeped in the kind of darkness that makes everything feel heavier, more oppressive. He should be resting. He knows this. And yet, as he lies in the too-soft Midgardian bed, the sheets tangled around his restless limbs, Loki cannot shake the remnants of his nightmare.

It is not the first time he has suffered such things. They have plagued him for years, twisting his thoughts into cruel shapes, dragging him into memories he cannot escape. Usually, he endures them alone, swallowing down the horror, letting it fester in silence. But tonight is different. Tonight, the weight of it is unbearable.

He sits up, dragging a hand down his face, breath still unsteady. The dream clings to him like a second skin. He can feel it—thick, choking, inescapable. His own screams still echo in his mind, a cruel reminder of how easily he unravels when left alone with his thoughts.

He needs to breathe.

Loki forces himself out of bed, out of his room, into the dimly lit hall. He does not know where he is going at first. He does not think at all. His body moves on instinct, his feet carrying him forward before his mind catches up.

And then he is standing in front of your door.

The realization strikes him like a blow. He should not be here. He has no reason to be here. And yet, something in him will not allow him to turn away.

He hesitates, jaw tight, fingers curling into fists. He should leave. The last thing he wants is for you to see him like this—weak, vulnerable, broken. You have only ever known the pieces of him that he allows you to see, the sharp wit, the clever smirk, the mask that keeps the world at bay. This… this is something else entirely.

And yet, before he can stop himself, he lifts his hand and knocks.

It is soft, barely audible, but in the silence of the compound, it may as well be a thunderclap. His heart pounds against his ribs, and he almost turns to flee before the sound of movement reaches his ears.

A moment later, the door opens.

You stand before him, bleary-eyed and wrapped in a blanket, confusion written across your features.

"Loki?" Your voice is thick with sleep, but there is no irritation in it, no impatience. Just quiet concern.

He does not know what to say. He does not even know why he is here, why he has come to you instead of locking himself away like he always does. The words catch in his throat, his pride warring with his need for something—anything—to ground him.

But you look at him, really look at him, and something in your expression shifts.

You step aside without a word, leaving the doorway open in silent invitation.

For a long moment, Loki simply stands there, waging a battle within himself. He should not do this. He should not need this.

But the alternative is far worse.

So, with slow, reluctant steps, he moves inside.

You close the door behind him, and the quiet settles between you, not awkward, but heavy with something unspoken. You do not ask why he is here. You do not press him for an explanation. Instead, you gesture toward your bed, a silent offer, as if you have already decided what he needs before he can admit it himself.

He swallows, shame burning in his chest, but he cannot bring himself to refuse.

Without a word, he lowers himself onto the edge of the bed. His hands tremble slightly as he presses them against his knees, his entire body taut with tension. He feels exposed, raw in a way that terrifies him.

And then you sit beside him, so close he can feel your warmth.

Still, you do not push. You wait.

It is this—your patience, your quiet understanding—that breaks something in him.

He exhales sharply, his composure fracturing at the edges. His shoulders shake before he can stop them, and then, before he even knows what is happening, his hands are gripping the fabric of his own sleeves so tightly that his knuckles turn white.

You move before he can react, before he can even think to stop you. Your arms come around him, careful but certain, pulling him into your embrace.

Loki stiffens at first, instinct screaming at him to pull away. He is not used to this—to being held. He does not know how to accept comfort, how to take something so freely given.

But you do not let go. You do not waver. You simply hold him, warm and steady, as if this is the most natural thing in the world.

And Loki breaks.

A shuddering breath escapes him, and then another. His body sags against yours before he can stop it, his forehead pressing into your shoulder, his fingers clutching at the fabric of your shirt like a lifeline. The dam bursts, and before he can stop it, he is trembling, shaking, silent sobs wracking his frame.

You say nothing. You do not tell him it is okay, do not offer empty reassurances. You simply hold him through it, your hands moving gently along his back, your touch grounding him in a way that nothing else ever has.

Time loses meaning. He does not know how long he stays like this, pressed against you, his breath uneven, his body betraying him. But you never pull away. You never make him feel as if he is too much.

When the storm finally begins to pass, when his breathing evens and the tremors fade, he feels exhaustion settle deep in his bones. He should move. He should leave before he humiliates himself further.

But then you shift, adjusting your grip so that you are holding him more fully, your chin resting gently atop his head.

"Stay," you murmur, the word barely above a whisper.

He does not fight it.

For the first time in his life, Loki allows himself to be held.

That night, he sleeps.

And then, somehow, it becomes normal.

It does not happen every night, but often enough that neither of you question it anymore. When the nightmares come, when the weight of his past becomes unbearable, Loki finds himself at your door.

And every time, without fail, you let him in.

The shame he once felt begins to fade, replaced by something he does not have the words for. You do not judge him for his weakness. You do not make him feel like a burden. You simply accept him, in all his fractured, broken pieces, without hesitation.

It is terrifying.

It is the most comfort he has ever known.

And Loki does not know what to do with that.

---

Loki does not know when it begins. Perhaps it has always been there, buried beneath layers of denial and self-preservation, something too delicate to acknowledge, too dangerous to name. But slowly, steadily, it grows.

He notices it in the quiet moments, in the spaces between words.

It is in the way he seeks you out without realizing it, the way his day does not feel quite right until he has spoken to you. It is in the way his chest tightens when you laugh, in the way his mind lingers on your voice long after you have left the room.

It is in the nights spent wrapped in your arms, when the nightmares become too much.

At first, those nights were a necessity, a last resort when his own mind betrayed him. But now, they are something else entirely. The shame that once clung to him has faded, replaced by something far more dangerous. He no longer fights the pull toward you—he welcomes it. He does not know when it became so natural to find solace in your presence, to lean into your warmth without hesitation.

But it is not just about the nightmares anymore.

It is the way he lingers when he does not need to. The way his fingers brush against yours in passing, the way he memorizes every shift in your expression, the way your touch lingers on his skin long after you have pulled away. It is the way his heart pounds in his chest at the smallest of gestures, the way your absence leaves an ache that he cannot name.

And then, one night, it happens.

It is late, but Loki is not in his room. He is in yours, as he has been countless times before. The routine is familiar—he wakes from a nightmare, the echoes of it still clinging to his skin, and without thinking, his feet carry him to you.

You let him in, as you always do.

Tonight, the weight of it is heavier than usual. The nightmare lingers in his mind, curling around his thoughts like smoke. He does not speak of it, and you do not ask. You simply pull him into your arms, letting him bury himself against you, his breath uneven against your collarbone.

For a long time, neither of you move. The silence is comforting, your fingers tracing gentle patterns along his back, grounding him.

And then, in the stillness, something shifts.

You sigh softly, a sleepy, content sound, your arms tightening around him just slightly before relaxing again. It is the simplest thing—an unconscious movement, a meaningless moment.

But it unravels him.

The realization hits Loki with the force of a thousand suns. It is sudden and absolute, as if it has been waiting for this exact moment to make itself known.

He loves you.

It is not friendship, not even close. It never has been.

His love for you is deep and consuming, something that lives in his very bones. It is in the way he looks at you when you are not watching, the way your presence soothes him in a way nothing else ever has. It is in the way he would burn the world to the ground if it meant keeping you safe.

The realization is terrifying.

Loki does not move. He does not breathe. He simply lies there, pressed against you, as the weight of it crushes him.

This should not have happened. He should not have allowed it.

Love is a weakness. It is a thing to be used, to be twisted and turned against him. He has seen it happen too many times before. He has felt the sting of rejection, the sharp bite of betrayal. He knows better than to hope.

And yet, it is too late.

Loki swallows hard, willing the ache in his chest to subside. He cannot tell you. He will not. You are his closest friend, the only person who has ever truly seen him, the only one who has never turned him away. If he speaks this truth aloud, he risks losing that.

And that is something he cannot bear.

So he does what he has always done—he buries it.

He forces himself to breathe, forces himself to relax against you, as if nothing has changed. Because for you, nothing has.

You do not know. You cannot know.

And Loki will make sure it stays that way.

From that night on, everything feels different.

He pretends it does not. He is careful, measured. He acts as he always has, keeps his words and actions the same. He does not allow himself to linger too long, does not let his touch betray him.

But inside, he is unraveling.

It is a constant war, a battle he fights every second he is near you. He is hyperaware of every glance, every touch, every breath. He cannot stop looking at your lips when you speak, cannot ignore the way his heart clenches when you smile.

And the worst part? You do not even notice.

You treat him the same as always, utterly unaware of the storm raging inside him. You laugh with him, tease him, pull him into your arms on those quiet nights, completely oblivious to the fact that every moment is torture.

Because he wants.

Gods, how he wants.

There are nights when he stands outside your door, debating whether or not he should knock. Not because of the nightmares—those still come, but they are no longer the only reason he seeks you out. He knocks because he aches for your presence, because the thought of being alone feels unbearable.

And every time, without fail, you let him in.

You do not question it. You do not ask why. You simply welcome him as if he belongs there, as if it is the most natural thing in the world.

And maybe, to you, it is.

But for Loki, it is agony.

Because he cannot have you.

Not the way he wants.

And so, he suffers in silence.

He lets himself be near you, lets himself feel your warmth, your touch, your kindness. But he never says a word. He keeps it locked inside, where it cannot hurt either of you.

Because if you do not know, then you cannot leave.

And for Loki, that is the only thing that matters.

---

It happens again.

Another nightmare. Another night where the ghosts of his past pull him under, drowning him in horrors he cannot escape.

Loki wakes with a sharp inhale, his breath coming too fast, his chest tight with panic. The darkness of his room feels suffocating, the walls too close, the air too thin. His hands tremble as he presses them against the mattress, trying to ground himself, trying to remind himself that he is here, not there.

Not falling. Not failing. Not alone.

The thought comes unbidden, as it always does.

Because he is not alone.

Without thinking, without hesitating, his body moves on instinct, slipping out of bed and into the hallway. His bare feet make no sound against the floor, the compound silent in the deep hours of the night. He does not question where he is going. He does not stop to consider if he should.

Because he already knows the answer.

Your door is slightly ajar, just as it always is. You never lock it. You never turn him away.

Loki hesitates for only a moment before pushing it open.

The room is bathed in darkness, the faint glow of the city outside casting soft shadows along the walls. You are curled beneath the blankets, your breathing slow and steady, lost in sleep.

He should leave. He should not do this.

But the remnants of his nightmare still cling to him, cold and suffocating, and he cannot bear the thought of returning to his room, to the silence, to the weight of his own thoughts.

So he steps inside.

The floor creaks beneath his weight, but you do not startle. You stir slightly, shifting against the pillows, but you do not wake.

And yet, as he stands there, lingering in the doorway, you sigh softly, murmuring his name in the dark. Not with fear, not with surprise—just quiet understanding, as if you expected him to be there all along.

Something in his chest tightens.

He does not speak, does not explain. He simply moves toward the bed, and when he hesitates, you lift the blanket in silent invitation.

He exhales, slow and shaky, before slipping beneath the covers beside you.

The warmth of you envelops him immediately, soft and steady, grounding him in a way that nothing else ever has.

He presses closer without thinking, without meaning to, his forehead brushing against your shoulder, his hands curled near his chest.

And then, as if sensing the last of his hesitation, you shift just enough to pull him fully against you, wrapping your arms around him in a way that makes everything inside him unravel.

Loki breathes.

The tension eases from his body, the nightmare fading into nothing, the ghosts retreating into the shadows where they belong.

You hold him, just as you always do, your fingers tracing lazy, soothing patterns along his back. He feels your breath against his temple, soft and even, and for the first time in a long time, he lets himself relax.

His eyes grow heavy, his body warm, and then—

Sleep finds him.

And for the first time in years, there are no nightmares.

The morning sun filters through the curtains, golden and soft, chasing away the last remnants of night.

Loki stirs slowly, caught in that hazy space between sleep and wakefulness, his mind still wrapped in warmth, in comfort, in you.

There is something different this time. Usually, when morning comes, he is awake before you, careful to slip away before you can stir, before you can see him in the vulnerable light of day.

But this morning, he does not move.

He is tangled in your limbs, his head resting against your chest, your arms still wrapped around him.

He does not want to move.

Your scent surrounds him, your warmth pressing against every inch of him, and for once, he allows himself to savor it.

His eyes flutter open just enough to catch the golden light spilling across the bed, the way your hair glows in the morning sun. You are still asleep, your breath slow and steady, your heartbeat a gentle rhythm beneath his ear.

And he is safe.

The thought settles in his chest, warm and unfamiliar, something he has never allowed himself to believe before.

And before he can stop himself, before his mind fully catches up with his body, the words slip out, slow and sleepy and utterly unguarded.

"I love you."

The words are barely above a whisper, a sigh against your skin, but you hear them.

Because you smile.

Loki does not see it at first, but he feels it—the shift in your body, the way your arms tighten around him just slightly, the way your breath catches for half a second before settling again.

And then, still drowsy, still wrapped in the warmth of morning, you murmur, "I know."

Loki freezes.

His breath catches in his throat, his body going rigid against you as his mind finally catches up with his words.

What has he done?

Panic rises in his chest, sharp and sudden. He had not meant to say it, had not meant to ruin this. He was supposed to keep it buried, to let it fester in silence where it could not hurt either of you.

But it is too late.

You know.

And then, just as he is about to pull away, just as the weight of his own foolishness threatens to crush him, you shift beneath him, tilting your head just slightly, pressing your lips to the top of his head in a touch so soft it makes him ache.

And then—

"I know," you whisper again, and this time, your voice is different.

He swallows hard, eyes squeezing shut, his fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt.

"No," he breathes, barely audible, as if saying it again will somehow change the meaning, make you understand the weight of it.

But you do.

You have always understood him better than anyone.

"I love you," he says again, more certain this time, more him, his voice rough from sleep and tangled in something too big to contain.

He feels you smile against his hair.

And then, gently, finally, you whisper, "I know."

And then you kiss him.

Loki stills, every thought in his mind vanishing into nothing as your lips press against his.

It is soft and slow, something delicate, something precious.

It is not hurried or desperate. It is intentional. Certain.

Your fingers brush against his jaw, tilting his face up to yours, deepening the kiss just enough to steal the breath from his lungs.

And Loki—Loki, who has spent his entire life running from things he cannot bear to lose—lets himself fall.

When you finally pull away, your forehead resting against his, Loki does not move. He cannot. His heart is still catching up with what just happened, his mind still drowning in the warmth of you.

You smile, pressing one last kiss to the corner of his mouth before murmuring, "Took you long enough."

A breath of laughter escapes him, something he did not expect, something light and unguarded.

He presses his face back into the crook of your neck, exhaling slowly as the last of his fear dissolves into nothing.

"You are insufferable," he mumbles, but there is no heat behind the words, no bite.

Only love.

And this time, he does not try to hide it.

rain and regret ~ loki x f! reader

This fic is part of the In sickness and in health series! Where a lot of different favorite characters take turns to take care of you. 🧻🌡️🩹

masterlist faq

A/N; He's so fucking dramatic AAAAAAAAAA he's acting like you got the damn plague or something awful of the sort.

minors dni. i am not responsible for what you consume.

do not copy, translate or claim any of my stories as your own.

The rain starts suddenly, tapping gently on the floor-to-ceiling windows of the lounge. You glance up from your coffee. Thor notices the gleam in your eyes before Loki even lifts his head.

“No,” Loki says immediately.

“Yes,” you say, already standing.

Thor beams. “A storm! I shall join you!”

Loki groans, setting down his book. “You’re not children.”

You spin toward him at the door, dripping anticipation and glee. “Says you, the literal God of Mischief.”

Thor lets out a booming laugh. “She has you there, brother!”

Loki’s eye twitches.

“I wreak controlled mischief,” he mutters, folding his arms tighter. “Not puddle-soaked madness.”

You don’t even reply—you just sprint into the rooftop garden barefoot, arms open, hoodie bouncing, socks already soggy, Thor thundering after you.

The sleek stone paths are quickly covered in puddles, the air smells like ozone, and your laughter echoes through the Tower.

Thor crashes out behind you, shouting war cries as you chase him in circles through the wet grass and stone. You slip once—catch yourself and cackle like an absolute menace.

From the doors, Loki watches.

Arms crossed. Jaw tight. His silhouette sharp in the dim interior light.

“Absolutely unhinged,” he mutters. “Someone electrocuted her brain as a child.”

Eventually, soaked to the bone and breathless from laughter, you came stumbling back inside, trailing muddy footprints and giggling like you’d just outrun death.

Loki was waiting.

He didn’t say anything. Just walked forward, placed a towel on your head like a parent too tired to scold, and started patting your arms dry with another one.

“Happy?” he asked flatly.

“Ecstatic,” you beamed.

“Moron,” he replied gently.

Thor just let out a deep, satisfied sigh and said, “That was magnificent.”

“I swear to the Nine, if you fall ill—”

“I won’t,” you say, too fast.

He narrows his eyes. “You will.”

Later...

The room is dark and quiet. The rain still whispers against the windows.

You’re curled up in bed, shivering under layers of blankets, a tissue clutched in one hand and a cup of barely-sipped tea on the nightstand.

“I told you not to go out in the rain,” Loki says, arms folded, his voice sharp—defensive. But underneath it: worry.

“I was out there for five minutes,” you rasp.

You try to laugh. It comes out as a cough. Loki’s eyes flash with alarm.

Without another word, he kneels by the bed, his tone shifting from annoyed to concerned beyond comprehension.

“You mortals are so… fragile.” He brushes a strand of damp hair from your forehead, frowning. “Is this… normal? To look like you’ve been cursed by a frost giant and then claim you’re ‘fine’?”

You manage a weak smirk. “It’s just the flu, Your Highness.”

He glares at you, then stands and swishes his hand—suddenly the tea is steaming hot again, the pillows fluffier, the blanket heavier.

“Better,” he declares, smoothing the blanket over your chest. “You will rest. You will drink. You will not die of this absurd condition, or I swear I will enchant your immune system myself.”

“Is that a thing?”

“For you? I’ll make it a thing.”

Later, when you drift into a fitful sleep, Loki doesn’t leave.

He sits beside you, conjuring small spells of cooling mist for your forehead, whispering in Old Norse to soothe your dreams. When you stir, eyes hazy, he leans down and murmurs, barely audible:

“You must recover. I am not yet done loving you.”

The hallway is quiet.

Dimly lit by warm sconces and the faintest shimmer of magic, it feels like a dream as you step out, the blanket draped around your shoulders trailing behind you like a cape. You’re barefoot. Sniffling. Half-asleep. But your body noticed his absence, and that was enough to rouse you.

“Loki?” your voice is hoarse—barely above a whisper, soft like cracked porcelain. You sound like a Victorian ghost haunting the corridors of her lover’s estate.

You catch him off guard.

He’s seated on the floor, leaning against the wall, knees drawn up, a hand over his mouth. But not fast enough.

You see it. The shine in his eyes. The way he quickly wipes his cheeks with the heel of his palm, trying to make it look effortless. Like he wasn’t crying in the hallway over you.

“What are you doing out of bed?” he asks, standing swiftly, voice low and tight. “You shouldn’t be up.”

You shuffle toward him, blanket still wrapped around your shoulders. “What are you doing crying in the hallway?”

He falters.

“I’m just…” he swallows, hands twitching at his sides. “Worried. That’s all, my love.”

You blink at him, voice raspy as you deadpan, “Dude. It’s the flu. I’m not dying.”

He exhales a breathy, incredulous laugh—but there’s no mockery in it. Just relief. Just you. Standing there like a sleepy little gremlin, dragging your blanket like a train.

“I know that,” he says softly. “But it’s never... just the flu when it’s you.”

You step into him. He immediately wraps his arms around your shoulders, blanket and all. You melt into his chest like he’s gravity.

“I’ve seen gods fall,” he murmurs, lips brushing the top of your head. “But nothing ever felt as terrifying as watching you burn up and not being able to stop it.”

You tilt your head up, brow bumping his chin.

“You big softie.”

“Don’t tell anyone,” he mumbles into your hair. “It’ll ruin my brand.”

You smile.

“I’ll take it to the grave,” you whisper, before pulling him back toward the room. “Now come on, I need you to warm my feet before I freeze to death.”

You shuffle back to bed wrapped in your blanket like a burrito, sniffling but victorious for having made it down the hall and emotionally checked on your God of Meltdowns.

Loki helps you ease under the covers without a word, conjures a mug of tea with a flick of his fingers, and gently places it in your hands.

“Small sips,” he murmurs, crouching at the edge of the bed like a healer at your feet.

You raise a brow at him over the rim of your cup. “What, no lecture this time?”

His eyes flick to yours. “I think you’ve suffered enough.”

He says it lightly, but there’s something heavy in his voice.

You just drink your tea—warm, minty, a little sweet. He vanishes beneath the blankets to press his fingers around your feet. With a quiet spell, heat radiates gently through them.

You hum in response.

He gives a quiet snort, and then he’s moving again—slipping into bed on the other side of you, pulling you back against his chest in one slow, protective motion. His arms curl around your middle, locking you in like you’re the last thing holding him together. You don’t resist.

His forehead presses into the curve of your shoulder.

You breathe. He breathes with you.

His magic flickers again—faint, warm, steady. A soft buzz at your sternum, like he’s trying to anchor himself to the rhythm of your heartbeat.

You wake up in the middle of the night, groggy and flushed. You’re not burning up, but you’re hot enough to feel gross, and the congestion has hit full force.

You let out a few rough coughs—not violent, but deep enough that your chest aches a little.

Loki stirs immediately beside you. He sits up halfway, one hand braced on the bed, the other gently touching your back.

“You’re alright?” he murmurs, sleep-rough and tense.

You nod weakly, coughing into the crook of your arm. “Just… stuffy. Gross.”

He watches you like he’s trying to read your pulse with his eyes alone. Then he exhales, brushing your hair from your forehead.

“Please don’t do that again,” he whispers. “Don’t go out in the rain like that. Don’t—don’t scare me like this.”

You blink at him. “Loki, I’m okay. It’s just a cold.”

“I know,” he says. But he doesn’t sound convinced. “I know.”

And then he lies back down and pulls you to him anyway, like he still needs proof that you’re alive and warm and real.

He presses his forehead to yours, eyes closed, like he’s trying to draw breath from you. As if your existence is what’s holding him together.

You fall asleep like that, wrapped in his arms, his magic pulsing faintly against your back.

I hope you enjoyed this as much as I've enjoyed writing it! If you need more comfort fics, check out the series linked at the top!

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