His thumb brushes over your raw skin with an idle softness. Your breath catches. This is very different than the touch you’re used to with him; those late-hour slips into each others’ rooms, the desperate clash of breath when it’s been a while, the slow smirking gravity when it’s only been a day or two.

But it’s never tender. Never… this.

But you don’t pull away.

Instead, you let your fingers explore his. Smooth. Strong. Faintly scarred. His hand is warming from contact. You trace the tendons, the groove of his knuckles. The slight ridge of a scar at the base of his index finger.

And he lets you. He never flinches. He just stays still while your anxious fingers map him, committing his shape to your quiet collection.

You don’t say anything when the meeting ends, and neither does he. His hand leaves yours before you both stand, but even then… it’s a slow release. Like he’s giving you the choice to hold on. To keep him there.

You almost do.

An unlocked door means the other is welcome. And when you approach Loki's room later that night, the faint light beside the door handle is green.

You don’t knock when you slip inside his suite. You never do. And he never tells you to.

The door clicks shut, you flick the thumb-turn to lock it, and the hallway air vanishes - replaced by the warm, earthy scent of wood and silk and leather and magic that clings to the inside of Loki’s space.

The lights are low - just one bedside lamp, dimmed amber - no fire in the hearth tonight. His boots are by the door, his overcloak draped over a crushed velvet armchair. The walls sparkle with the flicker of half-burned candles dripping wax onto a polished stone dish. This room always looks like he's halfway between a battlefield and a throne.

He’s already in bed, propped against the headboard, a book in hand. Loose black pants, half-done button up shirt on top. He doesn’t look surprised to see you. He closes the book slowly, methodically, and sets it against his thigh, his gaze lingering on you, quiet but intense. The weight of it pressing hot against your skin.

You've showered. Cleaned the grime. Slipped into some shorts and a black tank that's slightly too short but not quite cropped. Your face is set with that look he knows well: hunger, that just barely hides how tightly you’re wound.

It’s never been spoken aloud - whatever this is. But the rules were understood early: no expectations, no confessions, no strings. Just stolen hours, harsh kisses, heated minutes or hours, controlled withdrawal. Never staying the whole night unless your legs were too tired to walk. Never touching unless it was about sex. There’d been words exchanged, yes, whispered filth and teasing and his unfair way with words, but never anything soft. Never anything real.

Loki watches you cross the room, and he doesn’t say anything.

He just extends a hand. An invitation. A command.

You slide into his lap with a breath that’s more exhale than greeting, your knees straddling either side of his thighs as you settle against him. The Compound is smooth walls and echoing cold, and the heat of his body is a relief - your loosen a little purely from the contact.

Your hands find his shoulders. His grip comes to your waist like a habit.

Not wasting time, you lean in, brush your lips over his throat, then murmur low against his pulse, "What are you reading?"

His hand flexes on your waist. "A reminder," he murmurs, "that even mortal novels can have... some semblance of value."

You smirk faintly, "God forbid." Then your mouth is on his neck, trailing heat in slow kisses, your hips shifting just enough to pull his breath from his lungs. Your hands begin to explore - shoulders, nape, then lower. Familiar territory. But when you lean back and reach for the buttons of his shirt, Loki catches your wrists.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just looks.

Then: "Your hands."

You glance down. The skin is still raw. Sore in places you hadn’t even noticed. Embarrassment flares in your chest, but you sniff a nervous breath and try to brush it off. "Yeah. New soap’s shit."

He doesn't buy it.

His thumbs run over the raw patches gently. You feel the hum of his magic as he mutters something under his breath - just enough to soothe the irritation, seal the skin. You inhale slowly. The sting fades. But you don’t look at him. You’re afraid of what might be in his eyes.

Loki tilts his head. "Why do you do this?"

Your eyes lift to meet his, caught. "It’s not on purpose."

"Fidgeting?" he asks.

You nod. "Yeah. Or- nerves. Habit, I guess. Happens before I notice."

He raises a brow. "Don't you mortals have some... soft hand-held object for this sort of thing?"

You let out a soft snort of laughter through your nose. "You mean a stress ball? Not really a good look for a trained operative."

"I disagree," he argues.

"Doesn’t matter. I don’t want or need people asking questions. Besides-" You reach up and run a slow finger along a button of his shirt, voice dipping, "-skin feels better. It’s warm. Real."

He doesn’t move. He just watches you, and you can feel him thinking. Calculating. Then, when your hands find each other again, tugging faintly against where they rest between you, he takes them. Gently. Firm.

"Use mine," he says.

You blink. "What?"

He nods once, unwavering. "If you need something to calm yourself, use my skin."

There’s heat in your stomach now, different from earlier. Something less urgent. Something deeper.

You scoff lightly, trying to shake it off. "What, like this?" You start to slide your fingers down, teasing, toward the waistband of his pants, but he catches your hands again.

He clicks his tongue, eyes half-lidded with amusement, and murmurs, "Always so eager to misbehave."

But he sees it. That flicker of unease still in your gaze. The way your hands keep twitching - moving, restless, desperate for contact, for anchor, but to not be seen reaching for it.

So he shifts, slightly, pulling you closer on his lap, and he slips your hands up beneath the hem of his shirt. Onto his stomach.

The heat is immediate. His skin is warm, firm, alive under your palms. Your breath catches.

"I said," he repeats softly, "use mine."

He presses your palms flat, and then gives you his trust - that you'll stay put - and he slides his hands over to your hips to rest there.

"Calm yourself."

The low timbre of his voice washes over you - it's that tone he uses when he's telling you what to do, and you're letting him, and you're listening, obeying - and it sends heat to your lower belly. But he doesn’t move further. Doesn’t press. Just lets you decide, in the silence, whether to explore him.

Tentatively, your thumbs stroke lightly along the lines of his abdomen, tracing the edges of muscle, the dip above his navel. You watch your hands move beneath the fabric. You can’t really see anything, but the feel of him - the steady rise and fall of his breath, the twitch of muscle when your fingers brush too close to the edge - it's grounding. Soothing. Real.

Your shoulders start to drop. You hadn't even realised they were so tight. So close to your ears.

Your lips part, about to say something - an apology, maybe, or a joke to defuse the moment - but he moves and gently guides your hands again. Up. Sideways. You follow. You trace. He watches you.

When the backs of your nails graze faintly along his ribs, his skin twitches. You blink. Your eyes lift to meet his. There’s a softness in his gaze. Curious, and patient.

But you see the edge there, too. The tension.

You draw a new pattern along his side. He twitches again. Involuntarily. The reaction makes your mouth quirk.

"Are you... ticklish?" you murmur.

Loki exhales through his nose. "Unfortunately."

You lift a brow. "You’re letting me tickle you?"

His voice is low. Unamused. "I’ll stop you if I must."

You start to reply - a teasing line already forming - but before the words make it out, your fingers brush a spot near the side of his ribcage and he lets out the tiniest, breathiest laugh.

You freeze.

He narrows his eyes. "Don’t start."

You shut your mouth, biting the inside of your lip to hold back your tease, and you keep going - gently, reverently - tracing the shape of him, letting the feel of his skin against your fingertips calm the anxiety still moving through your chest. And he lets you. Head leaned back against the headboard, breath steady but slow, his hands back on your hips.

Eventually, one of them slides up your back, warm and strong, not demanding - just there. Anchoring you.

And for the first time when you're alone and touching him, you don’t try to take it further.

Neither does he.

And it becomes a pattern. Routine. Ritual.

At first, it’s only when you’re anxious.

You don’t always mean to seek him out. Sometimes your hands just won’t stop moving - clenching, scraping, curling tight into fists - and you find yourself at his door before you realise you’ve crossed the Compound. Sometimes it’s after missions. Sometimes it’s after meetings. Sometimes it’s for no reason at all except that something in you buzzes, and nothing else seems to work.

You never have to explain.

When you open Loki's door and he sees it in your eyes. In your shoulders. He’s always quiet, always already holding out a hand.

The first time after that night, you kiss him like you want to go further - but he catches your wrists again. And this time, he doesn’t tease. He guides your hands under his shirt and murmurs, "Is this what you need?"

You hesitate. Then nod.

You don’t fuck that night. You don’t even kiss again. You just press your palms to his stomach while he sits there against the headboard, and let your fingers move lightly until your breathing evens. He watches you, saying nothing, one hand resting loose on your thigh.

The next time, he doesn’t wait for you to reach. As soon as he sees the tremor in your fingers, he lays beside you, pulls you in, guides your hands to his stomach, his ribs, the line where soft skin tightens over bone. "This," he says simply. "Only this."

You want to kiss him. You want to distract yourself the way you always have - through sex, through heat, through that physical power that lets you forget how small you sometimes feel. But if you're anxious, he stops you. Every time.

He says it quietly, kindly, but firmly enough that it holds.

And when you’re not anxious, it’s sex. Messy, hungry, clever sex. The kind you can’t stop thinking about for hours after. And he's infuriatingly good at it - at drawing heat from you with just a look, just a bite to your lower lip, just the sound of his voice at your ear when he says something filthy and chases the path of his words with his tongue. There’s magic, sometimes. Sometimes he lets you pin him. Sometimes, he holds your wrists above your head until your legs shake and you're gasp his name against his throat. It’s always good.

But you begin to learn the new rhythm:

Touch, when you’re restless. Pleasure, when you’re not.

He never mixes the two.

If your hands twitch, if your voice trembles, if you hesitate when you undress - he slows everything. Pulls you close. Presses your palms flat against him and murmurs, "Just this."

Sometimes it’s his abdomen again. Sometimes just one side. Sometimes you find yourself curled into him, tracing the angle of his collarbone or the curve of his neck. You learn his body like terrain, and he never stops you. Even when your hands drift over ticklish places. Even when he squirms.

He’s ticklish, yes - but never pushes you away. He lets you feel everything. Even that. Even his softness.

You come to crave the way he breathes through it. It's tight at first, then soft. You learn the way he ducks his head, tries not to laugh, but his mouth tugs at the corners. He doesn’t suppress that around you either. Not anymore.

One night, you’re both beneath the covers, facing each other.

You hadn’t meant to stay. You’d planned to slip away after. But his arm had found your waist and you hadn’t moved. Now your legs are tangled, and his chest is bare, and your hand is idly brushing against the edge of his hip.

Neither of you speaks.

Your fingers trace slow, deliberate patterns just under the hem of his pants, not teasing - just moving. You follow the ridge of his hip bone, up, around, back down. He’s warm. Solid. A heartbeat you can feel against your fingertips.

He’s watching you. You know he is. But you don’t look.

Instead, you smile - quietly, to yourself - when you feel him tense. Just slightly. Not because he’s aroused, but because he’s trying not to laugh.

You press a little harder.

Loki buries his face in the space between your neck and your shoulder, half a groan, half a breathless sound that almost counts as a laugh. His shoulders twitch.

Your grin widens. You keep going.

Your finger drags lazily around the line of his hip again. You feel his mouth part against your neck.

"Witch," he mutters low.

You smile, light and slow.

But then - just before he can shift and grab your hand - you move. Slip your fingers up his side and brush your thumb along the ridges of his ribs.

He laughs. Properly this time. A stifled, breathy sound into your neck, full of surprise and restraint. His hand flinches at your back like he’s going to retaliate, but he doesn’t.

Instead, he exhales. It sounds like he might say something, but he doesn't.

So you just let your thumb circle there again, lighter now, feeling the way his body reacts before he can control it. His twitch. His grin against your pulse. His held, stuttering breath.

The feeling of him not fighting you. Not fighting at all.

And it grounds you more than anything else.

You ease your hand away after a moment. Let your fingers trace lazy paths over his lower back instead. You feel him settle again. His breathing slows.

Then his arm curls more tightly around you, pressing your bodies close. Not possessive, not commanding. Just there.

You press your nose under his jaw and whisper, "Thank you. For this."

Loki doesn’t answer right away. But he brushes his knuckles along your spine.

A moment later, you feel his lips at your hairline, and a wordless exhale that might’ve been something like always.

Weeks pass.

And it works - whatever this strange, tender ritual of yours has become. The grounding touch. The feel of his skin under your hands. The way he offers it like a gift, like a secret only you’re allowed to hold. It helps.

You stop rubbing your hands raw. You stop waking with that buzz in your bones that only pressure and contact could tame.

You still come to him, often. But for something else.

For the other things. The late nights. The laughter. The sex.

Stealing away to each other’s rooms when it’s late and the halls are quiet.

You’ve kept that part of the rhythm, and it’s never less than what it was it's still good, still charged, still searing in a way you both chase with teeth and laughter. Some nights he’s rough with it, hungry, biting your neck and pinning your wrists with sharp fingers. Other nights it’s slower, more deliberate, his magic curling around your ankles while he draws you open inch by inch, whispering things into your mouth that make your knees weak for days after.

And you always leave when the air cools. So does he.

That’s the rule.

It’s been almost two months since your hands needed to glide against his ribs to steady your breath. You haven’t brought it up. And neither has he.

Until tonight.

You’re both already in his room. You’d kissed him the moment the door clicked shut behind you - lazy, heated, with the kind of tension that had been building all day. He was still dressed in one of those soft, half-buttoned shirts you liked to tear off his shoulders, and he looked every inch the pleasure you wanted.

You think that’s what this will be. What it always is. What you both agreed to without really ever saying the words.

But as you're moving towards the bed with his lips on your neck, he slows. Stills. He pulls back, steps past you toward the bar cart by the dresser.

It doesn't phase you. He always offers a drink unless you're both too feral to consider it.

He pours. Amber liquor, smooth and dark. Two glasses. His shoulders shift with each motion, strong and elegant and familiar.

"I take it you’re here to be properly humbled."

You hum as you walk slowly past his bed, fingers brushing the edge of his blankets. "Something like that."

But then - without turning - he says, "Have you learned how to deceive me?"

You tilt your head. "Hmm?"

He turns, holding out the glass to you. You take it, brows lifted. His expression doesn’t change, but his eyes are steady.

"You’ve seemed better," he says. "No trembling hands. No sleepless pacing outside my door. I haven’t had to pry your fingers open in weeks."

Your subconscious works faster than your thoughts. His tone. His stance. That look in his eye; this... this is delicate.

"And... you think I'm hiding my stress. From you."

He lifts the glass to his lips, faintly lifting one brow, "I'm not sure." He takes a sip. Still watching.

You lean back slightly, inspecting him over the rim of your drink as you lift it. Shrug with one shoulder. "I've been good. Haven’t really needed... just that." A beat. Then, lightly, "Which means it probably worked."

You take a sip. He watches your throat dip as you swallow.

He’s quieter than usual. You see something shift behind his eyes. He’s trying to keep it casual, but his voice is a touch too careful when he says, "Well, perhaps it would be wise to preempt your need. Rather than wait for the fallout."

Your eyes narrow a little. You know him too well. You do. You see it now - that flicker of vulnerability underneath the dry amusement.

Your mouth curls. Slow and satisfied and with an edge of endearment. No taunting.

"You miss it."

Loki scoffs softly, eyes flashing. He opens his mouth, probably to deflect - but before the words can form, you step forward and say again, quiet but sure:

"You miss it."

He gives you a look. A classic Loki look - arched brow, faintly offended, the kind that used to hold bite. But there’s no venom in it now. He takes another drink instead of answering, drains the glass, then turns away under the pretence of pouring another.

But his hands are too still. Too deliberate.

You follow him, stepping forward, placing your glass down beside his. Then you reach out. Slide your hands under his shirt, up his back. Skin to skin.

He tenses.

Your fingers move slow and steady, tracing the hard lines in his shoulders.

"You can ask for this too, you know."

He swallows. You feel it.

His voice is low, rough. "You're here for a reason."

"Mmm." Your hands keep moving, up towards the place his neck and shoulders meet.

He holds his ground. "And I intend to ensure you are thoroughly well-fu-"

His breath catches when your nails graze down the length of his back, one hand either side of his spine.

You let out another small hum, hands dipping lower - one trailing along his back, the other skimming around his waist. Slow. Soft.

"You’re tense," you murmur.

He shifts, barely, and says with a tighter edge, "Yes. I'm thinking of some very clever new ways to make you beg. Perhaps I'll-"

But before he can finish, before the rising insecurity in him has the chance to retreat into that mask of sex and heat and pleasure, your voice cuts in.

"-Loki, I... I know there's a line," you say, your body now pressed lightly against his back. "We haven't talked about it. But it's there. Between sex and... this."

Your hands keep moving. One traces the space around his navel, light as a whisper. The other follows the ridges of his abdomen, brushing over the firm shape of him.

"But," you breathe, "maybe that line doesn’t need to stay so sharp. Maybe it can blur, and that can be okay. Maybe... it doesn’t have to be complicated."

Loki’s head dips forward slightly. His hands clench on the edge of the dresser.

Your lips brush his upper back, and you whisper:

"Maybe it's all just need."

His whole body twitches when your fingers graze a more sensitive spot along his ribs. That familiar, involuntary reaction.

He lets out a slow breath, like it’s burning him not to move.

"Come to the bed," you ask. "Let me do this." Your fingers curl more deliberately now, tracing lazy patterns across his stomach. "And then you can make me beg. After."

Loki lifts his head. His weight shifts beneath your hands as he turns. Eyes searching yours - perhaps looking for mockery, for game, for an angle. But there's none. Just steadiness. Sincerity. Heat. Just your hands on him, slow and sure.

Something melts behind his eyes. Something gives.

You drag your hand up, and press your palm gently to the centre of his chest.

Then you nod once, subtle, and step back. Taking his hand.

He lets you lead him to the bed.

The room feels quieter now. He sinks onto the edge of the mattress like he’s unsure if this is indulgence or mistake. You kneel around him slowly, carefully, straddling his thighs but not pressing. You don’t reach for his shirt yet. You don’t kiss him. You just take your place in his lap and lift your hands to his sides like you've always done. Reminding him that this is normal between you.

You feel his breath hitch. You see his eyes darken.

He doesn’t stop you.

Your fingers slide under his shirt and up his torso, the pads of your thumbs catching the dips between his ribs. He twitches. Just slightly.

"This okay?" you murmur, watching him.

His gaze finds yours again. Steady. Blue and glowing. "Yes."

You press your lips together, holding that, and start to move again - slow, reverent, your fingers gliding in soft, grounding lines across his stomach, his ribs, his hips. You let your nails trace, sometimes circling, sometimes brushing just firm enough to make him tense. You explore every inch of him without taking more. Without making it about anything but this:

Your hands.

His skin.

Your quiet need.

His quieter one.

At first, he holds still. Then his breath deepens.

Little by little, his muscles loosen. His jaw unclenches. His hands - once white-knuckled at his thighs - relax enough to slide to your waist.

And when you find the edge of his ribs - that spot - you see it.

The twitch. The shift. The quick suck of breath.

You press there again. Delicate. He laughs.

Low. Quiet. Half-ashamed.

You grin. "I love this little spot."

He glares at you, but it’s hollow. There’s a flush in his cheeks now, a breathless lift to his chest. You keep moving - one hand around his side, one along his hip, the drag of your fingertips making him shift again.

"You’re going to be the death of me," he mutters, voice hoarse.

You kiss just under his jaw, lips curled in a private smile. "Hmm."

He breathes another laugh - but then you shift your weight, catch that same spot again with the edge of your nail, and he moves.

And in the next instant, the air crackles.

Faster than you can yelp, you’re on your back. Wrists crossed and pinned above your head in one of his hands. The God of Mischief looms above you, panting faintly, the corner of his mouth curved.

His hand dives to your side, fingers dancing with practiced cruelty. "I’ve let this go on for far too long without-"

He pauses. Because all you've reacted with is a underwhelming little wriggle. Barely anything.

You grin up at him. A twitch. A sniffling giggle. No more.

He frowns.

Tries again - a precise, ruthless attack against your ribcage, something that would've decimated the average person. But you? You just shift a little underneath him, and your grin remains the same: smug, knowing, so fucking pleased.

He stills, releases your wrists and sits back over your hips, hovering his hands over your abdomen as if he's unsure what he's touching. His eyes scan across your half-clothed torso.

"What," he starts flatly, "is this witchcraft."

You laugh then, and shrug as best you can with your hands still resting above your head. "Sorry. Not really ticklish."

His eyes snap up to yours. He stares. "That’s a lie."

"It’s not a lie."

"It is. It must be."

You laugh again at fierce denial in his voice. "Sorry. You’re the squirmy one here, Your Highness."

His eyes flash.

"Oh, you think so?"

You try to smirk, but you're too amused to look cocky.

Loki's eyes narrow, something darker slithering in behind them as he leans in close. His body shifts above yours, expression melting into something smouldering. And he smirks. Slowly.

Lifts a brow. "I think... you forget who's touching you, pet."

You feel the press of his waist sliding down your hips.

"And that there are many other ways to wring some squirms and whimpers from you."

You open your mouth to tease back, but he’s already moving - down, sliding lower, and your breath catches. Your fingers thread through his inky black hair as you giggle once, delighted, anticipatory...

...and then the sound changes.

Your amusement stutters into something else. Something deeper. Something after.

The line between comfort and pleasure blurs into nothingness.

And the world, and all its worries, fades away with it.