Falling Asleep at Your Desk
Masterlist
Pairing: Loki x Mortal / Avenger!Reader
Summary:
Loki's getting used to you falling asleep at a conference table, lucky he's always there to carry you to bed.
Warnings: None! I don't think... sigh. Reader has hair. Don't come for my warnings :( I learnt it from the other creators...
Word count: 2.7k
It was late–3 A.M. on the dot, and Loki was still alone.
Although that was becoming increasingly normal for him as the weeks went on.
First it was the missions–you being put in charge of several S.H.I.E.L.D. task forces because the other Avengers were away on their own business. Stark trying to pick up the pieces of a crumbling relationship that Loki felt minimal sympathy for, the Captain on some business with an old lover whom he left in the past, even the witch and the robot decided to take a couple weeks off to visit Europe.
Which left you, his darling mortal, to eagerly take this opportunity to put your name down on a majority of the upcoming assignments. Even Fury was hesitant about signing off on it, but no, of course you waved him off and questioned his faith in you. Typical. Baiting the man who writes off on all your paychecks just for some rush of adrenaline.
Then again, Loki was in no position to talk since he was benched for the foreseeable future. Entirely unfair. He was framed. But it certainly added to your workload.
He tried to be supportive, he really did, but after about the sixth consecutive mission he helped pack a bag for, he was out of his mind. It seems his sanity correlates with your presence, or at least that’s what the diagrams he made showed. He spent three whole days using the poster boards that Hill created to demonstrate the correlations between Avengers and crime rates, drawing over the graphs to show the effects that missing you had on him. It was oddly sweet until you learned that Maria still had three more meetings with high-up S.H.I.E.L.D. officials that she needed them for.
The night you came back from your final mission, he was overjoyed. Ecstatic. Pacing your bedroom with a book in hand that he couldn’t calm himself down enough to read. Except the first thing you did when you got on land was crash. Slept sixteen hours in total. That’s fine, he should have predicted that. No matter, he had you all to himself.
Except he also overlooked the mission reports. Probably because he’s never filled one out despite Fury’s behest. Instead of having you in your bed every night, you were slumped over the desk, trying to recall which mission you shot out 46 agents and which one 46 agents shot out you.
This was the third time this week that you fell asleep in the conference room… It was Wednesday. And dare he admit, it’s not even out of selfishness–the desire to take up all your attention, but genuine concern at his favourite mortal overworking yourself.
He stops behind your chair, blue eyes taking stock of the way you’re slumped over the table, head resting in your folded arms. He takes a moment to just look, to gently push a strand of hair out of your face–you look younger. Almost innocent in a way he’s not. But it’s the clear signs of exhaustion that feels like a blow to his gut–the emphasis it has on your humanity and the contrast it has to his long lifespan.
He tries to push that thought to the back of his head, like he usually does, slender fingers lingering against your skin and tracing the contours of your cheek. He’s sure that the security camera in the far corner can pick up on his affection from here. His palm flattens against your back, drawing large circles as he bends to murmur in your ear. “Come on, my love, let’s get you to bed.”
When you only shift instead of waking, a muscle twitches at the corner of the God’s mouth. He should’ve expected you to be out like a light. With a huff of half-amusement and half-exasperation, he leans over, sliding his arms under you, and in one smooth motion he lifts you into his arms, supporting you easily against his chest.
“Stubborn. Even in sleep.” He mutters against your forehead, pressing a kiss to your hairline.
“I can hear you,” you mumble into his neck, arms coming to wrap around it.
He pauses in his turn towards the door, gaze flicking down to your face—eyes still closed. “Ah, you're not completely unconscious then.” He readjusts his hold on you slightly—making sure you’re secure in his arms as he makes his way out of the conference room. “So you can hear me, but you cannot be bothered to wake up, can you?”
“Pretending gets me carried. Waking up gets me a lecture.”
You don’t even have to look to feel the large smirk gracing your boyfriend’s lips. “Clever, love. Very clever.” His grip tightens once more, trapping you against him as he tries to fit you both through the doorway. Your knee bangs against it anyways and you tug on one of his curls in retaliation. “You’re becoming more cunning and manipulative, I’m impres– ow!”
“Manipulative?” You repeat, temporarily dropping the I’m-asleep-carry-me-please act in favour of pressing a sloppy kiss against Loki’s pale cheek.
He chuckles, the sound deep and velvet in a way that’s been affecting you long before titles were given to each other. It might not be something you hear often from the God, but it certainly is your favourite. “You feign sleep to avoid a lecture, preying against my affections for you. If that isn't a form of manipulation, I don't know what is. You're learning from the best it seems.”
You hum once more into his neck, tucking in closer as he walks you down the long corridor towards the elevator. Loki can’t help his breath catching, even for a split second, his heart skipping a beat from the feeling of having you in his arms once again. He’s missed you. Dearly.
He’s used to feeling alone. Being alone. After all, he’s spent millennia in the shadows of his brother, weighed down by what he now knows is his true heritage–the reason why Odin never gave him the attention and praise he sought–even when he acted out. And when Loki did find out, he spent the following years, albeit a lot shorter than the first, pushing the people he loved away for the sake of pettiness over the lack of shared blood.
And yet somehow…
Somehow that led him here. To you. Where even on the longest of physical separations–missions and mortal workloads–he never feels truly alone. Because if there is one thing he can count on, it’s that you are always on his side, even when he pushes back. Even when he did push back, on his most intolerable days before he captured your heart.
He spent the three hours prior to his trip to the conference room looking at the text you sent to his little, black rectangle: Missing you with a picture of your screwed up face in faux-anger.
It was adorable and saved instantly to his… cloud?
“You're overworking yourself. You've been on non-stop missions for days now. And now you’re doing all that… boring stuff,” he says, coming to a stop at the elevator. He must’ve used his powers, you think, because there’s no awkward bending, no request for help to push the button. Just a sudden ding as it makes its way down to your floor.
“You mean the required mission reports?” One of your hands tangles in the inky curls that is tragically Loki’s hair–’so unfair you have prettier hair than me. You don’t even do haircare!’ you’ve told him more than once. It’s softer in the nights, a little more tangled that has your hand catching in the ends.
“Yes, the blasted required mission reports.” He rolls his eyes, all exaggeration. “They're tedious, time-consuming, and utterly beneath you. You shouldn't be doing such things to begin with, much less at this hour while your eyes are drooping." He glances down at the body still in his arms, your weight starting to get to his arms (though he’d never admit it). He’s somewhat glad you still have your eyes shut because he’s all too aware that he’s failing at hiding his concern.
“It’s that attitude that has Fury so pissed with you, by the way.”
“Fury is always… pissed with me,” he replies, the word dripping with disdain. “And those reports are a colossal waste of your skills and intellect.” He pushes down the other thought, the one along the lines of: 'and they exhaust you, and you look tired, and I hate seeing you tired'. He has a reputation to uphold after all–even if it’s shrinking with every day he spends with you.
“You did kinda try… Y’know… World domination.”
“That was years ago… And it was strictly New York if you must know,” he huffs, a hint of defensiveness in his tone. “Do you still hold that over my head every time I speak against your precious Director?”
The elevator opens up once more–this time with your boyfriend stepping out on the floor with everyone’s accommodations. He turns a corner, footsteps quiet against the vinyl floor.
“Just saying,” you half-shrug in his arms. “That was one hell of a headache for him.” You press another kiss, this time at the junction of his jaw.
He scoffs, though it comes out a little softer in time with your affection. “A headache? That's an understatement. The man has had a permanent migraine since my arrival on Earth. Though I do take satisfaction in that.”
Another kiss to his cheek–more forceful than you intended with the drowsiness that has you halfway between conscious and asleep. “Just a week or two then I’m caught up,” you yawn.
He can’t help the way his heart stutters in his chest, or the slight hitch of his breath that he knows you felt–not with the way you’re still trying to burrow in closer, the way you hand out affection like it’s advice. “A week or two?” He repeats, a hint of resignation. “And then what? You'll be sent out on some other mission, no doubt with more reports to fill out.”
“Rest of the team will be back then. Won’t have as many.”
“Correction. You won’t have any,” he declares. This time he’s more careful going through the doorway of your bedroom–magic to open the door and stepping in sideways. You even hear his back scrape against the frame, no longer surprised that he’d take the hit for you. He instantly crosses over to your bed, setting you down with actual surprised gentleness, adjusting the pillows for extra support–usually he just tosses you in the general direction and hopes for the best. “Your turn for a vacation.” His tone is authoritative, leaving no room for argument. It almost makes you want to argue. Or at least you would if his hands didn’t fall to the hem of your shirt.
“Where?” You ask, raising your arms to help him.
“Somewhere… secluded. Far from Director Fury's jurisdiction.” He pulls your shirt off with ease, folding it neatly to place on your desk chair–a neatness that could only come from a prince, and not like most men you’ve dated. He may have tried to take over the wor– sorry, New York. But at least he folds clothes!
“Somewhere without paperwork, boring meetings, and mind-numbing reports. Better yet somewhere there isn’t cell service.” Long, slender fingers tug at your sweatpants–the ones you especially wore today for comfort–tugging them down your legs and leaving you in your underwear.
You unclasp your bra, leaving it on the edge of the bed for Loki to add to the pile of clothes he’s made, before lifting your arms again to signal for one of his sleep shirts. Clearly you’ve both built a routine.
Like the dutiful boyfriend he is, he slips the oversized shirt over your head, watching with a hint of fondness as it swallows you–if you notice a trace of hunger in there too then that’s not on him. He waits until you’ve slid under the covers, until he’s finished up with your clothes pile and he’s taken a moment to prepare himself–to ask for something.
“Asgard,” is all he says.
You pause in your attempts to burrow under the covers like a hedgehog during hibernation. “What about it?”
He stands over you for a moment, taking in the sight of his girlfriend cozy under the duvet, eyes blinking heavily from tiredness–where she belongs. The bed. Not the tiredness. His hand reaches out, almost of its own volition, to brush a knuckle against your cheek. He plops down on the edge of the bed. “We’ll go to Asgard. Maybe you can meet…”
“If I meet your mother, that’s not a vacation. That’s a very stressful environment.”
Loki snorts, poking your nose. “I’ll have you know, Mother is a delight.”
“Still your mother–still the QUEEN of a wholeass realm. The person who loves you most in the world. Second most. No, most. I can’t compete with her. Couldn’t be more intimidating if she tried.”
He laughs, a low rumble against the silence of the night. “You’re right. She will interrogate you thoroughly.” But Frigga was good, in all the ways Loki wasn’t. Kind in the ways he’s often dismissed as weakness. He doesn’t say it, or even show it, but she’s the strongest woman he knows–or now, one of the strongest women he knows. The thought of her meeting the mortal he’s claimed for himself… well, it’s a good thought to close his eyes to.
“Plus you don’t have plumbing.” You add, hand pulling his away from your face to intertwine them together. “Peeing in a pot is beneath me.”
His jaw drops at your blunt declaration–a laugh of disbelief and surprise mixing together to make your favourite sound. “Pissing in a pot is beneath you,” he repeats. “What about that time in Bolivia when you had to—“
You sit up. Fast. Pointing a finger at Loki. “We agreed to never bring that up!”
His grin widens, clearly the memory of his girlfriend in a MORTIFYING situation like Bolivia–is funny as shit to him despite the shame it inflicts upon you. He HAD promised not to bring it up again. Swore under duress… But he was never one for keeping promises, and you should really know that by now. “Oh, but it was so memorable. You’re so adamant about not lowering yourself to 'such primitive means' yet there you were—”
You hit his shoulder. “Now I’m wide awake you asshole! Gonna give me nightmares.”
“Hey!” Loki rubs at the target of your attack–already planning different ways he can make it as dramatic as possible. But the sight of you looking up at him with wide eyes, trying to stifle a yawn despite your previous proclamation… Well… he wasn’t a monster. Not anymore. He leans down to press a kiss to your cheek. “Close your eyes, my love, you’ll need the energy to shout at me tomorrow when I tell you I’ve already made arrangements with Heimdall.”
You huff, eyes narrowed. He’s already– Tomorrow. You’ll deal with him tomorrow. So instead you turn on your side, burying yourself deep in the covers. If you see the look of unabashed affection on Loki’s face, you don’t say anything.
The urge to climb in himself, to hold you, now that he’s finally got a fraction of your time is overwhelming. He inhales, steeling himself and capturing the mental image of you tucked in and eyes fluttering shut, before he then lifts himself off the bed.
“Sleep well,” he murmurs, the words coming out tender with such ease.
“Where are you going?”
He halts in his tracks, pausing to look at you over his shoulder. With a sigh, he turns back, making his way to the door with his hands plastered on his hips. “I'm going to do something incredibly dull and entirely beneath me.”
And because he doesn’t have the heart, or perhaps because he has too much pride, he doesn’t tell you that he’s about to spend that next few hours in that conference room, filling out those mission reports using your memories. Perhaps it’s because he isn’t doing it for the recognition–but because it would make your life easier. It seems… he has learnt to love.
Newest Loki fic in the series
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