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Among the backdrop of a bustling city, their home is distinctly quiet, save for the gentle pulse of music thrumming from behind a single white door.
Loki isn’t sure where it comes from, exactly, or what composition it is. Nor whose, either, though most likely it is a recording of Anthony’s; a rare, wordless piece of piano and flute accompanied by the golden light of the morning sun. It makes him want to move, and so he does.
He has never been early to rise, but there is a new delight with which he carries himself across the cold wood floor this morning to sit at Anthony’s desk. He catches sight of himself before the floor-length mirror as he crosses, nearly startled by the restful, almost youthful glow of his skin; it shines where sunlight hits it, and he has to forcibly pull his gaze from his own reflection with the reminder of what he intends to do this peaceful morning.
The music grows louder, clearer, the closer he comes to the desk, and Loki deduces its source must find itself somewhere atop its surface — messy, cluttered, within the small metal scraps and scattered white papers, because it surely wouldn’t be Anthony’s if it were all tidied and pristine. He reluctantly pushes his mind from the desktop to its many drawers, to the lowest, smallest one on the left, locked silently only by his magic. Certainly he could command it open with a flick of his fingers, but the feeling of its round handle in the palm of his cold hand is familiar, almost nostalgic, despite the many times he has lowered himself to look at its contents already.
Anthony had allowed him, when their roles had been different and Loki had not yet earned (deserved) his trust, a single space to store his own belongings without prying eyes within the confines of his bedroom; while he had complained about its size at the time, Loki could see now that such an act of generosity then had scarcely been deserved. After he had paid off his dues, Anthony had mused that the drawer was gathering dust anyway, and so Loki had kept with the use of his private drawer as his small safe within his lover’s room.
The drawer is pulled open, fingers loosening their grip to flutter from the handle to the crinkling plastic tucked within. It unfolds into a bright yellow bag, the contents within subtly tumbling this way and that with the movement, and Loki briskly moves to lay out the lace fabric atop soft bed sheets, dark green contrasting the pure white of the garments.
After just a moment, soaking in the elegance of everything laid out so meticulously before his eyes, he begins to strip. Lacking a watchful pair of twinkling brown eyes darkening with his every movement, intimately catching on every bit of his pale skin as it meets cool air, Loki does so quickly and without much of a show, letting his nightwear pool around his bare feet unceremoniously, stepping out of the dark puddle to reach, delicately, for the first piece of his exciting ensemble.
The strip of fabric is weighed indulgently in his hands for no less than four seconds before he bends down, crouching to nicely slip through the garment first his right foot, then his left. The mirror on the wall across from him invites him to take a better look, and, with great anticipation, he raises his gaze from the pale material to his intimate reflection.
It takes a few moments for Loki to realise that the sharp inhale that cuts through the soft music filling the room is his own, heart rate speeding in his chest. He has seen himself naked before, regardless of if he enjoyed it or not, but the thong that currently sits just under the curve of his hips, lace detailing an intricate pattern across the thin band and over his cock, feels new in a way he has never known.
It is... delicate. Pretty.
He doesn’t think he’s ever considered himself in such words before.
He fumbles to pick up the next garment, pausing despite his excitement to admire the way the lace detailing overlaps the garter belt’s sheer base, and slips it on with ease, pleased at how comfortably the item fits his lithe form. It is almost embarrassing, however, when he looks to the next piece of attire and finds himself at a sudden loss, pink lips parting as he stares down at the white stockings laying one atop the other, so pristinely, his extended fingers trembling mid-reach.
Oh.
A memory of a similar circumstance arises, one from many moons ago, of a pretty woman arriving with Anthony in the early hours of morning; of her clothes and his, strewn across the sofa, then later almost guiltily removed — all gone, save for a sheer, dark stocking, left behind in the hurry. Loki had imagined himself wearing it, had searched in vain for the second stocking when Anthony hadn’t been looking, only for him to lose the first one one day, his hope for a game of dress-up laying itself to rest all too soon.
Now, he perches carefully on the edge of the bed, relishing in the feeling of his own sheer stockings gliding over the skin on his legs, first one, then the other, painstakingly attaching them to the garter belt with a fine clip just above the white ruffles that run a circle around his thighs, white ribbons angelically wrapped around the centre. When dark eyes meet his reflection in the mirror this time, he doesn’t hold back from yielding to what feels like a lifelong stare at what greets him in the glass.
His skin is a bit darker than the purity of the garments covering most of his lower half, but the gentleness of the white seems to bring a radiance to it that makes him want to, in the moment, wear nothing but the pale colour forever, if he could.
White — the colour of an angel.
The white babydoll that sits on the bed is lifted without ever breaking eye contact with himself in the mirror, held up to his chest with a silent, deep inhale. Loki watches his pupils dilate further as he slips it on, the white fabric crossing his vision momentarily before he’s greeted with the sight of himself in the mirror once again. The final detail of his ensemble is a white lace choker that he’s careful to tie snugly around his neck, enough to feel its hovering presence with every breath, the bell in the centre of a small white ribbon tinkling sweetly with the shudder of a deep exhale.
The babydoll falls gracefully over his torso, cut low on his chest, a sheer white covering parting down the middle to expose a triangular section of his pale midriff while settling like a film of snow over the rest. The straps are thin and pull to run diagonally across his collarbones, crossing where they meet at the dip of his throat.
He looks... pretty.
Loki stares at himself, keeps staring even when he hears the telltale robotic voice that speaks up in the living room to signify his lover has come home, keeps staring when there is a knock on the door and a soft “Loki?” outside.
He stares, and stares, and stares, until footsteps retreat, until they come back, until the doorknob turns and the door pushes open and somebody else appears in the mirror, in his peripheral vision.
“Loki,” Anthony breathes, and it’s what finally snaps the strings holding Loki in place, as he turns around with the soft jingle of a golden bell, meeting his lover’s wide eyes with an almost demure smile.
Beautiful.
Neither of them move for a second more; Anthony is the one to succumb first, crossing in long strides to reach with indecisive hands first to Loki’s waist, then to his chin, then to his neck — back and forth, with ghostlike touches, as if he isn’t certain how much of this isn’t real but rather just a dream — dark eyes drinking in the whole of his appearance with unabashed desire.
Finally, he speaks. “Mine,” Anthony says, so softly that Loki isn’t sure he hears right, not until he’s pressed back and feels the cold glass of the mirror against his backside, Anthony just inches away, his inhale sharp as he continues, “So beautiful, so pretty, and — and all mine .”
Loki licks his lips, breathing raggedly, as he stares into Anthony’s darkening eyes for one, two, three seconds more. Piano and flute rise to a soft crescendo in the background as he tilts his head back slightly, pliant, lashes fluttering shut as Anthony’s hands reach up to delicately cup his cheek. He's certain questions will be asked later, more words exchanged, but he finds the present is perfect as it is.
“Yes,” he affirms, thus, voice soft and as adoring as the expression on his lover’s face. “All yours.”