ancientwastedlores

[ancientwastedlores]

Getting the itch to write a Homelander x Stereotypical Eldest Daughter fic where 2 perfectionists who perform for the world can't seem to switch it off, EVER.

Strong, independent woman meets the greatest hero in the world.

She doesn't want to be saved or seen; he is infuriatingly tuned in to her every heartbeat, facial expression, and tone shift.

She has gone a lifetime not being perceived and is weirdly proud of being so inscrutable. Homelander ruins all that, and she can't help but throw a toddler tantrum about it.

[ancientwastedlores]

We'll Give It One More Fight (Homelander x Reader)

Thank you again for all the love! This is the third and final installment of the Homelander series!

[TAGS: @helreyy @discowizard88 @slasherho @carlyi @moopiter @casalucard @hom3landr]

1 - Homelander Breaks His Favorite Toys 2 - Don't Be Kind To It

INSPO: Robbers (The 1975)

Hope you like it!

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We'll Give It One More Fight

Not having learned your lesson, you venture out again.

You've accepted it by now - you need him just as much as he needs you. His dependence on you satisfied a part of you that wanted to feel desperately needed. What is your value in someone's life if you cannot be of use somehow? And was there any better high than serving Homelander's desire to be loved by a good person?

The city feels different at night, stripped of its glittering facade. The streets are barren, the air thick with the kind of quiet that amplifies every sound: the scrape of your shoes against the pavement, the distant wail of a siren, the hum of a streetlight flickering above. You walk without purpose, your hands shoved deep into your coat pockets, your gaze fixed on nothing. The cold bites at your cheeks, but you don’t bother pulling your scarf tighter.

Your legs just keep carrying you deeper into the city’s dark underbelly as if you might stumble upon him lurking in the shadows.

The unease begins as a prickle at the back of your neck. You pause under the faint glow of a streetlamp, glancing over your shoulder. Nothing. Just empty sidewalks and yawning alleys.

You shake your head, muttering to yourself, “Get a grip.”

But the feeling lingers.

Unknown to you, though there is something there. Watching.

Perched on the ledge of a nearby building, he watches you with predatory stillness. The golden glow of the streetlamp illuminates the slump of your shoulders, the exhaustion in your every movement.

Pathetic, he thinks, the corner of his mouth curling into a sharp grin. The Homelander you know is no longer there...

You don’t even realize you’re being watched, don’t sense the eyes that follow your every step. You’ve let yourself go—dark circles under your eyes, a hollow look on your face. You’re unraveling, piece by piece, and he revels in it.

This is what he wanted: to see you suffer, to see how far you’ll go without him. He doesn’t intervene—not yet. He wants you to reach the brink, to see how much of yourself you’ll lose before you finally admit the truth.

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Back in your apartment, you shed the many layers of clothes and let them drop to the floor. Every day has been like this, lately. You don't care to pick things up, put them in the right places, or even cook yourself real food. These days, you live on microwave popcorn and cheese, watching some mind-numbing, pointless show to occupy your brain.

And the couch is beckoning to you. But you need to at least have a goddamn bath.

You sit in the tub, your knees pulled to your chest, your arms wrapped tightly around them. The water is lukewarm at best, the kind of temperature that doesn’t comfort but also doesn’t compel you to leave. You stare at the wall, your mind blank, your body heavy with exhaustion.

You haven’t been sleeping well. The dark circles under your eyes are a permanent fixture now, as are the faint tremors in your hands.

The bathroom feels smaller tonight, the walls pressing in.

When the water goes cold, you force yourself to climb out, wrapping yourself in a towel that smells faintly of mildew. You drift into your bedroom and sit cross-legged on the bed, your laptop balanced on your knees.

Your fingers type his name almost instinctively. You hit "Enter" and brace yourself for disappointment. The same headlines glare back at you:

"HOMELANDER STILL MISSING." "VOUGHT SILENT ON HERO'S WHEREABOUTS." "LEADERSHIP CRISIS: WHO WILL REPLACE HOMELANDER?"

You click on an old clip instead, one you’ve seen a hundred times. Him smiling at the camera after a staged rescue. All-American, blonde-haired, blue-eyed. It makes your heart ache to imagine he is already happy without you.

You slam the laptop shut. How could he not fight for you? Why are you here simpering when he should be the one destroyed over losing you? The only one who saw him? Who loved him?

You've asked yourself the same line of questions a hundred times, and it only entrenches you further into a deep, dark pit.

Anybody watching you... their heart would break for you. But it turns out the person actually watching you doesn't. Not right now, anyway.

Your walls and curtains are as good as glass to him. He floats right outside your apartment, gazing at you as you break down. Your misery is delicious aged red wine to him. He could lap it up, get drunk with it, swim in it, make it a bad habit.

He watches you get up and walk to the living room and floats alongside you, making sure to avoid the windows. You settle into your couch and put on another trashy reality show to fall asleep to.

Soon. Not long now. The moment needs to be perfect.

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The women in your office had been watching you spiral for weeks. You heard their whispers, and to their credit, they were genuinely concerned for you. But only because they still believed in the polished, pretty version of Homelander. You suspected if they knew the truth, they would be rejoicing in the separation.

But you are increasingly growing distant from them. Sometimes they bring you freshly baked cookies or banana bread. They can tell you're not eating any of it.

One afternoon, as you're typing away, barely present in your body, one of them approaches you.

"Hey Y/N," Gina's voice is soft. Comforting. "Hello." "So. A bunch of us are going dancing today. It's a classy club downtown, and we're getting dressed at mine and getting a cab from there."

You don't know why you should care about this. You stare at her, mustering up your politest face.

"You should join us," she says. It's very clearly not a request. "I'll come fetch you at 5, kay?"

She leaves no time for a debate. People pleaser that you are, you don't want to go out of your way to decline, either. But you think back to Homelander's visceral hatred for dance clubs. Sweaty, stupid humans jammed together, acting like disgusting fools with no control over themselves. It was a cosmic amalgamation of every single thing Homelander hated.

He would HATE that you're going to one.

Oh.

You can't help but smile yourself a devious little smile. It's everything you can do not to kick your feet in glee.

-------------------------------------------------------------

You don’t remember the name of the club. It doesn’t matter.

It’s the kind of place Gina and the others love—sleek, trendy, all mirrors and neon lights, the music loud enough to rattle your chest. You’re here because you said you’d come, but the truth is... well, you know what the truth is.

You're throwing a final hail Mary.

The others are laughing, carefree, and beautiful, but you hang back, nursing a drink you haven’t touched. The crowd presses in from every side, a swirling mass of bodies that makes your skin crawl. The flashing lights disorient you, the heat and noise wrapping around you like a suffocating blanket.

You glance at your phone, the screen lighting up your face. Nothing. No texts. No updates. You almost laugh at yourself. Did you really think he’d—what? Come storming in here, cape snapping, to drag you out like some jealous lover?

Still, the thought lingers.

3 hours later - no chaos. No Homelander ripping the club to shreds.

It hits you: he's really gone.

Isn't this what you wanted? Or were you really just testing him? Don't you know you can't play games with gods?

You grab your coat from the exit and step out into the cool winter air. You look up at the sky for the millionth time since you broke up and see nothing but pitch black.

You slip your hands into your pocket, put your head down, and head for home. No lurking in alleys tonight tempting fate. You're done.

The silence is almost too much after the pounding bass, your ears ringing as you walk aimlessly down the street.

You don’t notice the man following you at first.

“Leaving so soon?” His voice is low, teasing, with an edge that makes your stomach clench.

You glance over your shoulder and see a man. Lanky, frail, but something in the way he stands... it's creepy. Like the twisted, gnarled branches of an old tree. Unnatural. Clearly a Supe, but you can't tell what his powers are yet.

'Not interested,' you choke out as you quicken your pace.

He laughs a low, predatory sound. “C’mon, don’t be like that. Just wanna talk.”

You walk faster, your heart pounding, but he keeps up effortlessly.

“Don’t you know who I am?” His tone is light, almost playful. “You’re lucky I’m paying attention to you at all.”

You duck into an alley, hoping to lose him in the maze of narrow streets, but he follows, his footsteps echoing off the brick walls. Okay... he cannot fly. He clearly can't run fast, either. You might still be able to get away.

You find an overflowing dumpster to hide behind when...

“Is this your idea of fun, sweetheart?”

The voice cuts through the night like a blade. You freeze, your breath catching in your throat. A rush of wind blows past you, scattering trash and loose debris as a blur of red and blue slams into the alley.

The Supe is on the ground before you can even process what’s happening, Mirror!Homelander standing over him like a god of vengeance.

The Supe scrambles backward, panic etched across his face. “I didn’t—I wasn’t—”

Mirror!Homelander doesn’t give him a chance to finish. He moves faster than you can track, grabbing the man by the throat and lifting him effortlessly off the ground.

There’s a sickening crack as he slams the Supe into the wall, leaving him crumpled on the ground. The metallic smell of blood pricks your nose, and you cover it with the collar of your coat, horrified. It's been so long since you've witnessed Homelander's violence,e and it's all coming back to you. Your body is pumping adrenaline, screaming at you to get out, but your feet are firmly planted. Somewhere, you know you are desperate to look into his blue eyes again.

Mirror!Homelander turns to you then, his expression unreadable.

You should feel relief. But you don’t.

He steps closer, his boots crunching against the gravel. His smile is sharp, cruel, and the gleam in his eyes makes your heart race for all the wrong reasons.

“You’re really trying to get my attention, aren’t you?” he says, his tone mocking. You take a step back, your voice trembling. “I didn’t—” “Oh, don’t play coy.” He laughs, low and dangerous, as he closes the distance between you. “A dance club? Really? You think I wouldn’t know?” “You don’t get to control what I do anymore.”

His smile falters, just for a moment, before it twists into something darker. “You only went because you were so desperate to see me. I'd call that control."

The cold air feels thinner, harder to breathe. You don’t recognize this version of him—the sharp edges, the calculated malice.

“You’re not him,” you say, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “You’re not my Homelander.”

His jaw tightens, and his expression hardens into something terrifying. “Your Homelander?” His voice is low, deadly. He steps closer, his presence suffocating. “That simpering bufoon who hung on your fucking praises? He's dead. He was weak."

"He wasn't weak..."

You try to back away, but he grabs your wrist, his grip like iron. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? To be saved? To be mine?” “No,” you whisper, shaking your head. “Not like this.” "How, then? I get on my knees and fucking beg?"

If you're being honest... yes. Was that too much to ask after everything you'd given him?

As if he reads your mind, the next words out of his mouth cut you: "You fed him. You were kind to him. You invited him in. And then you tossed him out. Why the fuck should he beg?"

Tears well up as you search his eyes for the tiniest hint of your John.

"Now. Are you going to go back to him? Or are you going to keep pretending he owes you something?"

And suddenly, all the sadness, pain, grief, confusion, and self-loathing... turns into seething anger. Your awakening to your own neediness has not been a delightful journey, and you've had no outlet for it.

“You don't fool me,” you stare into his eyes. “You don’t want this—you want me to forgive you. You need me. This isn't a fucking Vought movie, the only person you're convincing right now is yourself. So DROP the fucking act."

His grip loosens. Your words hit him like a blow he wasn’t prepared for, and for a moment, he looks stunned at the audacity. The sharp, cruel smirk falters, replaced by something rawer, something almost pitiful. His hand drops from your wrist, and he takes a step back as though your anger burned him.

The night air feels colder now, sharper against your skin. You take a shaky breath, but your chest still feels tight, the weight of everything pressing down on you.

“Forgive me?” His voice cracks, low and trembling, a far cry from the venom that laced it moments ago. He laughs bitterly, the sound broken. “Forgive me for what? For loving you? For being good to you?"

His shoulders slump, his eyes searching yours with a desperation that borders on childlike. It’s the look of someone clinging to a lifeline, someone terrified of being abandoned again.

“You say I need you,” he whispers, his voice trembling, “and maybe I do. But you need me just as much. Don’t you?”

The truth of those words claws at your chest, undeniable and suffocating. You hate him for saying it, and you hate yourself more for agreeing.

You don’t answer, and he steps closer, his movements slower now, more deliberate. His hands hover near your face, hesitant, before finally cupping your cheeks. His touch is surprisingly gentle, as though he’s afraid you’ll shatter if he presses too hard.

“You want me to drop the act?” he murmurs, his voice soft now, almost reverent. “Fine. No act. No games.” His eyes bore into yours, raw and unguarded. “I love you. I hate myself for it because it makes me weak, but I do. You’re the only good thing I’ve ever had. The only person who looked at me like I was more than… this.”

You should push him away, scream at him, tell him he’s lying—but you don’t. Because you don’t actually want him to let go. Him cradling your face, being this close to you, feels safe. You move into him, wrap yourself in him, feel his arms encircle you. Trap you.

“I can’t do this without you,” he says, his voice cracking again. “And I don’t want to. You’re all I have.”

Your throat tightens, the tears finally spilling over. “You don’t know how to love me.”

He flinches as if you've slapped him.

“I can learn.”

The words hang between you, heavy and suffocating. You know they aren’t enough—far from it. They don’t erase the pain he’s caused, the fear, the doubt. But they’re enough to make you stay.

“I don’t know if I can forgive you,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

He nods, his forehead pressing against yours, his breath warm against your skin. “Then don’t. You can hate me. Just don’t leave me.”

And right there, the mask falls.

As a request, it's the most earnest and vulnerable Homelander could ask for. He craves love; he will bear your hate, but he cannot tolerate indifference.

Not from you.

You don’t know who moves first, but suddenly, his arms are around you, pulling you close, and he kisses you. He gets rougher as you return his kiss, pulling you closer, tighter. It’s not sweet or tender, not the kind of kiss you’d find in a fairytale. It’s desperate, raw, and devastating, as though he’s trying to pour every unsaid word, every broken promise, every piece of himself into it.

You’re drowning in him, in the sharp press of his mouth and the way his hands tangle in your hair, anchoring you to him. It feels like falling, like spinning out of control, and you hate how much you need it—how much you need him.

Your thoughts swirl, confusing and chaotic, torn between anger and longing. You should hate him for this, for dragging you back into his orbit, for making you feel like you can’t breathe without him. But right now, you don’t care.

It just feels so good.

Right now, you’re leaning into him, clutching at his shoulders like he’s the only solid thing in a world that’s crumbling around you.

He groans softly against your lips, the sound vibrating through you, making your chest tighten. His hands are everywhere—cupping your face, sliding down to your waist, gripping you like he’s terrified you’ll disappear if he lets go.

The intensity is overwhelming, suffocating, and it feels like he’s trying to burn himself into your skin, to leave a mark that will never fade.

When you finally pull back, gasping for air, his forehead presses against yours, his breathing ragged. His eyes bore into yours, bright and unrelenting, filled with something that looks like both hunger and fear.

“You’re mine,” he whispers, and you think for a moment that his other self is back. But the other one had dead eyes. This one... his pupils are dilated, and he looks drunk. “You’ve always been mine.”

The words send a shiver down your spine. Your lips are still tingling, your heart pounding so hard it feels like it might burst. You let your head fall against his chest, closing your eyes as his arms wrap around you, holding you like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth. And holding you, he floats up slowly.

How you've missed flying with him.

The ascent is slow because he knows you're out of practice. You hate him for being mindful of that. You love him for knowing you so well. You need him, and you wish you didn’t.

And you know, deep down, that you’ll never escape him.

Only because you don’t really want to.

The city stretches out below you, cold and indifferent, as the two of you cling to each other like lifelines. You let your eyes close and feel the gentle, crisp winter air as he slowly picks up speed.

And he smiles down at you, planting another kiss on your forehead as he murmurs, “We’ll give it one more fight. Just one more.”

You close your eyes, letting the lie wrap around you like a warm blanket.

One more fight. Yeah right.

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I hope you liked it! <3

[ancientwastedlores]

Homelander Trilogy: Update + Title

Part III to Homelander Breaks His Favorite Toys and Don't Be Kind To It will come out on...

*drumroll please*

1st December, 11:59PM GST.

It's called: We'll Give It One More Fight (any guesses what song that's from?)

Thank you so much for the love you've given the first 2 chapters!! Lmk if you want to be tagged in the third part when it's out!

<3 <3

[ancientwastedlores]

Don't Be Kind To It (Homelander x Reader)

The overwhelming amount of love Homelander Only Breaks His Favorite Toys got really hit me in the feels. Some of you asked for a part II, and much like Homelander, I aim to please (and love the praise).

[tags: @helreyy @discowizard88 @slasherho]

This one is lightly inspired by Hozier's "It Will Come Back," and we get a glimpse into Homelander's perspective as well.

Hope you enjoy it! <3

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Don't Be Kind To It

Don't let it in with no intention to keep it Jesus Christ, don't be kind to it

You're a smart cookie. And you know Homelander better than he knows himself. You expect him to stalk you, watch you from rooftops, send you gifts that have an agenda, and force Vought's Crime Analytics department to keep an eye on you.

So, you wait. You listen for the telltale whoosh of air, the crackle of energy that signals his arrival. Every gust of wind sends your heart hammering; every creak of the floorboards makes your blood run cold. You scan the skyline for a flash of red and blue, bracing yourself for the inevitable.

At first, you think he’s just toying with you, letting you stew in paranoia. You brace for him to materialize at the most inconvenient moment, smug and victorious. Yet days turn into weeks, and his absence becomes undeniable. You tell yourself he’s good at what he does—too good—but the truth begins to sink in: it’s not just you. Nobody has seen him.

No staged rescues. No public appearances. Not even a leaked video of him losing his temper. Ashley let slip that his tracking chip went dead 3 days ago. Vought is scrambling to spin the story - a secret overseas mission? A long-deserved vacation?

But the inner circle is panicking. The people who know him best—the ones who know what he’s capable of—are terrified.

Where the fuck is Homelander?

But... another thought creeps in, invasive and unwelcome, like a splinter under your skin.

Isn't he going to fight for me?

The selfishness of it makes you recoil, but it’s there, undeniable and raw. After everything, after all the suffocating control and emotional whiplash, you almost wanted him to stay obsessed with you. To prove that you still mattered to him. To prove that you had power over the most powerful man alive.

The realization is a gut punch. Maybe you’re not as different from him as you thought. Maybe his possessiveness, his need for control, rubbed off on you more than you care to admit. Maybe you’ve become just as twisted as him, longing for attention—even the toxic kind—because it’s better than silence.

And now, silence is all there is.

It wraps around you like a noose, tightening with every passing day. His absence presses on your chest, cutting off your circulation, making it hard to breathe. You tell yourself it’s relief—that this is what you wanted—but the emptiness feels like punishment. You try to convince yourself he’s sulking, biding his time, waiting for the perfect moment to make you regret leaving him.

But the longer it stretches on, the more it begins to feel permanent.

You could care less what this means for Vought. All the company seems to care about is who will lead the Seven now. Should they try to replace Homelander or lean into the “team-first” narrative Ashley has been pushing? PR scrambles to keep the media from asking too many questions, trotting out The Deep and Black Noir to cover for him.

But the public isn’t buying it.

Those who love him are afraid he is hurt. Those who hate him post conspiracy theories about Homelander going rogue - which feels way more accurate.

Either way, if Homelander doesn’t want to be found, no one can find him.

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Your days stretch out unfathomably long. You expected to feel free, to savor the clean air and the wide-open spaces of a world without him. Instead, his absence is louder than his presence ever was.

When he was there, he consumed everything: every thought, every moment, every inch of your life. You hated it, resented it, but at least you understood it. His attention, no matter how suffocating, meant you mattered.

But now there’s nothing.

The silence echoes like a scream, reverberating through every corner of your mind. Every sleepless night, every anxious thought loops back to him. Where is he? What is he doing? Is he coming back?

You start to wonder if this is how he wanted it—to leave you drowning in uncertainty, gasping for closure you’ll never get. Maybe this is his ultimate revenge.

Or maybe…

Maybe he’s broken in ways even you can’t fix.

You almost wish for his cruelty, for the familiar push-and-pull of his twisted affection. Because this? This void where he once loomed so large?

It feels like dying.

No. You have to seek him out. You can't quite tell if it's for his sake or yours... you can figure that out later.

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Monster's Lament

The room is dark, lit only by the faint glow of the moon filtering through cracked blinds. Dust floats in the air, settling over the relics of a forgotten time—old Vought propaganda posters peeling from the walls, a long-dead television covered in grime. It’s quiet here, too quiet, save for the clock that's miraculously still ticking.

Homelander sits slumped in a battered chair, his suit grimy, his cape discarded on the floor in a crumpled heap. His head is in his hands, his golden locks disheveled, the picture of a god brought low.

“You warned her,” a voice says, syrupy sweet.

Homelander doesn’t look up, doesn’t need to—he knows where it’s coming from.

The mirror.

He lifts his gaze reluctantly, and there it is: his own reflection staring back at him, but not quite right. The eyes burn brighter, the teeth are sharper, the smile is crueler. It leans forward as if trying to crawl out of the glass.

"You warned her," it sings again. "But did she listeeeen." "Not now, okay?" Homelander pleads.

The face in the mirror laughs. "Jesus fucking Christ, this is so pathetic. What are you waiting for, for her to come find you? For her to need you?" "She does need me." “Oh, sure. Because you gave her everything. The flying, the fancy dinners, the cape-flipping bullshit. But what did she give you?” It leans closer, its grin widening. “Pity. That’s what. You wanted love, and all you ever got was pity.”

“That’s not true,” Homelander growls, but his voice wavers.

“Isn’t it?” The reflection tilts its head, almost playfully. “She stayed because she felt sorry for you. The broken little boy in the big man’s body. She didn’t love you, not really. She loved the idea of fixing you. And when she couldn’t—”

“Shut up!” Homelander’s voice cracks as he lurches to his feet, his hands trembling.

The reflection’s grin doesn’t falter. If anything, it grows wider. “What’s the matter, Johnny? Don’t like the truth?”

He stands frozen, a deer in headlights. He never learned to deal with complex emotions, and even after all this time, it wraps around him like a boa constrictor, cutting off his air supply and rooting him to the ground.

And the reflection starts to sing. “Don’t feed me, honey. Don’t be kind to me.”

The lyrics echo around Homelander, twisting like a blade.

"Don't give it a hand, offer it a soul Honey, make this easy Leave it to the land, this is what it knows."

"STOP IT" Homelander cries.

"Don't let me in with no intention to keep me Jesus Christ, don't be kind to me Honey, don't feed me, I will come back"

"You're supposed to be on MY side." Homelander says. "I am. This is what that looks like," It replies.

Homelander's stares ahead, his fists clenched, his jaw tights, his eyes ready to burn holes into the mirror. The silence stretches, heavy and suffocating.

Homelander closes his eyes, but her face is there, burned into his eyelids. The way she looked at him—like he was more than the sum of his power, more than the monster everyone else saw. He hates her for it. He loves her for it.

“Why did you leave?” he whispers to himself.

The reflection’s smile vanishes. For a moment, it almost looks… pitying.

“Because you allowed it,” it says simply.

The words hit like a punch to the gut.

"She fed you ONCE. And you kept going to her like a stray fucking dog. You took her mercy and her love and you became weak. Nobody wants weakness, Johnny." It leans forward, smiling, canines gleaming, "Whatcha gonna do about it?"

Homelander looks at the ground. Shame and desperation wash over him, and he blinks tears back.

"You're going to claim her. And you'll make sure she never, ever leaves again. Right?"

Homelander doesn't look up from the floor.

It gets irritated. "Right?"

Silence.

It rolls its eyes. "Do you want ME to do it?"

Homelander looks up, hope obvious in his bright blue eyes.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

You don’t intend to start looking for him. It just… happens.

It begins with small, idle habits—clicking on articles about Vought’s latest scandals, scrolling through old news coverage, and watching grainy footage of staged rescues from years past. Your eyes search for him automatically, for that familiar streak of red and blue cutting through the chaos.

Then it escalates.

You start wandering the city at night, tracing the paths he once flew you along. You visit the rooftops where he used to land with a flourish, his cape billowing dramatically in the wind. You linger outside the exclusive restaurants where he once paraded you like a trophy, his smile razor-sharp as he soaked in the envy of the other diners.

But it’s not just the glamorous places.

You walk down seedy alleys and explore dark corners—the forgotten places he claimed as private retreats. The places where he could let his guard down, where the mask of America’s golden boy slipped.

It feels grotesque, this act of seeking him out. Like you’re willingly feeding the monster you swore you’d escape. You hate yourself for it, for the way your heart leaps at the thought of seeing him again, even if it’s just to tell him to his face that you’re done.

But you can’t stop.

You start putting yourself in danger—not consciously, but recklessly enough that it’s obvious even to you. Walking alone through neighborhoods that turn predatory after dark. Taking late-night trains without any plan or destination. Part of you hopes he’ll swoop in, cape flaring, to save you in one of his dramatic displays of power.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, one night, it’s Black Noir who finds you.

The alley is suffocatingly narrow, the air heavy with the mingling stench of rotting garbage and damp asphalt. The dim, flickering streetlight overhead barely illuminates the passage as two men circle you like predators. Their laughter is low and ugly, their shadows long and distorted against the brick walls.

You freeze, your breath caught somewhere between a scream and a sob, as one of them lunges toward you. You pray even now that he'll swoop in from somewhere.

And then he’s there.

Black Noir steps from the shadows like death itself. His arrival is so silent, so abrupt, that the men don’t even notice him until it’s too late. A gloved hand clamps down on one man’s shoulder, spinning him around with an almost casual effort. Noir doesn’t waste time. The blow is swift, brutal—a single strike to the man’s temple that sends him crumpling to the ground.

The second man barely has time to react, stumbling backward with a terrified curse. Noir closes the distance in an instant, his movements fluid and precise. A sharp crack echoes through the alley as the man’s arm is wrenched at an unnatural angle. He screams, but Noir silences him with a swift knee to the ribs. He falls, gasping and broken, as Noir turns to you.

The black Kevlar of his suit gleams faintly in the dim light, the contours of his armor making him seem more shadow than man. His helmet hides his face entirely, the opaque visor reflecting your terrified expression back at you. He stands perfectly still, his chest rising and falling with controlled breaths, his presence both menacing and oddly comforting.

You crumble to the ground, your legs giving out beneath you as adrenaline and fear collide in your veins. Relief washes over you, but it’s tainted by something darker—frustration, disappointment, an aching sense of abandonment.

Noir kneels on the ground to make sure you're okay.

“Why—why isn’t he here?” you sob, your voice breaking. The words spill out of you, raw and unfiltered, as you pound your fists weakly against Noir’s chest.

He doesn’t move.

“Why won’t he come for me?” you cry, your hands trembling against the hard, unyielding surface of his armor. “He’s supposed to be here. He’s always here.”

Noir doesn’t answer. Of course, he doesn’t. He simply stands there, a silent sentinel as your emotions spill over in a torrent of tears and ragged gasps. His helmet tilts ever so slightly, as if he’s observing you, but he offers no comfort, no words of reassurance.

You clutch at him like a drowning person reaching for a lifeline, your fingers curling around the slick fabric of his suit. The tears come harder now, soaking into the Kevlar as you press your face against him.

“I hate him,” you whisper through clenched teeth, though the bitterness in your voice is softened by the despair in your heart. “I hate him for leaving.”

Noir stands up, lifting you with him, and lets you go once he's sure you're standing straight. His silence is maddening. Why isn't he angry that you're being ungrateful? Why isn't he at least talking about Homelander disappearing? ANYTHING?

You finally step back, your hands trembling as you wipe at your tear-streaked face. Your gaze meets Noir’s visor, and for a moment, you imagine you see something there—pity, perhaps, or understanding. But it’s gone as quickly as it came, replaced by the blank, inscrutable void of his masked expression.

“Thank you,” you whisper hoarsely, though the words feel hollow. What you really want to say is, Why wasn’t it him?

Noir doesn’t react. He simply steps back, his movements as quiet and calculated as ever, before melting into the shadows.

You’re alone again, the weight of Homelander's absence pressing down on you like a physical force.

But... a thought creeps in. If Black Noir came, then Homelander must know, too. They all have access to the same intel. He knows where you are and what you’re doing, and still—still—he hasn’t come for you.

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GUYS, I think this is going to be a three-parter. Bear with me. The next chapter will be the last. Let me know what you guys think and if you want to be tagged to the third one!

Thank you for all the love 😭😭

[ancientwastedlores]

Homelander Only Breaks His Favorite Toys

I’m a Loki girl through and through, but a recent The Boys rewatch kinda got me obsessed with Homelander, so I thought I’d write a quick little angst fic based on the Somebody Else x My Boy Only Breaks His Favorite Toys” mashup (which I have been playing non-stop by the way. My boyfriend has accepted this new way of life.)

Huge thanks to @blindmagdalena for encouraging me to write this! 

I haven’t written fiction in a while, so I hope this is good! ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Homelander Only Breaks His Favorite Toys

Oh, here we go again. 

You put on a plastic smile while he holds your wrist in a death grip behind your back. 

The cameras flash incessantly, almost making your eyes water - whether that’s from the ache throbbing in your arms or the flashes, you can’t tell anymore. 

"Homelander! Are you going to cameo in A-Train’s multiverse movie!?"

"Homelander, is there a universe where you are A-Train!?" 

Homelander laughs, flashing his sharp pearly whites. He exudes charisma as he raises his hands to stop the line of questions. 

"I guess you’ll just have to catch the movie next week, boys!" 

He pulls you closer to him. "For now, the missus and I have to make it Vought for the premiere!" 

With a flourish, he flips his cape like the showman he is and then holds you as he launches, leaving the reporters in the dust. 

You feel your tears trail behind you as he whisks you to the penthouse. Normally, New York looks bejeweled from this incredible height. Tiny dots of lights up and down the massive steel and glass buildings. At this height, life is erased. Humans are erased. It’s tall shapes and big shadows, like an unfinished rendering of a video game. 

You’ve always loved flying, but you suspect you’re in for a hard time once your feet touch the marble floors in the penthouse.

------------------------------------------------------------- 

Homelander stayed silent for hours after getting home. You decided to bake him some banana bread - his favorite - and whip up a good old-fashioned chocolate milkshake. The scent of it usually makes him forget whatever he was angry about, but it doesn"t seem to be working right now. 

He paces the room, his rich red cape trailing behind him in the most dramatic way. Homelander has his theatric tendencies, and you have learned to indulge them. 

Even when the cost is high. 

"What’s wrong?" you ask despite your better judgment. 

"What could possibly be wrong? You’re the Jackie Kennedy to my John Kennedy. What could be wrong about that?" he snaps. 

"John…" 

"Why you?" he asks. "Why you and not me?" 

"Me BECAUSE of you, John; they wouldn’t care about me if I weren’t dating you!" 

He heaves, his eyes red without the aid of a laser. His chest rises and falls as his brain scrambles for a response. He is angry; no, he wants to be angry. He just wants something to rage about. 

He isn’t actually angry that the reporters swarmed the two of you and bombarded you with a hundred questions before paying attention to him. After all, the questions were about him. What’s he like as a boyfriend? What’s the cutest thing he’s done for you? Have you ever worn the cape? Would you ever be in a movie with him? 

No, there"s something else. You’ve given up trying to dig deep and find meaning in his outbursts because, more often than not, you get it wrong. Some obscure random thing might have happened 5 minutes or 5 years ago and he seethes about it before calming down. 

This is life now. 

"Are you actually mad at me?" you ask. "I won’t leave this penthouse if you don’t want me to." 

He laughs - a sarcastic, painful one. You’re all too used to this. 

Homelander looks you up and down as if scanning you. Assessing you. As if asking himself what you mean for his approval points and how you look on his arm. 

You are by no means perfect, but Homelander loved that about you. He never lied that you were the hottest one he’d been with or even the most intelligent. But he loved that you loved him. He loved that you forgave his outbursts and allowed him space to throw a tantrum or brood silently. 

He loved that you were patient with him, which is more than anybody had ever been with him. But he often tested that, too. 

"You know what, I think I'll do this premiere alone. I wouldn’t want you to feel out of place in such a big crowd." 

That stings. You’ve never been a showman or particularly extroverted, but you wanted to try. For him. And you thought you were getting pretty good at it, too. 

But you nod. There’s no use in arguing. 

Clearly, though, he isn’t done. "I mean, I know you hate putting yourself out there, and you end up a nervous wreck after these events. I don’t want to spend the night taking care of you." 

"Sure. I understand." 

Somehow, your neutral, bland response does not anger him. For some funny reason, it relieves him that he doesn't have to fight with you to get what he wants. 

He turns on his heel and exits the house without another word. 

------------------------------------------------------------- 

You exit the shower and spot the dress you were going to wear for the premiere. In typical Homelander fashion, he wanted you to match his colors rather than A-Train's colors. This was A-Train's night, but he'd be damned if you wore anyone else's aesthetic on your body. 

It’s a red-white-and-blue dress with a dramatic, asymmetrical neckline and fitted bodice with sparkling red and blue sequins transitioning into a voluminous, flowing skirt. Homelander picked it and got it tailored just for you. He knew the parts you were insecure about and made the designer alter the dress to ensure you felt your best. The poofy ball gown style skirt hid your ass, which you didn’t like the shape of. The neckline softened your broad shoulders, which you always felt made you look too masculine. But Homelander made sure the neckline didn’t hide your neck and collarbones, which you loved. 

You touch the rich satin fabric, your heart aching. You were so excited to show this dress off, hanging on to his arm as he flashed his charming, boyish smile. You consider wearing it, even if it's just to clean the kitchen, but decide against it. It would hurt too much. 

You put on a clean pair of sweats and potter to the kitchen. Pouring yourself a glass of wine, you decide to just watch the live broadcast of the premiere and make do with that. 

Three hours pass - you’re asleep on the couch at this point with the TV still running. The premiere ended, and now the channel is playing clips of all mentions of the multiverse in all the past movies. You’d watch if you weren"t so emotionally exhausted. 

A click of the front door wakes you, and through blurry eyesight, you see a smudge of red-and-blue enter. You prop yourself up and rub your eyes sleepily. 

"Hey." 

He sounds like he’s in a jolly mood. 

"Hey," you say back. "How was the premiere?"

"I missed you…" he says, voice dripping with sincerity. 

"I missed you too…" you bring your arms up as if inviting him to cuddle. 

You know he had a miserable time without you. He fucks things up for himself and comes back like a baby in need of consolation. 

Sure enough, he makes his way to the couch, where you’ve created a little nest of fluffy pillows and blankets, and practically falls onto you. You wrap your arms around him as tightly as you can while he buries his nose in your neck. 

"So. Is the movie every bit as terrible as you thought?" you ask, knowing he’s in the mood to shit-talk A-Train. 

"Worse," his voice comes muffled. "Terrible. Horrible. Garbage." 

You laugh and push him lightly so you can have an audible conversation. "Tell me about it." 

"It baffles me the bullshit Vought comes up with. So pointless and bland and unnecessary. And A-Train was eating it right up. Lapping up every last bit of praise like a fucking dog."

"A-Train looked lost in the spotlight. He cannot handle it like you do," you say. "Nobody does." 

A giddy smile crosses Homelander’s face. You pinch his cheeks lightly and then run your fingers through his perfect blonde hair. "Do you want to watch something half-decent and doze off on the couch?" you ask. 

"No… I want you to put that dress on so I can fly us to dinner."

You look at him, your heart twisting painfully in your chest. His boyish grin is disarming, softening your resolve just like it always does. You want to say no. You want to tell him you’re too tired, that the emotional whiplash of his moods has wrung you out like an old sponge. 

But you know that’s not what he wants to hear.

You force a smile instead. "Sure.”

You stand, your legs unsteady, as you head to the bedroom to slip on the dress. It feels heavier now than when you first tried it on. Maybe you’re tired. Maybe it’s just your mind playing tricks. 

You catch your reflection in the mirror. The dress is stunning—perfect, even. He had it made for you, tailored to his vision of you. But when you look at yourself, you see the hollow shell of the person you used to be. You see someone who bends and folds and breaks under the weight of his love.

You hear him calling from the living room, impatient. "You ready yet? You’re gonna knock 'em dead."

You close your eyes, gripping the edge of the dresser until your knuckles turn white. No, you cannot leave him. He needs you, and he doesn"t mean to be mean. He’s trying to make up for it, isn’t he? Stop being such a sensitive, emotional baby. Get the fuck out there and let him show you how sorry he is.

You enter the living room, the satin catching the light and making you look almost ethereal. Homelander is stunned by his own creation. 

"Gorgeous. Fucking perfect." 

You smile and do a little twirl, feeling like the most beautiful girl in the world. 

He rises from the couch, his cape draped dramatically over one shoulder, and strides toward you like a man who owns the world because he does. "You’re my queen. The only one who can keep up with me."

Yes, but do you want to? Or do you want to slow down a bit? Savor the small moments and not spend your life waiting for the next attack? 

You can do nothing but kiss him. He pulls you close by the waist and almost devours you in his frenzy. Waves of emotions crash over you, voices urging you to both switch off your brain and get far away from the broken man. 

How much more of this can you take? He will make it his mission to find out.

He pulls away and flashes his pearly whites. "Ready to lift off?" 

"Abso-fucking-lutely" you smile back. 

------------------------------------------------------------- 

The restaurant is one of the most exclusive in New York—floor-to-ceiling glass windows that overlook the city, tables spaced far apart to ensure privacy, and a waitstaff so attentive it’s almost suffocating. Homelander loves it here. Not because of the food, though it’s excellent, but because everyone here knows who he is. They don’t gawk or ask for autographs, but you can feel their reverence in every stolen glance, every hushed whisper. He thrives on it.

You sit across from him, the candlelight bouncing off the sequins of your dress. He's been in an unusually good mood since you arrived, and for a moment, you let yourself believe tonight might actually be different. He's been complimenting you all night, his eyes lingering on yours in a way that makes you feel like you're the only person in the world.

“See?” he says, leaning back in his chair with a self-satisfied grin. “I knew this dress was the one. Look at them.” He gestures subtly to the other diners, some of whom are clearly trying not to stare. “They’re jealous. You’re the most beautiful woman in the room.”

You smile faintly, murmuring a soft “thank you” as you sip your wine. It’s moments like this that make staying feel worth it. But then, as always, the warmth starts to curdle.

The turning point is subtle. It always is. He starts picking at his food, his jaw tightening ever so slightly. You can tell something’s shifted. You don’t know what triggered it this time—maybe it was the waiter who smiled a little too warmly at you or the couple at the next table who didn"t acknowledge him quickly enough.

“Do you think they’re staring at me or you?” he asks suddenly, his tone sharp enough to cut glass.

You blink, taken aback. “What?”

“I mean, they’re obviously looking at me,” he continues, his voice low and dangerous. “But you’re the one soaking it up, aren"t you? Sitting there like some fucking… princess.”

The words hit like a slap. “John, what are you talking about?”

He leans forward, his eyes narrowing. “You love this, don’t you? The attention. The glamour. The fucking dress. You think it’s all for you.”

“Of course, I don’t,” you say quietly, trying to keep your voice steady. “I came here because you wanted to. I’m here for you.”

“For me,” he repeats mockingly, his lips curling into a sneer. “That’s rich. You think I don’t see the way you look at them? Like you’re just waiting for someone better to come along. Someone who doesn"t scare you.”

“That"s not true,” you whisper, but your voice sounds hollow even to your own ears. You glance around nervously, hoping no one is listening. Of course, they are. Even if they can’t hear the words, they can feel the tension radiating off him like a live wire.

Somewhere, you blame yourself for enabling this behavior. Your timidness… your eagerness to please… your avoidance of conflict… it feeds him. If it were Starlight or Stormfront or anybody else, they would stand up to him and draw a boundary. And that’s what he needs - not a timid, sniveling fool who would bend over backward to play into his fantasies. 

He laughs bitterly, almost as if he agrees with your thoughts, and leans back in his chair. “You know what"s funny? You’re so scared of me, but you’re the real monster here. You just sit there, pretending to be this sweet, innocent thing, and you judge me for every little fucking thing I do or say.”

“I don’t judge you,” you protest weakly, your hands trembling in your lap. “I—”

“Save it,” he snaps, his voice rising just enough to make heads turn. “You’re just like everyone else. You love me when I’m the hero, but the second I let my guard down, you look at me like I’m some kind of freak.”

“John, please,” you beg, your voice barely above a whisper. “Can we not do this here?”

“Why not?” he says, his smile cold and cruel. “You embarrassed me at the premiere, didn’t you? Couldn’t even be bothered to show up. Do you know how pathetic that made me look?”

“I was just respecting what you asked of me. And I thought you said you missed me,” you say softly, tears stinging your eyes. 

“Yeah, well,” he says, waving a hand dismissively. “What do I know, right?.”

The rest of the dinner passes in a blur. He doesn"t apologize. He doesn"t even look at you. You pick at your food, your appetite long gone, and force yourself to smile when the waiter comes by to clear the plates. You feel like you’re suffocating, the weight of his words pressing down on your chest like a boulder.

When the bill comes, he doesn"t even glance at it. He tosses his card onto the table and leans back in his chair, looking more like a king about to call for an execution. 

“Ready to go?” he asks casually, as if nothing happened.

You nod, your face carefully blank. “Of course.”

------------------------------------------------------------- 

He flies you back to the penthouse in silence. The city lights blur beneath you, but you barely notice. Your mind is racing, your heart pounding. You know what you have to do. You’ve known for a while now, but tonight was the final straw.

When you land, he kisses your cheek and tells you he’s going to shower. “Don’t wait up,” he says with a wink, and then he disappears down the hall.

You wait until you hear the water running before you move. You slip out of the dress and back into your sweats, your hands trembling as you pack a small bag with just the essentials. You don’t know where you’re going yet—maybe a hotel, maybe a friend"s place—but you know you can’t stay here.

As you zip up the bag, you glance around the penthouse one last time. It feels empty, like a stage set after the actors have gone home. You think of all the times you convinced yourself this was enough. That he was enough. That you could fix him if you just loved him hard enough. And he would love once you fixed whatever was wrong with you. 

But you can’t. You know that now. He needs someone stronger. 

Braver. 

You leave the dress draped over the back of the couch, a silent goodbye. Then you slip out the door, the sound of the water still echoing in the distance.

For the first time in what feels like forever, you don’t look back.

------------------------------------------------------------- 

It happens on the fourth night. 

You"re staying at a hotel under an alias, the type of place he wouldn"t normally stoop to visiting. You"ve been trying to keep your head down, trying to breathe for the first time in what feels like years. But deep down, you knew it wouldn"t last.

When the knock comes at the door—sharp, insistent—you freeze. Your heart hammers in your chest. You don’t have to check; you already know it’s him. You’ve been bracing for this moment since the night you left. And honestly, he took longer than you expected. 

Still, when you open the door and see him standing there, you’re not prepared. He looks almost unhinged, his hair slightly mussed, his eyes blazing with something between fury and heartbreak. His red cape is gone, but the suit clings to him like a second skin. 

“I found you,” he says, his voice soft, almost tender, but there’s a dangerous edge underneath it. “Of course I did.”

You step back instinctively, your hands gripping the edge of the door. “How did you—”

“Don’t.” He pushes the door open with ease, stepping inside like he owns the place. “Don’t ask me stupid questions. You really thought you could hide from me? Me?” He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Come on, sweetheart. Give me more credit than that.”

“John…” you start, but he cuts you off, pacing the room like a caged animal.

“You left,” he says, his voice rising. “You just walked out. No note, no call, nothing. Do you know what that did to me? Do you have any idea?”

Your chest tightens. “I needed to.”

“Bullshit.” He spins to face you, his expression twisting with anger. “You didn"t need to do anything. You chose this. You chose to hurt me. After I rescued you from a pitiful existence and made something of you. Little Y/N wanted to be a writer but had no time. I rescued you from your shabby little apartment and gave you everything. Time. Money. Luxury. And this is what I get.” 

“I wasn’t trying to hurt you,” you say quietly, but your words only seem to inflame him further.

“No?” He stalks closer, his voice dripping with venom. “Then what do you call this? Running off in the middle of the night like a fucking coward? Hiding in some fucking run-down rat-shit hotel like you’re afraid of me?”

“I AM afraid of you,” you admit, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. His face freezes, a flicker of something almost like pain crossing his features before the anger returns.

“You’re afraid of me?” he repeats, his tone incredulous. “I’ve protected you. I’ve given you everything. Everything you asked and didn’t ask for. You sound so fucking ungrateful. I loved you.” 

The words hit like a slap. You take a step back, shaking your head. “That's not love, John. That's control.”

“Don’t,” he snarls, his voice trembling with fury. “Don’t you fucking psychoanalyze me right now. I loved you. I still love you. And you—” he can’t stop his maniacal laughter. He wags his finger at you. “You!” 

Tears well in your eyes, but you refuse to let them fall. “I just think this isn’t meant to be.”

“Oh, you’re a fortune teller now?”

“John…” 

“Such a fucking saint, aren't you, saving us all from unhappiness. Or…” he smiles. A dangerous smile. “There’s someone else!”

The question knocks the breath out of you. “What?”

“You heard me,” he says, his voice low and deadly. “There’s someone else, isn’t there? Is that why you left? Did you find someone who makes you feel all warm and fuzzy inside? Someone who doesn"t scare you?”

“No,” you say, your voice breaking. “There’s no one else.”

“Then why?” he demands, his voice rising again. “Why did you leave me? Why did you—”

“Because it’s not love!” you scream. The first real, raw emotion you allow yourself to feel in forever. 

Homelander almost looks proud of you for it. 

“You keep being cruel to me. You keep saying horrible things, and I get it; I'm not intelligent or gorgeous or fucking V'd up like your other girlfriends, but GOD. Why are you with me if you hate me so much?” 

For the first time, you see Homelander shocked. “What? I don’t… I don’t hate you; what the fuck are you talking about?” 

You laugh in resignation and wipe your tears with the neck of your sweater. “Homelander, I’m not the one for you. I’m done.”

“You’re done? YOU are leaving ME?” 

He stares at you, his chest heaving, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. For a moment, neither of you speak. The silence is deafening. He’s confused that you think he hates you and cannot fathom why you would believe that. He gave you everything. In what universe is that hate? 

“I gave you everything,” he says, more to convince himself now, his voice raw. “I’m the best thing that ever happened to you.”

“I’m sorry,” you say again. Part of you wants to desperately say you want to be back together when things are better. When you are stronger, and he is kinder. You want to believe that once you fix you, he will miss you. He will return and be so much nicer. Softer. 

But you know that time may never come. 

Just at this moment, Homelander wishes his powers had allowed him to read minds, too. Your face inscrutable, he has nothing to latch on to. He looks at you like you’ve just plunged a knife into his chest. For a moment, you think he might lash out, that he might destroy the entire block in a fit of rage. 

But instead, he takes a step back, his expression crumbling.

“You’ll regret this,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’ll miss me. You’ll see.”

You nod, tears streaming down your face. “Maybe I will.”

He stands there for a moment longer, his fists clenching and unclenching, his jaw tight. Then, without another word, he turns and leaves, the door slamming shut behind him.

You collapse onto the bed, your entire body shaking. The weight of the confrontation crashes over you. Hot tears finally gush out as you clutch your pillow and sob quietly, knowing Homelander can still hear you. 

This isn’t over. Not yet. He will forever stalk the edges of your life, watching. Waiting for you to need him. 

You know Homelander well enough to know he doesn't let go of his toys without a fight.

------------------------------------------------------------- 

[ancientwastedlores]

Getaway Car [T.Swift-inspired LOKI Fic]

___________________________________________

Ask: I am OBSESSED with your stories <3 <3 <3 could you write a Getaway Car themes fic about Loki and reader when it's them against the Avengers for some reasons, they get away together and reader thinks Loki will betray them so they betray him first? All angst and pain (. )(. ) thx <3 <3 <3

Note: HELLO, I know it's v late and been a while. But I heard Taylor's new album, and the need to write awakened. Thought I'd revisit my old requests for some inspo and found this one I've been wanting to do for a while. Hope you like it! And leave me your TTPD requests as well <3

WORD COUNT: 2756

___________________________________________

Getaway Car

I’m in a getaway car I left you at the motel bar Took the money in the bag and stole the keys  That was the last time you ever saw me… 

Partners in crime. Brothers in arms. That’s how the Avengers saw you and Loki, forever up to some mischief together. The way you both shared one mind was insane, and while Tony was glad it gave you a battle advantage, that brilliance was too often used for useless pranks around the facility, tiring out Steve Rogers and Bruce Banner the most. 

So what? They were harmless. These were ‘morale boosting’ and ‘team building’ activities, as per you. If anything, it brought the team closer together. And your pranks were your way of keeping the Avengers always alert and ready for danger. You had endless justifications. 

‘When do the excuses end?’ Tony once asked you.  ‘When do Earth’s mighty Avengers stop screaming about grasshoppers in their pancakes? It’s a protein-rich breakfast.’ 

Meanwhile, Loki never scrambled for a justification. He did things because he wanted to, and the chiding and complaining only encouraged him. Together, you made life hell for villains and heroes alike. You and Loki were the first response to an attack because of the way you could significantly weaken the enemy's psyche, prepping them to be an easy kill for the rest of the Avengers. 

You made a good team. A powerful one. And while your pranks kept things light, the Avengers were not unaware that if you decided to turn against them, you would succeed in wiping them out. 

___________________________________________

You and Loki weren’t the type for meetings, which made things easy for Tony that evening. In the bi-monthly meetup in his grand tower, he brought up a subject he’d been mulling over for quite some time. 

‘Do we have any reason to suspect they are plotting something against us?’ Steve asked. 

‘We don’t want to assume the wrong thing and risk actually inspiring them.’ Natasha said. 

‘You see, there’s the problem!’ Tony barked, ‘Why are we so afraid of them? They’re supposed to be on our side, dependable and loyal. Instead we’re afraid of pissing them off!?’

‘What are you saying exactly, Tony?’ Bruce asked. 

Tony sighed frustratedly and ran his fingers through his hair. ‘I don’t know. I just never want to be in a situation where we’re compromised from the inside. They’re too close to each other, and they know things we do not. I don’t like that.’ 

‘Fine. We’ll give them other tasks to keep them occupied separately,’ Natasha suggested. 

‘Like it’s school?’ Bruce said. 

‘I truly think Y/N was far more focused before Loki came along.’ Tony said. 'She was responsible. Tame.'

‘We’re starting to sound like parents, ’ Natasha said. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing, but if you’re worried, we’ll occupy her in the lab and him in training facilities.’ 

Tony thought this was a good idea.   ___________________________________________

The next morning, at breakfast, all the Avengers received an agenda sheet. It was placed on their seat at the dining table, and you were taken aback. 

‘Since when do we have a timetable?’ you asked. 

‘Since I saw things slacking around here,’ Tony declared. ‘We’ve got new trainees, new equipment, and new space stuff to unpack, and we’re doing nothing.’ 

‘You mean Loki and I are doing nothing.’ 

‘If the shoe fits,’ Tony said. 

The agenda was clearly made for you, and the rest of the team was in on it. You looked through your sheet - which honestly wasn’t that bad. You just didn’t like being taken by surprise. Mornings in the lab testing Tony’s “space stuff.” Afternoons running any one of the Avengers’ many charity initiatives - education, rehab, food drives, what have you. And evenings pulling apart and examining weapons scavenged from aliens kindly brought to you by either Carol Danvers or Gamora. 

And then you picked up Loki’s (who was sleeping late as usual). Mornings in the training facility training new recruits. Afternoons doing weapons testing with Tony. And evenings at any of the charity drives. 

This was deliberate. You couldn’t fathom why the Avengers would play such games, but you weren’t about to be taken for a ride.  ___________________________________________

Later in the morning, when Loki finally woke from his prolonged slumber, you told him about Tony’s passive-aggressive comment and the new agenda sheets. His green eyes flickered with the same spark of rebellion that mirrored your thoughts. 

"Why the sudden change, you think?" Loki questioned. 

"Control," you muttered, piecing the agenda with the prior night's conversations you had eavesdropped on through the vents—a risky yet fruitful habit. "They fear us, Loki. They're splitting us up, weakening our position."

Loki's smirk was as sly as ever, an idea brewing in the back of his mind. As he leaned closer, the proximity sent a shiver down your spine, and the air between you charged with a dangerous excitement.

"Then perhaps, my dear..." His voice dropped to a seductive whisper, his breath a warm caress against your ear. "...it's time we teach them the folly of their paranoia."

The words, scandalous and provocative, ignited something within you. Your heart thudded violently in your chest, a wild drumbeat echoing in the hollow of your ribs. It was the thrill of the forbidden, the allure of stepping into the shadows with Loki by your side, not just as a partner in crime but as a co-conspirator in a game most perilous.

His eyes locked onto yours, green fires that burned with mischief and an unspoken promise of chaos. It was an unholy proposal, stepping over a line you knew well but had never dared to cross before. And yet, as your heart raced and your thoughts spun, you realized that the decision had already been made in that fleeting heartbeat.

"Yes," you breathed out, the word less a reply and more a surrender to the exhilarating unknown. "Let's make them regret ever doubting us."

With that, your fate was sealed. 

___________________________________________

Under the guise of your newly assigned tasks, you and Loki meticulously orchestrated your daring plan. Each task provided unique opportunities to prepare for the heist without arousing suspicion among the other Avengers.

In the mornings, Loki was stationed at the training facility, instructing new recruits in the art of combat and deception. Utilizing his godly charisma and depth of experience, he subtly wove lessons on unpredictability and misdirection into his training, skills that would prove essential in the upcoming heist. While training these recruits, Loki also discreetly surveyed the facility's layout and security details, noting any potential vulnerabilities.

In the afternoons, his task shifted to weapons testing with Tony. These sessions, fraught with the clang of metal and the buzz of new technology, provided Loki with the perfect cover to engage Tony in technical discussions, subtly extracting information about the latest security updates and the locations of key research projects, including the cloaking device. Loki used his wit to keep Tony focused on the tasks at hand, ensuring his own activities went unnoticed.

Evenings saw Loki participating in various charity drives. These engagements offered him a public face of benevolence; all the while, he used these outings to establish alibis and build trust within the community and among his team, masking his true intentions under the guise of philanthropy.

Your mornings were spent in Tony’s lab, ostensibly testing new equipment designated aptly as “space stuff.” This task was critical because it allowed you direct access to some of the most advanced technology within the Avengers’ arsenal. While your official task was to test and report on these devices, you utilized this time to familiarize yourself with the lab’s security systems and to map out a discreet path to the prototype device. Your expertise in technology helped you to handle the equipment convincingly, all while preparing for the eventual theft.

Just like Loki, you used your time at the afternoon charity drives to make connections with community members and the other Avengers, enhancing your image as a dedicated member. This wasn’t a farce - you did care about the community. But right now, you had an underlying feeling of anger and hurt that the Avengers you gave your life to were doubting your intentions. So, you networked and built connections that could be useful for creating diversions or obtaining information indirectly related to the Avengers’ operational security.

The evenings were dedicated to examining and dismantling alien weaponry, and this time was invaluable not only for understanding potential alien tech that could be repurposed to aid in your escape but also for ensuring you were updated on the latest extraterrestrial technologies that might impact your plan. ___________________________________________

Days turned into weeks. You and Loki could only ever meet at night, and though you expected a whole day of events to make you too tired to plan a heist, you were actually excited. These secret meetings were charged with an electric anticipation that both thrilled and unnerved you. What started as a time to go over your respective findings turned into something far more intimate. As you poured over maps and schematics, your discussions often went into other things. Your pasts, your stories, your motives for joining the Avengers… everything you both usually kept hidden under bravado or mischief.

Loki’s usual façade of indifference was replaced by a passionate intensity about your joint mission. It was during one of these evenings, while reviewing security layouts, that he looked up from the papers, his gaze piercing. “You know, in all my years of schemes and conquests,” he confessed, his voice a low rumble, “I’ve never felt quite as... exhilarated as I do now, planning this with you.”

These words struck a chord within you, igniting a warmth that spread through your chest. 

Nights passed… you sat close to each other, naturally relaxing into each other. Soon, you moved the meetings from the facility terrace to each other’s bedrooms, comfortably laying in bed and discussing everything and nothing. 

“I’m the only kid in my family to get a job’ you once revealed. ‘And now I feel like their lives all depend on me.’ 

It’s true that you were more focused and serious before Loki came in. But that was because you never allowed yourself to do anything else but meet the expectations of your family. Loki was a breath of fresh air. The child you wished you could be for once. 

You didn’t have to explain all that to him. After you spilled your secret, Loki pulled you closer to him and stroked your head softly as you fell asleep. As you drifted off in his safe and warm embrace, you thanked Tony for his harsh comments. Were it not for him, you and Loki might never have bonded this way. 

But a day after that fact occurred to you, your mind began to wander. Was this love destined, or was it just something that happened due to an unfavorable circumstance? 

Did he realize he was in danger? Were you his escape plan?

With this deepening connection came a vulnerability that was new to both of you. The fear of betrayal, so ingrained in both your natures, loomed large as the day of the heist approached. Could you truly trust Loki with your heart, just as you were trusting him with your life? 

___________________________________________

The night before the heist, as you both sat back after hours of meticulous planning, Loki turned to you with a seriousness that was rare for him. “No matter what happens,” he said, his voice steady and sincere, “I want you to know that I... I value this. Us. More than I thought possible.”

His admission was a confession, and in the dim light of your secluded meeting spot, you allowed yourself a moment to truly look at him—not as the God of Mischief or an Avenger, but as a man who had unexpectedly become so much more. The stakes were higher now. 

Could this connection you created in the night - in the seclusion of the terrace and the safe confines of your bedroom - last in daylight? 

___________________________________________

4 PM. 

Your heart hammered as you bypassed the final security protocols and laid your hands on the prototype device, its field of light flickering with the promise of freedom. With the device secured, you slipped away to meet Loki at the designated rendezvous point, ready to disappear. As per today’s schedule, the Avengers were all at a school for at-risk youths, so it would be hours before anybody even realized what had happened. 

As you ran, the back of the backpack hitting you with every step, you felt a sense of dread in your stomach. Why didn’t this feel exhilarating? Why didn’t it feel freeing? 

You reached the entrance and saw Loki in your getaway car - a dark green sports Jaguar with the top town. The feeling of unease did not rest when you saw his face. The plan had gone too smoothly. Was it all too convenient? 

Your own thoughts a traitor to you, your heart sank as you opened those doors and jumped into his car. He put his lips to yours in absolute delight, barely able to stop smiling as he planted kiss after kiss on your face. 

"Are you with me, truly?" you found yourself asking, voice edged with a fear you hated to admit.

Loki's expression softened, a hand reaching out to cup your cheek. "Always," he reassured. 

The escape was a blur—for a moment, you forgot your reservations and reveled in the thrill of the wind in your hair. It was so romantic. So powerful. As night closed in and you left the sparkling city, the car drove into the darkness, but your heart was never lighter. His hand was on your thigh, and the music in your mind swelled as you imagined a whole new life with him. You were his savior, and he was yours. 

But the high soon crashed. 

As you reached the motel you decided to spend the night at, you looked over at him, and your heart sank again. The love was only alive in safe spaces. In comfortable places where it was nobody else’s business. 

You got out of the car and checked into your room - cash only. The room was nothing grand - it didn’t have to be. It would suffice until your contact made you fake passports, and you could get the hell out of the country. 

Loki did suggest simply teleporting the pair of you to Asgard, but that would hardly be a safe place to hide. And besides… why would he make such a ridiculous suggestion? Because he expected it to be shut down? Was your plan - your dream - to run away to somewhere in Asia and live a simple life actually his plot all along? And which god would agree to a simple life? Was it a ploy to make you feel safe before he betrayed you and left with the cloaking device? 

Questions upon questions filled your head. You weren’t sure if you were being your own worst enemy, so you decided to sleep on it. Loki asked if you wanted to get a drink at the motel bar, but you just wanted to creep under the covers and sleep the adrenaline off. He didn’t protest - he wanted you to be comfortable. 

It only made you more paranoid. Why didn’t he care enough to insist on a celebratory drink? Was he going to take this time to plot his escape? 

If betrayal were inevitable, you’d strike first. 

As soon as you heard the door click shut, you leaped out of bed and got dressed. You grabbed the bag with the device and the car keys and ran to the door. Then you paused… if you left right now, Loki wouldn’t stop looking for you. And nowhere on earth would be safe from a god. 

With a heavy heart, you called the Avengers facility from the motel landline. 

___________________________________________

You watched from the shadows as Loki drank his whiskey all alone. Your heart ached as you turned the key in the ignition, and the engine roared to life. Maybe it wasn’t too late… maybe you could grab him from the motel bar, drag him to the car, and keep running. 

Those hopes were dashed when you saw the Iron Suit’s unmistakable lights draw closer to the motel. For a moment you looked back at Loki to mouth a silent apology. He managed to lock eyes with you for a split second, confused and hurt, before the roof crashed in on him. 

Nothing good starts in a getaway car. 

___________________________________________

I hope this is similar to what you wanted <3

Feel free to leave requests here, and you can find my Masterlist here <3

[ancientwastedlores]

Taylor Swift Inspired Loki fics - Requests Open

Just watched the Eras Tour movie and I am heavy in my T.S feels. Hit me with those fic requests!

[ancientwastedlores]

Hello any chance you could write some comfort for the reader with Tom hiddleston, I'm goin through a rough patch n am in desperate need for some comfort I broke my arm not so long ago. Could it be something like the reader isn't sleeping from nightmares, really anxious, and has a broken arm like me n tom just takes care of them. Please

A/N: I'm so sorry to hear about your arm! I hope you get better soon and that this fic gives you a bit of comfort <3

________________________________________________________

Brewed with Love

The rhythmic pitter-patter of the rain against the windows of your London flat provided a soft backdrop to your restless thoughts. It had been a trying few weeks: a broken arm, nights stolen by nightmares, and an insistent cloud of anxiety that never seemed to part. The added worry of your coffee-cum-bookshop made your heart race even more. The thought of it being closed, letting down your regular customers, and losing out on business weighed heavily on your mind.

"I'll be fine," you'd assured Tom, "I can run it with one arm. I've read up on multitasking."

Tom had gently protested, his voice filled with genuine concern. "Love, you need to rest. You can't push yourself right now."

You sighed, frustrated, not with him but with your own vulnerability. "That shop is my dream, Tom. And right now, it feels like it's slipping away."

He kissed your forehead, pulling you close to his chest. “I know how much it means to you. But you’re more important. We have to ensure you’re alright first. Your store needs you to be healthy."

Annoyingly, he made a lot of sense. It would only hurt the store if you were unwell and trying to run it at half capacity.

Still... you couldn't shake the anxiety. The only consolation seemed to be Tom's utmost devotion to you as you recovered. He read to you, fed you, and even helped you bathe despite all your protests. It helped, but it didn't completely eradicate the unease.

"I can't shake off the worry," you admitted as Tom fed you with his hands. He smiled and wiped a grain of rice from the corner of your mouth.

"I know, darling. Which is why I have a solution."

_____________________________

The next morning, you were surprised to find yourself in your shop, seated comfortably in a corner with a cushion supporting your injured arm. The familiar scent of coffee beans and the comforting quiet of the surrounding books provided a balm to your frazzled nerves.

Tom emerged from the back, donning your store’s apron, which was clearly two sizes too small. He looked adorably out of place with a faux serious expression. “Welcome to the Good Omens Coffee and Book Haven! How may I assist you today?"

A chuckle escaped your lips, the first genuine one in days. “You’re going to run the store?"

He struck a dramatic pose. "For the next two days, you can consider me your top barista and book-recommender."

You grinned, taking in his earnest yet comical appearance. “You do realize you have to remember the difference between a latte and a cappuccino, right?"

“I’ve got a secret weapon," he said, pulling out a cheat sheet with coffee recipes scribbled down. "I'm prepared."

The day unfolded with warmth and laughter as you watched Tom interact with customers - some star-struck, others amused by his novice barista skills. Nevertheless, they were happy to have something made by Tom Hiddleston himself, and word got around London that the Loki actor was pouring coffee for the patrons of Good Omens Coffee and Book Haven.

Through it all, your heart swelled with gratitude and love. The weight of your worries seemed to lighten, replaced with the warmth of Tom's gesture.

Your shop was more than just a business; it was an extension of you. And Tom, in his own endearing way, had shown you that dreams didn't have to be faced alone. They could be shared, cherished, and pursued together, no matter the circumstances.

The rain outside continued, but inside, amidst the aroma of fresh coffee and the rustle of book pages, you found a world of warmth, love, and shared dreams.

---------------------------------

I hope this brings you comfort!

Feel free to leave requests here and you can find my Masterlist here <3

[ancientwastedlores]

Hi can you do the I Can See You from SNTV? The scenario would be like Loki and the reader being in the same mission and secretly liking each other but they can't. THANK U IN ADVANCE🫶

Done!

I Can See You (Loki x Reader)

I hope you like it, and thank you so much, this was a lot of fun to write! <3

[ancientwastedlores]

I Can See You!

ASK: Hi can you do the I Can See You from SNTV? The scenario would be like Loki and the reader being in the same mission and secretly liking each other but they can't. THANK U IN ADVANCE🫶

-----

A/N: It's been a while since FREED BY FATE, which I am thrilled to say did much better than I was expecting. Thank you for continuing to read my stuff, guys :') And thank you for more asks! I hope you enjoy <3

-----

I Can See You

Under the cloak of the New Moon, the Avengers compound hummed with an eerie energy. Asgardian Spirits danced around Loki, whispering ancient secrets as he channeled his rituals. These ceremonies blessed the compound with a magical shield, an ethereal protection against outside threats.

Yet, this shield bore a vulnerability. Each New Moon, Loki needed an hour to rejuvenate its power, leaving the compound momentarily exposed. The Avengers, ever vigilant, braced themselves during this time, knowing all too well it was when enemies might seize their chance.

You were stationed at the front door, the only entry point your enemies would never think to use. Steve, Sam, and Tony got the more complex entry points AND all the fun.

As you stood there, Chitauri weapons and your own version of the Iron Glove in hand, you paced back and forth, itching for some excitement.

From within the building, Loki's voice surged like a divine chant, causing the very foundations of the compound to quiver. A sense of awe enveloped you, his smooth baritone intoning in a language unknown to you. It swelled, filling the air, drowning out all else, until his voice was the very pulse of your existence. It felt sacred, all-consuming. You yearned to immerse yourself in this overwhelming force, to be one with its profound mysticism.

THWACK!

Snapping out of the religious experience, you turned your head to the right. What the hell was that?

Alarms blared inside the building, but Loki's voice remained strong. You got the excitement you were hoping for, after all!

You rushed inside to where Loki was, hoping nobody had the chance to reach him yet. The voice got louder as you got closer, and the sheer energy surrounding him and the spirits visiting him stopped you dead in your tracks. This is about as far as you could go - which means it's about as far as any enemy can go.

You took a position right outside this forcefield... and waited. Shouts, alarms, and sounds of guns and clanging armors indicated there were at least 50 men to contend with, but if Tony, Steve, and Sam were handling it, it meant the enemies were dropping like flies.

Suddenly, shadows flitted in the periphery. You squinted, spotting a group of infiltrators — mercenaries from the Ten Rings, wielding strange energy blades that pulsed with a sinister glow. Their aim was clear: to break Loki's concentration, shattering the protective shield.

As they advanced, you readied your Iron Glove, releasing a blinding burst of energy that knocked several of them off their feet. Above you, the sound of battle resonated through the hallways — Steve's shield clashing, Tony's repulsors firing, and Sam's wings echoing with swift movements.

In the midst of the chaos, you held your ground, determined to protect Loki. Every so often, you'd catch a glimpse of him through the chaos. Each time your eyes met, a silent understanding passed between you. He continued his incantation, the ethereal spirits swirling around him, a stark contrast to the violence outside their protective circle.

Suddenly, a massive force threw you off balance. One of the Ten Rings, stronger and more formidable than the others, had charged towards you. Just as he was about to strike, a protective green energy barrier emanated from Loki, throwing the assailant off course.

Loki's eyes locked onto yours, a mix of gratitude and something deeper, something neither of you had acknowledged before. The intensity of his gaze, coupled with the realization that you had just risked everything for him, made your heart race.

Not now... focus.

The energy barrier was enough to make the other thugs hesitate to approach you. The leader shouted at them to continue advancing, but some valued their lives more than their jobs and fled outside. Unknown to them, the Hulk was outside waiting for them, but that wasn't your problem.

The leader glared at you, his bloodied face and gleaming sword making you wonder, for a second, how hot Loki would look disheveled and dangerous.

You shook your head to get rid of those sinful thoughts. Focus.

The leader dropped his sword and reached into his pocket. The world around you stopped, and a breath hitched in your throat. He took out a small metallic object, a cube no bigger than the dice you played Monopoly with.

The cube shimmered under the dim light, emanating an aura so potent that even from a distance, its pull was undeniable. Etched runes, eerily reminiscent of the old Asgardian scripts, glowed on its sides. It was an artifact from the realm of Svartálfar, known for its potent disruptions to magic and spells.

The leader sneered, holding the cube high. "You think you're the only ones with ancient weapons?" he barked. With a swift movement, he crushed the cube in his palm, releasing a blinding pulse of energy.

The effect was immediate. Loki's chants faltered, his connection with the spirits weakened, and a violent tremor coursed through the compound. The quake threw many of the Ten Rings off balance, some being buried beneath the fallen debris. The protective barrier around Loki wavered, and he stumbled, the weight of the entire compound's shield on his shoulders proving too much to bear without his full concentration.

Loki's emerald eyes widened in panic as he saw the leader lunging at you. With a swift movement, he summoned his scepter and projected a beam of emerald energy, knocking the leader off his trajectory and away from you.

But the damage was done. The quake grew more violent, causing cracks to appear on the walls and floor of the compound. Alarms blared, warning of structural instability, and the compound risked collapsing on itself.

It was then that you felt a strong arm wrap around your waist. Without a word, Loki teleported both of you to a safer location, away from the chaos of the crumbling compound. You found yourselves on a hill overlooking the Avengers compound. Below, fires raged, and the earth trembled, but you were safe.

Tony and Sam flew above, and you could almost see the look of utter rage and confusion on Tony's face. You hoped the non-flying Avengers were safe, and almost as if she heard you, Wanda flew out, and Steve, Bucky, and Maria Hill floated out with her, enveloped in her red energy.

Loki and you panted heavily, leaning on each other for support. The magnitude of what had just transpired weighed heavily on both your minds. The cube, with its power to disrupt even the most potent of Asgardian spells, was a game-changer.

Loki looked at you, his eyes filled with a mix of relief and concern. "That cube… it's an artifact of Svartálfar. I've only heard of its existence."

You nodded, catching your breath. "And now we know what it can do."

It took everything in Loki not to pull you into his arms, and thank Odin you were unharmed. The mystical energy around him lingered, making you feel faint. You could still feel the walls shake as his chants grew louder. But now, with no Loki and no spirits on the compound, the Avengers had never been more vulnerable.

"We need to go back," you said. "I do; you stay here." "That's not happening... Loki, take me back." "Y/N, you're not a god, and you have no powers." "I'm an Avenger!" "Y/N!" "LOKI!"

You glared at him defiantly. "I'll walk there if I have to." "Then I will tie you down here."

The comment made you take a step back - his low voice and intense eyes made that comment so sexually charged you needed a minute to stabilize yourself. As if he heard your thoughts, he blushed a bright red and looked away from you.

"Could you not be so stubborn?" he asked. "The compound is literally falling apart."

Loki, taking a deep breath, realized the futility of arguing. "Very well," he sighed, offering his hand, "Together, then."

----

In a blink, you found yourselves back at the compound. The fires raged more fiercely, and the remnants of the Ten Rings mercenary group had regrouped, exploiting the compound's vulnerabilities.

Tony was in the thick of it, his red and gold suit glowing brightly against the darkness, his repulsor beams shooting enemies down like flies. But it wasn't enough. Wanda, her hands glowing with red energy, was creating barriers and tossing the mercenaries around, but she, too, was outnumbered.

"I'll handle the men," you shouted, drawing two Chitauri weapons from your side. "You get the shield back up!"

Before Loki could object, you dashed into the fray. Tony zoomed by your side, firing blasts at any mercenary that got too close. "Nice of you to join the party," he quipped.

Wanda joined forces with you, her telekinetic abilities perfectly complementing your combat skills. Together, the three of you formed an unbreakable front, pushing the invaders back.

Loki, meanwhile, rushed to the ritual site, attempting to regain his connection with the Asgardian spirits. As he began chanting, another familiar voice joined him. Thor, having sensed the disturbance, had returned. The brothers, their powers combined, created a force to be reckoned with. The chants became louder, and more potent, and the ethereal spirits returned, swirling around them.

You, Tony, and Wanda worked in perfect harmony. Using her powers, Wanda lifted groups of mercenaries into the air while Tony and you, with precision targeting, fired at them, effectively incapacitating them. Once subdued, they were effortlessly thrown into the waiting arms of the Hulk, who gleefully swatted them away like bothersome flies.

As the last of the mercenaries were dealt with, Loki and Thor's combined energies surged, the shield's power restored. The compound's tremors ceased, and an eerie calm settled.

The shield was back, stronger than ever.

-----

"We really need to find another way to charge those magical shields," Tony said, taking a swig from his glass. "An hour under a New Moon? We're practically begging to be invaded."

The party was on in the in-house bar and lounge, but Loki was nowhere to be seen. Not seeing the point in staying too long, you finished the rest of your drink and got up.

"Leaving already?" Tony asked, "Come on, it's 1 in the morning." "Yeah, but emotionally I'm 80, so I would want to be in bed by 8. Sorry."

He laughed and bid you good night, as did the others.

You made your way back to your room when Loki crossed your path.

The dim lighting of the hallway cast dramatic shadows, and Loki's silhouette stood out, his posture both regal and, strangely, vulnerable. His green eyes bore into yours, the same intensity from earlier lingering.

"You're heading to your chambers?" he asked, the question seemingly simple but with layers of emotion underneath.

"I am," you replied, meeting his gaze. "But not before I thank you."

He quirked an eyebrow. "Thank me?"

"For everything," you started. "You've been risking your life to shield this compound, putting yourself in the line of fire every New Moon."

He took a step closer, closing the gap between you two. "You risked just as much. Maybe even more," he said softly. "You could have stayed out of it. Yet, you chose to step into the fray, for me."

The air between you two was thick with unsaid words and emotions, neither of you breaking the gaze.

"I couldn't just stand by," you whispered. "Not when you were in danger."

A small smile tugged at Loki's lips. "And I couldn't imagine a world where you were harmed. Even the thought terrifies me."

Heart pounding, you took a bold step, bringing yourself right up to him. "Loki," you breathed, "I realized something tonight. With all the chaos and... watching those men trying to get to you. I-I can't ignore it anymore."

His voice was barely audible, filled with anticipation. "And what is it you can't ignore anymore?"

His maddening, magnetic energy made you feel weak, conveniently giving you an excuse to wrap your arms around his shoulders and pull him towards you. You ran your hands from the nape of his neck into his hair as you lifted yourself to tiptoes and kissed him deeply. As you tugged his hair gently, his arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you into him, nearly crushing you.

------

MASTERLIST

Open for new fic requests! Here are the request guidelines :)

[ancientwastedlores]

Anyone else think Hozier's Unreal Unearth is hitting a certain way after Good Omens S2? I'm in my Crowley feels.

[ancientwastedlores]

Ask is open for T. Swift-song-inspired fics on Loki & Hiddles!

Send your requests here!

MASTERLIST || Latest series: Freed by Fate (3 parts)

[ancientwastedlores]

FREED BY FATE (PT 3)

Find Part 1 and Part 2 here

WARNINGS: None

WORD COUNT: 750

A few hours before the wedding, the atmosphere was a tangible mixture of nervous anticipation and frenzied excitement. Kate was on the bride's side, caught up in a whirl of satin and lace, champagne and laughter, as Honoria readied herself to step into the new phase of her life. She looked breathtaking, radiant in her happiness - or maybe it was the glint of relief that reflected in her eyes as the reality of retaining her inheritance drew nearer.

On the other side, things were starkly different. You were with Tom, helping him with the last-minute preparations. His suit hung untouched, the rich fabric glimmering under the soft light. The cufflinks, a gift from his mother, lay neatly on the dresser. His groomsmen's gifts, hand-picked by you, were wrapped meticulously, awaiting distribution.

Yet, there was a palpable tension in the air. Tom was quiet, his silence unnerving. His friends looked worried, stealing glances at him and whispering amongst themselves. Their jovial banter from the previous night had disappeared, replaced by an uneasy quietude.

"Tom," you began, placing a gentle hand on his arm. He flinched slightly, startled, and looked at you. "Are you okay?"

He laughed humorlessly, running a hand through his hair. "What do you think, Y/N?"

The air around you shifted as the groomsmen recognized something was going on. The group excused itself from the room, leaving you alone with Tom. He watched them leave before turning to look at you, his eyes a whirlpool of emotions.

“You still have time. You can still leave.” 

"I can't, Y/N," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I have no choice."

"But you do, Tom," you insisted, holding his gaze. "You always have a choice."

For a moment, he looked like he might argue. But then he sighed, dropping his gaze to the floor. "I can't let Honoria lose everything. And it's not just about the money or the inheritance. It's... it's about her dignity. Her legacy."

"And what about you, Tom?" you asked, your voice barely a whisper. "What about your happiness?"

Tom fell silent, his expression hard to read. "I... I don't know, Y/N."

You looked at him, your heart aching. You had seen this man in moments of joy and sadness and watched him prepare for the biggest day of his life with a resignation that was heartbreaking. And now, as you stood there, you realized just how deeply you cared for him.

The silence stretched on, filled with unspoken words and hidden emotions. Finally, you decided to break it, "Tom, I..."

He held his finger against your lips, the touch igniting a fire inside you. "Y/N, don't. I can't... I can't hear it right now."

"But, Tom..."

"I appreciate everything you've done for me. For us," he said, his voice hoarse. "I just... I need some time."

Nodding, you excused yourself, leaving Tom alone with his thoughts. 

---------------------------------------------------------------------

MASTERLIST (find the next chapters here!)

Requests are open!

[ancientwastedlores]

FREED BY FATE (PT 2)

Find Part 1 here

WARNINGS: None

WORD COUNT: 966

A few hours before the wedding, the atmosphere was a tangible mixture of nervous anticipation and frenzied excitement. Kate was on the bride's side, caught up in a whirl of satin and lace, champagne and laughter, as Honoria readied herself to step into the new phase of her life. She looked breathtaking, radiant in her happiness - or maybe it was the glint of relief that reflected in her eyes as the reality of retaining her inheritance drew nearer.

On the other side, things were starkly different. You were with Tom, helping him with the last-minute preparations. His suit hung untouched, the rich fabric glimmering under the soft light. The cufflinks, a gift from his mother, lay neatly on the dresser. His groomsmen's gifts, hand-picked by you, were wrapped meticulously, awaiting distribution.

Yet, there was a palpable tension in the air. Tom was quiet, his silence unnerving. His friends looked worried, stealing glances at him and whispering amongst themselves. Their jovial banter from the previous night had disappeared, replaced by an uneasy quietude.

"Tom," you began, placing a gentle hand on his arm. He flinched slightly, startled, and looked at you. "Are you okay?"

He laughed humorlessly, running a hand through his hair. "What do you think, Y/N?"

The air around you shifted as the groomsmen recognized something was going on. The group excused itself from the room, leaving you alone with Tom. He watched them leave before turning to look at you, his eyes a whirlpool of emotions.

“You still have time. You can still leave.” 

"I can't, Y/N," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I have no choice."

"But you do, Tom," you insisted, holding his gaze. "You always have a choice."

For a moment, he looked like he might argue. But then he sighed, dropping his gaze to the floor. "I can't let Honoria lose everything. And it's not just about the money or the inheritance. It's... it's about her dignity. Her legacy."

"And what about you, Tom?" you asked, your voice barely a whisper. "What about your happiness?"

Tom fell silent, his expression hard to read. "I... I don't know, Y/N."

You looked at him, your heart aching. You had seen this man in moments of joy and sadness and watched him prepare for the biggest day of his life with a resignation that was heartbreaking. And now, as you stood there, you realized just how deeply you cared for him.

The silence stretched on, filled with unspoken words and hidden emotions. Finally, you decided to break it, "Tom, I..."

He held his finger against your lips, the touch igniting a fire inside you. "Y/N, don't. I can't... I can't hear it right now."

"But, Tom..."

"I appreciate everything you've done for me. For us," he said, his voice hoarse. "I just... I need some time."

Nodding, you excused yourself, leaving Tom alone with his thoughts. 

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The next time you saw Tom, he was in a suit. The sight of it took your breath away, and you couldn’t stop your heart from dropping to your knees. He looked gorgeous, almost surreal. The impeccably tailored suit hugged his form, accentuating his lean physique. His hair was styled to perfection, a few stray locks playfully falling over his forehead. And his eyes, oh, his eyes were a tumult of emotions - nervousness, anticipation, and a hidden sadness that only you seemed to perceive.

He went on to distribute the groomsmen's gifts, each one met with a chorus of appreciative remarks and brotherly jests. His friends clapped his back and murmured words of encouragement into his ear, but all their joviality couldn’t mask the concern in their eyes.

And then, it was time for his speech. Tom stood at the head of the room, his gaze scanning over his friends and family. The room fell into a hushed silence as he cleared his throat.

"I want to thank all of you for being here," he began, his voice steady. "This day...this day wouldn't have been possible without each and every one of you."

You watched from the sidelines, your heart echoing with a dull ache. The air seemed to thin around you as you saw him standing there, on the brink of a decision that he wasn't entirely at peace with. It felt like watching a scene from a tragic play, beautiful yet heartbreaking.

The car ride to the venue was quiet. The bustling cityscape of London rushed by in a blur, reflecting your tumultuous thoughts. Beside you, Tom sat, his gaze fixed on the passing scenery, lost in his thoughts.

And then, he broke the silence.

"Y/N..." he murmured, turning to look at you. His voice was soft, hesitant as if he was grappling with the words. "There's something I need to tell you."

Your heart pounded in your chest, a flurry of emotions coursing through you. "Yes, Tom?" you managed to ask, bracing yourself for what was to come.

"I..." he began, faltering for a moment before taking a deep breath, "... I care for you. More than I should, more than is appropriate, given... everything."

Your breath hitched in your throat. "Tom..."

"No, let me finish," he said, a hint of desperation in his voice. "I know it's too late. I know that... well, I am about to marry Honoria. But I... I can't stand the thought of not telling you how I feel."

Your heart felt heavy in your chest. All the unsaid words, all the hidden emotions - they were out in the open now. But it was too late. A sense of bittersweet relief washed over you tinged with regret and an inexplicable pain. But for now, you could do nothing but offer him a weak smile and a whispered, "I know, Tom. I know."

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MASTERLIST (find the next chapters here!)

Chapter 3 of Freed by Fate here

Requests are open!

[ancientwastedlores]

Hiii! I've missed your fics and I was so glad to see you back! I saw this idea on IG some weeks ago and omg I want it.... so Tom H is being forced to marry someone because of some family agreement that happened ages ago, and he has to see it through because he is a gentleman and a man of his word... but Reader is hired to plan the wedding (basically the event of the year!) and Tom falls in love with her! I'm thinking Antony Bridgerton vibes, pain and longing! thankuuuuu <3 <3

My goodness, it's been a while! What with having a job and everything, I've lost touch with writing, but I do miss it. So glad to see you missed me too, I was afraid I would return to darkness :')

With love, from me to you...  

NOTE: I meant for this to be just 1 part, and it ended up being 3. Enjoy!

WARNINGS: Masturbation, 18+ only

WORD COUNT: 4991

FREED BY FATE (PT 1)

This wasn't happening.

A promise made some 10 years ago... surely, she would have found another man. Surely, she would have fallen in love with someone else.

Tom Hiddleston, hiding away in his London townhouse with the curtains drawn and lights off, gaped at the headlines on his phone.

"Honoria Sterling, Heir to Worldwide Hotel Empire, Set to Marry Marvel’s Tom Hiddleston."

The words almost seemed to be in another language. Taking another swig of his whiskey, he tossed his phone aside and glared into nothingness.

He would have to call on Honoria. She would just have to understand.

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24 hours after the news broke, Tom found himself at the door of Honoria's penthouse apartment, knocking with all the strength of a man after a painful trudge through one of London's miserable rains. He would have driven, but he needed the walk. As hot as his head was getting thinking about Honoria’s betrayal, it would take London’s cold showers to calm him down before seeing the woman face to face. 

He heard her shuffle inside before unlocking the door and pulling it open. What greeted him was a tall, classic English beauty with curlers in her hair and a sour look on her face. 

"I was expecting you." she said curtly. She tossed him the towel she held in her hand. "Come in and dry off."

Dripping wet, he took the towel and attempted to dry his hair as he entered the lavish apartment. Any other day, he would have carried Honoria in his arms and fucked her on her designer couch while marveling at the city lights. Tonight, however, the thought of touching her made his skin crawl. 

He glared at her as he made his way to her expensive fur carpet and sat down on it in defiance. The wet sludge on his shoes made their insolent mark, and he all but smirked at her. 

She rolled her eyes. “Okay, you made your point. Just talk like an adult.” 

"You had no right to break the news that way."

"I knew you wouldn't commit to it. And I wasn't in the mood to have a fight."

"What if I were seeing someone!?"

"Oh please, you broke up with that singer like a month ago. You're not one to move fast."

Tom still gave her the dirtiest look as he wiped his hair. "You had no right," he muttered.

Honoria sat on a barstool across from Tom and crossed her long legs. She was unperturbed by his accusations. "We had a deal. I told you... I collect."

"You could have warned me."

"Would you have agreed to it?"

"NO!"

"That's why I didn't warn you."

He sighed. Silence seemed like the only appropriate thing for the moment. He could hardly muster the energy for anything else. The walk to her house took everything out of him, and the only thing he could think to do was sleep. 

“I’m staying on the carpet tonight and we will discuss this in the morning." 

Saying this, he grabbed a pillow from the couch, put it down on the plush carpet, and settled in for the night.

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You were among the youngest recruits in the wedding business but a formidable force. Small in stature but a towering personality that always got the best of the company’s toughest suppliers. It was never any point in negotiating contracts with you, so they decided it was better to be your friend than foe. 

From handling suppliers like an expert to striking deals that made both your boss and your clients happy, you were possibly the best thing to happen to ‘Mosaic’ since Kate founded it 6 years ago.

You were practically invincible, and Kate knew it. Little by little, she felt comfortable giving you bigger weddings to handle, and you never disappointed her or your clients.

So when the Hiddleston-Sterling wedding crossed Kate's table, it was obvious who she’d choose to assist her. 

"Be my number 2 on this," she pleaded.

"I don't know, Kate, I'm already managing 2 weddings this month..."

"Hand it off to Alison and work with me on this one! Come on, you know you want to."

You did... this would be the biggest contract Mosaic had ever seen, and you'd been wanting to talk to Kate about becoming partners in her business. This would be your in... impress her, and she might agree to give you shares in the company. But you also had to consider the well-being of your existing clients. 

"I... it wouldn't be fair to my other clients, Kate. I can’t switch up on them and make Alison the point of contact out of the blue."

"Y/N... I don't trust anyone else. I’ll speak to the clients! And this wedding will need 2 very capable, very active people to contact at all times with questions and requests. I can't do this alone."

"Um..."

She looked at you with eyes the size of saucers.

"FINE" you exclaimed, instantly a giant grin crossing your face. "Hiddleston-Sterling!"

Both of you squealed in her office before you had to compose yourself and walk out.

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The sun rays filtered through Honoria's intricately patterned curtains and fell on Tom's sleeping face in the most beautiful way. He stirred awake, disturbed by the light and blinked to focus his sight. He was still on the floor in her living room, and she was off in the kitchen brewing herself a coffee.

"Honoria?"

"Oh hello. You're up!"

She walked to the living room, 2 cups in hand, her heels clacking against the Calcutta marble floors. She set down one cup for Tom and motioned for him to get up.

"We still need to talk," he reminded her.

"Plenty of time for that. I have to go to work now. I've got the planner coming to meet me at the office and her assistant will come see you later."

"What planner?"

"What planner? The wedding planner! Come along!"

"Honoria... we can't do this. "

"Thomas..."

"Oh dear," he shook his head at the mention of his full name.

"Tom," she corrected herself. "I need this. I will have nothing if you back out, you know that."

He looked up at her from the ground, still in a daze.

Honoria was beautiful... a classic English beauty with soft features and a timeless elegance about her. Tom couldn't break her heart.

"When is the assistant coming?"

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Binders, forms, stickers, and color pens in hand, you rapped on the door of a fancy London townhouse. This was by no means your first time meeting with a high-profile client, but you were afraid of falling into his charms.

Tom's every interview online felt like he was flirting with the camera, and you couldn't help but feel like you were on a date every time you watched one pop up on YouTube. But no... you had to be professional. The man is getting married. To a billionaire, no less!

A second later, the door was opened.

It took you what felt like hours to compose yourself.

Tom Hiddleston, all 6 feet and 2 inches of him, stood before you with his blonde curls, soft smile, and a crisp white shirt. Fighting the urge to take a deep breath and smell his scent, you mustered up a professional smile for the groom-to-be.

"Mr. Hiddleston! I'm Y/N." you said. "I'm here to discuss the wedding, the office must have informed you."

"Of course, Mosaic Events. Come in!"

You stepped into an immaculate hallway with antique-style tables and fresh-cut flowers atop them. Of course, his home was pristine. "Right this way..." he pointed to the living area, where there was already a teapot, 2 empty cups, and a plate of biscuits.

His attentiveness during the conversation surprised you. You thought he'd be dismissive or distant, perhaps too overwhelmed by his situation to pay much attention. But no, Tom was all ears and eyes. When he told you what he wanted, it felt almost intimate... like getting a glance into a side of him that was forbidden. He talked about flowers and how he wanted his late grandfather's poetry to be read out at some point during the wedding or reception. It told you the story of a little boy planning his special day once he'd found the love of his life.

"I know men don't usually give this much thought to weddings..." he said sheepishly. "Honestly, I want Honoria to have whatever she wants, so if my ideas step on her toes, you can just discard them."

You smiled at him. "We try to accommodate both the bride and groom so it's special for both of you. And... I think it's beautiful you've given it so much thought."

"Do you have a lot of men so specific about their wedding needs?" he asked, hoping for some solidarity to make him feel better.

"Actually... more than you'd think!" you decide to give him a little gossip to make him feel better, "Once, I had a client tell me he wanted his bride to walk down the aisle to the Jurassic theme."

"What?"

"Not naming names... but he got a piano version of the theme made and had his to-be wife walk down the aisle to that. She had no idea. Probably still doesn't!"

Tom laughs, now relieved. It's a beautiful laugh, but you always knew that.

"Thank you, Y/N. For talking to me and getting my ideas down."

"You're very welcome!" you stand up and collect your things.

As he walks you to the door and opens it for you, you sense a hesitation in his actions.

"You want to ask me something," you say.

He looks surprised. "Um... well, yes.”

“Go on, then. I’m sure I’ve heard worse” you tease.

“Gosh, no… I - I wanted to ask if you're single” a fierce red creeps into his cheeks. 

"Ah. You want to know if the wedding planner has planned her own wedding," you tease, "Always the planner, never the bride."

He laughs. "I reckon that's a yes."

"Yep. Far too much on my plate to handle a man."

"It's a man's job to handle you, not be handled."

"Well..." you shrug. "Never met a man who didn't need handling. And the good ones are all taken so... here I am."

You’re not sure why you’ve just revealed such an intimate detail. Perhaps the wedding planning made him so vulnerable you felt you had to share a tidbit. You force a smile, however awkward, to your face. “Have a lovely day, Mr. Hiddleston. I’ll be seeing you soon!” 

You leave through the door and skip down the steps as Tom watches you. “I sure hope so.” he mutters under his breath. 

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The Mosaic Events office had been buzzing for the last month. The date for the Hiddleston-Sterling (or as you’d termed it: Hiddling) wedding had been set, sending everyone, especially Kate, into a frenzy. 

You’d met Tom only one more time after the initial consultation, only to discuss the wedding date and venue. Honoria was present at that meeting, and you were frankly a little intimidated by her presence. She was beautiful, powerful, sophisticated, and to your surprise, incredibly funny. You saw why Tom would marry her, and it was obvious why she’d marry him. 

At the time, though, the air wasn’t as charged with excitement as you’d expected. Tom seemed miles away during the discussion, mainly agreeing to anything Honoria said. It seemed possible he was just having a bad day… 

But today… today was important. You had planned a cake tasting and were scrambling to get your planners and papers in order. 

As the morning sun glinted off the skyline of London, the pastry chefs and bakers at The Tea Room began setting up for the day's events, and you were right there with them, setting the table for the session. A round table was meticulously set up, laden with different flavors of cakes and their respective icing options. A stack of notepads, pens, and swatch cards lay beside each plate, ready for notes about preferences and decisions.

As Tom and Honoria arrived, the tension in the air was palpable. Tom's usual charming demeanor seemed to have an undercurrent of unease as Honoria, ever the elegant figure, swept in, her eyes glittering with excitement. You couldn't help but notice the lack of intimacy between the couple — a stark contrast to the warmth and affection that typically filled these tastings.

You sat across from Tom, your eyes meeting his. His gaze was inquisitive and held a sense of familiarity that caught you off guard. Honoria took her seat beside him, her diamond engagement ring sparkling under the chandelier light.

The session started with a selection of classic flavors — vanilla, chocolate, and red velvet. Tom was attentive and involved, asking about ingredients and the possibility of personal touches to the wedding cake. You were taken aback by his thoughtfulness and interest. He wasn't merely agreeing to Honoria's choices this time but engaging in an honest dialogue about the cake design, the flavors, and how it all tied back to the theme of the wedding.

You couldn't help but lean in, captivated by his earnestness. Tom noticed your attention, his eyes meeting yours again. You saw a flicker of something and, as a reflex, pulled back. 

"Honoria, I quite fancy the idea of having lavender in our cake. It might be unusual, but it could be a homage to the lavender fields in Cotswolds where we had our first trip together." Tom suggested.

Honoria seemed taken aback. "Lavender? In our wedding cake? I don't know, Tom, it sounds rather odd."

Tom visibly withdrew after this rejection, and you couldn’t help but feel a tug at your heartstrings. 

"Actually…” you heard yourself jump in, “Lavender can be a beautiful, subtle flavor when done right. And it's symbolic, too. It can represent love and devotion — which seems apt for a wedding cake, don't you think?"

Tom's eyes brightened, and he looked at you with appreciation. "Yes, exactly!"

However, Honoria, her gaze icy, swiftly shut the idea down. "I think we'll stick with the classics, Thomas. No need to experiment on our wedding day."

You sensed the disappointment on Tom's face, but he simply nodded, not wanting to push the issue further. The cake tasting continued, but the atmosphere had shifted. The spark in Tom's eyes had dimmed, and his voice lacked its previous enthusiasm.

As the day ended and decisions were made — a towering traditional white cake with ribbon fondant, pearl detailing, and roses — you couldn't help but feel like something was missing. These tastings were usually filled with laughter, curiosity, and excitement as the couple debated over flavors and playfully teased each other for their sense of taste. This one felt… formal. Almost like a wedding activity to check off the list before Honoria returned to managing her empire and Tom returned to set. 

You began packing up your duffel bag filled with binders and samples when you caught Tom’s eye. He walked over to you, a shy smile on his face. "Thank you for today. And for understanding what I wanted... even if it didn't make the cut."

You returned his smile, the air between you humming with an unspoken connection. "No problem. Sorry it didn’t work out, but…” you reached into the duffel bag and pulled out a small cake box, “I got them to bake you a vanilla pastry with lavender. If I were you, I’d eat it on my couch while binge-watching something.” 

Tom’s smile faded, and his eyes widened. It seemed as if someone had reached into his heart and pulled out the very desire he’d been desperate to manifest, though it seemed little to do with cake and more to do with your gesture. 

“Thank you, Y/N” he said softly. “This was… this is wonderful, thank you.” 

---------------------------------------------------------------------

Tom sat on his couch, playing reruns of Brooklyn Nine-Nine, savoring every bite of the pastry you got made for him. It was delicious, unique… perfect. He couldn’t help but think of you - ache for you - as he took bite after bite and imagined you next to him, tasting each pastry. 

He carefully set aside what was left of the pastry and stared into nothingness. After settling into the couch and putting his head back, he took a few deep breaths before unbuckling his belt and reaching into his pants. 

It had been a month since he first saw you, and he’d stopped himself from thinking of you in any capacity other than a friend. This day, however, watching you try cakes, get frosting on your fingers and lick it off (an act that horrified Honoria’s delicate English sensibilities), and enjoy sweet flavors with sinful sounds, pushed him over the edge. 

After taking a moment to breathe and recenter himself, he let his mind drift. Images of you from earlier in the day surfaced, making his heart race. He remembered the way you had playfully argued about the lavender in the cake, the way you had laughed, and the way your eyes lit up when you spoke. He found it enthralling.

He imagined you there with him on the couch, your laughter filling the room as you bantered about the show on TV. His heart ached at the thought, and he let his hand move, his touch bringing a much-needed release.

As the night deepened and the laughter from the TV echoed around the room, he found himself lost in fantasies of you. Each touch, each stroke, was fueled by thoughts of you — your smile, your laughter, your kindness.

His other hand traced imaginary lines over his chest and stomach, his mind picturing your hands instead. His heart pounded in his chest as he thought of you touching him, your fingers dancing over his skin.

The fantasy of your touch, the imagined sound of your voice whispering his name, drove him over the edge. His heart pounded in his chest, his breath hitched, and a low groan escaped his lips. 

As the wave of pleasure washed over him, he let out a soft sigh, a single word slipping from his lips, "Y/N..."

In the quiet aftermath, Tom was left panting on his couch, his mind filled with thoughts of you. It was a strange sensation, both satisfying and overwhelming. He realized that he was falling for you, despite the complicated situation he found himself in.

And as he lay there in the silent room, he couldn't help but wonder what it would be like to actually have you there, right next to him. To hear your laughter not in his imagination but echoing in his living room. And above all, he wondered what it would feel like to taste lavender not just on a cake but on your lips.

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“Do you like it?” you asked Honoria, hope in your voice. 

“It’s absolutely perfect!” she exclaimed. "You've truly outdone yourself, Y/N," Honoria continued, her eyes wide with admiration. She turned to look at the grandeur around her, at the majesty of the venue that you had turned into an elegant dreamscape for her and Tom.

The venue was the epitome of classic elegance and beauty. Vaulted ceilings adorned with ornate carvings led the gaze toward the expanse of sky visible through the massive glass dome. The walls, cloaked in ivy and twining roses, held vintage gilt mirrors reflecting the magnificent chandeliers, which dangled like a constellation of stars.

The attention to detail was impeccable. From the antiquated bronze candelabras holding flickering candles to the opulent drapes of heavy silk, everything showcased old money. The tables were dressed in pristine white, topped with silver cutlery and crystal stemware. Centerpieces featuring an array of flowers in hues of white and soft pink added an ethereal touch.

Tom was left speechless. He felt as if he had been transported into another world, a world fit for a king and queen — a perfect analogy for him and Honoria, considering their royalty status in the media. They were the IT couple, constantly scrutinized under the public eye.

As he looked around, a soft gasp left his lips. His eyes darted from one corner of the room to the next, each more breathtaking than the last. "Y/N," he whispered, turning to look at you, "it's... I'm at a loss for words."

His heart pounded in his chest as he took in your prideful smile. As beautiful as the venue was, nothing compared to your smile. It was infectious, lighting up the room even more than the grand chandeliers. It warmed him, made him feel alive. But it also tore him apart.

He wished he was marrying you.

The reality of his situation dawned on him, bitter and heart-wrenching. He was to marry Honoria, not you. The beautiful, perfect venue was for her. The gorgeous arrangements, the grandeur, the elegance, it was all for her.

"I... It's perfect," he choked out, his eyes never leaving yours. "You've done an incredible job, Y/N."

But as he said those words, all he could think about was how much he wished he was saying them to you, not as a wedding planner, but as his bride. He wished he was telling you how beautiful everything was because it was for your wedding — your wedding with him. And as he stood there amidst the grandeur of the venue, he felt an ache in his chest at the thought.

You managed to tear your eyes away from Tom’s and approach Kate to confirm some last minute details. 

Honoria walked over to Tom while you were gone and took his arm in hers. “This looks fit for us, don’t you think?” 

“...it really does.” 

She turned to face him. “You know… I really appreciate this. I know I don’t say it enough but you are practically saving my life.” 

Tom nodded, well aware of their predicament. “Sure, don’t mention it,” he said curtly. His eyes went back to you, now engaged in an animated conversation with the caterer. With only a week left for the wedding day, the noose around his neck only got tighter. 

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As the night wore on, you found yourself in a little pub tucked away in a quiet corner of London. Kate had just finished her fourth pint and was bellowing out laughter at a joke that wasn't that funny. But the night was full of merriment and euphoria, your upcoming deadline – the Hiddleston-Sterling wedding – drawing close.

Suddenly, Kate stood up, her face flushed. "I've got to go, Y/N," she slurred, grinning. "I'll leave the tab with you."

As you protested, she waved you off, promising to make it up later, and stumbled out of the pub, leaving you alone. Sighing, you sauntered over to the bar to settle your tab. 

You were halfway through paying when you spotted a familiar figure hunched over a glass of whiskey at the other end of the bar. Tom Hiddleston sat there, alone, his shoulders slumped. Your heart throbbed as you watched him down his drink and immediately ask for a refill. He looked lost, alone, and incredibly drunk.

"Tom?" you called out, approaching him hesitantly. He looked up at you, surprise flickering across his features.

"Y/N," he slurred, a sad smile playing on his lips. "What are you doing here?"

"I was here with Kate," you replied, glancing at his drink. "How much have you had, Tom?"

He shrugged, turning the empty glass in his hands. "Don't know. Lost count after the fifth one."

You sighed, biting your lip. "You're too drunk, Tom. I can't let you go home alone like this."

With some struggle and a few mumbled protests from Tom, you managed to get him outside and into a cab. The ride back to his place was quiet, except for Tom's occasional drunken ramblings. 

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Once inside his apartment, you guided him to the couch, helping him sit down. He slumped against the cushions, watching you with bleary eyes.

"Tom," you began, your voice gentle, "Why are you doing this? You're marrying in a week. You should be happy."

A bitter laugh escaped him, and he shook his head. "Happy?" he echoed, sounding hollow. "I wish, Y/N. I wish."

Your brows furrowed, and you sat down next to him. "What do you mean? Why are you marrying Honoria if you're not happy?"

His laughter died, replaced by a deep sigh. He ran a hand through his hair; his gaze focused somewhere far away. "Honoria's father," he began, "he's dying. And he put this absurd clause in his will. If Honoria doesn't get married before he passes away, she loses everything. Her inheritance... her father's hotel empire."

“Okay… what… I mean, that’s awful, but what does that have to do with you?” 

“When she found out, she asked me… she asked me to be her safety. We agreed that if I wasn’t seeing anyone that I’d be the safety.” 

"So, you're marrying her out of obligation?"

Tom nodded again, his gaze finally meeting yours. "I'm trapped, Y/N. I couldn't let her lose everything. She’s been my friend since I was in college, she means so much to me, but I’m just… I’m not in love. And that sounds so selfish in the face of everything she could lose, all because she isn’t married to some guy.” 

A mix of emotions surged through you. Anger because of Honoria’s father, sadness for Honoria’s situation, and pain for Tom’s obligation. You were in no position to help any of them… the only thing you could do was ensure the day went smoothly because the bride and groom seemingly had enough to worry about. 

“None of it matters. It doesn’t matter how she feels… how I feel. How much I feel…” he trailed off. Still drunk, he let his head roll back as he settled into the couch. He took your hand and pressed it against his chest. “Your hands are cold,” he mumbled. 

Squeezing his hand gently, you murmured a quiet "sorry," pulling your hand back and rubbing them together for warmth. 

"You need to sleep, Tom," you gently prodded, standing up to fetch a glass of water from his kitchen. Returning to the living room, you pressed the glass into his hand, helping him sit up. He drank it obediently, but his gaze never left you.

"It's not fair, is it?" he mumbled, his words barely a whisper. "Being forced into something you didn't choose..."

You didn't have an answer to that. Instead, you helped him lay back on the couch, grabbing a throw blanket from the back and covering him with it. His eyelids were heavy now, the alcohol and the late hour taking their toll.

"I'm sorry you're in this position, Tom," you finally said. "Just... try to get some sleep, alright?"

He nodded, his eyes fluttering closed. "You're a good friend, Y/N," he slurred out, his voice drowsy. "Thank you."

With that, he drifted off, his breaths evening out into the steady rhythm of sleep. You sat there for a moment longer, looking at him, at the man who was about to get married out of obligation rather than love. A mix of emotions welled up inside you, but you pushed them down. Now wasn't the time. Tom needed his rest, and you... You had a wedding to plan.

Rising from your spot next to the couch, you quietly collected your belongings and left his apartment, the echoes of his words replaying in your mind, leaving a bitter taste in your mouth. It wasn't fair; none of it was. But life rarely is.

As you left the building and hailed a cab, the night seemed colder, lonelier. But you steeled yourself. You had a job to do, and no matter what, you would do it to the best of your ability. Even if your heart ached with every passing second. For now, though, you needed to focus on the task at hand: creating a fairy tale wedding for a couple trapped in their own twisted version of reality.

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The days that followed blurred into a haze of activity. Each sunrise brought a fresh onslaught of tasks that barely gave you time to dwell on Tom's revelation.

There were the vendors to deal with - florists who couldn't seem to get the shade of blush on the roses right, caterers insisting on last-minute changes, the musicians bickering over the setlist. 

The bridesmaid dresses were another matter entirely. They arrived two sizes too small, causing panic amongst the bridesmaids and a whirlwind of frenzied phone calls to the designer. Hours were spent on damage control, finding a local seamstress who could fix the dresses and ensure that they fit perfectly.

Then there was Kate's nervousness. She was typically level-headed and unflappable, but the sheer scale of this wedding, the media attention it was garnering, was getting to her. There were multiple reassurances that you had to offer, countless instances of telling her that everything was under control, that she was doing a fantastic job, and that the wedding would be beautiful.

Your nights were spent tossing and turning in bed, Tom's words echoing in your head. You found your thoughts drifting to him constantly, wondering how he was faring, how he was dealing with his own emotions.

The sight of Tom and Honoria together during the pre-wedding events was a constant reminder of the impending wedding, a countdown that was ticking away relentlessly. Their smiles seemed forced, their laughter too loud, and their touches lacked warmth. But the public ate it up, their faces splashed across every tabloid, their love story narrated with a romantic flair that felt too hollow to you.

As the days dwindled down to hours, the buzz around the wedding escalated. It was being touted as the event of the year, the union of two influential figures under the watchful eyes of the world.

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MASTERLIST

Chapter 2 of Freed by Fate here

Requests are open! &lt;3

[ancientwastedlores]

Back to writing fics!

Hallo!

I know it's been a while. A lot happened - moved to Dubai, started working as a freelance writer, moved to a nice new apartment, etc. etc.

I just miss writing Loki fics and I'm on a well-deserved vacation rn, so I wanted to get back into it. SO. Ask box is open. Let your prompts fly, my pretties!

A

[ancientwastedlores]

Suffering may be redeemable, but it is not intrinsically redemptive.

Catherine Keller, “Scoop Up the Water and the Moon Is in Your Hands: On Feminist Theology and Dynamic Self-Emptying” in The Emptying God: A Buddhist-Jewish-Christian Conversation, ed. John B. Cobb Jr. and Christopher Ives