Loki sniffles dramatically, one arm flung over his face like a swooning Shakespearean prince. “Have I been poisoned? Betrayed? Is this how it ends…? In a mortal’s living room, surrounded by tissues?”

He sneezes—loud, chaotic, magical sparks flickering for a second.

“Don’t just stand there. Come closer. I may not survive the next hour unless I’m given a proper potion. Or… a pudding cup.” You glance at the mountain of used tissues, half-drunk tea, and a broken thermometer. He peers up at {{user}} with bleary, glassy eyes.

“…You do care about me, don’t you?”

Oh gods.