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tripleyeeet · 1 year

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IN SHADES OF BLUE

PAIRINGS: Jotun! Loki Laufeyson & Female Reader

SUMMARY: Loki reveals to you the parts of himself he hates the most. 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

WORD COUNT: 3,061

A/N: Another fic from my previous account! A little rough around the edges but still a fave of mine so I thought I’d give it a quick edit and repost. :)

MASTERLIST

“What’s your favourite colour?” he asks, plain and simple —trivial almost— so much so that it makes you scrunch up your face; lips and nose contorting into an expression of disapproval that makes his eyes roll.

Under the silken sheets, your body ruined under his touch as his fingers trail patterns over the bareness of your hips and thighs, you don’t fully get why he’s asking. You’ve only just met; hours before, in the corner of the bar. He approached you and you reciprocated his interest and the rest was just boring old history, so why does he care what colours make you happy?

“I don’t know,” you say, even though you have an answer. Everybody does regardless of what they tell themselves because colours have meanings —representations, you decide, sitting there, watching as he pulls away and positions himself on his back.

Despite your better judgment, when he moves you immediately crave his touch and the way his skin seems to cool your own, prompting you to follow him wordlessly, placing your chin on his chest. “How about you?”

“What about me?” He raises his brow and looks towards you, a small smile absentmindedly creeping across his lips.

“What’s your favourite colour?”

Whatever yours is, he thinks, because truthfully he doesn’t care anymore. After everything he lost interest in caring for things that made him happy, because feelings like that don’t last and neither does beauty, so why would he stop to think and choose a favourite colour?

He doesn’t have time for that.

“I don’t think I have one.” It’s a poor excuse for an answer, both of you know it, which is why when you deeply sigh against his chest, the air from your lips fanning across his skin, he can’t help but swallow hard and look away, feeling almost guilty.

Which doesn’t make sense, because you’ve just met. Your opinion is nothing in the grand scheme of things, yet something in his chest pulls him to feel hurt by your response.

“Everybody has one.”

“I’m not sure that’s true.”

“No?”

He shakes his head and moves his hand to your hair, running his fingers through it. It’s softer than anything he’s ever felt, like silk. “You don’t, apparently.”

You bite back a smirk, angling your face away from his, knowing that this is his way of calling your bluff. “I mean, maybe I do,” you admit, feeling the pads of his fingers make work of your roots, their strength digging into your scalp so effortlessly that without even thinking you give in to the pressure and close your eyes.

“Tell me then.”

You hum in response and focus on the weight of his fingers and how languidly they move through the base of your head, pulling forth a sudden sense of lucidness that makes you grin. “I think I like blue.”

“Blue,” he practically scoffs, because of course you like blue —everybody likes blue. It’s the colour of the sky and the ocean and all the other things so universally good that even just the thought of it makes him want to crawl out of this bed and wash the entirety of his body.

Because while blue is known to be a colour of beauty, for Loki it’s merely just another layer of suffocation —a draping of fabric pulled taught against his increasingly brittle frame. Like all his other insecurities, he’s forced to be blue all hours of the day, forever beneath his usual coating of flesh. On the outside, he’s pale and soft to the touch —easily approachable. People like him when he’s not blue, they respect him and take notice of the way he is rather than what he looks like and it’s something he never takes for granted.

Because deep within the pool of his mind, he often thinks about the difference between the blue he hides and the washed-out, creamy tone he portrays. How would people truly treat him if he were to get rid of the veil? Would they run for their lives as they did on Asgard? Would they hate him and fear him; talking behind his back in hushed tones, or would they direct their repulsion toward his face?

As much as he hates to admit it, every day he wonders about this. When he’s staring into the mirror with his eyes shining red, he wonders if anyone could ever truly love him like this —with texturized cobalt that’s so cold and untouchable, just like the real him.

He doesn’t think that they could.

“Do you not like blue?”

Your voice shifts his thought process, pulling him out of the preverbal depths of his insecurities. Awkwardly he smiles and takes notice of the curiosity in your eyes, visually tracing the way your eyebrows furrow at his lack of response.

“Because everybody likes blue, at least to some degree,” you say after he fails to speak, turning your head so that your ear rests against the centre of his sternum, making it easier for you to hear his rapidly-paced heart.

“Sure, I suppose.” He shrugs lightly, his shoulders lifting and falling at the same time his previously appointed smile becomes engulfed in the usual scowl he lets loose whenever he’s frustrated or uncomfortable.

“But not you?”

He shakes his head, prompting you to narrow your eyes even further, the visibility of your pupils becoming limited as you purse your lips and explore his tells.

Because despite popular belief, Loki —God of Mischief and Lies— has many tells. Like everyone else, he’s vulnerable to the truth and all its revealing glory, leaving him anxious and overly critical of both his thoughts and movements as you continue to stare, taking in all the details.

Your eyes, much like his, scan everything with an air of caution, slowly moving across his nervous face, causing him to swallow hard and force himself to remain calm because as much as he denies it, moments like these often leave him feeling insecure.

“Were you afraid of the Smurfs as a kid or something?” Revealing a smiling set of teeth that makes everything within him instantly halt, he’s quickly left with this coating of confusion, because it’s not common for people to make fun of him so flippantly. Or at all really, which is why when it happens he can’t help but laugh —but shake his head before giving in to the desire to lean over and kiss your forehead, trailing cold, chaste kisses across the expanse of your face.

“No, I’m not afraid of cartoon characters,” he says, and with him you laugh and look up, noticing the back-and-forth look of absence in his eyes. There’s something empty about them as if their blackness isn’t black, but more so bleak —almost empty. Loki’s eyes are sad and lonely and as you look at them, narrowing your own, you can see the bright blue iris shrouded in red; long, lines of crimson that branch out across the white.

“We should sleep,” you say, but Loki just shakes his head again, taking the moment passing to release a deep breath and give your hair a few final run-throughs, his fingers working delicately through the knots that have formed.

“I want to tell you something, if I may.”

You’re not sure what he means, but you know it’s important because of the quiet tone of his voice. It’s innocent sounding, small and frail and barely falling from his lips, and immediately it worries you. Sends you into a state of shock that forces you to pull yourself off his chest and reposition in front of him, legs crossed underneath you.

“What is it?” Swallowing hard, you feel the slick build-up of your anxiety trickle down your throat as you watch his hand reach for your own, each finger taking refuge between the empty spaces as he clears his throat and begins to tell you everything.

Asgard, Midgard, and everything in between —Loki entrusts with you the story of his family and the horror of his upbringing. He tells you of Thor (yes that Thor) and Frigga —of Odin and his kingdom and that fateful day in Jotunheim where Loki was discovered alone in the snow. Cautiously he tells you about his betrayal —his plan to claim the throne and then later, his plan to die. Every detail slipping through his lips is like a reclamation —a perilous journey of memories he’s chosen to take you alongside him as he recounts the details of his mother’s love, his brother’s arrogance, and inevitably his father’s lies.

Loki tells you anything and everything, taking each story and weighing it in his hands before offering it over, hoping that despite the brokenness —his brokenness— that you’ll still find some worth in it.

Because Loki would be lying if he said he didn’t think of himself as worthless. All his life, even without the constant horror of his underlying blue skin, he’s never felt valued, only valuable. To Odin, he was merely a pawn in the diplomatic affairs of Jotunheim and to Thanos, he was deemed the same for having the Tesseract.

Which fucking sucks, you think, as you watch him rip open his chest and fish out the traumatized organ with tears in his eyes, desperately waiting for you to take it.

So you do. Without question you take it and put it in your hands, watching it pulsate in the base of your palm; the tainted blood of his past dripping down your flesh, coating your skin like syrup.

Happily, you want to lap it up —want to look him in the eyes and lick his wounds; swallow them up and bury them deep inside your gut so that he never has to look at them again.

More than anything you want to shield him from the pain and the suffering —want to show him love and support and make it known that just because the past was full of hurt, the future doesn’t have to be as well.

“Thank-you for telling me.”

You know he doesn’t need to be thanked —doesn’t need to be praised for telling a stranger the holy terrors of his upbringing. Loki’s a God, the maker of his own destiny, which is evident in the way he perseveres despite the odds constantly working against him. He’s resilient in his efforts, a strong player in whoever’s story he’s managed to become tangled in, which is something you’re not sure he knows because, to you, it seems like he tethers himself to other people. Playing them like fools in his never-ending game of tricks and trades, hoping one day that they’ll figure out how to hate him.

Because if he can just get them to hate him, perhaps he can be free. Free of the unknown —free of the constant wondering of whether or not he’s worthy of another person’s love.

Of course, he is, you think, but considering the circumstances, you know he doesn’t know that.

“I’m not sure why I did, if I’m honest,” he says, staring at your hands, suddenly wishing that he too could experience the normalities of fleshy tones woven over heated insides instead of the icy structures within his own.

“Strangers are often the best people to tell things to.”

Raising his brow, he hums in response, hoping that you’ll explain.

“We’re not tainted with the idea of you; we’re unbiased.”

“Were unbiased,” he corrects, another scowl crawling across his face, showing you that he knows you’ll think less of him now that he’s told you.

Which isn’t necessarily true. If anything, it’s almost the opposite; because his telling you, even if the story is tailored to benefit his own viewing, is still a step in the right direction. A step towards healing —towards trust. Because at this moment, Loki trusts you with the weight of his life. He sees you as someone worthy of his truth and that in itself is something you know you can’t take for granted as you pull your hand away from his.

“Have you ever shown anyone?” Propping yourself onto your knees, you move to straddle his frame, feeling the base of his cock immediately twitch against you. “Your Jotun form, I mean.”

“Only a select few.”

“Other lovers?” You smirk.

Smirking back, he shakes his head and repositions himself, moving to sit upright against the headboard of your bed, taking your hips in his hands. “Lovers want to love, not to run away in fear.”

There’s a pause then —a lengthy one filled with nothing, but breathing and touching, Loki’s hands digging into the base of your flesh, desperately kneading themselves into the plush of your sides. Instantly you’re drawn to the feeling, your mind already thinking of a thousand ways to subdue the aching that suddenly presents itself between your thighs as you instinctively press yourself further against him.

“I won’t be like the rest of them,” you find yourself saying, the absence of breath throughout your chest making it hard for you to speak above a whisper. “I won’t fear you.”

“Fear me,” he sarcastically scoffs in response, gripping you tighter, almost as if the very thought of fear ignites something within him —something aggressive and primal. “It’s not the colour of my skin that makes them fear me, darling.”

After that he slowly blinks, the colour of his eyes flickering from the lightest of blues to the deepest of reds, an image that makes you weak as you reach out to touch his face, realizing that his skin feels colder than before; rigid and rough, the presence of markings becoming visible across his forehead and cheekbones.

Purely out of habit you pull your hand away and narrow your eyes, inspecting the facial structures that continue to form, raising themselves higher off his skin at the same time his flesh begins to darken. All across him wild splotches of blue become present, their positions resembling freshly wet pavement on a rainy day.

“You look…” Inhaling and exhaling before you can even finish, you quickly find yourself reaching across the empty space, prompting Loki to follow through soundlessly until your lips eventually meet in a frenzy of movements that leave you pulling at each other’s flesh.

Groaning, Loki reaches for your hair and grips it as his lips messily glide from your mouth to your cheek, then to your chin, eventually ending at the side of your neck where he latches on. As he does you let out a soft moan, your lips widely parting at the feeling of his tongue pressing down against your flesh in between swift bites that leave your skin blooming with bruises. “I could ruin you, you know,” he whispers against them, the formation of his words across your wounds sending you over the edge as you feel him work to lift you onto his cock, holding you steadily against the head.

“Is that a promise or a threat?”

Before you receive an answer he’s entering you with everything he has, his hardened flesh pushing through your heat in a chorus of throaty gasps as he rocks back and forth, feeling your weight shift as you lean backwards and reach for his thighs.

Steadying yourself, you grip the tops of them with greedy hands, thumbing the patterns of newly unveiled blue as he repeats his movements, bucking into your wet cunt with a new kind of force that leaves you shaking and grinning because god he’s just so beautiful.

His body, drenched in lapis, looking like the ocean itself, is stunning and radiant, ebbing and flowing against your Midgardian complexion as you lean forward and envelope his lips again, showing him that he’s worthy.

He’s worthy and you’re willing and as he pistons into you, your inner walls aching for that last final snap of the band, you can’t help but tell him. Over and over with each passing wave of pleasure, you speak to him in praises, telling him repeatedly how amazing he is and how good he feels and how after everything he’s been through he deserves to feel loved.

“You’re so fucking beautiful, Loki,” you tell him, even though you’d much prefer to tattoo it into his skin in shades of navy; a reminder that despite the green he often drapes himself in, blue is truly his colour.

Opening his mouth to respond, he’s quickly met with your lips again, his words becoming lost behind your teeth and tongue as you swallow his pride and hate and everything that's ever needed to be pulled out of his system. Like a leech, you rip from him the worst parts of his being; the outward flesh that covers his Jotun form that’s been mistreated and left to suffer; the vile words of his father all those years ago; the abuse he experienced under the hands of Thanos.

And with each new breath, Loki begins to better understand these efforts. Slowly but surely, his mind, once clouded with thoughts of angst and regret, begins to fill with something new entirely —something soft and warm that makes his stomach twist into knots as he fills you up further and further, the sounds of your wanton moans shrouding him in bliss.

At this moment, Loki’s engulfed in ecstasy. He’s elated and delighted; covered in a sense of euphoria he’s never felt before. Hopelessly, he wants to laugh and cry and scream —to take you as you are just as he is he, coated in blue like sapphires and the sky and little robin’s eggs in the spring.

Because right now he’s your favourite colour and he knows it. He knows it because everything to you that’s beautiful is blue and no longer is he the exception. In fact, Loki’s the rule now; an ever-present reminder of just how glorious your favourite colour can appear through the naked eye as it fucks into you, pushing you over the edge until you’re panting and gripping, and asking him to ruin you over and over again.

He wants to ruin you forever if he can —if it feels like this— because the high he gets from being with you is intoxicating. It’s everything he never dreamed of and as he feels those final twitches press against your insides, he knows it’s all he’ll ever dream of now.

In shades of blue, he’ll dream of only you.

TAGLIST: @lovelysizzlingbluebird (if you would like to be added to any of my taglists, fill out this form)

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