Title: Place Your Hand In Mine

Pairing: Loki X Reader

Warnings: snark, angst, fluff

Spoilers: this follows the plot of Thor: Ragnarok so yes I guess so 

Requested By: XxFanfictionMasterxX (sorry it took so long, life has been so hectic!)

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To be honest, you expected to die in New York City.

The Invasion of aliens seemed like the biblical end of times to you while in the moment. You were just a secretary working downstairs in the Stark building, but when you had a glowing blue weapon to your face, you thought, this is it. I'm going to die. It wasn't glamourous, it wasn't fancy. There was no rise in crescendo of a soundtrack, no hero to save you. When the alien was about to stab you through the heart, it faltered, and fell to the floor. According to the news, that happened across the city, and it was then you broke down.

No less than twenty-four hours later, you handed in your resignation, took the cash bonus, and moved across the world to a small town in England where nobody knew your name, and no crazy out-of-this-world stuff had happened. It was nice. You became a volunteer at the local home for the elderly, worked on community happenings, found peace.

You had gone into London for one day. One day. Iris, the resident nonagenarian wanted you to fetch an heirloom from her great-great-great grandson who lived near Greenwich. But it was on your walk to his apartment – not thirty feet from his doorman! – that you fell into the abyss.

That's how you ended up on Sakaar.

It's not like you had a run of good luck ever in your life. You remember the week that you got the job at Stark Industries, and within two days, you finally got the courage to break it off with your abusive ex. You try to tell yourself that after all this bad luck, the good will come.

But while you're saying that, you're also wearing strange clothes, eating strange foods, on a strange non-earth planet, and trying to tip-toe around an age-old megalomaniac who makes aliens fight to the death in an arena. You're not a big fan of the Grandmaster, but, for some reason, instead of making you a slave like the rest who fall through to this wasteland, he's made you an attendant of his courtiers.

"My lord," you bow.

In your hand is a tray with the drink you were asked to fetch for the Grandmaster, and with an elegant hand, he takes it from the tray, wordlessly. While you love not sharing words with any of these aliens, it's become a matter of life and death around the Grandmaster to use your words, and you don't want to become a puddle upon the floor.

"Is there anything else my lord desires?" You ask.

He spares a glance to you, eyes lazily trailing over your face. He sighs, and says, "I have a new member joining us later today, my dear." He glances to Topaz, and adds, "I'd rather like it if you could make sure he is outfitted accordingly."

The last time you aided a new courtier for the Grandmaster, it was a woman with pink skin and purple eyes, and she was draped in chains for one of his parties on his ships. You felt terrible, sending her off to him. Perhaps you'd have to do that again.

"Yes, Grandmaster." You nod.

Tucking the tray under your arm, you retreat from his private area in the arena. You were a plain human girl, and whenever the courtiers had you in their sights too long, they'd clamour and joke about how much they'd like to have you. You supress a shiver, and go to find another servant, who will have the orders you're to be given.

It's when she says this person's name you still. But, when you ask her to show you the glyphs you've learned to read upon her technology, it's true. There can't be too many aliens called Loki, after all, the Norse myth is folklore central to Earth itself.

"So, I'm to make sure he's clean, and to dress him?" You ask. "Is he for..."

She shakes her head, putting her tech away. "No, not this one. The Grandmaster has taken interest in him, like he did in you." She glances down, and confides, "I heard he spins fantastical tales of places further than you could ever imagine!"

I heard he led an army into New York, you don't say aloud.

Time passes in a strange way that time does here, and you're soon escorted by guards to where they have been keeping the man. When the door slides to reveal that yes, it is indeed the same person you saw on the news following the attack on New York, you wordlessly take him to the quarters assigned to him to get to work.

But instead of cooperating like any of the other people you've prepared before, the man stands at the entrance to the room, with an air of puzzlement surrounding him. "What are you?" he asks, and musing, he adds, "You're too short to be Kree, or a Krylorian – but you're not pink, or –,"

"I suppose it's none of your business," you snap, breaking your streak of silence, and hastily add, "sir."

He raises an eyebrow. "That snark. You're not from Midgard, are you?"

You ignore him and go back to your duties. You're supposed to have him completely cleaned of otherworld bacteria within an hour, and here he is standing around like a pale ape who doesn't know what a pressurised-air shower looks like.

"Shower." You order, pointing to the room in the back, "and then I'll tell you what you want."

He does not protest with his words, but, with his actions. He begins to undo his armour, black and green and metal where he stands, dropping it to the floor. If you didn't know any better, he's acting entitled to just be the death of you. You avert your eyes when he is only in pants. When the material hits the floor, you do all you can to close your eyes.

"Don't take long, we're on a schedule," you remind him, eyes still shut.

He doesn't talk back.

When the door locks behind him, you turn to clean up the mess of all his clothes. It's not too different to what you remember on the news, except, there isn't a golden horned helmet in sight. You allow your rage for the man to fuel you, and within minutes, it's all bagged and sent to be cleaned.

"Where are my clothes?" He asks, stepping from the bathroom in all but a towel. He looks at you strangely, as if he expects you to be a bedwarmer, not a servant.

You cross your arms, and reply, "Off to the cleaners."

"What will I wear?" He asks, crossing his arms. You hope he's the magic-wielder he's supposed to be, because there's almost nothing keeping that towel from falling to the floor without his grasp to support it. "I've been kidnapped by a wizard, ambushed by a witch, and now, I'm nearly naked in front of a madwoman who acts as though she is better than me!" He cries out.

You hold your breath. If the Grandmaster hears that your rage has interrupted the hospitality of his name, you're surely to be fed to the animals, or melted by the stick, or to be sent to the arena to die a bloodied death.

You want none of that. Just to go home.

"I scanned your clothes and created replicas," you whisper, attempting your best to not cry. "They are in the closet, behind you."

You turn your back to him and try to think of the things that make you happy. Baby polar bears. New Funko Pops. The crunch of cereal. Smelling old books. But then you realise, those are all things from Earth, and you feel the tears coming. Silently, you let them fall, because, if you can't stop it, you'd rather ride it out silently and hope he doesn't hear you crying.

"You said after I showered, you'd tell me – why are you crying?" He asks.

You furiously wipe the tears away, not looking behind. "I'm not – I'm not crying," you protest with a sob. "I'm just...I'm stuck here in this horrible place!" you moan.

"What is this place?" He asks.

With a sniffle, you reply, "It's called Sakaar. The Grandmaster says this place is for every lost thing that needs a home..." your voice is but a whisper when you add, "...but I'm not lost."

There's a knock at the door, and you hear the guards say something you can't quite hear. You clear your throat and reply in their native tongue. You glance behind you finally, and blink. You don't think you made his clothes yellow, your replicas are immaculate in design. But there he is, wearing the colour of sunshine upon his cape.

You wipe your eyes once more and taking a deep breath, open the door. "It's time for you to meet the Grandmaster, Loki." You say to him.

He pauses. "I never said my name –,"

You look to the floor, as you reply, "It's hard to forget the face which nearly killed you."

The next time you see Loki, brother of the Avenger Thor, you're standing as still as you can be against the wall. There seems to be a meltdown in the Grandmaster's main building, and with all the aliens swarming to the bay where he keeps his spaceships, you do your best not to be trampled. You see a gap and join the hoard. While you're following them, yes, you're trying your best to find a ship to board, but, you're trying to find him.

Even though he was the guy who orchestrated the war in New York, he's the only alien on this forsaken planet that you knew before coming here. And, because every time you served the Grandmaster, Loki would look at you, silently watching. You didn't know if it was because you were on a kind of to do list of 'who to kill next', or if he was like a dumb thirteen-year-old wondering how to talk to a crush. Or even if he was just mildly bored and found you half-interesting. You didn't care, there was a connection, and truth be told, you had little connections with anyone here.

Your feet stood still.

Laying on the floor of the spaceship garage, was Loki, paralysed by one of the Grandmaster's electric devices. You felt a lump in your throat, and a wave of emotion, and you rushed toward him. One of the gladiators pressed a button, and he stopped writhing.

"Thank you," he says. Tentatively, you reach out, hands inches from his arm. You lock eyes, and losing your fear, you help him stand. He tries to take off the obedience disc, but his fingers can't catch it. Without thinking, you help, snapping it off on the first go. "Thank you," he repeats, voice almost sotto voce.

In a quieter voice, you reply, "you're welcome."

The next time you find a moment to talk to him, it's after you've spent the entirety of the battle at Asgard cowering in the back of the Bifrost, holding your head between your knees. You've never really learned how to fight beyond putting car keys between your fingers and jabbing the heel of your hand into a mugger's nose, so it makes sense that you don't pick up a laser gun and join in the melee. But it isn't just that which makes you tense. It makes you remember that horrible day where you nearly died two years ago.

But the battle has ended, and you make it back onto the ship just in time before it departs. From the viewing deck, you watch as the planet combusts into stardust.

You feel a presence beside you at the window without looking. It's him.

"I don't know much about you," you say, still watching as Asgard crumbles into fragments. "I spent two years on Earth hating you, and then I spent three weeks around you, and I can't help but..." you sigh. "You're not the kind of Shakespeare villain you try to be."

Loki makes a noise. "What is a Shakespeare?" He asks.

"Not important," You shake your head. "I have nearly died three times in my life so far, and all of them have been relatively because of you."

He frowns. "What is this, more accusations?" He huffs.

"– but any other person would be running from you by now," you tell him. "I'm not running, Loki. I saw how you looked at me on Sakaar, how you're looking at me now. I'm not an idiot. Tell me I'm not seeing things." You all but plead.

He looks back to the view outside the ship. It's then you realise that it's the planet where he grew up on, became who he was on, decimated before his eyes. "You're not seeing things," he says quietly.

You slip your hand into his, interlocking your fingers with his colder ones. "It's beautiful, though," you motion to what dust remains of Asgard, smiling sadly.

He rests his head against yours, and in the reflection of the window, you see a little smile on his face. "Yes," he agrees. "It is."