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• He flirts like it’s a weapon—sharp smile, silver tongue, every word tailored to make you flustered.
But when you call him beautiful? He gets quiet. Almost shy. Like he doesn’t believe it yet.
• You’re the only one allowed to see him undone—crown off, hair loose, voice low. When he’s with you, he’s just Loki.
• He gifts you enchanted trinkets: a ring that glows when you’re in danger, a pendant that warms with your heartbeat, a mirror that always reflects your true self.
• You find out he leaves glamoured illusions of himself to follow you when you travel alone—not out of control, but out of protection.
“You think I’d let you walk Midgard alone without a shadow watching your back?”
• When he’s thinking deeply, he braids his fingers into yours absentmindedly. You’ve become his grounding spell.
• Arguments are… intense. Words like daggers. But apologies are poetry. He will kneel, kiss your palm, and whisper,
“You are the only soul I kneel for willingly. I’m sorry, my storm.”
• Midnight conversations often spiral into things he’s never told anyone:
how the stars whispered to him as a child, how Asgard never quite felt like home, how you do.
• He keeps a journal. You find it once—full of sketches of your eyes, notes about your laugh, a spell for keeping your dreams sweet.
• When you fall asleep beside him, he traces constellations on your skin with his fingertips. And sometimes he says,
“Even if the Nine Realms fall, I would still choose you.”
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synopsis: When you're the only Avenger who treats Loki like a friend (with a side of shameless flirting), you don't expect much in return, especially not feelings. But when you start getting closer to the good captain, Loki's feelings manifest themselves in mischief, of course.
The Tower was uncharacteristically quiet when you slipped into the lounge with two mugs of coffee. One plain for yourself and one laced with just enough cinnamon to please a particular god who would swear he didn’t have preferences. Loki lounged on the sofa like an indolent cat, leafing through a thick volume of Midgardian mythology (half-scoffing, half-cackling at every other paragraph.)
You set his mug beside him. “Morning, Your Highness of Questionable Reading Material.”
He didn’t glance up. “You persist in these unnecessary offerings. I do not need Midgardian stimulants.”
“And yet your hand is already reaching for the cup.”
His long fingers hesitated, then casually closed around the handle. Slow enough to imply disinterest, quick enough to betray the opposite. A tiny grin tugged at the corner of your mouth. You’d made it your personal mission to treat Loki exactly like any other teammate. A little teasing, a dash of flirting, but never the fear or reverence everyone else showed him. And it was paying off; he rarely tried to hex you these days.
Rarely.
Today, though, he only sipped once before muttering, “If Thor discovers I indulge in mortal comforts, he will never cease braying.”
“Oh, please,” you drawled, sinking into the armchair opposite him. “Your image is safe with me. Though, if you want to upgrade from coffee, I have a killer recipe for hot cocoa—”
“Enough.” His gaze flickered to you, emerald eyes unreadable. “Your incessant hospitality will not soften me.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it. Though the thought of softening you is intriguing.”
The book snapped shut. “You are incorrigible.”
“And you haven’t told me to stop.” You winked. A faint, almost imperceptible flush bloomed along his cheekbones before he vanished behind another sip.
A WEEK LATER
Steve Rogers laughed as you regaled him with a story about your first disastrous attempt at piloting the Quinjet. You tossed a casual arm over his broad shoulder, nearly knocking his shield off the back of the sofa. Friendly, harmless, the same brand of camaraderie you’d shown Loki a hundred times.
But, from the hallway’s shadow, the god of mischief watched. He did not like the tight clench in his gut, nor the ping of something that felt embarrassingly like hurt.
The next morning, Steve’s alarm clock rang at four a.m. and immediately sprouted legs, sprinting laps around his bedroom in a screeching circle. At breakfast, his protein shake turned into bright-green lime gelatin mid swallow. During training, every punching bag he struck let out a high-pitched giggle.
You caught him in the corridor afterwards. “Cap, why do you look like you’ve fought a circus?”
“I think I am fighting a circus,” he muttered. “A very magical circus.”
Across the room Loki strolled by, inspecting his nails, looking all but utterly innocent.
Later in the day, you were perched on the edge of the Mission Room table while Nat patched code into the computers. “Seriously, why is Loki tormenting Steve all of a sudden? I thought we were past the ‘random harassment’ phase.”
She didn’t look up. “You’re cute when you’re clueless.”
“…Thanks?”
“Jealousy, genius.” She saved the file with a final keystroke and faced you. “Loki has a crush. You’re the object of his affection. Steve is collateral damage.”
You opened your mouth; nothing came out except a weak, “Loki? Crush? On—on me?”
Natasha arched an eyebrow. “Try using those brilliant deduction skills on yourself for once. Talk to him before he turns Steve’s shampoo into glow-in-the-dark glitter.”
Starlight flooded the glass dome as you approached Loki that evening. He stood alone, arms folded, gazing at New York’s nightscape as though he’d rather be anywhere else. “Got a minute?”
“I always have minutes. Whether I choose to waste them is another matter.”
You came to his side. “Why are you tormenting Steve?”
Loki gave a theatrical sigh. “I was bored.”
“Try Sudoku next time.” You leaned on the railing. “Nat thinks you’re jealous.”
“Romanoff needs a new hobby.”
“So you’re not jealous?”
Loki rolled his eyes. “Please. I have no reason to covet the company of that star-spangled fossil.”
You smirked, poking the bear. “Good, because I was thinking of asking him out.”
The reaction was instantaneous. A crackle of green energy flickered at his fingertips before the city lights behind him dimmed as if intimidated. “Absolutely not.”
You tilted your head, enjoying the rare crack in his composure. “Why not? Steve’s kind, handsome, heroic—”
“He is insufferably noble and far too occupied with his moral compass to keep you entertained.”
“Hmm. So who would be worthy?”
“Someone clever.” Loki's voice softened despite himself. “Someone who sees past façades and understands the burden of a façade of his own.”
You swallowed a grin. “Someone wearing green, maybe?”
He glared. “If you must be obtuse.”
Your hand found his. “Then I’ll date the clever one in green.”
His eyes darted to where your fingers meshed. “I do not ‘date.’”
“Fine. Court? Consort? Raid the Nine Realms with? Pick your vocabulary.”
A reluctant smile tugged his lips. “You are intolerable.”
“And yet you tolerate me.”
After a heartbeat, he interlaced his fingers with yours properly, squeezing just once. “Inform Rogers he is safe. For now.”
“I will.” You leaned closer, dropping your voice to a murmur. “But you still owe him a few normal days of shampoo.”
“Ugh. Very well.” He turned away, but not before you saw the smile on his face. “Now cease your blathering and show me this ‘hot cocoa’ I have heard rumors of. I reserve the right to despise it.”
You bumped his shoulder with yours. “Deal. But if you love it, I will never let you live it down.”
