Of Gods and Memories (LokixFemaleReader) [COMPLETED]

13

*Normal POV (yours)*

I wake to pain. Just pain. My nose, my ribs, my back, my legs, my head, my jaw, my head... all pain. I don't move, not just yet. Listening close, I pick up the sounds of someone else in my house, crackles of wrappers and clanking of jars and the occasional sharp intake of breath.

Carefully, I move to the edge of my bed and peak down into the living room, drawing back almost immediately.

Loki's down there, sitting shirtless in the armchair with first aid supplies spread out on the small coffee table. From what I can see, he looks pretty bashed up, his pale skin splotched with dark purple and yellow and red where it stretches over subtle plains of muscle. It looks like someone spilt wine all over him.

With a start, I realise that there are several icepacks strapped to my body, and dressings, and I smell like antiseptic. Absolutely charming. I raise my hands to my throbbing nose, feeling wads of dressings packed onto it. I draw back with a wince, it hurts like hell.

"Awake, I see," Loki drawls from below, and I shuffle so that I'm sitting with my legs hanging over the edge of the bed.

"I see that an ass-whooping has made you no less observant," I reply, but I'm still looking at the skin of is back and chest, how perfectly shaped he is.

"I can tell you're staring," he says, a hint of amusement in his voice.

"Shut up," I snap, crawling painfully down onto the floor, trying to conceal my cheeks heating up. He just shrug, smearing cream over a large patch of discoloured skin on his ribs. That'll be where I kicked him.

"You did this?" I ask, gesturing to myself and the many icepacks and patches of dressings. He nods, concentrating on the patch of bruises. "It's not bad," I say, walking slowly around behind him and surveying his back. Obviously he can't see it, because it's still covered in injuries.

"Are you just going to stare at me until I'm done?" he asks wryly.

"No," I reply, "I was going to tell you that you missed your entire back and that there's a mirror in the bathroom."

"My back?" he twists to see, then winces and turns back to face the front. "I didn't know I had anything there."

"You do," I take a step closer, "it's damn nasty."

"That's probably from when you jumped on top of me and slammed me into the deck," he remarks, but there's no bitterness in his voice.

"Or the railing," I input calmly.

"True," he agrees. We stand in silence for a while before I sigh and grab a wipe from the packet on the table.

"If you're not going to do it," I say, "then I will."

"So kind and caring," he says, but doesn't pull away as I gently dab at the first little scrape.

"Yeah, well," I say gruffly, "anything to get your shirt back on."

"Your previous reaction led me to believe you liked it off," he smirks, and I dab less gently. To be completely honest, I'm not even mad. I guess bashing someone's brains out only to have them fully patch you up gives you a kind of truce, weird as that may be.

"So you were that cat?" I ask eventually.

"Yes," he sighs, then gasps as I dab at a kind of deep cut on his shoulder.