[Fic] In Dreams, You're Mine to Keep (Fandral/Loki, PG)

[locketofyourhair]

In Dreams, You’re Mine to Keep
one-sided Loki/Fandral | PG | 1.4k

Loki knows that it is cowardly to use magic to watch someone else sleep, and yet he does it anyway.


Mirrored on AO3
Notes: definite movie!verse, set prior to the movie. Written for kink_bingo, sleepy/unconscious. Thanks to saystheheart for the cheerleading and wholedamntree for the beta

Disclaimer: No profit is being made; characters are the property of Marvel Comics among others.


Warning for (skip) Watching someone sleep without their knowledge.

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From the time he was small, Loki has understood that he is different. He enjoys mischief more than any boy should, even more than Thor and his friends. He enjoys the look when their father takes a bite of the most succulent venison in the realms and it tastes rotten. It is more than the pleasure of knowing he has tricked the Allfather into sending the food away, so the boys and Sif may have their fill rather than share; it is the knowledge that he has taken something from his father, that in that moment, he has power. He may never be the broad golden child that Thor is, able to run beasts through with one thrust of a sword, but he is powerful.

He concentrates on that power as they age, slowly, as Asgardians do. Loki is just coming out of boyhood when Thor earns his first kiss, and Loki watches the other three boys earn theirs: Volstagg from a tavernmaid when he tells her that her eyes sparkle like the bifrost; Hogun from a female warrior on Vanaheimr, when he pulls her from a fire and she surprises him with her lips; and Fandral from a laughing Sif, saying it is not right that the most handsome boy in the realm has not yet been kissed. Loki has none, and it is not long for Volstagg to notice, pointing to giggling maids who would clearly love to kiss a son of Odin.

Loki knows they would prefer Thor, but they will settle. He will not be second choice to anyone save his father.

He concentrates on the power he does have. He goads his brother into charging a copy of himself, so that Thor lands in muck. He makes Fandral see a monster in the mirror one morning and pretends not to know the truth in the afternoon. He makes Volstagg’s food all foul by bespelling his drink. They are parlor tricks, fun bits of power that he can put over them.

Then he learns to pass between, to move in mirrors and out of them. It is a power that makes his skin hot with possibilities. He bewitches Sif’s entire wardrobe to dresses of the finest silk and takes her weapons, leaving them in the mirror so she can see them when she wakes in the morning, and her howls of rage spark down the halls. He hides in plain sight when Hogun practices a new weapon and makes a fool of himself, letting his laughter slip out while Hogun looks around an can never see him.

His power is not absolute, of course. His father knows, and he is chastised. He must apologize to Sif and retrieve her weapons, turn her clothes back to normal no matter how many times he protests that they are just the same as always. He cannot make something out of nothing. (At least, he hopes, not yet.)

“It is a boy’s mischief, Loki,” his father says. “And I expect you to learn to be a man.”

The words burn hot and prick at that place in him where he knows he is a power, where he knows he can be a man. He is satisfactory in battle. He handles throwing knives well enough, and he is learning how to use his magic as a weapon. He goes on hunts with his brother. He slays their enemies and their prey, and he has known blood on his hands.

He feels a man’s desire, too, though he is not as obvious as Thor, whose eyes follow Sif when she is too busy to notice, watching her backside and the slimness of her waist. Loki appreciates the beauty of Sif in battle; she is a dangerous thing. He just does not look on her with the same want and need that his brother does, that Volstagg does, and the others.

Loki has always watched the other men, the warriors that trained beside Sit, and he has watched Fandral more than the others. He knows Fandral’s smile out of a dozen others and can hear his laugh everywhere. It isn’t like Loki’s, which is soft and mocking. It’s more like Thor’s, but even then, the comparison is not right. His brother is loud and boasting, and Fandral is smiling, flirtatious, but so much lighter than his brother. He does not need to crow about his bladework; he simply is the best swordsman.

It is a desire Loki does not know how to explain to anyone. He simply looks at Fandral and wishes to touch him, but he knows that he cannot. For all his tricks and illusions and power, this is denied him.

Except at night, when the palace and warriors sleep. Loki will wait for hours between mirrors, between his chamber and Fandral’s. He will watch Fandral come in from the last banquet and lay aside his weapons, his armor. Fandral fusses before his mirrors, running a hand over his smooth jaw. They are all so young yet. Only Volstagg has the first hints of a beard.

Fandral’s room is more sumptuous than Loki’s, more furs and silly pillows that would look better in a maiden’s chamber. His bed seems softer, as if all the fabrics sigh when he falls against it.

Loki watches as the fires grow dim, watching Fandral’s features begin to grow soft then slack as sleep takes him. His mouth opens, soft breaths escaping, and he does not react when Loki slides from the mirror into his room. He never does. Loki knows better than to come to a warrior’s room clanking with his own weapons.

He slides across the floor, watching the firelight on Fandral’s soft gold hair, his skin. One hand is curled against his chest and he appears vulnerable. Loki does not know how much younger Fandral is than the rest of them. It is hard to remember such details over centuries. Now, though, now he looks young in a way that hides his abilities as a warrior.

Loki comes to the edge of the bed, and Fandral shifts, his head turned now so his cheek rests against the pillow. Fandral’s tunic is open at the neck, and Loki leans so he may almost touch him, feel the heat coming from his skin. He cannot touch him. A touch would wake Fandral and he would be caught.

His fingers skim the air above Fandral’s breastbone, then his neck. Fandral murmurs something, a word that is lost to the soft darkness. Loki slides a little closer on the bed, so he is sitting on it. The bed feels warm from Fandral’s body, and Loki imagines himself curled around him.

His fingers are over Fandral’s jaw now, then his lips, and he lets himself have that moment. He can feel Fandral breathing. He can feel that desire growing in him, and he must get back to the mirror before he does something foolish. He has a thought of kissing Fandral awake, to feel his smooth lips against Loki’s own, and these are not thoughts he can have here, where he is vulnerable.

Then Fandral shifts again, rolling close to Loki, and his mouth brushes Loki’s fingers. Loki falls back, stumbling off the bed. Fandral sits up on his elbows, blinking. His eyes are brilliant blue in the golden glow of the room, unfocused, and his features are still too gentle.

Loki pulls his cloak around himself tighter, trying to pull himself back into an illusion, but Fandral reaches for a blade. “Who is there?” he calls, and his voice is hoarse.

He does not answer, backing to the mirror and falling through it. His ankle catches on Fandral’s vanity, makes it shake, and he cannot help but know that in the morning he will be called a coward for watching Fandral while he sleeps. They will think the worse of him for using magic to spy him.

In the morning, though, Volstagg only comments that Loki is skinnier every day, the training not taking, and Thor grabs a sweet roll from Loki’s hand. The All-Father tells them of a hunt he would like them to pursue, and there is a long discussion on whether or not Loki should join them, for he is only good with throwing knives. In the end, of course, Loki must go. He must use all that magic power and limited weapons prowess to achieve something. He is a son of Odin, no less than Thor.

Loki feigns disinterest, helping himself to more meat and another bit of cheese. As the others bicker, though he knows he must break himself of the habit, he watches Fandral. His breath catches when he meets Fandral’s eyes, and Fandral looks away all too quickly. But he keeps his gaze steady, and then Fandral looks back.