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The floor-length mirror in front of you might as well be a brick wall, for all the inspiration you’re getting out of it.
Sprawled out behind you on the bed are various gowns of silk and satin, all of them dazzling but none of them catch your eye. You’re perched on the foot of your mattress, hair still inelegantly hanging around your shoulders and not a lick of makeup decorates your face. Your reflection taunts you, and you’re tempted to throw a shoe at it in frustration. You tighten the belt of your robe instead, cinching it around you like armor.
One of Stark’s infamous galas- probably the fifth of this year, you can hardly keep count at this point- is set to launch in just a few hours, and your unlucky ass has been roped into attending. You’ve finagled yourself out of appearing thus far, but yesterday Tony had literally cornered you in the common room and started barking instructions at you while Pepper handed you an armload of garment bags, boxes of shoes, and more jewelry than your entire life is probably worth. He made it very clear- you aren’t getting out of this one. Joy.
So here you are, chin in your hand, steadfastly not picking out a dress to wear and avoiding the stack of boxes bearing designer labels that had been dumped in the corner of your room the second you got home. You don’t want to go. You don’t like parties, you don’t like the press, you don’t like the way too many eyes on you makes you want to squirm out of your own skin. Stark’s blowouts are full of pretty people in beautiful things, cameras flashing in your face, and too many fake, loose smiles drunk on booze and rubbing elbows with superheroes.
Basically, your definition of hell.
You’re still sitting and dreading and contemplating when Loki glides into the room, looking absolutely astonishing in a dark ensemble that looks like it was cut from the shadowed side of the moon. Something is woven into the fabric that makes it simultaneously absorb and refract the light, and it shows off his sharp angles so well you could cut yourself on his cheekbones. Small bits of bronze and gold- a cuff on his left wrist twisted in the shape of a serpent, no doubt some sort of throwing knife at his ankle- glow softly.
You raise an eyebrow appreciatively. “Hot damn.”
He grins wolfishly, giving you a slow turn. “Acceptable?”
“Tony is going to be mad you’re showing him up. Again.”
“Stark wishes he could rival the grandeur of a prince.” He crosses to the bed and runs his fingers over your discarded choices. “These are nice.”
“I suppose.”
The mattress dips, and Loki’s shoulder rubs against yours as he settles next to you. “Then why are you not dressed?”
You huff out a breath, caught between desperately wanting to crawl into his lap and hide there and being terrified of wrinkling his suit. “You look amazing. And I… don’t.”
“Well,” he says amusedly, “putting on a garment might help with that.”
“Putting on a dress is not going to let me compete with whatever Pepper pulls out of her closet tonight. Putting on a dress won’t let me compete with Nat in sweatpants. Never mind the fact all the tipsy blonde vixens who would break a nail just to dance with you.” You hate how bitter you sound, but the idea of having to stand next to the most gorgeous people you know feeling incredibly inadequate in every way is twisting your insides into knots. “You shouldn’t have to have me hanging on your arm dragging you down.”
“Mmm.” Loki doesn’t respond, just studies your reflection. Then he rises and offers you a hand, which you stare at dumbly. “Come, up. Wallowing in self-doubt is not befitting of a princess.”
You tilt your head at him. “We aren’t married.”
“And I have been banished from the title of prince three centuries over. Do you have a point?”
That gets a smile out of you, and you stand, gesturing to the well-loved fluffy spa robe you’ve had since high school. “Think I could just show up in this? Stark has certainly appeared in worse when he’s drunk off his ass.”
Loki rolls his eyes, an impish grin on his lips. “Tainting his drink with Asgardian mead was one of Thor’s better ideas.”
“God, no, please- do not do that again. My eyes can’t handle the impurity.” You’re still staring at yourself, taking in different angles. “I could try on the black one again, I guess…” It was the simplest of the bunch, but still boasted a huge swath of intricate beading that draws attention to places you’d rather not have people look.
Cool fingers walk the neckline of your robe. “I might have an idea. May I?”
You squint at him. “No funny business. None. Nada.”
He winks. “You have my word.”
Rolling your eyes and heaving a long-suffering sigh that very clearly projects the thought why do I put up with you, you unknot the belt and slide the fabric off your shoulders, leaving you in your underthings. It gets tossed to the edge of the bed. “I’m sure you’d have a time with it, but I definitely can’t show up like this.”
Loki pokes you in the side, making you giggle- you’re ticklish and he knows it. “Now,” he says, his voice warm. “Close your eyes.”
“No. Funny. Business.” But you close them. A moment later, the air shimmers and warps around you, enveloping you in something soft. You feel some sort of fabric lay across your arms and fold itself across your waist, then drape atop your toes that are pressed into the carpet. Your hair is tugged gently away from your scalp, then settled back into place.
You don’t realize you’re holding your breath until you feel Loki’s own whispering on your neck. “Breathe, love.”
“S- sorry. What did- can I… see?”
“Be my guest.”
You open your eyes.
Oh.
A gown of deep emerald has magicked into existence, looking like it was tailored for every inch of your body. A rounded neckline shows hints of your collarbone and only touch the tops of your shoulders before giving way to gossamer sleeves that drape like waterfalls from the crooks of your arms. It’s stunningly simple with a bodice that curves to your waist then flares into a skirt just wide enough to evoke images of eighteenth-century princesses of old. Creeping from the hemline are fine bits of lace that look as though they’re spun of gold.
Your hair is braided and woven together to form some intricate pattern. Gold pins hold them in place. Small touches of makeup help frame your eyes and darken your lashes so they stand out against your skin. When you lift the skirt of the gown, delicate shoes peek out from the hem.
“Um.” The expression on your face is a bit ridiculous- your eyes are wide and your jaw has almost dropped to the floor. Certainly not the look someone should be wearing in an outfit like this. You have to make an effort to remember how to blink.
“This is how I see you,” Loki murmurs, one hand pressed ever so gently to the small of your back. “You could be standing next to the most gorgeous woman in the galaxy, and my eyes would only ever be on you.”
“How do you always know exactly what to say,” you whisper back, having regained enough mobility to angle yourself this way and that and admire how the fabric dances in the light.
“Because I know you,” he grins, pressing a light kiss to the top of your head. “And it is so easy to indulge the desire to make you feel beautiful. Ah-” when he lets you go, a small box appears in his hand. “This may be in order as well. I did not know what I was saving it for, but I believe now is more than appropriate.”
It’s a necklace. When you lift it from the box, the chain is so fine the emerald pendant may as well be floating in the air. The jewel is entwined amongst what seems like dozens of little strands woven to form an approximation of tree branches. They’re delicate yet strong, almost daring you to try and brush them aside to steal the treasure within.
He settles it around your neck, and it hangs just lower than your chest, adding grace to the gown without distracting from your face. The second it’s clasped, it feels as though its been a part of you since the day you were born.
When you touch it, it seems to glow under your fingertips. “It’s beautiful.”
“It is customary, in Asgard, for a lady to wear a token in her suitor’s colors.” He turns to face you. “But beyond that, its concealment capabilities are as strong as the oldest Asgardian magics. While wearing this,” he cups your cheek, grazing a thumb across your cheek, “nothing shall harm you. I swear on my life.”
You catch his hand in yours. “I don’t need your life hanging in the balance for mine, Trickster. Stay close. Stay with me. And I’ll be fine. Trust me.”
“You have too much faith, Witling.”
“And you have too little.” You brush the lightest of kisses to his lips. “Don’t think I’m not going to grill your butt on how much magic it took you to make this thing.” You glance sideways, taking in the dark god and the divinity standing beside him. Interlocked, entranced, and ever entwined. “Later. First- I believe we have a gala to attend?”
Loki’s grin will never not be dangerous.”So we do. Shall we?”