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joucearchived · 2 years

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this was so comforting to me today, especially with personal things going on right now <3

thank you.

All in the Golden Afternoon (Loki/Reader Lullabies #252)

Fandom: Marvel/Avengers

Pairing: Loki/Reader

Category: Domestic Fluff without Plot

Rating: G.

Summary: During a peaceful afternoon together with Loki, your mind begins to wander.

Warnings/Notes: I’m still not sure how much longer the Lullabies will go on. Probably not very? Reduced engagement is really sapping a lot of the fun out of publishing my stories, so… I don’t know. If you liked this one, it feels especially important to me that you reblog it (even without anything in the body text!) or leave a reply on it, if Tumblr will still let you, or send me a short (possibly-anonymous) message about it. Please don’t be a silent consumer.

All in the Golden Afternoon

Your apartment was quiet.

It was late afternoon. In just a little while, you knew the sun was going to pour in through your windows, golden and lovely and making everything feel just a little bit more magical. For now, though, your living room was lit up with the everyday brightness of summer in the city. The only truly noticeable sound in your place was the soft whirring of the fan sitting on the other side of the room, and even that largely faded into the background. It wasn’t often that you found yourself actively relishing in such undeniable peace, but this had to be it.

The two of you—Loki and you—sat together on your sofa. You were stretched out with your feet on the cushions beside you and your back pressed against his side. He was sitting much more normally in the corner of the sofa: feet resting on the coffee table before him and one arm resting comfortably on your chest. When he’d first come to stay with you, all those years ago, you’d been so worried about how to keep him entertained, lest you make him regret his decision to come here and leave you without warning. But here you were, cuddling in peaceful stillness while each of you did your own thing.

He was reading. He read a lot. When self-consciousness crept in and made you make too many self-deprecating jokes about the kinds of books you had available to him, he was exceedingly good at shushing you and assuring you that your collection was more than adequate. He always had something to say about one of the characters in your favorite novels—something favorable and complimentary, and, often, something which likened them to you. He was too charming, too charming by far, but… he kept reading them. There were a handful, even, that he’d taken to re-reading, so maybe he wasn’t just saying the right thing.

You were scrolling through your computer. You’d set it up intending to get some work done on this quiet, lazy afternoon, but it hadn’t been long at all before your attention began to wander. Every once in a while, you’d find a picture that made you laugh quietly, or something that made you think of Loki, and each time you interrupted his reading to show him, he tightened his arm around you in a gentle embrace and leaned in to kiss the top of your head.

This was not the life you’d imagined before he’d come to live with you. Ages ago, the very first time he laid eyes on you and made his way over to speak to you, you could never have guessed that life with him could be so… good. Granted, your brain still seemed to enjoy finding ways to make you doubt yourself and your relationship, but it was all but impossible to doubt Loki himself. More and more often lately, when the crushing weight of modern life tried to make you spin out about whether you deserved someone as gentle and attentive and loving as him, it was like you could hear his voice in your head, firmly telling you that he didn’t care what you believed: he loved you and wanted to be around you, and so he was going to remain right here with you.

Things got a little tricky when your brain started to branch out and make you wonder how many more of those little episodes he could realistically withstand before he grew tired of it all and left, but, thankfully, those were becoming more and more rare lately.

His hand was just sitting there, perfectly still on your chest. Were you not supposed to pick it up? Work—and play—entirely forgotten, you did just that: you picked up his hand with both of yours and touched it almost reverently. You stroked his fingers and bent them slightly to watch with fascination as the skin and tendons stretched and bent. His hands were magic. That stood to reason, really: everything about him was magic. He was magic personified, and he just walked around your silly little apartment like he didn’t know how absolutely mind-blowing it should have been. Ethically-speaking, was it possible for you to just go on with your life like nothing overly special was happening when, every single day lately, you got to wake up in the same bed as someone like him?

Maybe you were getting a little bit silly. It was hard to shake, though, and so instead you focused on bringing each of his fingertips to your lips. You kissed them softly and quietly, loath to interrupt his reading for something like this but just as loath to pass up the opportunity to get your mouth on his skin. His whole body seemed to call out for kisses, for caresses, for any way you could possibly find it in you to physically express how much you loved him. He’d spent too long feeling unloved. It had become one of your life’s missions to try to work against that and fill the void. You repeated the process a few times, slipping into a meditative peace of mind as you did. You loved the bones and joints of his hands, and the muscles and the skin and the warmth and… everything.

Without warning, you felt him flex his fingers, and when you moved in to kiss him again, he caught your lips gently between his thumb and forefinger. Then you felt him press another kiss to the top of your head.

“What are you doing, love?” The richness of his voice seemed to travel from your scalp all the way down into your toes. If he noticed the way you shivered with pleasure, he gave no sign of that. When you smiled, you imagined that he could probably feel it in your lips. He kissed you again, and pinched them just a little bit more tightly, before releasing them, ostensibly so you could answer his question.

“I’m kissing you,” you answered immediately, and tried to pull his hand back up to your mouth. “You should be kissed a lot. You know that.” Maybe he did. You said it often enough. You could only hope that, just as he was doing when it came to your own insecurities, maybe you were starting to quiet the nasty voices in the back of his mind too.

He hummed thoughtfully but fought against your hands. He wasn’t one to give in without a fight, after all, and you knew that intimately. “I thought you were supposed to be working. Are you bored already?”

Yes. “No.” You gave in, then, and stopped trying to drag his hand back up to your mouth. Instead, you found a way to wrap your arms around his: your own silly, lying-down way of trying to hug him. “But you’re right there, and… like… It feels wrong to be so close to you and not be kissing you. Like, it feels sacrilegious or something.”

He laughed again—you felt the warmth of his breath through your hair as he did—and tightened his arm around you so that he was returning your hug. “You’re going to give me a complex, love. You’ll have to explain it to the others.” But you could hear the pleasure in his voice. Something about the sound of it made you absolutely certain that, if you sat up and turned around so you could look him in the eyes, his cheeks would have that lovely tinge of pink.

Good. He deserved it.

He deserved to be adored. He deserved to be worshiped. He didn’t bring it up often, but you knew that early humans had worshiped him—hell, they’d worshiped his whole family. They were right to do it. It wasn’t usually in Loki to turn down such fawning affection, but—maybe because you kept giving it to him over and over, without hesitation—he was becoming a little bit more shy about that kind of thing.

“I will,” you said, voice hot with certainty. “I’ll explain it all to them. Maybe by the time I’m finished, they’ll agree with me. Then you’ll have an army of Midgardians on their knees for you.” The double meaning of your words didn’t actually strike you until you’d said them—and heard him snort quietly against the top of your head. Thankfully, though, he didn’t wrench the conversation off into filthy directions.

“I do not doubt that for a second, dove. You speak with such passion that anyone would do anything for you by the time you’re finished speaking.” He moved his arm to tilt your chin upwards, so he could look you in the eyes, albeit upside-down. When he did, you had to catch your breath. He was looking at you so tenderly, so affectionately, that it made it hard for you to focus on anything else, really. You bit your lip, which drew his attention to your mouth for the briefest of moments and made your stomach do a curious little flip. Even after all this time, he had such an effect on you. And he knew it, too: A slow, sly grin broke across his face. “But you are the only Midgardian that matters to me. On your knees or on your feet or on my lap or in your bed, you are the only one I need.”

And then he pressed his lips against yours and kissed you as the sunlight turned golden outside.

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joucearchived · 2 years

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"I'm gonna burn this place to the ground." idk about you but to me that sounds like a good prompt for pre-dating idiots 👀

lol remember when the first trailer came out and we collectively lost our shit when loki said this?? aw. simpler times :’)

consider this the next part of pre-dating idiots!! woo!! pls be nice to me it’s been years

warnings: ooc?? I haven’t written for him in two (?) years?? injuries, pain, angst, the usual.

They’re both victims of the same incompetence, in all honesty.

A father who lied to them both, and a mother...

She was complicit.

Thor hates admitting it. Loki can’t decide if it makes things better or worse.

Thor needs to go see him. He knows it’s what needs to be done, and will have to happen eventually, but every time he approaches room 203, he just keeps walking and promises to do it tomorrow.

They have...too much to discuss. It’s intimidating.

Thor finds it too easy to use Loki’s necessary healing as an excuse not to disturb him.

You’re the one who finally make him do it, open the door and actually talk to him.

You’re on a business trip—managing some project on international relations following the attack on New York, from what he gathers—and won’t be back for about a month.

“Don’t let him ruin his progress,” you told him the day you left. “Please.”

At that, Thor dredged up enough conscience to feel bad for letting you think he’s been visiting Loki every other day.

You’re proud of him. It’s a good feeling.

He doesn’t want to lose it.

So he smiled and promised to keep his brother company, keep him smiling and healing and that he’ll be in even better shape when you return.

You’ll be back in a week and a half now, and he has yet to cross the threshold.

It’s only after Cap, Tony, and the others come to a decision with the local authorities and task him with breaking the news to Loki that he finally goes to him.

Even still, he doesn’t know where to start.

Loki is on his stomach when Thor walks in, still bedridden and bleeding with exhaustion in his gaunt eyes when he meets his gaze from the doorway.

“Come to gloat?”

His voice is hoarse—missing the tease, the careless grin and sly plot that used to tinge his words. It makes Thor bare his teeth in a slight grimace, wanting to be angry with him, fingers curled tight around the handle of mjolnir.

“I’ve come to...talk.” He clears his throat and takes the first shaky step towards the hospital bed. “We have much to discuss.”

“Well, consider me intrigued.” Loki’s lips curl into a cruel smirk, even smushed into his pillow. “What could we possibly have to talk about?”

“Stop that,” Thor snarls, taking a few more sudden steps towards him. “Now isn’t the time for–for...for you.”

“Ah. In that case, please, pull up a chair.”

He does, glancing around the room. It’s drab, with just one window and a hint of sunlight peeking through the closed blinds. An untouched tray of food sits on the bedside table.

They sit there in silence for too long before Thor speaks.

“You’re a frost giant.”

Loki just gives a hollow laugh. “That’s where you’d like to begin?”

“He lied to me, too,” Thor says. “I thought you were my—I thought you were Asgardian. My whole life.”

“That must have been difficult for you.”

“I—I knew you were different,” he pushes on, electing to ignore that jab, “I could see that, but you...”

“You trusted Odin completely, didn’t you?”

Thor nods slowly. “He’s my father. I...still do.”

At that, his brother turns his head to stare at the wall instead of him. He cut his hair. It’s choppy against his neck—Loki couldn’t have done it himself, not with his shoulder in that state and still in a sling.

“Odin,” comes Loki’s hiss, “raised us to hunt frost giants.”

Thor straightens in his seat, frowning at the back of his brothers head. “He raised us to be warriors, wary of likely enemies.”

“He raised us to kill. He gave you the power to destroy their entire realm.” His head flips over on the pillow to reveal painfully bloodshot eyes, and he shoves a finger at the hammer in Thor’s hands. “Don’t tell me that was benevolence. He took their lifeforce, held a threat over their heads, and called it peace.”

Swallowing thickly, Thor’s gaze drops to the hammer. His next words are out before he can think better of them.

“And yet I wasn’t the one who tried to destroy their realm.”

Loki falls silent again, gaze burning into Thor’s, glistening, his jaw clenched tight. A vein near his temple bulges, and Thor wishes he could take it back. Wishes Loki hadn’t begged him to fight him, hadn’t let go all those months ago.

“Leave,” Loki chokes.

Thor clears his throat. “I came to tell you that the council has come to a decision on your sentence.”

“Leave,” Loki just says again, gathering the sheets in a shaking fist. “Get out.”

“Stark and the Captain spoke with Midgardian authorities, and they decided you must serve a sentence here before being turned over to Asgard.”

“Just passing me around, are you—”

“You broke the law,” Thor grits out, rising to his feet. “You killed people, you destroyed buildings, you tried to destroy an entire realm—”

“And I killed my true father,” Loki hisses, trying to push himself up on the hospital bed. “I abducted Clint Barton and made him kill for me. I let Jotuns into our palace on your coronation day, knowing they craved blood. I lied to Frigga, I stole the throne, I committed treason, I—”

“Then you see what must be done,” Thor cries, flinging a hand towards him. “You know you’re unstable, you need—you need help!”

“I wake up every single day,” he spits, heaving himself into a sitting position, “disappointed that I’m still breathing. I’ve tried to end it, I’ve tried it myself, I’ve even brought that–that mortal into it, and she couldn’t even kill me.”

“Oh, that’s an entirely different discussion—”

“So what is it?” Hunched forward with his arms hugging his knees, Loki stares at him. Those eyes are empty—Thor hoped to at least see pain in them. “What is my punishment? Am I to be executed, or are we saving that special event for Odin and Frigga?”

“Don’t,” Thor growls. His fist tightens around mjolnir. “They still protected you and raised you as their own. You owe them that much.”

Loki gives a hollow, rattling laugh. “Odin raised me like a prize boar for slaughter. He told me. He wanted to use me to unite our realms. I’m no better than the last empty treaty he wrote.”

“He spoke of us as equals,” Thor quietly argues. “Weren’t you happy? As a child? We...we had fun. I know we did.”

Loki swallows thickly, casting his gaze towards the ceiling.

I know we did. The two of them were inseparable, through every phase of their life. Thor’s friends were Loki’s, and the merry little group had centuries of adventures, victories, parties they shared with him. Frigga and Odin had loved the two of them as their sons, as their sons equally. He knows it.

“Can you even fathom your reality being a lie?”

Thor blinks, wishing Loki would look at him.

“No,” Loki laughs softly, “you can’t.”

Thor stands abruptly, knocking his chair over in the process. “You’ll lead a life of misery and disappointment,” he says, “if you keep thinking the worst of everyone. Especially yourself.”

Loki laughs again—it’s missing all humor. “Oh, fuck off.”

“Fine.” Thor stiffens, his jaw clenched painfully. “On behalf of Midgardian officials, you are sentenced to five years imprisonment and full responsibility for damages caused by your insurrection. After those years, you will return to Asgard with me for your trial.”

“Lovely. Looking forward to it.”

That’s the final straw—that, and how Loki closes his eyes and relaxes back onto his pillow, seemingly unbothered.

Thor surges forward with a snarl and grabs Loki by the shoulders, shoving him back against the pillows.

“You could at least pretend to regret this,” he seethes, giving his brother a good shake. “If you even gave our father half of an apology, an explanation, we could move past this.”

Eyes wide but jaw firmly set, Loki struggles against him, trying to wrench his injured arm from Thor’s grip. “Oh, please,” he grunts, “it’s been nearly a year since I came back from the dead. Neither of my so-called parents have expressed the slightest interest in seeing me.”

Thor’s grip tightens—Loki grits his teeth, biting back a whimper of pain as his fingertips dig into a barely scabbed wound.

“I wanted to apologize to you,” Thor admits, his chest heaving with the effort of holding Loki pinned. “But I don’t know if you even want that. Or deserve it.”

“Let go of me.”

He doesn’t.

Still writhing, Loki’s lips curl back, and he throws his head forward, bracing for the inevitable pain. His forehead hits Thor’s chin with a loud crack, and Thor staggers back with a shout—Loki’s not in much better shape, blinking rapidly to clear the spots that blur his vision.

“Five years,” Loki hisses, “is nothing to you and I.”

“Your true punishment will be from Asgard,” Thor replies harshly, a hand to his jaw as he stumbles towards the door. “Don’t get too comfortable.”

“Well, when we go home,” Loki spits, his hands shaking, “Maybe I’ll burn that place to the ground.”

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joucearchived · 2 years

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I have made a craft paint acrylic on canvas repaint of The Happy Accidents of the Swing, by Jean-Honoré Fragonard, but it's frogs🐸🌸

(Available as prints, stickers, and a bunch of other things on my Redbubble shop✨🐸)

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joucearchived · 2 years

Photo

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joucearchived · 2 years

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♥ perfume oil asks. ♥

acai berry: what is something you’ve always wanted to try but have been too scared to?

aloe botanic: are you always up to date on the latest fashion trends? do you switch up your look often?

bay rum: if you drink, do you have self control with it?

cilantro: describe the perfect dinner.

earth: what is your strongest personality quality?

egyptian musk: how do you respond to people flirting with you? do you enjoy it?

forest rain: how long do you think you could survive in the wilderness?

french vanilla: what does love feel like to you?

fresh cut grass: when the weather is warm, what activities do you do outside?

ginger lily: do you think you have maternal instincts? if someone needs to be taken care of, do you take up the task?

honeydew: describe an ideal day out with a friend.

ivy: what are three albums that really define you or have shaped you as a person?

lavender: do take therapeutic baths after a long day? if so, what do you put in them?

lemon verbana: do you believe in “forgive and forget”?

passion flower: when you have a crush on someone, how do you show it?

patchouli: if you could only keep five possessions, what would they be?

pine needles: how do you break bad news to someone?

plum blossom: how do you dance to your favorite song?

rain: is it easy for you to bounce back after being sad? do you hang on to your sadness?

sage: if you could give someone one piece of life advice, what would it be?

sea mist: how would your friends describe you?

white ginger: if money wasn’t a concern, how would you decorate your room?

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joucearchived · 2 years

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hug

Touch-Starved (Loki/Reader Lullabies #21)

Fandom: Marvel/Avengers

Pairing: Loki/Female Reader

Category: Fluff. Fluff without plot.

Rating: G.

Summary: Thor tells Loki that the Midgardians need to touch each other in order to thrive, and then Loki notices that you don’t touch people all that often. Someone’s got to look out for you, right?

Warnings/Notes: This piece was requested/inspired by an Anon whose first language isn’t even English?! Those of you out there who have learned another language well enough to READ ACTUAL FANFICTION IN THEM blow my mind. You are amazing! If you’re still around (god, I hope you’re still around), thank you for requesting this. This one was lovely to write. This is another little piece for my Loki’s Lullabies collection–plotless little fluff-bombs meant to (hopefully!) help you sleep, or at least feel alright. If there’s a specific action or line of dialogue that you’d like to read, please don’t be afraid to message it to me!

Touch-Starved

The mortals wouldn’t stop touching each other.

From the moment that the citywide lockdown went into place, Loki could not help but notice an increased amount of…touching. Some of it was more or less normal: Rogers and Barnes often drew each other into wrestling matches even before the world went insane, and it certainly wasn’t uncommon for Barton and Natasha to spend hours sparring in the gym. But overall, he noticed an absurd uptick in the amount of touching among the entire team: Stark would rest a hand on the small of Banner’s back as he passed him in the kitchen. Rogers would grab Natasha’s arm when she said anything he found remotely humorous. Clint often nudged teammates with his hip any time he walked past them, seemingly just looking for some kind of contact.

Keep reading

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joucearchived · 2 years

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Rachel Forrest // Unknown // S. C. Lourie

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joucearchived · 2 years

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awhsjsjwlsl i hadn't been feeling well this week and this brought me so much fucking comfort i can't even explain it. i love you for writing this even though you were also feeling shit; sending you lots of love and please take care of yourself <33

Under the Weather (Loki/Reader Lullabies #216)

Fandom: Marvel/Avengers

Pairing: Loki/Reader

Category: Sick!fic. Fluff without plot.

Rating: G.

Summary: Loki’s nearly always able to tell when you’re feeling under the weather, and he’s always happy to help.

Warnings/Notes: I was very nearly unable to write anything at all this weekend. I had to work, and I had a headache that sort of had me wanting to die, and I almost didn’t write anything. But then...I sort of keyboard-smashed this out. Please don’t expect it to be up to my usual standards, but I hope it can make you feel a little warm and fuzzy all the same.

New but Retroactive Reminder for this and all of my fics: I do not, have not, and will not give anyone permission to copy/paste, translate, or otherwise take or modify this story to post it anywhere else. You can find my stories here on Tumblr or under kaeorin on AO3, but nowhere else. This does not apply only to fics which hold this disclaimer--NONE of my works are to be stolen or modified. Additionally, please remember that Liking a post on Tumblr does not increase the author's exposure. I don't run your life, but readers should be reblogging the works they like.

Under the Weather

It wasn’t hard for Loki to tell when you weren’t feeling well. Even before you woke up properly, he found that your body sought him out. Him. Your sweet mortal body would curl into him for comfort. You got clingy in your sleep—clingier than normal. For as long as he’d been staying here with you, you would curl into him there in your sleep-warmed bed while the morning light streamed in through your curtains, but when you were feeling less than your best, it was somehow More.

He loved it.

You were always warm in the mornings, but there were certain mornings where you felt a little bit warmer. Not quite feverish, really, and certainly not enough to worry him, but...enough. You’d tangle your legs with his and bury your face against his shoulder as though you could hide from your discomfort against his skin. It was the damndest thing. When he turned his head to kiss your forehead, you’d often let out the softest little whine. It was pathetic and so endearing. Knowing it was wrong to enjoy your discomfort, he’d savor the feeling all the same. When you were well, you were strong and confident and more than capable of looking after yourself, but on mornings like this, all you wanted was him. He’d never get over it.

So he’d lie there in bed with you for as long as he could. He’d work his fingers through your hair to caress your scalp, massage your temples, and you always, always whimpered and held him more tightly. He knew what you liked. Before—before he came here, before you found him, before you allowed him to come into your space like this—he’d never given a second thought to feelings like this, but now you made him feel needed. You made him feel like he could make it better for you, instead of merely making things worse for everybody. He always took extra care to scatter kisses along your cheeks, your forehead, your eyelids—anywhere he could reach, he’d kiss, and you would reward him each time with a wordless little sigh. You didn’t speak on mornings like this, where you felt like this, but you didn’t need to. He could feel your need in the way you touched him, and he’d never dream of holding out on you.

He’d cuddle with you for as long as he could, but, invariably, hunger would make your stomach rumble, and he’d have to get things moving. It made him feel rather monstrous, pushing you to get out of bed and take a shower, but you’d told him time and time again that it was something you had to do. After you dragged yourself into the washroom and forced yourself to take care of that whole routine, you’d always feel a little bit better. So he would steel himself against the way you’d look at him, with those big sad eyes of yours, and he’d help you to your feet.

This morning, you clung to him as he walked you all the way into the washroom. It was tempting to help you into your living room and allow you to lie down on your sofa, but he remained steadfast, and got the shower running. He only wanted you to feel better. He couldn’t allow you to sit around and be miserable all day, not if he truly wanted to help you.

If his younger self were ever to catch his younger self, standing here with his arms around you precious mortal, trying to convince you that this really wouldn’t be so bad, he knew he’d be merciless. The memory of his past misery was ever-present, but, in some way, he was almost grateful for it. It meant that he couldn’t take you for granted. It meant that, every single morning, he knew how important you were, and that he’d never let himself forget it. Today he lingered just outside the room and listened for a few moments to make sure you were strong enough to keep yourself standing under the spray.

His chest felt tight with love, with pride, as he listened to you take care of your body in the safety of your washroom.

When you were finished, he plied you with water and painkillers. You were hesitant at first, as you always were. It never ceased to bewilder him, the way it never quite occurred to you to take steps to ease your own pain. It just wasn’t how you were raised, you’d revealed to him once, and it made anger burn within him to know that your family, the people who were supposed to care for you and look after you, never really took those duties seriously. But when he tilted his head at you just right and murmured your name in a low voice, you always relented. You’d sip the water he offered you, and you’d take the medication he gave, and, as reluctant as you clearly felt about it, you’d do as he asked.

He made sure to reward you with soft kisses and tender caresses. You’d done this to him. You’d turned him into someone who valued your comfort and well-being more than he valued his own. He had no regrets. You lovely thing, you precious thing, you had become vital to his own happiness, and there was so much love and warmth inside him that there was simply no room left for regret.

He made you breakfast. You gave him grim, uncertain looks, but you did take tiny bites of the toast he gave you. You both knew that, if you didn’t, the medication would upset your stomach and make you feel worse. Though your body told you not to bother, you trusted him to know what was right. The idea of that was still so strange to him. Loki of Asgard had come to your planet once before and rained down hell upon you, but now you trusted that he wanted to make you feel good. He made tea for the both of you while you finished your breakfast, and when you accepted your mug from him, he couldn’t quite find the words he wanted to say to you. Even in this state, he knew that you understood.

The two of you spent the afternoon together on your sofa. You curled close against his body and drank your tea and then hid your face against him just as you’d done that morning. It was intoxicating, the way you clung to him and relied on him for comfort. When he massaged your shoulders, you had a way of going all warm and limp against him, and he knew that it was wrong to take such pleasure in things like this, but at the same time, he had no other choice. You held him close. You murmured his name. You let down your guard, all for him, and he knew, deep in his soul, that the day he stopped marveling at things like this would be the day that he was beyond salvation. Over and over again, he kissed your forehead. You tucked yourself against him and allowed him to hold you.

Sometimes, after all of this, you still tried to apologize to him. You still didn’t feel as though you had any right to take any sort of comfort in him when you weren’t feeling well. It hurt. He wanted to gather you up in his arms and make things right for you. He hated it when you tried to downplay your discomfort. You had no idea, you darling thing, that days like this were so precious to him.

You were so precious to him.

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joucearchived · 2 years

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National Centre for Writing - FREE worksheets and writing courses. Has also paid courses;

Penguin Random House - Has some writing contests and great opportunities;

Crime Reads - Get inspired before writing a crime scene;

The Creative Academy for Writers - "Writers helping writers along every step of the path to publication." It's FREE and has ZOOM writing rooms;

Reedsy - "A trusted place to learn how to successfully publish your book" It has many tips, and tools (generators), contests, prompts lists, etc. FREE;

QueryTracker - Find agents for your books (personally, I've never used this before, but I thought I should feature it here);

Pacemaker - Track your goals (example: Write 50K words - then, everytime you write, you track the number of the words, and it will make a graphic for you with your progress). It's FREE but has a paid plan;

Save the Cat! - The blog of the most known storytelling method. You can find posts, sheets, a software (student discount - 70%), and other things;

I hope this is helpful for you!

(Also, check my blog if you want to!)

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joucearchived · 2 years

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OH MY GOD I AM SO EXCITED FJDKXKSMSK

Secret Project Incoming!!!!

OKAY GUYS I HAVE A SECRET PROJECT COMING IT WILL HAVE 25 CHAPTERS Due to wanting a more vivid story, this will be another Loki x OC story! Modern AU! No powers!

also the trope list includes (but is probably not limited to)

rivals to lovers

group vacation

jealousy dating (ft. Amora the Enchantress)

semi-love triangle (ft. Matt Murdock)

routine coffee

a kiss for a bet

“and there was only one bed”

the angry second kiss

the “please stay” confession

Keep reading

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joucearchived · 2 years

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SWEETHEART YOU'RE BACK

HELLO LOVE I MISS YOU AND I LOVE YOU SO MUCH 💕💕💕💕

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joucearchived · 2 years

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A Warmth Within (Loki/Reader Lullabies #213)

Fandom: Marvel/Avengers

Pairing: Loki/Reader

Category: Sickfic. Fluff without plot.

Rating: G.

Summary: When your annual winter-is-coming head cold knocks you out, you find comfort from an unexpected source.

Warnings/Notes: Just another sickfic from your resident one-trick pony. This one has a “bonus” pre-relationship angle, but I don’t know if that makes it unrealistic. As with all of my sickfics lately, the sickness is NOT COVID. You're just feeling gross and under the weather here, sort of the way I feel when I get sick. I hope you like this okay. I hope you’re warm and comfortable and feeling okay.

A Warmth Within

The seasons changed, as they did every year. Summer faded slowly into autumn, which soldiered on into the frosted days of early winter. And, like always, as the days got shorter, sickness came along and walloped you in the face. Your head ached. Your body ached. Your very soul ached. It was a damn good thing that you weren’t scheduled for any missions, because this round of disease felt especially vicious. It would have been nigh-on impossible to force yourself to rally and make it through a mission, no matter how many people were counting on you.

Unwilling to risk spreading your contagion throughout the Tower, you largely kept to yourself, locked up in your room. For the first few days, that wasn’t even fully intentional: you simply lacked the strength to get out of bed for very long, let alone to go downstairs and interact with your friends. You spent most of your time sleeping, or else lying awake in bed wishing you could fall asleep so you wouldn’t have to feel the havoc this bug was wreaking upon your body. Sometimes you managed to scroll through your phone. The internet was still going strong. There was plenty to read and watch and consider laughing at, when you could pry your open and peer out through the fog. Wanda texted you a few times, checking in on you, but each time she did, you made sure to make her promise to stay the hell away from you. The last time she’d fallen ill like this, the Tower had become kind of a nightmare while her powers went out of control.

On the fourth night, your sheer discomfort and hunger were enough to drive you out of bed. You dragged yourself into your en-suite washroom to clean yourself up a bit, and you were rather surprised to note that your legs didn’t threaten to give out while you showered. Thus, feeling emboldened, you ventured out into the Tower in search of something to eat. It was cold, unless that was just your lingering fever, but you pulled the hood of your sweatshirt up over your head and then tucked your hands into your sleeves and told yourself that it was enough to keep you warm while you were out here.

The Tower was quiet. It was hard to know exactly what time it was—you hadn’t bothered to check your phone for the time—but no one else was really around. Maybe they were sleeping. As quietly as you could, you slapped together a peanut butter sandwich and munched on it thoughtfully while you pondered the food in the fridge.

“You’re alive.”

The words, dry and amused in the relative darkness, might have made you jump or flinch or gasp, if you’d been feeling more like yourself. As it was, however, you barely even blinked. You knew that voice, which meant you knew that the speaker meant you no harm. It was Loki. You liked Loki. He didn’t spend much time outside of his own room, but, when he did, you found that you rather liked hanging out with him. He was fun to talk to. Like anyone else on the team, he could sink pretty deeply into those grey sorts of moods, but you liked him all the same. He could appreciate a peaceful silence. That felt like a rarity in others. With a sigh, you let the refrigerator door close so you could turn around and lean against it for support.

Sure enough, Loki stood in the doorway behind you. He was so pretty. He wore a kind of set of lounging-around Earthly clothes: sweats, a t-shirt that just barely clung to his top. It always felt like something so personal, seeing him look this comfortable. On a normal day, you would probably have forced yourself to look away. Today, you didn’t bother, though you did more or less try to keep your eyes fixed on his instead of roaming the planes of his body.

“I guess. If I were dead, I’d probably feel better than I do right now. No assignments for you either?”

He shrugged and went over to turn on the kettle. You finished the last of your sandwich. Some part of you wanted to turn back to the fridge to keep looking for something else to eat, but you did still have enough sense left in you to know that that’d be silly. Better food wasn’t just going to magically appear. “Death’s not all it’s cracked up to be. Does a number on your joints.”

He spoke in that same low, even tone of his, but his words cut straight through you. You didn’t know all of his history, but you knew enough. You knew what—or rather who—had made him terrorize New York all those years ago. Shame rushed through you, hot and queasy, and just as you were about to whisper some lame apology and slink out of the room, he cast a mild look at you over his shoulder.

“Sit. I’ll make tea.”

And, though everything in you was screaming at you to leave, you did as he asked. There was just something about him, some quiet strength, that made it almost impossible for you not to do what he asked. Maybe he was trying to show you that you hadn’t offended him. Maybe he was just looking for some company. You pulled out a stool from the other side of the island and sat down, resting your feet on the rungs. He didn’t turn back towards you for a long time, and he also didn’t say much else. But you didn’t mind. Sitting in friendly silence with Loki was often nicer even than engaging in some rousing discussion with one of the others.

Maybe it was that fix-it instinct in you, rearing its ugly head. Though you’d never acknowledge it out loud, it was pretty clear that he was hurting—a lot, actually. You wanted to make him feel better. When you were younger, your classmates used to tease you for getting all teary over birds with broken wings or feral cats that walked with a limp, but he had that same sort of frightened, defensive aura around him. If he lashed out, it wasn’t because he wanted to hurt someone; it was because he was trying to keep himself safe.

When the water boiled, he took down two mugs from the cabinet above his head and then placed one in front of you, leaning on the island across from you. “So what’s wrong with you?”

His bluntness made you laugh: a quick, unexpected burst of air that made your head ache for a moment. You pressed one hand to your forehead while curling the other around the mug, greedily soaking up the heat from the ceramic. “I’m—it’s just a cold. I get one every year, when the weather changes. It’s not that big a deal, just...everything hurts.” Your face burned a little at that—beyond the fever—because of course Loki knew pain. Probably, Loki knew more pain than you could even fathom. You shrugged, wishing once again to sink into the floor, and stared down into the depths of your mug. “It’s nothing. I’m just a whiner when I’m sick. How are you?”

He didn’t answer for a few moments, and his silence made you think that probably he was studying your face. As quiet and guarded as Loki was, it always felt so easy for you to read his body language. You didn’t look up at him: you didn’t want to risk whatever he might see in your eyes. When you were feeling normal, you’d more or less made peace with the loneliness in the Tower. Outside of sparring with Nat in the gym or sometimes playing with Wanda’s hair, you didn’t get a lot of human touch lately. And that was fine. It was nice to have, but hardly necessary. But when you were feeling like this—miserable—all you wanted was to curl up next to someone so you could soak up their warmth while they played with your hair and fussed over you. It was so fucking pathetic.

“Oh, same as ever. Bored. Trapped. Underestimated. Thor’s out there. He needed someone with magic to join him, but he took the witch.” He was trying to hard to sound nonchalant, but your heart ached for him. Still, before you could figure out what to say to him, he looked up, and caught you looking at him. He gave you a brilliant smile, and then arched one eyebrow at you. “Is the tea alright?”

You looked down, then, suddenly grateful for the excuse to look away from him. The tea was a rich and lovely shade now, almost pinkish around the edges of the mug. You took another sip, almost experimentally, and then offered a tiny nod. “It’s good. It’s really good. Thank you, Loki.”

“It should help you feel better. Mother had an incantation she’d use when Thor or I fell ill.” He took another sip of his tea. “But it didn’t happen often. Would you believe that Thor was the sickly one?” Was it your imagination, or did he sound self-conscious?

“It’s okay to get sick, you know. It happens. It doesn’t make you any less strong or powerful.” Why it seemed to matter so much that Loki understood that, it was hard to say, but you did reach out to touch his hand before remembering your own potential contagiousness and abandoning the motion halfway through. “Are you feeling okay?”

“Of course. I’m fine.” He reached out, then, and enveloped your hand in both of his before you could think to pull away from him. Warmth crept from his skin into yours and it almost made you sigh out loud. “How are you feeling?”

You couldn’t make yourself extract your hand from his, but you did allow your eyes to slip closed. With a (careful) laugh, you shook your head. “I already told you that I’m fine. Everything hurts and I kind of want to just disappear so I don’t have to deal with any of it, but I’ll survive.” You reached out with your free hand, then, to take another drink of tea. It did seem to be helping. Warmth was spreading through your body in a way that felt like it came from more than just the tea itself. Loki’s magic, maybe?

He sat there in silence for a little while, only moving one of his hands away from you when he went to take a sip of tea. Each time he closed his hand back around yours, it was a little extra warmer from the mug and you kept having to choke back your sighs. He wasn’t normally very touchy. No one here was, but, with Loki, it felt like you had to be especially careful to keep your hands to yourself. He just didn’t strike you as someone who was willing to put up with your hands all over him, no matter how badly you wanted to take his hand or hold him tight.

By the time you’d finished your tea, your eyelids were growing heavy, but many of your aches and pains had faded into the background. You covered your mouth when you yawned, and mumbled some sort of attempt at an apology. Loki only smiled.

“That’s the incantation, then,” he said quietly. “You’ll fall asleep, and it’ll work its magic while you rest. When you wake up, you’ll feel almost like new again.”

“You didn’t have to do that.” His words surprised you more than they should have. Of course you knew the two of you were friendly. He wouldn’t spend this much time with just anyone, after all. But it was really beginning to dawn on you, just how much he’d done for you. It wasn’t just tea, or magic, or his company. It was all of them and so much more. He was looking after you. “Thank you. I mean it, Loki. I don’t know how to thank you.”

“Let the magic work.” In one quick, easy motion, he brought your hand up to his lips and pressed a kiss to your knuckles. Or was that a hallucination? Or maybe not? He looked up at you again with warm, soft eyes and patted the back of your hand. You were pretty sure you were still conscious, so...not a hallucination. “Will you let me help you to bed? Can’t have you falling asleep before you get there.”

“Maybe you should have thought of that before you gave me a magic sleeping pill, hm?” But even as you attempted the joke, you were rising to your feet for him. You didn’t mind. He seemed pleased, too, making his way around the island to put one arm around your back so he could help you out of the kitchen. You appreciated the solid support of his body. You weren’t so far gone that it was hard to walk, but...you were still sore and a little bit weak and, truth be told, that whiny part of you was all but basking in this gentle attention.

He brought you easily to your bedroom door and pushed it open for you to continue helping you to bed. A quick little stab of worry did spark through you—your room was a mess, your bed was all rumpled and slept-in—but his attention remained fully on you until he’d helped you to lie down.

“Now move over,” he said softly, and made as though to sit down beside you. Once again, you did as he asked, and he did indeed take a seat. He made himself comfortable with his back against your headboard and you could feel yourself just...gaping at him. He meant to stay here with you? While you slept? Why in the world…?

“Don’t you have anything better to do than just sit there while I snore?” You didn’t mind. Just seeing him there against your sheets was making your stomach do nervous little flips, but...you liked it. You just had to hope he’d hear the truth in your voice, rather than think you were kicking him out.

Thankfully, he gave you another smile: tolerant. Affectionate. Maybe just the tiniest bit sheepish?

“I don’t actually know how Mother’s magic will impact your mortal body. What if you wake up feeling worse than you do now? What if you need help when you wake? I’m the one who’s done this to you, so of course I’ll be the one to keep an eye on you.”

Maybe you should have been a little more irritated at him for working magic on you without knowing how it would effect you, but you were just sleepy enough at this point that all you could feel was a bleary, weepy sort of happiness that he was willing to sacrifice his time for you. Feeling brave—or just out-of-it, you scooted a little bit closer to him and rested your head in his lap. If he was caught off-guard, he didn’t show it: he didn’t hesitate for even a moment before he began to work his fingers through your hair so he could massage your scalp.

“I’ll be angry about...being your guinea pig when I wake up.”

At long last, you allowed your eyes to slip closed, and you heard the quiet, happy way that he laughed as you did. Already, pleasant chills—not feverish chills—were beginning to creep through your body, and you finally let out that contented sigh you’d been holding back all night.

And as you finally slipped off into a restful sleep, you could have sworn that you heard him say “I’ll be here, darling.”

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