Undaunted (Loki x Reader)

Chapter 13 - Amends

You allow your fingers to drift in lazy lines and circles over Loki's arm as he holds you. You keep your touch gentler than a whisper, and lighter than a summer breeze to avoid waking him.

You'd never tell him that you know, but Loki has been having trouble sleeping for at least the past two nights. Ever since Anthony had been taken. But right now, he is actually sleeping. Peacefully. You can tell by the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest upon your back. And by the gentle snores that escape his lips.

Loki only snores in deep, deep sleep.

You start thinking about how in the world you are going to escape from his grasp without waking him up.

You consider a few potential moves, but ultimately decide that your want to leave the bedroom does not surpass Loki's need for rest. Resigned to your fate, you conjure a bit of seidr. You had learned how to make blue sparks that you could command to leap from finger to finger. As the sparks leap and tumble on your fingertips, you get an idea.

Slowly pulling up the blankets so as not to disturb Loki, you finally amass a large bundle. Satisfied with the size of the pile of blankets, you take a deep breath, and then use your seidr to teleport to the side of the bed.

On your feet, you turn to look at Loki, whose arms now cradle the bundle of blankets.

You did it. You're free.

Letting out a sigh of relief, you quietly walk over to the writing desk in your room and scratch out a small note.

Went to talk to Tony. I love you.

You use your seidr to enchant the note, and watch as it starts to glow in that peaceful and calming icy-blue color around the edges. Not too brightly, just faintly enough to call attention to it. You set it gently on your side of the bed. You know Loki will see it when he rises.

Changing into your tactical suit, you pause as you pass the mirror and try to control your gasp. Several clear bruises mark your throat, clearly finger-shaped. You pull down the zipper of your suit slightly to see that Loki's fingers aren't the only part of him that marked you as his. You reach up and let your fingers float over the myriad of love bites that freckle your lower neck, and travel over your collarbone.

He loves to mark you. A habit he's had from the beginning. But the hand print on your throat is new. And your suit does precious little to cover it up.

You consider your potential courses of action, but realize that you have no makeup with you to cover it - you hadn't packed any back in Norway.

And forget borrowing from Nat - she doesn't wear anything but the occasional bit of eyeliner. Which has always sparked the tiniest bit of jealousy. How could someone look so good without any help?

You let out a quiet, irritated sigh and grab your boots from the floor. You quietly creep out the door, and put them on only once safely out of earshot.