masayume85 said: Fluff and sex and happy. That's what I need. I am still in mental recovery after that drabble.
Wherein everything is sticky. (PWP. NC-17.)
Credit to the husband for coming up with the idea of skating the fluff request by using literal fluff. Because that's about as close as I can get.
"They're called s'mores," Darcy Lewis informs the Princes of Asgard. White fluff oozes from between her fingers as she passes Loki some sort of gooey, sticky, incomprehensible mess. "It's food, I promise."
Thor looks hurt not to have received one first, and she tells him: "None for you till you let go of my iPod. You'll gum up the screen."
"But I've yet to conquer the avalanche of color and travel from the land of—"
Jane Foster rolls her eyes. "Why," she says to her servant (no, intern), "did you tell him about Candy Crush?"
"Because you wouldn't let me help him set up a Facebook account."
Loki and Thor glance at each other. Based on all the mortals have said The Book of Faces seems to be an object of great sorcery, and even Thor in his recklessness is agreed that without Loki's powers to guard them it is best not to meddle in such things.
"The fire pit isn't for marshmallows, Darcy. It's for me when I need to think."
"No, it was for you and your science moping. Now it's for keeping the pets fed. At least until you guys are willing to eat something zapped."
"The tiny oven takes away the taste," Loki says, and utterly ignores what has to be Jane Foster's fifth attempt to explain the 'science' of the so-called microwave. He knows magic when he sees it, even if he can't feel it.
He can't feel it.
How long is he supposed to live half-blind?
"Dude, you're supposed to eat it, not squish it." Darcy Lewis narrows her eyes behind her spectacles and nods to the goo that now covers his palm. "Yeesh, your mom's supposed to teach you not to play with your food."
The s'more crunches in Loki's grip.
The remark is sufficient even to distract Thor from his crushing of the candy. "Take care," says Thor. He sets aside the Eye-Phone. "That is the Queen of Asgard of whom you speak."
Thor worries for Frigga as Loki himself does, Loki knows. In this they are still united.
His brother had been unshakeable in his certainty that his precious friends would come to their aid, save them from exile, and return them to their rightful place in Asgard; Loki's faith in Sif and the Warriors Three could be easily contained in one of the mugs Thor keeps smashing, but he had been sure Mother would intervene on their behalf.
But it has been a week, with nary a sign of their (no, just Thor's) friends, nor of their mother.
Perhaps the All-Father has stripped Mother of her magic, as well. She would never suffer to lose them in this way otherwise.
If Darcy Lewis understands that she ought tread lightly, she shows no sign of it. She only hands Thor a s'more of his own. "Jane, you want one?"
Jane Foster's face was not difficult to read upon their first meeting. Now, after many days and seeing her expressions in a… variety… of circumstances, she is an open book. (Perhaps that is the meaning behind the Book of Faces.) She wishes to object on principle; she wants the s'more.
Her internal war is rather beguiling.
He must admit, the company here on Midgard has thus far proved a substantial improvement. He has no objection to trading the ingratitude of his 'friends' for the respect and admiration of these mortals. (And it was beyond ingratitude to outright loathing in some cases. After this many centuries one would think Sif would get over a simple prank. She's more attractive as a brunette anyway.)
Jane Foster glances at the remains of the s'more in Loki's fingers, then takes half of what's left without so much as a 'please'. "I only want a couple bites," she explains as Loki stares in disbelief. "And Darcy's right, you're just squishing it anyway."
And she pops it in her mouth, smearing her lips with white fluff and dark sauce.
Perhaps he overestimated their respect.
Thor laughs at this. "I cannot recall you ever permitting someone to steal right from your hand, brother." He begins to consume his treat as well. It's gone in less than ten seconds. "I like it," he says. "May I have another?"
If Loki has never permitted someone to steal from his hand, Thor has certainly never said May I in the whole of his existence.
For all his envy, repressed anger, and frequent disgust with his brother, Loki cannot but grudgingly concede that this exile would be far worse without Thor by his side. And without his hammer, without Sif and the Warriors Three, he is more the brother Loki remembers of their youth. The one he loved more than he loathed.
Father removing Mjolnir from Thor's hand might have been the wisest thing he'd done in centuries.
Removing Loki's magic, on the other hand, might be the most cruel.
He cannot take this blindness for much longer without going mad.
"Dude, seriously, it's just marshmallows and Hershey's. It's not going to poison you," says Darcy Lewis, and Loki realizes there are three pairs of eyes on him.
Well. He will certainly not be bested by Thor in something as simple as eating a Midgardian snack. He takes a bite from the mess that remains in his hand.
The crust is a little stale. The sauce is processed beyond recognition. The fluff is too sweet.
It's very, very good.
Then Thor begins to laugh again, and Darcy Lewis along with him. Even Jane Foster is visibly biting the inside of her cheek to repress a smile.
Loki bristles. "What's so amusing?"
Thor and Darcy Lewis only laugh harder, but Jane shakes her head. "Come on," she says, taking his sleeve and tugging him in the direction of the ladder. "I've got napkins in the trailer."
He doesn't miss the way Darcy Lewis waggles her eyebrows at Thor. Or the way his brother nods sagely in response.
Still better than Sif and the Warriors Three, though.
In the metal box Jane Foster calls a home she hands him a moistened cloth, smiling the whole while, though there's no mockery in it. But she seems to note his discomfort, and says, "S'mores are always messy. I probably don't look a lot better."
Given that Jane Foster looks as though she's been dining with Volstagg, that says it all. This is incredibly frustrating. He doesn't like appearing dirty or disheveled; whenever he winds up unkempt he covers it with illusion until he can clean himself. Not an option here. "That bad, is it?"
"I'm not going to tell you. You'll just get snippy."
Mortal colloquialisms are still eluding him. "Snippy?"
"Never mind. God, your hands are a mess, too." She grabs more napkins and wipes at his sticky palm. It's the same palm that turned blue in the grasp of the Jotun warrior. "Between Thor smashing the cups and you crushing the desserts I don't know how—"
He silences her with a kiss.
He simply doesn't feel good right now, and the best he's felt since he arrived in this realm was in this trailer, with little mortal Jane Foster astride his lap and moaning against his mouth. He wants to feel that again. He does not want to fret over incomprehensible idioms and sticky food and his wretched powerlessness and seeing his own skin turn to ice.
Jane Foster makes it possible to forget.
Also, her lips taste lovely when covered in s'mores.
Her surprise quickly fades into responsiveness (and she is such a responsive little thing, this mortal) and she doesn't object when he grips her hair and tilts her head to the side so he can delve deeper. Sugar and sweetness and humanity, which, at this moment, is a thousand times more appealing than any Aesir with their mockery. Perhaps they all knew the entire time. Perhaps he was the only one who believed himself one of them.
(If he is not. If, if, if. Loki does not care for uncertainty.)
She pulls back from the kiss when Loki tightens his fist a little too hard. Mortals are delicate, he must remember this. He quickly schools his expression into something far less… tumultuous. He's long since learned not to show any emotion he does not wish to reveal, and Jane Foster, bright and clever enough to pry apart his explanations of the Bifrost into her her theorems, is not particularly skilled at reading faces.
But after a moment he realizes she's not actually trying to read his expression. She's examining the smears that must cover his cheeks. And she shrugs. "Oh, well. We're going to have to shower either way." Then she wraps her arms around his neck and pulls him back down to begin licking the fluff from the corner of his mouth.
There is a practicality to this woman that Loki cannot but admire.
Loki has been held in dungeons roomier than Jane Foster's chambers (all situations that Thor got them into and then, admittedly, smashed them out of again). This requires creativity, but Loki is nothing if not inventive, and Jane Foster is nothing if not accommodating. As last time, he sits upon the hard board she calls a bed and she straddles his lap, moving with an urgency that tells him clearly as words she has been lonely for quite some time.
Some other man's loss is his gain. Loki is more than willing to reap the benefits of her long deprivation.
This time lacks the air of admiration of the last, when she so clearly was overcome by her gratitude for his rescue of her research that she could not express herself in any other manner. He had taken her appreciation then without a sliver of regret. But this is better. This is simple lust, and perhaps a touch of fondness. Something uncomplicated.
And so soothing that Loki doesn't even mind when Jane Foster takes one of his hands from her hip and places it on her breast in a command that would have irritated him in any other circumstance. "Here," she gasps. "Hard. Please."
If he had his magic he could touch her everywhere at once. He could bring her to screaming climax in seconds, or tease every nerve ending for hours until she begged for mercy.
Here — here — half himself and hollow, he is limited to kneading the small soft swell of her breast and nipping lines along her throat as she rocks against him until he shudders under her enthusiastic ministrations, very nearly — but not quite, thank the heavens — outpacing her.
But she still moans his name.
It is difficult to feel inadequate with a lover climaxing in one's arms.
And when she collapses against him, sweaty and sticky and panting against his shoulder, he forgets, just for a few moments, all the cracks in his worlds.
Perhaps exile is not entirely without its merits.