lusmeitli
lusmeitli
Lusmeitli
14 posts
I’m a mountain goat and I seek solace in fanfics, reading and writing. The latter mostly badly, but at least it’s done without AI. And as always: Free Palestine.
Don't wanna be here? Send us removal request.
lusmeitli · 2 months ago
Text
Worth all of it
Tumblr media
Summary: How ‘Endgame’ should have ended, in my opinion. One shot (1.1k).
Pairings: none
Warnings: Endgame (it’s a trigger, okay), Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers, the tiniest dusting of angst with a big helping of friendship fluff.
A/N: This is a little hug from me to you. Why? Because I felt like it. This little drabble is an extortionate amount of wishful thinking on my part. It’s been festering in my brain and on my hard drive for years. So take it or leave it.
Apologies if my Bucky and my Steve are not canon. Also, a head’s up that English isn’t my mother tongue.
✪  ✪  ✪  ✪  ✪  ✪  ✪  ✪  ✪  ✪ 
When his best friend vanishes from the time travel platform, Bucky’s eyes feel so heavy they close.
He listens to Banner counting the seconds. But Bucky knows the Cap won’t return.
Steve, the skinny, sickly kid from Brooklyn, the man who tried to grab him as he fell off the train, the man who refused to fight him when he was the Winter Soldier, because he still saw something in him even Bucky didn’t know he had anymore. Steve, who’d fought for him, stood against government and friends alike because Steve believed in him and gave him his unconditional loyalty and friendship, even when Bucky was at his most broken and least human. 
He always does.
That Steve deserves a shot at the life he was robbed of. He has served the country and the world more than should be asked of any man. He carries burdens no one knows of. That Steve deserves a chance at happiness with the love of his life. Bucky wonders if they’ll have children. But he knows whatever will happen his friend will never regret going back. Because he knows the alternative. He has lived it. 
And although Bucky is happy for his friend, something dark is trying to push up into his chest, to infest his heart and mind. Sadness, grief.
Life without Steve… he can’t imagine it. He can’t imagine not seeing his face again. He can’t imagine never talking to him again. To not have Steve there to call him out on his bullshit, or to have a beer with, or to laugh at one of their youthful escapades, or to spar with. To never share a look with again, a look that is full of history only they understand. It makes his stomach churn and his chest ache and he squeezes his eyes shut tighter.
But he pushes those feelings down. He’ll deal with them later. Tomorrow, maybe next week. Just not right now.
Right now, he needs to be able to be happy for his friend. Because he owes it to Steve. That and so much more. 
The five seconds are up and Banner is starting to check the equipment next to him, his rising panic palpable. Bucky braces himself for what he’ll have to explain to the doctor and Sam in a moment. They’ll pretend to understand, and maybe they do, but on a surface level only.
And then, the platform hums to life again. Bucky’s eyes fly open.
The lights flicker.
Out of the nothingness appears Steve.
Bucky blinks, unbelieving. Maybe something went wrong and he had to come back, that must be it. But neither the suitcase with the Infinity stones nor Mjornir are in Steve’s hands and his posture shows he’s uninjured. In fact, he looks… relieved. Tired. Happy.
Steve jumps off the platform, rips the helmet off and pulls Bucky into a bone crushing hug.
“It’s good to be back.” The words are choked up and quiet, only for Bucky to hear.
Bucky grips his constant in life a little harder, before easing up, heart thudding in his throat. Steve pulls back and looks him over. 
“What’s with the long face, pal?” Steve teases. “Did you think I wasn’t coming back?”
“Cap!” Banner calls out relieved, joining them. “You gave us a bit of a fright there! That was more than five seconds.”
“Sorry,” Steve turns to the scientist, “I had no idea. I did everything exactly as you said.”
“Did you accomplish the mission?” Sam asks.
“Yes. Everything’s returned.”
“If you’d let me come with, you’d have been on time,” he says. He catches Bucky staring at Steve, understanding flitting across the younger man’s face, and then he glances back at Steve. “Well, best get working on taking the platform down, Banner.”
Bucky has turned away, his feet carrying him to the bench at the shore of the lake. He needs air and space and somewhere to sit down. He stares out onto the water, eyes burning. It’s still the same day, the same earth, but Bucky’s world has changed profoundly in the last few minutes.
“You okay there, pal?” Steve says sitting down next to him, hand landing warmly on Bucky’s back.
He swallows. “Why did you come back, Steve? You had the chance to go back and live the life you deserve.”
It sounds hoarse and angry and scared all at the same time.
Steve is silent for a moment and Bucky can feel the blue eyes studying him. “And what makes you think you wouldn’t deserve that, too?”
Bucky huffs, leaning forward, forearms resting on his thighs. “I have no one to go back to. But you… you could have had your happy ending, with Peggy.”
“I could have,” Steve nods, mirroring Bucky’s stance. “And I thought about it, I’ll be frank. But you know what I realised?”
He turns his head to meet Bucky’s eyes. “I’ve loved you longer than I’ve loved Peggy. You know when I said I’m with you till the end of the line? That you’re worth all of it? I meant it. Still do.”
Something breaks inside Bucky at Steve’s words and gets put back together again at the same time. 
“Buck…”
It sounds foreign and broken to his own ears. Steve’s eyes meet Bucky as his hand comes up to curl around his upper arm, the metal one.
“‘m gonna stop you right there, Bucky. It’s not because I feel guilty, it’s not yet another sacrifice, if that’s what you’re thinking. You’re my best friend. You take care of me, I take care of you. We get old together and annoy each other to death. To me that’s a perfect happy ending. It’s the ending I want.”
It takes a long moment for Bucky to swallow the big lump in his throat. When he speaks again, it’s a whisper.
“I thought she was your soulmate.”
“A soulmate can be anyone – a sibling, a lover,” he pauses and holds eye contact with Bucky. Like he does when he really wants to drive a message home. “A friend. Turns out you’re mine, jerk.”
Bucky sees the sincerity and honesty in Steve’s eyes and it steals his breath for just a moment. 
A lone tear runs down Bucky’s cheek and he nearly wipes it away, but he sees the same trail on his friend’s face. They smile and for a long while sit there, not saying anything else.
Reality seeps back in when the bickering of Sam and Banner reaches their ears.
“So,” Bucky smiles, turning to look out over the water again. “Don’t know ‘bout you but I think it’s time to retire from fighting.”
Steve takes a deep breath. “Sounds good. I’ve been wanting to hand over the baton to Sam anyways. He’s a good man.”
Bucky looks at Steve. “He’ll do you and the shield proud.”
“I know he will. So… got a place to retire to in mind?”
Bucky leans back and stuffs his hands in his pockets. “Wanted to check out a few places first before settling down. Maybe visit Romania again.”
“Romania, huh? Better check if my passport’s still valid then.”
“You never had one, jerk,” Bucky quips.
Steve crosses his arms in front of his chest. “Well, I’ll get one then. I can go have a picture taken of me and not smile.”
“Your mug is so ugly it’ll burn the film.”
“They do them digitally now.”
“Melt the hard drive then.”
Steve laughs. It’s the laugh Bucky loves the most. It’s all rumbly and comes from the bottom of his chest, working its way up. The kind that makes Steve’s eyes crinkle and shine with happiness and contentment. The kind that makes him look carefree and young.
And it fills Bucky with happiness he thought lost until a few minutes ago. Life is going to be good.
Because he has Steve.
9 notes · View notes
lusmeitli · 2 months ago
Text
“You miserable, ancient cunt.” Absolute gold, this fic is. Read it. The writing is out of this world.
the art of pretending [one-shot]
marvel au bucky x agent!reader
being mentored by bucky is nothing short of torture; he’s cold, infuriating, and impossible to please. but when a mission gone wrong leaves you stranded in a freezing safehouse together, you start to wonder if all that supposed hatred has just been hiding something else entirely.
Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, smut, shower sex, unprotected sex, fingering, forced proximity, one bed, kissing, enemies to lovers-ish?, sexual tension, sparring, mentor bucky, bickering, insults, violence, bit of blood/gore/wound descriptions, bucky has issues, protective bucky, slut shaming (not from bucky), no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything
Word Count: 12.4k
A/N: hi! this is for some requests i received (one and two). i combined two of the requests because they were pretty similar, hope thats okay and i hope you enjoy! this took me... so long to write. i hope it doesn't flop <3 sorry for any typos - not proof read.
main masterlist
Tumblr media
You had two goals for the night: get shitfaced and get railed. So, catching your asshole boyfriend wrist-deep in some girl’s panties, doing the kind of finger work he never even bothered to learn for you, wasn’t part of your itinerary.
You could’ve cried, you could’ve begged, or collapsed into a sad cliché with a tub of ice cream and Sex and the City reruns. But no, you had a mission, and one mission alone. Get so unbelievably drunk on whatever you could get your hands on, so drunk in fact that you wanted to black out before midnight and preferably unconscious until sunset the next day.
Tony’s penthouse parties weren’t usually your scene. Too many sleazy rich men with superiority complexes, trophy wives sipping champagne through botoxed grins, and a carousel of extras that Stark always vehemently denied were hookers. What you did know was that, being an agent for S.H.I.E.L.D., your name was always on the list, and tonight, free top-shelf booze felt like divine intervention.
You just had to get in, get drunk, and avoid eye contact with your co-workers long enough to pull off a quiet mental breakdown and ignore the fact that you were rather underdressed for the type of party Stark was hosting. Scantily clad club clothing clashed hard with the pearls and Prada crowd.
A few raised brows and vague greetings followed you as you slithered through the gathering. 
But you held back a groan when you spotted the trio parked at the bar: Yelena, Steve, and Bucky. Great. The Greek god chorus of shame, in all their sculpted, judgmental glory. They looked just as uncomfortable as you felt, loitering by the bar instead of mingling with Stark’s circus.
You ignored their stares and made a beeline for the shelves behind the bartender—some poor kid who looked far too green for this gig. He gave you a look of dismay as you grabbed a bottle of tequila without asking. Slamming down a shot glass, you poured with shaky hands and knocked it back with the elegance of a car crash.
You barely registered the silence that followed until you glanced up and saw the stunned expressions staring back at you.
Yelena was the first to speak. “What happened to you? You never come to these things.”
You poured another shot. “Free drinks,” you muttered, then downed it, already lining up the next. No salt. No lime. Just pain, raw and unfiltered, sliding down your throat.
“I thought you were going out with your boyfriend?” She continued to press, while Steve looked rather scandalised as he watched you swallow back your third shot in a row with a shudder. 
Yelena reached over and snatched the bottle from your hand before you could pour again. “You should slow down.”
​​You blinked at her, teeth gritted, blood thrumming loud in your ears. She meant well. Of course she did. You’d always gotten along—ever since she’d been assigned as your mentor in your early days at S.H.I.E.L.D. You two had clicked effortlessly. It was all a part of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s long-term strategy to make field missions run smoother and reduce casualties. Avengers were paired with up-and-coming agents to pass down their experience and training, with the hope that one day, those hard-earned skills would save lives.
But everything changed when they reassigned you.
You’d been told it was to ‘broaden your skillset’, that it was about growth, adaptability, and learning from different leadership styles. What they didn’t say was that it would mean training under James Buchanan Barnes, aka Mr. No-Praise-All-Pain.
You’d tried. Really. At first, you gave it your all. Took his criticism, bit your tongue, pushed harder. But Bucky didn’t bend. He didn’t compliment. Didn’t guide. He just judged, cold and final, like every failure confirmed whatever low expectations he had of you.
Five months of that, and you were drowning. You begged for reassignment—back to Yelena, to Natasha, to anyone—but were denied every time. Some higher-up probably thought your mutual disdain was ‘motivating’, like locking two angry wolves in a cage and expecting them not to rip each other’s throats out.
And now here he was. Bucky Barnes. His suit jacket was slung carelessly over the back of his bar stool, his tie loosened just enough to reveal the sharp line of his collarbone. His dress shirt clung to his muscular frame, sleeves rolled to his elbows, exposing those unfairly defined forearms and the gleam of vibranium wrapped around a bottle of beer. His expression was stony, but familiar—stern brow, mouth set in a tight line, like he was already displeased with you and you hadn’t even said a word yet.
That look. That look you couldn’t stand.
Disappointment, or maybe pity. You couldn’t tell. Either way, it made your skin itch.
You wanted to punch him in his sullen, pouty face.
Instead, you laughed bitterly and reached for the bottle again, only for Yelena to hold it further away, firm.
“I said slow down,” she warned.
You made a face at Yelena. “Uh, you can’t talk. I saw you do shots out of a candle holder once.”
She didn’t even blink.
“Yes. And you called me messy. So I stopped.” She turned away just long enough to vanish the tequila bottle from sight like some sleight-of-hand magician. “This is me returning the favour. Stop it. You’re being messy.”
You barked out a harsh laugh and rubbed a hand down your face, smearing frustration across your cheeks. “You know what’s messy? My boyfriend. Well—ex-boyfriend.”
Across the bar, Bucky shook his head and muttered something low under his breath. You didn’t catch it, but you were sure it was vile because even Steve glanced over at him in disbelief, his eyebrows climbing high. Great. Judgment from Captain Morality and the Tin Soldier. Just what you needed.
Yelena sighed, already exhausted. “What did he do this time?”
You could tell she was reaching the end of her patience, and honestly, it was fair. She’d been your reluctant witness through the entire tragic saga of your love life. Two and a half years of emotional landmines and loser boyfriends who all somehow managed to be worse than the last. It was impressive, in a bleak kind of way.
You gestured vaguely, your expression somewhere between rage and disbelief. “I was supposed to meet him at some sleazy club downtown, his buddy was DJing—-fucking terrible DJ by the way. I’d barely walked in the door when I caught him in a back booth, fingering some girl who wasn’t even trying to be subtle about it!”
Yelena’s lips pursed. Steve stared like he’d never heard someone use the word ‘fingering’ out loud before.
“What did you do?” Yelena asked, her voice low, careful.
“Oh, the usual,” you said sweetly. “I punched him. Hard. He hit the floor like a sack of shit. Then I stepped on his hand until I felt something snap.”
Steve choked on his beer, coughing violently into his elbow. Bucky just watched you with the world's best poker face, a slight clench in his jaw muscles. 
You smiled at Steve, feral and unbothered. “Don’t worry, Cap. He won’t be playing DJ with anyone’s body parts anytime soon.”
Yelena gave a low whistle, somewhere between impressed and alarmed. “You actually broke his hand?”
“Felt like justice.” You shrugged. “Plus, he was always texting with that hand. Two birds, one stomp.”
“That’s assault,” Steve managed, his voice slightly strangled.
“Oh, please,” you said, rolling your eyes. “We’ve all done worse.”
Across the bar, Bucky finally spoke, his voice gravel-edged and unimpressed. “And now you’re here, drinking like a lunatic in front of half the team. Real graceful recovery.”
Your shoulders tensed, that familiar heat creeping up your spine.
“I’m not showing up for training tomorrow,” you said flatly. “Hell, I don’t plan on being conscious tomorrow.”
Bucky didn’t miss a beat. “It’s going on your report.”
Your mid-year report. Just another excuse for Bucky to publicly drag you, whining to the higher-ups about what a terrible mentee you were. How you needed to ‘apply yourself’, ‘show initiative’, or whatever corporate nonsense they lapped up. And of course, those same higher-ups were always looking for a reason to cut dead weight. One misstep, and you were done.
“Of course it is,” you snapped, spinning on your heel. “You miserable, ancient cunt.”
Steve choked on his beer again.
Without another word, you reached behind the overwhelmed bartender, who looked about five seconds from quitting, and grabbed the nearest bottle. You didn’t even look at the label. You stormed off with tequila already burning in your veins and spite lighting the way. 
You were leaning casually against the wall outside the gym’s changing rooms, dressed in workout gear that was probably a little more flattering than necessary. Tight enough to flatter your waist, breathable enough to pass as practical. Around you, the low hum of chatter buzzed from a small group of fellow agents. You were killing time before your dreaded one-on-one training session with Barnes.
Theo leaned a shoulder beside yours, towelling sweat from the back of his neck. He’d been an agent about as long as you had—charming, competent, and a little too easy to get along with. The two of you were part of that unofficial after-hours crew: drinks on Fridays, complaints about the job, stumbling home tipsy and hungover texts on Saturday mornings.
“You’re on sparring duty all week too?” Theo asked, glancing at you with mock pity. “I swear Rogers gets off on making me eat mat.”
“I know what you mean. Barnes definitely loves making me suffer,” you replied with a grimace. “That man has a personal vendetta against me.”
Theo grinned, tossing the towel over his shoulder, and he gave you a playful sidelong look. “When I get knocked on my ass, promise you’ll kiss it better?”
You arched a brow, but the smirk tugging at your lips betrayed your amusement. “Careful. I’m starting to think you’re flirting with me.”
“Starting to?” he shot back, unfazed. “Let me make it clearer. If I don’t get my ass handed to me by Rogers, I’ll buy you a drink Friday.”
You leaned back against the wall, arms folding over your chest. “And if Rogers wins?”
Theo leaned in, voice low and smooth as his fingers brushed a stray strand of hair behind your ear, lingering just a moment too long. “Then I’ll buy you two,” he murmured.
You opened your mouth to respond. Flattered, a little surprised, already mentally debating whether it was worth shaving your legs, when a voice cut through the hallway like a blade.
“Agent. You’re late.”
You didn’t have to look to know who it was. That gravel-edged tone, sharpened with disapproval, could only belong to one man.
Bucky stood at the end of the corridor, arms crossed, jaw set like granite. His black compression shirt clung to every sculpted line of his chest, joggers slung low on his hips in a way that really shouldn't have been legal. He looked like he’d just stepped out of a combat simulation and into a fitness magazine.
But the expression on his face? Full-on battlefield.
That signature scowl was locked in place, thunderclouds brewing behind his eyes as he stared straight past you, straight at Theo. Typical. You hadn’t even done anything, yet somehow, he already looked pissed.
“Training doesn’t start for another twenty minutes.” You reminded him.
He didn’t seem interested in whatever argument you were about to make, and he turned on his heel without another word.
You sighed, uncrossing your arms as you pushed off the wall and flashed Theo an apologetic smile. 
Jogging to catch up, your boots thudding against the hallway floor, you called after Bucky. “You know, there’s this really neat thing called a schedule. Maybe try sticking to it?”
He didn’t even glance over his shoulder. “You could use the extra time.”
You scoffed in disbelief at his audacity. Classic Barnes, gruelling, joyless, always ready with a critique and never a compliment. He’d made it his mission to grind you down, one scathing remark at a time. And yet, you knew you were one of the top agents. The higher-ups had told you as much in your mid-year review, even going so far as to say that your mentorship with Barnes was working brilliantly. You hadn’t bothered correcting them, though it irritated more than you liked to admit. All your hard work, and somehow, he got the credit.
Bucky didn’t stop until you were both inside one of the gym’s private sparring rooms. The door clicked shut behind you. No audience. No distractions. Just him and you and the electric tension that always seemed to spark the moment you were alone together.
“Seriously, Barnes, what’s your problem today?”
Bucky stepped onto the mat, gesturing for you to follow.
“You’re here to train, not flirt in the hallway.”
You barely resisted the urge to roll your eyes. Bucky always had a problem whenever your love life even breathed into the conversation. Said it was irrelevant. Unprofessional. A distraction.
Back when Yelena was your partner, the two of you used to spar and gossip at the same time, her dodging your punches while you gave dramatic play-by-plays of whatever your latest fling had done to you in bed the night before. She lived for it. Bucky? Not so much.
He’d cut the conversation short every time. Couldn’t even stand the sight of you laughing a little too long with someone else. He’d yank you away with some bullshit excuse like, ‘distractions on the field will get you killed’, or ‘do I need to report you for slacking off?’ Like you were breaking protocol instead of just being a human being.
You stepped into position across from him, tightening your stance, heat already prickling beneath your skin. From the glare he was giving you, he looked ready to fight. Good. So were you.
“Are you always such an asshole,” you said, voice flat, “or is that just a special little treat you save for me?”
He gave you a look, deadpan and infuriating. “Only when I’m working with someone who’s constantly late, distracted, or hungover.”
You let out a sharp breath through your nose and threw a lazy jab, just to shut him up. He deflected it with a flick of his wrist like he could’ve done it in his sleep.
“And yet,” you muttered, circling to your right, “you wrote me a glowing mid-year report.”
His hand faltered for a split second. It was brief, but you caught it, a crack in the armour he hid behind.
“So you read it,” he replied, already shifting back into motion.
“Hard not to. Maria practically quoted it word for word at me in the hallway.”
His mouth flattened. “It was accurate.”
You scoffed and came at him again, this time with more force, a blow aimed at his jaw. He blocked with ease, catching your wrist mid-air and twisting just enough to tip your balance. You staggered, caught yourself, then stepped back with a glare.
“‘Most adaptive mentee in the current program,’” you quoted, circling him again.
A jab. He blocked it.
“‘Performs under pressure.’”
You followed up with a low kick aimed at his calf. He side-stepped like you were moving in slow motion.
“‘Good instincts in the field.’”
Another punch, this one he met palm to palm, stopping your momentum cold. You grit your teeth and shoved him off.
“‘Promising.’” You swept your foot in a feint and then struck at his ribs. He pivoted out of reach, breath barely changed. “‘Capable.’”
He lunged this time, arm out, trying to lock your elbow, but you twisted under it, ducking away, the mat skimming under your feet.
“‘Excellent recall.’” 
You squared off again, eyes locked on his.
“Why the hell,” you asked, low and angry, “are you always such an asshole to my face when you’re singing my praises behind my back?”
He didn’t answer right away, moving like a shadow around you, eyes locked on yours. 
“As much as it pains me,” he finally spoke, tone flat, “you are my best mentee. Even if I dislike you personally, I felt your report should reflect that.”
You blinked, momentarily thrown. That was… probably the most praise you’d ever got from him—buried beneath the usual bullshit, sure, but praise nonetheless. On a good day, you might get a grunted ‘good’ if you were lucky. Most of the time, training with Bucky was just an endless list of everything you were doing wrong, punctuated by a jab to the ribs for emphasis.
“Do you always make your compliments sound like insults?”
“It wasn’t a compliment. Just the truth.”
You threw a kick toward his side, fast and impulsive. He caught your ankle and held it, grip firm around your calf for a second too long. His vibranium fingers were cold, even through the fabric of your leggings. You could’ve sworn they tightened around the muscle just a fraction as your eyes swept up to give him a look of disbelief. But instead of pulling away, you leaned into the moment and used the hold for balance. You pivoted hard on your grounded foot, letting the captured leg swing inward. Then you launched yourself forward, hooking your other leg around his waist, aiming to bring him down with you.
For a half-second, it worked. His balance shifted. Your hips were flush against him, legs locked tight around his torso as you twisted your weight, trying to drag him off his feet.
With a grunt, he straightened, twisted, and you suddenly found yourself airborne.
You hit the mat hard, slamming against it with a thud that knocked the breath out of you. The ceiling lights above blurred for a second as the impact rattled through your spine. His shadow hovered for a beat, chest rising with exertion, jaw clenched.
He didn’t smirk. Didn’t gloat. Just stared down at you, maybe it was the oncoming concussion you probably just suffered, but you could’ve sworn there was a flash of concern in his eyes.
“Next time, I won’t let it slide if you don’t turn up because you’re hungover.” He wiped a forearm across his brow.
“How do you know my heart wasn’t broken?” You asked, shaking off the blow as you rose to your feet once more, feet finding their usual stance.
He arched a brow, unimpressed.
“Don’t you have sympathy for me?” you asked, somewhere between a joke and a challenge.
“I wouldn’t call it sympathy,” he said coolly. “More like pity.”
That stung more than you cared to admit. You rolled your shoulders, stepping in again. Your guard was up, but there was a crack in it now, frustration flaring under your skin.
“I can’t imagine you were actually that sad about it.” Bucky bit out, not even bothering to hide his annoyance now. “Don’t you have a new fling every other week? Sure sounded like you were lining up another one in the hallway.”
“Oh wow,” you drawled, voice harsh. “Slut shaming? This isn’t the 1940s, Barnes.”
“It’s not my fault who you choose to date.”
You exhaled, long and low. The tension between you had teeth now, gnawing at the air. “Y’know, for someone who hates me, you sure pay a lot of attention.”
He didn’t respond. Just stood there, fists flexing at his sides, poker-faced.
You waited, ready to shoulder any insult he laid on you. You could see irritation simmering under his skin, jaw ticking, knuckles white.
“I think you should take a lap or two around the room.” He huffed finally. “Your blocks are late, your punches are soft, and your stance is a joke. Try warming up before you embarrass both of us.”
You grinned back at him, though it was closer to baring your teeth than a show of amusement. “But I’m still your best mentee, huh?”
“Let’s make it five laps then.”
You gave him a lazy salute and turned for the edge of the mat.
“Whatever you say, Sergeant.”
As you jogged the first lap, footsteps echoing lightly in the private room, you could feel his eyes on you, tracking every movement and watching you like a hawk, like a fuse lit, waiting.
And damn it, you ran a little faster because of it.
If you’d known how this mission was going to turn out, you would’ve called in sick. Faked a family emergency. Broken your own damn leg. Anything to avoid being stuck alone with Bucky Barnes in a freezing H.Y.D.R.A. bunker from hell. You’d even considered whispering a desperate prayer to whatever all-seeing god might be listening—or hell, maybe begging Stephen Strange to yank you into an alternate universe where this wasn’t your reality.
Gunfire rattled somewhere outside the cement walls, and you imagined your fellow agents in the middle of all the fun, chucking grenades, dodging bullets, living the dream. Meanwhile, you were practically glued at the hip with Sergeant Sunshine, babysitting an ancient Soviet-era computer that looked like it still ran on dial-up.
You were perched on the edge of a desk, legs swinging, having shoved aside a mountain of dusty files scribbled in Russian. All completely useless to you.
“What is it with H.Y.D.R.A. and brutalist architecture?” you muttered, eyeing the thick ceiling. “Why does concrete get them so hard?”
“I can’t concentrate with all your whining.”
You raised an eyebrow. “That’s literally the first thing I’ve said in ten minutes, Barnes.”
He didn’t respond. Didn’t even throw you one of his signature grunts. Just kept clicking away like the keyboard had wronged him personally, eyes narrowed at the screen as if trying to decode the goddamn Rosetta Stone.
You groaned and rolled your head back, staring up at the ceiling.
More concrete.
You weren’t usually this unbearable on missions, but this? This whole situation felt like a personal attack. You’d been mid-flirt with Theo on the quinjet (who had been very committed to making bedroom eyes at you) when they’d called out team assignments. The second you heard your name paired with Barnes, tasked with data extraction while everyone else got to blow things up, you’d spun around to glare at him.
He’d been sitting there in his usual cold, statue-like stillness beside Steve, as if this wasn’t a death sentence. You’d stormed over, demanded if he knew anything. He just shrugged and muttered something about ‘higher-ups’.
The walls shook suddenly—another explosion—and dust drifted from the ceiling. You blinked it out of your lashes and slid lazily off the desk, sauntering over to where Bucky hunched at the terminal.
“Can you hurry it up? At this rate, they’re going to bury us alive in here.”
“Give me a second,” he muttered through gritted teeth.
You leaned in slightly, eyeing the screen. A wall of Cyrillic met you, completely unreadable. You couldn’t help the exasperated sigh that left your lips.
“Remind me again why we’re the ones doing this? Wouldn’t it have made more sense to send someone who actually speaks Russian to help you? Or, I don’t know, someone who has the patience to teach you how to use a flash drive?”
He didn’t answer, just kept typing and clicking, as if the keys owed him money.
You crossed your arms, scowling. The only thing more miserable than being stuck in a concrete crypt was being stuck in one with him. When he was distracted, like now, he forgot to wear that usual look of thinly veiled disappointment. His brow furrowed in focus, lips twitching as he muttered to himself in low, clipped Russian. He looked—God help you—human. Not like the cold-hearted pain-in-your-ass who’d spent the last six months tearing you down. But like someone thoughtful. Careful. Quietly brilliant.
And stupidly, stupidly attractive.
You hated how your eyes lingered on the way his rolled-up sleeves hugged his forearms. The way the shadows danced over his cheekbones and the little groove between his brows. The way that little furrow deepened when something didn’t go his way, like he was trying to wrestle the entire world into submission with sheer concentration alone.
It would’ve been easier if he were just awful. Easier if you didn’t catch glimpses of something else beneath the gruffness. Something that made your chest tighten a little when you weren’t focusing. 
You swallowed hard, forcing your eyes to the screen. What was wrong with you?
The download bar finally appeared on the screen, crawling forward at a snail’s pace. You exhaled loudly, half in relief, half in impatience. 
“About time,” you muttered.
He shot you a look, cold and flat. “You wanna do it?”
You turned your back on him, pacing the room. Your nerves were coiled tight, the distant sounds of gunfire and explosions growing louder. The base was a pressure cooker and the damn download bar still hovered at 34%.
While you were busy taking your own turn brooding, the heavy metal door at the far end of the room slammed open with a deafening clang, nearly launching you out of your skin. Three armed H.Y.D.R.A. agents stormed in, rifles raised, eyes locked on target.
So much for the diversion. Clearly, it hadn’t been enough—or worse, H.Y.D.R.A. had seen through it. They must’ve realised it wasn’t a full-blown William-the-Conqueror-style invasion, just a cleverly dressed-up distraction.
“Company,” Bucky muttered, pulling his sidearm in one smooth motion.
You were already moving, instincts kicking in before your brain could catch up. You dove low, sliding across the slick concrete floor as a hail of bullets tore through the room. You grabbed the nearest overturned chair, dragging it into place just in time as metal pinged and sparked against it.
Bucky didn’t hesitate. A single, precise shot rang out, dropping the first H.Y.D.R.A. agent without a flinch. You didn’t stop to think. You surged forward, catching the second agent by surprise, your knee slamming into his gut with enough force to knock the air from his lungs. He doubled over, right into the crack of your gun butt across his temple. He crumpled, unconscious, before he hit the floor.
Then you saw the third.
Rifle up.
Aimed right at you.
“Get down!”
The shout was raw, sharp enough to slice through the chaos. You barely had time to turn your head before a body crashed into yours. His arm slammed into your torso, hurling you sideways just as the trigger was pulled.
The shot cracked like thunder.
Your back hit the ground hard, skidding across the floor. Pain flared along your shoulder, but it was nothing compared to the sound that followed, the harsh, guttural grunt that tore out of Bucky’s throat.
You twisted around.
He was down, gasping, clutching at his side and blood already soaking through the black fabric of his suit.
You scrambled back to him just as the final agent aimed again. Snarling, you fired three quick shots into the bastard’s chest before he collapsed in a heap.
The air went still for only a moment, then the ground trembled violently before you had a chance to assess the damage done to Bucky. Chunks of the ceiling cracked and began to rain down. Concrete groaned like a beast waking from a long sleep.
You turned to the computer, some unreadable symbols flashing across the screen, but you were quick enough to decipher that it meant the download was complete. Snatching the flash drive, you spun back to Bucky, who was trying to sit up, blood spilling between his fingers as he pressed them hard against the wound in his side.
“Get up,” you barked, crouching beside him. “We need to move, Barnes!”
The two of you had spent nearly two damn hours stumbling through the snow-blanketed mountainside, following the rough coordinates burned into your mind from the mission briefing. By the time the cabin finally came into view—half-buried in the snow, smoke long gone from the chimney—you were soaked to the bone and one more smart comment away from throttling him.
The escape had been messy, the H.Y.D.R.A base nearly becoming your tomb. You’d been forced to bolt through a collapsing back corridor, dragging the injured super soldier along with the last of your adrenaline. Between the debris, the gunfire, and the growing dark stain across his side, you weren’t sure how either of you had made it out. Worse still, you’d missed the quinjet extraction window by twenty minutes. The skies had turned black with storm clouds, wind howling across the range as ice and snow stung your cheeks. The base had finally picked up your call for aid on the mission-assigned satellite phone, but due to zero visibility and increased H.Y.D.R.A activity in the area, the replacement quinjet wouldn’t arrive until first light.
Which meant you were stuck together. In the cold. For the whole night.
The safehouse, at least, was still intact. A small timber cabin tucked between trees, barely standing but just enough. It had a lounge no bigger than a broom closet, a wood-burning stove long dead and cold, a bathroom you prayed had running water, and a single bedroom with a mattress that looked like it had seen better decades.
Your breath misted in the air as you slammed the door behind you, the wind nearly ripping the handle from your grip. Bucky collapsed onto the torn couch by the stove without a word, letting out a low groan that he probably thought you didn’t hear.
You should’ve made starting the fire your first priority. But one look at the blood soaking through Bucky’s side made that choice for you.
Now, kneeling between his legs with the remnants of the first-aid kit splayed out on the coffee table, whoever had been here last hadn’t restocked it properly. You glared up at Bucky as he shifted under your touch again. “Stop squirming.”
“I’m not.”
“You are,” you hissed, dabbing antiseptic across the wound with a gauze pad. “You keep flinching.”
“Because you’re digging in like you’re trying to punish me.”
“Oh, I haven’t even started,” you muttered.
He scoffed, muscles twitching beneath your hands as you pressed down. “Are you always this demanding?”
“Are you always this whiny?”
His glare was instant, eyes narrowed. “Is it your goal to piss everyone off?”
“I’m a fucking delight, and you know that.”
He gave you a deadpan look. “I think you’re mistaken. I definitely don’t like you.”
You lifted your brows, trying to keep your voice light despite the roiling mix of emotions spilling out. “You say that like you didn’t just take a bullet for me.”
You hadn’t even had the time to process it when it happened. The crash of his body slamming into yours, the sound of the gunshot, and the sickening thud of him hitting the ground. But now, with him sitting across from you, shirt dark with blood and a fresh gash still weeping crimson, the weight of it began to settle in.
He took a bullet for you.
You didn’t know what to do with that.
Part of you expected him to twist it somehow, to throw it back in your face as some kind of lesson that you were careless. That you’d left an opening. That he had to clean up your mess. You were already bracing for it, the sting of snide remarks spread over weeks like salt in a wound, little digs during training about how you ‘owe him one’ or how ‘distractions get people killed’.
And yet... he hadn’t said any of that.
Instead, he just shrugged, wincing slightly. “I heal faster because of the serum,” he muttered, voice gruff but quieter than usual. “I’ll be back on the field faster than you ever could.”
You stared at him.
At the stubborn line of his jaw, the tight press of his lips as he tried not to show how much pain he was in. The way his hand gripped his side was too tight. The blood beneath his fingernails.
Why had he done that?
You weren’t always the easiest to get along with. You’d spent months pushing each other’s buttons, arguing, fighting, constantly locked in a cold war of insults and bruises. So why? Why would he throw himself into a bullet’s path for you?
It was hard not to feel... something. Flattered, maybe. A little shocked. And, against your better judgment, grateful. You didn’t want to be grateful—not to him, of all people—but your stomach wrenched every time you replayed the moment in your head.
You didn’t ask him to do it. And yet, he did.
And now he was pretending it didn’t matter. Like he hadn’t made a split-second decision to put your life before his own. What if that bullet had hit a little higher? His heart? His throat? His skull?
“Sure,” you drawled, trying to cover for your sudden silence. “Great excuse.”
“It’s the truth.” He muttered. 
He didn’t look at you. Just kept his eyes on the floor and said nothing.
Which, somehow, said everything.
You stared at him for a moment longer, shaking your head as you tossed the bloodied gauze into the small bin beside the couch. The cold was starting to settle into your bones, your fingers stiff with it.
“Whatever. I’m going to try to find some firewood before we freeze to death.”
He glanced toward the boarded-up window, ice clinging to the edges. “You sure there’s any left out there?”
“Nope.” You pulled on your jacket. “But I’d rather get eaten by a bear than stay in here with you.”
You were halfway to the door before you paused, glancing over your shoulder.
“Can you get to that bed yourself, or do you need me to do that for you, too, super soldier?”
His answer came quickly, teeth clenched. “I’m fine.”
“Sure you are.”
You couldn’t deny the nausea in your stomach. Not from worry. Definitely not that. Just frustration. That’s all it was.
The wind nearly ripped the door from your hands as you stepped outside. Snow came in sideways, biting at your skin the second you crossed the threshold. You tugged your jacket tighter and trudged into the blizzard, squinting against the blur of white.
The woodshed was exactly where the briefing had said it’d be, about ten feet from the side of the cabin, half-hidden by trees. Or at least, had been. What you found instead was a crooked mess of collapsed timber and broken beams. Snow had settled deep into the heap, and every piece of wood you managed to drag free was soaked, the logs heavy with ice and rot.
You swore, breath clouding in the air.
You searched anyway, fingers numb, arms shaking. You tried the back of the cabin. Nothing. Even the branches scattered beneath the trees were too damp. No kindling, no dry bark, not even a damn pinecone. The cold was sinking deeper now, crawling down your spine and settling like an anchor in your chest. You didn’t want to push further into the wilderness, not in this weather and not with H.Y.D.R.A. agents crawling all over the mountainside. 
By the time you stumbled back inside and forced the door closed again, you could hardly feel your fingers or toes. Every limb ached like they were five seconds away from turning purple and black from frostbite. The cabin felt just as cold as the outside, but it was a momentary relief to be out of the wind that cut through your thick layers.
Bucky was on the bed, half-sitting up against the wall, the blanket pulled low across his hips. His eyes flicked up as you entered, taking in your dripping hair and shaking hands.
"Let me guess," he muttered. "No luck?"
You didn’t answer right away, just peeled your jacket off and dropped it near the door with a wet splat. “Everything’s soaked. The shed’s collapsed.”
He exhaled through his nose, chest deflating with the effort. “You’re freezing.”
You ignored him, stomping the snow off your boots. “I’ll live.”
“Not if you keep acting like a damn idiot.”
You turned to glare at him. “I’m sorry, which one of us got shot again?”
You crouched down, your knees protesting as you bent to untie your boots, but your fingers were too stiff, trembling from the cold. The laces had frozen slightly, the knots tight and uncooperative. You hissed through your teeth, fumbling and cursing under your breath as you tugged uselessly at them.
Bucky watched from the bed, arms crossed over his broad chest. He didn’t move to help, but you could feel his eyes on you. He tilted his head slightly and gave you a look that was half-concerned, half-exasperated, like you did this to yourself.
With a final frustrated yank, you freed your boot and kicked it off, followed quickly by the other. A damp string of muttered profanities trailed from your lips as you scrambled back to your feet, wet clothes clinging uncomfortably to your skin. 
“Which one of us,” Bucky spoke pointedly, breath fogging in the air between you, “went outside to play in a blizzard and came back looking like a drowned rat?”
You were shivering now, teeth on the verge of chattering, but you still squared your shoulders and stared him down, as defiant as ever. A bead of melted snow trailed down your temple. He stared right back.
“Get over here,” he said finally.
“Excuse me?”
“You need to warm up.” His tone was flat, too practical. “And the bed’s the only warm place in this shithole.”
“Oh, now you care about my well-being?”
He didn’t dignify that with a response. Just lifted the edge of the blanket.
You hesitated, eyeing the small mattress like it might bite you. "You’re the worst."
"And you’re still standing in wet clothes. Take them off and get in."
Your mouth dropped open. “Excuse me?”
“Not all of them,” he said, eyes rolling. “Just the top layer before you die of hypothermia. Stop being dramatic.”
With a theatrical sigh for good measure, you peeled off your wet sweater, leaving the thermal shirt beneath and then your pants. You did not check to see if he was watching you shivering in your underwear, cheeks flushed. You padded toward the bed like it was a walk to your own execution, hesitating again at the edge.
You tried—really tried—not to let your eyes linger on the broad plane of his chest, but it was impossible not to. His shirt was rumpled and half-untucked, the hem tugged up where he’d peeled it back to expose the bandage on his side. The white gauze was already marred with deep red, blooming in uneven patches that made you pause with something halfway between guilt and concern. Your gaze drifted to the sharp curve of his waist, the ridge of muscle visible beneath the bloodied wrappings. 
It was distracting. 
He was distracting.
But what you tried hardest not to think about was the bed. Specifically, how absurdly small the mattress looked with him sitting on it, shoulders nearly brushing both edges. There was no way you’d both fit. You’d be pressed against him. Shoulder to shoulder, chest to back, knee to thigh. 
You swallowed hard and told yourself not to think about it.
But you were already thinking about it.
“Don’t make it weird,” Bucky muttered.
“I’m not making it weird.”
He let out a low, tired huff, the kind that told you he was in pain but too stubborn to say it. You rolled your eyes in reply, more at yourself than him, and climbed in carefully, slipping beneath the blanket with a reluctant shiver. The bed was warmer than expected. Or rather, he was. Bucky radiated heat like a furnace, the kind that seeped into your skin and made your limbs relax before your mind could catch up. You hovered near the edge of the mattress, body stiff, spine straight like it might help you keep your distance. But it was a hopeless attempt. The bed was tiny—criminally small, really—and with him taking up so much space, there was nowhere to go but closer. One wrong move and you’d be on the floor.
“God, you’re warm,” you muttered into the pillow, trying not to sound too affected.
“Serum,” he replied shortly, his voice rough with exhaustion.
Slowly, inch by inch, you gave in. The chill in the air made it too easy to justify. You shifted toward him, the blanket tugging between you as your arm brushed against his. Then your hip. Then your thigh. Until, somehow, your bodies were nearly flush. 
He didn’t move. Didn’t pull away. Didn’t say a word.
And that somehow made it worse.
The silence settled between you, heavy and warm and intimate, like the air itself had thickened. You could hear his breathing, steady, but a little too deliberate. You could see his chest rise and fall from the corner of your eye. And worse, you could feel him. Every inch of him. The solid line of muscle at your side. The way your knees had somehow locked together under the blanket. How your forearm grazed his with every breath you took.
You needed a distraction. Desperately.
Reaching over to the nightstand, you snatched up the battered satellite phone, almost too quickly. The cold metal was jarring against your palm. For a moment, you considered activating the self-destruct protocol and blowing both of you up to end your shared misery. You flicked it on, the screen’s pale light casting long shadows across the room and across him.
Your eyes flicked over before you could stop them.
He was already staring at the ceiling, the faint furrow between his brows still present even in rest. His profile was defined in the low light, long lashes, strong nose, and the stubble on his jaw catching just a hint of light.
You forced yourself to look back at the tiny screen to check for any new updates.
Nothing. You were well and truly in for the night.
You scrolled to the mission briefing instead, flicking through the files to pass time, anything to distract you.
And then you saw it.
There, buried under the pre-mission notes, weather expectations, and extraction protocol, was a small addendum in the personnel request section.
Operation HARVEST: Agent Barnes, James B.Requested field partner: Agent 00149. Request approved.
You stared at it, the room suddenly quieter than it had been all night. 
That was your agent number.
He asked for you.
The same man who had spent the last six months grunting his way through every interaction, who seemed perpetually annoyed by your existence, who had made a point never to give you more than an ounce of credit, had explicitly asked to be paired with you.
You felt your throat tighten.
“You okay?” Bucky asked, as if he could sense your world shattering around you. His voice was low, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion 
You didn’t answer right away. You sat there, still curled under the heavy covers. The warmth of his body was helping, yes—but your blood was starting to simmer for a very different reason.
You turned slowly, holding the satellite phone up between your fingers.
“You want to tell me why it says on the briefing notes that you requested me as your partner for this mission?”
Bucky blinked once. His mouth parted slightly, but no sound came out.
“I asked you on the quinjet if you knew anything,” you went on, voice harsh now. “You told me it was a higher-up’s decision. You lied to my face.”
Bucky sighed through his nose, already bracing himself as he sat up straighter against the headboard. “I didn’t think it mattered.”
“Didn’t matter?” you scoffed, pushing yourself to your knees to face him, ignoring the goosebumps that rose as the blankets fell from your shoulders. “You picked me. You had me assigned to a mission with you, just the two of us, didn’t tell me, and then lied about it.”
“I didn’t lie—”
“You did lie.”
He dragged a hand down his face, slow and weary, but there was tension in the movement, an edge of frustration barely restrained. “I didn’t want you partnered with the other guys, alright?”
You faltered, unsure if you heard him right. “Excuse me?”
“It doesn’t matter—”
“No, you can’t just say that and not explain—”
“Fine!” He groaned, exasperated. His eyes dropped away from yours, fixing instead on a knot in the cabin’s dark wood wall. “I heard them talking. Theo and a few of the other agents.”
“What?” you asked, voice tight. “What were they saying about me?”
He didn’t answer. The silence stretched, heavy and awful.
“Just say it,” you bit out.
He looked at you then. Really looked at you. And it hit you square in the chest, something dark and protective burning behind his eyes. But it was reluctant, too, as if he hated that he was about to say it out loud.
His voice was low and rough when it came. “That you’re easy. That it’d be simple to get you into bed because you’re always asking for it. That you’re a slut. I gave them a piece of my mind and reported them, but I still don’t want you around them.”
You felt it like a punch to the gut.
Your breath caught, the sting behind your eyes immediate and hot. You blinked once. Twice. The words echoed, raw and ugly, and for a second, all you could do was try not to let them settle too deep. Not to let them stick.
You weren’t naïve. You knew you didn’t sleep around any more than anyone else your age. You knew that if the situation were flipped, if you were a man, no one would bat an eye. And still, the weight of it settled heavy in your gut, all twisted up with something darker. Dread. Shame. Fury. And under it all… that sick, crawling feeling that maybe Bucky had said something. Given them reason to think they could say it. That maybe he thought the same thing deep down.
That, maybe, to him, you were just some mess he had to clean up.
The words came fast, your voice shaking. “And what, you thought you’d ride in and defend me like some white knight? You know I could easily drop Theo, I could easily drop any of those assholes!” Bucky blinked, caught off guard, but you were already going, bitter heat rising in your throat like bile.
“You thought that would make it better?” you snapped. “You think that helps? They’re probably all laughing behind my back about how I can’t defend myself—”
“I wasn’t going to stand there and let them talk about you like that!”
“Why?” you demanded. “Because you didn’t want to hear it? Or because you’ve thought the same fucking thing?”
His eyes flared with disbelief, maybe even insult.
“I would never think of you that way,” he barked, and his voice cracked like thunder. “Let alone say it out loud. Because I’m not an asshole. Not like those guys you date.”
You laughed, blunt and hollow. “Why do you care who I date?”
He opened his mouth. Closed it. For a moment, you thought he wouldn’t come up with any words, but to your surprise, he exploded before you. “Maybe because you deserve better!” he shouted, the words ripping out of him before he could take them back.
The silence after that was suffocating.
You stared at him, heart hammering in your chest, a strange cocktail of feelings in your stomach that you didn’t care to identify. He sat there, breathing hard, his hands clenched at his sides like he didn’t trust himself to speak again.
“Jesus,” you muttered. You weren’t foolish enough to believe him, to fall victim to whatever joke he was trying to play. “Give me a break.”
“I’m serious,” he mumbled this time. 
You turned your face away. “Oh yeah? Like you could do any better? Don’t be ridiculous.”
His breath hitched, like you’d slapped him. You could feel him shift beside you under the covers.
“You really think that?” Bucky asked in disbelief.
You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. But Bucky didn’t let it stay quiet.
“You want to know the truth?” he asked, voice low and rough, as if the words had been caged for too long in his throat. “Fine.”
You turned back toward him, uncertain what expression you were even wearing anymore.
“I’ve liked you since the first damn time I saw you,” he said. “Group training. You were paired with some agent twice your size, and you still knocked him on his ass.”
Your heart slammed against your ribs.
“I thought you were… brilliant. And sharp. And confident. And yeah, beautiful too. You had this way of looking right through people—through me—and it scared the shit out of me. When they assigned me to mentor you, I panicked,” he said, with a dry, bitter laugh. “I thought if I pretended, if I was distant, if I acted cold, I could make it go away. Trick myself out of it.”
“But it just got worse,” he went on. “Every time I saw you smiling at some sleaze who didn’t deserve to breathe the same air as you, every time I had to watch you flirt with some smug asshole agents, I wanted to break something. Because it should’ve been me.”
You shook your head slowly, stunned. “Bucky…”
“I hated watching you get your heart broken over and over again,” he said. “Hated seeing you walk into training after pretending like nothing happened. You didn’t deserve that. Not when I knew I could treat you better if I just had the fucking guts to say something.”
Your ribs felt suddenly too small for your body, bones pressing into your lungs.
“And now we’re stuck on a mountainside,” he said, his voice softer, hoarser, “and I’m here bleeding in a bed with you, still lying to you, still trying to act like it doesn’t kill me every time you look at me like I’m just your mentor who you hate.”
You gaped in stunned silence, heartbeat pounding in your ears. Bucky watched you expectantly.
No. No, that couldn’t be what he meant. Not really.
“I don’t know what kind of cruel joke you’re playing on me,” you finally said, voice shaking, fingers knotted in the sheets. “I don’t get it. You’ve spent this whole time being…”
“I’m being serious,” he said, eyes locked on you. “I don’t expect you to believe me. I’ve fucked this up too many times. But I swear on my life, I’m not playing a game.”
You stared at him, blinking hard. “So what, this entire time you’ve been an asshole because you were what, pretending? Pretending that you didn’t like me, pretending that you weren’t jealous, when you could’ve just talked to me?”
His silence was immediate. Heavy. It told you everything you needed to know.
Your chest rose and fell too fast. Your mind was spinning, flipping through every memory like a film reel: his cold shoulder, his clipped instructions, the scowls when you joked with someone else, the way he always hovered a few steps too close in combat zones. The way he always caught you when you fell. There had been moments. Tiny fractures in his mask. The way his gaze lingered when he thought you weren’t paying attention. The time he bandaged your hand without a word, but so gently it had made your throat tighten. The night you caught him staring at you across the gym like he was in pain.
How had you missed it?
“I need to…” You whispered, slumping back under the sheets, pulling the blanket higher around yourself as if it might guard you from the ache in your ribs. “We should sleep. It’s late. Evac’s coming once the sun is up.”
He didn’t protest. He just nodded once, jaw tight.
Neither of you said another word.
Sleep didn’t come easily.
You hadn’t seen much of Bucky since you were both airlifted off the mountain.
He’d been recovering from his wound, officially. But it didn’t take a genius to figure out he was avoiding you. No texts. No nods in the hallway. No eye contact across the cafeteria. Just cold silence.
Coward.
You’d spent the past week half-waiting for him to come to his senses. The other half had been consumed wondering what the hell you’d do if he did. Because yes, you found him infuriating. Yes, he was emotionally constipated and moody and had the charm of a brick wall. But he was also gorgeous in that tortured-soul, sharp-jawed, arms-too-big-for-his-shirts kind of way. He cared about you, in his own twisted Bucky way. He’d taken a bullet for you. Defended you. Chose you.
And now he was just… gone.
You were leaning against the wall at the edge of the main gym, arms crossed, purposefully not looking at Theo and the other assholes you had suspected Bucky had been right about, when you heard footsteps and someone cleared their throat beside you.
Yelena stood beside you, her smirk suspiciously wider than usual.
You turned, brows knitting in apprehension. “Hey.”
“Congratulations,” 
“For what?” You replied hesitantly, watching as her brows lifted in delighted surprise. 
“You haven’t heard?” Her voice was alarmingly gleeful, like she was especially thrilled to be the bearer of whatever news she was about to lay upon you. “Barnes finally accepted your mentor transfer request.”
Your heart flatlined for a second. 
“What?”
Yelena, oblivious to your distress, continued to dig further. “I don’t know what you did to him up on that mountain, but… damn. I didn’t think he’d actually do it.”
“I didn’t ask for a mentor transfer,” you muttered, dread settling in your chest.
Yelena’s expression faltered. “Oh. Well, you have one now. You’re with Thor. They tried to pawn you off onto me, but you know, got my hands busy with the new group coming in—”
“Thor?!” You snapped, interrupting her spiel, “He’s a drunk! And he’s not even here half the time, too busy in Asgard—”
Yelena gave you a helpless shrug, and that’s when the doors to the gym opened and in walked the ghost of your week-long frustration.
Bucky was in full training gear, black sweatpants slung low on his hips, compression shirt clinging to him like a second skin. His hair was ruffled, pushed back half-heartedly like he couldn’t be bothered to fix it, a few strands falling into his eyes. The corded muscles of his arms were on full display, the glint of his vibranium arm catching the light with every step. He looked unfairly good, carved from grief and sleepless nights. But it was the way he wouldn’t look at you that struck harder than anything else. His jaw was tight, lips set in a permanent pout, that brooding scowl etched so deep it felt deliberate. He looked everywhere but at you, like you weren’t even there. 
Your blood boiled.
Without a word, you peeled yourself from the wall and marched toward him. He spotted you mid-stride, his posture tensing like he was preparing for impact.
“Hey—” he started.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” you snapped, voice low and venom-laced.
“Not here,” he muttered, eyes flicking toward the other agents filtering in behind you. A few of them had already glanced over curiously, settling in for whatever show was about to unfold.
“Too late,” you hissed. “You requested a mentor transfer for me without even telling me?”
“I thought it was what you wanted.” You both knew he was lying, and he refused to meet your eye. This wasn’t about what you wanted. It was about him feeling embarrassed after his outburst on the mountain. 
“Oh, really?” You stepped closer. “Because I don’t remember asking you to make my career decisions for me.”
“I was doing you a favour.”
“Yeah? Maybe try talking to me like a normal fucking person, and then I’ll tell you what I want.”
His eyes flickered up, stormy blues locking onto your face. “And what is it you want?”
You stared him down, tilting your head slightly, weighing the war going on inside you.
You.
I want you.
The thought was immediate, impulsive, and so painfully real it made your chest ache. But you shoved it down, crushed it before it could breathe. No. That was stupid. Why the hell would you want him—this man-child who’d ghosted you for a week, who’d spent the last six months acting like every word out of your mouth was a personal offence, who seemed to find joy in making you feel like nothing?
But then again… maybe you both had been trying so hard to deny the truth, burying something under six months of thinly veiled insults and sparring matches that got too rough. Maybe he was pushing you away because he didn’t trust himself to keep it professional. And maybe you were just as bad, biting back, rising to the bait, pretending you didn’t notice the way his eyes lingered or the way his voice softened when you were actually hurt.
You had to know if it was real.
The shuffle of movement and muffled chatter around you signalled the start of group training, slicing through your heated stand-off. Agents around you began to pair off, leaving you and Bucky still locked in place, face to face, breath mingling.
You lifted your chin. “Be my sparring partner?” you asked, voice loud enough for the others to hear, but eyes fixed solely on him.
He didn’t argue. Didn’t flinch. Just nodded once, tight-lipped, like he’d been waiting for the invitation all along.
You squared off on the mat, bouncing on your toes, adrenaline already coiling in your veins. Bucky moved like a soldier, controlled, fluid, annoyingly graceful.
“You don’t have to prove anything,” he muttered as you circled.
“I’m not,” you said, “Just testing a theory.”
He raised a brow. “What theory?”
You lunged, caught his arm, and twisted into a low grapple—just enough to draw him in.
His chest brushed yours. His breath hitched.
Then you kissed him.
Hard.
Your lips crashed against his mid-motion, stealing the next move right off his tongue. You felt him freeze, just for a heartbeat, before his hands twitched at your waist like he didn’t know whether to shove you away or pull you in. You felt the tension roll off him in waves. The way his body reacted was instinct. Shock. Hunger. 
His movements hesitated, and to your delight, despite the entire gym watching, he began to kiss you back. 
And that hesitation?
It was all you needed.
You shifted fast, breaking the kiss, then ducking low, hooking your leg behind his knee as you spun. In one fluid motion, you swept his legs out from under him and used the twist of your momentum to pull him down with you. He stumbled, off-balance, and you moved like lightning, hips snapping around his waist, thighs locking tight. You rotated with the drop, forcing him onto his back as you rolled with the momentum.
He hit the mat hard.
You were straddling him, thighs clamped around his ribs, palms flat on his chest. You smirked down at him, panting. 
Bucky stared up at you, winded, stunned, and very, very pinned. “That was dirty.”
You leaned down, your face just inches from his again. “So was your little mentor stunt. Call it even.”
Throughout the room, the entire gym was dead silent, staring. You gracefully dismounted him and marched off the mat, but Bucky scrambled up and followed you.
“Oh, now you want to talk?” you snapped as he caught up beside you.
“You can’t just kiss me and then walk away like that!”
“Why not?”
“You kissed me to mess with me.”
“I kissed you to see if you meant what you said on the mountain.”
The two of you burst through the gym doors and into the hallway. You didn’t look back. You didn’t have to. Bucky’s heavy footsteps were right behind you, his presence unmistakable, all coiled frustration and breathless anger.
A few agents stood frozen near the water station, others lingering by the mission board, all of them caught mid-conversation as they turned to witness the fallout. You were aware of the eyes on you, the awkward silence that followed, but you didn’t care. Let them stare. Let them gossip.
You stormed past them without pause as Bucky chased you like a dog on a leash that was just about to snap.
“You just kissed me in the middle of sparring,” he shouted after you, voice ragged and accusing. “In front of everyone. Is this a joke to you?” 
You didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. The elevator was too slow, too exposed. Instead, you veered to the stairwell and shoved the door open with enough force that it bounced off the wall. The clanging echo followed you as you started up, two steps at a time.
“Oh my god, would you just shut up already?” you snapped over your shoulder, breath catching as your hand slid along the metal railing, spiralling up the concrete stairwell. 
Behind you, Bucky cursed under his breath. “It was unfair.”
He reached for you and just missed your wrist. You yanked it away before he could try again, your skin buzzing with the ghost of contact.
“Isn’t that what you taught me to do? Use anything to my advantage?” you bit out, pushing through the next door as you reached your floor. The hall here was quieter and dimmer. You passed rows of familiar doors. Your apartment was at the end of the corridor, and every step toward it made your pulse throb louder in your ears. “What, you have a problem with me using my assets against you?
“Assets, huh? You know, you really are unbelievable—”
You let out an exasperated groan, cutting him back. “You kissed me back.”
That stopped him.
His boots scraped the floor as he slowed a few paces behind you, chest heaving, eyes wide with shock.
“What?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
You turned your key in the door. The metal clicked, and you pushed it open with a little more care this time.
“You kissed me back,” you repeated softly, almost to yourself this time and stepped inside. 
Bucky barged in after you.
“You don’t understand—I’m… I’m trying to protect you!” His voice followed you into the room, desperate. 
You kicked off your shoes without looking at him. “I don’t need protecting.”
“Would you just listen for once—” he snapped, shutting the door behind him. 
You rolled your eyes and started pulling off your shirt, tossing it onto your bed and turned to face him, arms crossed. “I am listening, you’re the one not listening to me.”
Bucky stood just inside the door, like he hadn’t decided whether to walk out or burn the whole damn building down. 
“I shouldn’t have told you that on the mountain, it was unprofessional of me.” His voice cracked as his words poured out faster than it seemed he could stop them, emotion thick in every syllable. “I requested the mentor switch because I don’t trust myself to keep pretending. I can’t control myself around you!”
You padded barefoot across the room to the small bathroom.
“How am I supposed to go on training you?” He muttered, gesturing vaguely in your direction. He was repeating himself now, rambling like a crazed man completely oblivious to your actions. “You pull that stunt in the middle of training, humiliate both of us in front of the others, and then act like it meant nothing? Jesus, I can’t even think straight when you—”
You peeled your leggings off and let it fall to the floor behind you.
“—and don’t even get me started on that assets comment! What the hell does that even mean? You can’t just go around weaponising your—”
You unclasped your bra and bent to turn on the shower. The hiss of water filled the room, steam already curling up the mirror.
“—I mean, are you even hearing yourself? You just, what? Decided to tackle and kiss me like it was some kind of training tactic?! That’s not even…Are you using my confession against me? God, you’re impossible, I swear—”
He looked up.
And stopped.
Mid-sentence. Mid-breath.
There you were, back turned, steam catching on the bare curve of your spine and trailing over the lines of your thighs, standing in nothing but your underwear.
His words died in his throat like a car slamming into a wall.
Mouth slightly open. Eyes locked. 
You glanced at him over your shoulder, saw the exact moment it hit him and raised a brow, feigning casual curiosity as you stepped toward the open shower door, letting the foggy heat billow around your legs.
“You joining me?” you asked sweetly. “Sure sounds like you need to cool off.”
He said nothing.
Just stared.
Like you’d just knocked the wind out of him for the second time that day. Just that haunted, hungry look in his eyes like he was trying to figure out if he’d died and gone to hell. Or heaven.
His mouth opened, like he had something to say, some half-assed rebuttal, some snarky comeback.
But no words came out.
Only a low, helpless breath.
“I wasn’t using it against you.” You clarified as you dragged your underwear down your legs, tossing them somewhere across the room. “I was seeing if you meant what you said.”
You stepped nto the shower, leaving him stood stunned in the bathroom doorway. A soft sigh slipped from your lips as warm water poured down your shoulders and back, washing away the dull ache in your muscles. For a moment, you simply stood there, facing the stream, eyes closed, the patter of droplets against your scalp soothing like white noise in a storm.
Then came the soft rattle of the shower door behind you. You didn’t need to open your eyes to know it was him.
The subtle swish of movement was followed by the cool press of metal against your waist, his vibranium arm snaking around you, cool against the heat of the water and your flushed skin. Goosebumps prickled instantly across your stomach, nipples peaking at the contrast.
You turned slowly, steam swirling around you in thick waves as you met Bucky’s eyes. His wet hair was slicked against his neck, droplets clinging to the dark strands and sliding down his jawline. Beads of water traced the line of his throat and the rise of his Adam’s apple, disappearing over the muscle of his chest. His hands found your hips, warm and solid, the grip almost possessive.
You tried not to look down, tried not to let your eyes drift to the answer to a question you’d been too proud to ask. Instead, a smirk tugged at the corner of your lips as you stepped into him, letting your palms slide up the hard planes of his chest, past his dogtags and looped around the back of his neck.
“I think this is going to do the opposite of cooling me down,” he muttered, voice husky, half-lost beneath the steady rhythm of water hitting tile.
You let out a soft, breathless laugh, and then you kissed him.
It wasn’t gentle.
Your mouths crashed together like you’d both been holding back for too long. Hungry. Desperate. Sloppy. The water only made it messier, lips sliding, catching, breath hissing as teeth grazed. He kissed like he needed to claim this moment before the world snapped back into place. You returned the kiss with equal urgency, fingers threading into his wet hair, tugging, needing more.
His hands slid down your back, firm, sure, guiding you until your spine pressed against the slick wall of the shower. You wrapped a leg around his hip, instinctive, needy, and he growled softly into your mouth as his hand dropped to support your thigh, holding you steady. You ground your hips into him, once, twice. His grip tightened, and the next thing you knew, he was lifting you, hands firm on your ass as he carried you effortlessly from the shower. The bathroom was thick with steam, fog curling along the edges of the mirror and dripping from the ceiling. Water trailed down both of you, soaking the tiles as he strode across the room.
Your back met the edge of the counter with a soft thud, followed by the chill of the fogged-up mirror behind you. The coolness shocked your skin and made your spine arch sharply, drawing a low noise from your throat. Bucky didn’t miss a beat. He was still kissing you, still swallowing your gasp as his hands ran down your thighs and urged them further apart.
He stepped in, slotting himself between your legs, his body flush against yours. The sensation of him made your head spin. Water from the still-running shower continued to hiss in the background, steam billowing out and filling the room like a cocoon. You were both soaked, skin slick and glistening, lips swollen, breaths short. Your fingers found the back of his neck again, anchoring yourself as he kissed you deeper, slower now, like he was savouring every second.
His hands slid down your hips and tugged you forward until your thighs bracketed his waist. You felt his cock, solid and insistent, pulsing against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, and your breath caught.
“I think I’ve dreamt of this moment.” He confessed between kisses, before consuming you again.
It took little resistance for him to push into you in one smooth motion. You weren’t just drenched from the shower. Your whole body sang from the shock of it, a strangled sound tearing from your throat as your fingers fisted in his wet hair. His mouth tore from yours with a ragged gasp, trailing down your jaw, your neck, leaving fire in his wake. Bucky braced a hand behind you on the counter, the other gripping your thigh, steadying you as his hips began to move precise and relentless.
“Do you know how long I’ve thought about this?” he muttered into the curve of your neck, voice wrecked. His lips brushed against your pulse, the edge of his teeth grazing the skin like he was half a second from losing control. “How many nights I told myself I couldn’t touch you... shouldn’t want you, couldn’t have you.”
You let out a breathless laugh that quickly turned into a gasp as his hips snapped forward again. 
“Keep going,” you rasped, one hand clawing up the curve of his back, the other buried in his hair. “Don’t stop.”
His only reply was a low, broken groan against your skin, like he was coming apart just from the feel of you wrapped around him. You locked your ankles behind him and rocked your hips forward, drawing him deeper. A spark of pleasure flared up your spine, making your head fall back against the fogged-up mirror..
“I tried so fucking hard to keep my distance.” He chuckled low against your collarbone, though the sound was strained, caught between shallow pants and a raw groan of need. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
His vibranium hand slid between your bodies. His fingers found that sensitive bundle of nerves, circling with gentle strokes, and your body jolted in response. An uncontrollable whimper left you as your thighs trembled around him.
“I’ve been dying to hear those sounds from you.” Bucky panted against your ear. 
You pressed closer to him, shaking legs tightening around his waist as you pursued his fingers. He chuckled at your poorly hidden desperation, chest vibrating from the sound. As his fingers swirled, cock pumping in and out, you felt your body clench involuntarily around him, drawing a moan from him. 
“Fuck, Bucky, ” you breathed, barely able to form the word as your pleasure surged, unrelenting and dizzying. “If I’d known this was what you were holding back, I would’ve pushed harder.”
Bucky’s rhythm faltered, his thrusts becoming uneven and desperate, chasing the high he could feel coiling tighter in both of you. Your raw moans echoed around the small bathroom, rising above the hiss of the shower and the frantic beat of the slap of wet skin. Your climax broke over you like a wave crashing against the shore. Your entire body arched, legs trembling as you whimpered, lips parted, eyes squeezed shut. Pleasure tore through you like lightning, leaving your nerves sparking in its wake.
With a guttural groan muffled against your neck, Bucky followed you over the edge. You felt him twitch inside you, warmth spreading as he spilt into you, his hips stuttering erratically as he buried himself as deep as he could go. His arms tightened around you, as though he needed to hold you close to keep himself grounded.
For a long, breathless moment, you stayed like that. Tangled together, trembling, the heat of the afterglow. The water still rained behind you, forgotten, as you both came down slowly, limbs heavy and slick with sweat and steam. Then, slowly, Bucky lifted his head to look at you. His hair was plastered to his forehead in wet strands, water trailing down the lines of his cheekbones and along his jaw. His eyes, dark and hungry, searched yours with a mix of dazed satisfaction and something else. A flicker of awe, maybe. Or disbelief.
You gave him a slow, wicked smirk and reached up to brush a dripping lock of hair off his brow, your fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary.
“I need you to pull that transfer request, by the way,” you murmured, voice low and rough with breath. “There is no way in hell I’m training with Thor.”
His lips twitched, a hoarse laugh escaping him, short and surprised. But the fire in his gaze didn’t fade. If anything, it darkened.
“I’ll pull it…” he said, voice thick with promise as his hands slid back down to your waist, “…when I’m done with you.”
From the way his fingers gripped your hips, you had a feeling that wouldn’t be anytime soon. 
---
hello! i no longer have a taglist because it got too long and was reaching the tag limit. if you want to be notified when i post please follow @artficlly-updates and turn on post notifications!
2K notes · View notes
lusmeitli · 3 months ago
Text
This is absolutely perfect. Your writing style, your pacing, how you string up the story and then pull our hearts out is just - a masterpiece. There’s so many layers to this story, it’s so cleverly designed and beautifully executed, I am at a loss for words. The setting for the declaration and his reaction to it - simply sublime. Thank you so much for writing and for sharing this absolute gem with us. X
Look Behind You
Tumblr media
Main Masterlist - Bucky Masterlist
Read on A03!
Tags: Bucky Barnes/Female Reader, smut (p in v, fingering), light angst, fluff, humor, action, no use of y/n, semi-linear story telling, enemies to lovers
You've made a mistake. You've been reckless and fallen in love with Bucky. There's only one way to deal with this.
Make a list.
Author's Note: This is one of my favorites, I think. Thriving in the semi-linear story telling, feelings, and list making. Gotta love a good list. Enjoy!
Word Count: 11.9k
The pen in your hands feels more like a weapon. The last line of defense against the unthinkable. 
The only thing holding your sanity, dignity, and life by a single thread, set to snap if you’re not careful.
Nobody will bother you in this coffee shop. Not even Bucky will look for you here. You’re in public. You’re somewhere obvious and simple, and that’s the whole point. Sam and Bucky will lose themselves down dark allies and in hidden corners of the city before they think to check an emotionally significant landmark in downtown Manhattan. They won’t believe you’d be that stupid, make it that easy for them. They’ll think that—because you’re dodging calls, because you were gone when Bucky woke up and you didn’t meet with Sam before lunch—you don’t want to be found.
And you don’t.
So they’re not going to find you. 
There’s a lingering fear that a search team might be assembled, and the city may be barricaded in until you’re found, but you don’t think Sam will abuse his power like that.
Bucky might try to convince him to.
You’re about fifty percent sure Sam won’t cave.
It’s a bridge you’ll burn when you reach it. When they do—eventually—find you. When you—hopefully—have your answer, and you have to look Bucky in the eyes and keep finding a way to live with yourself.
If this goes as you hope, that will be quite easy. You’ll lie through your teeth and say you lost your phone—it’s right next to you, the SIM card removed and battery purposefully dead, but they never need to know that—and thought that Sam and Bucky would be able to find you if they needed you. They’ll look embarrassed and make a silent vow to each other that you’ll pretend not to see—swearing that they’ll never tell you how they almost called the coast guard in—and then everything will go back to normal.
If it goes the way you’re afraid of, that will be more complicated. You’re not entertaining that possibility with things like plans or strategies, because you simply won’t allow it to happen. This will work. You have the pen, the paper, and at least eight hours before Sam and Bucky grow a brain cell and figure out where you are.
Deep breath. The coffee in front of you is sweeter than you’d usually want it, almost sickly, but it can be a motivation. The coffee shop is crowded, and the tables are blue. You can smell the decorative roses on the windows. You can hear the music in your earbuds. The pen is heavy in your hands, but all that means is it’s real. And this is going to work.
List of Reasons to Hate Bucky-
You pause, and scratch out Bucky. It’s too intimate. You’re setting yourself up for failure. 
List of Reasons to Hate James Barnes.
You have reason one locked and loaded. You’ve been rehearsing the whole list for a week—since the revelation that can’t be spoken of, because that will make it real—and you know half of your pre-planned reasons will drift into nothing as you go through the list, but at least you’ll have one. 
It’s better than none of them.
You’re a little worried a hundred won’t do the job.
You have to try anyway.
1. He stares.
——————
You don’t know how you got here. Sitting across from Captain America, kicking your feet slightly and humming to yourself as he and his very angry looking sidekick glare at you.
It seems like a contest, trying to figure out who will break and speak first.
It won’t be you.
Captain America is out of his suit, and, logically, you know his wings won’t just spring out of his body. They’re mechanical, not biological. Part of you is still wondering—should you move suddenly and startle him—if he’ll squak and take off like a real bird. 
He won’t, and you don’t think either of these men will find that as funny as you will. The Cap seems intently focused on trying to puff out his chest in his chair—like an odd sort of intimidation ritual or mating dance, done more on instinct than logic—and his sidekick is looking at you as if you’re the most disgusting thing he’s ever seen.
You’ve gotten that look before. It doesn’t shake you on his face any more than it does anyone else, but there is something… different. Most people will glare with that revolted look at what you’ve done, and for what expression, and it won’t sink deeper than your skin, because they don’t understand. They don’t know what the shadows and colder nights feel like, they don’t know how long you’ve been broken and alone, they don’t know that—whatever loathing for you has wormed its way into their heart—they don’t hate you. They hate what you’ve done, and they really don’t fucking understand.
This guy looks like he understands you perfectly, and it’s viler to him than anything in the world. Like he knows exactly who you are, like every marred and twisted organ is visible to his unwavering stare, and it’s the worst thing he’s even seen.
You’d laugh, if it didn’t cause an odd sting in your heart. Because you know who Bucky Barnes is. You know that any blood on your hands is mirrored on his, and if he really knows who you are, he’ll think better than to turn the violent glint behind his eyes into action. 
Especially because you know he won’t hurt you. He can’t, but you don’t think he’ll even try. He’s cured. He’s free. He doesn’t hurt people anymore, and you’re technically a person.
You’re also starting to be incredibly certain that this is some sort of staring competition. There’s no other reason for the silence to be stretching on this pointlessly long. It’s a little amusing, how they seem to have started a game they’ll never win, but it doesn’t change what’s happening. You’re handcuffed to a chair in an unknown location, Captain America and the Ex-Winter Solider are trying to break you with only very angry expressions, and you could escape in a second but you’re bored, and you don’t care about winning, but you want them to lose.
And they do.
Because Captain America breaks first, and smile pulls at your lips that you don’t bother to hide.
“You know why you’re here?”
You shrug, keeping your voice bored and amused. “Should I?”
He blinks at that, looking over his shoulder at Barnes, and letting out a long breath as his companion just keeps glaring at you. “Buck-“
“Don’t say my name, dumbass-“
“She already knows who we are-“
“She hasn’t been in damn public for a decade, we don’t know what she knows-“
“Man, c’mon, Fisk has TVs.” Captain America rolls his eyes, and turns back to you. “You know who we are?”
“I don’t think so?” You look between them with your best, perfectly innocent and confused expression. “Should I?”
Barnes narrows his eyes, scanning over you with an unblinking fury that’s almost scary. Not quite, but almost.
“You know who we are.”
“I don’t think I do-“
Barnes scoffs. “Don’t lie-“
Captain America shakes his head, cutting Barnes off with a firm glare. “I dunno, man, you’re the one who said-“
“I know what I said, but- You’re really falling for that?” Barnes gestures to you with a scowl, and you give him a sweet smile in return. “She’s clearly lying, Sam-“
Sam rolls his eyes. “Who’s sayin’ names now, Bucky-“
You clear your throat, and they both look back to you with almost twin, venomous glowers.
“What.” Sam snaps, and you let out a long, dramatic sigh.
“Do I have to stay tied to the chair while you two fight? Or can I go home?”
“Home?” Barnes gives you a pointed look. “You gonna head right back to Fisk, doll?”
You don’t answer, just shrugging and letting your smile widen, even as the thought of willingly running home to fucking Fisk makes bile rise in your throat.
Barnes holds your gaze with a glare. You don’t think you’ve seen him blink once. It might be the main thing keeping you in this chair.
You want to see what they have to say, and you’d really like to see if Barnes can blink, or if it will make his circuits fry and heart go into an arrest.
You get the former first, when Sam runs a hand over his face, leans forward in his chair, and mutters your name. Your real name.
He knows your name. That’s interesting.
“Look, we-“ He glances at Barnes—still glaring at you—and lets out a long breath. “We know who you are.”
“Oh?” You look between them will well-practiced, faux innocence. “Do you?”
“Fisk’s pet.” Barnes grunts, and Sam sighs again. He seems to do that a lot.
“I- Coulda phrased it better, but yeah. You’re his hit… woman.” Sam’s voice drops as he continues, watching you carefully. “Look, we got an opportunity for you. Help us bring down Fisk, you get a full par-“
“Okay.”
Sam frowns. “I wasn’t done-“
“I don’t care.” You shrug. “I’m in. Can you let me out now?”
“Uh-“
“That’s it?” Barnes cuts Sam off with a snap, his tone full of a disgust that’s a little dramatic. “You’re just- You’re gonna flip like that? No questions, no loyalty? Out of fuckin’ self-preservation?”
You snort, not bothering to sit up as you hold his gaze. “Of course it’s out of self-preservation. Would you rather I hold my moral high-ground and keep working for the evil crime lord? Would that be better for you? Cause I can flip back, you just need to say the word and I’ll go tell Fisk that Captain America tried to cut a deal with me-“
“Hey, no.” Sam holds up his hand, letting out a long, slow breath as he glares at Barnes. “C’mon, man, you know we get one shot at this, stop antagonizing her-“
“She’s antagonizing me.” Barnes mutters, and you scoff. 
“You’re not the one cuffed to a chair, dipshit-“
“You-“ Barnes’ jaw clenches, and his hands curl at his side. Maybe he’ll punch you. That feels like it’ll help, somehow. “Sam, this cannot be our only option. She,” he gestures to you, and you wink at him. It doesn’t help. “Is not the only person in the whole damn city that works for Fisk. We’ll find another-“
“I’m the only person he trusts that will flip.” You hum. “Everyone else in his inner circle believes in the cause, or something. They love him, worship the ground he walks on. I’m the Stockholm puppy, they’ll never assume I flipped, and they’ll tell me whatever I ask because they don’t think I’d have this,” you give a vague wave of your hand in Sam and Bucky’s direction. “In me. I’m not just your only option. I’m your best option.”
There’s a long silence as they stare at you— incredibly uncuffed from the chair—and before Barnes can lunge at you with what might have been snarl, Sam stands up, shoves him away, and they exchange low, angry words.
You settle for examining your nails as you wait, and Barnes’ glare pushes right under skin and sticks to it. You don’t know how you know, but there’s a very certain feeling that for the rest of your life you’re going to feel a buzzing, electric heat under your skin that’s entirely made of James Barnes, glaring at you. 
You really don’t think he can blink. 
But you’ll have plenty of time to find out, because when they return it’s with the news that they’ve come to an agreement—more likely Barnes lost an argument, but you don’t really care—that you’re in.
Barnes won’t stop staring at you. And you could leave, if you wanted.
But you’re interested in seeing how this plays out. And Barnes may be rearranging every nerve point and organ in your body with only his attention, but that isn’t nearly as important as getting away from Fisk. 
So you stare right back. 
——————
Reason two is a little harder. You’d had it lined up as well, but it hurts to even think.
You have to. If you’re going to get through this, you have to write down all the reason, even if you’d punch anyone else square in the jaw for saying them.
Bucky doesn’t deserve this. You need to pretend he does.
For your own sanity, you need to pretend he does.
2. He can be an asshole.
You don’t make it three second before something rattles in your body, and you add- 
But so can you.
——————
“You know,” Barnes drawls behind you, and it’s amazing how bad he can be at shutting up. This is supposed to be a stealth mission. He hasn’t stop talking to you since Sam put you two on a team and then fucked off to go fly around the warehouse. “The spider kid’s told us all about you, doll-“
“Parker?” You hum, and Barnes blinks. 
There it is.
“How’d you- No-“
“I know Spider-man’s Peter Parker.” You give Barnes an overly sweet smile, and you’ve been their double agent for a month of back-alley meetings and careful exchanges in noisy rooms, but it hasn’t seemed to stop getting under his skin. “I’ve known for like, five years.”
Barnes shakes his head, as if he doesn’t believe you. Like you just somehow guessed. “But Fisk doesn’t-“
“I didn’t tell Fisk.”
You turn back to the path ahead of you, and you can still feel Barnes’ glower.
“You think you’re fuckin’ smart, kid-“
“Yes, I do.” You throw him another smile over your shoulder, and his glare deepens. “What did Peter tell you about me?”
“That you’re kind of a bitch.” Barnes grunts, and you roll your eyes.
“He’s just still mad I gave him a concussion.” You mutter. “I didn’t mean to-“
“You didn’t mean to give him a fucking concussion-“ 
“I didn’t know how strong he’d be. It was new, I thought I’d just be breaking his nose-“
Barnes grabs your arm, yanking you back without warning and covering your mouth with a gloved hand, muffling your yelp.
“Be more careful.” He grunts in your ear. “Almost walked right into the open, you’ll get yourself shot.”
If you lean a little further back, your skin will touch his. Maybe he’d be stronger than Parker. Maybe you could hit hard enough to knock a new personality into him.
Because for the past week, Barnes has been a fucking dick. You understand not trusting you. It’s a reasonable conclusion to reach. 
But he doesn’t listen. He shoots down all your intel and acts both like you’re a weak little child, and an atomic bomb set to go off any second. You’re neither. You want Fisk dead more than anyone, and you’re in complete control. If you weren’t, you would’ve killed him days ago, and never even fucking blinked.
It’s a testament to that control, that you shove yourself away from him without tapping into Parker’s strength. You could’ve sent him flying out the window, if you wanted. But you’re being diplomatic, and you’re trying to do the goddamn mission, so you don’t. 
“Don’t grab me.” You snap, and Barnes scowls.
“I was helping you-“
“Did I ask you to?”
“No.” He narrows his eyes, taking a firm step forward until you’re almost nose to nose. “But if you die, Sam will yell at me. So be more damn careful.”
The staring contest lasts another minute before Sam’s voice crackles in both your ears, and you have to get back to work. By the time they’re fighting some of Fisk’s men—you’ve been, fucking stupidly, sidelined so as not to blow your cover—Barnes has called you incompetent in ten more ways. You’re too loud. Too smug for someone who’s not doing anything. You’re slowing them down, and he’s stuck babysitting you for your shitty intel—shitty intel that got them here, but he seems to be selectively ignoring that—and you’re too willing to kill people and run into fights with no powers.
He’s used that one a lot, after you’d convinced Fisk to give you a vacation and started to crash with Sam. Barnes has muttered countless times that he can’t believe you’re the woman everyone in New York is afraid of. 
“Who says I have no powers,” you’d snapped after the third low comment, sprawled out on Sam’s couch and watching TV, and Barnes had rolled his eyes.
“Whenever you’re ready to prove you got some, doll, I’m ready.” He’d raised his brows in a silent challenge, holding your glare. “Until then, get off my couch.”
“It’s Sam’s couch. And I’m watching TV.”
“All you fucking do is watch TV, doll, can’t be good for you-“
“Aw,” you’d shot him another sickly-sweet smile. “The old man is worried about my screen time-“
“You’re hogging it.” He’d grunted, ignoring your teasing, and you’d flipped him off.
“Sam doesn’t have any good books, and I’m not allowed to have a phone. What the fuck else am I supposed to do?”
You’d won the argument. Barnes had circled back to you being a waste of space—and you were, but he didn’t know that—and not actually having any powers, so in your eyes, that meant you won.
Because you do have powers. You’ve been saving it for a good moment. Just to prove your point, you’ll use them in a way that blows his stupid fucking mind, and really makes him feel like a dumbass.
That moment comes when one of Fisk’s men is aiming a gun right at his back, he’s turning a little too slow, and Sam is all the way on the other side of the room.
You’re on the ceiling. 
You drop down with the dramatic, fancy landing you’ve been practicing since you got skin-to-skin contact with Parker, and punch the grunt backward into the wall. 
There’s a sickening crack sound from the impact, and it rattles over your ribs and skull. You memorize his face, and add it to your tally. Your graveyard. Another piece of you that will never get to be whole or clean. 
When you turn back to Barnes, he’s staring at you, a look of borderline amusing confusion on his face.
“You-“ He glances up to the ceiling, and shakes his head. “You just fucking killed that guy.”
Your teeth almost snap in your mouth, and you feel a little bit of bile in your throat.
“Obviously.” You mutter, flexing your fist as you let Parker’s powers go dormant once more. “And it saved your life. You’re welcome.”
Barnes narrows his eyes. “I didn’t say thank you-“
“You should work on that, then.” You snap, storming past him as Sam wraps up the last grunt. “It’s rude.”
——————
Your coffee is finally finished, but it’s more bitter than normal on your tongue.
You think you might just miss Bucky, and it’s having a physical effect on your body. 
You need to keep going.
3. He’s bad at using his words.
——————
You jump out of your seat when the book slams down in front of you. 
“What the fuck-“
“Go read.” Barnes grunts, dropping down at your side. “My turn with the TV.”
You gape at him, not bothering to hide the slight amusement in your voice. “Your turn- Are you fucking five-“
“No. Read.”
“I-“
“Read.”
You scowl, and whack him on the arm with the book. “Stop interrupting me, Barnes-“
“Stop calling me Barnes,” he snaps your name in a mocking tone, catching your book before it can land on his arm once more, shoving it fully into your hands. “Go read.”
“I-“ You swallow, watching him wearily, hugging the book to your chest without thought. “What?”
His jaw ticks slightly. “Read-“
“No, why don’t you want me to call you Barnes.”
He’s silent for a long second, staring at the black TV screen with an unreadable expression.
“You call Sam his name.” He finally mutters, something bitter in his voice. “And the spider kid Peter. We’re supposed to be a fucking team. Use my name.”
You narrow your eyes. “You never thanked me for saving your life. Teammates thank each other.”
“That’s your thanks, genius.” He taps the book, still not fully looking at you. “Read it.”
He won that conversation. You don’t have a good response to that, so Bucky won. The asshole.
He buys you five more books in the next two weeks. One for every successful mission. And when you end up with a large gash on your leg, he half shoves you down onto the couch and kneels at your feet, patching it up without a word.
You don’t like the silence. It’s too heavy around your throat.
Only half a second later—like he can hear the stutter in your every breath—Bucky breaks it.
“You didn’t need to jump in front of me.”
“You were going to get shot, dummy.” You snap, crossing your arms and leaning back on the couch. “I did you a favor. Say thank you.”
He doesn’t. He won’t. But you know you’ll get another new book tomorrow, and that’s enough.
“Didn’t know you could get hurt.” He still won’t look up from your leg. “Thought I saw you get shot last week and walk it off.”
“I was ready for that.” You mutter, wincing as Bucky presses the rubbing alcohol to your leg. “This- fuck- I got caught off guard. Won’t happen again.”
He grunts, frowning at your leg. “You’re… selectively invulnerable.”
“If I chose right, yeah.”
That gets him to look at you. There’s the usual confusion clouding his eyes, along with… something else. Something deeper and vaster than the ocean, that’s almost jarring to see. Not frightening. Just different. Strange.
“What the fuck are you?”
His tone isn’t hateful. There’s a strange kind of light in it. Like awe. 
Not awe. 
But like it.
“I’m-“ You swallow, and you haven’t ever really explained it. Once Fisk made you, you just were. Once he figured out what you could do, it was all you did. Nobody asked. They never had to.
Bucky bows his head again, glaring at your leg as he speaks. “You don’t gotta tell me-“
“Shut up. I’m a mimic.”
He looks back up with raised brows, and you take a deep breath before you continue. 
“Fisk created me. Partnered with some crazy scientists, saved me out of a home, and made me into his little pet hero. I can mimic anyone’s DNA, if I touch them skin to skin. It’s just- I only use it on superheroes. Otherwise it’s not really useful.”
Bucky glances down at his gloved hands with a small frown, then back to you. “You stick to the ceiling a lot.”
You nod, and shrug. “I’ve touched Parker, if that’s what you’re asking. That’s how I know who he is. I beat him in a fight, unmasked him, and he was-“ You swallow, a knot tightening and grinding in your stomach, and Bucky finishes for you.
“Just a kid.”
“Just a kid.” You echo. “Couldn’t kill him. Never want to kill any of them. But there’s-“
“Not a choice.” He mutters, and the strange thing in his eyes seems clearer. “Bite down on this.”
You blink at him. “Wha-“
Bucky shoves the glove from his flesh hand into your mouth, and starts the first stitch.
The next day, there’s a phone and a book waiting for you in the kitchen.
——————
It takes too long to come up with the next reason. You get lost in thoughts of how you’ve read that same book a dozen times, and you’d caught Bucky reading your annotations with adorable concentration only a few weeks ago.
He always spends more time reading your thoughts than the actual story.
And it had hit you then, too. You can’t think about that, because it’s making this impossible. You can’t think about how Bucky had fallen asleep reading your annotations and looked adorable, or how the phone he gave you is the same one on the table next you right now. How the case on it is the one you bought as he hung over your shoulder, muttering how phone cases were stupid.
You’d made him show you his phone, after he’d said that. The screen had been cracked and shattered, and it had taken a month to get him to buy another. 
That can be a list point. You’re back on your game.
You almost write stubborn, but you substitute it for something stronger at the last second.
4. He can be controlling
You stare at it for a long moment, because something is off. Bucky can be controlling. He can man-handle you and order you around, his voice low and smooth and the intensity in his eyes a little dizzying-
“Shit.” You mutter under your breath. You messed up again.
Because you’re right.
But, fuck, it turns you on.
——————
“You need to stop fucking doing this,” Bucky mutters your name, his metal arm holding you in place as he pressed another round of rubbing alcohol over your gut. “One day you’re not gonna get lucky.”
You wince, but give him a weak smile. “I got shot, Buck, I wouldn’t call that lucky-“
“You got shot.” He hisses, scowling up at you. “Because you were fucking reckless.”
“I saved you-“
“That is not your job, kid-“
“Then stop almost getting shot!”
“I-“ Bucky lets out a slow breath from between his teeth, shaking his head slowly. “No. That’s my job. You’re not even supposed to be in the field-“
“But I am.” You snap. “And I’m not just going to let you get hurt-“
“You’re not letting me do anything.” He mutters, setting down the bottle as he moves back to the medkit. “You’re done in the field.”
You gape at him, the words too slow to sink it. Bucky said them too casually. He said them like they were his call to make.
“What the fuck are you talking about-“
“You’re not going out there again.” He grunts. His metal hand is still on your leg. “We’re almost done anyway. You’re best for intel.”
“Int-“ You cut yourself off with a scoff, glaring down at him. “You are not my boss, James-“
“No. I’m not.” His jaw ticks slightly. He still won’t meet your eyes. “But if I see you in the field again, I’m handcuffing you to your bed.”
He says that so easily, and a heat you have to ignore pools in your stomach. 
“What the fuck are you talking about.” You hiss, leaning down to try and drag his attention fully to your glare. “I am not going to just sit at home-“
“Yeah.” He grunts, still not looking up. “You are.”
“I told you, you are not in charge of me-“
He snorts. “If I was in charge of you, doll, you’d be on full fucking lockdown.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean-“
“Don’t worry about it-“
“James Barnes. Fucking look at me.”
He tenses, and drag his eyes to yours as if the action pains him. “What.”
“I am going to keep working.” You hiss. “Because it’s my job. And if you’ve got a problem with that-“
He rolls his eyes. “Obviously I have a fucking problem with it. And I’m deadly serious,” he grunts your name, holding your gaze. “You try and go on another mission, you’re getting cuffed.”
“We’re so fucking close, you asshole, you don’t get to bench me now-“
“That exactly why I’m benching you-“
“Because we’re close? What, you worried I’m gonna flee the moment we wrap this up?”
If you were furious with Bucky, you’d be worried he was going to break his jaw. “No.”
“So it’s not because you don’t trust me?” You sneer, and he shoots you of a look practical shock.
“Of course I fucking trust you-“
“Then why Bucky?! You can’t just fucking bench me and not tell me why! This is my fight too, and if you think fucking handcuffs are going hold me-“
“I won’t cuff you if you listen-“
“I won’t listen if you don’t speak fucking clearly-“
“It’s- fuck- It’s because Fisk is going to know it’s you soon!” He roars, and you freeze. You’ve heard him yell before, but not like this. There’s something hot behind it. Something almost pained. “You know what he’ll do when he’s figures out where you went off to?! What you’ve been doing, that you’ve been working with Me and Sam?!”
“I-“
“I’m not gonna be the one they’re aiming at anymore, doll. And they’re gonna be shooting to kill. And what if I’m not fast enough?!” he squeezes your leg, his lips curling as his eyes dart down to the wound ripping open your stomach. “What if they’re shooting you, and you’re not ready, and I’m too fucking slow?!” 
“Bucky-“
“I’ll fucking lose you.” He hisses, and you’re not even sure he knows what he’s saying. “I’m not fucking losing you. I only just goddamn got you, and you are not allowed to bail on me because you’re reckless and stupid.”
He finishes with a long, ragged breath, and you blink at him. Your skin is hot, mouth dry, and it’s as if you’ve been wandering in the desert for a million years. 
You haven’t been, though. 
But nobody’s ever looked at you like that before. With that fervorish awe, and unyielding fury like a tidal wave. Your hands feel clean. For the first time—maybe in years, maybe in your life—you don’t feel any small amounts of blood or grime under your fingernails. It’s that ocean, you think. The one trapped inside of Bucky, that’s slowly been flooding your senses over the past few months. A tide rising with every traded joke and shared book, every mission where he’d trusted you more and more, every story you’d told each other about the heavier, tainted parts of your shadows. 
You move to touch his face without thinking, and his skin is soft. The stubble of his beard is almost grounding—a small, rough reminder that he’s changed since you met him, even if the only obvious part of that is the length of his beard—and he’s looking at you like he’s afraid. Parted lips and blown out eyes as his hand catches your against his face, holding it there as he stares at you with that same fucking awe.
“I’m not losing you.” He repeats the word like they’re a prayer. An oath. “I’m not fucking losing you.”
——————
You need to take a ten-minute break. 
He hadn’t kissed you then. Fucking Sam had interrupted, because you’d been closer to the end than you thought you were. 
Fisk had fallen the next week. He’d never know it was you until he was sitting in a cell, and you spoke to him through the bars.
That had been a… long and confusing day. Bucky had been waiting the entire time. He’d almost killed you the moment you walked out of the cell.
6. He’s bad at reading situations
——————
Your eyes sting.
You don’t know why you’d cried. Fisk had made your life hell. He’d ruined it, and you’d won, and you’d still cried for him.
“You were like a daughter to me,” he’d hummed your name, nothing but sheer fucking disappointment in his eyes. Like you’d failed him. Like he was more hurt for you than angred at your betrayal. “You know, I always loved you for exactly what you were. Nothing more, nothing less.”
You’d only swallowed, any sharp words dying in your throat as Fisk continued.
“Do you think the Winter Soldier will like the reminder? Of who he was before?” Fisk had shaken his head, and sighed as if he’d been mourning you. You’d almost thrown up on the tile floors. “No, not as you are. And you don’t change, my girl. You’re not meant for… soft things. You could’ve ruled the world and now… You’ll be nothing. Alone.”
You’d found the words to cut back, somehow, but you don’t remember them. You only remember the knot in your stomach and bile in your throat. 
You hope you’d held the tears until you were hunched over the toilet. You’d only just managed the vomit.
And you hadn’t reacted, when Bucky had come up behind you. You want to think it was because you were off your game.
It was probably just because it was Bucky.
He’d held your hair from your face. He’d rubbed your back with the metal hand, and it had eased your breathing too fast. And when you’d finally sat up, he’d pulled you into his chest like you were something delicate.
Fisk’s words are too loud in your head. Your voice, when you finally speak, is too soft.
“This is the women’s room, Buck.” You mumble, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand. “Don’t think you’re supposed to be in here.”
“’S fine.” He shrugs, the movement shifting you slightly against him, settling you more comfortably in his hold. “You’re here. This is where I’ll be until someone moves me.”
You hum, pressing your face to his shoulder, as if you can’t fucking help it. “Miss me that much?”
He grunts, and you could swear you feel him nod. “Needed to talk to you.”
“Now?”
“Yeah.”
There’s a long pause, and when you lean back, he’s staring again. 
You think he’s going to rip you apart. At least then, maybe, he’ll keep some of you in his pocket. A little bit, to always be held like this.
“Bucky-“
“Go on a date with me.”
——————
Number seven is easy. Number seven flows right off of six, because you’d said yes like you were only breathing—even as all the air in the world became too thin, and you almost passed out from the branding focus of Bucky’s gaze—and Bucky had grinned like he’d never seen the sun before, and now it was shining just for him.
It had been cute.
Too many parts of Bucky could be cute.
7. He can be unbelievably sweet at the worst possible times.
——————
You’re going to strangle him. 
The date was perfect. Horribly perfect. Impossibly perfect. Fairy tale, romance movie, only-exists for valentine’s day propaganda perfect.
Bucky bought you flowers. A big bouquet of yellow roses, because he knows how much you both hate red. You went to a fancy restaurant, and walked in the park for five hours just holding hands like idiots, until he was spinning you around and swaying you in his arms, and you were giggling.
You don’t giggle. You didn’t even know you could make that sound. 
But Bucky had guided you through a romantic, smooth dance—his body warm around yours, nothing to see you in the dark but his bright eyes and the slowly clouding night sky—and you’d giggled. He’d smelled like pine aftershave, a deep, slightly spicy cologne, and something earthier that was just Bucky, and you’d giggled.
You’d been vulnerable. In public, in the dark, in the open. But Bucky had been there, and there had been a secure feeling over your skin like the sky could split open with fire and hail, and you’d be alright. Bucky was there, so you’d always be alright.
And you’d giggled.
It was dangerous. It was dangerous when he’d kissed your cheek after handing you the flowers, standing in your doorway as if you didn’t fucking live together. It was dangerous when he held your car door open, and when he helped you into the seat at the restaurant. When he took your hand like touching you was the most natural thing in the world, and started to dance as if that had been what he’d been planning to do the whole time.
Given the small smirk on his lips when the first giggle had escaped you, it might have been. 
But the most dangerous thing had been when it had started to rain, and he’d picked you up. Hauled you into his arms without a grunt and run you into an all-night coffee shop, keeping his body folded over yours as if you’d melt into a puddle if he didn’t shield you from the world.
You’d found a little table, ordered some drinks, and lost track of time.
He was so handsome, with messy, wet hair and eyes bluer than the rain could ever hope to be. He was warmer than the heater of the coffee shop. 
You knew he’d taste better than the small scone he’d bought you, too.
And then again, like he could read your fucking mind, he’d shaken his head.
“We’re not doing that tonight,” he’d drawled your name, grinning at you from across the table, and you’d blinked at him.
“I-“
“We will.” He’d shrugged. “Trust me on that, I’ve- Shit- We will. But not tonight.”
You blinked at him, shaking your head slowly. “Bucky-“
“We’re not fucking, doll.”
And now you were here. About to kill him.
“I never said we were-“
“Didn’t have to.” He shoots you a wink, bumping your knee with his under the table. “Saw it all over your face, baby.”
“You-“ You swallow, and he can’t fucking do that. It’s not fair. He can’t say no sex tonight and then wink and call you baby. That’s not fair. “I- Why?”
Your words are almost a whine, and Bucky’s grin widens. It’s too adorable, too gleeful and affectionate, and his knuckles are brushing against your hand and he smells so good-
“I want that to be its own thing. This is our first date. We’re doing number two because this was fun and we,” he gestures between your bodies, watching you carefully. “Work. Not cause I fuck you until you can’t walk.”
He finishes with a shrug, and even though he’s still grinning—he knows exactly what those last words did you to, the asshole—there’s something firmer in his voice that tells you he’s being serious. 
That’s annoying. And sweet. So fucking sweet.
So you let it go.
“Aw.” You give him a teasing smile, pressing your thighs together to relieve just a little bit of your need from his attention. “You think we work?”
“Yeah. I do.” He’s staring at you again. You might have started something you can’t finish. “Do you?”
You swallow, and lying feels pointless. You’re trapped. He’s handsome and amazing and he’s not going to fuck you, but he promised he would later, and you’re trapped. 
“Yeah.” You whisper, and you don’t know when you started holding his hand again. You don’t really care to let go. “I do.”
——————
This isn’t working anymore.
All you can think about is how that might have been the moment. The one where something sparked and grew and razed through your body, reshaping your organs and tissue to all mold a little better for Bucky. He’d said I do like it was the easiest thing in the world. Less of an answer to a question and more of a statement.
There had been a finality to it. Like that was all he’d ever have to know again. You were all he’d ever have to know.
He’d made promises and kept them. You’d remained warm every time it had stormed, and through the following winter, and it was because that had been the moment and this strategy isn’t fucking working.
Bucky had told you later, and now that later is all you can think about. Bucky is all you can think about, and every single thing you cast to mar the picture of him in your head just makes it stronger. Makes every memory sharper, every thought of Bucky in your head more beautiful.
8. He’s perfect. It’s impossible.
——————
You don’t know exactly how you got here. There were flowers involved, and a dark theatre, and Bucky had whispered something low in your ear that made you gape at him in the dark, and then he’d kept his hand on your thigh the rest of the night, and the whole world had become unbearable hot.
It’s only a haze now. A big, warm haze that’s cooled by one metal hand on your hip as you burn and burn and burn, and Bucky hasn’t even done anything yet. But he’s been teasing you. Keeping you pinned cruelly under his body for what feels like hours, kissing and sucking over your neck and slotting his knee between your thighs, letting you grind against him and pull at his hair until you were whining for more, you need more-
“Think you can take more, baby?” He murmurs against your lips, and you don’t know if he’s doing the anticipating thing again, or just teasing you a little more. “You even know what you want?”
He uses your responding moan to push his tongue down your throat, kissing you heavy and long and deep. 
And Bucky’s kissed you before. A lot. There had been one, world-making kiss that had grown into an addiction, becoming kisses in the corner of every room and against the wall of every hallway, into the cushions of the couch until Sam groaned and walked away—promising to never come over for movie night again—and right up to every edge, but never further.
Bucky seems to be under the impression that he needs to be a gentleman. That there needs to be a right moment to stop pulling away with heavy, shallow breaths, swollen lips, and flushed faces. That he needs written permission to go further.
You’d given him that permission this morning. You’d slid him a small paper over the counter, and when he’d read it, he’d raised his brows at you in amusement.
“This says fuck me.”
“Yep.” You’d hummed, holding his gaze as you’d taken a large bite of your banana.
It had been a warfare strategy. It had seemed to work then—his eyes had darkened, nostrils flaring and fist closing around the paper as he stared at you—but you know it’s worked now.
Because this kiss is different. It’s another, newer tidal wave that’s all thirst. Desire.
Need.
Bucky’s holding himself by a tether. You can feel it when you bite his lower lip, he groans down your throat, and his hips jerk forward. 
“You’re- Shit-“ Bucky grunts as you suck a small, dark mark on his jaw. “You gotta be sure, doll, I can’t-“
“I’m sure.” You whisper, leaning back to hold his gaze. He looks almost nervous, and it makes your brow furrow slightly. “Buck, are you-“
He crashes his mouth back down to yours, his metal hand playing with the hem of your skirt. 
“Don’t ask stupid questions.” He mutters, pulling back to scan over you once more. “I’m- If we’re doing this, I’ve gotta be- I need to-“
“I know.”
He blinks at you. “You do? How- Sam.”
You giggle slightly at Bucky’s violent glower—you’ve been doing that a frightening amount lately—and raise a hand to trace over his jaw.
“He says he- uh- Heard you. Once. Months ago. And it’s okay.”
He shakes his head, still watching you with that caution. “I- It doesn’t have to be, doll, I know that your past isn’t all sunshine and daises and bein’ in control either-“
“I- I’ve had to do most everything for myself. For survival.” You whisper, tracing your thumb over his cheek. “I’ve never had- I trust you. And with what Sam mentioned-“
“Gonna fuckin’ kill him-“
“I don’t think it’s as dramatic as you think.” You finish, ignoring Bucky’s muttered threat.
His jaw ticks slightly, his words suddenly so low you can barely hear them. “If it’s too much, you gotta tell me-“
“I can take it.”
Bucky sighs your name, and you shove his chest. Not hard. Enough to move him. Jolt him. Make him look at you with wide, shocked eyes.
“You-“
“I can take it, Buck.” You grin at him, raising your brows pointedly. “I’ve got you.”
His eyes widen as he understands—you’ve got him, his strength and durability mirrored in your body—and there’s a slight shift in the air. It’s hot. Everything is suddenly so hot under Bucky’s attention, expect for the cold, metal hand, trailing under your skirt and cupping you over right over your aching pussy.
“Fuck, you’re wet, doll.” The awe has creeped from Bucky’s eyes to his voice. You can only grind against his fingers teasing over your slit, and moan when a metal thumb starts to rub firm, rough circles over your clit. “And no panties on? All fuckin’ night, just waitin’ for me?”
“Yes,” you moan, our hips jolting when he pinches your clit lightly, a high whine leaving your throat. “Bucky-“
“That’s my name.” He mutters, resting those two fingers right against your pussy, his eyes never leaving yours. “If you’re already so wet, I wonder what’ll happen when I do this?”
With that last word, Bucky slams the metal fingers into your cunt, and starts to finger fuck you like it’s a mission. It’s so fast. Metal whirring in your ear as the pace becomes impossible and mind-numbing, hitting you so fucking deep, almost massaging and taunting at the sensitive spot, and it’s only just started but you’re already going to explode-
“Bucky-“ You moan out his name, trying to somehow meet every thrust of his fingers with your hips, but only managing to grind your clit against his wrist and sending your brain into a dizzying blur of pleasure. “God, I- Close, Bucky, so close-“
“Hold it.” He grunts, not letting up pace, and you almost whimper at the idea. “Need you to hold it for me, baby, can you do that?”
You can’t. 
You nod anyway, because Bucky’s still here, still holding you and touching you and looking at you, so you have to try. For Bucky, you need to try.
“Good girl.” He mutters, and you clench around him with a squeak. “Oh, you like that? Like me talkin’, tellin’ you how good your doing-“
“Oh- Fuck-“ You gasp, your back arching off the bed as he somehow hits deeper. “Please, I- God-“
He hums, dropping his weight slightly to keep you pinned to the bed. “Say my name, doll.”
“Buck-“
“No.” His voice is slightly softer, and he leans down to hover his lips right over yours. “Other one.”
“I-“ You take shallow breathes, each one rounded with another moan as you search Bucky’s face for the answer, and his fingers never slow their movements. “Please-“
“C’mon, baby, you’ve got it-“
“James!” You half scream it, writhing under him in desperation for release, and start to repeat it like a prayer as his eyes shine in approval, and his cock twitches against your thigh. “James- James please, I- I need it- Need you-“
He swallows your words with another deep kiss, squeezing your hip with his free hand as he mutters against your lips. 
“There you go, babydoll.” He smirks at your whimper, his eyes trained on yours as you give him another, pleading look and whisper of his name. “Cum for me.”
The sound that leaves you is undignified, needy and loud and made of slurred curses and shouts of James. But you can see the stars, and feel them bursting through your body, and it’s all just good.
When you come down, Bucky’s brushing your hair from your eyes, looking down at you with that same wide awe everywhere over his handsome features.
“Was that good?”
You hum, still panting heavily, and he raises his brows. 
“More?”
You nod a little stupidly, and Bucky’s grin splits his face.
“Already so fucked out you can’t speak? Haven’t even pulled out my cock yet-“
You moan into his mouth at just the word. “Bucky, please-“
“Please what?” He pulls back entirely, and chuckles when you slam your hand into his chest with a glare.
“Hey-“
“You gotta tell me what you want, babydoll, and I’ll get it for you. But,” he raises his brows, catching your hand when you try to shove him once more and pinning it over your head. “I’m not a mind reader. Tell me.”
You think that’s a lie. You think he can read your mind, and he’s just being mean.
But God, it’s so fucking hot. His shirt is gone—you don’t know when that happened, but you’re not complaining—and he’s looking at you like you’re art, laid out for him to see and touch and have, so you’ll play along. If it will make him finally fuck you, you’ll do whatever he asks.
“I want your cock.” You whisper, holding his gaze. “Want you to fuck me, and I’m clean and on the pill, so I want you to cum inside of me, then leave it there. Wanna feel you tomorrow, James, please.”,
Bucky’s throat bobs slightly, his voice becomes barely a growl.
“Jesus Christ.”
He seems to be done talking after that.
Your hand stay pinned over your head as he rips off your shirt, then his own boxers. There’s a half-grumble of buying you another bra tomorrow, but it’s all you get before he’s ripping that off as well.
When he lines himself up at your entrance, he pauses, giving you one last chance to shove him away. 
You tangle your hand in his hair and shove his lips to yours without hesitation, moaning his name into his mouth, and it’s enough.
Bucky slams himself into you with one thrust, diving his mouth to suck and lick at your nipples as you gasp, adjusting to the feeling of him inside of you.
It’s perfect. Big and thick and full, you feel so full, and you’re going to fly out of your skin if he keeps flicking his tongue over your nipple like, throbbing inside of you but not moving-
He can definitely read your mind. Before you can even moan a plea, Bucky starts to drill into you without warning, and any noise turn into more of those loud, desperate pleas. 
It rough. Bed creaking and skin slapping, and he keeps tossing you around like no angle is deep enough, flipping you over to fuck you from behind so his balls are slapping against your clit and he’s kissing up your spine, before he’s hauling you up to his chest, wrapping his arm around your stomach to hold you still as he drills up into your cunt,  and biting and marking along your throat and jaw. You throw your head back on his shoulder, and he captures your lips in a long, searing kiss, rolling a nipple between his fingers. 
Then you’re back on your stomach, with his weight completely covering you and his grunts right in your ear, sending shivers up your spine. 
He pauses only for a second there, thrusts slowing as he grabs at your hips, and before you can ask him if he’s okay, if it’s too much or—worse—not enough, you’re moving again.
Bucky rolls over, tossing you up onto his lap so you’re grinding down onto his cock, and this is it. You can see it in his hooded, satisfied expression as he watches you bounce above you, his flesh hand wrapping around your throat the metal moves to your clit, rubbing small, furious circles as he groans your name.
Your nails dig into his shoulders, your every word choked as he pounds up into your fluttering, aching pussy. “I- James-“
He grunts, pressing harder as his dick hits that deep, sensitive spot inside of you. “Come on, babydoll, gotta gimme one more-“
This orgasm washes over you like a wave. Deep, easy pleasure that makes everything glow, lingering in your body long after Bucky gives one last, jagged thrust up into your pussy, cumming with a roar of your name.
You both stare at each other for a long second as Bucky releases your throat, his fingers tracing over the marks left by his grip with a furrowed brow, and you smile at him. 
His release is dripping down your thighs as you lean in to press a soft kiss to his lips.  
It’s somehow not enough, and still more than you could ever ask for.
And your smile is a little cock drunk and there’s light bubble up your throat, but you don’t care.
So you giggle. Airy and blissful as Bucky rolls your bodies over so he’s on top once more, and you bury your face in his shoulder. 
He rises over you on his forearm, raising his brows as you smile up at him. “Somethin’ funny?”
You nod, your giggles almost pathetic. You don’t really mind. “Told you I could take it.”
He sighs, but the grin on his face matches yours.
Wide. Stupid.
Happy.
“Yeah.” Bucky mutters, tracing slow fingers only your cheekbone, and the awe seems to be a permanent addition to his voice. “You did.”
——————
When you get back to your table with ice water, people are staring at you. Whispering.
It’s not in your head. You know the difference between paranoia and caution, and this is the latter.
You scan over for an easy target, and land on a skittish looking man with large arms and a gym bag. When you stop at his table, he looks like he’s going to pass out.
“What’s your name.” You keep your voice cool and even, and he swallows.
“Mike.”
“Awesome. Can I please have your phone, Mike?”
He nods, unlocks it before passing it to your hands, and you give him a sweet smile before you scan over his screen, and let out a long sigh.
Sam abused his power. You’ve been declared a missing enhanced. The city hasn’t been barricaded, but everyone in New York knows to be looking for you, and expect Captain America upon response.
You pass Mike his phone back with another grimacing smile, and stalk back to your table and notebook.
9. He can be really fucking dramatic.
——————
You don’t know how Bucky puts up with you. He’s clean. Neat. Does all his dishes and folds his laundry, vacuums the floors and straightens every picture when he fucks you a little too hard against the wall.
You’re… not.
Taking care of yourself has never been important. Never been allowed. Fisk had men who cleaned up after you, because your priority was walk around and be feared. Be the untouchable princess.
Untouchable princesses don’t clean up. Once, at the beginning, you’d tried to help the crew after a particularly messy job.
Fisk had been furious. You’d gotten blood on his favorite toy. 
You’d stopped trying to clean up after that, 
But Bucky never gets angry about it. He’ll wipe your face when you get sauce on your cheek, change your sheets—even though you haven’t slept in your own bed for months—every week, and do your laundry, all while never asking for anything in return. 
This is another night where you don’t understand him. He made your favorite food, even though he had the long day. He’s not meeting your eyes again, but you’ve learned that he only does that when he cares. When there are things inside of him he can’t work out how to say, so he’ll keep his gaze averted like he’s trying to shield himself from being seen.
He isn’t aware he does that. You only know because you know him. Because he sits across from you like this every night, and wakes up next to you every single morning, and presses his brow to yours—keeping his eyes closed, but his hands on your face delicate—every single day. He’s with you all the time, even when he’s across the city, so you know him and you-
“Move in with me.”
You blink at him in the low light of your shitty dining room. It’s all plastic table and fold-out chairs, because neither of you are good at having nice things and keeping them.
He might be the nicest thing you’ve ever had.
You don’t understand what the fuck he’s talking about.
“What?”
“I- We should move in.” He pokes his plate, frowning at it like he can will it to understand, and explain to you properly. “Together. You and me.”
“Buck, we already live together-“
“In a shit apartment Sam found us.” He grumbles. “In two separate bedrooms. With plastic furniture and a dead plant.”
You sigh. “I told you I’m not good at plants when you got it. I wanted a cat, but-“
“Our lease doesn’t allow it.” Bucky shoots you a pointed look, leaning further over the table. “If we moved in together, I’d get you that cat. I’d get you whatever you wanted.”
“Bucky-“
“Fresh start.” He grunts your name, and you swallow. This is a little stronger than the awe gaze. This is borderline hope, and it’s so rare on his handsome face, and he has you folding for him in a second, but he keeps going anyway. “You and me. We’ll get a nicer couch without any blood on it, and eat off plates that aren’t paper, and- We can get the cat, or two cats- fuck, twenty cats-“
A small smile pulls at the corners of your mouth. “Twenty is a lot, darling-“
“Then one. One is good.” He has the solemn, focused gaze and tone he uses when he’s planning a mission. He’d stood up and crossed his arms. This is serious. “No more plants. I can- Sam will help me build all he furniture, I’ll get you a desktop, and I can have the smaller one, cause you always get annoyed when I break it-“
“It’s called a laptop.” You offer, keeping your voice softer than you’ve ever been capable of with anyone else. “And I don’t get annoyed-“
“Yes, you do. ’S fine, I deserve it-“
“No, you don’t-“
“That’s not the point, doll-“
“It’s important to me.” You snap, and that gets him to stop. “You’re important to me, and I don’t get annoyed. It’s not your fault your bags are always getting smashed-“
He scowls. “I’m the one who smashes them.”
“Because other people are fucking idiots, and you’re good at your job. You don’t deserve me being annoyed, and I’m not, because you’re-“ You swallow, words you don’t fully understand yet getting caught on the edge of your tongue. “You’re important to me, Buck. You’re a good man. You deserve good things.”
He blinks at you, and the hope is almost a tangible, touchable thing on his face. “Move in with me.”
“You already asked me that-“
“Please.” He mutters, and suddenly he’s on his knees before you, his arms around your waist as he stares up at you. “Wherever you want. It’ll be ours, and I’ll keep it clean if you make it beautiful.”
“Bucky-“
“You- fuck-“ He drops his brow to your lap, and you’re trying to tell him yes, but he seems to be trapped in his own head. All you can do is run your fingers through his hair and let him ride it out. “You make everything so beautiful, you just- You- Please. I’ll never ask ya’ for anything again. Move in with me.”
“Okay.”
He blinks up at you with wide eyes. “I- That’s it? Just like that?”
“Yeah.” You smile at him, and it’s hurting your cheeks, but it’s the best pain you’ve ever felt. “You gonna let me up now?”
He nods slowly, but pauses before he stands, and throws you over his shoulder without warning.
“Bucky-“
“C’mon,” He start to move towards his bedroom, ignoring your squirming. “You’re- Got plans for you, babydoll.”
“We have all night, you dramatic asshole-“
“You love it.” He mutters with a squeeze of your thigh, and you have to stop pounding on his back to moan. “And if it were up to me, we’d never stop doin’ this. Never gonna waste one fucking second with you. Ever.”
——————
He’ll be here soon. Someone will have had the balls to report where you were, Bucky will burst through the doors, and you’ll have to know that this didn’t work. That you probably drove him insane and beat your heart to sinew, only to come out of this knowing that you failed. 
You have your answer, and it’s the one that’s terrifying. The floor could open into a trench, and the sky could catch fire, but that would be easier.
This is new. This is dangerous and frightening and new, and there’s nothing you can do about it, because you failed. There are no paths forward that you know how to follow, no corners of the world you can hide where you wouldn’t find yourself crawling back to Bucky.
And he’d meet you halfway, because he’d be looking for you, and then he’d pull you into his arms you’d be safe.
Safe and cared for and clean, and awfully, greatly in love.
10. You love him, and that’s not fair.
——————
He sleeps peacefully now. At your side, on the memory foam mattress you made him pick out, wrapped around you like he’s trying to pull you into his body. The sheets are tangled and smell a little like sweat and cum, but nobody seems to mind. Even Alpine has settled at the foot of the bed, on Bucky’s side, because she likes him better. 
Of course she likes him better. You picked her because she has the exact same blue eyes as he does, and you feed her, but she likes him more because he’s Bucky.
And this suits him, far more than you think it could ever suit you. 
Because this is what he would’ve been. If Bucky had never fallen off that train, he’d have simply been this. 
Happy. 
Peaceful in the soft, golden-white light of the morning, holding a perfect, faceless woman. She’d clean up after him, and make him food that didn’t taste like ash. He’d never have the nightmares that still sometimes rock him now, but he’d have worse nights—he’d still been a solider, still fought a war—and she’d only give him comfort. Never demand it in return, nights later when she woke up screaming. 
And she’d have less opinions, and never make him worried because she kept getting shot, and she’d giggle all the time. Not just when he pried it out of her with dancing and fucking. 
She would’ve been easy. She wouldn’t have made him read with her, and she would’ve let him get twenty cats. 
You hate her more than anything.
But it would’ve been what Bucky deserves. Has always deserved.
The exact same one you don’t.
You never would’ve been here. Fisk found you in the dirt, and you hadn’t been a lovely, blooming beam of sunlight before he turned you into a weapon. Bucky had earned all his sneers and snarks and scowls.
You’re just like this. 
And you somehow have him, in a way you can’t lose. Won’t lose. You’d do anything for Bucky, you’d kill and maim and scratch and scream and rip yourself to fucking pieces just for him, before stitching yourself back together with your heartstrings, because they’d still be beating in a sound like his name, because you-
No. 
Oh no. 
That can’t be right. You don’t- you’ve never had that. That’s too good. 
You don’t deserve that.
You’ll break it.
——————
You wait outside for him. Bouncing on your feet as people shoot you odd looks in passing. You expect sirens. Being turned over and checked from every angle, because this had been a really stupid thing to do when you were you. A problem. An asset until you flipped. An enemy so easily, and an insufferable ally to have.
Bucky still puts up with you. But you think he knows you’d never flip on him. He trusts that the same instinct that made you run from Fisk is the one that will always send you back to him.
It’s been nine hours, and you miss him like you’re drowning. Like you can see the sun, right above the surface, but you can’t remember how to go up.
You can only drift, and wait for blaring red lights that will carry you home.
They never come. And when you feel a tap on your shoulder you don’t flinch, because you know that tap anywhere. The pressure and shape of the finger, the exact placement near the cartilage, always leaving a slight brand of his touch.
“What’re you doing, baby.” Bucky mutters, and you let out a long breath, turning to give him a weak smile.
He’s staring again.
You love it when he does that.
“Hi,” You whisper, and he drops his brow to yours for a long second, right before pulling you right into his chest without a second of hesitation.
You’d thought he’d be angrier. You’re a little sick of being wrong.
“Why-“ He takes a heavy breath, squeezing you a little tighter. “You wouldn’t pick up the phone.”
“I turned it off.” You mumble. You don’t think you can stand to lie to him like this. You’ve already done enough. “I- Can we go inside, please?”
Bucky leans back with a tight frown, scanning over you once more. “Did something-“
“I’m okay.” You duck your head back into his chest, and you understand why he never meets your eyes in moments like this. It’s far easier. “I promise. I just, this will be easier if we sit down, please.”
You can feel him tense against your body, but he guides you inside regardless. Right back to the table you’d been at before, even if he doesn’t know that.
People might be staring. 
You don’t really care. You don’t have the energy for it. Everything has to go into this. Into telling him before it’s too late, and you either lose him or, worse, he stays. He keeps tolerating you, not knowing that you’d grow a forest on the moon if he asked—just to hide somewhere safe and quiet, together—and turn the sun into something portable for his back pocket, just so he’d never have to fear ice again.
Bucky says your name slowly, glancing around the shop. “Is this where we had our first-“
“Yeah.” You fumble with your bag, your hands already shaking slightly, and Bucky notices.
Of course he does.
Perfect fucking asshole.
“Are you sure you’re okay, cause I can make Sam call 911 again-“
“Don’t make Sam call 911.” The paper is crumpled, and ripped at the corners. It will have to do. “I’m okay. I- I’m going to be okay.”
That last one is mostly for yourself—no matter how fast Bucky leaves, no matter how much your heart screams, you’ll be okay—but he still hears it, and his frown deepens.
He grunts your name, leaning forward in his seat, and you shake your head.
“Just- take this.“ You slide the paper across the table, watching sleek, black fingers rest on the edge, but not tug it further. “Please.”
There’s a moment of hesitation, but he listens. You look up just in time to see him scanning over your words, and the lump in your throat might choke you. 
At least it will be over quicker. 
“What is-“ He cuts himself off, and you can’t look away. It’s worse than a car crash. It’s a missile, hurdled straight for your head as you’re rooted in place, bracing for the impact but knowing it will tear you apart all the same. 
You know the moment he reaches the last point. His eyes widen, and flick up to you in disbelief. 
He reads it three more times before he sets down the paper, and maybe the lump in your throat is your heart. Maybe it’s trying to beat out of your body and run in the gutters, before it can be broken and shattered and-
“You-“ Bucky places the paper flat on the table, and points to that like. “Is that- You mean it?”
You nod weakly, still starting at his finger on the paper—it might be one of the last part of him you get to see, and you’re trying to memorize it—and Bucky clears his throat. 
“Can you look at me?”
It takes a second. Ragged, slow breaths and Bucky’s knee, bumping yours under the table. 
But you do.
And he’s still so beautiful. 
You can see the awe in his eyes. It shouldn’t be there. It doesn’t- not now-
“I love you, too.” He says, and it’s more powerful than the missile. It’s an atomic bomb. “You’re- It’s the only thing I’ve really known, since I got back. You’re the only thing I’ve known-“
The world is starting to sting and blur. Your heart is trying to claw out of your throat. “Bucky-“
He shakes his head, pushing on. “Listen to me, doll, for once in your damn life. I love you. No one but me talking, telling no one but you, I love you. I have been to fucking hell and back, I’d do it all again, every damn time, if there was even a chance it would get me here.”
“That’s- That doesn’t make any sense-“
“Course it does.” He shrugs. “I’m not the me that loves you if I don’t fall off that train and end up in the future.”
“It’s not the future-“
“It’s the future to me-“
“James, we are not having this argument again. It’s not-“
“Is to me.”
There’s that rare, small grin he saves only for you. This is cruel. 
“You- I’m not worth hell.” You whisper, and you’re holding his hand. You don’t know when that happened. You’re not strong enough to pull away.
“Yeah, you are.” 
“Bucky, I’m being-“
“I know you’re being serious, doll. So am I. And I know I’m,” he taps the paper, giving you a pointed look. “Bad at using my words-“
You swallow. “I’m sorry, I-“
"You’re not wrong.” He mutters, still all but trapping his gaze on yours. “But I got words for this, baby. I love you. Hell and back.”
“Bucky, you don’t-“ 
“What, love you?” He raises his brows. “You somehow miss that part of my shitty ass speech-“
“It wasn’t shitty-“
“Kinda shitty. Didn’t seem to get through to you.”
“I-“
“Just- Listen.” He leans forward, still holding your gaze. “Would you do it again?”
“Do-“
“Would you walk through your hell, Fisk and the scientist, Parker and that asshole with the horns that made you blind for a week, Sam and me and all the court trials, if you thought we’d end up back here, at this horrible fucking coffee shop, one more time?”
“Yes.” 
It’s not a question. You’d do everything, every time, the exact same way, if it meant you’d maybe get Bucky one more time.
And that’s mirrored on his face. Smug, quiet satisfaction as he grins at you, and shrugs.
“There it is.”
You return his smile because it’s easy. You keep holding his hand because he’s not letting go, so you’ll never even bother to try. 
You echo his words because he’s right. Maybe the only right thing in the whole universe, right across the table, touching you, and all yours.
“There it is.”
End Note: Love throwing in a bunch of tiny easter eggs for purely my own entertainment. Also love throwing a little plot relevant smut in there, as a treat.
If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3
Taglist (Fill out this form to be added!)
@globetrotter28 @lordofthunderthr @Youdontknowe @panicking-outside-the-disco @ambiguous-avery
@generalmoonpolice @foxyjwls007 @ilovedeanwinchester4 @tiana-kh @woaheasytig3r
@winchester-whiskey @jsudsgf @deans-yn @jofinka @megara0224
@funkenniffler @disappearintofanfiction @solsborg @sheneedsjesus @bonkydarnes
@whimsicalcherry @charliethemanticore @cats-chaotic-mind @forzalando @roseblue373
@sleepysongbirdsings @angrydragon90 @dumbwhorestuff @biodegradable-glitter-fest @idontwannabehere78
@miss-marmalade @foolinthera1n
968 notes · View notes
lusmeitli · 3 months ago
Text
Tumblr media
67 notes · View notes
lusmeitli · 5 months ago
Text
This is something else. Where to start… the black widows and Bucky parallel is so brilliantly done, the pacing so wonderful, how she talks him through the panic attack, how she just gets him - it was so wonderful to read. This is so carefully constructed and crafted, it made my heart sing. And can I please give you a massive thank you for consent and safe word and safe move - and that it’s a mutual agreement? A ‘thus door swings both ways’-thing? Delicious. Thank you so much for writing this and for sharing it with us. ♥️
lessons in lovemaking [one-shot]
marvel au bucky x blackwidow!reader You and Bucky Barnes go undercover as a married couple, but when a fake kiss gets too real, he unexpectedly finishes in his pants—leaving you both stunned.
Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, smut, fem reader, dry humping, grinding, soft dom vibes reader, soft sub vibes bucky, bucky is touch starved, premature ejaculation, reader has dubious methods of emotional control, vague mentions of previous sa, ex black widow reader, mentions of red room, very consensual, safe words, kissing, panic attacks, bucky barnes needs a hug, if you squint, there's some plot, fluff, angst, mentions of past violence, death and war, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything
Word Count: 8.4k
A/N: hey guys, i'm a woman possessed. i've had so much motivation to write recently, so here is a quick one-shot. i'm sure this concept has been done before but i just couldn't stop thinking about touch starved bucky :( ! sorry for any typos - not proof read.
main masterlist
Tumblr media
You never would’ve agreed to this mission had you known Barnes was going to be this squeamish. You’d seen the man slit throats without a sound, drop bodies with cold efficiency, and unload an entire chamber of bullets without so much as flinching. He hadn’t even blinked when aliens from outer-fucking-space rained hell upon Earth. But holding your hand? Letting his fingers brush your waist? Anything a devoted ‘husband’ ought to do? The super soldier looked like he’d rather swallow glass. He couldn’t even meet your gaze, for god’s sake.
What the hell had Fury been thinking?
You had to yank him away before anyone noticed the strained—Help me, I’m being held hostage by this incredibly attractive, incredibly capable woman who, might I add, is supposedly my wife—look on his face.
This gala, a weeklong jerkfest for the wealthy and villainous, was meant to be a stroll in the park. Your bread and butter, even if the Red Room had been... regrettable and against your consent, it had taught you an array of useful skills. Yet Barnes was ruining it, turning what should have been a simple infiltration into a goddamn babysitting job. The plan was airtight: pose as a glamorous Russian couple, collect incriminating evidence, and dip at the end of the week. Except Barnes wasn’t holding up his end of the deal. Instead of charming your way through the crowd, you were covering for his stiff, awkward pauses and the fact that he looked less like a besotted husband and more like a man being forced at gunpoint to stand beside you.
By some miracle, you managed to drag him away to one of the empty floors, a tucked-away space littered with stacks of unused tables and chairs. He was wound tight—shoulders squared, jaw clenched, eyes flicking across the dimly lit room like he was expecting death itself to emerge from the shadows. You didn’t bother with subtlety. Tearing the small recording device from between your tits, you fumbled with the button until the tiny red light blinked off. Whoever ended up reviewing the footage later wouldn’t need to hear the verbal onslaught you were about to unleash. 
“What the fuck are you doing?” you hissed, keeping your voice low, though the sheer force of your frustration was enough to strip paint off the walls.
Barnes clenched his jaw, nostrils flaring as he refused to meet your eye. It reminded you of a scolded dog, all pouty and pathetic. You might’ve found it cute under different circumstances. “You’re making this incredibly fucking difficult.”
“I don’t understand why it’s such a big deal—”
“Because it’s our cover, Barnes.” you snapped, incredulous. “We’re supposed to be married, not some fucking timid virgin couple. PDA makes people uncomfortable; they look away, and we have less eye on us to, I don’t know—do our fucking job?”
Barnes looked down at his clenched fists, swallowing hard. You rolled your eyes, shaking your head in disbelief. The dangling diamond earrings you had hanging from each lobe tinkled slightly, and you ran a hand through your perfectly styled hair, resisting the urge to throttle him.
“You’re unbelievable. Fury should’ve just sent me alone—” you muttered, but the words barely left your lips before your eyes caught movement.
A group. Heading straight for you. Purposeful.
“Fuck.”
With haste, you tucked the small recording device back into your cleavage. Barnes noticed immediately, clocking your distress. His brows knit together, hand twitched toward the hidden knife tucked into his suit jacket.
“No.” You scolded. Catching his wrist, you guided it elsewhere—your hips. He stiffened instantly, making a noise of protest, but you kept him locked in place, pressing in until your chests brushed. Too close. Not close enough.
“Play along,” you murmured. “Kiss me. Now.”
“Wha—” His breath hitched, barely enough time to form a response before you rose onto your toes and sealed your mouth over his.
Barnes froze. Stiff beneath your touch, lips rigid like you’d just planted one on a slab of granite. He still tasted like toothpaste—spearmint—and the faint trace of his aftershave clung to his skin. If you’d been trying to salvage some believability, some small thread of natural chemistry, it was impossible now. It was like kissing a statue.
An aftershave-scented stone statue.
The passing group chuckled, one of them murmuring, amused, “Ah, young love.”
Maybe it was the murmured chuckles of the passing guests, or maybe Barnes had finally remembered how to act, because his grip on your hips suddenly tightened, fingers digging into the fabric of your dress with unexpected force. The silk pulled taut against your skin, trapping heat between you, and then—
A sound.
Low. Strangled. A rasping, utterly pathetic groan against your lips.
You barely had time to register it before something else stole your attention. In the tight press of your bodies, you felt it—hard, insistent, pressing against your pelvis.
Oh.
The realisation sent a flicker of shock through you, but you schooled your expression, keeping your face composed as you lingered just a second longer—just enough to ensure your audience was convinced. Then, finally, you pulled back.
Barnes didn’t move.
For a moment, he just stared, pupils wide and unfocused, a blissed-out haze dulling the sharp blue of his eyes. But then, like a lightning strike, awareness snapped back into him. Horror overtook his dazed expression, his breath hitching as he seemed to realise—
Did he just—?
You both looked down at the same time.
And there it was.
The medium grey of his suit pants betrayed him entirely, darkening at the crotch with an unmistakable wet patch.
You gaped, lips parting in stunned silence. No fucking way.
Barnes didn’t wait for a reaction. With the sheer force of a man fleeing for his life, he ripped himself from your grasp and marched away, stiff-backed and utterly silent, leaving you standing there, speechless.
It had been twenty minutes, and Barnes still hadn’t left the goddamn bathroom.
It had taken you all of thirty seconds to track him down, but the moment you found the door, it was locked. Of course it was. You twisted the handle, rattling it in frustration, then resorted to pounding your fist against the heavy wood—subtly, of course, but with enough force that he knew you weren’t going anywhere.
“Barnes.” You hissed his name through gritted teeth, pressing closer to the door. Nothing. Not a shuffle. Not a breath. Absolute fucking silence.
You exhaled sharply, trying to keep your expression neutral as a pair of guests passed by, casting you a curious glance. Yeah, you knew exactly how this looked—lipstick smudged, breath uneven, standing outside a locked men’s bathroom like a woman scorned. You must’ve looked thoroughly debauched.
Your pulse hammered in your throat. This was insane. A simple, fake kiss had made him short-circuit so hard that he fucking came in his pants? Twenty minutes ago, he looked repulsed by the mere idea of touching you, and now he was hiding away like some panicked virgin?
You let out a long, slow groan, dropping your forehead against the door.
“Barnes,” you muttered, knocking again—your patience wearing thinner by the second. “Open the damn door.”
Silence.
You straightened, glaring at the wood as if you could will it into splintering apart.
“Barnes, I have been patient.” You gritted your teeth, knocking harder. “If you don’t open this door in the next five seconds, I will break in.”
Silence.
Motherfucker.
"Alright, I’m coming in," you announced, your voice low but firm.
You cast a quick glance over your shoulder, ensuring no one was watching, before slipping a bobby pin from your hair. Years of practice made the process effortless; your fingers worked quickly, blindly, jamming the pin into the lock and feeling for the mechanism. A few precise twists, a satisfying click, and—
"Make sure you're decent, Barnes—"
The words were halfway out of your mouth when you pushed the door open, but whatever half-hearted joke you'd meant to make withered before it even reached your tongue.
Barnes was not decent.
Not in the way you’d expected.
He sat hunched on the closed toilet lid, head in his hands, his entire body drawn in tight like he was trying to fold in on himself. His knee bounced erratically, the rapid motion almost violent in its rhythm. He had ripped off his suit pants, leaving himself in nothing but his boxers, his bare thighs tense, twitching. His fingers dug into his hair, gripping at the strands like he wanted to rip them out, and when his bloodshot eyes flicked up to you—
You felt your stomach drop.
Panic. Raw, unfiltered, choking panic.
Tears welled along his lash line, his chest rising and falling in uneven, barely contained pants. He looked like a man caught in a cage, seconds from tearing himself apart just to escape it.
You swallowed, your throat suddenly dry, and stepped in, shutting the door softly behind you before flipping the lock.
"Hey, Barnes…” Your voice was hesitant, softer than before.
He shook his head, eyes fixed firmly on the floor, his hands trembling as he dragged them down his face.
“I don’t—” His voice cracked, breaking on the words. "I don’t want you in—"
You moved before he could finish, lowering yourself to the cool bathroom tiles in front of him, as if making yourself smaller would make you any less intimidating.
"Hey," you murmured, tone careful but steady. "Look at me."
“No.” It came out sharp, like a whip, a defence mechanism honed over decades. His entire body went rigid, his breathing ragged.
“Barnes, you need to breathe.”
Your voice was steady, firm without being harsh, each syllable carefully measured as you crept forward on the cold tile floor. The dress, the dirt—none of it mattered. It wasn’t your dress, anyway. Tony Stark could foot the bill for a replacement if this one got ruined, all this fancy wear was on his dime.
“In through the nose,” you instructed, voice softer now. “Out through the mouth.”
By some miracle, Barnes listened.
He sucked in a ragged breath, chest expanding beneath his half-unbuttoned dress shirt, and then exhaled through parted lips. It was shaky, uneven, but it was something. You watched in silence, waiting. His limbs still trembled, his fingers clenching and unclenching against his thighs, but the worst of the violent, full-body tremors had eased.
“There you go,” you murmured, voice barely above a breath. “Keep breathing, just like that. You’re doing so well.”
Slowly, you inched forward, shifting across the tiles until you sat in front of his knees. His skin was warm, radiating heat even through the thin fabric of his boxers.
“Barnes,” you hesitated, watching his face carefully. “Can I touch you?”
His whole body tensed.
“What?” His eyes darted up, sharp and startled, as if the very question had knocked the breath from his lungs.
“Is it okay,” you rephrased, slower this time, gentler, “if I touch you?”
Barnes hesitated. His gaze flickered away, jaw clenching like he was at war with himself. But then, after a long, tense beat, he gave a small, stiff nod.
You inhaled, steadying yourself. Then, with slow, deliberate care, you reached out and cradled his face between your hands.
The moment your fingers touched his skin, he flinched.
Not violently. Not like he was afraid of you. But enough that you felt it—felt the way his muscles coiled beneath your fingertips, the way his throat bobbed in a hard swallow. The cool metal of your fake wedding ring grazed his cheek, and his breath hitched, like he had just been burned.
“Keep breathing,” you reminded him, voice low and steady. “Nice and slow.”
Barnes obeyed, dragging in another breath, and you felt some of the tension leave his shoulders. The hard lines of his face softened just slightly as he leaned into your touch, nuzzling—actually nuzzling—against your palms.
“There you go,” you murmured, your thumb stroking in slow circles over his cheek. “Look at me.”
His eyelids flickered, resisting for a moment, but then those storm-blue eyes finally met yours. He looked exhausted. Frayed at the edges. But grounded, at least. Present.
“Tell me one thing you can smell right now.”
Barnes blinked. A hint of confusion crossed his face. “Smell?”
“Yes, smell.” You nodded, keeping your voice soft, coaxing. “Just one thing. Keep breathing and tell me.”
He hesitated but then took a deliberate inhale through his nose, his bouncing knee slowing. “I guess… whatever shitty fucking chemicals they use to clean this place.”
A quiet laugh left you, your thumb tracing a swirling pattern along his cheekbone. “Good. You’re doing good, Barnes. Now, tell me two things you can feel.”
His breathing had steadied, his inhales and exhales falling into rhythm with yours. For the first time since you’d walked in, he wasn’t shaking as badly.
“This suit jacket,” he muttered after a pause. His metal fingers twitched against the fabric at his arm. “It’s too fuckin’ tight. They always are with my arm—”
His breath stuttered, his body tensing again. Immediately, you leaned in, close enough for him to feel your warmth. “Just breathe, remember? You’re doing so well. One more thing you can feel.”
Barnes swallowed thickly. His gaze flickered down, just briefly, before settling back on your face. 
“You,” he admitted, voice quieter now. “I can feel you. Touching my face.”
“Good.” You nodded, thumb gliding over his cheek again. “Are you okay with that?”
“Yes.” He exhaled, and for the first time, it wasn’t shaky. “It feels… it feels nice.”
Something in your chest clenched at the confession, but you pushed it aside. You smiled at him, soft and small, and kept going. “Now, three things you can see.”
Barnes’ eyes scanned over your face, searching.
“You,” he said, still quiet, still certain. His gaze lingered on your mouth. “Your lipstick is smudged.”
"Two more," you breathed, keeping your voice calm and steady, resisting the urge to comment on why your lipstick was smudged in the first place. No need to remind him of that right now.
Barnes' gaze flickered across the small, dimly lit restroom. His body had almost fully relaxed now, his mind preoccupied with the task you'd given him.
"Uh…" He scanned the space, brows furrowing in concentration. "The awful wallpaper… and the sink, I guess?"
You nodded approvingly, finally withdrawing your hands as you eased back onto your knees. The cold tiles bit through the fabric of your dress, but you barely noticed.
"Well done," you murmured. "Now, how about we keep breathing and get you sorted, huh?"
At that, Barnes stiffened slightly. The panic that had been receding just moments ago flickered in his eyes again, his hands twitching where they rested on his thighs.
You reached out, grounding him with a gentle touch to his knee. Your voice softened even further. "I’m going to turn around and face the door. I need you to clean yourself up—use the sink, use the soap."
His throat bobbed. "But my—my boxers, they’ll get all wet—"
"There’s a dryer on the wall, see it?" You tilted your head toward the small, dingy dryer meant for hands. "Use it to dry them. Then get dressed, and we’ll head back to the hotel early, okay? Order some shitty takeaway, watch bad TV. Just forget about all this for tonight. How does that sound?"
Barnes blinked as if thrown by the simplicity of the offer. His mouth parted, closed, then opened again, his voice small. "Yeah. Okay."
"Good." You flashed him a reassuring smile before pressing your palms against the sink, pushing yourself to your feet with a small wobble in your heels. "I’ll be right here. Just let me know if you need anything. Keep breathing, alright? Everything’s okay."
Turning, you crossed your arms over your chest and faced the door, giving him the privacy he needed. You tried not to listen too closely. Tried not to glance at the mirror reflecting the scene behind you.
The rustle of clothing filled the quiet, then the tap sputtered to life. You leant your forehead against the cool wood of the door, closing your eyes as you focused on the steady stream of water, the faint squeak of the soap pump, and then the soft sloshing and scrubbing of fabric.
The sound of fabric wringing out echoed softly against the tiled walls, followed by the steady hum of the hand dryer sputtering to life. You kept your forehead against the door, listening as Barnes manoeuvred through the motions, drying his boxers first, then his suit pants. The wet fabric slapped lightly against the metal dryer as he held it up, shifting awkwardly as he worked.
You didn’t rush him. Didn’t make a sound. Just stayed where you were, giving him time.
Eventually, the rustling stopped. A sharp inhale, then the familiar slide of fabric as he pulled his clothes back on. The quiet click of a belt buckle being fastened. The creak of leather shoes shifting against tile.
Then—
Barnes cleared his throat.
You turned.
He stood stiffly, suit now back in place, though the fabric still carried faint traces of dampness. His jacket was slightly askew, his tie loosened just enough to be noticeable. You took a slow step toward him, scanning him up and down with a careful eye. He didn’t flinch, didn’t move—just stood there, watching you warily, as if expecting a comment.
You didn’t give him one.
Instead, you reached up, grasping the edges of his tie. He stiffened but let you work, your fingers smoothing the silk fabric, tightening it properly against his collar. His pulse thrummed beneath your fingertips as you brushed against his throat, and though he remained still, you caught the way his breath hitched slightly at the contact.
“There,” you murmured, satisfied.
You turned towards the mirror, angling yourself slightly to the side. Your reflection was a mess—lipstick smudged, hair slightly dishevelled. You sighed, wetting your thumb with your tongue before dabbing at the edges of the stain, then reached into your clutch to pull out a small tube of lipstick.
Barnes hadn’t moved.
You could feel him behind you, his body heat pressing against your back in the cramped space. His gaze was heavy, following your movements as you leaned closer to the mirror, carefully reapplying the pigment to your lips. You didn’t look at him. You just smoothed the colour in place, pressed your lips together, then capped the tube and tucked it back into your bag.
Finally, you met his eyes in the mirror.
“Ready to go?” you asked.
There was a pause. A hesitation. His jaw clenched for half a second before he gave the smallest of nods. “…Yeah.”
You turned fully, flashing him a small, knowing smile before reaching for his arm. He didn’t resist when you looped yours through his, guiding him towards the door. With an easy tug, you led him forward, your heels clicking softly against the marble floors. His arm remained tense beneath your touch, but he didn’t pull away. Didn’t let go.
You glanced at him briefly, lips twitching into a small smirk. “C’mon, sergeant. Let’s get out of here.”
Barnes exhaled through his nose, shaking his head ever so slightly. But when you reached the bottom of the stairs, he followed without question, letting you steer him towards the exit, away from the crowded room—away from prying eyes.
A small, muffled whine stirred you from sleep. You blinked groggily, rolling onto your side as the cool sheets tangled around your legs. The plush hotel mattress dipped beneath you as you buried your face into the pillow, willing yourself back into slumber.
A low, panting groan cut through the silence, soft at first, then growing in volume. Your brows knit together, heart thrumming uneasily. Something about the sound was… strange. It wasn’t just a groan—it was strained, needy. Erotic.
Your eyes snapped open.
The room was cloaked in darkness, save for the dim red dot of the fire alarm and the faint reflection of the turned-off TV. You remained frozen for a few beats, your ears straining to catch the noise again. It came, louder this time—a choked whimper thick with desperation.
Was someone in the room? Adrenaline slammed into your veins as you rolled off the bed in one swift motion, bare feet hitting the floor without a sound. You had heard stories of creeps breaking into hotel rooms, preying on women while they slept. Had one made the mistake of picking yours?
Another sound. Low, breathy, utterly wrecked.
Your hand darted to the bedside table, fingers curling around the hilt of a knife, its leather grip smooth beneath your palm. Not even yours, Barnes’—
Barnes.
Your breath caught as your gaze snapped towards the couch, knife slipping from your grip and landing on the carpet with a soft thud.
There, bathed in shadows, was the writhing mass of the super soldier. His blankets lay discarded on the floor as though he’d tossed them off in his sleep. The two of you had agreed to take turns—one in the bed, the other on the couch—to keep up appearances. A stupid arrangement, courtesy of Fury and Stark’s meddling.
You flicked on the bedside lamp. The warm light spilt over the room, casting soft amber hues onto Barnes’ form. His face was twisted in torment, and his lips parted around quiet, breathless whimpers. Sweat clung to his skin, catching the glow of the lamp and highlighting the sharp lines of his body. His metal arm whirred faintly as he twitched, fingers flexing against the cushions.
Your stomach dropped when your eyes drifted lower. He was shirtless, his broad chest rising and falling erratically. The thin fabric of his boxers did little to hide the evidence of his dream—more than half-hard beneath the cotton. Was he really that big?
The realisation hit like a freight train.
He was having a sex dream.
Jesus.
You swallowed, throat suddenly dry. You should’ve looked away, should’ve given him privacy. But then his hand twitched, drifting downward—
“Barnes.” Your voice was sharp, cutting through the haze like a blade.
He jolted awake, body seizing as his eyes snapped open. For a moment, he was utterly lost, chest heaving, pupils blown wide with confusion. Then his gaze landed on you—standing there in your thin nightgown, face unreadable.
His eyes flickered downward.
Bucky sucked in a sharp breath, panic flickering across his face as he yanked a pillow over his lap, shifting awkwardly as if that would somehow erase what had just happened. A string of curses left his lips, voice still wrecked with sleep.
You tilted your head, studying him. His expression wavered, part shame, part something else, something raw and vulnerable. You exhaled slowly, pressing your fingers into your temples. There was a pattern here. A man whose body wasn’t his own, whose skin felt foreign, whose touch-starved existence had left him unravelling at the seams.
What in God's name was Fury thinking sending him on a mission like this—or did Fury not know? How could he not? That one-eyed bastard had a habit of knowing everything. Hell, he probably knew the colour of your underwear before you even picked it out for the day, the all-seeing prick.
“H.Y.D.R.A really did a number on you, didn’t they?” you muttered.
Bucky flinched. The words struck deep, sinking into something fragile beneath the surface. He didn’t say a word, just recoiled, fingers gripping the pillow so tightly his knuckles turned white. A moment later, he was scrambling off the couch, making a beeline for the bathroom.
“Barnes, we’re not doing this again. Let’s just talk—”
The door slammed.
Then, the soft click of the lock.
You exhaled through your nose, arms crossing over your chest as you stared at the wooden barrier now separating you. Asshole. You knew you should’ve been more sympathetic. Should’ve handled it differently. But after a long, exhausting day, dealing with Bucky Barnes’ second puberty was not on your list of priorities.
You stepped closer, pressing a palm against the door; your voice quieter now. “I know how you’re feeling.”
Silence.
You could picture him inside, hunched over on the edge of the bathtub, fists clenched, chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven breaths. “I understand what it’s like to be in a body that doesn’t feel like your own.”
A pause. No response.
“It must be hard,” you continued softly. “Not knowing who you are. Not recognising yourself anymore. And then... feeling things you don’t understand.”
Another pause. This one stretched longer.
“You shouldn’t be ashamed of trying to navigate that.” The silence that followed was heavier than before. You didn’t push, didn’t say anything else. Just rested your forehead against the doorframe, waiting. 
You had spent the better part of your life under the Red Room’s control, under Dreykov’s control. Every breath you took, every move you made, had been dictated by someone else. Orders given. Orders followed. It was all you had ever known. And then, one day, it was gone. Just like that.
You remembered the moment with eerie clarity: standing in the open air, staring out at the horizon, the sunset bleeding colour into a sky that suddenly felt too vast. The question had gnawed at you, quiet but insistent. What comes next? Who comes next? Because you didn’t know. You didn’t know who you were beyond a weapon, beyond a machine engineered for death and seduction. Two decades of programming, of conditioning, of being nothing more than an asset to be wielded and discarded at will. And then, without warning, you were handed something you were told was freedom.
But what did freedom mean when you didn’t exist?
There were no real records of your birth, no true identity to reclaim. The Red Room had scrubbed that away long ago, erasing every trace of the girl you had once been. No family. No home. No belongings that weren’t issued to you by those who had owned you. And yet, you were expected to smile—to accept this newfound autonomy without question, to embrace the illusion of a life you had no blueprint for.
But how could you, when you weren’t sure if the body you inhabited was even your own?
So even if Barnes thought you were bluffing and just trying to relate for the sake of kindness, he was wrong. Because you understood.
Terrifyingly well.
The difference was that you had refused to let it consume you. You had forced those feelings into the farthest corners of your mind, locking them away where they couldn’t touch you. Because if you let yourself linger on them for too long.
“Go back to sleep.” Bucky’s voice finally broke the silence, muffled through the bathroom door.
You sucked on your teeth, exhaling sharply through your nose. “Yeah, not happening.”
“I know the others give you crap about not dating, but you don’t have to let them pressure you,” you continued, keeping your tone light. “You don’t have to force yourself into a role that makes you uncomfortable. It takes time.”
“Back in the day..." His voice was quieter this time, tinged with something that almost sounded like regret. “I used to be a real flirt.”
A humourless smirk ghosted across your lips. You could picture it, all smooth charm and effortless confidence. The kind of man who could wink at a girl across a dance floor and have her swooning in seconds. But that wasn’t the man behind this door. That man had been stripped away, piece by piece. 
“I just don’t know anymore,” he admitted, voice raw. Your chest tightened. You could almost hear him weighing his words, picking them apart, and deciding how much of himself he was willing to give away.
“When I was the Winter Soldier... they made me do things.”
A slow, twisting knot formed in your stomach.
“It’s all… fractured in my mind,” he murmured, barely above a whisper. “Scattered. Broken.”
You closed your eyes and inhaled deeply.
“I’m sorry,” you said, and you meant it. “I understand that. More than anyone. The Red Room… they didn’t just use us for assassinations and espionage.”
There. You had said it. Pulled a piece of yourself from the grave and placed it between you.
For the first time, the door cracked open.
Bucky stood there, dishevelled and breathless, still only in his boxers. A faint sheen of sweat clung to his skin, catching the dim hotel light, while his metal arm twitched slightly at his side. His hair was a mess—damp and curling at the ends, sticking to his forehead. His chest rose and fell unevenly, as if he hadn’t quite caught his breath, muscles taut beneath the weight of exhaustion.
“Why are you being kind to me?” he asked suddenly. His voice was rough, tinged with suspicion, as if he couldn’t quite believe it.
You tilted your head, studying him.
“Because you’re hurting,” you said simply. “And obviously, you haven’t fully processed any of this.”
His throat bobbed as he swallowed. Without another word, he turned and stalked past you, out of the cramped bathroom and into the main space of the hotel room. You followed at a slower pace, arms crossed as you watched him sink onto the couch, scrubbing a hand down his face. He was hunched forward, elbows resting on his knees, his metal fingers tapping restless patterns against his flesh palm. His body had settled now, no longer betraying him with signs of arousal. That part of the moment had passed, but the turmoil in his head remained.
With a quiet sigh, you slid down to the floor, settling against the base of the bed across from him. Your legs stretched out in front of you, arms loose at your sides as you let the silence settle between you. 
“Have you spoken to Steve about this?” you asked after a moment, voice soft but firm. “Sam?”
Bucky scoffed, shaking his head. “God, no.”
“Why?”
“I dunno,” he muttered, fingers threading through his damp hair. “It’s just... awkward. I feel like a fuckin’ schoolboy.”
You tilted your head, watching him carefully. “I could teach you.”
His eyes snapped to you, wary. “What?”
“I could teach you,” you repeated, voice steady. “How to make love. Fuck. How to gain control over your life again. You’re just sensitive; you need a bit of exposure therapy.”
Bucky’s expression darkened, jaw clenching. “Why the hell would you do that?”
You exhaled slowly, gaze drifting to the patterned carpet beneath you. “Do you know how many men I’ve fucked and not felt a thing?” you said quietly, barely above a whisper. 
“I wasn’t just an assassin or a spy. Not like Natasha or Yelena. I was a swallow, Barnes. A honeytrap.” His expression flickered, eyes scanning your face as if searching for something, some hint of insincerity.
You swallowed, pushing forward. “It’s why Fury sent me on this mission with you. This is all I’ve ever known.”
Bucky’s breath hitched slightly, his hands curling into fists against his thighs. “Fury knows what they did to you, and he still continues to—”
“I agreed to it,” you cut in, your tone clipped, controlled. “He just wanted our sham marriage to be believable. He wasn’t asking me to fuck you, just to perform. That’s what I do. Perform.”
Bucky huffed a bitter laugh, shaking his head. 
“Look, I don’t know you,” he muttered, voice low, rough. “I don’t want your baggage, or for you to fuck me out of pity or... I don’t know, self-sabotage.”
The words hit like a slap, sharper than you expected. You recoiled—actually flinched—before you could stop yourself. It wasn’t just what he said, it was the venom in it, the way he threw it at you like a blade meant to wound. And damn it, it did.
Bucky saw it, too. The way your shoulders stiffened, the flicker of something raw crossing your face before you forced it away. His breath hitched slightly, fingers twitching at his side, but he didn’t take it back. Didn’t soften the blow. Maybe he regretted it, maybe he didn’t, but either way, the damage was done.
Your expression hardened like cooling steel, every crack that had formed between you quickly sealing shut, any semblance of vulnerability buried beneath layers of carefully placed armour. It was instinct—second nature, really. You’d spent years perfecting the art of locking yourself away, of making sure no one could reach the parts of you that still bled. You’d built it, brick by fucking brick, until you were fully encased, isolated from anything that might harm you. 
Bucky wasn’t the first to speak to you like that. Wouldn’t be the last.
You swallowed down the sting, inhaled slow and deep through your nose, and then let it out in a steady breath. When you spoke again, your voice was quiet, devoid of emotion, a perfect imitation of indifference. “It was just an offer.”
Nothing more. Nothing less.
You held his gaze for a second longer, searching for something, anything, that might suggest he regretted it. But Bucky just stared back, face unreadable, jaw tight. Then, without another word, he turned away, stretching out on the couch with his back to you.
Fine. Message received.
The rest of the week had been nothing short of torturous. After the argument, the air between you and Bucky had turned to ice. The two of you barely spoke. Not outside of necessity, not outside of the roles you had to play. At the gala, he did what was required—he held you close, leant into your touch when needed, murmured sweet nothings in your ear to sell the lie. But you felt the restraint in him, the hesitance in the way he brushed a thumb over your knuckles, the barely-there tremors in his fingers when he smoothed a hand over your waist. It wasn’t as if he was walking on hot coals anymore, but there was still that same, underlying hesitation.
Back at the hotel, the silence stretched long and unbearable. Shower, eat, sleep—repeat. Conversations were reduced to one-word exchanges, curt and impersonal. At least by morning, this miserable charade would be over. You’d gathered the intel you needed at the gala, and in a few hours, you’d be free of this place. Free of this suffocating, awkward tension. Free from Bucky’s constant, looming presence. 
God, the man had a staring problem.
You had noticed it before, how he always seemed lost in thought, his gaze heavy with some unreachable burden. You had assumed it was just brooding, the kind of silent, empty-headed angst that men like him fell victim to. But now you realised—he wasn’t staring through you. He was staring at you.
You saw it when you dressed for the gala, slipping into silken dresses and heels, when you pinned your hair into elegant styles, when you traced the lines of your lips with lipstick, perfecting the illusion. You’d catch his reflection in the mirror, eyes fixed on you, dark and unreadable.
Once, he had been so caught up in his daze that he nearly left without putting on his suit jacket. You had to press it into his hands, dragging him out of whatever spell he was under. He had taken it stiffly, mumbling a quiet ‘thanks’ but the heat in his face was unmistakable.
And now, as you sat cross-legged on the bed in a loose nightgown, the fabric riding high on your thighs, the same damn stare was drilling into the side of your face.
The TV flickered before you, an incoherent blur of colours and sound. You weren’t even sure it was in English. It didn’t matter. You weren’t watching it anyway. You were too focused on not focusing on Bucky, who stared at the side of your face like he intended to burn a hole through the flesh.
You exhaled sharply through your nose, running your thumb over your knee. The sheets were soft, the mattress more forgiving than the couch you’d been forced to sleep on last night. At least tonight was your turn back on the bed, though ideally, you’d be back in your own apartment by now, wrapped in high-thread-count luxury courtesy of Tony Stark’s absurd wealth.
God, you missed Egyptian cotton.
Bucky was still staring at you. You couldn’t help it, annoyance, filthy and venomous came pouring out of your mouth before you could stop it. “What? Is there something on my face?”
Bucky startled, his whole body tensing as if you had physically struck him.
“Nothing—” he stammered.
You arched a brow, unimpressed.
“No. There’s obviously something you want to say.” You shifted on the bed, your frustration mounting. “Go on, spit it out.”
He hesitated, his jaw working like he was biting down on whatever words were lodged in his throat.
You didn’t let up. “You sure had a lot to say earlier in the week. What, do you want to dig the knife in further? You might as well just call me a whore while you’re at it—”
“I’m sorry.” Bucky cut over you, his head dipping. You paused, momentarily stunned. He was doing that thing again, where he looked like a scolded dog. Adorable, but not the fucking time.“I shouldn’t have said that, it was inconsiderate of me, especially after... after all you’ve done.”
You frowned. “You don’t owe me anything, Barnes.” The words left your lips quieter this time, but still firm. 
“I snapped at you. And I shouldn’t have.” he admitted. His voice was low, restrained.
You let out a slow breath, pressing your fingers to your temple.
“It’s okay. I understand,” you said, a little softer. “I haven’t exactly been… the kindest either.”
A bitter chuckle escaped him, his fingers twitching against his knee. Then, after a long pause, he asked, “How do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Act like everything is okay. Like it’s normal.” His voice was strained, like he wasn’t even sure if he believed in what he was asking.
You let out a short, almost nervous laugh. “I’m probably not the best person to ask about this—”
“But you get it, right?” He looked at you now, something almost desperate in his gaze. “To not know… who or what you are? Sometimes I… I just want to be normal again.”
You frown deeply, weighing his words carefully. You understood his sentiment, but you knew it was futile. There had never been anything normal about your life—not anything you could remember, at least. The Red Room had seen to that. Your earliest memories were of drills, of ballet, of suffocating discipline, and of the erasure of self. Even now, you weren’t normal; you were an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D for fucks sake, a woman barely pardoned of her crimes, existing in a liminal space. The world's governments couldn’t quite confirm you existed. You were a ghost, a fucking shadow of a person. 
“I don’t think people like us get to be normal,” you said finally, choosing your words carefully.
His expression twisted slightly, like he had already known that answer but had hoped for something different.
“But I think,” you continued, “it would serve you a world of good if you let people in. Steve… Sam. You don’t have to face this all alone—Natasha, Yelena, and I look to each other all the time to process it all and patch together the missing pieces. There’s no shame in it.”
Bucky’s face creased, his body drawing in on itself slightly. You moved before he could shrink further, slipping off the bed and kneeling before him. 
“It’s okay,” you reassured, voice steady. “Just tell me... what is it you need right now?”
His lips parted slightly, then pressed into a thin line. He fidgeted, his fingers clenching and unclenching as if struggling to force out something that had been sitting at the edge of his tongue all week.
Finally, he exhaled, jaw tight.
“I want to take you up on your offer.”
You tilted your head. “My offer?”
Bucky swallowed, eyes flickering to the floor before darting back to you. His voice was hesitant, low—like he was worried some invisible presence might have overheard. “Lessons. Lessons in… love-making. I want to be able to look at a girl without... you know. This fucking week has been torture seeing you—”
He cut himself off, warmth flooding to his cheeks. A laugh bubbled out of you before you could stop it—light, amused, genuine.
Bucky stiffened, eyes widening slightly, horror flashing across his face as if he thought you were mocking him.
You shook your head quickly, reaching out to place a hand on his knee.
“Of course,” you murmured, smiling. “Thought you’d never ask.”
“Is this okay?” you asked softly as you swung your leg over, settling onto Bucky’s lap. The mattress dipped beneath you both, the quiet creak of the hotel bed the only sound between you for a moment. He sat beneath you, legs slightly spread, his hands hovering uncertainly at his sides. You dug your knees into the bed on either side of his thighs, anchoring yourself against him.
His breath hitched, sharp and uneven. “Yes,” he murmured, though there was a noticeable tremor in his voice, like he was still convincing himself.
“Just breathe,” you encouraged, smoothing your hands over his broad shoulders. His muscles were tense beneath your fingertips, wound tight like coiled steel. He swallowed hard.
“What’s worrying you?” You asked gently. “Is there something I can do to make this more comfortable for you?”
Bucky shook his head, a shuddering breath leaving him as his hands finally found purchase on your hips. His grip was hesitant, as if he wasn’t sure he was allowed to hold you. “No,” he said, his voice rough. 
“This is great, I—” He cut himself off, pressing his lips together in frustration.
You tilted your head, studying him, before offering a reassuring smile. Your fingers kneaded into his shoulders in slow, soothing motions, attempting to melt away some of the tension knotted there. “Talk to me,” you coaxed.
His gaze flickered downward, shame creeping into his expression. “I just… don’t want to embarrass myself. Again.”
Your heart clenched at his vulnerability, but you refused to let him linger in self-doubt. Instead, you leant in, your lips curling in a playful smile. 
“You’re cute when you say things like that,” you teased, running your tongue over your lower lip before continuing. “Don’t worry about any of that. Just stay here, in this moment, with me.”
A muscle in his jaw twitched, but he obeyed, focusing on the warmth of your body pressed against his. Slowly, his grip tightened on your hips, fingers kneading into the flesh more firmly this time. His thumbs traced cautious circles against the fabric of your clothing, testing. You let your hands drift from his shoulders down to his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing.
“Now,” you murmured, keeping your tone soft but steady, “if you get overwhelmed, or if you need to stop, what do you say?”
“Stop,” Bucky answered without hesitation.
“Good,” you praised, smiling warmly. “And if you can’t speak? If the words won’t come?”
His fingers flexed on your hip before he squeezed in a deliberate rhythm—three distinct beats. You nodded in approval. “Perfect.”
His blue eyes flickered up to meet yours, searching. 
“What about you?” he asked, his voice quieter now, more earnest. “If you want to stop?”
You demonstrated by tapping three times against his chest, just over his heart.
“I’ll do the same thing,” you assured him. “Just like we discussed.”
For a moment, he just breathed. His lashes fluttered as he exhaled a slow, measured breath, his hands steadying against you. Then, with a small, almost imperceptible nod, he whispered, “I’m… I’m ready. I think.”
You smiled, fingers tracing a soft, reassuring path along his jaw. 
“Okay. I thought we’d start with kissing, since you seem worried about it. Nice and simple, no pressure,” you murmured, your voice low and reassuring as your fingertips ghosted along his jawline. Bucky swallowed thickly, his adam’s apple bobbing as he leaned into your palm without thinking, nuzzling it like a touch-starved thing. His blue eyes, dark as the ocean in a brewing storm, flickered with something hesitant, something fragile.
“I’m sure you kissed plenty of girls back in the day,” you teased, lips curling as you brushed your thumb over the sharp edge of his cheekbone.
“Oh yeah,” he exhaled, the words dipped in self-deprecation, “until Steve became… well, the Steve he is now. None of the girls spared me a second glance after that.”
You let out a soft laugh, breathy and genuine, and felt the way his body tensed beneath you at the sensation. It was funny how a man who could tear through steel and strike terror into the hearts of the world’s deadliest enemies could turn so shy at something as simple as your laughter.
“You know…” he hesitated, voice quieter now. “You were my first kiss since… well, everything.”
Your teasing grin faltered slightly. You tilted your head, gaze flicking between his eyes and his lips, close enough now that you could feel the steady heat radiating from his skin. 
“Well,” you murmured, the ghost of a smirk curling your lips as you shifted closer, “now I’ll be your second too.”
And then you kissed him.
It was slow at first, a testing press of your lips against his, feather-light and coaxing. Bucky inhaled sharply through his nose, his breath hitching as though he was bracing for impact. But when you didn’t pull away, when you lingered just a little longer, he melted into you—hesitant at first, but eager.
His hands, large and trembling slightly, hesitated at your waist before gripping your thighs as if he wasn’t sure whether to hold you or let you slip away. The warmth of his palms bled through the thin fabric of your nightgown, spreading across your skin like wildfire.
You deepened your kiss, tilting your head to slot your lips more firmly against his, and a quiet sound rumbled in his chest—halfway between a sigh and a groan. Encouraged, you shifted, rocking your hips, the new position pressing your bodies flush together.
Bucky tensed beneath you, fingers digging into your flesh instinctively as you settled against him. His own hips bucked in response, and you could already feel him growing hard against your inner thigh. He pulled back slightly, panting, his lips swollen.
“Am I doing… okay?” he asked, his voice rough.
You smiled, smoothing a hand through his dark hair, tugging him gently forward again. 
“More than okay,” you whispered against his lips before capturing them once more.
This time, he kissed you back without hesitation. His hands gripped your hips, anchoring himself to you as he parted his lips, following your lead. You swept your tongue into his mouth, slow and purposeful, teasing along his lower lip before deepening it. A groan rumbled in his chest, muffled against your mouth.
You rolled your hips, grinding against him with a slow, deliberate rhythm, savouring the way his breath hitched and stuttered beneath you. Even through the layers of clothing, you could feel him—hard, straining, likely aching for more. His fingers dug into your skin, a bruising grip that only added to the heat blooming in your core.
You pulled away from his lips, shifting your attention lower, trailing open-mouthed kisses along his jaw, down his neck. You could feel his pulse hammering beneath your lips, quick and erratic. He tipped his head back, surrendering himself to your touch, a quiet curse slipping from his mouth as you sucked at the sensitive skin below his ear.
“You’re doing so well,” you hummed against his skin, your voice warm and indulgent, laced with soft praise. His body trembled beneath you as he bucked his hips up to meet yours, desperate for more friction, more of you. You rewarded him with a soft, breathy moan, letting him know just how much you enjoyed this too.
“I—” He tried to form words, but they crumbled before they left his lips.
The tension in his body coiled tighter and tighter, like a bowstring pulled taut, ready to snap. His hands clutched at you, grounding himself in the sensation, like the overwhelming pleasure was building too fast for him to control. His breath came in short, needy gasps, his hips stuttering as he lost the rhythm.
“I’m gonna—” His voice broke, his head tilting forward as his entire body tensed beneath you. A strangled moan escaped him, deep and wrecked, as he came undone. His grip on your hips tightened, his thighs trembling slightly beneath yours as his climax overtook him. His body fell back against the sheets, a soft exhale leaving his lips as the last waves of pleasure wracked through him.
You perched above him, still straddling his hips. For a moment, he just lay there, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he struggled to catch his breath. His eyes were half-lidded, dazed, and his lips parted as if he had more to say but couldn’t quite form the words.
“I didn’t mean to finish so early—” he started, his voice hoarse, cheeks flushed with a mix of embarrassment and lingering pleasure. Leaning over, you flipped your hair to one side as your face hovered over his. You silenced him with a lingering kiss, slow and reassuring. He groaned softly into your mouth, still sensitive but already melting into the warmth of your lips. When you pulled away, his shoulders had loosened, the rigid tension gone from his body.
“You did so well,” you murmured, brushing your fingers through his hair. “How do you feel?”
“Good.” 
You grinned, sliding off him and stretching languidly before settling back onto the bed. You exhaled, content. Bucky turned his head to look at you, still slightly frozen in place, as if unsure what to do next. His brows furrowed slightly. “What… what about you? Don’t you want to…?”
You snorted. “That doesn’t matter. This was about you, not me.”
He hesitated, clearly still unused to receiving something without feeling obligated to return it. “But I feel bad leaving you—”
“I’m fine, trust me.” You hummed, closing your eyes as you nestled into the warmth of his arm. “We have a long way to go before you need to be thinking about that.”
Bucky went quiet. You could feel his gaze lingering on you, unreadable.
For a moment, you weren’t sure if he would say anything at all. But then, after a beat of silence, you felt him shift beside you. A hesitant hand—warm and slightly calloused—ghosted over your arm before settling on your waist, drawing you in closer.
“…Thank you,” he murmured at last.
10K notes · View notes
lusmeitli · 6 months ago
Text
I’m deeply humbled though totally undeserving of your praise. Thank you very much and Happy New Year. X
But like of each thing that in season grows
Summary: How a kind gesture can lead to something more. One shot.
Pairings: Loki x Female Reader
Warnings: Christmas fluff, mention of off screen assault, some swearing, lots of snow, books, poetry, smutty smut.
A/N: Okay, look. It just wanted to get out. You’re thrown in without a warning, nor a floatie. Apologies for the liberties taken to interpret and manipulate characters to dance after my will once more. Obviously don't read if you're a minor.
Tumblr media
9~9~9~9~9~9~9~9~9~9~9~9~9~9~9~9
The greatest ideas were conceived in the shower. That was a scientific fact.
You liked facts. You did not like uncertainties or speculation. The feeling of being in limbo was something that didn’t sit right with you.
So as you were in the shower, working the conditioner in your hair, the idea was just there. It was simple, humble, but beautiful. Your hands slowed and stilled. And then your mind rebooted and went at lightning speed, planning things out. You needed to write things down.
You stepped out of the shower hurriedly, towelling down your body, before realising that your hair felt different. Cursing, you stepped back under the water to rinse off the conditioner.
*****
You hated staff meetings. Particularly third Thursdays staff meetings, because they dragged on and on. The weekly mission reports were presented and Fury insisted on inviting some guest speakers. He called it “Horizon Thursday”.
In your opinion it narrowed rather than widened it. Today’s guest speaker was Quinn Harris, cyber security specialist. You suspected self-proclaimed, but you hadn’t bothered doing a deep dive on him.
You were sat on the increasingly uncomfortable chair, rows of employees in front of you, the Avengers at the very front. Rogers had delivered his usual military style mission report, the other members of his team trying to look alive, though you suspected Romanoff and Banner were asleep, as they were both donning sunglasses.
“What you need is a quantum computer and it’ll solve all your problems with encryption.”
“They might as well propose using block ciphers,” you murmured under your breath, turning the page in your book.
Meanwhile, a hand shot in the air at the front. “Excuse me, Mr Harris.”
The man smiled. “Mr Stark, do you have a question?”
“Well, not so much a question for you, but I would very much like the opinion of another expert on what you just said. You know, before anyone here thinks about investing in your product, which, let’s be honest, would be me. I’d like to be sure it’s the right thing.”
Fury rolled his eyes and sunk back in his chair.
There had been talk about getting that dude in? You must have zoned out for that part.
Harris’ face fell for a second, but he honed his features and forced a smile. “Of course.”
“It just so happens that we have an inhouse expert,” Tony got up and scanned the crowd. “Isn’t that right, Y/N?”
Everyone uniformly turned to look at you. Everyone.
You felt the moment one particular pair of eyes set on you. The amount of times you had spoken to one another had been limited to the missions you were needed on, for hacking. You’d had his voice in your ear a few times and it did things to your body that made you feel like a system overheat. You never really saw him during missions though as your job was very much office-bound.
Today, he wore the damn leather suit. Whilst Fury didn’t give a fuck, Rogers very much was all about the professional appearance of the Avengers. What you didn’t understand was why everything looked better on him. The black and green possibly was the best colour combination there ever was. The other day Bucky had worn a Slytherin pullover and even though it very nicely accentuated his physique, it looked nothing like the colours did on Loki.
You swallowed hard when you felt his eyes on you. They seemed to see right through you, even over the distance of the seven rows of chairs.
And then you felt the weight of all the other pairs of eyes on you. That was a lot of people. You gulped and pushed your glasses back up the bridge of your nose - a habit you couldn’t break. 
“Y/N,” Tony called, bringing you back to the matter at hand. “Stand up and look at me.” His voice was gentle. “Start breathing again. Good. Now tell me what Harris is not telling me about the quantum computer.”
You adjusted your glasses again and cleared your throat. “It’s a solid proposition, I suppose,” you started, “however, one I would expect from a college freshman, certainly not from a cyber security expert specialist.”
Murmurs erupted, but you ignored them and rattled off your thoughts.
“Can a quantum computer crack asymmetric encryption algorithms? Yes. And yes, we all know that thanks to Shor’s algo the maths problems are only polynomial. Also, we know this applies to discrete log problems, too, therefore, all we’d need is a large enough quantum computer. Of course, he,” you gestured to Harris, “would have to build one first, which as you can guess is very costly. However, this entire presentation is based on the assumption that quantum computing is the end of asymmetric cryptography. And that is such a blatantly ignorant approach, with complete disregard for the safety of the members of our staff that are entirely reliant on the encryption cracking working on all their devices during operations and missions. And this whole quantum computer only works if you have a network connection.”
“So you’re suggesting there are hard problems that a quantum computer can’t solve?” Harris said, chin jutting out, arms crossed defiantly.
“Don’t be silly, of course there are,” you huffed. “I coded new post-quantum asymmetric encryption algos three years ago and tested them on several sites I am not authorised to disclose that have quantum computers. Not one of them cracked the simplest of those codes, in any of the over 5,400 attempts they ran over the past three years. So this presentation is… rather embarrassing in its sloppiness.”
“Well,” Harris’ lips were a thin line now. “I’m sure you have a ‘much better’ suggestion then?” He actually raised his hands to add the quotation marks.
“Actually, I do. I developed our own version of a quantum computer, at - and I’m only guessing here - a fraction of the price you’d charge Mr Stark, which can crack both symmetric and asymmetric encryption, works on all of our staff’s devices, portable and stationary, works offline and is about the size of, uh, a thumbnail.”
You pointed to your thumb, because in your humble experience men like him struggled to accurately size things.
Tony smiled and turned to Harris.
“Okay that concludes today’s meeting.” Fury got to his feet and patted Harris’ shoulder. “Looks like we’re good, but thanks for coming.”
People around you stood, some nodding at you as they passed. Tony caught up with you in the hallway. Before he could say something you blurted out: “Did I say something wrong? Was I rude again?”
He smirked and pushed the button of the lift. “He needed putting into place. Totally fine by me. You did great.”
“Stark!” bellowed Fury from down the hall and Tony winced.
“Excuse me, mother’s calling.” He turned and left.
You sidled into the lift with several other people. The cabin stopped a few floors up and people got off. That was when you noticed Loki on the other side of the lift. Up you went and after another stop you were alone with the Asgardian god. The cabin seemed to shrink.
You both watched the numbers climb, the lift hummed, Loki’s leather suit creaked softly as he crossed his hands behind his back.
“Could you please enlighten me about Shor’s algorithm?” he suddenly asked, looking at you.
You had a heart palpitation. Surely that was what it was. He was so impossibly tall and sculpted and… here.
“Um,” you pushed your glasses back up, “it’s a quantum algorithm for finding the prime factors of an integer.”
Loki’s face looked blank.
“It, er, essentially it finds the prime factors of large numbers a lot faster than conventional computers do. Which we use in encryption. The large numbers, that is. So it cracks codes faster.”
“Ah,” he said, head turning back to continue staring at the number display. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” you croaked out.
The urge to facepalm burned under your fingers, but you resisted. As soon as the doors slid open on your floor, however, you fled and sought asylum in the ladies’ toilets, banging your head against the wall of the stall.
*****
Operation Great Idea was in full swing.
So you’ve had a little personal setback, but that didn’t deter you from the objective. You had compiled a list, one you were confident was accurate based on your intel and research. That very list was neatly folded in the deep pocket of your coat as you walked through the cold rain on this late November afternoon.
Yes, you did something you’d never done before - take an afternoon off - and were trying to evade puddles on your way to the bookshop. Could you have ordered the books online? Most of them, certainly. But your late mother, an independent business owner, had ingrained in you to support local shops. You liked bookshops, they reminded you of her and of simpler times.
Your timing was excellent - of course you had researched when the shop was least busy - and you practically had the shop to yourself. And so you walked, dragging a pull-along basket behind you as you searched the shelves for the books on the list.
Sometimes, there were different editions there and you stood for a while, feeling the weight of each book in your hand, the feel of the embossed letters on the spine, the scent of the pages. You wanted it to be just right, so you took your time.
Some of the books you would only be able to get in a little second hand bookshop, tucked away in a side street. You had called beforehand and the owner lifted a box from under the counter to show you what she had reserved for you. As soon as your fingers made contact with the books you felt absolutely giddy.
Back at the Tower, you spent two entire evenings wrapping books after work. When you were finished, you leaned back, looking at the neatly organised stack. Yes, you were ready. Now all you needed was an exorbitant amount of luck for the next 24 days.
*****
You watched Loki stare suspiciously at the first parcel. He was sitting in the communal kitchen, Thor next to him. 
“Why would it be hexed?” Thor asked. “Simply because the sender is missing?”
Loki just gave him a pointed look.
“Come, brother, aren’t you curious to find out what is in this gift?”
“Loki got a present?” Steve asked as he pulled a bowl out of a cupboard. “Did I miss his birthday?”
Before Loki could say anything, Thor shook his head. “He’s worried it has been tampered with.”
Roger’s brows furrowed. “How did it get into your possession?”
“It was on the floor outside my door this morning,” Loki complied, sighing.
“FRIDAY would have picked up on any foreign substances or intruders in the tower,” Tony said between gulps of coffee. “He now can detect traces of magic, too. ‘Course, he went apeshit over your magic, but we got it under control, eventually.”
“That’s what all this ‘Alert, alert, magic detected, caution advised’ blaring at five in the morning was?” Scott bustled in.
A slight tinge of red shaded Loki’s complexion. “I have to practise some time.”
“Thought you were born with it?” Scott interjected, helpfully.
This earned him a glare. “I was born with the aptitude for magic and sorcery. It takes a lot more than mere talent to achieve this level of proficiency.”
“Several centuries, in fact,” his brother supplied. “Now then Stark here says it’s safe. So open it, brother!” Thor clapped his hands together. 
Loki indignantly and very reluctantly slid the parcel towards him and pulled on the simple string that held the wrapping together. The paper fell open to reveal one of the books you had picked.
From your vantage point of, well, your computer screen, you zoomed in to get a better look at him.
“Oh, a book,” you heard the onlookers muttering disappointedly, quickly losing interest and going about their business once more.
But Loki just sat, staring at the book. It took him a good few minutes to pick it up. And he did what you had seen him do many times before. He weighed it in his hands, fingertips running over the cover, the spine. Then he opened the lid. To anyone else it might not have been noticeable, but to you it was: he inhaled the scent of the book. And finally, there was the smallest upturn of his lips.
You exhaled, relieved. One down 23 more to go.
*****
Over the next week you were too busy testing the new firewall you had developed to check on Loki’s reaction. Sometimes you felt a little self-conscious, scared even that he might not like the books or think this was from a stalker. Which technically you had indulged in, stalking that was, but only to find the perfect books for him. And then sometimes you would get worried that someone else might have found the presents.
But you knew he had received every single one of them, for every evening, when you passed the common area you saw him sitting on the couch with the latest offering in his hands. Perhaps it was wishful thinking, but it looked as if his tense shoulders had started to relax a bit.
Another couple of days went by and as the decorations started to pop up in the Tower and the first snow fell that didn’t immediately melt or turn to mush you felt happy. Perhaps it also had something to do with the fact that a certain someone walked differently. Maybe it was your imagination. But he seemed even taller these days.
*****
“Did it work?” you heard his voice in your ear a couple days later.
The data set was streaming on the screen in front of your eyes. “It did. Give me a moment to inject the virus, then you can disconnect the USB cable.”
“Can I still talk to you?”
Your fingers on the keyboard stilled for a moment, surprised. “Of course. The program runs through your phone, not through comms.”
There was a little pause, before he said: “I have a question. About a Midgardian tradition.”
You wrinkled your nose, scanning the code rushing over the screen. “I’ll try my best, but I’m rubbish at traditions.”
The audible outbreath sent shivers down your spine. “I’m sure that’s not true.”
“What’s your question then?”
“Tell me about the Yuletide calendar.”
45% done. “You mean the Advent calendar?”
“Precisely.”
This was dangerous territory you were treading on. “Oh, it’s a fun thing for kids, really. To make the wait for Christmas a bit more exciting and I guess more bearable. It’s nice to get a little something like a toy.”
“Is it always toys?”
69% now. “Well, no. My mum used to get me an advent calendar that had these lovely drawings behind each door. I hung it up in the front room and we’d open it together every morning.”
“I suppose it’s a nice custom,” he said, before asking, “What about grown ups, do they have advent calendars?”
83%. “Sometimes. There’s all sorts: beer, wine, beauty products, chocolates - you name it, it probably exists somewhere.”
“Books, too?”
The question threw you, did he know it was you? A light was blinking on your screen.
100%.
“That’s it, Loki, the virus is uploaded, you can unplug the cable now and get out of there.”
“Thank you, Y/N.”
You heard a crackle and the comms was handed over to operations again. As you finished running the decryption programme on the data Loki had extracted, you kept hearing his voice in your head.
“Books, too?” Were you busted?
*****
Security breaches were both an insult as well as an admittedly welcome challenge to you. Someone had tried to flex their fingers - and you had a very good idea who - to break into Stark’s network. They had managed to pierce a little hole into the outer layer of the firewall, but they didn’t know that you had several back up plans in place and you enjoyed watching them work. However, as you scanned over the intruder’s code you devised a new security strategy.
You were in the middle of coding a nice little primer for a new layer - unexpected because of its simplicity, but a tough little nut to crack - when someone cleared their throat next to you. You looked up to find Loki, his eyes fixed on you. You blinked, looked around, but no one else was there, and back up at the god.
“Can I, uh, help you?” Smooth. You facepalmed internally.
“I realised I have never been in here,” he said, looking around the room, then back at your desk. “You have a lot of monitors.”
You waved your hand dismissively. “Just the standard three.”
“What are you doing now? Or is it a secret?”
“It’s not a secret at all. So we’re currently under attack. Relax,” she said when she noticed him tense, “cyberattack. Someone’s knocking at our backdoor, trying to see if they can get in.”
You motioned to one of your screens. “This is the intruder’s code. He’s trying out lots of keys to see if he can get in. And this,” you pointed to the screen next to it, “is our defence mechanism.”
“Extraordinary.” Loki’s low voice murmured. He was close. You turned your head and nearly had a heart attack at just how close. His sharp profile was illuminated by the blue glow of the monitor, his hair falling to his shoulders, one hand splayed on the desk, the other resting on the back of your chair. He looked beautiful. Perfect. He was leaning closer to the screen so he could see what was going on. Your breath hitched.
And then he turned his head.
Something that sounded an awful lot like a squeak escaped your throat.
Loki lifted an eyebrow. “Am I making you nervous, Agent Y/N?”
You pushed your glasses up your nose and leaned back, just an inch. “No?”
Loki’s eyes drifted over your face, before they met your gaze again. “Is that a question or a statement?”
“A… a statement,” you mumbled and, for good measure, added, “sir.”
His eyes darkened, a smirk curling the left side of his lips. “Are you scared of me?”
You tilted your head ever so slightly. “How can I be scared of you?”
“You’ve heard the stories, undoubtedly.”
“I did. And if I believed everything people told me and not looked beyond I would be incredibly shitty at my job.”
He smiled at that. It was small, but there, and it made him so attractive you felt your stupid heart starting to pound in your chest. Could he hear it?
“Do you like to read, Agent Y/N?”
Another adjustment of your glasses. “I do.”
“What would you say is your favourite book?” His voice was low and smooth.
His hand moved from your desk to the side of your face, where he gently pulled on a tendril, before he brushed it behind your ear. The back of his fingers skimmed your cheek for less than a second, but it sent you reeling. It was as if an electromagnetic pulse was slowly wiping clean your hard drive. You couldn’t think.
“Um, err, Jane.. Jane Eyre.”
He hummed. “I wonder why? Is it because she’s abandoned and rejected all her life?”
You shook your head slowly. “No. Because she’s forced to leave home, into a life she didn’t choose. But when she is given the freedom and space to grow she learns to be the master of her happiness.”
His eyes followed the curve of your neck and back up again. It almost felt as if he was touching you. “Interesting.”
You swallowed again, before he stood upright, nodded at you, turned and left. 
Your heart was pounding. And then your computer beeped and your attention was back on the screen.
“Oh pants…” Your fingers started flying over the keyboard. “Not today, Harris. Or any other day.”
Nine more books to go.
*****
He was onto you. Of course he was. After all, he was the God of Mischief and Lies. If anyone would find out who was behind this, it would be him. Personally, the preferred outcome was that he never would find out.
You had asked yourself often over the last 18 days why exactly you wanted to do this for him. But that was just it. You really had no other motive than wanting to do this for him. Maybe because you sympathised with him, being stuck somewhere far from home, feeling lonely and not really integrated. Maybe you had projected your own feelings onto him a tiny little bit. Possibly considerably. However, it was done with the best of intentions. You wanted to make this nice for him. The run up to Christmas. A little bit magical. He must like magic, he was a sorcerer after all, wasn’t he?
So what if you had started dreaming of him at night. He would lean over you as you sat at your desk, in all his tall- and broadness. This time his hands would be touching you. And he’d lean in to whisper into your ear. Admittedly, not words you would necessarily associate with such a situation.
When you would wake up you knew where to place the things he said to you in your dreams. He’d said them to you during missions. And yes, “how much longer till the download is complete, Agent Y/N?” was not remotely as sexy as “I’m going to ravish you now, thoroughly” would have been, for example. But your brain only had so much to work with and it worked for you.
You noticed a few things, however. Loki was around more often, probably just a silly coincidence, or you had started to pay more attention. He looked at you now. You’d look up and find him already looking at you, sometimes a little smile crossed his lips, but mostly it was just something with his eyes, they seemed… warmer, maybe?
However, to your horror you discovered that you had started to blush. Every single time this happened. So you spent a lot of time in the ladies’ toilets, splashing your face with cold water, only to see it even more flushed than before. Apparently, all the books you had read lied about that ‘splashing your face with cold water to calm down and not make people notice’-thing.
But it all boiled down to the fact that he was onto you. Maybe he was humouring you and seeing where this was going. Maybe he had found out already and you made him feel awkward. Or he was waiting for the opportune moment to expose and humiliate you. You weren’t sure which.
Right now it didn’t matter. You were so tired you could hardly see properly anymore. So when you decided to crash on the sofa in the common room, because it was halfway to your room, you didn’t think to check if anyone was there.
That was mistake number one.
You collapsed onto the sofa with a groan, eyes closed, head leaning against the back of the sofa.
“Fuck. My. Fucking. Life,” you complained to the universe. “Can you please make the appendage of that misogynistic wanker fall off already? For fuck’s sake!”
Mistake number two.
Someone chuckled. It came from rather close to you.
Dread filled you. Foul language was not tolerated in the workplace. To be fair you could argue that the common room was not your workplace per se, however, you did not want to start arguing with HR because they were absolute savages in the art of word twisting. Or just savages full stop.
Carefully, you cracked your eyes open. And there, on the sofa right next to you, sat Loki. One leg was stretched out in all its glorious length, the other bent at the knee, his forearm resting over it, the book in his lap now closed, one of his slender fingers acting as bookmark. For a moment you wondered what it would feel like to be the book.
“I hope it’s not my appendage you’re asking to be removed,” he said with a smirk.
You grappled to sit up, horrified. “Of course not! That would be awful… I mean, a terrible thing to wish for… you’d… err… such a loss of such a beautiful… I mean, I can only guess… but… um, err… heavens, please make me stop talking…”
You hid your head in a throw pillow, wishing the floor would open up and swallow you whole.
Mistake number three.
The sound of a low, rumbly laugh made its way to your ears. It entered your system like a virus, leaving your limbs feeling weak and yearning. Was Loki laughing? You lifted your head and watched him, highly bemused at your idiotic display.
It was the most beautiful thing you’d ever heard. You felt a hard tug at your heart. Goodness, if this man wasn’t already a god, you’d have to declare him one. If he were the head of a religion you would throw out your atheist views and follow him to the end of the multiverse. He looked absolutely breathtaking. Then again, when did he not?
“I’m so sorry,” you started to apologise, “I don’t know what-”
With superhuman speed he moved and sat next to you, his finger on your lips. The feel of his digit on your mouth felt more intimate than any sexual intercourse you’d ever had.
And then he leaned in.
He was so close your cells were basically breathing him in. His eyes were locked onto yours and nothing would have been able to make you look away right then.
“Do you want to know what book I’m reading right now?” His quiet words did things to your insides that were not legal.
You just about managed to nod, his finger still in place.
“‘The Remains of the Day’ by Kazuo Ishiguro. Do you know it?” He waited for your affirmation. “It’s about a man who is in love with a woman. But he doesn’t tell her. When they meet again after decades, she tells him her life would have been different if she had married him. And you know what he does? He still won’t admit his feelings to her. He walks away from her. The first time he lets her go, the second time he walks away.”
You remembered the book very well. You had picked it out for him, after all.
“It’s a cruel story, Y/N. A love that is never acknowledged, nor consumed.” Loki’s eyes drifted from yours down to your mouth. His finger slowly traced the outline of your lips. It was too much, your eyes closed.
“Do you think love is this cruel?” Loki asked quietly. You felt his words as he spoke them almost onto your skin. So close.
“It-it can be,” you whispered. “But maybe, maybe that wasn’t the point of the story.”
“No?”
You opened your eyes to find him looking at you. He’d moved away a bit, giving you some space, waiting for you to elaborate.
“Maybe the point was to show that he chose his job over love. Twice. You can call it dignity or pride, but at the end he’s alone. Without love.”
“What about you, Y/N? Do you have love in your life?”
You weren’t able to look into his eyes. Slowly, you got off the sofa. You turned back to him to respond to find he’d stood up, too.
You looked down at your shoes. His shoes were black, of course, polished, perfect, like him. Yours were several seasons old. Worn. A bit of the shoe sole had started to peel off at the top of your toes. The bit you always kicked into the floor when you worked.
Your eyes wandered up his trousers, black, to the belt, his pullover, also black. He looked effortlessly elegant, poised. You, on the other hand, looked a mess, even in your work attire. Your heart grew heavy at the realisation. Your dreams were stupid. Turned out your heart was even more stupid. And suddenly you felt incredibly small in more ways than one next to the tall, powerful god.
Swallowing a lump in your throat, you said: “I have known love, once. A long time ago.”
With that you pivoted on your heels and left, leaving Loki alone in the common room.
*****
Harris was an absolute tosser.
He just couldn’t leave things be. He insisted on trying to show you up, so he tried and tried to hack his way through your firewalls. Of course he had tried to hide his identity and it had made you chuckle, because you seriously had no idea how he could ever dare call himself a cyber security specialist if he covered up his tracks like a novice hacker.
In a way it was cute, but it was getting to the point of obsessive stalking and you frankly were rather tired of this little game by now. Particularly, since it kept you from your nice, warm, comfortable bed well past midnight.
However, Harris seemed to have changed tactics and started to badmouth you in the industry. Even Fury had called Tony and asked whether he should be worried, because Harris had dug up some hacking you’d done when you were much younger and much less ethical. Really it was unhinged, but everyone worked through teenage years in their own way.
You only knew this because you happened to be in Tony’s office and he had Fury on loudspeaker. Tony had pacified Fury without batting an eye, then hung up and asked if you’d be okay with him paying Harris a little visit, preferably as Iron Man. You had both laughed it off. But it bugged you.
So when you were on your way back to the tower from the compulsory (for all employees) counselling session and someone grabbed you, you weren’t surprised to come face to face with Harris. He didn’t lay a finger on you. No, he got two goons to do that for him.
Later, as you stumbled out of the lift and along the corridor, trying to make your way to your room, someone blocked your way.
“Speak of the devil! Y/N! We were just talking about you.” Tony. Other voices around him.
You kept your head down, thinking of how to get out of this unnoticed.
“We were just wondering if– Y/N? What happened?” You saw Tony’s hand reach out for you, but you flinched away.
Silence fell for a long moment.
Then a movement. Shoes appeared in your line of vision. You knew those shoes well. They had been on display on the couch for the past 22 days, attached to an Asgardian god.
He slowly held out his hand, palm up. An assurance, no harm. You gave the slightest nod. He moved the hand up and placed a finger under your chin so carefully you wanted to sob. The faintest of pressure had you lift your head to look up at Loki. His eyes scanned your appearance, stopping at your bruised hands that were trying to hold together your coat, taking in the blood splatters on the fabric, your busted lip, the lopsided glasses, the badly bent temple dangling off its hinge.
You never understood the expression ‘his features darkened’. You did now. Loki’s face transformed and you saw for the first time what a dangerous man he could be. Power radiated off him. You were glad it was not directed at you. His nostrils flared and you almost heard how much he was clenching his teeth.
“Names,” he ground out.
A hot tear rolled down your cheek and now that it started it didn’t want to stop. His eyes softened, something akin to vulnerability flitting across his features.
“H–Har…”
“Harris?” Tony asked softly. You nodded, still looking at Loki.
Loki rolled his lips in his mouth, his thumb swiping ever so lightly over the skin of your chin, before dropping his hand and walking to the lift in long strides.
“Nat?” Tony asked, the spy already by your side.
“Hold up, Reindeer Games!” Tony hollered behind you, as Romanoff led you down the corridor to your room. “I’m coming, too…”
It felt as if you were having an out of body experience as you were peeled out of your bloodied coat, your clothes and body assessed quickly but gently. She pulled out her phone after she ushered you into the shower.
“Tony? No forced intercourse, but lots of bruising…,” was all you heard before the hot spray of the water ran into your ears, blocking all noise out.
*****
Your glasses were fixed and you could see properly again. That was important, otherwise you wouldn’t have been able to see Harris’ face on the news as he was escorted - handcuffed - from a courtroom and shoved into a police van, followed by the two goons who had helped him.
When you turned from the screen above the cashier, you saw Loki next to Tony across the canteen, looking at you. You walked over, clutching your sandwich.
“So, um… thank you,” you said, gesturing to the screen, “for that.”
Tony put a hand on your shoulder, squeezing gently, before his eyes gazed behind you. “Is that a double cheeseburger I see? Excuse me.”
And off he went, leaving you alone with the Asgardian god.
You shuffled your feet, studying the floor.
“Thanks again-”
“Are you okay?” 
You both said at the same time. You laughed quietly, looking up at him. He smiled. You’d never seen Loki smile.
“I’m fine, thank you,” you said.
“I’m glad to hear it.”
You wanted to say so much more, do so much more, like hug him. But he was a god. You weren’t exactly sure what the protocol was for hugging gods. The awkward silence thickened.
“So, I’ll see you around?”
He was still smiling. “Yes. See you around.”
You were fairly sure you were blushing as you scampered off, back to your office.
*****
Bryant Park was one of your favourite places to be in New York. For one, it was right behind the public library - your heaven. For another, it was close to the Tower and you could wander the paths under the lovely trees. The park was very busy as it was Christmas Eve and people wanted to while away the time in the Winter Village until the big day. But as the ice rink closed down and the skaters came off, noses and cheeks red from the cold, the park started to empty.
You sat on a bench under one of the trees, gloved hands deep in your coat pockets, a woolly hat and scarf keeping you warm. Your head was tilted back and you watched the snowflakes dance and twirl in the cold wind.
“Y/N,” someone called.
Loki stood a few metres away from you, a black coat making him look even taller. He was not donning a hat or a scarf, he looked comfortable with the cold. The snow clung to his dark hair, a soft dusting was on his shoulders. You envied the snowflakes.
You got to your feet and he took a few steps closer, looking down at you.
“Were you enjoying the activities?” Loki asked, nodding to the ice rink.
“No, I just… I just like to sit here,” you said, feeling a bit silly. “I like the trees and the snow. It’s… peaceful.”
He nodded.
“How about you? Fancied a turn on the ice?”
He laughed and you watched the cloud mix with your breath. Now you envied your breath.
“Actually, I was looking for you.”
“Me?”
He took another step towards you. “Yes.”
“Why? Did something happen at the Tower?” Worriedly, you fumbled your phone out of the coat pocket and checked it.
A large hand covered it. You looked up. “Nothing happened. I wanted to talk to you.”
Nervously, you glanced down at his hand that still covered your phone. If you hadn’t been wearing gloves your hands would have had actual skin on skin contact. He dropped his hand to his side.
“Am I in trouble?”
He shook his head. “I… I wanted to thank you.”
“What for?”
His hand pulled a book out of his pocket. “For this.” He slid it back in the folds of his coat.
“Oh.” You didn’t really know how to feel or react. You knew he’d been onto you, so it was no surprise he’d sussed it out. He was, after all, the God of Mischief and Lies. But you had to give him kudos for letting it play out.
“Um, you’re welcome.” You bit your lip.
“You don’t know what this meant– what this means to me.”
It was impossible to look at him.
“I was dreading this time of year here on Midgard. But your incredibly generous advent calendar made it feel… like when I first visited here with my mother.” He grasped your gloved hands in his. “I miss her dearly, so thank you. For giving me this.”
You were too choked up to say anything, so you just nodded.
“Can I enquire what your reason was?”
It was so cautious, as if he was worried it might scare you off. And yet, the question threw you, most likely because you had been asking yourself the very same thing from the moment of its conception in your shower. It was just there, a need, an urgency you didn’t know where it came from or why it existed. It was something you had to do. Like breathing.
But over the course of the last few weeks, particularly the last few days, it had become painfully clear why you did it.
“I wanted, no, I needed you to be happy.”
He squeezed your hands gently. The tips of his shoes, his shiny, polished shoes, now touched yours.
“Please look at me.”
So you did. He looked different… vulnerable maybe.
“Why do you need me to be happy?” The question was another cloud and you breathed it in, let it fill your lungs.
“Because…” You were afraid to say it, to admit it. But something in his eyes made you courageous. Either that, or foolish.
“Because I watched you, during missions and in briefings and ops planning. You started to believe what they said about you. And it’s not true. There’s so much you don’t share, don’t tell them and I see it. It’s right there in your eyes. And I didn’t want you to lose yourself. And it’s selfish, I know, but I need you to be happy… because if you are, so am I.”
“If you think that’s selfish, then I am guilty of this notion, too.”
Loki raised his right hand to run the backs of his fingers over your cold cheek. “I knew after three days it was you. I wanted to see where this was going, what your motivation was. And I… when I saw you after Harris… I was filled with so much rage and fear. That I would lose you. Before I had you.”
He leaned his forehead against yours, you closed your eyes, heart beating out of your chest at what you were hearing. Was this a dream?
Loki’s voice was just above a whisper. “Can I? Have you?”
You moved away slightly to look into his eyes. “Yes.”
He leaned in, his hands splaying on your back, as you stood on your toes. The moment his lips touched yours, you felt a current run straight to your heart. It was as if your brain rewired, the missing piece of the primer clicked into place and unlocked everything.
Snow was falling as Loki kissed you under the tree. You didn’t hear the whistles and hollering of passerbys. You didn’t feel the cold wind. You felt elated, buzzing even.
“Your phone is buzzing,” Loki murmured against your lips.
“Hm?” you said dreamily. 
“Your phone is buzzing,” Loki smiled, “someone’s calling you.”
Quickly you pulled out the damned device. Before you could even say your name, you heard Tony say: “So sorry for disrupting, Y/N, but we got a slight issue here that needs your expert skills pronto.”
You hung up, burying your head in Loki’s chest. His laugh rumbled in his chest. “We’ll talk more later.”
Breathing in his scent and holding onto him, you weren’t ready to let go. “Promise?”
*****
“Oh god, yes,” you sighed in absolute bliss. “That’s the spot, right there.”
Your groan sounded through the kitchen. You deserved that after three hours of extra work on Christmas Eve.
“Here?” Nat asked.
“Yes, yes! Please don’t stop,” you begged, putty in her hands, eliciting more noises from you.
“Maybe you should try yoga. Your shoulders and your whole upper body are so tense and full of knots. There’s a class I go to tomorrow at lunchtime, if you want to join me?”
“No time,” you murmured. “Heavens, Nat, what else can you do with those hands?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” she teased.
“Okay, that’s enough,” Banner interrupted, grabbing Nat by the hand and dragging her to the door. “I’m happy to share my girlfriend’s masseuse skills for a severe case of muscle lock, but I’m afraid I have a personal request now.”
You opened your eyes to catch Nat winking at you, a slight blush on her cheeks as she was pulled out of the room. “So I’m your girlfriend now?” you heard before they disappeared down the corridor.
You laughed and turned in your stool. Thor, Scott and Loki stood staring. Thor at the ends of his braids, Scott at his fingernails, Loki at you. Eyes intense and dark. You swallowed.
“Y/N, a word, if you please,” Loki said, before wrapping his fingers around your wrist and marching out of the room, with you trying to keep up with his long strides, your coat and shoulder bag in your other hand. 
He didn’t say a single word until you reached his room - it was closest - and the door shut behind you, locking the outside world out. He pushed you against the door, arm placed against the wood above your head, body leaning into yours, not quite touching.
“That was… a rather interesting display,” he remarked quietly, his breath puffing against your face as he spoke. “In future, I would prefer if your keening was reserved for me.”
Your hands found the buttons of his shirt. “That sounds like an exclusive right to me.”
“It most certainly is.” His lips hovered over yours.
Your index finger slipped in the space between two buttons. “A right that needs to be earned,” you whispered, your finger grazing his skin.
His breath hitched ever so slightly. “Do not challenge me, darling,” he leaned in, his body moving against yours teasingly. “It might be,” his mouth brushed against your earlobe, “too taxing for you.”
You scoffed, but his lips silenced you. His stance shifted as he picked you up and placed you on the nearest surface - a sideboard - and stepped between your legs. He broke the kiss, to cup your face. For a long moment he just gazed at you. The heat in his eyes seemed to intensify, turning you into a needy mess. He made a show of taking off your glasses, folding the temples and carefully putting them on the side board next to you. Your core clenched.
He held out his hand for you to hop off the furniture. You took it and he took to your lips.
It was quite possible that several things fell off on your way to Loki’s bedroom. When you pushed him into the wall to open the damned buttons of his shirt, a picture might have fallen. A vase, perhaps, when he picked you up and spun you around so your back was against the doorframe next to the fragile ornament. Your head hit the heavy frame of a painting, rendering it lopsided, when Loki feasted on your throat, and you tilted your head back to allow him better access.
Kissing, licking, nipping, sucking - he was intent on leaving marks. Your fingers somehow were in his hair, keeping his head in place. Soft, his hair was so soft. A sharp contrast to the teeth you felt pulling on your skin. His ministrations drew a long moan from you.
Loki smiled against your skin. “Yes, my siren, sing.”
Your back hit the mattress and he crawled over you. His hair a curtain, screening you off from the rest of the world in your own sacred space. His shirt hung open, your hands reached out, tracing each line, each dip. His tongue against yours mimicked the motion of his hips that rolled into you. Your legs wrapped around his waist, meeting each movement, as if you had practised this dance many times before. He pulled away to tug off your pullover. His fingers pushed up your bra and then he sucked your nipple into his hot mouth, making you arch your back.
“Loki, please.”
You didn’t really know what you begged for. More, probably. More of this, more of him.
He pulled you up so you both were kneeling on the bed. Shaking hands fumbled with clothes and fastenings and then you were both naked. Your breath hitched at his beauty.
“Can I…,” you started, voice sounding hoarse. You looked up at him. “Please let me worship you.”
Something flickered across his face - surprise? He gave a curt nod and then watched every single one of your movements.
You took his right hand, tracing each finger with yours, the veins on the back of his hands. You brought his hand up to your face, cradling it to your cheek, before kissing the palm of his hand. One finger at a time, you sucked it into your mouth, to the knuckle, your tongue swirling around the digit, before releasing it and pressing a kiss to the tip, before moving on to the next.
Your hands traced the skin of the inside of his arm, his veins, the rise and fall of his muscles, and up over his shoulder, across his chest to his left arm, which you gave the same treatment. Each birthmark, each scar was kissed. Your hands skimmed over his chest, your lips followed the path. Loki’s breath stuttered when you sucked on his left nipple, before you released it, softly blowing on it. It puckered. You bestowed the same treatment upon the other nipple.
“Please, lie down,” you whispered and he complied.
You lay next to him, kissing his forehead, your fingers running through his hair along his scalp, gently tugging. Onwards, to kiss the curve of each eyebrow, the bridge of his nose, his cheekbones, his chin, along his jawline to his ear. You felt his body shiver when you breathed: “You are so beautiful, inside and out.”
Then your teeth closed around his earlobe, gently pulling. A deep moan sounded through the room. Up until now he had let you do whatever you wanted to and not touched you. But his restraint waned and his hands splayed on your back, pulling you flush against his body. You kept going, your lips now worshipping his delectable throat. He tilted his head back to give you better access.
“Herregud,” he rasped as you kissed, licked and sucked on his sensitive skin. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed hard, his hands growing slack on your back.
You kissed the dip between his collar bones and worked your way down his torso, lips kissing, hands caressing. Further and further you went, along his abs, dipping in his belly button, following the trail of hair below. You leaned back a bit, to look at him. He was fully erect, heavy, swaying slightly. The purple mushroom head gleaming with pearls of pre-cum, thick veins running down the shaft to his pubic hair.
You licked your lips, curling one of your hands around his base, the other cupping his testacles. Then you looked up at him. He was up on his elbows, staring down at you hotly, biting his lips as he watched you in anticipation. You made sure to have and maintain eye contact and then you took him into your mouth.
He hissed, his head falling back, a loud moan following when you hollowed your cheeks to apply suction, the salty taste of his precum on your tongue.
You moved your hand up his length, still sucking, giving his testicles a gentle yet confident squeeze. Up your mouth went, your tongue circling his slit, before sucking him back in. The third time you did it, his hands clasped your shoulders.
“Stop.”
You looked up at him. Loki was breathing hard and you let his cock slide from your mouth with a wet ‘plop’.
In an instant your back was on the mattress and he hovered over you.
“Please don’t misunderstand,” he explained, voice rough, “I loved it, but I have plans.”
He settled between your legs, eyes locked on yours, hand on your thigh, pulling your leg around his waist. His hand slid up, splaying over the fullness of your ass, before giving it a firm squeeze, then sliding over the globe and dipping between your legs. When his slender digits made contact with your aching centre, you cried out. Your whole body was throbbing with need.
“All this nectar is for me?” he rasped. 
You nodded.
“Oh, I have to see this.” And in one fluid motion he sat back on his heels, spreading your legs with his hands, looking at your dripping wet centre in amazement.
“Wait a moment,” he said, before he scrambled off the bed and disappeared in the corridor, only to come back a few moments later to resume his place between your legs. He handed you something with a smirk. Your glasses.
“I want you to see me.”
You put them on, your heartbeat accelerating. You bit your lip in anticipation. He looked up at you, his hot breath puffing against your wet core and then his flat tongue licked you all the way from your entrance to your clit. Your fingers fisted in the bedsheets, eyes falling shut in ecstasy, mouth open in a silent cry.
“Look at me.”
You did. He started a rhythm of licking, sucking and lapping that had the coil inside you wind up and tighten impossibly in no time at all. You fell back onto a pillow. Then he slid two fingers inside you and your hands dove into his hair, tugging, scraping.
What a visual. Loki between your legs, eyes burning into yours, humming and moaning against your clit, fingers sliding in and out of you, curling just at the right time, at the exact angle you needed. It was as if you were a book he’d read a thousand times before. Your toes curled and then you fell into the abyss. You moaned out his name over and over as the orgasm washed over you, leaving your legs shaking.
Loki moved up your body, placing kisses on your thighs, your tummy, your breasts, before he brushed some hair out of your face. You took your glasses off, he placed them on the bedside table. His eyes searched yours.
“I need you, Loki,” you managed, pulling him down.
He kissed you deeply, slowly, the taste of you on his tongue. His hips rocked forward and he slid inside you all the way to the hilt. Loki stilled and broke the kiss, resting his damp forehead against yours.
“Are you okay?” he whispered.
Your fingers caressed his back. Unable to form words, you nodded. Then he moved. His hips rocked into yours in slow, deep thrusts. He filled you so well, stimulating places inside you you didn’t know existed. Your hands ran over his back, down his sides, making him shiver. He watched you, eyes dark but warm. One hand found your swollen clit and his fingers circled and rubbed, applying the pressure you needed to fall into oblivion again. Your feet pressed into his ass cheeks to bring him closer, deeper and his name fell from your lips over and over.
He rocked inside you as you rode out your orgasm. You opened your eyes to look at him in wonder. Never had you seen anything as beautiful as Loki. He seemed to glow from the inside. Maybe it was your imagination. You lifted your head, cupping his face to pull him in for a kiss. His tongue moved languidly against yours, savouring the intimacy.
Then he started moving faster, pulling one of your legs up to rest the calf against his shoulder. Deeper, you wanted him deeper. You couldn’t get close enough. His mouth was devouring yours in a needy kiss, all tongues and teeth now as he pistoned faster into you, your hips meeting each of his thrusts. His lips found your nipple, sucking, pulling on it, moving to its sibling. You couldn’t believe you were on the verge again already. Never before had you been able to orgasm more than once during intercourse.
The room was quiet but for the moans, the heavy breathing. You were so wet that your coupling’s noise was wonderfully dirty, edging you both on even more.
“Look at us,” Loki commanded and you did.
Nothing had ever been so erotic as watching him fill you, stretch you, sliding out, covered in your juices. His fingers were on your clit again, rubbing, circling.
“I don’t know if I can…”
“One more, darling, give me one more,” he insisted, breathlessly.
His hips moved faster, as did his fingers and you were there, on the edge. Loki’s eyes met yours and he knew. His movements stuttered, pupils fully blown, jaw slack, a drop of sweat sliding down his temple.
“Cum with me,” you whispered, your fingers dragging down his back, possibly breaking skin, squeezing and pulling his ass into you.
And he did, propelling you into bliss with him. Your name fell from his lips in a string of Norse profanities. His cock pulsated as the hot ropes of his seed marked your insides as his, your pussy eagerly clenching around him, making sure every last drop would be spent inside you. His movements slowed and then he stilled, buried inside you.
Loki’s lips pressed onto yours in a tender kiss. You stayed in the embrace until you both caught your breath. Then he pulled out of you, your mixed juices running out of you. He could have cleaned you up using magic.
But Loki got out of bed, got a wet flannel from the bathroom and gently cleaned you, kissing your tired body, before sliding back into bed. He pulled you into his arms, your hands joined over his heart, legs intertwined and you both lay there, in your bubble of utter and complete happiness under warm covers, watching the snowflakes dance outside the window in the early hours of Christmas Day.
Christmas Day!
“Oh, wait here!”
You scrambled off the bed and ran to the door, forgetting about your nakedness, pulling your shoulder bag from under your coat. You pulled something from it and brought it back to Loki. He was sitting up, forearms resting on his knees, an intrigued look on his face. 
“Merry Christmas,” you said.
He looked at you and then at the present you held out to him. He cocked an eyebrow as he took it and pulled the fabric ribbon off. His hands parted the paper and then he grew completely still.
“Where in the nine realms did you get this?” he asked after a few moments, voice sounding rough.
“A friend of mine got her hands on this a while back. I thought you might like it.”
He stared at the book, transfixed. His slender fingers caressing the embossed letters on the front and then he lifted it to take in the scent of the pages. His eyes closed.
“Do you? Like it, I mean?” You were worried about this book. It had cost an arm and a leg, but you thought it would be worth it.
“Like it?” Loki asked, finally looking at you and pulling you on his lap. “My mother used to read me his poems when I was a child. I rediscovered it later. This is…”
He was searching for words, failed to find them and instead kissed you, hard, hand fisting in your hair. After a long moment, he broke the kiss.
“Thank you, love.”
Your fingers wrapped around his wrist, stroking his pulse point.
“Will you read it to me?” you asked, a bit out of breath.
Nodding, he sat against the headboard, you curled up against him with his arm around you. He made sure you were both tucked under the covers. Then he opened the book and cleared his throat.
“Kormákr Ӧgmundarson ‘Sigurðardrápa ‘Drápa’. This is one of my favourites, he wrote it for the love of his life.”
His fingers wandered up your arm.
“Brunnu beggja kinna
bjǫrt ljós á mik drósar,
oss hlœgir þat eigi,
eldhúss of við felldan.”
His digits absently stroked your ribcage, skirting over the side of your breast. The rhythm and intonation of his deep voice made you clench your thighs.
“Enn til ǫkkla svanna
ítrvaxins gatk líta,
þrǫ́ muna oss of ævi
eldask, hjá þreskeldi.”
He paused, closing the book and brushing his lips against the skin of your neck. Your eyes fluttered shut.
“What-what does he say?” you all but stuttered.
Loki kissed along your collarbone. Humming against your skin.
“The bright lights of both
her cheeks burned onto me
from the fire-hall's felled wood;
no cause of mirth for me in that.”
His hands cupped your breasts as he sucked and teased one of the nipples. Your hands tugged on his hair, desperate for him again already. You felt his need hard and heavy against your thigh.
“By the threshold I gained a glance
at the ankles of this girl
of glorious shape.”
Loki moved to lie between your legs, hands sliding over your breasts, your tummy, your thigh, down to your ankle, lifting it to wrap it around his hips.
“Yet while I live
that longing will never leave me.”
His voice faltered as he rocked his hips forward and your bodies were joined once more.
“That longing will never leave me,” he repeated like a vow, eyes serious and warm.
“Nor me,” you pledged, before you lost yourselves in the physical expression of your feelings once more.
~ fin ~
360 notes · View notes
lusmeitli · 6 months ago
Text
Another masterpiece in writing. This is so good on so many levels… I don’t know where to start. The set up is fantastic - I love when we’re plunged straight into the story and the author gives us the information we need little by little, revealing layer by layer… just delicious! The characters are penned beautifully, the pacing is immaculate. The different perceptions/accounts of what happened is so revealing and in keeping with the characters. The writing itself is so bloody beautiful. Like I said, a masterpiece. Thank you so much for writing and sharing this with us.
Tumblr media
Drowned Hearts
Pairing: Loki x female reader (no use of Y/N) Word Count: 5,686 Warnings: mild language, death, thalassophobia, astraphobia
Tags in the comments!
Tumblr media
The roar of an exotic screaming through the pass caught your attention. You stopped working at the engine block hanging in the shop, turning towards the drone in the distance. There was an appointment in the book for today, but this car sounded familiar. You shook your head, there shouldn't be a chance in hell you’d know this car… was there?
As the sound rang between the hills, it hiccuped. You could hear the vehicle as it stumbled with the last sharp incline. You pushed off with your feet, wheeling the stout stool you sat on to your shop desk. Running a finger down the page, you settled on today’s appointment. “Ahh…” you sighed as you read the make: a Lotus Exige. Based on the noises it was making, you already suspected the issue.
The pale blue roadster rounded the corner, coming to a stop in the front lot. It sputtered briefly before the driver shut it off. You leant back, taking a quick glance at the car. ‘Fuck.’ You DID recognize the whine of this engine. 'Why did it have to be THIS car…'
The front door opened, and a short man stepped out. You breathed an internal sigh of relief. This man was a stranger. Thank the gods.
“Hey! I hope I’m in the right place! Are you this miraculous mechanic I’ve heard about?” The unknown man stepped forward, hand extended to shake yours.
You smiled at him, grabbing a rag to wipe off the oil and dirt before taking his in response. “That’s me! I've been working on these for a long time now.”
He shook your hand vigorously, nodding all the while. “I’m Bernard. I hope you can fix her!”
“Based on the sound you made at that last hill, I think I already know your problem!”
He clapped his hands together, a wide grin played across his face. “Perfect!” He tossed the keys to you, before reaching into a pocket for his cell phone. “Gotta let the boss know I made it!”
Your smile faltered slightly. He had a 'boss', so this wasn't HIS car. “Ah. Well, there’s no cell service up here but you’re welcome to use the shop phone. Just make sure to include the country and area code if you're calling long distance.” You thumbed toward the open door behind you.
He strode towards the shop desk, aiming for the old rotary phone sitting on the corner. As he passed, you dropped your expression further into a soft, nostalgic smile. “Hello sweetheart…” you mused to the car as you approached.
Bernard’s head turned slightly at your words, but you were too focused on the machine before you to notice. He plopped down into the creaky wooden chair, spinning his fingers through the numbers on the phone’s dial. It only took two rings before a voice picked up on the other end. ~”did you make it?”~
“Yeah boss, and no problems neither.”
~”good. i want her to be in the best hands.”~
“Of course! I know what this car means to you, boss. …Although, I’ve never heard anyone else but you refer to her as ‘sweetheart’.” Bernard chuckled at the jab towards his employer.
~”say that again…”~ The voice on the other end of the line was suddenly very serious.
Bernard sat a little straighter in the chair. “Oh, well, it’s just that she…err the mechanic.. called the Lotus ‘sweetheart’ and…”
The sound of shattering ceramic crashed from the receiver. ~”tell me exactly what happened.”~
The suddenly very-worried-looking man sputtered, coughed twice and leaned subtly backwards in his seat to peer out to where you stood, oblivious to anything but the car in front of you. “She told me I could use the phone in the shop to call you, no cell service, and then walked up to the car and said ‘hello sweetheart’, and is talking to it like it’s a person, and..” He was rambling now.
~”enough!”~ The voice commanded, sharp and full of unknown emotion, ~”i’m on my way.”~
The line disconnected. Bernard stared at the phone in his hand before placing it back on its cradle. He rose and walked back outside to where the car was parked. By now, you were elbow deep in the engine, carefully removing the wires for the spark plugs while avoiding touching any metal surface within. You looked up as Bernard approached. “All good?”
“Yeah…” He ran a hand across the back of his neck, “…but the boss said he’s on his way here. I hope I didn’t do anything wrong.”
You froze, hand on the last wire. ‘Double fuck.’ Inhaling sharply, you popped off the wire cap and straightened. “Nah.. some guys just don’t like women working on their cars.” You tried to sound reassuring as your heart threatened to beat itself out of your chest. “How long have I got?”
“Maybe 20 minutes? He drives like a madman.” He grinned briefly at your slight inflection towards his boss’s masculinity. “As long as I don’t get fired…”
You shrugged, “I’m sure you’ll be fine.” You spun, heading into the shop to grab the tools and replacement parts you’d need. While you didn’t get a ton of Lotus’ up the mountain, you always had a set of spark plugs on hand. Old habits die hard.
With supplies in tow, you got straight to work, losing yourself in the task at hand.
Tumblr media
Time flew by, especially when you worked on something as lovely as the one in front of you. You never wore a watch, so you had to assume the 20 minutes had passed when the whine of a Mazda RX9 drifted into hearing range. You kept your head down, not wanting to face the coming encounter. “I bet it’s red…” you breathed to yourself.
The new car peeled into the lot, stopping hard near the gate. The door opened and someone got out. They didn’t speak, but Bernard took whatever hint the newcomer had given him and walked out of your line of sight towards them. You chanced a glance backwards, only catching the glint of candy apple red reflecting in the sunlight. ‘Called it,' you thought, 'always the exhibitionist.'
Bernard (at least you assumed it was him) got into the red car, turning around in the lot and pulled out of the compound. Now you and this “boss” were alone.
You shifted to your knees, still not turning around to face them, popping on the last plug wire. Footsteps approached carefully, stopping to your right. The silence stretched, so you spoke first as you stood, slowly turning to face him. “Tony..”
His hands were tucked deep in his pockets as he cautiously watched you, his attention never leaving your face. He reached up and pulled the sunglasses from his brow. You could read the anguish in his eyes.
“We thought you were dead…” He forced the words past his teeth, “…how..”
“That’s a long story.”
“I’ve got the time if you do.”
You shrugged, “I'm done with her anyways, and there's no-one else on the docket for today.” You turned toward the shop, motioning for him to follow, “Come in, I’ve got a sniff of rum tucked away somewhere.”
He perked up a bit at the promise of a drink, following close behind you. He took the chair while you rummaged in the little back room, finally emerging with a half empty bottle and a pair of mismatched glasses.
You popped the cork, pouring a generous amount into each. He took his and inhaled deeply from the glass. “You always did like the good stuff.” He took a sip, savouring the flavour. “I’m surprised it’s not from here…”
“Nicaraguan rum is too sweet for me, I prefer the complexity of Jamaican.” You took a swig from your own glass, avoiding the promised conversation to make small talk about the weather and such.
He was sitting forward in the chair, elbows resting on knees, stress evident in the stiffness of his position. You took pity, shifting the topic to the last time you had seen each other.
“How long has it been? Five?…no, closer to six years now..” You tried to keep it light, almost reminiscent. He nodded once so you continued, “and how long did it take, that night, to come back for me?”
His head snapped up at the change in your tone. You weren’t angry. That phase had passed a long time ago…but disappointment remained and was clearly reflected in your voice.
It took several minutes for him to collect himself. “We…the storm rolled in so suddenly… we tried..” He stopped, shaking his head before trying again. “Twelve hours…” He finally admitted, lowering his face to his free hand. "Twelve hours until we were able to get back to your coordinates."
You snorted darkly, “Twelve hours. The storm hit the skiff after only four.” You could feel heat building in your chest so you took a deep breath. No sense in getting worked up about the past. His head had drooped lower, the hand with the glass slackened towards the floor. “Tony… look at me, I’m fine.”
He dropped the hand from his forehead and glanced up, moisture glimmering along his lower lashes. You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose. “I wasn’t fine, not at first and not for a long time, but I’m better now.”
“Why didn’t you contact us? Surely you had access to something! We searched for weeks..for months! After two years, we had no choice but to declare you dead: lost at sea.”
You shrugged again, “I took the opportunity for a fresh start." You didn't elaborate.
He had brought himself up to full height as he listened, "You were.. ARE.. part of the team, not just our mechanic! Hell, you and Lo.."
You cut him off with a glare that had him pull back, "Don't say his name. I can't handle the heartbreak again." Getting up, you swept outside, stopping to stand in front of the Lotus. The dying light reflected gold and green off the blue paint. It didn't help.
You could hear him get up behind you, walking slowly to join you. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be, not your fault." You angled your face toward him, doing your best to smile. You passed him the keys that still sat in your pocket. "She should be in top shape now… be sure to tell your staff to use the right plugs next time."
He snickered, spinning the key fob around his finger, "What do I owe ya?"
You shook your head, "What's a few spark plugs between friends? It was good to see you, Tony."
He took the hint, stepping around you to the driver's door. "You could come back with me?" His grin was wolfish, hopeful.
"I can't. This is my life now."
Nodding, he opened the door and propped a leg up on the frame. "Call me, if you need anything. I assume you still remember the number?"
It was your turn to nod, "Oh, and Tony? Please don't tell the team."
He sighed, but understood. "I won't say a word."
"Thank you."
He shifted, sitting into the seat and starting the engine. The Lotus roared to life, sounding much happier than when she had arrived. The sunglasses were back on and, with a quick jerk of the wheel, Tony and the car were speeding back down the road and out of sight.
You watched until he disappeared into the dusk before you whirled to the desk and grabbed the nearly empty rum bottle, flinging it hard against the back wall. It exploded upon impact, scattering amber liquid and glass shards across the shop.
Tumblr media
The moment he lost visual of you in his rear view, he addressed the AI. “Friday, did you catch all that?”
~“yes boss. i’ve already alerted the team for your arrival.”~
“Excellent! Now we mustn’t break our word to the lady, so you may have to do some of the talking.”
~”no problem, boss.”~
Tony pushed the Lotus hard down the mountain, impressed at how well the car was running. He wasn’t surprised, you had always had the right touch when it came to his collection. His shock was in finding you alive and somewhat thriving. He would like to think you were 'fine', but there was an inherent sadness about you now.
Nearly six years ago, while on vacation in Portugal, they had lost you. Presumably to the sea. The ‘skiff’ you had mentioned was really more of a luxury yacht, moored on the far side of Flores, part of the Azores. The engine had ceased, prompting a lift from a local fisherman back to Sao Miguel. You, for true reasons unknown, had opted to remain with the disabled vessel.
The team had arrived with little issues to the city, managing to find a boat repair place that was willing to get all the way out to the stranded yacht. The weather, however, had other plans. A rare subtropical hurricane had spawned and was barreling towards the archipelago, bringing 102km wind speeds and 8 foot swells. Travel back out to the yacht was not an option, so they waited it out, hoping the storm wouldn’t make landfall where you were.
By the time the worst had passed and Tony could convince the repair crew to set sail, it was too late. The boat had been pummelled by the sea, torn apart where it anchored. Scattered bit of debris littered the nearby shore, but you were gone. Either dashed upon the rocks or swept out into open ocean.
He hadn’t thought anything of it at the time, but the reaction you had to him mentioning Loki had his mind churning. Maybe that would be question for the God himself. Not that he had ever been easy to live with, but since that night, he avoided everyone like the plague.
No, he’d be no help. Loki barely spoke more than a single word or two to even his brother. No matter. Between Rogers, Thor and Nat, they’d figure out the next plan of action. No need to involve him…yet.
Tumblr media
Tony peeled around the last turn into Managua. The ramp for the helicarrier was already down, awaiting his arrival. He accelerated up the ramp, skidding into the open area within, stopping mere inches from where three individuals stood. He exited the car, slamming the door behind him.
“Sounds like she’s running much better!” Steve mused, “Was it worth the trip down here?”
“Absolutely was.”
Nat spoke up, “What’s the 9-1-1? Friday was insistent we be here when you got back.” Her arms were crossed, clearly not impressed. Thor looked bored, snacking as usual.
“The good news: the Lotus is back in top shape, running better than she has in years.” Tony emphasized the last word, which caught their attention, “The other news…well, I made a promise so Friday will have to explain. Friday? Play back, please.”
The three glanced between each other, confused. Theatrics weren’t out of character for Tony, but him keeping quiet about something was.
~”right away, boss.”~
The AI began the playback. They could hear Bernard humming along to the radio as the Lotus engine made odd noises in the background. The engine cut off and the recording-Bernard was speaking. ~’hey! i hope i’m in the right place! are you this miraculous mechanic i’ve heard about?’~
The response was muted but not unheard. That voice was too distant for any type of recognition however, ~’that’s me! i’ve been working on these for a long while now.’~
Niceties continued until Bernard stepped away from the car as he moved for the phone. Soft footsteps approached before the unknown person spoke again, much closer and very clear. ~’hello sweetheart..’~
“No.” The word hissed from between Steve’s teeth like a curse. Thor’s mouth fell open, bits of unchewed pop tart fell to the floor.
“Yes!”
“Tony…” Natasha patted his arm gently, “…that’s not possible.” Her eyes were full of empathy.
He grinned at her, “but that’s where you’re wrong! Friday!" He reached back into the Lotus and snatched a tablet off the passenger seat, thrusting it towards her, "Play video!”
She stared as the slightly skewed video played, showing you walk into frame. Aside from the tan of your skin, you looked the same. Hair pulled up into a wild bun atop your head, dingy well-worn tank top, mechanic coveralls unbuttoned halfway with the arms tied around your waist. Tears welled in her eyes, “…oh Tony..”
Thor finally spoke, bellowing with joy, “This is a great thing! My brother will be so pleased!”
“No… No, no, no, we can’t tell Loki…” Tony and Steve were both shaking their heads, with Nat nodding in agreement.
“Can’t tell Loki what?”
Four faces whipped around to the far door into the loading area. There Loki stood, aloof as ever, leant back against the frame. When he realized no-one was going to answer him, he pushed off and stalked across the open area. “Tell. Loki. What?” His tone was dark, he disliked secrets especially when they were regarding him.
“Brother!” Thor went to greet him, arms wide as if to embrace the younger God. He stole a glance back, catching Nat’s subtle head shake, “You have emerged from your solitude!”
“Do not touch me, else…oof!” Loki’s threat was cut off as Thor threw his arms around him, lifting him off the ground and turning to mouth ‘help’ at the others.
Tony snickered as Loki struggled. "Put him down, Thor… unless you want to get stabbed or something." Thor unceremoniously let go and Loki landed with a stumble. He glared at his brother, who quickly retreated. "Now Loki…" Tony continued, "…maybe you should wait.."
"Friday, tell me what?" Loki pivoted with a roll of eyes, addressing the AI directly. The audio began again, from when the Lotus initially left the helicarrier. Nat held the tablet tight to her chest in a effort to not show what was playing on the screen. Loki descended on her, holding out a hand for the device. She hesitated a moment but ultimately passed it over. He held it aloft, confused by the emotion this footage apparently caused the others.
Tony spoke again, moving a little closer to Loki. "Friday, start at time stamp 16:27:04:00."
~"yes, boss."~
The audio cut out briefly as the AI fast forwarded to when Bernard exited the Lotus at the shop. Loki clutched at the tablet when you appeared on screen. Fingers tightened, causing cracks to form across the face of the device. He whirled and Tony was too close. Loki's hand closed around his throat as he lifted Tony off the ground, holding him tight and fighting to breath.
"Slutt fred med gudene dine…” Loki growled as he watched Tony slowly turn purple from lack of oxygen. In the background, the recording played on. Your voice whispering sweet nothings to the car gave him pause. He threw Tony back to the floor with a deadly glare. "How the Norns this possible?"
Tony cleared his now-bruised throat, coughing amid gasping for air. "She wouldn't tell me… flat out refused." He composed himself, keeping distance between him and Loki. "I wasn't going to push her into anything."
Loki turned his attention back to the now-cracked screen, brow creasing as he continued to watch. Nat, having grabbed an unbroken tablet, gently pulled the old one from his fingers and slid in the new one. He didn't look up.
The five watched (Loki on one tablet, the others crowded around the other) as you tinkered in the engine bay, popping off wires and chatting casually with Bernard. They heard the revving RX9 as it pulled in, saw you tense as Tony approached, and strained to hear when you both went inside to chat. Tony had taken a seat while you walked deeper into the darkened building. He reached into a pocket, pulling out a nano-camera and tossed it high to the ceiling. The video suddenly split, one side from the point of view of the Lotus and one viewing straight down, as the nano came online.
Guilt flooded the little viewing party as the conversation turned to Portugal and the storm. Pain shot through Loki as you spoke of heartbreak, knowing your situation happened from his lack of realization. He lost himself in his memory of that night.
The day had started perfectly. The weather was warm and sunny, the ocean calm. Your little group of six had taken the yacht out for a run to the farthest islands in the Azores archipelago. While you weren't technically part of the team, you and Loki had been a couple for the past year so you were often invited to join them on their civilian adventures. The running joke of this sailing trip was that a mechanic of your calibre couldn't even fix a simple boat motor. You laughed along with the rest of them as plans were made for a fishing trawler to shuttle people back to town. "Not fair! Just because I don't know marine engines…" Loki sat beside you as you hung upside down in the engine compartment at the stern of the watercraft. Tony stood above you, looking down, attempting to be serious to no avail. "Fiiiiine, we'll go for help." He rolled his eyes dramatically and returned to the wheel house to make the call. You pulled yourself upright, brushing your hair from your face. Loki grinned as he rubbed a black mark off your nose, "I do enjoy when you get dirty…" You scoffed in mock offence, shifting to straddle his long legs, pinning him where he sat. "Loki, I…" You hesitated, suddenly unsure of yourself. "What is it, my darling?" You leaned towards him, whispering into his ear, "I… I love you." He froze in place. He hadn't expected that revelation. You had clearly felt the shift in mood, quickly shuffling off his lap and getting to your feet. "I…uhh… just need to grab a thing before we leave here! Be right back!" Your voice was higher than normal, but you still appeared to be in a good mood. Loki nodded from the floor, rising himself as you disappeared into the belly of the yacht. He found it hard to comprehend what had just happened. 'She loves me', he thought, unable to keep the wide smile from his face. He aimlessly wandered the top deck, finding himself at the bow where his brother sat. "Trouble in paradise, brother? I hear the local fauna is strikingly lovely if you need a distraction.." Thor relaxed on the forward deck, feet up on the table, looking surprised that Loki was alone. Loki scowled, "I am not interested. No average mortal is worth my effort." He considered dumping his brother overboard for his assumptions. "Even your mechanic?" Loki growled as he stepped close to Thor, towering over him, "She is not average. She is exceptional." Thor grinned, it was obvious he had been goading on the younger God. "My thoughts are of the same thread. It may be time to formalize your match." He reached up and clapped a hand to Loki's shoulder. A shout came from the trawler, "Let's go! We're wasting time!" Tony was getting impatient. Thor leapt to his feet, pushing Loki in front of him towards the rescue boat. Loki, uncharacteristically cheerful, allowed himself to be lead. The pair swung over the yacht side and landed on the deck of the fishing vessel. "Is this everyone?" Loki asks, glancing around for you. Tony nodded as the boat pulled away, "Yup! She's staying behind to work on her tan… or something." He gestured back towards the stationary yacht. Loki looked past where Tony stood, catching your eye as you waved to the departing party. A nudge jabbed into his ribs, "We will see her soon, brother. Now, what are your plans for your futures?" Thor fidgeted like a child let loose in a toy store with an unlimited budget. Loki turned back to his brother, not particularly pleased to be leaving you behind but eager for an opportunity to advance his life with you. "If you keep your wits about you, I will allow you to assist. It is perhaps time for the next step for us."
"So what's the plan?" "Let's head up to logistics, we can formulate something there." "Maybe we could…"
The team, deep in discussion, strode to the door and disappeared up into the helicarrier. No-one noticed that Loki did not join them, nor that he had sunk to his knees as he continued to study the live feed. The glow from a dim lamp lit your profile as you tinkered at something metallic on the work bench, stray strands of hair softening the edges. His heart ached at the thought of you being alone for so many years.
Far in the distance, the sky lit up as lightning streaked to ocean surface. You dropped what you were working on, suddenly in action and moving quickly to bring in tools left outside. Your movements were jittery, jerking and clumsy. Loki recognized the look - fear. The location of the shop had you far out of range of the ocean, but storms must still be frightening for you.
He swiftly got back to his feet. Without a single glance at where the others had gone, he was in the drivers' seat of the Lotus. Tony's voice spoke through the speaker system, ~"hey! that's mine!"~
Loki twisted the volume knob to OFF and spun the car around, taking little care before tearing down the ramp and out of sight.
Tumblr media
You saw that first bolt of lightning and immediately got to work. “Breathe…in and out.” You recited the mantra out loud, trying to calm your nerves. The shop was safe, of course. Fairly sound-deadened when the doors were sealed and high in the mountains so no flood risk. You just had to get everything inside. Another rumble sounded and you cursed under your breath, “I can’t handle this fucking storm, after today…”
The stars blinked out as the clouds rolled over, bringing the inclement weather closer. Just as you pulled the last piece into the shop, you caught sight of the Lotus coming up the bend. The first raindrops had begun to fall as it rolled into the yard.
Stepping to the second bay door, you thrust it open and beckoned the car in. Better it be safe indoors over being ravaged by the winds. The windows were tinted too darkly to see the driver, but you assumed it was Tony, back again to try and get you to rejoin his crew.
You waited, hands on hips. “If you’re going to stay a while, you might as well help me lock this place down.” A peel of thunder rang from the sky above, sending a shiver down your spine. You turned your back to the parked car, wielding the chains to close the two big doors. The car door opened, then closed but nothing else moved. No footsteps, no words, just heavy breathing.
Spinning to face your guest, your eyes locked with not Tony, but Loki. The last person you expected to see. You froze like a deer in headlights, mind racing. His hair was longer, skin perfect but pale. His eyes were as piercing as you remembered, still brilliant in colour.
"Hi." Your voice came out like a squeak. You weren't ready for this. You cleared your throat and tried again, "Loki, I… didn't expect.. I'm sorry."
His expression was torn between sorrow from the past several years and pure joy at seeing your face. He took a hesitant step forward, but only one. His mouth opened and closed as if he wanted to say something, but no words would come.
"Sit. I'm not letting that car out of here until the storm has gone." You indicated to the open seat as you took your own. "I'd offer you a drink, but…I'm all out." You weren't sure you could even pour from a bottle with how severe your hands shook.
A slight smile crossed his face as he sat. He threw a hand in the arm, casting a stream of seidr upwards. It pooled on the ceiling, settling around a tiny device and making it 'pop' with a flash of green. The bits fell to the floor with a tinkle of metal and plastic. "God damn it, Tony…" He'd probably been spying on you all afternoon.
"Your privacy should be respected." Loki finally spoke, his voice low and cautious.
You gave him half a smile. "Thanks, means a lot." He seemed to relax to your smile. If only you could do the same. You were currently finding it difficult to breathe properly. The pair of you were so close that your knees almost touched.
"Are you happy?" His question hung in the air between you.
You started to shake your head, but answered instead, "I suppose." He was nodding, accepting your answer. You slid a hand forward, as if to stop his unspoken thoughts, "…but if I'm to be honest, my new 'happy' is closer to misery."
"Tell me."
He sat still, listening intently to your tale, his hands clenched in fists on his knees. "When the storm started to founder the boat, I gathered as many life vests as I could, lashing them together like a raft. I ultimately tied myself to them as well…then at least my body would be found."
"I don't remember much else… aside from being picked up off the coast of Africa, sunburnt and clinging to life." Thunder shook the building and you pulled your arms tight around yourself. Loki twitched, as if he wanted to hold you as well, but he kept his distance. "They fixed me up best they could and I jumped ship in Rio, eventually making my way here."
The rain picked up outside, punctuated by occasional rumbles. Even though so much time had passed, it was hard to go back through the memories. They resurfaced every stormy season on their own, but with an active storm outside and Loki here with you, you weren't sure you could keep it together.
"And, well, this is me now." You said, fighting to focus on anything but the gale outside, "It's mostly the locals' cars I work on, but I don't charge for those. Expensive exotics are what pays the bills."
Loki was lost in thought. You had regularly helped the community, which had made your disappearance all the more difficult for both your neighbours and the team. "You would have made a great Valkyrie… always the hero of the people."
You snorted with derision, "I'd have to be Asgardian tho, wouldn't I? Don't think I meet the requirements…"
He smiled mournfully, "Maybe you do. When we buried your empty casket, Thor and I completed the ancient rites…"
Confusion flooded your face. You weren't Asgardian.. or descended from vikings… or even originating from that region of the Earth.
He continued, almost sheepishly, "I had hopes to meet you on the plains on Valhalla upon my own death."
"Why? I'm nothing… I'm not worth the effort."
"How can you say that?"
"I didn't. You did… in Portugal. With Thor just before you left." His eyebrows knitted together as you slipped into your own memory of that night.
"I am not interested. No average mortal is worth my effort." Your heart dropped as you emerged from the galley. Clearly you weren't meant to overhear this conversation, but it cut deep none the less. You crept backwards, retracing your steps until you ran into Tony on the aft deck. "I… I'm going to stay, I think. Gives me a chance to work on my tan without tan lines, if you get me…" You nudged him with your elbow, hoping you weren't overdoing it. Tony looked skeptical, but had no real issues with you remaining. "Hey! Maybe you can figure that motor out before we get back!" You stuck your tongue out at him. Maybe if you got a nice sunburn, you could hide the embarrassment of Loki's rejection. Luckily for you, the trawler was quick to arrive and seemed anxious to head out, so you didn't have to avoid Loki for long. You stood on the bow deck and waved as they pulled away from the stranded yacht. His eyes met yours only once before he turned to converse with Thor. Pain ballooned from your chest, but you kept your composure until the trawler was out of sight. When it did, your legs gave out and you crumpled to the deck. True, you two had only been officially together for a little over a year, but you had fallen fast. You should have known better… a God with such a long lifespan would have no reason to settle with a basic human. "How can I face him now?" You muttered to yourself, wiping tears as they free-flowed down your face. A fleeting thought crossed your mind, 'I wish I would just disappear…'
You were looking down at your hands in your lap as you came back to the present, "Many things have changed since then, but I have always loved…" You trailed off, allowing the quiet to settle in the room. The rain continued but the storm itself had passed by.
"I love you." Loki spoke, breaking the silence, "Those should have been the words I uttered that day."
You tightly shut your eyes in a failing attempt to not cry. Hesitant fingertips brushed the tears from your cheeks as a sob ripped free from your chest and you leant forward into his embrace.
Tumblr media
A light on the dash of the Lotus blinked twice, before going dark. Tony disconnected from the remote-access program, snapping the laptop shut with satisfaction. He muttered to himself, "Looks like we're staying in town for a bit…"
Turning to the others scattered around the room, he grinned. "Think anyone does delivery around here?"
Tumblr media
Notes: "Slutt fred med gudene dine" = Make peace with your gods
98 notes · View notes
lusmeitli · 7 months ago
Text
Reposting cos ‘tis the season.
But like of each thing that in season grows
Summary: How a kind gesture can lead to something more. One shot.
Pairings: Loki x Female Reader
Warnings: Christmas fluff, mention of off screen assault, some swearing, lots of snow, books, poetry, smutty smut.
A/N: Okay, look. It just wanted to get out. You’re thrown in without a warning, nor a floatie. Apologies for the liberties taken to interpret and manipulate characters to dance after my will once more. Obviously don't read if you're a minor.
Tumblr media
9~9~9~9~9~9~9~9~9~9~9~9~9~9~9~9
The greatest ideas were conceived in the shower. That was a scientific fact.
You liked facts. You did not like uncertainties or speculation. The feeling of being in limbo was something that didn’t sit right with you.
So as you were in the shower, working the conditioner in your hair, the idea was just there. It was simple, humble, but beautiful. Your hands slowed and stilled. And then your mind rebooted and went at lightning speed, planning things out. You needed to write things down.
You stepped out of the shower hurriedly, towelling down your body, before realising that your hair felt different. Cursing, you stepped back under the water to rinse off the conditioner.
*****
You hated staff meetings. Particularly third Thursdays staff meetings, because they dragged on and on. The weekly mission reports were presented and Fury insisted on inviting some guest speakers. He called it “Horizon Thursday”.
In your opinion it narrowed rather than widened it. Today’s guest speaker was Quinn Harris, cyber security specialist. You suspected self-proclaimed, but you hadn’t bothered doing a deep dive on him.
You were sat on the increasingly uncomfortable chair, rows of employees in front of you, the Avengers at the very front. Rogers had delivered his usual military style mission report, the other members of his team trying to look alive, though you suspected Romanoff and Banner were asleep, as they were both donning sunglasses.
“What you need is a quantum computer and it’ll solve all your problems with encryption.”
“They might as well propose using block ciphers,” you murmured under your breath, turning the page in your book.
Meanwhile, a hand shot in the air at the front. “Excuse me, Mr Harris.”
The man smiled. “Mr Stark, do you have a question?”
“Well, not so much a question for you, but I would very much like the opinion of another expert on what you just said. You know, before anyone here thinks about investing in your product, which, let’s be honest, would be me. I’d like to be sure it’s the right thing.”
Fury rolled his eyes and sunk back in his chair.
There had been talk about getting that dude in? You must have zoned out for that part.
Harris’ face fell for a second, but he honed his features and forced a smile. “Of course.”
“It just so happens that we have an inhouse expert,” Tony got up and scanned the crowd. “Isn’t that right, Y/N?”
Everyone uniformly turned to look at you. Everyone.
You felt the moment one particular pair of eyes set on you. The amount of times you had spoken to one another had been limited to the missions you were needed on, for hacking. You’d had his voice in your ear a few times and it did things to your body that made you feel like a system overheat. You never really saw him during missions though as your job was very much office-bound.
Today, he wore the damn leather suit. Whilst Fury didn’t give a fuck, Rogers very much was all about the professional appearance of the Avengers. What you didn’t understand was why everything looked better on him. The black and green possibly was the best colour combination there ever was. The other day Bucky had worn a Slytherin pullover and even though it very nicely accentuated his physique, it looked nothing like the colours did on Loki.
You swallowed hard when you felt his eyes on you. They seemed to see right through you, even over the distance of the seven rows of chairs.
And then you felt the weight of all the other pairs of eyes on you. That was a lot of people. You gulped and pushed your glasses back up the bridge of your nose - a habit you couldn’t break. 
“Y/N,” Tony called, bringing you back to the matter at hand. “Stand up and look at me.” His voice was gentle. “Start breathing again. Good. Now tell me what Harris is not telling me about the quantum computer.”
You adjusted your glasses again and cleared your throat. “It’s a solid proposition, I suppose,” you started, “however, one I would expect from a college freshman, certainly not from a cyber security expert specialist.”
Murmurs erupted, but you ignored them and rattled off your thoughts.
“Can a quantum computer crack asymmetric encryption algorithms? Yes. And yes, we all know that thanks to Shor’s algo the maths problems are only polynomial. Also, we know this applies to discrete log problems, too, therefore, all we’d need is a large enough quantum computer. Of course, he,” you gestured to Harris, “would have to build one first, which as you can guess is very costly. However, this entire presentation is based on the assumption that quantum computing is the end of asymmetric cryptography. And that is such a blatantly ignorant approach, with complete disregard for the safety of the members of our staff that are entirely reliant on the encryption cracking working on all their devices during operations and missions. And this whole quantum computer only works if you have a network connection.”
“So you’re suggesting there are hard problems that a quantum computer can’t solve?” Harris said, chin jutting out, arms crossed defiantly.
“Don’t be silly, of course there are,” you huffed. “I coded new post-quantum asymmetric encryption algos three years ago and tested them on several sites I am not authorised to disclose that have quantum computers. Not one of them cracked the simplest of those codes, in any of the over 5,400 attempts they ran over the past three years. So this presentation is… rather embarrassing in its sloppiness.”
“Well,” Harris’ lips were a thin line now. “I’m sure you have a ‘much better’ suggestion then?” He actually raised his hands to add the quotation marks.
“Actually, I do. I developed our own version of a quantum computer, at - and I’m only guessing here - a fraction of the price you’d charge Mr Stark, which can crack both symmetric and asymmetric encryption, works on all of our staff’s devices, portable and stationary, works offline and is about the size of, uh, a thumbnail.”
You pointed to your thumb, because in your humble experience men like him struggled to accurately size things.
Tony smiled and turned to Harris.
“Okay that concludes today’s meeting.” Fury got to his feet and patted Harris’ shoulder. “Looks like we’re good, but thanks for coming.”
People around you stood, some nodding at you as they passed. Tony caught up with you in the hallway. Before he could say something you blurted out: “Did I say something wrong? Was I rude again?”
He smirked and pushed the button of the lift. “He needed putting into place. Totally fine by me. You did great.”
“Stark!” bellowed Fury from down the hall and Tony winced.
“Excuse me, mother’s calling.” He turned and left.
You sidled into the lift with several other people. The cabin stopped a few floors up and people got off. That was when you noticed Loki on the other side of the lift. Up you went and after another stop you were alone with the Asgardian god. The cabin seemed to shrink.
You both watched the numbers climb, the lift hummed, Loki’s leather suit creaked softly as he crossed his hands behind his back.
“Could you please enlighten me about Shor’s algorithm?” he suddenly asked, looking at you.
You had a heart palpitation. Surely that was what it was. He was so impossibly tall and sculpted and… here.
“Um,” you pushed your glasses back up, “it’s a quantum algorithm for finding the prime factors of an integer.”
Loki’s face looked blank.
“It, er, essentially it finds the prime factors of large numbers a lot faster than conventional computers do. Which we use in encryption. The large numbers, that is. So it cracks codes faster.”
“Ah,” he said, head turning back to continue staring at the number display. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” you croaked out.
The urge to facepalm burned under your fingers, but you resisted. As soon as the doors slid open on your floor, however, you fled and sought asylum in the ladies’ toilets, banging your head against the wall of the stall.
*****
Operation Great Idea was in full swing.
So you’ve had a little personal setback, but that didn’t deter you from the objective. You had compiled a list, one you were confident was accurate based on your intel and research. That very list was neatly folded in the deep pocket of your coat as you walked through the cold rain on this late November afternoon.
Yes, you did something you’d never done before - take an afternoon off - and were trying to evade puddles on your way to the bookshop. Could you have ordered the books online? Most of them, certainly. But your late mother, an independent business owner, had ingrained in you to support local shops. You liked bookshops, they reminded you of her and of simpler times.
Your timing was excellent - of course you had researched when the shop was least busy - and you practically had the shop to yourself. And so you walked, dragging a pull-along basket behind you as you searched the shelves for the books on the list.
Sometimes, there were different editions there and you stood for a while, feeling the weight of each book in your hand, the feel of the embossed letters on the spine, the scent of the pages. You wanted it to be just right, so you took your time.
Some of the books you would only be able to get in a little second hand bookshop, tucked away in a side street. You had called beforehand and the owner lifted a box from under the counter to show you what she had reserved for you. As soon as your fingers made contact with the books you felt absolutely giddy.
Back at the Tower, you spent two entire evenings wrapping books after work. When you were finished, you leaned back, looking at the neatly organised stack. Yes, you were ready. Now all you needed was an exorbitant amount of luck for the next 24 days.
*****
You watched Loki stare suspiciously at the first parcel. He was sitting in the communal kitchen, Thor next to him. 
“Why would it be hexed?” Thor asked. “Simply because the sender is missing?”
Loki just gave him a pointed look.
“Come, brother, aren’t you curious to find out what is in this gift?”
“Loki got a present?” Steve asked as he pulled a bowl out of a cupboard. “Did I miss his birthday?”
Before Loki could say anything, Thor shook his head. “He’s worried it has been tampered with.”
Roger’s brows furrowed. “How did it get into your possession?”
“It was on the floor outside my door this morning,” Loki complied, sighing.
“FRIDAY would have picked up on any foreign substances or intruders in the tower,” Tony said between gulps of coffee. “He now can detect traces of magic, too. ‘Course, he went apeshit over your magic, but we got it under control, eventually.”
“That’s what all this ‘Alert, alert, magic detected, caution advised’ blaring at five in the morning was?” Scott bustled in.
A slight tinge of red shaded Loki’s complexion. “I have to practise some time.”
“Thought you were born with it?” Scott interjected, helpfully.
This earned him a glare. “I was born with the aptitude for magic and sorcery. It takes a lot more than mere talent to achieve this level of proficiency.”
“Several centuries, in fact,” his brother supplied. “Now then Stark here says it’s safe. So open it, brother!” Thor clapped his hands together. 
Loki indignantly and very reluctantly slid the parcel towards him and pulled on the simple string that held the wrapping together. The paper fell open to reveal one of the books you had picked.
From your vantage point of, well, your computer screen, you zoomed in to get a better look at him.
“Oh, a book,” you heard the onlookers muttering disappointedly, quickly losing interest and going about their business once more.
But Loki just sat, staring at the book. It took him a good few minutes to pick it up. And he did what you had seen him do many times before. He weighed it in his hands, fingertips running over the cover, the spine. Then he opened the lid. To anyone else it might not have been noticeable, but to you it was: he inhaled the scent of the book. And finally, there was the smallest upturn of his lips.
You exhaled, relieved. One down 23 more to go.
*****
Over the next week you were too busy testing the new firewall you had developed to check on Loki’s reaction. Sometimes you felt a little self-conscious, scared even that he might not like the books or think this was from a stalker. Which technically you had indulged in, stalking that was, but only to find the perfect books for him. And then sometimes you would get worried that someone else might have found the presents.
But you knew he had received every single one of them, for every evening, when you passed the common area you saw him sitting on the couch with the latest offering in his hands. Perhaps it was wishful thinking, but it looked as if his tense shoulders had started to relax a bit.
Another couple of days went by and as the decorations started to pop up in the Tower and the first snow fell that didn’t immediately melt or turn to mush you felt happy. Perhaps it also had something to do with the fact that a certain someone walked differently. Maybe it was your imagination. But he seemed even taller these days.
*****
“Did it work?” you heard his voice in your ear a couple days later.
The data set was streaming on the screen in front of your eyes. “It did. Give me a moment to inject the virus, then you can disconnect the USB cable.”
“Can I still talk to you?”
Your fingers on the keyboard stilled for a moment, surprised. “Of course. The program runs through your phone, not through comms.”
There was a little pause, before he said: “I have a question. About a Midgardian tradition.”
You wrinkled your nose, scanning the code rushing over the screen. “I’ll try my best, but I’m rubbish at traditions.”
The audible outbreath sent shivers down your spine. “I’m sure that’s not true.”
“What’s your question then?”
“Tell me about the Yuletide calendar.”
45% done. “You mean the Advent calendar?”
“Precisely.”
This was dangerous territory you were treading on. “Oh, it’s a fun thing for kids, really. To make the wait for Christmas a bit more exciting and I guess more bearable. It’s nice to get a little something like a toy.”
“Is it always toys?”
69% now. “Well, no. My mum used to get me an advent calendar that had these lovely drawings behind each door. I hung it up in the front room and we’d open it together every morning.”
“I suppose it’s a nice custom,” he said, before asking, “What about grown ups, do they have advent calendars?”
83%. “Sometimes. There’s all sorts: beer, wine, beauty products, chocolates - you name it, it probably exists somewhere.”
“Books, too?”
The question threw you, did he know it was you? A light was blinking on your screen.
100%.
“That’s it, Loki, the virus is uploaded, you can unplug the cable now and get out of there.”
“Thank you, Y/N.”
You heard a crackle and the comms was handed over to operations again. As you finished running the decryption programme on the data Loki had extracted, you kept hearing his voice in your head.
“Books, too?” Were you busted?
*****
Security breaches were both an insult as well as an admittedly welcome challenge to you. Someone had tried to flex their fingers - and you had a very good idea who - to break into Stark’s network. They had managed to pierce a little hole into the outer layer of the firewall, but they didn’t know that you had several back up plans in place and you enjoyed watching them work. However, as you scanned over the intruder’s code you devised a new security strategy.
You were in the middle of coding a nice little primer for a new layer - unexpected because of its simplicity, but a tough little nut to crack - when someone cleared their throat next to you. You looked up to find Loki, his eyes fixed on you. You blinked, looked around, but no one else was there, and back up at the god.
“Can I, uh, help you?” Smooth. You facepalmed internally.
“I realised I have never been in here,” he said, looking around the room, then back at your desk. “You have a lot of monitors.”
You waved your hand dismissively. “Just the standard three.”
“What are you doing now? Or is it a secret?”
“It’s not a secret at all. So we’re currently under attack. Relax,” she said when she noticed him tense, “cyberattack. Someone’s knocking at our backdoor, trying to see if they can get in.”
You motioned to one of your screens. “This is the intruder’s code. He’s trying out lots of keys to see if he can get in. And this,” you pointed to the screen next to it, “is our defence mechanism.”
“Extraordinary.” Loki’s low voice murmured. He was close. You turned your head and nearly had a heart attack at just how close. His sharp profile was illuminated by the blue glow of the monitor, his hair falling to his shoulders, one hand splayed on the desk, the other resting on the back of your chair. He looked beautiful. Perfect. He was leaning closer to the screen so he could see what was going on. Your breath hitched.
And then he turned his head.
Something that sounded an awful lot like a squeak escaped your throat.
Loki lifted an eyebrow. “Am I making you nervous, Agent Y/N?”
You pushed your glasses up your nose and leaned back, just an inch. “No?”
Loki’s eyes drifted over your face, before they met your gaze again. “Is that a question or a statement?”
“A… a statement,” you mumbled and, for good measure, added, “sir.”
His eyes darkened, a smirk curling the left side of his lips. “Are you scared of me?”
You tilted your head ever so slightly. “How can I be scared of you?”
“You’ve heard the stories, undoubtedly.”
“I did. And if I believed everything people told me and not looked beyond I would be incredibly shitty at my job.”
He smiled at that. It was small, but there, and it made him so attractive you felt your stupid heart starting to pound in your chest. Could he hear it?
“Do you like to read, Agent Y/N?”
Another adjustment of your glasses. “I do.”
“What would you say is your favourite book?” His voice was low and smooth.
His hand moved from your desk to the side of your face, where he gently pulled on a tendril, before he brushed it behind your ear. The back of his fingers skimmed your cheek for less than a second, but it sent you reeling. It was as if an electromagnetic pulse was slowly wiping clean your hard drive. You couldn’t think.
“Um, err, Jane.. Jane Eyre.”
He hummed. “I wonder why? Is it because she’s abandoned and rejected all her life?”
You shook your head slowly. “No. Because she’s forced to leave home, into a life she didn’t choose. But when she is given the freedom and space to grow she learns to be the master of her happiness.”
His eyes followed the curve of your neck and back up again. It almost felt as if he was touching you. “Interesting.”
You swallowed again, before he stood upright, nodded at you, turned and left. 
Your heart was pounding. And then your computer beeped and your attention was back on the screen.
“Oh pants…” Your fingers started flying over the keyboard. “Not today, Harris. Or any other day.”
Nine more books to go.
*****
He was onto you. Of course he was. After all, he was the God of Mischief and Lies. If anyone would find out who was behind this, it would be him. Personally, the preferred outcome was that he never would find out.
You had asked yourself often over the last 18 days why exactly you wanted to do this for him. But that was just it. You really had no other motive than wanting to do this for him. Maybe because you sympathised with him, being stuck somewhere far from home, feeling lonely and not really integrated. Maybe you had projected your own feelings onto him a tiny little bit. Possibly considerably. However, it was done with the best of intentions. You wanted to make this nice for him. The run up to Christmas. A little bit magical. He must like magic, he was a sorcerer after all, wasn’t he?
So what if you had started dreaming of him at night. He would lean over you as you sat at your desk, in all his tall- and broadness. This time his hands would be touching you. And he’d lean in to whisper into your ear. Admittedly, not words you would necessarily associate with such a situation.
When you would wake up you knew where to place the things he said to you in your dreams. He’d said them to you during missions. And yes, “how much longer till the download is complete, Agent Y/N?” was not remotely as sexy as “I’m going to ravish you now, thoroughly” would have been, for example. But your brain only had so much to work with and it worked for you.
You noticed a few things, however. Loki was around more often, probably just a silly coincidence, or you had started to pay more attention. He looked at you now. You’d look up and find him already looking at you, sometimes a little smile crossed his lips, but mostly it was just something with his eyes, they seemed… warmer, maybe?
However, to your horror you discovered that you had started to blush. Every single time this happened. So you spent a lot of time in the ladies’ toilets, splashing your face with cold water, only to see it even more flushed than before. Apparently, all the books you had read lied about that ‘splashing your face with cold water to calm down and not make people notice’-thing.
But it all boiled down to the fact that he was onto you. Maybe he was humouring you and seeing where this was going. Maybe he had found out already and you made him feel awkward. Or he was waiting for the opportune moment to expose and humiliate you. You weren’t sure which.
Right now it didn’t matter. You were so tired you could hardly see properly anymore. So when you decided to crash on the sofa in the common room, because it was halfway to your room, you didn’t think to check if anyone was there.
That was mistake number one.
You collapsed onto the sofa with a groan, eyes closed, head leaning against the back of the sofa.
“Fuck. My. Fucking. Life,” you complained to the universe. “Can you please make the appendage of that misogynistic wanker fall off already? For fuck’s sake!”
Mistake number two.
Someone chuckled. It came from rather close to you.
Dread filled you. Foul language was not tolerated in the workplace. To be fair you could argue that the common room was not your workplace per se, however, you did not want to start arguing with HR because they were absolute savages in the art of word twisting. Or just savages full stop.
Carefully, you cracked your eyes open. And there, on the sofa right next to you, sat Loki. One leg was stretched out in all its glorious length, the other bent at the knee, his forearm resting over it, the book in his lap now closed, one of his slender fingers acting as bookmark. For a moment you wondered what it would feel like to be the book.
“I hope it’s not my appendage you’re asking to be removed,” he said with a smirk.
You grappled to sit up, horrified. “Of course not! That would be awful… I mean, a terrible thing to wish for… you’d… err… such a loss of such a beautiful… I mean, I can only guess… but… um, err… heavens, please make me stop talking…”
You hid your head in a throw pillow, wishing the floor would open up and swallow you whole.
Mistake number three.
The sound of a low, rumbly laugh made its way to your ears. It entered your system like a virus, leaving your limbs feeling weak and yearning. Was Loki laughing? You lifted your head and watched him, highly bemused at your idiotic display.
It was the most beautiful thing you’d ever heard. You felt a hard tug at your heart. Goodness, if this man wasn’t already a god, you’d have to declare him one. If he were the head of a religion you would throw out your atheist views and follow him to the end of the multiverse. He looked absolutely breathtaking. Then again, when did he not?
“I’m so sorry,” you started to apologise, “I don’t know what-”
With superhuman speed he moved and sat next to you, his finger on your lips. The feel of his digit on your mouth felt more intimate than any sexual intercourse you’d ever had.
And then he leaned in.
He was so close your cells were basically breathing him in. His eyes were locked onto yours and nothing would have been able to make you look away right then.
“Do you want to know what book I’m reading right now?” His quiet words did things to your insides that were not legal.
You just about managed to nod, his finger still in place.
“‘The Remains of the Day’ by Kazuo Ishiguro. Do you know it?” He waited for your affirmation. “It’s about a man who is in love with a woman. But he doesn’t tell her. When they meet again after decades, she tells him her life would have been different if she had married him. And you know what he does? He still won’t admit his feelings to her. He walks away from her. The first time he lets her go, the second time he walks away.”
You remembered the book very well. You had picked it out for him, after all.
“It’s a cruel story, Y/N. A love that is never acknowledged, nor consumed.” Loki’s eyes drifted from yours down to your mouth. His finger slowly traced the outline of your lips. It was too much, your eyes closed.
“Do you think love is this cruel?” Loki asked quietly. You felt his words as he spoke them almost onto your skin. So close.
“It-it can be,” you whispered. “But maybe, maybe that wasn’t the point of the story.”
“No?”
You opened your eyes to find him looking at you. He’d moved away a bit, giving you some space, waiting for you to elaborate.
“Maybe the point was to show that he chose his job over love. Twice. You can call it dignity or pride, but at the end he’s alone. Without love.”
“What about you, Y/N? Do you have love in your life?”
You weren’t able to look into his eyes. Slowly, you got off the sofa. You turned back to him to respond to find he’d stood up, too.
You looked down at your shoes. His shoes were black, of course, polished, perfect, like him. Yours were several seasons old. Worn. A bit of the shoe sole had started to peel off at the top of your toes. The bit you always kicked into the floor when you worked.
Your eyes wandered up his trousers, black, to the belt, his pullover, also black. He looked effortlessly elegant, poised. You, on the other hand, looked a mess, even in your work attire. Your heart grew heavy at the realisation. Your dreams were stupid. Turned out your heart was even more stupid. And suddenly you felt incredibly small in more ways than one next to the tall, powerful god.
Swallowing a lump in your throat, you said: “I have known love, once. A long time ago.”
With that you pivoted on your heels and left, leaving Loki alone in the common room.
*****
Harris was an absolute tosser.
He just couldn’t leave things be. He insisted on trying to show you up, so he tried and tried to hack his way through your firewalls. Of course he had tried to hide his identity and it had made you chuckle, because you seriously had no idea how he could ever dare call himself a cyber security specialist if he covered up his tracks like a novice hacker.
In a way it was cute, but it was getting to the point of obsessive stalking and you frankly were rather tired of this little game by now. Particularly, since it kept you from your nice, warm, comfortable bed well past midnight.
However, Harris seemed to have changed tactics and started to badmouth you in the industry. Even Fury had called Tony and asked whether he should be worried, because Harris had dug up some hacking you’d done when you were much younger and much less ethical. Really it was unhinged, but everyone worked through teenage years in their own way.
You only knew this because you happened to be in Tony’s office and he had Fury on loudspeaker. Tony had pacified Fury without batting an eye, then hung up and asked if you’d be okay with him paying Harris a little visit, preferably as Iron Man. You had both laughed it off. But it bugged you.
So when you were on your way back to the tower from the compulsory (for all employees) counselling session and someone grabbed you, you weren’t surprised to come face to face with Harris. He didn’t lay a finger on you. No, he got two goons to do that for him.
Later, as you stumbled out of the lift and along the corridor, trying to make your way to your room, someone blocked your way.
“Speak of the devil! Y/N! We were just talking about you.” Tony. Other voices around him.
You kept your head down, thinking of how to get out of this unnoticed.
“We were just wondering if– Y/N? What happened?” You saw Tony’s hand reach out for you, but you flinched away.
Silence fell for a long moment.
Then a movement. Shoes appeared in your line of vision. You knew those shoes well. They had been on display on the couch for the past 22 days, attached to an Asgardian god.
He slowly held out his hand, palm up. An assurance, no harm. You gave the slightest nod. He moved the hand up and placed a finger under your chin so carefully you wanted to sob. The faintest of pressure had you lift your head to look up at Loki. His eyes scanned your appearance, stopping at your bruised hands that were trying to hold together your coat, taking in the blood splatters on the fabric, your busted lip, the lopsided glasses, the badly bent temple dangling off its hinge.
You never understood the expression ‘his features darkened’. You did now. Loki’s face transformed and you saw for the first time what a dangerous man he could be. Power radiated off him. You were glad it was not directed at you. His nostrils flared and you almost heard how much he was clenching his teeth.
“Names,” he ground out.
A hot tear rolled down your cheek and now that it started it didn’t want to stop. His eyes softened, something akin to vulnerability flitting across his features.
“H–Har…”
“Harris?” Tony asked softly. You nodded, still looking at Loki.
Loki rolled his lips in his mouth, his thumb swiping ever so lightly over the skin of your chin, before dropping his hand and walking to the lift in long strides.
“Nat?” Tony asked, the spy already by your side.
“Hold up, Reindeer Games!” Tony hollered behind you, as Romanoff led you down the corridor to your room. “I’m coming, too…”
It felt as if you were having an out of body experience as you were peeled out of your bloodied coat, your clothes and body assessed quickly but gently. She pulled out her phone after she ushered you into the shower.
“Tony? No forced intercourse, but lots of bruising…,” was all you heard before the hot spray of the water ran into your ears, blocking all noise out.
*****
Your glasses were fixed and you could see properly again. That was important, otherwise you wouldn’t have been able to see Harris’ face on the news as he was escorted - handcuffed - from a courtroom and shoved into a police van, followed by the two goons who had helped him.
When you turned from the screen above the cashier, you saw Loki next to Tony across the canteen, looking at you. You walked over, clutching your sandwich.
“So, um… thank you,” you said, gesturing to the screen, “for that.”
Tony put a hand on your shoulder, squeezing gently, before his eyes gazed behind you. “Is that a double cheeseburger I see? Excuse me.”
And off he went, leaving you alone with the Asgardian god.
You shuffled your feet, studying the floor.
“Thanks again-”
“Are you okay?” 
You both said at the same time. You laughed quietly, looking up at him. He smiled. You’d never seen Loki smile.
“I’m fine, thank you,” you said.
“I’m glad to hear it.”
You wanted to say so much more, do so much more, like hug him. But he was a god. You weren’t exactly sure what the protocol was for hugging gods. The awkward silence thickened.
“So, I’ll see you around?”
He was still smiling. “Yes. See you around.”
You were fairly sure you were blushing as you scampered off, back to your office.
*****
Bryant Park was one of your favourite places to be in New York. For one, it was right behind the public library - your heaven. For another, it was close to the Tower and you could wander the paths under the lovely trees. The park was very busy as it was Christmas Eve and people wanted to while away the time in the Winter Village until the big day. But as the ice rink closed down and the skaters came off, noses and cheeks red from the cold, the park started to empty.
You sat on a bench under one of the trees, gloved hands deep in your coat pockets, a woolly hat and scarf keeping you warm. Your head was tilted back and you watched the snowflakes dance and twirl in the cold wind.
“Y/N,” someone called.
Loki stood a few metres away from you, a black coat making him look even taller. He was not donning a hat or a scarf, he looked comfortable with the cold. The snow clung to his dark hair, a soft dusting was on his shoulders. You envied the snowflakes.
You got to your feet and he took a few steps closer, looking down at you.
“Were you enjoying the activities?” Loki asked, nodding to the ice rink.
“No, I just… I just like to sit here,” you said, feeling a bit silly. “I like the trees and the snow. It’s… peaceful.”
He nodded.
“How about you? Fancied a turn on the ice?”
He laughed and you watched the cloud mix with your breath. Now you envied your breath.
“Actually, I was looking for you.”
“Me?”
He took another step towards you. “Yes.”
“Why? Did something happen at the Tower?” Worriedly, you fumbled your phone out of the coat pocket and checked it.
A large hand covered it. You looked up. “Nothing happened. I wanted to talk to you.”
Nervously, you glanced down at his hand that still covered your phone. If you hadn’t been wearing gloves your hands would have had actual skin on skin contact. He dropped his hand to his side.
“Am I in trouble?”
He shook his head. “I… I wanted to thank you.”
“What for?”
His hand pulled a book out of his pocket. “For this.” He slid it back in the folds of his coat.
“Oh.” You didn’t really know how to feel or react. You knew he’d been onto you, so it was no surprise he’d sussed it out. He was, after all, the God of Mischief and Lies. But you had to give him kudos for letting it play out.
“Um, you’re welcome.” You bit your lip.
“You don’t know what this meant– what this means to me.”
It was impossible to look at him.
“I was dreading this time of year here on Midgard. But your incredibly generous advent calendar made it feel… like when I first visited here with my mother.” He grasped your gloved hands in his. “I miss her dearly, so thank you. For giving me this.”
You were too choked up to say anything, so you just nodded.
“Can I enquire what your reason was?”
It was so cautious, as if he was worried it might scare you off. And yet, the question threw you, most likely because you had been asking yourself the very same thing from the moment of its conception in your shower. It was just there, a need, an urgency you didn’t know where it came from or why it existed. It was something you had to do. Like breathing.
But over the course of the last few weeks, particularly the last few days, it had become painfully clear why you did it.
“I wanted, no, I needed you to be happy.”
He squeezed your hands gently. The tips of his shoes, his shiny, polished shoes, now touched yours.
“Please look at me.”
So you did. He looked different… vulnerable maybe.
“Why do you need me to be happy?” The question was another cloud and you breathed it in, let it fill your lungs.
“Because…” You were afraid to say it, to admit it. But something in his eyes made you courageous. Either that, or foolish.
“Because I watched you, during missions and in briefings and ops planning. You started to believe what they said about you. And it’s not true. There’s so much you don’t share, don’t tell them and I see it. It’s right there in your eyes. And I didn’t want you to lose yourself. And it’s selfish, I know, but I need you to be happy… because if you are, so am I.”
“If you think that’s selfish, then I am guilty of this notion, too.”
Loki raised his right hand to run the backs of his fingers over your cold cheek. “I knew after three days it was you. I wanted to see where this was going, what your motivation was. And I… when I saw you after Harris… I was filled with so much rage and fear. That I would lose you. Before I had you.”
He leaned his forehead against yours, you closed your eyes, heart beating out of your chest at what you were hearing. Was this a dream?
Loki’s voice was just above a whisper. “Can I? Have you?”
You moved away slightly to look into his eyes. “Yes.”
He leaned in, his hands splaying on your back, as you stood on your toes. The moment his lips touched yours, you felt a current run straight to your heart. It was as if your brain rewired, the missing piece of the primer clicked into place and unlocked everything.
Snow was falling as Loki kissed you under the tree. You didn’t hear the whistles and hollering of passerbys. You didn’t feel the cold wind. You felt elated, buzzing even.
“Your phone is buzzing,” Loki murmured against your lips.
“Hm?” you said dreamily. 
“Your phone is buzzing,” Loki smiled, “someone’s calling you.”
Quickly you pulled out the damned device. Before you could even say your name, you heard Tony say: “So sorry for disrupting, Y/N, but we got a slight issue here that needs your expert skills pronto.”
You hung up, burying your head in Loki’s chest. His laugh rumbled in his chest. “We’ll talk more later.”
Breathing in his scent and holding onto him, you weren’t ready to let go. “Promise?”
*****
“Oh god, yes,” you sighed in absolute bliss. “That’s the spot, right there.”
Your groan sounded through the kitchen. You deserved that after three hours of extra work on Christmas Eve.
“Here?” Nat asked.
“Yes, yes! Please don’t stop,” you begged, putty in her hands, eliciting more noises from you.
“Maybe you should try yoga. Your shoulders and your whole upper body are so tense and full of knots. There’s a class I go to tomorrow at lunchtime, if you want to join me?”
“No time,” you murmured. “Heavens, Nat, what else can you do with those hands?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” she teased.
“Okay, that’s enough,” Banner interrupted, grabbing Nat by the hand and dragging her to the door. “I’m happy to share my girlfriend’s masseuse skills for a severe case of muscle lock, but I’m afraid I have a personal request now.”
You opened your eyes to catch Nat winking at you, a slight blush on her cheeks as she was pulled out of the room. “So I’m your girlfriend now?” you heard before they disappeared down the corridor.
You laughed and turned in your stool. Thor, Scott and Loki stood staring. Thor at the ends of his braids, Scott at his fingernails, Loki at you. Eyes intense and dark. You swallowed.
“Y/N, a word, if you please,” Loki said, before wrapping his fingers around your wrist and marching out of the room, with you trying to keep up with his long strides, your coat and shoulder bag in your other hand. 
He didn’t say a single word until you reached his room - it was closest - and the door shut behind you, locking the outside world out. He pushed you against the door, arm placed against the wood above your head, body leaning into yours, not quite touching.
“That was… a rather interesting display,” he remarked quietly, his breath puffing against your face as he spoke. “In future, I would prefer if your keening was reserved for me.”
Your hands found the buttons of his shirt. “That sounds like an exclusive right to me.”
“It most certainly is.” His lips hovered over yours.
Your index finger slipped in the space between two buttons. “A right that needs to be earned,” you whispered, your finger grazing his skin.
His breath hitched ever so slightly. “Do not challenge me, darling,” he leaned in, his body moving against yours teasingly. “It might be,” his mouth brushed against your earlobe, “too taxing for you.”
You scoffed, but his lips silenced you. His stance shifted as he picked you up and placed you on the nearest surface - a sideboard - and stepped between your legs. He broke the kiss, to cup your face. For a long moment he just gazed at you. The heat in his eyes seemed to intensify, turning you into a needy mess. He made a show of taking off your glasses, folding the temples and carefully putting them on the side board next to you. Your core clenched.
He held out his hand for you to hop off the furniture. You took it and he took to your lips.
It was quite possible that several things fell off on your way to Loki’s bedroom. When you pushed him into the wall to open the damned buttons of his shirt, a picture might have fallen. A vase, perhaps, when he picked you up and spun you around so your back was against the doorframe next to the fragile ornament. Your head hit the heavy frame of a painting, rendering it lopsided, when Loki feasted on your throat, and you tilted your head back to allow him better access.
Kissing, licking, nipping, sucking - he was intent on leaving marks. Your fingers somehow were in his hair, keeping his head in place. Soft, his hair was so soft. A sharp contrast to the teeth you felt pulling on your skin. His ministrations drew a long moan from you.
Loki smiled against your skin. “Yes, my siren, sing.”
Your back hit the mattress and he crawled over you. His hair a curtain, screening you off from the rest of the world in your own sacred space. His shirt hung open, your hands reached out, tracing each line, each dip. His tongue against yours mimicked the motion of his hips that rolled into you. Your legs wrapped around his waist, meeting each movement, as if you had practised this dance many times before. He pulled away to tug off your pullover. His fingers pushed up your bra and then he sucked your nipple into his hot mouth, making you arch your back.
“Loki, please.”
You didn’t really know what you begged for. More, probably. More of this, more of him.
He pulled you up so you both were kneeling on the bed. Shaking hands fumbled with clothes and fastenings and then you were both naked. Your breath hitched at his beauty.
“Can I…,” you started, voice sounding hoarse. You looked up at him. “Please let me worship you.”
Something flickered across his face - surprise? He gave a curt nod and then watched every single one of your movements.
You took his right hand, tracing each finger with yours, the veins on the back of his hands. You brought his hand up to your face, cradling it to your cheek, before kissing the palm of his hand. One finger at a time, you sucked it into your mouth, to the knuckle, your tongue swirling around the digit, before releasing it and pressing a kiss to the tip, before moving on to the next.
Your hands traced the skin of the inside of his arm, his veins, the rise and fall of his muscles, and up over his shoulder, across his chest to his left arm, which you gave the same treatment. Each birthmark, each scar was kissed. Your hands skimmed over his chest, your lips followed the path. Loki’s breath stuttered when you sucked on his left nipple, before you released it, softly blowing on it. It puckered. You bestowed the same treatment upon the other nipple.
“Please, lie down,” you whispered and he complied.
You lay next to him, kissing his forehead, your fingers running through his hair along his scalp, gently tugging. Onwards, to kiss the curve of each eyebrow, the bridge of his nose, his cheekbones, his chin, along his jawline to his ear. You felt his body shiver when you breathed: “You are so beautiful, inside and out.”
Then your teeth closed around his earlobe, gently pulling. A deep moan sounded through the room. Up until now he had let you do whatever you wanted to and not touched you. But his restraint waned and his hands splayed on your back, pulling you flush against his body. You kept going, your lips now worshipping his delectable throat. He tilted his head back to give you better access.
“Herregud,” he rasped as you kissed, licked and sucked on his sensitive skin. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed hard, his hands growing slack on your back.
You kissed the dip between his collar bones and worked your way down his torso, lips kissing, hands caressing. Further and further you went, along his abs, dipping in his belly button, following the trail of hair below. You leaned back a bit, to look at him. He was fully erect, heavy, swaying slightly. The purple mushroom head gleaming with pearls of pre-cum, thick veins running down the shaft to his pubic hair.
You licked your lips, curling one of your hands around his base, the other cupping his testacles. Then you looked up at him. He was up on his elbows, staring down at you hotly, biting his lips as he watched you in anticipation. You made sure to have and maintain eye contact and then you took him into your mouth.
He hissed, his head falling back, a loud moan following when you hollowed your cheeks to apply suction, the salty taste of his precum on your tongue.
You moved your hand up his length, still sucking, giving his testicles a gentle yet confident squeeze. Up your mouth went, your tongue circling his slit, before sucking him back in. The third time you did it, his hands clasped your shoulders.
“Stop.”
You looked up at him. Loki was breathing hard and you let his cock slide from your mouth with a wet ‘plop’.
In an instant your back was on the mattress and he hovered over you.
“Please don’t misunderstand,” he explained, voice rough, “I loved it, but I have plans.”
He settled between your legs, eyes locked on yours, hand on your thigh, pulling your leg around his waist. His hand slid up, splaying over the fullness of your ass, before giving it a firm squeeze, then sliding over the globe and dipping between your legs. When his slender digits made contact with your aching centre, you cried out. Your whole body was throbbing with need.
“All this nectar is for me?” he rasped. 
You nodded.
“Oh, I have to see this.” And in one fluid motion he sat back on his heels, spreading your legs with his hands, looking at your dripping wet centre in amazement.
“Wait a moment,” he said, before he scrambled off the bed and disappeared in the corridor, only to come back a few moments later to resume his place between your legs. He handed you something with a smirk. Your glasses.
“I want you to see me.”
You put them on, your heartbeat accelerating. You bit your lip in anticipation. He looked up at you, his hot breath puffing against your wet core and then his flat tongue licked you all the way from your entrance to your clit. Your fingers fisted in the bedsheets, eyes falling shut in ecstasy, mouth open in a silent cry.
“Look at me.”
You did. He started a rhythm of licking, sucking and lapping that had the coil inside you wind up and tighten impossibly in no time at all. You fell back onto a pillow. Then he slid two fingers inside you and your hands dove into his hair, tugging, scraping.
What a visual. Loki between your legs, eyes burning into yours, humming and moaning against your clit, fingers sliding in and out of you, curling just at the right time, at the exact angle you needed. It was as if you were a book he’d read a thousand times before. Your toes curled and then you fell into the abyss. You moaned out his name over and over as the orgasm washed over you, leaving your legs shaking.
Loki moved up your body, placing kisses on your thighs, your tummy, your breasts, before he brushed some hair out of your face. You took your glasses off, he placed them on the bedside table. His eyes searched yours.
“I need you, Loki,” you managed, pulling him down.
He kissed you deeply, slowly, the taste of you on his tongue. His hips rocked forward and he slid inside you all the way to the hilt. Loki stilled and broke the kiss, resting his damp forehead against yours.
“Are you okay?” he whispered.
Your fingers caressed his back. Unable to form words, you nodded. Then he moved. His hips rocked into yours in slow, deep thrusts. He filled you so well, stimulating places inside you you didn’t know existed. Your hands ran over his back, down his sides, making him shiver. He watched you, eyes dark but warm. One hand found your swollen clit and his fingers circled and rubbed, applying the pressure you needed to fall into oblivion again. Your feet pressed into his ass cheeks to bring him closer, deeper and his name fell from your lips over and over.
He rocked inside you as you rode out your orgasm. You opened your eyes to look at him in wonder. Never had you seen anything as beautiful as Loki. He seemed to glow from the inside. Maybe it was your imagination. You lifted your head, cupping his face to pull him in for a kiss. His tongue moved languidly against yours, savouring the intimacy.
Then he started moving faster, pulling one of your legs up to rest the calf against his shoulder. Deeper, you wanted him deeper. You couldn’t get close enough. His mouth was devouring yours in a needy kiss, all tongues and teeth now as he pistoned faster into you, your hips meeting each of his thrusts. His lips found your nipple, sucking, pulling on it, moving to its sibling. You couldn’t believe you were on the verge again already. Never before had you been able to orgasm more than once during intercourse.
The room was quiet but for the moans, the heavy breathing. You were so wet that your coupling’s noise was wonderfully dirty, edging you both on even more.
“Look at us,” Loki commanded and you did.
Nothing had ever been so erotic as watching him fill you, stretch you, sliding out, covered in your juices. His fingers were on your clit again, rubbing, circling.
“I don’t know if I can…”
“One more, darling, give me one more,” he insisted, breathlessly.
His hips moved faster, as did his fingers and you were there, on the edge. Loki’s eyes met yours and he knew. His movements stuttered, pupils fully blown, jaw slack, a drop of sweat sliding down his temple.
“Cum with me,” you whispered, your fingers dragging down his back, possibly breaking skin, squeezing and pulling his ass into you.
And he did, propelling you into bliss with him. Your name fell from his lips in a string of Norse profanities. His cock pulsated as the hot ropes of his seed marked your insides as his, your pussy eagerly clenching around him, making sure every last drop would be spent inside you. His movements slowed and then he stilled, buried inside you.
Loki’s lips pressed onto yours in a tender kiss. You stayed in the embrace until you both caught your breath. Then he pulled out of you, your mixed juices running out of you. He could have cleaned you up using magic.
But Loki got out of bed, got a wet flannel from the bathroom and gently cleaned you, kissing your tired body, before sliding back into bed. He pulled you into his arms, your hands joined over his heart, legs intertwined and you both lay there, in your bubble of utter and complete happiness under warm covers, watching the snowflakes dance outside the window in the early hours of Christmas Day.
Christmas Day!
“Oh, wait here!”
You scrambled off the bed and ran to the door, forgetting about your nakedness, pulling your shoulder bag from under your coat. You pulled something from it and brought it back to Loki. He was sitting up, forearms resting on his knees, an intrigued look on his face. 
“Merry Christmas,” you said.
He looked at you and then at the present you held out to him. He cocked an eyebrow as he took it and pulled the fabric ribbon off. His hands parted the paper and then he grew completely still.
“Where in the nine realms did you get this?” he asked after a few moments, voice sounding rough.
“A friend of mine got her hands on this a while back. I thought you might like it.”
He stared at the book, transfixed. His slender fingers caressing the embossed letters on the front and then he lifted it to take in the scent of the pages. His eyes closed.
“Do you? Like it, I mean?” You were worried about this book. It had cost an arm and a leg, but you thought it would be worth it.
“Like it?” Loki asked, finally looking at you and pulling you on his lap. “My mother used to read me his poems when I was a child. I rediscovered it later. This is…”
He was searching for words, failed to find them and instead kissed you, hard, hand fisting in your hair. After a long moment, he broke the kiss.
“Thank you, love.”
Your fingers wrapped around his wrist, stroking his pulse point.
“Will you read it to me?” you asked, a bit out of breath.
Nodding, he sat against the headboard, you curled up against him with his arm around you. He made sure you were both tucked under the covers. Then he opened the book and cleared his throat.
“Kormákr Ӧgmundarson ‘Sigurðardrápa ‘Drápa’. This is one of my favourites, he wrote it for the love of his life.”
His fingers wandered up your arm.
“Brunnu beggja kinna
bjǫrt ljós á mik drósar,
oss hlœgir þat eigi,
eldhúss of við felldan.”
His digits absently stroked your ribcage, skirting over the side of your breast. The rhythm and intonation of his deep voice made you clench your thighs.
“Enn til ǫkkla svanna
ítrvaxins gatk líta,
þrǫ́ muna oss of ævi
eldask, hjá þreskeldi.”
He paused, closing the book and brushing his lips against the skin of your neck. Your eyes fluttered shut.
“What-what does he say?” you all but stuttered.
Loki kissed along your collarbone. Humming against your skin.
“The bright lights of both
her cheeks burned onto me
from the fire-hall's felled wood;
no cause of mirth for me in that.”
His hands cupped your breasts as he sucked and teased one of the nipples. Your hands tugged on his hair, desperate for him again already. You felt his need hard and heavy against your thigh.
“By the threshold I gained a glance
at the ankles of this girl
of glorious shape.”
Loki moved to lie between your legs, hands sliding over your breasts, your tummy, your thigh, down to your ankle, lifting it to wrap it around his hips.
“Yet while I live
that longing will never leave me.”
His voice faltered as he rocked his hips forward and your bodies were joined once more.
“That longing will never leave me,” he repeated like a vow, eyes serious and warm.
“Nor me,” you pledged, before you lost yourselves in the physical expression of your feelings once more.
~ fin ~
360 notes · View notes
lusmeitli · 7 months ago
Text
And we continue with the masterclass of writing. This is a brilliant example of character introduction, build up and delicious pacing. It’s not often you see a writer take their time and not lose patience. This story deserved every single line. Beautiful. ♥️
Roots and Branches
Tumblr media
Pairing: Lumberjack!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader
Warnings: 18+ only. Fluff. Smut. Unprotected sex.
Summary: Bucky has built a quiet life in the woods, content to keep the world at arm's length. But when a new neighbor moves to town, her presence ignites emotions he’s hesitant to face.
Word Count: About 18.6k.
notes: I’ve been wanting to write a story in a lumberjack AU for a while now, and here it is. It ended up being longer than I expected, but I have no regrets. In my mind, Lumberjack!Bucky=Beefy!Bucky.
By the way, I’m still dreaming that someone, feeling inspired, creates Bucky as an NPC for Stardew Valley. I would kiss the ground that person walks on.
Tumblr media
The city stretched behind her, a blur of steel and noise shrinking in the rearview mirror. Relief and uncertainty warred in her chest, but she clung tightly to the thought of what lay ahead. The town had always been her haven: sunlit summers chasing fireflies, her grandmother’s laughter ringing from the porch, and the quiet that once cradled her restless mind in peace.
It had been years since she’d last visited, but the constant noise, relentless crowds, and a recent, unsettling encounter had made city life unbearable. Her grandmother’s house, nestled at the edge of a sprawling forest, now felt like her only escape. It wasn’t perfect -her uncle had warned her about the repairs needed- but she’d gladly trade peeling paint and creaky floors for the chaos she was leaving behind. Besides, without rent to worry about and the freedom of her home-office proofreading job, she had the space and time to start over, one step at a time.
The road stretched endlessly before her, winding through rolling hills and patches of dense forest. The further she drove, the quieter it became. No blaring horns, no traffic, just the hum of her engine and the occasional rustle of leaves stirred by the wind. She cracked the window, letting in the crisp scent of pine and earth.
For the first time in months, she felt her shoulders begin to relax. And then, with an ominous thunk, the car jerked to one side.
Her stomach sank as she guided the vehicle to the shoulder, the once-smooth ride now bumpier than a cobblestone street. Stepping out, she found her fears confirmed: the back tire sagged, utterly deflated.
“Of course,” she muttered, brushing a stray hair from her face. “Why not?”
She retrieved the jack and wrench from the trunk, determined to fix it herself. She wasn’t helpless, after all. But after twenty minutes of grunting, tugging, and nearly twisting her wrist, the lug nuts refused to budge. Maybe they just needed a little more effort.
Two hours later, she slumped against the side of the car, her arms aching and her patience long gone. She’d tried everything -kicking the wrench, sitting on it for leverage- everything except calling for help, though the lack of cell signal made that impossible. Her lip trembled as she bit down hard, determined not to let the tears of frustration win.
“You wanted quiet? You got quiet,” she muttered, her voice tight with irritation. Walking seemed like the only option now. Maybe she’d stumble upon a house, a gas station, anything. Resolving trying her luck, she locked the car and started forward, her boots crunching against the gravel shoulder.
The air hung heavy with stillness, broken only by the occasional chirp of a bird or the rustle of leaves in the breeze. The walk felt endless, each step feeding her doubts. What if there was nothing ahead? What if she’d made a mistake leaving the car? Just as she was debating turning back, a low rumble cut through the quiet.
She froze, breath hitching as her eyes darted down the empty road. The sound grew louder, unmistakably the steady growl of a truck engine. Relief flooded her chest, tempered by a flicker of caution.
Moving closer to the edge of the road, she raised a tentative hand to wave. Moments later, an old, sturdy truck came into view, slowing as it approached.
Bucky wasn’t in any rush. The late afternoon light filtered through the trees, casting long shadows on the road ahead. He kept one hand steady on the wheel, the other resting casually on his thigh. The hum of the truck engine was a comforting sound, a backdrop to his thoughts.
As he rounded a gentle curve, something caught his eye up ahead: a car parked awkwardly on the shoulder. He frowned, slowing the truck. From the angle it was sitting, it didn’t look abandoned, but it wasn’t going anywhere either. A flat tire, maybe? His brow furrowed. Someone had to own it, but there wasn’t another soul in sight.
He continued slowly, his gaze drifting to the road ahead, and that’s when he spotted her. She stood near the edge of the road, a duffel bag slung over her shoulder and her hand half-raised in a cautious wave. She didn’t look panicked, just tired, a little frustrated, and undeniably relieved to see another human being out here.
He brought the truck to a stop a few feet ahead of her, letting the engine idle as he leaned across the seat to glance out the passenger window. “Need some help?” he called, keeping his tone easy.
She stepped closer, her cautious wave lowering as she approached. When she stopped short of the truck, her polite smile faltered, her gaze locking on his face.
He didn’t notice at first, but she stared, caught off guard by the sight ahead of her. Shoulder-length dark hair framed handsome face, shadowed with a day or two of stubble. And those eyes… crystal blue, so piercing they looked like they belonged to the lead character of a romance novel rather than the driver of an old truck.
Her lips parted slightly as her thoughts ran wild. Maybe she was hallucinating. Two hours of frustration and the heat of the sun must have gotten to her, conjuring a guy from one of those pink-covered novels she’d been proofreading.
“You okay?” His voice pulled her back, laced with just enough concern to cut through the fog in her head.
She blinked rapidly, heat flooding her cheeks as she scrambled for an excuse. “Uh, yeah, sorry. Just… fatigue, I guess.” She gave a quick laugh, brushing her hair back as if that would somehow erase her embarrassment. “It’s been a long day.”
Bucky didn’t seem to notice anything amiss. He nodded, his expression sympathetic. “Yeah, I can imagine.”
She cleared her throat, trying to sound more composed. “I’d really appreciate the help. The tire’s flat and the lug nuts are stuck. I’ve tried everything, but they won’t budge.”
Bucky nodded again, shifting the truck into park before stepping out. “I saw the car back there. Mind if I take a look?”
Her shoulders relaxed slightly, and she offered a more genuine smile. “Please. That’d be great.”
She couldn’t help but stare as he climbed out of the truck. It wasn’t just the striking eyes or the scruff that made him look like he’d stepped off a book cover, it was everything.
Worn jeans sat low on his hips, perfectly fitted to legs that spoke of strength and endurance. A red flannel shirt, snug across his broad shoulders and well-defined arms, hinted at a life of hard, honest work. His boots crunched against the gravel as he moved with an effortless confidence that made it nearly impossible to look away.
Yup, she thought, feeling her cheeks warm again. A lead character.
She snapped her gaze away, trying to focus on literally anything else, the road, the sky, her worn-out sneakers. But as he approached, the heat creeping up her neck didn’t fade.
“You sure you’re okay?” he asked again, his brow furrowing slightly.
She blinked and met his eyes, cursing herself for getting caught again. “Yeah! Yeah, I’m fine,” she said waving a hand. “Just tired, I guess. Two hours of trying to fight with a tire does that to you.”
He nodded slowly, and his expression softened. “Fair enough.”
She gestured vaguely toward her car in the distance. “It’s over there. I’d appreciate the help, it’s like the universe welded those lug nuts on.”
When they reached the car, she unlocked it and retrieved the tools from the trunk, setting them down beside the flat tire. She stepped back, watching as he crouched and took the wrench in his hand. With what seemed like no effort at all, he twisted the lug nuts loose, the metal giving way under his grip as if it had never been stuck in the first place. She stared again, biting her lip as her gaze lingered on how his forearm flexed under the rolled-up sleeves of his flannel. Completely oblivious to her scrutiny, he worked in focused silence, switching out the flat tire with methodical ease. When he finished, he stood up, brushed the dust from his hands, and glanced at the car. His gaze snagged on the backseat, where duffel bags and boxes were crammed together.
“Looks like you’re movin’,” he said, his voice low and gruff.
She nodded, brushing her hands on her jeans as if she’d done any of the work. “Yeah, I am. Heading to town. My grandmother used to have a house there, I’m moving into it.”
Bucky glanced at her, his sharp blue eyes unreadable, but not unkind. “The old house near the woods?”
Her brows lifted in surprise. “Yeah, actually. You know it?”
He shrugged lightly, his gaze slipping to the ground. “Small town,” he murmured.
Unsure if his hesitation was discomfort or just shyness, she shifted her weight. “Well, thanks again for helping. I’m Y/n, by the way.”
He didn’t respond for a moment and then blinked, as if snapping out of a thought. “Bucky,” he said simply, his tone softening just enough to feel welcoming.
“Well, nice to meet you, Bucky.” Her smile was warm despite the long, frustrating day.
He nodded slightly, a flicker of a smile tugging at his lips before it disappeared. “You should get goin’,” he said after a pause. “Road’s pretty empty once it gets dark.”
She nodded, grateful. “Right. Thanks again.”
He gave a short nod before turning to his truck. She lingered for a moment, watching as he climbed into the cab and started the engine, before finally slipping into her car and pulling back onto the road.
He gave her a brief nod, turning to his truck without saying another word. She stood there for a moment, watching him go, before climbing into her car.
Bucky climbed into his truck, shutting the door with a quiet click. As the engine rumbled to life, his thumbs tapped idly on the steering wheel, his mind drifting. So, she was the woman moving into the old blue house, the one the old ladies in town had been gossiping about lately.
“Fresh face,” they’d said, curious and speculative. The kind of talk he usually tuned out, but now he could picture her, standing on the side of the road with that friendly smile.
His jaw tightened as he glanced in the rearview mirror, catching a glimpse of her car pulling back onto the road. Attractive, sure, but that wasn’t his business. He wasn’t in the habit of noticing things like that anymore, or at least, he tried not to.
Shaking his head slightly, he put the truck in gear and pulled back onto the road.
------------
She reached the house in the late afternoon, the golden light of the setting sun painting the wooden structure in warm tones. From a distance, it looked charming, but as she got closer, the years of neglect became more apparent. A shutter hung by a single hinge, swinging slightly in the breeze, and the porch sagged in the middle, its boards warped and cracked.
It didn’t seem unlivable, though, and for that, she was grateful. The windows were intact, the roof looked solid, and the front door swung open without resistance when she unlocked it. She stepped inside, wrinkling her nose at the stale smell of a house left empty for too long. Dust coated the floors and every surface in sight, but nothing that a good cleaning wouldn’t fix.
Walking through the rooms, she made a mental list of things that needed attention. The walls could use fresh paint, the porch would definitely need repairs before it became a hazard, and a few wobbly cabinet doors in the kitchen caught her eye. It was all manageable.
By the time she returned to the living room, she realized the sun had dipped below the horizon, leaving the house in shadows. She flipped the light switch by the door, but nothing happened. A quick check of the other switches confirmed her suspicion, there wasn’t a single light bulb in the entire property.
“Figures,” she muttered, setting her hands on her hips. Luckily, she’d packed a portable lamp. Its soft glow filled the room as she set it on the floor and unrolled her sleeping bag in the corner, where the old sofa used to sit.
Dinner was a simple affair: a cup of instant noodles and a bottle of water, eaten cross-legged on the floor. She was too tired to think about anything elaborate, and the stillness of the house was oddly comforting after the chaos of the city.
Her thoughts drifted back to the day’s events, replaying the encounter on the road. Bucky’s face flickered in her mind, those piercing blue eyes, the way his long, dark hair framed his sharp features, the slight rasp to his voice when he’d asked if she was okay. She bit her lip, and the memory of the way he’d effortlessly changed the tire brought a faint smile to her lips as her eyelids grew heavy. The moving truck will arrive by morning, and with better lighting, she’ll assess the house and start making it livable. Ideally, she would have cleaned beforehand, but the moving company only had that date available, so she didn’t have much choice.
----------
Right at 8 o’clock sharp, the rumble of the moving truck echoed down the quiet street. She stepped outside, greeting the movers and directing them where to place the furniture. It didn’t take long to realize the porch’s sagging boards were going to be a problem. One mover nearly put his foot through a weakened plank, and after a few close calls, they opted to bring in as much as possible through the windows.
After tipping the movers and seeing them off, she grabbed her bag and headed into town. The general store was easy to find, nestled on the main street between a bakery and a small diner. The scent of freshly baked bread lingered in the air as she pushed open the store’s creaky door, the tiny bell overhead jingling.
Inside, the aisles were narrow and well-stocked, offering everything from cleaning supplies to locally-made jams. She grabbed a basket and began filling it with essentials: sponges, dish soap, floor cleaner, and a few staples for the pantry.
At the checkout line, she felt the weight of a few curious stares. Small towns were like that, everyone wanted to know who the newcomer was. A man in line behind her gave her a polite nod, and a couple of women nearby exchanged whispers before one of them, an older lady with a kind smile, stepped forward.
“Moving into the old blue house on Maple, aren’t you?” the woman asked, her voice warm and curious.
She blinked, surprised but not entirely caught off guard. “That’s right,” she said, returning the smile. “Spent summers there as a kid. It’s been a while, though.”
“Well, welcome back,” the woman said, clasping her hands. “I’m Dorothy. Let me know if you need anything.”
“Actually…” she hesitated, seizing the moment. “The house needs a bit of work, especially the porch. Do you know a good carpenter?”
Dorothy’s face lit up. “Sam Wilson’s the man you’re looking for. Runs a workshop just outside town. He’s dependable and does fine work. I’ll jot down his address for you.”
After paying for her items, she loaded everything into the car and headed toward the workshop. The drive was short, and soon she spotted a neatly painted sign that read Wilson Woodworks. The building was modest but well-kept, with stacks of lumber and partially finished projects visible through the open garage door.
Grabbing her notepad and pen, she stepped out of the car, hoping Sam would be able to help bring her grandmother’s house back to life.
The workshop smelled of sawdust and varnish, the soft hum of a saw cutting through wood filling the air. She peered curiously through the open entry, her gaze scanning the neatly organized chaos: tools hanging on pegboards, wood shavings scattered across the floor, and a workbench cluttered with projects in progress. Near the center of the space stood a man in a faded gray t-shirt and jeans, his sleeves rolled up to reveal toned arms. His easy smile and confident posture immediately struck her as someone who knew his craft.
“Sam Wilson?” she asked, stepping further inside.
The man turned, his grin widening. “That’s me,” he replied warmly. “What can I do for you?”
“Hi. I’m Y/n. I just moved into town, to the old blue house on Maple Street. The porch is in pretty bad shape, and I was told you’re the one to call.”
Sam gave an approving nod, wiping his hands on a nearby rag. “Maple Street, huh? Yeah, I’ve worked on a couple of those houses. They’ve got good bones but can be stubborn. I’d have to take a look before I can give you a plan.”
“Of course,” she said, relieved. “When do you think you’d be able to-”
Before she could finish, a gruff voice interrupted from the back of the shop. “Sam, I told you that damn hinge on the-”
Bucky appeared, stepping out from what looked like a storage area, drying his hands on a towel. His words faltered the moment he spotted her, his blue eyes locking onto hers in surprise. He froze for a moment, the towel still in his hand, before nodding stiffly.
“Hey,” he said, with a cautious tone.
She offered him a small, friendly smile. “Hello again.”
Sam’s gaze darted between the two of them, a knowing grin spreading across his face like a Cheshire cat. “Well, well,” he drawled. “You two already know each other so soon?”
Bucky shot him a look -half warning, half exasperation- but Sam’s grin only widened.
“We met yesterday,” she explained, glancing between them. “Bucky helped me with a flat tire.”
“Did he now?” Sam leaned back against the workbench, crossing his arms. “Man of many talents, huh, Buck?”
Bucky muttered something under his breath, his ears turning slightly red as he turned away to busy himself with a random piece of wood.
Sam laughed, clearly enjoying himself. “Don’t let him fool you,” he said to her, his tone light. “He’s a softie under all that brooding.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” she replied, unable to suppress a smile.
Bucky’s muttering grew quieter as he moved further into the workshop, but Sam wasn’t done. “You’re in luck, though,” he said to her, eyes sparkling with mischief. “I think you’re gonna give his wood a good use.”
She let out a small laugh, not entirely sure why but unwilling to seem rude. “Well, I’ll do my best,” she said with a shrug, hoping that was the right response.
The sound of tools crashing followed by a sharp, muttered curse that carried through the workshop interrupted the exchange, and she turned toward the source. “Is he okay?”
Sam smirked, his tone teasing as he said, “Oh, he’s just fine. Just gets a little... tense when his work’s involved. My friend here is one of my suppliers. Keeps me stocked up on the best lumber in town.”
“Oh, I see,” she replied, her gaze briefly flicking toward where Bucky had disappeared. Inwardly, she couldn’t help but think that his... thick build seemed to match with the work lumber suppliers did. “So, should we arrange a time for you to come by and look at the porch?” she asked, mentally slapping herself and steering the conversation back on track.
Sam grinned, leaning casually against the counter. “Tomorrow works for you? Say mid-morning?”
“That sounds great,” she agreed, already mentally listing what she might need to tidy up before his visit.
As her car disappeared down the road, Bucky emerged from the back of the workshop, his steps deliberate and brooding as he approached Sam.
“What was that?” he asked, his voice low but edged with irritation.
Sam raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence as he crossed his arms. “What was what?”
“You know what,” Bucky growled, pointing a finger at him. “Don’t.”
Sam held up his hands, his expression mock-innocent. “Don’t what? You’re projecting, man. She’s just a new neighbor who needs some help with her porch. That’s all.”
Bucky narrowed his eyes, his voice dropping even lower. “Whatever your bird brain is planning on doing, don’t. I’m not... Just stay out of my business.”
Sam gave him a sidelong look, clearly unimpressed by Bucky’s gruff warning. “You think too highly of yourself, Barnes,” he said with a smirk. “I’m just trying to help the lady out, same as you did.”
The logger threw one last dirty glance at Sam, muttering under his breath. “Next cargo’s in four days,” he grumbled, already heading for the door.
Sam’s amused chuckle followed him, but Bucky ignored it, his boots hitting the workshop floor with heavy steps.
As he reached the truck, a sharp twinge in his left arm made him curse softly. He grabbed it, flexing his fingers out of habit, then glanced up at the sky. It was streaked with soft clouds, their innocent appearance at odds with what he felt brewing in the air.
A storm was coming.
It wasn’t something anyone could see yet, but Bucky didn’t need a weather report. Since his arm had been crushed in Afghanistan, leaving him with orthopedic implants and lingering aches, he could always tell when the pressure was about to shift.
He flexed his arm again, rolling his shoulder to ease the discomfort. The storm would hit soon, inside and out.
Sliding into the truck, he decided to stop by the general store on the way home. He needed a bottle of scotch. Maybe two.
It was shaping up to be one of those nights.
When she got back to the house, she dropped the bags on the kitchen counter and let out a sigh. She glanced around at the dim, dusty space and resolved to tackle it head-on. After eating a quick sandwich, she got to work.
The first task was the lightbulbs, all of them. Room by room, she placed them, swearing quietly each time she had to stretch on tiptoe or drag a chair around. Next came the cleaning. By the time she was almost finished, it was late afternoon. She stood in the middle of the living room, exhausted and sweaty, a few stubborn cobwebs clinging to her sleeves. She pushed her hair off her forehead and noticed, through the newly cleaned windows, the unmistakable sight of grey clouds gathering on the horizon.
“Great,” she muttered, dragging the vacuum to a corner. She glanced up at the ceiling, half expecting to see a stain forming already. “Please, no leaks. Just this once, let me have some luck.” The wind outside began to pick up, rattling the loose shutter on the porch. She grimaced. The house might not be falling apart, but it wasn’t going to win any awards for weatherproofing either.
She pulled the last bag of cleaning supplies toward her, determined to finish what she could before the storm hit.
The rhythmic patter of rain on the roof accompanied her as she sat at the small kitchen table, nursing a simple dinner. Her arms ached pleasantly from the day’s cleaning spree, her newly functional lightbulbs casting a warm glow over the room. Despite the state of the house when she’d arrived, it felt more like a home now, or at least the beginning of one.
The rain grew heavier, drumming steadily against the windows as she finished eating and washed her dishes. With a satisfied sigh, she headed for the bathroom. The steamy warmth of the shower was a welcome reprieve, washing away the grime and fatigue of the day. She closed her eyes as the water cascaded down, her mind meandering to the list of things she still needed to tackle.
The porch needs fixing first. Maybe some paint for the walls. And that loose shutter... her lips curled into a soft, almost dreamy smile as her thoughts drifted to Bucky. She bit her lip, suppressing a laugh at herself. It had been a while since she’d had anyone to daydream about, and maybe it was just her exhaustion playing tricks on her. Clearly, she needed a break from all these romance novels. The irony wasn’t lost on her, spending her days proofreading swooning declarations and lingering glances wasn’t helping her sanity.
On the other side of town, the rain was more than just a backdrop for Bucky, it was a trigger, a reminder. He sat on the kitchen floor, his back pressed against the counter, cradling a bottle of scotch in one hand and absently flexing the fingers of his left arm with the other. The pain in his left arm wasn’t unbearable -he’d had worse- but the weather had settled into his bones.
One would think Afghanistan’s climate rarely saw rain, but he knew better. In the northern regions, heavy rains could flood entire valleys in minutes, turning the ground into treacherous mud. It wasn’t just the water he remembered, but the chaos it brought. Mud-caked boots slipping on uneven terrain. The deafening crack of gunfire cutting through the downpour. The screams of comrades who’d never make it out of the storm, swallowed by water and bullets alike.
He closed his eyes tightly, forcing the memories away, but the rain’s steady rhythm seemed determined to drag him back. He took a long swig from the bottle, the burn of the alcohol a poor distraction for his haunted mind.
And then, unbidden, he thought of her.
The way she’d smiled at him earlier today at Sam’s workshop. Like she was genuinely glad to see him. He shook his head sharply, scowling at himself. He didn’t deserve to think about her. Didn’t deserve to let himself linger on the way she’d looked at him with curiosity instead of judgment. He was a broken-down man who knew better than to let anyone get close. The rain’s rhythm matched the pounding in his head, and he rubbed his temple with a quiet groan. Thinking about her was a mistake, one he couldn’t afford to make.
------------
The low hum of a truck pulling up broke the peaceful morning. She peeked out the window, spotting Sam hopping out with a clipboard in hand, a tape measure clipped to his belt. His easy smile greeted her as she opened the door.
“Morning,” he said, tipping an imaginary hat. “Ready to figure out what your little slice of heaven here needs?”
She chuckled, stepping aside to let him in. “Let’s call it a fixer-upper and go from there.”
Sam gave a low whistle as he stepped onto the sagging porch. “First thing’s first, this baby needs a lot of love. I’m surprised it’s holding up at all.” He tapped one of the warped boards with his boot, and it creaked ominously.
“Well, that’s why you’re here,” she replied lightly, crossing her arms.
They walked the perimeter of the house as Sam scribbled notes on his clipboard, occasionally pausing to point out things that needed attention, a loose shutter here, a weathered doorframe there. He climbed the porch steps again, shaking his head. “You’re lucky nothing major’s out of whack, though this porch... Yeah, we’ll start here.”
She nodded, leaning against the railing -carefully-. “Sounds good. So, what’s next?”
Sam grinned, snapping the clipboard shut. “Now comes the fun part, asking nosy questions while I figure out how to turn this place into a proper home. Where’d you move from?”
“City,” she said, her gaze flicking to the overgrown yard. “Needed a change. Too much noise, too many people.”
He nodded like he understood perfectly. “Yeah, city life can wear you down. And what do you do for work? So that I know if I ever need something specific.”
“I’m a proofreader,” she replied. “Not exactly glamorous, but it lets me work from anywhere.”
He chuckled. “Sounds pretty glamorous to me. Living the dream: working in pajamas, no one to bother you.”
She laughed, shaking her head. “Not quite. Deadlines don’t care if you’re in pajamas.”
“Fair point,” Sam said, scribbling something on his clipboard. He glanced at her casually. “Anyone special missing you back in the city?”
Her brow furrowed slightly, caught off guard. “Uh, no. Why?”
“No reason,” he said with an exaggerated shrug, flashing his most innocent grin. “We small-town folks are just naturally curious.” Satisfied, he tucked the clipboard under his arm. “Well,” he said, turning on the charm, “I’ll put together a plan for the porch and those other fixes we talked about. Shouldn’t take long.”
“Thanks, Sam,” she said, smiling warmly.
He tipped his imaginary hat again. “Happy to help.” As he walked back to his truck, he patted the clipboard storing every little detail she’d just shared. Oh, he’d have fun with this later.
Over the next few days, she found herself settling deeper into the rhythm of small-town life. Locals stopped to chat whenever she ran errands, and she was finally starting to remember their names. The house was slowly transforming under her care, each repair bringing it closer to what she remembered from her childhood summers.
And then there was Bucky. He was a puzzle she hadn’t figured out yet. Quiet and guarded one moment, then unexpectedly kind the next. Their paths seemed to cross more often now. It wasn’t intentional, but each encounter left her feeling like she’d peeled back another layer of his carefully constructed wall.
The first time it happened, she was in the general store, arms full of cleaning supplies and pantry staples, along with a guilty indulgence or two. As she stepped into the checkout line, she spotted him just ahead of her with a modest basket of items, his broad shoulders blocking most of her view of the cashier.
As she shuffled forward, her eyes drifted to his basket. Among the practical items -bread, coffee, and what looked like a pack of nails- sat a brightly colored box of dinosaur-shaped mac and cheese.
She couldn’t help herself. “Didn’t peg you for the novelty pasta type.” She quipped lightly, a teasing smile curling her lips.
Bucky turned his head sharply, caught off guard. He glanced at the box, then back at her, a faint pink tinting his cheeks, as he muttered “They’re easy. And cheap.”
The combination of his flustered tone and stoic expression made her grin. “Hey, no judgment. Dinosaurs are awesome. I’d pick those over plain elbows any day.”
His lips twitched, just slightly, but enough to count. “You’ve got good taste,” he said, the faintest trace of a smirk softening his features.
The cashier rang up his items, and he moved through quickly, nodding politely as he passed her. But as she finished paying and struggled to balance her bags, she found him lingering outside near his truck.
“Need a hand?” he asked gruffly, though he was already moving toward her.
She hesitated for a moment before relenting. “If you don’t mind.”
Without a word, he scooped up the heaviest bags as if they weighed nothing. She blinked at the sight, muscles flexing under his worn henley.
“Thanks,” she said, slightly breathless, trying to keep up as he strode to her car.
“Welcome,” he said simply, setting the bags in her trunk with ease. His gaze flicked to her briefly, and he almost looked like he wanted to say more. Instead, he just gave a curt nod and walked back to his truck.
It was only a few days later when they ran into each other again, this time at the post office. She had just picked up a package that was almost comically large, far too awkward for one person to handle easily. Balancing it against her hip, she tried to maneuver her way out of the building without dropping it, muttering a steady stream of curses under her breath.
Just as the box tilted precariously, a hand appeared to steady it, large and sure.
“Careful,” came the familiar low drawl.
She blinked, startled, and looked up into a pair of blue eyes she was starting to recognize all too well. “Thanks,” she said, exhaling in relief. “Starting to think you have impeccable timing.”
His lips twitched, that almost-smile she was beginning to appreciate flickering across his face. “Just passing through.” He replied, shifting his grip on the package and effortlessly hoisting it up, carrying it like it weighed nothing at all.
“Oh, you don’t have to-”
“It’s fine,” he stated simply, his tone leaving no room for argument. He glanced at her car and walked toward it.
She trailed behind him as he easily strode with the package. By the time she unlocked the trunk, he deposited the box neatly inside, brushing his hands off quickly.
“Thanks,” she said again, feeling a little useless but sincerely grateful.
“It’s nothin’,” he replied, already stepping back. His eyes lingered on her for a second longer than usual before he turned toward his truck, parked a few spaces down.
She watched him go, following the deliberate, measured way he moved. Just as he reached his door, she called out impulsively, “I owe you one, you know.”
He paused, glancing back at her with a quirk of his brow. “I’ll hold you to it,” he said, the hint of a smirk tugging at his mouth. And then he was gone, leaving her with a warm, unexpected feeling she carried all the way home.
The days that followed were quiet but productive. Between finishing work assignments, and tinkering with small projects around the house, she hardly noticed how much time she spent indoors until her eyes began to ache from staring at her laptop screen for hours on end.
One crisp morning, the allure of fresh air proved too strong to resist. She decided to take a walk in the woods, craving a change of scenery. It had been years since the last time she’d wandered those familiar paths, but she still remembered some of the trails from her childhood summers.
As she wandered along the narrow dirt trail, the sunlight filtering through the canopy in golden shafts painted the forest in a warm, serene glow. She hadn’t expected to encounter anyone out here, but the steady, rhythmic thwack of an axe meeting wood broke through the quiet, catching her attention.
Curiosity stirred, and before she could think better of it, she found herself following the sound, her footsteps light on the soft earth.
There he was, in a small clearing just off the trail, splitting logs with effortless precision. Bucky’s axe swung high before coming down in a clean arc, the sharp crack of splitting wood breaking the stillness. A neat pile of firewood grew beside him, while fresh rounds waited in a haphazard stack.
He hadn’t noticed her yet, too focused on his work, and she found herself lingering longer than she should have, watching the way his muscles moved beneath his shirt and how his hair stuck to his forehead.
When he finally glanced up and spotted her, her stomach flipped. His brows knit together in mild surprise, and he straightened, propping the axe against a nearby stump.
“You lost?” he asked, with a low and even voice, though his tone wasn’t unkind.
She stepped closer, shaking her head. “No, just wandering. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“You didn’t,” he said, grabbing a rag from the pile and wiping his hands. His gaze lingered on her for a moment, like he was trying to piece together why she was there. “Trail gets tricky up ahead. Lots of roots and uneven ground.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” she replied, glancing around the clearing. “This your spot?”
He nodded once. “Helps to stay busy.”
She looked at the pile of wood, then back at him. “Looks like more than just ‘staying busy.’”
A faint smirk tugged at his lips. “Winters here are rough.”
There was a pause, not quite awkward, but heavy. She shifted her weight, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Well, it’s impressive. I mean, you make it look easy.”
“It’s not,” he said simply, picking up the axe again. “But you get used to it.”
She lingered, unsure if she should say more or let him get back to work. He tilted his head slightly, watching her with a curious expression.
“You like the woods?” he asked, breaking the silence.
“Yeah,” she said, smiling softly. “It’s peaceful out here. Different from the city.”
His gaze flicked back to the axe in his hand. “It is.” There was a weight to his words, hinting at something deeper than just the stillness of the woods, but she chose not to push.
“Well, I’ll let you get back to it,” she said finally, offering him a polite nod.
“Careful on the trail,” he said again, his voice softer this time.
As she turned to leave, she couldn’t resist glancing back over her shoulder. He was already back to work, the axe slicing clean through another log. She bit her lip, shaking her head at herself as she continued down the trail.
He sighed. Winters are rough? That was the polite answer, the one people accepted without a second glance. The truth was darker, heavier. Every time the weight of old memories clawed at him -screams, chaos, the suffocating fear that came into walking a dark tunnel that could bury him alive- he found his solace in the rhythmic swing of an axe. Splitting firewood was his refuge, the repetitive motion carving out a rare emptiness in his mind.
He kept chopping, waiting until he was sure she wouldn’t glance back again. Then, he let himself linger, his eyes following her retreating form.
He was interested.
Shit.
Sam hadn’t been helping either, dropping “innocent” tidbits about her, like breadcrumbs, every time they crossed paths. How she worked from home. How she wasn’t seeing anyone. How she seemed to be settling in, though she was still getting used to small-town life. Bucky could tell Sam was trying to nudge him, but it only stirred something conflicted in him.
On one hand, he was drawn to her, from her curves to the way she smiled, also, the way her voice provoked a warmth in him he hadn’t felt in years. On the other hand, the thought of pursuing something -anything- good for himself felt... wrong. Like he didn’t deserve it.
And then there was the matter of simply not knowing how.
He was out of shape when it came to people. Always had been, even before life turned upside down. Now, with scars inside and out, the idea of approaching her felt like staring down at a puzzle he didn’t have the pieces for.
What would he even say? What would she think if she knew the mess he was?
Bucky swung the axe harder, the sharp crack of the log splitting echoing through the clearing. He flexed his fingers and tightened his jaw.
For now, all he could do was chop and hope the noise drowned out the voice in his head whispering that he wasn’t enough.
Over the next couple of months, the little town started to feel less like a temporary retreat and more like a place she could call home. The older women gushed over her porch restoration project and eagerly shared gardening tips, while the crowd closer to her age welcomed her into their fold with invitations for coffee dates or potluck dinners.
And then there was Bucky.
Though technically part of that age group, he was absent from most social gatherings. She couldn’t picture him at a potluck, anyway, sitting around sharing recipes or small talk. It just wasn’t him. Yet, in his own quiet way, he’d become more present in her life.
Bit by bit, he seemed to uncoil from whatever tension held him so tightly. He started to linger longer during their chance encounters, sometimes surprising them both with a dry, unexpected joke. Other times, he’d pitch in with simple acts of kindness, like carrying eventually heavy stuff to her car, or even fixing the wobbly step on her porch when Sam got busier and asked him to do it. He could have said no, but he still came, quietly getting the job done without any fanfare.
-----------
Then, the announcement of the annual town festival brought a new wave of excitement. It was the event of the season, where everyone came together to celebrate the town's founding. Without much hesitation, she signed up to contribute, deciding to sell pies and baked goods. Not only was it a way to contribute to the celebration, but it was also a chance to make a little extra income for the ongoing repairs to the house. The porch was done, but there was still plenty of work to do: fresh paint, creaky floorboards, and other little fixes that added up.
So, she rolled up her sleeves and got to work. The week leading up to the festival was a whirlwind of flour-dusted counters and the comforting aroma of cinnamon and vanilla. She tested each recipe to make sure they were just like her grandmother used to make.
The excitement of the upcoming festival settled over the town, and she felt like she was becoming part of something bigger, a tradition, a community.
Meanwhile, word had spread that she was setting up a booth to sell her pies. Sam, always the one to keep an ear to the ground, couldn't help but tease Bucky one morning while they were working on a new batch of supplies for the festival booths. They were building the structure for several of the vendors, and Bucky had come by to help with the heavier lifting, always lending a hand when needed.
“She’s doing a booth, huh?” Sam asked with a knowing grin as he hammered in a final nail. “Maybe you should swing by, get yourself a little sugar, hm?”
Bucky’s response was as sharp as ever. “Shut up, Wilson,” he grumbled, his eyes narrowing as he worked, but Sam could see the way his shoulders stiffened, the way he held himself a little straighter.
He stayed silent for a beat, focusing on the sturdy plank of wood he was planing down. The rhythmic scrape of the tool seemed to be the only thing keeping him calm. Sam, however, was never one to let a good opportunity slip by.
“I’m just saying,” Sam pressed on, leaning casually against the workbench, “she’s single, she’s sweet, and she seems to like you.” He smirked, his tone teetering on playful. “You could, y’know, take a shot. Maybe buy a pie while you’re at it. You can’t live on just dino-shaped mac and cheese.”
Bucky huffed a humorless laugh, setting the plane down with a bit more force than intended. “And what would I even say to her, huh? ‘Hi, I’m good at chopping wood and screwing things up.’ That’s a real winner.”
Sam raised an eyebrow, undeterred. “You don’t have to lead with the self-deprecating monologue, man. Just... be you. You’re a good guy, Buck, even if you refuse to see it.” He straightened, resting a hand on his hip. “And she’s clearly got some interest. Not every woman looks at a guy like he’s the only steady thing in a storm.”
Bucky shot him a sharp look, the tips of his ears unmistakably pink. “She doesn’t-“
“Oh, she does,” Sam interrupted with a grin that widened at Bucky’s growing discomfort. “And you’d see it too if you didn’t spend so much time convincing yourself you’re not worth her attention.”
For a long moment, Bucky said nothing, his jaw tightening as he flexed his left hand, a tell Sam recognized far too well. Finally, he sighed, leaning his weight on the workbench. “It’s not that simple.”
“It never is,” Sam agreed, his tone softening. “But you don’t have to figure it all out today. Start small. Talk to her at the festival. Buy a pie. Hell, buy the whole booth if you have to.” He clapped Bucky on the shoulder, eliciting a grunt. “Just don’t let this pass you by.”
----------
The day of the festival arrived, and the town square buzzed with life. Booths lined the streets, each one bursting with local goods: handmade crafts, fresh produce, and jars of preserves. Children darted through the crowds, their faces painted like butterflies or superheroes, their laughter weaving through the cheerful hum of a local band playing in the distance.
Her booth stood out in its simplicity, decorated with gingham tablecloths and jars of freshly picked flowers from her garden. The pies were the centerpiece, their golden crusts glistening in the sunlight, flanked by trays of cookies and jars of homemade jam.
She adjusted the sign that read “Baked Goods – From Granny’s Recipe Box” and stepped back, taking a deep breath to steady herself.
The day unfolded in a whirlwind of chatter and laughter. Her booth was busier than she’d dared to hope, a steady stream of customers stopping to sample the pies or chat about the sign. Compliments came easily from the townsfolk, praising her buttery crusts and spiced fillings. Each kind word felt like a little victory, her heart swelling with the realization that she was becoming a part of the community.
The sun climbed higher into the sky, casting warm golden light over the bustling festival. Her booth remained busy, the stream of smiling faces keeping her occupied and distracted, though not enough to stop her from glancing through the crowd now and then.
By mid-afternoon, Sam strolled up, hands in his pockets and an easy grin on his face. "Well, well. Look at you, baking queen," he teased.
She laughed, brushing a stray strand of hair out of her face. “Hardly. But I’ll take it. Want a slice?”
Sam leaned on the edge of the booth, scanning the offerings. “Tempting, but I might be here on more of a reconnaissance mission.”
Her brow lifted. “What kind of mission?”
“You know, checking in, seeing how you're doing, and maybe scouting for a certain broody lumberjack.” He winked, and she rolled her eyes with a chuckle.
“Let me guess, he sent you to grab a pie?” she joked, wiping her hands on her apron.
“Bucky? Nah.” Sam’s grin dimmed slightly, and he gave a small shrug. “Didn’t see him around earlier. Honestly, he might not even show. Festivals aren’t really his thing.”
She tried to keep the disappointment off her face, focusing instead on adjusting a jar of jam on the table. Sam caught the subtle shift in her expression, his teasing smile softening.
“He’s around,” Sam said casually, leaning an elbow on the edge of the booth. “Bucky’s just… not much of a crowd guy. Give him time.”
Her fingers paused on the jar, but she didn’t look up. “I wasn’t-”
“Sure you weren’t,” Sam interrupted with a knowing grin. “But I wouldn’t hold it against him. People aren’t really his thing. Except, maybe, certain people.”
She rolled her eyes, her lips curving into a small smile despite herself. “And you’re just full of insight, aren’t you?”
“Hey, I’m just observin’.” He straightened up, grabbing a cookie from the tray. “And I’ll take one of these for the road. Festival’s not complete without snacks.”
She shook her head, amused as Sam strolled off, leaving her alone to greet the next customer.
The hours passed in a blur of chatter and sales, the sun dipping lower in the sky. She’d almost stopped scanning the square for him when, late in the afternoon, a familiar figure emerged.
Bucky walked slowly, his hands buried deep in his jacket pockets, his gaze flicking over the booths like he wasn’t sure where to go. Then he spotted her. His shoulders straightened, and their eyes met across the square. For a moment, neither moved. Then, with an almost sheepish hesitation, he started toward her.
Each step closer felt like a mistake, and yet he didn’t stop. His eyes took in the sight of her booth, tidy and charming, and then her. She wore a casual dress under a cardigan, and a frilly apron tied neatly around her waist, the image of a vintage housewife. The dress fit snugly at her chest, the fabric pulling slightly when she moved to rearrange something on the table. It wasn’t anything overly revealing, but it didn’t matter; all of the visual information seemed to bypass his brain entirely and head directly to the south. He swallowed hard, trying to redirect his focus before he embarrassed himself.
“Hey,” he said when he reached the booth, his voice a little softer than he intended. He scratched the back of his neck, glancing briefly at the display of pies and jars before forcing himself to meet her eyes.
“Hi,” she replied, her face lighting up in a way that made the whole awkward journey worth it.
“I, uh... thought I’d stop by,” he continued, the words fumbling slightly as he fought the urge to retreat. “Looks like business is good.” He gestured vaguely at the booth, trying to seem casual, though his pulse was anything but.
“It’s been steady,” she said, her smile warm. “I wasn’t sure if you’d make it.”
Her words made him hesitate, but only briefly. He nodded toward the pies, his lips twitching into what might have been the beginnings of a smile. “Figured I’d see what all the fuss is about.”
“And?” she asked, a playful glint in her eye. “Are you finding the fuss justified?”
He looked at her then, his gaze lingering in a way that made her shift her weight slightly. His lips quirked into the faintest smirk. “Seen a few tempting products,” he said, his voice low, almost teasing.
Was that... a double meaning? She wasn’t sure, but the way her stomach flipped at his tone left her biting her lip to suppress a smile.
“Well,” she said, leaning slightly against the booth, “what might you be interested in, then?”
“Got any plum jam?” he asked after a moment, his eyes scanning the jars displayed on the table.
She winced apologetically. “Sorry, sold out this morning. It’s a popular one.”
He gave a small nod, not seeming too put out. “Guess I’ll settle for a slice of apple pie, then.”
“You won’t regret it,” she said, quickly cutting a generous slice and placing it in a little paper dish. As she handed it to him, their fingers brushed briefly, a small, electric jolt of contact that she tried not to overthink.
“Thanks,” he murmured, his gaze flickering back to hers for a split second before focusing intently on the pie. He took a bite, and the deep, guttural groan that escaped him had her blinking in surprise, and then staring at him, very much not with pure thoughts.
Her gaze dropped helplessly to his mouth, where a small dollop of apple mush clung stubbornly to the corner of his lips. Oh, how she’d love to help him clean that up, maybe even by lapping it up herself. The thought had her throat going dry. “Uh, you have... there,” she managed, signaling to her own mouth because words failed her entirely.
He frowned slightly, his thumb swiping at his lips. When he missed, she gave a quick, stifled laugh, shaking her head and pointing more precisely. His next attempt was successful, and when he scooped the apple filling with his thumb and licked it clean off, her breath caught.
That should be illegal.
“Damn,” he said, glancing down at the pie with newfound respect. “Guess you can marry now.”
She blinked, startled. “What?”
His ears reddened as he fumbled for an explanation, suddenly realizing how strange that sounded. “Uh... my ma used to say... I mean, like, if a woman could cook well, she’d be ready for marriage, or something… uh, forget it.” He waved a hand, suddenly looking like he wanted the ground to swallow him whole.
“Oh no,” she said, crossing her arms and quirking a brow, her lips twitching in amusement. “Now I really want to know what your ma used to say.”
“My ma used to say,” he admitted reluctantly, “a woman who can bake a pie like this could keep a man happy for life.”
As the words left his mouth, he realized -really realized- what he’d just said. Bringing up marriage, even indirectly, in what was supposed to be casual conversation? A new low, even for him. His inward grimace was immediate, a mortifying mix of regret and disbelief at his own lack of subtlety.
She blinked at him, her head tilting slightly, a flicker of something unreadable crossing her face. “Well,” she said slowly, the edge of her lip quirking up, “Bet she was the kind of person who made everyone feel at home.”
He cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, she... she was something.” Hoping to steer the moment away from the awkward territory he’d stumbled into, he gestured vaguely to the booth. “Anyway, uh... pie’s great. Really.”
“Thanks, Bucky. I’m glad you like it. It’s one of my granny’s best recipes.” She smiled warmly
He nodded, his lips twitching into something close to a smile. “She taught you well.”
That earned a soft laugh from her. “Yeah, she’d make me practice until I got it just right. Burned a lot of pies before this one.”
The conversation lingered as they eased into a rhythm, the earlier tension giving way to something more relaxed. She asked about his work, curious about how he supplied Sam with lumber, and he surprised her by sharing a bit more than usual talking about the care it took to choose the right trees and how the process wasn’t just chopping wood but understanding the forest itself.
“You make it sound like an art,” she said, tilting her head thoughtfully.
“Guess it kinda is,” he admitted. “You’ve gotta respect it. If you don’t, it shows in the work.”
Before she could respond, a familiar voice interrupted, cutting through their moment like a buzz saw.
“Well, well, look who finally decided to show up!”
Sam’s broad grin was radiant as he strolled up to the booth, hands tucked casually into his pockets.
Bucky groaned softly, his shoulders slumping a fraction as if bracing himself for whatever teasing was about to come. “What do you want, Sam?”
“Oh, nothing much,” Sam said breezily, his eyes darting between the two of them. “Just thought I’d check in, maybe grab some pie, see what’s happening over here.” He smirked. “Looks like I picked the right booth.”
She rolled her eyes, but the smile tugging at her lips betrayed her amusement. “Careful, Sam. You’re gonna run me out of inventory if you keep showing up.”
Sam leaned on the counter, grinning. “Don’t worry, I’m here only to make sure Bucky doesn’t scare off your customers with his broody face.”
Bucky shot him a glare, but Sam only shrugged, completely unfazed.
“Actually, Buck, some of the people are starting to pack up. We should get a head start on breaking down everything so tomorrow’s not such a hassle,” Sam continued, his tone shifting to business mode. “Don’t give me that look, I'm not the one who strolled in here right before closing time.”
Bucky sighed but didn’t argue. “Right, right,” he muttered but didn’t seem eager to leave just yet.
She chuckled softly at their dynamic, watching as Sam started to organize a few things, seemingly trying to speed up the process of wrapping up.  “Well then, I’ll just get the last of these pies packed up.” she said, wiping her hands on her apron.
“Oh, I’m sure you’ll make it a little easier on yourself if you let us take a couple of those home,” Sam said with a grin, his eyes scanning the remaining trays. “For later, of course. Can’t let all this deliciousness go to waste.”
Bucky didn’t respond right away, but his gaze lingered on the last few slices, making it clear he wasn’t about to pass up on some baked goods.
“Yeah, well, I suppose you’re right,” she said, laughing. “Guess you both deserve some for your hard work on the structures.”
“I’m not gonna argue with that,” Sam said, grinning as he reached for the remaining slices of pie. “Besides,” he said, gesturing toward Bucky, “look at him. He must be starving. You don’t know the amount of food it takes to keep all that going.”
Bucky froze mid-chew, his fork hovering just above the plate, and gave Sam a pointed look, equal parts exasperation and disbelief. “Seriously?”
“What?” Sam shrugged innocently, though his smirk said otherwise. “It’s true. You’re always munching on something. Remember last week? Three sandwiches in one sitting, and you still stole my fries.”
Bucky’s glare sharpened, but it only fueled Sam’s amusement. “You ate half my wings, Wilson,” Bucky said dryly, his tone low and unimpressed.
“Details,” Sam said with a wave of his hand, his grin not fading. “Point is, you’ve got the appetite of a bear coming out of hibernation. I’m just trying to make sure you don’t go hungry.”
She laughed as she placed the box of pies on the counter. “Well, I can’t have that on my conscience,” she teased. “Take as many slices as you need, Bucky. We’ll call it a public service.”
Bucky shifted on his feet, his gaze darting between her and the pies. The faintest flush crept up his neck as he mumbled, “Thanks,” and slid another slice of pie onto his plate. His eyes lingered on the cookies for a moment before he reached for one, his movements a little hesitant, as if he wasn’t sure how much was too much.
“You sure?” he asked, glancing up at her, his voice quieter now.
She smiled warmly, waving off his concern. “Positive. Consider it payment for all the heavy lifting.”
He huffed a low laugh, the corner of his mouth twitching up in what could almost be called a smile. “Appreciate it,” he said, his words rough but sincere.
Sam clapped him on the shoulder, almost making Bucky drop the cookie. “Alright, big guy, let’s get out of her way before you clean her out completely.
Bucky shot him a half-hearted glare but allowed Sam to steer him toward a cluster of tables nearby, his plate balanced carefully in one hand.
She watched them go, her lips curving into a smile as Sam said something that made Bucky shake his head in exasperation.
With a deep breath, she turned back to finish packing up, though her gaze flicked toward their working spot every now and then.
That night, she lay in bed, the exhaustion of the festival weighing her body down but leaving her mind buzzing. Every detail of the day replayed like a film reel, but one moment stood out above all: Bucky and his awkward, utterly endearing comment about marriage.
She groaned, burying her flushed face into her pillow like a teenager. Guess you can marry now. The memory of his hesitant, almost panicked attempt to explain himself made her toes curl, not in secondhand embarrassment but in something far warmer, more thrilling. And the way he’d looked at her as he said it... that fleeting vulnerability, his ears burning red. She shook her head, biting her lip against a smile.
An idea came to her mind while sipping her morning coffee, staring at the half-empty box of baked goods and preserves she hadn’t packed into the car the day before. She’d thought she was carrying too much, but now she saw what she’d left behind: two jars of plum jam. The very ones Bucky had wanted at the festival but hadn’t been able to get.
She turned one jar in her hand, smiling faintly. It wasn’t much, but it felt like the right thing to do, a small gesture to thank him for all the ways he’d helped her. A friendly token, nothing more. The thought made her nerves tingle anyway.
Shoving those thoughts aside, she packed the jars into her backpack, laced up her boots, and headed out. She made her way toward the spot where she’d found him last time, the rhythmic thwack of his axe cutting through wood still vivid in her memory. She tried not to feel disappointed when the clearing came into view and she didn’t see him right away, but then a faint rustling sound caught her attention.
Bucky was there, further back, crouched near a stack of neatly cut logs, inspecting a wedge that had splintered unevenly. He looked so at ease in his element, that she almost turned back. But then he shifted, his head tilting slightly as if he’d heard her approach.
“Hey,” she called, her voice lighter than intended.
He stood, turning to face her. His brow furrowed slightly in surprise, but it softened quickly. “Hey.”
“I, uh...” She adjusted her backpack strap, suddenly feeling awkward for tracking him down like this. “I had some leftovers from the festival, and I remembered you wanted plum jam. Turns out I had two jars I didn’t even bring.” She opened the backpack and pulled them out, offering them with a tentative smile. “Figured I’d bring them to you as a thank-you for all the times you’ve helped me out.”
Bucky stared at the jars, his expression unreadable at first, but then his lips tugged into the faintest hint of a smile. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know,” she said, shrugging lightly. “But I wanted to. It’s just jam, anyway.”
“Just jam,” he repeated, taking the jars from her hands, his fingers brushing hers briefly. He glanced at the labels, then back at her. “Thanks. Really.”
“You’re welcome,” she said, feeling breathless under his intense gaze. She stuffed her hands into her knitted jacket pockets, trying to play it cool. “Hope it’s as good as my pies.”
His lips twitched, that almost-smile appearing again. “Guess I’ll have to let you know.” For a moment, neither of them moved, then he cleared his throat, gesturing toward the logs behind him. “You walked all the way out here just for this?” he asked, slightly lifting his brow.
“Pretty much, yeah,” she admitted, her voice softening as a hint of shyness crept in. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, suddenly very aware of how much effort she’d put into this small gesture.
Bucky’s gaze lingered on her for a moment, “That’s... thoughtful of you.”
Her cheeks warmed under his quiet scrutiny, but she forced a casual shrug. “Well, I figured it beats letting them collect dust in my pantry.”
“Still,” he murmured, “thanks. Means a lot.”
“You’re welcome. I, uh...” She glanced at the jars in his hands, suddenly unsure of herself. “I won’t take more of your time. Just wanted to...” She gestured vaguely toward the jam, the movement almost bashful.
Bucky’s gaze softened, his grip tightening slightly around the jars. Before she could step away, he called after her, his voice rough yet almost hesitant. “Hey.”
She turned back, catching the flicker of something earnest in his expression.
“Thanks again,” he said simply, holding up the jars slightly.
Her smile softened, more genuine now. “Anytime.”
Bucky stood there for a long moment after she left, staring at the jars in his hands. The deep, rich purple of the jam glinted faintly in the sunlight filtering through the trees, but his mind wasn’t on the contents. It was on her. The way her voice had faltered, the slight hesitance in her movements when she handed them to him, like she wasn’t sure if he’d even want them.
Why the hell wouldn’t I? he thought bitterly, his jaw tightening. He shifted the jars to one hand, his free one dragging down his face. Damn it.
The easy confidence he used to have, -the kind that once let him charm anyone he wanted- was long gone, worn away by years of service that had left their mark on his body and mind. His scars, both visible and hidden, weren’t just marks; they were reminders of a life split into before and after. He set the jars carefully on a stump, picking up his axe again and turning back to the log he’d been working on.
The first swing came down harder than necessary, the wood splitting with a satisfying crack.
What if Sam was right? What if she really did like him? What the hell would he even do with that? He couldn’t imagine someone like her -a woman who baked pies for town festivals and brought plum jam out to the woods- being happy with someone like him. Someone who carried more baggage than he knew how to unpack.
The axe came down again, the sharp sound echoing through the clearing.
She deserved better than someone like him. Someone whole. Someone who didn’t wake up in cold sweats or flinch at loud noises. Someone who could stand in a crowd without feeling like the walls were closing in. He couldn’t even have a simple conversation without fumbling over his words like a damn teenager.
Another swing and the log finally gave way, splitting clean in two. He adjusted the pieces and started again, the rhythmic motion grounding him even as his thoughts spiraled.
And yet... there she was, walking through the woods just to give him something she thought he’d like. Her smile was genuine, her laugh soft, and for a moment, it had felt almost normal, like maybe he wasn’t the broken mess he’d convinced himself he was.
Don’t kid yourself.
The axe paused mid-air as his gaze flickered to the jars again. She wasn’t just being polite, was she? There had been something in her eyes, something he didn’t know how to name but felt keenly.
God, I used to be good at this, he thought, lowering the axe and resting his hands on the handle. Before everything went to hell, before the nightmares and the scars and the sense of being completely out of place in a world that had moved on without him, he’d known how to read people. Known how to charm them.
Now, he couldn’t even tell if the kindest gesture he’d received in years was just... friendliness.
Bucky exhaled slowly, his grip tightening on the axe. He had no answers, only doubts, and a feeling in his gut that maybe, just maybe, he was about to screw this up like he did everything else.
----------
The afternoon sunlight filtered through the living room curtains as she sat cross-legged on the couch, her laptop balanced on her knees. She rubbed her temples and glared at the screen, rereading the same sentence for what felt like the hundredth time. The latest manuscript she was proofreading was a Highlander romance, complete with a Marie Sue, a couple of brawny warriors, and more plaid than a fabric store. It wasn’t that she disliked the genre, but this one was so cliché-ridden it was almost impressive.
“And then his emerald eyes bore into hers, as if he could see the depths of her soul,” she read aloud, her tone dry. She let out a groan, rolling her eyes for what felt like the fiftieth time that day. “Of course he did.”
Still, it paid the bills. She took a sip of her now lukewarm tea and leaned back, debating whether to power through or take a break. That’s when a knock sounded at the door.
Her brows furrowed. Dorothy, the old lady he met at the general store, had mentioned bringing over some plant bulbs today, and it was her signature to show up unannounced. Closing the laptop with a sigh of relief at the distraction, she stood and padded to the door.
“Dorothy, you didn’t have to-” she began, opening the door with a welcoming smile, only to have the words die in her throat.
It wasn’t Dorothy.
Bucky stood there, one hand gripping a well-worn toolbox and the other shoved casually into the pocket of his jeans. The red henley he wore was snug enough to highlight the curve of his shoulders and the breadth of his chest, but not enough to look like he was trying. His hair was slightly mussed, as if the wind had tussled it just before he knocked, and the faintest hint of stubble shadowed his jaw.
For a second, neither of them spoke. She blinked, her surprise evident, while he cleared his throat and offered a small, almost sheepish nod.
“Hey,” he said, his deep voice tinged with a hint of hesitation. “I, uh... remembered you mentioned during the festival needing to fix a couple of roof tiles.” He lifted the toolbox slightly as if to emphasize his purpose. “Thought I’d stop by and take care of it. For the jam.”
It was a perfectly logical explanation, but the sight of him on her porch, looking like an ad for rustic competence, left her momentarily speechless.
She groaned inwardly, the warmth of embarrassment creeping up her neck as she registered her current state, an old pair of sweatpants and an even older shirt with a faded logo, complete with a jam stain right across the bosom. Great. Just great.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she finally managed, her voice brushing off the initial surprise as she tucked a stray hair behind her ear. “Really, it’s not that big of a deal.”
Bucky shrugged, the corner of his mouth twitching into a small, easy smile. “Figured I owed you one. Besides, it’s no trouble.”
Despite herself, her lips quirked in a smile as she stepped aside and gestured toward the side of the house. “Well, okay then. The tiles that need fixing are just over there.”
He nodded, his movements purposeful but unhurried, as he turned toward his truck. “I’ll grab my ladder and get started.”
As he walked away, she shut the door with a quiet click and let out a soft exhale, leaning her forehead briefly against the cool wood. A glance down at her outfit made her wince. Nope. There was no way she was standing out there in this while Bucky Barnes fixed her roof looking like a walking ad for rugged, small-town charm.
She bolted for her room, tearing through her wardrobe with newfound urgency. A simple casual dress with a V neckline and cardigan was the winning combo, comfortable enough for an impromptu chat but still presentable. She smoothed the fabric over her hips and checked her reflection in the mirror, brushing her hair back into place before heading back to the living room.
The faint clink of metal outside signaled that Bucky was already at work. Feeling slightly more put-together, she made her way to the kitchen to make some lemonade, hoping she didn’t look like she was trying too hard.
Once the lemonade was ready, she poured a glass, her movements steady as she tried to keep her thoughts from spiraling. It wasn’t a big deal. Just a neighborly gesture to bring him something cool while he worked. Absolutely no ulterior motives, she told herself firmly, ignoring the tiny thrill that ran through her at the thought of talking to him again.
After tidying up a few things to stall for time, she finally stepped outside, the lemonade glass balanced carefully in her hand. The sun had warmed the air, and she spotted Bucky perched on the ladder, one boot firmly planted on a lower rung as he worked to secure a tile.
“Hey,” she called out lightly, making her way toward him.
He glanced down, his hands pausing mid-adjustment. His gaze caught on her new outfit, lingering for a moment before flicking back to her face. She wasn’t imagining it, the slight shift in his expression was hard to miss.
Feeling suddenly self-conscious under his sharp blue eyes, she offered the glass with a small smile. “Thought you might want something to drink.” Then, in a rush of nervous energy, she added, “Dorothy was supposed to drop by, so I figured I should look a little more... put together.”
His gaze flickered briefly to the neckline of her dress, the height of his vantage point affording a view to skin that other way should be concealed by cloth. For a split second, his focus lingered on the swell of her breasts before he forced his attention back to her face with an unreadable expression.
“Thanks,” he said gruffly, reaching down to take the glass. His fingers brushed hers for a fraction of a second, the callouses rough against her skin, and she fought the urge to shiver at the contact.
“You’re, uh, making good progress,” she said, nodding toward the roof as if that would distract from the warmth in her cheeks.
“Not much to it,” he replied, taking a sip. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he drank, and her eyes dipped of their own accord, watching the movement.
When he handed the glass back, their fingers brushed again, and she swore his hand lingered just a moment longer this time.
She lingered by the ladder, holding her glass of lemonade, the condensation cool against her fingers. “You and Sam did a great job building the booths for the festival,” she said, her tone casual. “Not only a provider, huh? Seems like you’re quite the handyman too.”
Bucky glanced down at her, his lips twitching into a faint smile before he focused back on the tile he was securing. “It wasn’t just us. Plenty of other guys helped out.”
“Still,” she insisted, watching the muscles in his forearms shift as he worked, “it’s cool. You don’t see that kind of dedication every day.”
He didn’t respond right away, his grip tightening on the hammer. The compliment clearly unsettled him, and for a split second, his aim wavered. The hammer came down too close to his thumb, and he muttered a sharp curse under his breath.
“Are you okay?” she asked, stepping closer instinctively. Her brows knit together with concern as she watched him shake out his hand.
“Peachy,” he muttered with a gruff voice, though the faint pink creeping up his neck gave away his frustration, whether from the near miss or her watchful presence, she wasn’t sure.
Her lips twitched at his tone, but she held back a laugh, not wanting to poke the bear. “Alright, then. I’ll leave you to it before I distract you into taking off a finger.”
He glanced down at her, his blue eyes sharp but not unkind. “You’re not a distraction,” he said after a beat, his voice softer this time.
Her stomach did a little flip, but she forced herself to keep her tone light. “Still, I’d hate to be the reason you get hurt. Let me know if you need anything else, okay?”
He gave a small nod, his gaze lingering on her for a moment longer before he turned back to his work, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly.
She stepped back toward the house, clutching the empty glass tightly as she crossed the threshold and shut the door behind her.
With a deep breath, she returned to the couch, her laptop waiting for her where she’d left it. But even as she opened the screen and stared down the next line of plaid-covered Highlander melodrama, her thoughts drifted back to the man on her roof and the way his gaze lingered just a second too long.
---------
The knock at the door startled her out of the repetitive loop of her manuscript edits. Leaving the laptop on the coffee table, she stood, smoothing the fabric of her dress instinctively. When she opened the door, there he was, a faint sheen of sweat on his face and his toolbox in hand.
“All done,” Bucky said, his deep voice a little quiet, as though he wasn’t entirely sure how to say more. He gestured vaguely toward the roof with his free hand. “The tiles should hold up fine now. No leaks to worry about.”
Her smile was warm as relief and gratitude washed over her. “Thank you, Bucky. Really. That was so kind of you to come by and take care of it.”
He gave a small shrug, his lips twitching into a faint smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Didn’t take long. Figured it’d save you some hassle.”
“Still,” she said, stepping back to open the door wider, “you didn’t have to. Can I at least get you something? Another drink, maybe?”
He hesitated, his hand tightening slightly on the handle of the toolbox. “You don’t have to-”
“I insist,” she cut him off gently, her smile unwavering. “Please. It’s the least I can do.”
After a beat, he nodded, stepping over the threshold with a cautious ease, as if unsure of how much space he was allowed to take up. She led him to the kitchen, motioning for him to sit at the small table while she poured a fresh glass of lemonade.
He sat stiffly, setting his toolbox carefully by his feet and rubbing the back of his neck. The kitchen smelled faintly of citrus and sugar, a scent that mingled oddly with the outdoorsy hint of sawdust and sweat he carried with him.
“Here,” she said, placing the glass in front of him before sitting across the table. “I hope it’s still cold enough.”
Bucky nodded his thanks, taking a sip. The silence stretched for a moment, not uncomfortable but loaded with unspoken thoughts. She was the first to break it.
“So, how long have you been working with Sam?” she asked, leaning her arms casually on the table.
He set the glass down, his fingers lingering on the rim as he answered. “A few years. Helps keep me busy.”
She tilted her head, studying him with quiet curiosity. “Do you supply the rest of the workshops and stores too?”
Bucky let out a soft, humorless chuckle. “Not really, just a few. Don’t think anyone’s lining up to hire a guy like me.”
Her brows knit together. “I don’t know about that. You’re dependable, skilled... and clearly a good neighbor.”
Her words caught him off guard, and he looked down, a faint flush creeping up his neck. “Just doing what needs to be done,” he mumbled.
“More than that,” she pressed, a hint of teasing in her tone now to lighten the moment. “If I hadn’t seen it for myself, I wouldn’t believe how fast you fixed those tiles.”
Bucky shook his head, his lips twitching into that barely-there smile again. “It’s just a roof.”
“To you, maybe,” she said lightly. “To me, it’s one less thing to worry about. And I really appreciate it.”
Her sincerity left him quiet for a moment, his fingers tightening briefly around the glass. He glanced up at her, meeting her eyes. “You’re welcome,” he said finally, with a low voice.
Another pause lingered between them, she smiled, leaning back slightly in her chair. “Well, if you ever need more jam -or a roof to fix- you know where to find me.”
He chuckled softly, the sound surprising even himself. “Guess I’ll keep that in mind.”
Their gazes held for just a beat too long before he stood, his hand already reaching for the toolbox. “I should get going.”
“Of course,” she said, standing as well, though she didn’t move to rush him out. “Thanks again, Bucky.”
As Bucky made his way toward the door, his gaze swept briefly over the living room, pausing on the open laptop resting on the coffee table. His steps slowed, curiosity flickering across his features. “What’s that you’re working on?” he asked, tilting his head toward the screen.
She followed his gaze and let out a soft, sheepish laugh. “Oh, just... proofreading a manuscript.”
He raised a brow, the corner of his mouth quirking up slightly. “What kind of manuscript?”
Her lips parted as if she might dodge the question, but his steady, inquisitive look made it clear he wasn’t letting this one go. “It’s, uh... a romance,” she admitted, her voice almost shy.
His brow lifted a little higher. “About?”
She hesitated, fidgeting slightly under his gaze. “It’s... okay, it’s one of those super cheesy historical romances. You know, with a rugged Highlander and a maid who’s swept up in some dramatic, forbidden love affair.” Her words tumbled out in a rush, her cheeks warming as she spoke.
Bucky’s expression shifted. First skeptical, then mildly amused, and finally landing somewhere between disbelief and intrigue. “And that sells?”
“It’s a very popular topic,” She nodded, already cringing inwardly. “It’s... well, it’s got a lot of dramatic tension, flowery descriptions, and... other stuff.”
“Like what?” he asked, genuinely curious, his head tilting slightly as he leaned against the doorframe.
She bit the inside of her cheek, debating how much detail to share. “You know... dramatic misunderstandings, passionate declarations, epic sword fights... and, uh...” She trailed off, waving her hand vaguely. “Other... things.”
“Other things,” he repeated, his lips twitching like he was trying not to smile. “You mean... the spicy stuff?”
Her cheeks flamed, and she groaned, covering her face with her hands. “Yes, okay? That stuff. Happy now?”
He chuckled making her peek at him from behind her fingers. “Didn’t take you for someone who’d spend their day reading about shirtless Highlanders sweeping maids off their feet.”
“I don’t spend my day reading it,” she shot back, lowering her hands to glare at him, though her expression was more embarrassed than angry. “I’m proofreading. There’s a difference.”
“Right,” he said, dragging the word out like he wasn’t entirely convinced. “So you’re not secretly daydreaming about a plaid-wearing, hero coming to whisk you away?”
“Absolutely not,” she replied firmly, though the faint crack in her voice betrayed her mortification.
He smirked, finally stepping back from the doorframe. “Good to know.”
She crossed her arms, watching him as he moved toward his toolbox. “Not that you’re one to judge,” she called after him. “You seem to know an awful lot about what goes on in those books for someone who’s never read one.”
That stopped him in his tracks. He turned back, his gaze narrowing slightly, though there was still a glint of amusement in his eyes. “I have a sister,” he said simply, as though that explained everything.
Her mouth opened, then shut, caught off guard. “Touché,” she murmured, conceding the point. Still, she couldn’t let it rest. “But honestly, this one is so bad, I don’t get how the editors went along with it.”
His curiosity piqued, and Bucky tilted his head. “And why’s that?”
“It’s just... so cheesy,” she said, her voice dipping with exaggerated drama. “Way too fluffy, the guy won’t stop talking about his feelings, and he’s clingy in a way that makes me cringe.” She shuddered a little for effect.
Bucky raised a brow, his thumb absently tapping against the handle of the toolbox. “So... that makes it bad for the genre? Or is that your personal taste talking?”
She blinked, thrown off by the question. “I-what?”
“I mean,” he continued, leaning casually against the doorframe, “aren’t romance novels supposed to be... you know, emotional? Feelings and all that? Or is it just not your thing?”
She frowned, his thoughtful tone making her pause. “I guess... it’s not the emotions that bother me,” she admitted, her arms crossing loosely. “It’s the way it’s written. This guy is just so... over the top. He’s constantly swooning over her, saying how she’s his whole world, his sun and stars... it’s too much. Like, tone it down, man.”
Bucky’s lips twitched, and he gave a small, thoughtful nod as if chewing over her words. “So, you’re more into the... brooding types?”
Her face warmed slightly at the observation, but she shrugged, trying to play it cool. “Maybe. I like characters who... don’t lay it all out at once. You know, someone with a little mystery.”
A long silence stretched between them, his gaze lingering on her as if trying to read between the lines. “Sounds like it’d be tough to figure out what they’re thinking.” He observed.
She raised a brow at that, tilting her head. “Sometimes actions speak louder than words, you know.”
Bucky seemed to consider that, his fingers flexing lightly around the handle of his toolbox. He nodded once, then glanced toward the door. “Well, I’ll let you get back to your... highlander drama.” He shifted his weight, toolbox in hand, and turned toward the door. But as he stepped through, he hesitated, glancing back. “Hey,” he said, his tone quieter now, almost hesitant. “If, uh... if you ever need something else, just let me know.”
She smiled “I will. The same goes for you, thanks again.”
He nodded, a small, almost shy tilt of his head, before stepping fully out the door. She stood there for a moment, staring after him as the faint crunch of his boots faded down the path. The quiet of her house enveloped her as she closed the door, replaying snippets of their conversation.
She had barely made it back to the couch when her phone buzzed. The screen lit up with a text from Sam:
Hey, I’m grilling tonight. You should come by. No excuses.
A smile tugged at her lips. The idea of stepping out, getting off her screen, and being around people sounded better than staying cooped up with plaids and cringy lairds. She quickly texted back her agreement.
The gathering was small, just a handful of locals chatting around the glow of the garden lights and the firepit, the scent of burning wood mingling with spiced cider in the air.
She wasn’t expecting to see Bucky there, given he wasn’t the social type but there he was, standing slightly apart from the crowd, his hands shoved into his pockets as he listened to a conversation between Sam and another neighbor.
She hesitated, her pulse quickening at the sight of him. Sam spotted her, waving her over. “Hey, glad you made it! C’mon, grab a drink.”
She made her way to the table laden with snacks and drinks, feeling Bucky’s gaze on her as she poured herself some cider. When she turned, he was standing just a few steps away, his expression unreadable in the flickering firelight.
“Hey,” she said, her voice a touch breathless. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
His lips quirked in a half-smile. “Sam can be... persuasive.”
She laughed softly “Yeah, he’s good at that.”
They stood there in companionable silence for a moment, and then, as someone started strumming a guitar on the other side of the yard, Bucky glanced at her, his blue eyes glinting with something she couldn’t quite place.
“Walk with me?” he asked, with a low but steady voice.
Surprised, she nodded, and they left the noise and light of the gathering behind, stepping into the quiet shadows of the trees that bordered Sam’s property.
As they walked, the only sounds were the crunch of leaves underfoot and the distant chords of the guitar. Finally, he spoke.
“I’ve been thinking,” he began with a cautious tone like he was testing the waters. “About what you said earlier. About liking... brooding characters.”
She blinked, caught off guard. “Oh?”
His gaze stayed forward, but his hands fidgeted at his sides. “Got me wondering if you really meant that. Or if you were just... making conversation.” The vulnerability in his voice sent a wave of warmth through her.
“I wasn’t just making conversation,” she admitted softly.
He stopped walking, turning to face her fully. The firelight was distant now, casting only the faintest glow, but she could still see the intensity in his expression. “Good,” he said, his voice rougher now. “Because I don’t want to keep wondering.”
Before she could respond, he stepped closer, his hand brushing hers, tentative but deliberate. And when she didn’t pull away, he leaned in, his breath warm against her skin as his lips captured hers in a kiss that was both hesitant and deeply certain, as if he’d been waiting for this moment far longer than he dared to admit.
She melted into him, her hands sliding up to his shoulders. That small gesture gave him all the permission he needed. Tilting his head, he traced the seam of her lips with his tongue, a gentle yet deliberate request. She parted her lips for him, granting entrance, and he deepened the kiss with a low, quiet sigh that sent warmth spiraling through her.
His hand slid to the curve of her lower back, pulling her closer, while the other found its way to her nape. His fingers tangled gently in her hair as he cradled her. Their kiss broke slowly, reluctantly, his lips brushing hers one last time as if he couldn’t quite let go. Bucky lingered close, his breath warm against her cheek, his nose skimming along her jaw before dipping to her neck. He pressed his face there, inhaling deeply, and his quiet, teasing voice sent a shiver down her spine.
“This too clingy for you?”
A soft laugh escaped her, though it dissolved into a breathy sigh as she tilted her head, exposing more of her neck to him. “Shut up,” she murmured, her fingers threading through his hair, keeping him close. Whatever witty retort she might have had melted into nothing as he pressed a lingering kiss to her pulse point.
Bucky’s lips lingered against her neck for a moment longer before he pulled back just enough to look at her. His fingers at her nape flexed, and then his gaze dropped briefly to her lips. Her heart stuttered as he closed the distance again, this time more demanding. His mouth claimed hers in a kiss that was deeper and hungrier. Gone was the tentative sweetness, this was need, raw and unrestrained. His hand slid from her lower back to her hip, splaying wide, pulling her flush against him as if he needed to eliminate even the smallest gap between them.
Her fingers tightened in his hair, tugging just enough to draw a low, throaty sound from him that sent a thrill through her. She arched into him instinctively, and his hand slid down to the hem of her dress, his fingers brushing her bare thigh. His touch was deliberate, teasing, but his restraint was evident. Her hands left his hair, sliding down to his chest, the soft flannel brushing her palms before she gripped the fabric and tugged him closer. He responded instantly, groaning softly into her mouth as the hand on her nape angled her tighter against his lips.
When they finally broke apart, their breaths mingling in the charged silence, he pressed his forehead to hers. Neither of them moved to step away, the distant chatter and laughter around the grill fading into the background. The weight of unspoken need between them was palpable.
“We should...” she started, her voice catching slightly. Then, more firmly, “We should go somewhere.”
His head lifted slightly, blue eyes dark as he searched hers for a beat before a slow smile tugged at his lips, agreeing with a low voice.
Without another word, he took her hand, intertwining their fingers briefly before leading her away. They drifted toward the edge of the yard with casual ease, their steps slow enough to avoid suspicion but quick enough to betray their shared urgency. Once they’d slipped into the cover of the trees bordering Sam’s property, she turned to him, their bodies close in the dim light of the evening. “Your truck or...?”
Bucky’s brows shot up at the suggestion, and for a moment, the idea tempted him, briefly, wildly. Considering the insistent ache in his jeans, the thought held undeniable appeal. But then, reason settled over him like a cool breeze. Not like this. Not tonight.
His lips quirked into a lopsided smirk, and he leaned in just enough that his voice sent a shiver through her. “Your place,” he murmured, low and deliberate.
The shift in his tone left her breathless, her pulse hammering against her skin as her cheeks warmed. She nodded wordlessly, her hand tightening slightly around his as they moved with quiet purpose. The path back to her house felt electric, each step charged with anticipation.
As the door clicked shut behind them, Bucky turned sharply, cornering her against the solid wood. His hands framed her face as his lips captured hers again, more demanding this time, his body pressing into hers with a heat that left no room for misinterpretation. She gasped softly into the kiss, the feel of his hardon against her stomach sending a jolt of desire through her.
Her fingers tangled in his long hair, tugging just enough to make him growl low in his throat. The sound vibrated between them, primal and electrifying. He broke the kiss just enough to murmur, his voice gravelly, “Where’s the bedroom?”
She pointed vaguely down the hall, her breath hitching. Before she could blink, his strong hands were gripping her waist, and he effortlessly threw her over his shoulder in one smooth motion.
A surprised squeal left her lips, and she braced herself against his back, her fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt. His hand splayed firmly over her rear to steady her, his voice teasing but thick with intent. “Easy there,” he said, the words curling with a hint of amusement.
He strode purposely through the hallway, and when they reached the bedroom, he set her down on the bed with surprising care, though his gaze was anything but gentle. He stood over her for a moment, taking her in, the way her hair fell wild around her face, her lips swollen from his kisses, her chest rising and falling with anticipation.
His tongue flicked over his bottom lip as his eyes darkened. “Damn,” he muttered, his voice hoarse with hunger, “you’re a sight.”
She shifted slightly under his intense stare, a flicker of shyness creeping in her despite her arousal. The way he looked at her, so unapologetically hungry, made her feel exposed. His lips quirked slightly as if sensing her hesitation, and he leaned down, his hand coming to rest against her jaw.
“You okay?” he murmured, his voice softer now but no less intent.
She nodded, her breath hitching as his thumb brushed along her cheek. “Yeah,” she whispered.
“Good,” he replied, his lips curving into a faint smile before he kissed her again. This time, it was slower, deeper, his tongue sweeping against hers in a way that left her clinging to him, her earlier shyness melting into the heat of his touch.
Her fingers found his shirt, tugging at the hem, and he pulled back just enough to strip it off, tossing it aside without ceremony. The scars on his chest and arm caught the dim light, but the confidence in his gaze never wavered as he leaned back in, his hands sliding down her sides with deliberate, teasing slowness.
Her teeth sank into her bottom lip as her eyes roamed over him, the sheer breadth of his chest and the powerful arms flexing with restrained strength. He was a bear of a man, solid and unrelenting, and she loved every bit of it.
“You know,” he began, his voice low and rough, his fingers deftly popping open the buttons of her dress one by one. “I love seeing you in these dresses and skirts.” His lips quirked into a wicked grin, his gaze flicking up to meet hers. “Makes it so damn easy to get under them. Have my way with you.”
Her cheeks burned at his words, a mixture of arousal and shyness bubbling to the surface. “Bucky...” she breathed, but her protest was feeble at best, especially as he continued his slow, deliberate assault, parting the fabric of her dress to expose more of her skin.
“That one you wore at the festival,” he went on, his tone darkening with heat as he leaned closer, his lips grazing her collarbone. “That vintage-looking thing? Sweetheart, it drove me crazy.”
She gasped softly as his hands slid over her hips, his thumbs tracing patterns against her bare skin. “Crazy how?” she managed to ask, her voice trembling under the weight of his attention.
He let out a low, throaty chuckle, his lips trailing down to the swell of her breasts. “Crazy enough to want to bend you over the booth table,” he murmured, his teeth scraping lightly against her skin, “and fuck you right there. Pies, jam… didn’t care. Would’ve made a mess of it all just to get my hands on you.”
A desperate whimper slipped past her lips as heat pooled low in her belly. Her hands slid into his hair, tugging slightly.
He growled softly at the sensation, pressing her back against the bed. His hands gripped the fabric of her dress and tugged it down her arms, exposing her fully to his gaze. “But we’ve got all the time we want now,” he said, his voice rough, his lips curving into a predatory smile. “And I plan to take my damn time.”
Her pussy clenched with anticipation as her mind whirled, trying to reconcile the quiet, awkward man she’d come to know with this unabashedly vocal, commanding version of him. It was as though he’d been holding back all this time, and now, the dam had finally burst.
Her bra followed the dress, and his sharp intake of breath sent a fresh wave of heat coursing through her. His thumb traced the curve of her breast, slow and deliberate, before he leaned in, his lips hovering just above her skin.
“Y’know,” he murmured, his voice rough and teasing, “all I could think about this afternoon was pouring that lemonade on these.” His lips ghosted over her nipple, his breath warm. “Then drinking it straight off you.”
Her gaze widened, a sudden wave of shyness overtaking her. She let out a nervous laugh, pressing her hands over her face to shield herself.
“Don’t hide from me,” he said firmly, his hand catching her wrists and gently tugging them away. His eyes burned with an intensity that made her stomach flip. “You were the one who instigated our little escape from Sam’s party, remember?”
His words sent a shiver down her spine, and she couldn’t help the way her body arched toward him as his lips finally claimed the peak of her breast, his tongue swirling in deliberate, maddening strokes. Any remaining hesitation evaporated as he pressed his hips against hers, letting her feel just how much he wanted her.
“You don’t get to act shy now,” he muttered, his voice low and gravelly against her skin. “Not after everything you’ve been driving me crazy with.”
Her voice came out barely above a whisper, trembling as she stammered, “I... I didn’t do anything...”
Bucky pulled back just enough to meet her wide-eyed gaze, his lips curving into a wicked smirk. “Oh, you didn’t?” he drawled, his tone laced with teasing disbelief. His hand slid down her side, his calloused fingers leaving a trail of fire in their wake. “That little dress at the festival? the lemonade with that neckline? The way you bit your lower lip every time we spoke? Sweetheart, you’ve been doing everything.”
Her cheeks burned, her lips parting as if to protest, but no words came out. Instead, he leaned in closer, his nose brushing the curve of her jaw as he whispered, “And I’ve been trying real hard to keep my hands to myself... but now? Now, I’m done trying.”
Her breath caught, and before she could respond, his lips were on hers again, claiming her in a kiss that left no room for doubt. His hands roamed her body with purpose, pulling her flush against him, his erection pressing firmly against her pussy.
Her fingers found their way into his hair again, tugging gently at the strands as he groaned into her mouth, the sound reverberating through her. “You’re killing me, you know that?” he murmured against her lips, his voice rough and filled with longing. “All I’ve been thinking about is this... you... for weeks.” He kissed her again, slower and deeper this time, as if savoring the moment.
“You don’t even know what you’re doing to me,” he rasped when they parted for air, his forehead resting against hers. “But you’re about to find out.”
He left a trail of open-mouthed kisses down her body, his lips lingering on every inch of skin as if committing her to memory. When he reached the waistband of her drenched panties, he paused, his hands gripping her thighs firmly to keep her in place. Pressing his face against the soaked fabric, he inhaled deeply, a guttural groan rumbling from his chest.
“God, you smell so good,” he murmured, his voice thick with hunger. His thumbs hooked into the sides of the delicate lace, slowly pulling it down her legs as he kept his eyes locked on hers. The intensity in his gaze made her pulse thunder in her ears. “You’ve been driving me insane,” he confessed, his lips brushing against her inner thigh as he tossed the damp fabric aside. “Every time I saw you in those little dresses... I thought about this. About getting under that hemline and taste you.”
Her body quivered at his words, her fingers tangling in the sheets beneath her as anticipation coiled tight in her core. “Bucky...” she breathed, her voice a plea.
“Patience,” he said again, his voice low and teasing, but there was no mistaking the edge of hunger in it. His hands spread her thighs further apart, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh as he held her open. His breath ghosted over her pussy, warm and tantalizing, making her gasp and clutch the sheets. “I want to take my time with you.”
And then his mouth was on her. His tongue dragged through her slick folds with slow, deliberate strokes, before barely retreating with a sinful hum. “Fuck,” he groaned, “You taste even better than I imagined.” He paused only long enough to meet her eyes, his own dark and full of promise. “And I’ve been imagining this for a long time.”
Her breath caught in her throat as he spread her pussy lips with his thumbs, baring her fully to him. His mouth latched onto her clit, his tongue swirling in lazy circles before he nursed it with intent. The sharp jolt of pleasure ripped a cry from her lips, her hips thrusting against his mouth involuntarily.
“Bucky! oh, God!” she gasped, her voice trembling as he kept at it, alternating between sucking and flicking her sensitive nub with maddening precision. His growl vibrated against her, the sound and sensation drawing another moan from deep within her chest.
“Stay still,” he commanded, pulling back just enough to speak, his lips glistening. The rumble of his voice sent shivers down her spine. “I’m not done with you yet.”
Two thick fingers joined the assault, sliding slowly into her wet heat, stretching her as they pressed in until they were knuckle-deep. She gasped, her walls clenching around him as he paused for a moment, letting her adjust before starting a maddening rhythm.
His mouth stayed on her clit, tongue flicking and circling in tandem with the slow, deliberate thrust of his fingers. The combination was overwhelming, a perfectly orchestrated symphony of pleasure that had her crying out his name, her thighs trembling as she struggled to keep still.
“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he murmured against her, his voice filled with awe and lust. His fingers curled inside her, finding that sweet spot that made her hips jerk off the bed. “Right there, huh? That’s it.”
Her breathing turned ragged, her hands gripping his hair tightly as her body climbed higher and higher toward release. He didn’t let up, his tongue and fingers working her with relentless precision, coaxing her closer to the edge with every stroke.
The orgasm tore through her like an electric shock, sharp and all-consuming. Her body clenched tight, her muscles locking for a heartbeat before releasing uncontrollable spasms. Her walls clenched around his fingers, her back arching off the bed as a sharp cry tore from her lips. He growled with satisfaction, his fingers slowing but not stopping as he rode her through her climax, his mouth pressing soft, soothing kisses to her inner thigh as she shuddered beneath him.
“That’s my girl,” he murmured, pulling his fingers free slowly and bringing them to his lips to taste. His darkened gaze met hers, his tongue flicking out to clean the slick from his fingers. “You’re fucking perfect.”
She barely had time to catch her breath before Bucky stood, towering over her, his eyes dark with intent. With a sharp tug, he kicked off his work boots, the thud of them hitting the floor making her jump slightly. Then came the metallic clink of his belt, the sound sending a thrill straight through her.
Her gaze was locked on him as he unzipped his jeans, the low rasp of the zipper making her stomach tighten. He tugged them down along with his underwear in one swift motion, revealing himself in all his glory. He was all broad shoulders and thick muscle. His broad chest and left arm were marred by scars that only added to the raw magnetism he exuded. And then there was his cock. Thick, hard, and so utterly intimidating that she bit her lip at the sight.
“Like what you see?” he asked, a lazy smile pulling at his lips.
She nodded, unable to form words as her cheeks flushed.
“Good,” he said, his hand wrapping around his shaft, stroking lazily as he took a step closer. “Because you’re going to feel all of me.”
Bucky climbed onto the bed, positioning himself between her parted thighs. His hands gripped her waist, firm but careful, as though he might crush her if he wasn’t mindful of his strength. His cock rested heavy and hard against her slick folds, the head teasing her entrance as he rocked his hips slowly, coating himself.
“So wet,” he murmured, his voice a husky growl that sent a shiver down her spine. She moaned softly, her thighs trembling as the thick head of his cock pressed against her opening, the stretch beginning even before he was inside. He moved slowly, agonizingly so, letting her body adjust to his size inch by inch. Her walls fluttered around him as he filled her, her slick heat clenching tightly as he pushed deeper. Her hands gripped his shoulders, nails biting into his skin as her breath hitched. “Oh my God, Bucky... you’re so-”
“Big?” he finished for her, his tone edged with dark amusement as he paused, fully sheathed inside her. He leaned down, his lips brushing her ear as he rumbled, “That’s it, sweetheart.”
Her head fell back against the pillow as she panted, her body stretched to its limit, the delicious pressure bordering on too much. But as her hips shifted slightly, the friction sent a bolt of pleasure through her that made her moan his name.
Bucky groaned low in his throat, his hands sliding to her rear to tilt her hips upward. He withdrew slowly, almost to the tip, before thrusting back in with deliberate care. “Fuck, you’re tight,” he murmured, his gaze locked on her face as he started to move in earnest.
His pace began slow and steady, each thrust measured, but it wasn’t long before his control began to slip. His grip on her tightened as he quickened, the powerful thrusts rocking her body against the mattress. The sound of their bodies meeting filled the room, the wet slap of his cock driving deep into her pussy mingling with her moans and his guttural groans.
“Hold on to me,” he ordered, his voice rough with lust. Before she could process his words, he hooked an arm under her ass and lifted her effortlessly, sitting crisscrossed with her perched in his lap.
Her arms flew around his neck, clinging to him as the new angle made him hit even deeper. His hands gripped her hips, guiding her movements as he thrust up into her, the force of his cock driving her wild. Her head fell forward, her forehead resting against his as she whimpered, overwhelmed by the intensity of the pleasure building inside her.
“Look at me,” he demanded. Her hazy eyes met his as he tilted her hips slightly forward, the firm muscles just above his shaft slapping her clit with every thrust.
She cried out, her nails raking down his back as the coil inside her tightened, ready to snap. “Don’t stop, please don’t stop!”
He groaned, his cock swelling even harder inside her as he chased her climax. “I’ve got you,” he promised, his thrusts growing rougher, deeper. “Come for me, sweetheart. Let me feel it.”
Her orgasm hit her hard, her pussy clamping down on his cock as she cried out his name, her body trembling violently in his arms, and he growled in satisfaction.
“Fuck, that’s it,” he ground out, his movements growing erratic as her spasming walls pushed him closer to the edge. “You’re mine, doll. Mine.”
With a final, deep thrust, he buried himself fully inside her, his cock pulsing as he spilled into her with a guttural moan. He held her tightly, pressing his forehead to her shoulder as they both panted, their bodies trembling from the intensity of their encounter.
For a moment, neither of them moved, the room filled only with the sound of their heavy breathing. Then, with utter gentleness, Bucky eased her back onto the bed, his body following hers as he stayed buried inside her. He braced himself on his forearms, keeping his weight off her but staying close enough that she could feel the warmth of his skin against hers.
A lazy smirk tugged at his lips as he glanced down at her, the faintest hint of mischief in his eyes. “So,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing, “better than the breathtaking Highlander?”
Her breath hitched before she burst into laughter, making his smirk widen. “Oh, so much better,” she stated, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him down for a quick, playful kiss. “I find the curt and gloomy lumberjack character more appealing.”
Bucky raised an eyebrow, his smirk faltering just slightly. “Curt and gloomy, huh?”
She nodded, her voice turning softer. “Mysterious. Rugged. A little broody. Kind. Thoughtful. Handsome.”
He blinked, caught off guard by the weight of her words. A faint flush crept up his neck, blooming across his cheeks, and he glanced away, suddenly looking very much like the socially awkward man she’d come to adore.
“Didn’t know I was signing up for flattery,” he muttered under his breath, his ears reddening as he busied himself with brushing away a strand of hair hanging on his face.
She laughed and cupped his cheek, gently forcing him to meet her gaze. “Just telling the truth,” She said softly, her thumb brushing over his stubbed skin.
He swallowed hard, the blush deepening as his lips twitched into a shy, crooked smile. “Still not used to it,” he admitted quietly, his voice barely above a murmur.
“Guess I’ll just have to keep saying it until you are,” she replied with a grin, pulling him down for another kiss before he could argue.
Tumblr media
Dividers by: @strangergraphics
7K notes · View notes
lusmeitli · 7 months ago
Text
This is 100% Loki. ♥️ Beautiful writing. Absolutely stunning.
Have Mercy
One Shot Masterlist | Complete Masterlist
Summary: You're a powered being with healing abilities and you try to bring Loki back from the brink of death. Pairing: Loki x Female Reader Word Count: 1832 Warnings: Fluff, heavy kissing, slapping, mentions of death (close call), injury, a very flirty Loki,
Tumblr media Tumblr media
You didn’t know how much time had passed since you all started the ambush. Tall sequoias canopied above blocking the setting sun. The air was thick with smoke and heavy from the fighting. You heard multiple teammates calling for healing, but none was louder than Thor. His troubled voice blasted through the comms, “Medic! We need a healer quickly!” His deep command tore you away from the battle you were in and you fought your way over to him. “Priestess, please! Come quick!”
Through fire and volley, you found Thor kneeling on the ground with Loki in his arms. Lifeless. Steve was circling them, trying to shield the brothers from a barrage of attacks.
You knelt on the ground. Your knees hit soft mud as your eyes scanned Loki’s body. His sharp face was paler than usual. Blue-ish tint had started to stain his lips. And your naïve-self hoped it was just because of the cold seeping from the wet ground. “Thor, I’ll take it from here. Go help Steve. I can’t worry about my life when I have to worry about his!”
Thor nodded to you. But before he laid Loki down, he whispered in his ear, “I know you are stronger than this, brother. But I swear on Yggdrasil if you are pretending, I will not hesitate to cleave Stormbreaker into you.” Thor sniffed and placed him down to the ground.
You nodded your head and patted Thor’s shoulder. “He’ll be fine,” you feigned, as you tried to get a better look at what had happened. You didn’t have the heart to tell Thor that you could feel how thin and fragile Loki’s life string was. A hair, compared to the cord that we all have. Worse, the thick rope that the Asgardian’s life used to be. You didn’t even know if you were skilled enough to weave it stronger.
There was a large gaping hole that tore Loki’s chest plate. His skin had burned and was raw from the impact. You couldn’t see any entry wounds. Nor blood. But the bruising and dent on his chest was not a good sign. A stray missile, perhaps? Maybe jumping in the way to save his brother. They vex each other constantly. But deep down they care for each other like most siblings do.
You straddled his body, holding your two hands out, placing them over his wound. A soft resonance emitted from your palm down to his skin. You kept your hands on him as the pulse of your powers worked their way through his body. You can see tiny mends of his scrapes and scratches. The raw skin around the wound had returned to their usual pallor.  He’s reacting at least. There’s still some life in him- whatever little is left.
You persisted. With every pulse, you can see his wounds healing. Ribs cracking back into place. The blue on his lips retreated ever so slowly. But his lifeline was stubborn. If you could hold out just long enough, his own regenerative powers might kick in.
Grasping at straws, your mind quickly raced with ideas to help speed the process along. You remembered that sometimes, shock was a good way of knocking someone back into the land of the living. “Ugh, don’t get mad at me, okay? I’m only trying to save your life,” you vowed out loud in case he was able to hear you. You quickly pulled your palm back and slapped Loki hard across his cheek.
Small capillaries burst where your hand met his face. Aside from the new hue, Loki had remained the same. Still and quiet. His line fading from your grasp. You panicked at your failed attempt.
You didn’t know what to do anymore. You didn’t know how to tell Thor that you couldn’t save his only brother. Ideas and thoughts ran past your mind all muddled and incoherent. Ways and spells. Teachings and theories you’ve learned on healing and regeneration.
You cupped Loki’s cheek, healing the bruise you had left. Your brows knit together, puzzled as to what to do next. Hopeless in feeling and thought. You didn’t want to look up. You didn’t want to see Thor’s face and have to tell him an awful truth. They had just reunited this past year. It wasn’t fair. And it would be all your fault because you couldn’t save him. You couldn’t save Loki. Your heart turned solemn as angry tears threatened to drop from your eyes.
By now the fighting had stopped. You didn’t realize how quiet the world had gotten around you. How still the air was from flying projectiles or weapons. The team gathered loosely. Giving you space to try and save Loki’s life, but the look on their faces betrayed the faith they were trying to offer you.
Your thumb brushed Loki’s cheek, wiping away the mud that speckled his face. He would’ve been appalled if he knew where Thor had left him on the ground. You smirked at the thought as your thumb rested on his chin and traced his lips.
His cold lips opened slightly at your touch, and you were struck with an idea.  You grabbed both sides of his leather collars and brought him to sit up towards you. His slack weight was heavier than you anticipated, and it took your remaining strength to sit him upright. You closed your eyes as your lips crashed into his, honing your powers into that desperate kiss.
You had never done this before. You had never needed to do this before. But you were hoping that your breath of life could pass onto him and carry him through till his own powers could take over. You sucked hard on his upper lip, not wanting to break any contact. Your fingers entwined themselves in his hair, desperate to keep him close to you. “Please. Please. Please,” you whispered into his mouth. Tears fell from your eyes and landed on his cheek. Your arms wrapped around his neck, unwilling to let go. Unwilling to accept the truth.
Still, you continued.
You felt a low rumble from his chest. A hopeful sign that it’s working. You just needed to hold on a little bit longer! You opened your lips for a breath of your own. And when you closed your mouth around his, your power pulsated in between you.
You felt his temperature return first. The warmth in his lips, the heat in his breath. You could feel his lifeline winding itself tighter and stronger.
His mouth returned your kiss. Sluggish and tentative. But they held on to your lips, tightly. His hands embraced your hips so delicately you didn’t even know they were there. You naturally leaned into the kiss more. Your power still pulsing through you. One last intake of breath and you passed it along towards Loki.
His grip tightened around you and he pulled you closer onto his lap. His arms snaked around you, holding your head close to his, unwilling to let you go.  You could hear small groans and heavy panting. But you honestly didn’t know whether it came from you or from Loki.
His tongue touched your lips, asking for entry. Catching your breath you opened your mouth once again and Loki gainfully ran his tongue inside against the roof of your mouth.
You didn’t realize that your powers had finished. With nothing left to heal, your powers subsided. But you were so lost in the kiss that you had forgotten where you were and what you were doing. Slowly, you pulled away. But Loki’s kiss followed you unwilling to release you. You bit his bottom lip as a warning, holding his face in between your hands.
“Darling, what an indecent way to ask me out,” Loki grinned from ear to ear. His voice was rough and garbled. He kept his face close to yours, running his nose against your cheek. “I accept!”
The world came crashing back around you. The time. The place. The situation. The shock froze you in place just staring into Loki’s blue-green eyes. “I always thought you harbored affections for me. But now I am certain,” he taunted.
You slapped him.
You couldn’t think of anything else to do. You felt betrayed somehow. Tricked. Even though you knew that he was genuinely in peril. The fact that he was joking about it even now, irked you.
Loki’s eyes narrowed. His brow furrowed as he slowly turned his head to face you again. His chin jutted out, trying to contain the smirk that was coming forth. “Is that how you like it?”
You tried to push yourself off of him. You’ve had enough of his antics. You were utterly embarrassed at being caught in this situation. Especially with the team around, surely watching.
He caught your wrists as you pushed on his chest, stopping you. “Do it again,” he commanded. His grin was out in full force now. Dazzling you to the last inch of your nerve.
“Ugh, the thanks I get for saving your life!” pushing him down as you stood yourself up. “Next time I’ll just leave you limp in the mud.” You sneered, walking away with your head held high and your face heated and red. From humiliation or from desire, you didn’t know.
“Well, that’s very hard to do when you’re kissing me like that, my angel,” Loki yelled after you. He couldn’t stop smiling as he watched you angry and flustered. All because of him. Oh, I’m in trouble.
“What do I gotta do to get a kiss like that?” Bucky asked teasingly as you stomped passed him.
“Die!” you growled back at him. The words felt mean as they left your mouth. And you regretted saying them instantly. He was only trying to lighten the situation. But you couldn’t help the shame you had inside you.
“Oh, c’mon doll. I was only teasing.” Bucky raised his arms in defeat and followed you back to the quinjet, laughing.
“Loki!” Thor scolded as he held his hand to his brother, helping him up. “I hope that you were not deceiving us just to try and gain favor with the priestess. I know you’ve been seeking her affections.”
“Brother! I am genuinely hurt! Did you not see me lying there at the last inch of my life?” Loki contended, pointing to the ground where he once laid.
Thor rolled his eyes but smirked, clapping Loki on the shoulder. He was glad to have his brother back once again. “She’s very talented that one. And I do not want to see her get hurt, Lo-. Loki are you listening to me.”
Loki was at a loss for words, watching you. “She gave me my life back, brother. I have felt her lips against mine and I’ll be damned if I don’t feel them again soon.” Loki smiled as he swatted away Thor’s hand on him. His eyes solely on you, plotting how to get you to kiss him again.
Tumblr media
A/N: I know it's been awhile. I do plan on finishing my series' soon. Thanks for staying with me. Life has been hard and you guys get me through it.
🏷️ @peaches1958 @salempoe @thomase1 @kkdvkyya @a-witch-with-words @mischief2sarawr @sarawr-reads @vbecker10 @peachymallow @irishhappiness @cakesandtom @simplyholl @here4thefanfics @holdmytesseract @immersed-in-mischief @joyful-enchantress @lokisninerealms @kikster606 @glitterylokislut @loz-3 @slytherclaw1227 @chantsdemarins @the-lady-amphitrite @eleniblue @km-ffluv @lokidokieokie @n3rdybirdee @melsunshine @gigglingtiggerv2 @lokischambermaid @cjand10 @asgards-princess-of-mischief @chrisevansmaindish @capswife @dangertoozmanykids101 @shadycloudcollection @annoyingsweetsstranger @alyeskathewave @xxjust-a-kidxx @tallseaweed @liliacdreamer @stevihj +more in the comments
2K notes · View notes
lusmeitli · 8 months ago
Text
And another example of perfection. The characters penned so beautifully, the story unravelling at just the right pace, the dialogue so well written. It’s magnifico. ♥️
Overtime
Summary: Sometimes, working overtime isn’t all that bad.
Pairings: Loki x Female Reader
Warnings: Smut, 18+ minors DNI, sex, cunnilingus, teasing, light bondage, office romance.
Series: Overtime (I don't have a masterlist for this, but if you enjoy these idiots, check out Daylight, a sort of sequel).
A/N: This was largely written prior to season 2 and posted right before episode 4, so it’s not entirely canon compliant and the parts that are may be compliant by accident.
Also, @give-me-a-moose and I were on a similar wavelength about Loki angrily reading romance novels and I would strongly recommend checking out her fic The Imagine Nation if you too are enthralled by this idea.
Tumblr media
You don’t think that Mobius intended to keep Loki’s desk behind yours.
“It’s temporary,” he tells you apologetically. “He just needs somewhere to go for now, until I figure out what to do with him.”
“You’re talking about him like he’s a stray cat that you found,” you say.
“You won’t even know he’s there, I promise.”
“You’re still doing it.”
Mobius sighs and puts on his most sincere, earnest expression—the one that he always uses when he’s about to ask you for a stupidly massive favor.
And it’s only because you almost never, ever see this look from him that you back down.
“Okay, fine,” you say. “But he’d better be on his best behavior.”
Mobius puts his palms together and tips them toward you. “Thank you. You will not regret this, I promise.”
You sigh and shake your head. “Just remember this next time you’re budgeting for raises.”
But then—in a move that you certainly don’t expect—Loki ends up sticking around. And, in the subtle way that the stray you’ve been feeding slowly turns into your cat, Loki’s temporary desk becomes his permanent desk. And strangely enough, Mobius’ assurances turn out to be more correct than not: Loki does a lot of fieldwork and is often away; when he is at his desk, it tends to be because he is working on more complicated missions, the ones that require poring over mountains of files looking for patterns and trying to untangle the slippery mess of time itself.
Your work is decidedly less glamorous than Loki’s—almost no fieldwork, lots of files. Endless files. Some days you feel as though you must have seen every file in the TVA’s extensive library and then you’re immediately proven wrong by another wing of filing cabinets that you swear wasn’t even there before.
Although he is generally well-behaved as your desk neighbor, Loki’s presence has a way of distracting you. Even if you didn’t know who he was, your gaze would still naturally drift his way, lingering on those regal cheekbones, that ink black hair, that cunning smirk. The way that the fabric of his dress pants clings to his thighs certainly doesn’t help, to say nothing of how his forearms look with his shirtsleeves rolled up. He can make your heart start to race with no more than a casual glance in your direction and god help you if he gives you one of those devastating smiles. Luckily, you don’t think he takes that much notice of you. You have the sort of pleasantly dull exchanges of coworkers who don’t really know each other and he is almost painfully polite to you. It’s a strong departure from the way he interacts with others—with others, he is bold, charming, sarcastic, talkative, a far cry from the more subdued, almost courtly tone he strikes with you. It’s a difference that is so stark that you can’t help but attribute it to some sort of negative feeling on his end.
“How’s it going with Loki?” Mobius asks you during a one-on-one meeting a couple of months after Loki’s temporary desk becomes his permanent desk. “He’s behaving himself, right?”
“It’s been fine,” you say, “though truthfully, I don’t think he likes me all that much.”
“What? Of course he likes you,” Mobius says. “Why wouldn’t he like you? You’re lovely.”
You shrug. “I dunno, he’s just different with me than he is with everyone else. Like…overly polite. It’s like he thinks I’m going to send him to the principal’s office or something.”
“Let me get this straight,” says Mobius. “First you were worried that he wouldn’t behave himself and now you’re worried that he’s too well-behaved?”
Privately, you realize he has a point. Outwardly, though, you’re not going to admit it. The sardonic tilt of Mobius’ mouth suggests that he knows this.
“No, I just…I don’t think he likes me all that much,” you say. “And he’s entitled to that. People don’t like each other all the time, it’s not a big deal.”
This is also a little bit of a lie—you do wish he liked you. Loki is so magnetic it’s hard not to want his attention. And with the matter of your silly little crush, well…that doesn’t help either.
Mobius sighs. “I think you’re overthinking this. He likes you, sometimes it just takes him a little time to warm up. He’s a bit of a prickly guy.”
You bite down the urge to point out that you’ve seen him warm to other people almost immediately. This conversation has already gone on longer than you want and you are edging dangerously close to having to admit that you care so much because you have a big stupid crush on him, which is obviously unacceptable.
“Well, the point is that it’s fine,” you say quickly, trying to project an aura of cool confidence. “I don’t have any complaints, he seems like he’s settling in, so let’s move on. Did you have any feedback on my recent report?”
The furrow between Mobius’ eyebrows deepens just slightly, the only indication that he doesn’t fully believe you. But for whatever reason, he decides to let it go and follows your change in topic without further comment.
This is one of the reasons you like Mobius as much as you do: he always seems to know the right moment to push and the right moment to bend.
You’re not sure if your relationship with Loki would have changed had it not been for the problem of Charles Berlitz.
The joke around the office is that after Mobius convinced Loki to work for the TVA, he needed something new to obsess over and Charles Berlitz was the next best option. It’s hard to say exactly who Berlitz is, as he has a tendency of showing up, well…everywhere. He is quite literally in every timeline, at least as far as anyone can tell. Sometimes he is an author, penning serious, scholarly essays on outlandish theories like the Bermuda Triangle and the Philadelphia Experiment. He seems to have a fondness for all manner of schemes—he was responsible for introducing both homeopathy and multi-level marketing to no fewer than sixty different timelines. His ability to peddle bullshit naturally led him to politics—pick any rebellion, coup, or campaign on any given timeline and there’s a good chance you’ll also find Charles Berlitz.
Scammers and con artists are not atypical in your line of work, but what makes Charles Berlitz an enduring mystery is that he has never been found. You can have reputable documentary evidence that Berlitz was present at a certain time and location, but if you show up to investigate, he is never there. There have been some glimpses over the years—a shadowy face in the back of a crowd, the hem of a cloak disappearing behind a corner—but nothing concrete or substantive.
“Our ghost in the timeline,” Mobius had said in one of his more poetic moments at an all staff meeting, his voice overly hushed and dramatic. You had seen Loki roll his eyes and you had to fake a coughing fit to hide your laugh.
Time moves differently at the TVA, so it’s hard to say how long Mobius has been working on this case when he makes a breakthrough, but it’s not terribly long after your conversation about Loki. A campaign button had been found in an apartment that Berlitz rented for two years in the French Quarter. That particular campaign button could only have existed in one specific timeline and its distribution was limited. You aren’t entirely clear on all of the details, but Mobius seems to have a plan.
And unfortunately, that plan involves you giving up most of your weekend to work.
It’s near quitting time on what passes for a Friday at the TVA. Loki has been in today and you can hear him starting to pack up. Technically, he’s got twenty minutes of work left, but you’re not about to tell him that.
You doodle absently on your notepad. Technically, you’ve also got twenty minutes of work left, but realistically: nothing is happening.
“Oh, great, you’re both still here.”
In general, this phrase has never meant good news for you and when you look up, you see Mobius with a sizable armful of files.
Also not a great sign.
Mobius plunks the stack of files directly on your desk. “There’s been a development with Berlitz. I need you both to review these now.”
“It’s Friday,” says Loki, affronted. “Surely it can wait until Monday.”
“No can do. I need this done by Sunday at the latest,” says Mobius. “This is an all hands on deck situation.”
Loki glances pointedly at the office around you, which has already started emptying out for the weekend.
“All hands on deck, but most hands are already in the field,” Mobius concedes. “Which is why I need the two of you—” He points to you. “You because you’re good—” He gestures to Loki. “And you because you’ve got desk duty.”
“I beg your pardon—” begins Loki.
“He’s grounded,” Mobius says to you in an exaggerated stage whisper.
This is not surprising to you: you had heard a rumor last week about an incident that had occurred on a mission to the inauguration of Richard Nixon and you suspect that these two events are likely connected.
You look at the pile of paperwork on your desk. You could probably get through it on your own in a couple of hours, but if Loki’s helping, maybe you still have a shot at having Saturday to yourself. You bite back a sigh. “What do you need me to find?”
“Anything that mentions anyone from the Lucchese crime family or Nero Variant N2815,” says Mobius. “I’ll go get the rest.”
Your heart sinks. Farewell, Saturday. “There’s more?” you say.
“It’ll be triple overtime, I already got it approved!” he calls over his shoulder
You sigh and glance at Loki who is scowling at the pile of files as though they’d wronged him personally.
There’s a long moment of silence before you speak. “Is there any truth to the rumor I’ve been hearing about the Nixon inauguration?” you ask.
“If it involved a hot air balloon, then yes,” he says rather tonelessly.
“Well.” You pause as you stare at the pile of papers. “At least it was worth it.”
That at least earns you a hint of a smile.
*
Several hours later, your stomach is growling and you’ve developed a rather impressive crick in your neck.
You lean back in your chair, stretching your neck to the side and rubbing the knot that is pulsing in your upper trapezius. Office work has done nothing positive for your posture in general, but tonight’s work has you hunched over more than usual and your neck is aching.
You and Loki have made good progress, but your pile of finished and sorted files is scarcely comparable to the full cart that Mobius had brought in. Back when the evening was new and you weren’t quite so tired, you’d been optimistic about possibly having half a Saturday free from work; that hope has slipped away the longer the evening has dragged on. Now you’re hoping that you’ll still have a bit of Sunday to yourself and even that feels unlikely.
Your stomach growls again. You should probably eat something—you’d worked through your regular dinner hour in a fit of misplaced optimism. The cafeteria is closed this time of night, but there’s a vending machine not far from your office that has shitty coffee and mostly edible sandwiches.
You stand and stretch, stifling a yawn as you turn around. “I’m gonna grab a coffee and some dinner,” you say. “Do you want anything?”
Loki looks up at you from the file in front of him, blinking somewhat dazedly and running a hand through his messy curls. “I’d like to stretch my legs a bit, if you don’t mind the company.”
You honestly didn’t expect him to want to join you. It’s a pleasant surprise, certainly, but also a little nerve wracking in the way that interacting with Loki always is. He’s so handsome and aloof and you’re not quite sure how to talk to him without acting like a total fool.
But you’re also not about to say no, either.
“Of course,” you say, “I don’t mind at all.”
The TVA is unusually quiet at this time of night—the steady hum of fluorescent lights and the murmur of distant voices is all that accompanies the tap of your shoes on the linoleum. It only heightens the jittery, nervous feeling you get from Loki—like your stomach is filled with drunk, lightning struck butterflies.
“Are you finding much?” asks Loki as you enter the hallway together.
You shrug. “A bit. Mostly on the Nero variant. I’m not having as much luck with the Luccheses.”
“I’ve got all of their property transfers, I think,” he says. “Renato Lucchese never met a vineyard he didn’t like.”
“Or racehorses, from what I understand,” you say. “I think that’s how he lost most of his money.”
You arrive at the vending machines. Loki looks at the vending machines and then back at you, a somewhat puzzled and troubled expression on his face.
“This is what you meant when you said you were going to get coffee and dinner?”  he says.
You shrug. “Yeah, what’s wrong with this?”
He points at the coffee machine. “Mobius calls that machine Satan’s coffeemaker, does he not?”
“Yes, but I know how to trick it into giving me something that’s almost palatable,” you say.
Loki gives you a rather dry look. “Something that’s almost palatable?”
“I mean, I’m just trying to manage your expectations. It’s still pretty shitty coffee, it just tastes less burned.”
He looks at you for a long moment before tilting his head toward the hallway. “Come on, let’s go.”
It’s your turn to look skeptical. “What are we doing?”
“We’re going out for dinner.”
*
He takes you to a twenty-four hour diner called Frank’s that’s maybe a five minute walk from the TVA. It’s one of those places with yellowing Formica tables and big booths covered in red faux leather patched with the occasional square of duct tape. It smells like coffee and grease with a faint odor of cigarette smoke despite the prominent no smoking signs.
“I wouldn’t have thought this kind of place was your style,” you say as you sit down in a booth next to the window.
“I’ve expanded my horizons,” he says, sliding into the seat across from you.
An older woman with greying blonde hair approaches your booth. She wears a nametag reading “Connie” in big capital letters, a sticker of a pink cat stuck on the space next to her name.
“How y’all doin’ tonight?” she says as she hands you each a laminated menu. She looks at Loki. “You want your usual?”
“Please,” he says.
“You got it.” She turns to you. “How ‘bout you, hon, can I get ya started with something to drink?”
“Coffee would be great.”
“All right, I’ll be right back with your drinks.”
You raise your eyebrows at Loki as she walks away. “You eat at diners and you have a usual order. My expectations are being completely upended.”
He returns your pleasantly amused expression. “And you have vending machine coffee for dinner. It’s a revealing night.”
“I mean, I don’t actively seek it out,” you say. “It’s a convenient option that I exercise only when I have no other choice.”
“No other choice?” A sly smile curls at his lips. “Do you not have the entire array of space and time at your fingertips?”
“Well, first of all, we aren’t supposed to use TemPads for personal errands without a supervisor’s approval.”
“Technically.”
“No, actually. It’s in the personnel manual. Like verbatim.”
He raises an eyebrow. “You would put yourself through the egregious physical suffering of vending machine coffee simply to appease the capricious whims of our cruel overseer Miss Minutes?”
You bite back a laugh. “You know she’s not actually our boss, right?”
“I can’t discount that possibility. She wields a concerning amount of power within the organization.”
Connie is back with your drinks—coffee for you and tea for Loki. “Sunday Special?” she asks Loki as she sets a metal teapot and empty mug in front of him.
“Please,” he says.
“You got it.” She looks at you. “Didya get a chance to look at the menu or do you need a minute?”
You’re feeling a little daring. “I’ll try the Sunday Special as well.”
“All right, two Sunday Specials comin’ right up,” she says, collecting your menus.
“So, what’s in a Sunday Special?” you ask Loki as you take a sip of your coffee.
“Boiled fish eggs, mainly,” he says, pouring the hot water into his tea mug.
“Liar,” you say promptly.
He raises an eyebrow. “You didn’t even look at the menu, how could you know?”
“Places like this don’t serve fish eggs,” you say. “Way too unusual and definitely the wrong price point.”
“I suppose you’ll just have to see,” he says with a playful glint in his eyes. The easy charm that you’ve seen him use with the others is on full display and it’s enough to make you giddy. Maybe he doesn’t dislike you after all.
“Well, if it’s fish eggs, you’re picking up the bill,” you say, “and I’ll be getting something else instead.”
“You’d really hold me responsible for your impulsive dinner selections?”
“Yep. And I don’t even feel bad about it.”
He raises an eyebrow. “I didn’t realize you could be so unforgiving.”
“Well, you don’t know me all that well.”
“To be fair, you keep to yourself quite a bit.”
“A little bit,” you say. “But also to be fair, you haven’t really asked.”
“On work time?” he says, widening his eyes in mock horror. “That would mean write ups for both of us, I couldn’t let that happen.”
“I think I know enough about you to know that getting in trouble is not one of your primary concerns.”
He gives you a sly smile, like you’ve caught him out and he likes it. “That’s a diplomatic way to put it.” He takes a sugar packet from the dispenser on the table and tears it open before pouring it into his mug. “Well, we’re on break now, so you can safely tell me something about yourself.”
You drum your fingers on your coffee mug. “What do you want to know?”
“Well, this can’t be the only part of your life. Who are you outside the TVA? What did you do before this?”
That giddy feeling comes to a screeching halt and you take in a long, slow breath. It’s a simple question, one that most people can answer to some degree. For you, though, it’s a bit more complicated.
“Well,” you say. You take a sip of your coffee, mostly to give your hands something to do. “I don’t actually know—I chose not to remember when they gave me the option.”
You’re surprised by how gentle his eyes are when you look up. “My apologies,” he says, “I didn’t realize.”
“It’s okay,” you say and you really do mean it. “You couldn’t have known.”
Usually, you say something like this and then gently redirect the conversation, but something about the way he’s looking at you makes you want to continue. Like maybe he understands difficult things and doesn’t mind hearing about something that others would shy away from.
“When they told us everything and said they could fix our memories…” You clear your throat and focus your gaze just above his shoulder. “It’s weird, but I just had a feeling that it wouldn’t be good for me to know…that something really bad had happened. So I asked Mobius to check for me, just to be sure…” You swallow, blinking hard.
You remember how sad Mobius’ eyes were, how he’d gently placed a hand on your shoulder and said, “I think you’re making the right call, kid.”
“It’s not really okay, is it?” Loki says softly.
You shrug. “I mean, it’s…it is what it is.”
“You’re a terrible liar, you know.”
“It’s not a lie—”
He raises a skeptical eyebrow and you remember that he is, in fact, the god of lies.
“It’s more like…I can’t really miss what I don’t know, but at the same time, the reality of that absence hurts a little. So maybe not exactly okay, but not exactly not okay, either.”
There’s a lot of kindness in his gaze and you have to look away because it makes your head spin and your breath catch in your throat. “I’m not really sure if that makes sense,” you say.
“It does.”
There’s a silence between you, but it’s not uncomfortable.
“Do you…do you think you’d want to forget if you had that option?” You’re not entirely sure what prompts the question and you regret it almost as soon as it leaves your mouth. “I’m sorry, that’s probably too personal.”
He shakes his head and there’s a warmth in his eyes that you don’t expect. “I rather think I owe you one.” He pauses, running a finger around the rim of his mug. “Sometimes I do,” he says finally. “It can be quite painful remembering.” He worries his lip between his teeth. “But I’m not sure who I would be without the knowledge of my past, either.” His gaze flicks back to you. “What’s it like for you? Do you feel like you know who you are without those memories?”
It’s a good question—one you’ve never been asked. “I mean, it’s hard to say for sure. I think I do,” you say. “Sometimes I wonder if I was different in my timeline. Maybe I was kinder because I had different experiences that made me more empathetic. Maybe I wasn’t—maybe I was worse. Maybe I had a villain arc.”
He chuckles. “That doesn’t seem likely.”
“I dunno, maybe it explains the vending machine coffee and my fish egg related threats,” you say and you feel almost giddy when he returns your smile. “Or maybe I’m the same and all those experiences that shaped me are just scars I can’t see.” You shrug and take a sip of your coffee. “At the end of the day, though, that timeline is gone. I’m all that’s left. It’s sad, but it’s also freeing, in a way.”
He nods. “Mobius has said much the same.”
You smile slightly. “Our philosophies are similar, I suppose, though I think there are probably more bits of his past self in his present self than he realizes.”
Loki grins. “It’s the jet skis, isn’t it?”
“I mean, I just don’t think most normal people spend that much time expounding on the reliability of the Yamaha engine versus the pure, raw power of the Kawasaki.”
Loki holds up a finger. “But have you gotten the lecture about Yamaha’s braking system?”
“I think I have that memorized at this point.”
“‘The perfect choice for families.’”
“‘You just tap the brakes. Just tap them. Perfectly smooth stop every time.’”
“‘Reliability meets affordability.’”
“‘You can’t say no to that.’”
You think you probably could have riffed on this for a bit, but you’re interrupted by the arrival of Connie with your dinner.
The Sunday Special turns out to be a fairly traditional breakfast—eggs, hash browns, two fluffy pancakes, sausage, toast, a little bowl of strawberries.
“Definitely lots of fish eggs in this meal,” you say to Loki after Connie leaves.
His smile is small, but genuine. “You haven’t looked under the pancakes yet.”
You feel it then, but you don’t fully understand until later that this dinner has unlocked something important between the two of you. After months of awkward, stilted conversation, it’s like you finally understand how to talk to each other. And you’re surprised to find that even outside of your big stupid crush, you actually like Loki. You like his sly smiles and his dry humor and how easily the two of you fall into a routine of playful banter. You click in a way that surprises you, in a way that makes you mourn the lost potential of all those awkward, stilted months and feel giddy about the possibilities ahead.
Dinner is over too soon and you walk back to the TVA feeling revived from the coffee and the conversation. 
Disaster awaits you back at the office, though: you’d left a stack of the Nero variant files on your desk and evidently the construction was too precarious, as the entire pile had tipped off your desk and spilled to the floor, contents scattered everywhere.
“Fucking hell,” you sigh, running a hand through your hair. You’re not sure whether you want to laugh, cry, or scream. Possibly, it’s all three.
“Here.” Loki is bending down on the floor to gather the files. You studiously try to not ogle his ass or thighs. Or at least not obviously. “Clear off some space on your desk—I’ll help.”
Twenty minutes later, you’ve set up an entirely new system—Loki has dragged his chair over to your desk and the cart of unsorted files sits between you, like a surly metallic chaperone. And even later when you’ve sorted out all of the files from the floor, he remains parked at the end of your desk, a stack of new, unsorted files in front of him. Admittedly, it’s a lot more efficient for you to work like this: privately, though, it gives you a warm glow that has nothing to do with workplace efficiency.
“I’ve invented a new game,” he says some time later. 
“What’s that?”
“Every time either one of us finds documentation showing Renato Lucchese losing money on a racehorse he was told was not a good investment, I get to have a drink.”
You look up at him. “Look, I know you’re a god and everything, but I am pretty sure that will kill you.”
He sighs and tosses the file into the Lucchese pile. “I think it would add a little excitement to the evening, don’t you?”
You raise your eyebrows and look back at the file in front of you. “You mean this isn’t your idea of a fun Friday night?”
“My idea of a fun Friday night includes far fewer files and a lot more debauchery,” he says, taking a new file from the cart.
You glance at the clock. “Well, it’s only eleven. I don’t usually start body shots until after midnight.”
“What are body shots?”
For one horrifying moment, you think that you’re going to actually have to explain this to him, but then you get a good look at his expression.
He’s teasing you.
“You’re an ass,” you say, swatting him on the shoulder with the file you’re holding.
He wags a finger at you. “That’s workplace violence. I’m going to have to report that.”
You lean back in your chair and return to your file. “I’m pretty confident that you’ll be put off by the amount of paperwork that process requires.”
He shakes his head as he returns to his own file. “Uncontrolled bureaucracy is how bad actors escape accountability.” There’s a brief pause. “And…there’s another racehorse.”
You continue on like this for the rest of the evening, occasionally chatting and Loki proving definitively that the Renato Lucchese racehorse drinking game could not be played without resulting in a fatality. It’s nice, though. Yes, it’s sorting files and yes, it’s not the most intellectually riveting task you’ve ever done, but spending time with Loki is nice. It’s because of this that you find yourself trying to stay awake, pushing past your looming exhaustion.
But around two, you can’t quite fight the heaviness of your eyelids any longer and you doze off in the middle of a report on the sinking of the Lusitania.
“Hey.” Loki is gently shaking your shoulder. The way he says your name in that deliciously deep voice makes you want to swoon and you’re glad that you have the ready made excuse of sleepiness to explain any embarrassing behavior on your end.
“I think you’d better call it a night,” he says gently. “Get some sleep and come back with fresh eyes.”
“What about you?” you say. “Are you going to do the same, or are you just all talk?”
He smiles at you and it warms you to the very tips of your toes. You could bask in that smile like a cat in a sunbeam.
“I’m starting to fade a bit myself,” he says
“Very convenient,” you say and he grins at you.
“Come on, I’ll see you back home.”
Part of you wants to protest—there’s really no need for him to walk you home—but a larger, louder part of you wants to let it be, prolong the magic of tonight for just a little longer.
There’s a comfortable silence between the two of you as you walk out of the office together. 
“What time do you think you’re going to come in tomorrow?” he asks as you approach the residential wing. “It’s probably sensible to coordinate our efforts a bit.”
“Yeah, that’s a good point,” you say. “I was thinking nine, but that will be dependent on how much coffee I have.”
“Yes, about that,” he says. “I cannot stand idly by and watch you torture yourself with vending machine coffee.”
“Well, the cafeteria will be open, so I was going to torture myself with cafeteria coffee, which is at least thirty percent less over brewed.”
He clicks his tongue. “You’re not making a compelling case for yourself.”
“To be fair, it’s quite late and I’ve been staring at files for hours.”
“All the more reason to get decent coffee,” he says. “We’re going out for breakfast.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Oh, we are?”
“Consider it an intervention,” he says. “I’ll come collect you at eight.”
You’re not quite sure if this is just his natural confidence and swagger coming through or if he’s flirting with you and this counts as a date.
“Where are we going?”
“I know a place.”
*
The place in question turns out to be a food cart in Central Park in 1998.
“Should I even bother asking if you have supervisor approval for this?” you say, looking skeptically at the time door glimmering before you.
Loki scoffs. “I don’t have a supervisor.”
“You do. It’s Mobius.”
“That can’t be right, we’re peers.”
“You’re absolutely not. Did you read any of the onboarding materials?”
He ignores your question. “I don’t see why I’d even need a supervisor, honestly.”
You snort. “Need I remind you of what happened at the Nixon inauguration?”
He spreads his hands in front of him. “It’s not my fault that I’m the only one with a sense of humor.”
“I’m not entirely sure that was the problem,” you say. “Gerald Ford is never going to be the same, from what I understand.”
Loki waves a dismissive hand. “He’ll be fine, the tail isn’t permanent. Now, are you coming or not?”
You roll your eyes at him and make a halfhearted complaint about proper protocol, but you know that you’re walking through that time door and not looking back. You knew that before he even posed the question.
The food cart is owned by a man named Samir who has a wide smile and booming laugh. He talks to Loki like he’s a friend and he tells you that you have the prettiest eyes he’s ever seen. You are fairly certain he’s exaggerating, but you stuff a few extra bills into the tip jar anyway.
“I can’t believe you fell for that,” says Loki as you walk away, each carrying a coffee and a brown paper bag with a breakfast sandwich.
“Fell for what?” you say, batting your eyes at him. “I do have beautiful eyes.”
“I’ve heard him say that on at least thirty separate occasions.”
“Yeah, but this time he really meant it. I could tell.”
He rolls his eyes and leads you to a park bench overlooking a wide, grassy field. The leaves are just starting to change and the air has a little bit of a bite to it. 
You sit down on the bench and take a sip of your coffee.
“It is good coffee, I’ll give you that,” you say.
“See,” says Loki, “you can’t go back to that vending machine sludge after this.”
“I mean, if it’s eleven o’clock at night and I’m on a deadline, I can.”
“Darling. You have a TemPad.”
“Loki. Read the personnel manual.”
He wrinkles his nose. “It’s not really my genre.”
You roll your eyes and take out your breakfast sandwich. “What is your genre?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Is that a serious question?”
“Of course it is,” you say. “I love talking about books.”
He gives you a slight smile and takes a sip of his coffee. “A little bit of everything, honestly,” he says. “Philosophy. Magical theory. History. Politics. Anything from Asgard, really, though it can be a bit more challenging getting some of those titles.”
“I’ve had pretty good luck with the Library of the Sacred Timeline—have you checked there yet?”
He frowns. “I’m not familiar.”
“Oh, you’d like it—it’s on the eighteenth floor. It’s intended to be a collection of the greatest works of literature from as many branches of the timeline as possible,” you say. “It started as a research project, but people liked it and it just kind of evolved into this huge collection. They’ve actually got a pretty sizeable collection of books from Asgard.”
It’s like you’ve told him that his personal paradise had been located on the eighteenth floor this entire time. “Will you show me?”
He is practically vibrating with the sort of anticipatory, manic energy that you typically would associate with Christmas morning right before you tear into presents. It’s sweetly endearing.
“Of course.”
Ten minutes later, you’re leading him through the winding hallways on the eighteenth floor. You’re not surprised he hasn’t heard about the library—it’s a bit out of the way and the eighteenth floor is so poorly designed that it’s not terribly easy to find.
The design of the library is a sharp departure from the rest of the TVA. The shelves and floors are made of the kind of dark mahogany that you typically see in the kind of estates that look like something directly out of a Jane Austen novel. Worn oriental rugs muffle your footsteps on the creaky wood floors and the air smells faintly of dust and paper.
There’s a subtle change in Loki when you walk through the doors—almost like a muscle in his shoulders finally relaxes and he seems truly at home for the first time since he arrived.
You touch his hand. “This way.”
You lead him into the stacks, back to the far corner, right after the books from Alfheim.
“You can borrow whichever ones you like,” you say softly. “There’s a sign out sheet at the front desk.”
He nods, though you don’t think he really hears you—he only has eyes for the shelves, his gaze sweeping across the spines like they’re old friends. You’re about to excuse yourself to give him a little privacy when his brow furrows and he exhales sharply. “Oh, you can’t be serious.”
“What is it?”
They have the entirety of the finest Asgardian literature at their disposal. Untold centuries of the writings of our greatest minds—” he plucks a book off the shelf, “—and they choose to include this?”
The title looks fairly innocuous—a red, leather bound book with the title The Cloistered Heart embossed in gold script on the front. You take the book from him and open it. “What’s the problem with this?”
“It’s inconsequential fluff, literary pablum of the highest order.”
This is the Loki that you’re more familiar with and a smile curls at your lips. Almost on cue, you flip the book open to a chapter titled “The Wedding and Bedding of Aloisa.”
You bite back a laugh and look up at him. “It’s a romance novel.”
“Precisely my point,” he says. “To think that this is on the same shelf as Nielsen and Auber.”
“That’s kind of how libraries work,” you say, flipping further into the book. The phrases “throbbing length” and “eager moans” draw your eye and you have to tamp down another laugh. “Oh, and it’s a sexy romance novel.”
“It appeals to the lowest common denominator, yes.”
“What, so you’re too good for a bodice ripper?”
He scoffs. “I prefer to do the bodice ripping myself, not read some overwrought description of it.”
You are glad you’re looking at the book because you’re pretty sure you’d disintegrate if you had to make eye contact with him while he delivered that line. “Oh spare me,” you say lightly, snapping the book shut and drawing it to your chest. “I’m gonna read this.”
He blows out a puff of air. “It’s a waste of your time.”
“I’ve got lots of time, I can afford to waste it,” you say cheekily. “Besides, I’m curious to see what kind of book turns the god of mischief into a pearl clutching prude.”
Loki sputters. “Prude? Darling, let me assure you, I’m no prude—”
“I’ll leave you to browse,” you say with a grin as you turn away from him. “Come find me at the front when you’re ready to go.”
You’re a few chapters into the book when Loki rejoins you at the front of the library, a small stack of books tucked under his arm.
You close your book with a snap. “This book is a delight. I think your real issue is just that you’re no fun.”
He scoffs. “I’m very fun.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
You bicker playfully back and forth as you check out your books and leave the library. A quick glance at your watch tells you that you spent much more time there than you’d planned. You can’t quite bring yourself to worry about that, though, not with the memory of Loki’s wonderstruck expression burning so bright in your mind.
There’s a bit of a lull in the conversation as you wait for the elevator.
“Thank you,” he says softly.
“For what?”
“For showing me that.”
“Of course. I’m sorry you didn’t know about it sooner.”
He looks at you, lips parting slightly like he’s about to say something. His tongue swipes briefly over his bottom lip and you would swear that his gaze drops to your mouth for just a second.
For just a second—one heady, slightly irrational second—you think he might be about to kiss you.
The ding of the elevator arriving breaks the spell, startling you just a little. You run a hand through your hair, trying to give off the impression of composure even as your heart beats wildly in your chest.
Loki gestures to the elevator doors. “After you.”
There is a group of analysts in the elevator already, chatting animatedly and completely obliterating any chance you may have had at recapturing that moment.
You try not to dwell too much in contemplating what ifs or timeline branches—often, it feels too much like work, something Mobius might assign you.
But you know that the possibility of that moment—what if the elevator had been a hair slower, what if those analysts had taken a different route, what if you were braver—you know that’s something that’s going to haunt you for a while.
*
You wouldn’t give up that time in the library for anything—it’s one of those moments that feels formative, something that you’ll return to again and again for one reason or another.
But it’s also true that it’s time that you probably could have used for sorting files and as Saturday ticks on, you can’t help but wish you had a way to pull another hour out of somewhere.
“We’re not going to be able to make this deadline, are we?” you say with a sigh.
It’s getting late into the evening and the cart of files still to be sorted still remains depressingly full, despite the fact that you’d brought both lunch and dinner back to your desk so you could continue working.
Loki eyes the remaining files. “I think we might. We made good progress today.”
You rub your eyes. “My brain feels like it’s about to leak out my ears.”
Loki takes the file you are working on and sets it back in the stack of unsorted files. “I think that might be a sign it’s time to turn in,” he says.
“There’s still so much left.”
“There’s still tomorrow.”
You reach for the file. “Well, let me just—”
He pulls your hand away from the pile. “You can come back to it in the morning. Besides, if you’re this tired, you’re not going to do good work anyway.”
He squeezes your hand and drops it. It’s brief enough to still be friendly, but unusual enough to make you wonder and send your mind racing back to that moment by the elevator.
You shake the thought away. It’s late and you’re tired.
You heave a world weary sigh and slump back in your chair. “I hate it when you’re right.”
To his credit, he only smirks a little. “Come on. I’ll walk you back.”
Once again, there’s no reason for him to do this, but once again, you’re inclined to let him.
You pack up for the evening and walk out of the office side by side. You’re trying very hard not to think about the fact that this is likely the last night that you’ll do this, that tomorrow the assignment will be over.
As you near the residential wing, you start to hear distant shouts. If you inhale deeply, you catch a very faint whiff of explosives—you’re not sure what kind.
“I think someone brought work home,” you say with a sigh. 
This happens from time to time—things get out of hand in the field or something happens when retrieving an asset or a target and all hell breaks loose at the TVA. Mobius had once referred to it as “bringing work home” and the name had stuck.
“Wasn’t there an incident in this wing not long ago?” asks Loki.
“Yes.” You sigh, running a hand through your hair. “I had to call off the next day—I got no sleep that night.” You listen carefully, trying to determine the source of the noise and the status of the problem. “But maybe it’s almost over,” you say with an optimism you don’t fully feel. “Sometimes these things are resolved really quick.”
Your heart continues to sink the closer you come to your home. The acrid burn of explosives only increases and you think you catch the low, dull roar of something not quite human.
And indeed, when you turn the final corner, you are immediately stopped by an electric blue barrier being monitored by a hunter. G-21–you’ve worked with her on a couple of missions before.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” slips out of your mouth before you can stop yourself.
“There’s an ongoing incident in this area,” says G-21 and you almost want to laugh because no shit. 
“How long do you think it’s gonna be closed off?” you ask.
She shrugs. “We’re at a code 54 right now, but it’s probably gonna escalate.”
With pitch perfect timing and before you can even try to remember what a code 54 means, there’s an almighty crash and a low bellow.
“Go!” she yells before running toward the commotion amid frantic calls for backup.
Loki is grabbing your wrist and pulling you into a run.
Your standard issue work shoes are comfortable enough on a day to day basis, but you certainly want to have words with whoever decided that leather soled shoes with absolutely no grips were a good choice for a building floored almost entirely in linoleum. In a low stakes situation, it’s meant occasionally you wipe out in the cafeteria and hurt nothing but your pride. In this situation, it means that Loki’s firm grip on your hand is the only thing keeping you upright.
But there’s a small mercy in that while you can still hear distant crashes and shrieks, whatever is happening down that hallway doesn’t seem to be following you and eventually, you both slow to a brisk walk and Loki drops your hand.
You haven’t even had a chance to consider where you are going to sleep tonight. You could probably curl up on that terrible couch in the office and just plan on getting up early enough to run back to your place for a quick shower and a change of clothes…assuming the incident resolves by then—
“You can stay with me,” says Loki, as though he can hear you trying to sort this out.
“Oh, that’s okay, I’ll just—”
“If you say you’re going to sleep on that terrible couch in the office, I will personally take you to the most boring governmental proceeding I can find and leave you there until you come to your senses.”
“Sounds like a great place to fall asleep,” you say.
His eyes glint, but his tone brooks no arguments. “You’re staying with me tonight.”
You sigh, but you can’t think of a counterpoint. “When did you get so bossy?”
“Darling, I’m a prince,” he says with a bit of a wry smirk. “It’s my birthright.”
Loki lives on the opposite end of the residential wing and his place looks quite a bit like yours—he’s got an extra window in the kitchen but the floor plan is otherwise the same. A lot of his furniture is standard issue, but there are little details that make it seem more personal: an area rug with a bit of fraying on the edges, a painting of what you think is an Asgardian landscape, a vase filled with dried flowers so delicate they look like they might disintegrate if you were to touch them. And books—so many books. Books on shelves, stacked on the coffee table, tucked into the little rack that you know is meant to hold magazines. Hardbacks, paperbacks, leather bound, dog-eared, well-worn and brand new. It’s no wonder he was so excited about the library.
“Have a seat,” he says, gesturing to the couch. “I’ll get some things for you.”
You sit down and he disappears down the hall. You idly examine the books stacked on the end table next to you. Many are quite clearly from Asgard and it sparks a pang of sympathy—it’s like his homesickness is on full display in his living room and there’s something sweet and sad about seeing that vulnerability laid so bare.
He returns a few minutes later with a pair of pajamas, a toothbrush, and a hand towel.
“Here,” he says, handing you the pile. “Bathroom’s just down the hall. I’ll make up a bed for you.”
“Thanks.”
In the bathroom, you realize that the pajamas he’s given you aren’t the standard set you can order from the TVA. These are made of a dark emerald silk that ripples over your skin like water, and somehow, that makes it feel a thousand times more personal than if he’d loaned you a standard set. They don’t fit quite right on you, but they’ll work well enough for tonight.
You brush your teeth and attempt to get through as much of your evening routine as you can before collecting your clothes and exiting the bathroom.
When you return to the living room, you expect to find that he’s made up a bed for you on the couch. These living units only have one bedroom—it would be quite reasonable to have you sleep on the couch.
You do not expect to find a pajama clad Loki stretched out reading on the couch, a blanket over his lap and his head propped up on a pillow like he intends to sleep there.
You exhale slowly. “Please tell me you are not giving up your bed.”
“Don’t be absurd, of course I am,” he says without even looking up from his book. “The point of this was to prevent you from sleeping on a couch, not simply put you on a couch in a different location.”
You wish you had something to throw at him. “You don’t even fit on that couch.”
“Luckily, my knees bend. Besides, you’re a guest,” he says, as though that settles it.
You roll your eyes and plunk yourself down in the armchair across from the couch, setting your pile of clothes on the floor. “I’m not moving until you give up the couch.”
He finally looks up from his book. “You’re really going to do this?”
You examine your fingernails, flicking away an invisible speck of dust. “I’m not the one being unreasonable. I’m simply meeting you at your level.”
“If you think that I’m being unreasonable and you’re also saying you’re meeting me at my level, does that not mean you are admitting that you are being unreasonable?”
“It’s nearly one o’clock in the morning. I’m not arguing semantics with you.”
“Fine.” His eyes glimmer as he sets his book down and slowly rises to his feet. “But you’re still not sleeping on the couch.”
“Oh, you’re going to be so disappointed when you realize how wrong you are,” you say. You think you see your opening and you try to play it cool.
He’s walking toward you, leaving your path to the couch wide open. In your head, you can see exactly how this works: you’ll spring from your chair and dart around the coffee table before diving onto the couch like a baseball player sliding into home plate, soundly defeating Loki. Easy peasy.
Instead, what happens is that you spring to your feet and Loki moves with inhuman speed, grabbing you around your waist and pinning you to the front of his chest, stopping you in your tracks almost immediately.
“I suppose I should have expected that,” he says. Your back is facing him, but you can almost hear the dry, sardonic look he’s giving you.
“Probably,” you say. “God of mischief and all.” You struggle fruitlessly against his iron grip. “You can let me go now.”
He laughs. “I’m afraid I can’t. It was clearly a mistake to trust you. I won’t be making that error again.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say, trying again to squirm away from him. “Let me go.”
“The interesting thing about all of this is that you’ve made a rather substantial tactical error,” he says, continuing as though he can’t hear you.
“You’re bluffing,” you say with more confidence than you feel.
“Fascinating theory,” he says, “but I don’t think it’s going to work out for you.”
With that same ridiculous speed, he’s suddenly spinning you around and lifting you, tossing you easily over his shoulder.
“Hey!” you shout in protest.
“I warned you,” he says, his voice full of mirth as he carries you toward the bedroom.
This is not exactly how you’ve imagined being carried off to bed by Loki.
Though, admittedly, you do have a nice view of his ass.
“This is ridiculous,” you say.
“You brought this upon yourself.” He’s walking into the bedroom and a moment later, he’s lifting you from his shoulder and tossing you unceremoniously onto his bed.
You scramble to your feet and try to lunge toward the door, but he’s clearly expecting that. Before your feet even hit the floor, he catches you around the waist and hauls you back to the bed. Your back hits the mattress and you try to leverage the momentum to propel yourself back onto your feet.
He catches you immediately and you find yourself back on the bed again.
“I don’t mean to be patronizing,” he says, failing to bite back a laugh, “but it’s adorable that you think you can outmaneuver me.”
That is deeply offensive and the only way you can earn my forgiveness is by letting me take my rightful place on the couch.” You can’t quite keep the laugh from your voice.
He grins. “Not a chance.”
You attempt to dive off the opposite side of the bed, only to have him grab you by the ankles and pull you back. You manage to dislodge him and lunge in the opposite direction, only to be immediately thwarted.
It becomes increasingly hilarious the longer it goes on and soon your sides are aching from laughter. Loki is laughing too, but it doesn’t seem to affect his strength or speed at all.
Eventually, he wrestles you back down onto the bed and you are fairly certain there’s no way out of this one—he’s got your wrists pinned above your head and his legs locked around yours. You’re both a little out of breath.
“Yield,” he says.
You shake your head. “Never.”
His gaze flicks to your lips and back to your eyes. “Yield.”
“No.”
Something has changed. There’s an electricity and intensity that crackles in the air between you, possibilities blooming in both of your gazes. It feels a little like that moment by the elevator, but you’re afraid to hope, afraid to even wish because the idea of him wanting you still feels as impossible as capturing smoke with a net. 
But the way he’s looking at you, the way his gaze keeps drifting between your eyes and your lips…that’s not nothing.
“Yield.”
You lick your lips, your heart beating wildly. “No.”
Is it just your imagination, or did his breath hitch when you licked your lips?
“Yield.”
God, he’s so close and you want him so badly. 
“No.”
He looks again at your lips and this time, he closes the distance between you.
They call him Silvertongue—you’ve heard the jokes, you’ve rolled your eyes at all of them. But as he kisses you, you realize that there’s an element of truth there because only seconds in and you’re ready to sign away your soul to live under the power of Loki’s tongue. The slow, warm slide of it against yours, the way he guides your mouth against his, the way he lets out a soft sigh as he tastes you—you would give up everything if it meant you could stay like this.
“Yield,” he breathes against your lips.
“No,” you say.
He deepens the kiss, catching your lower lip between his teeth and gently tugging until you whimper and arch against him.
He still has your hands pinned against the bed, his grip unyielding when you try to wrestle them away.
“Let me touch you,” you say when he draws back. You want to touch him everywhere—run your hands along every muscle you’ve admired from afar. 
“Then yield,” he says with a grin, his eyes flashing with devilish intent.
You consider this for a moment. You could give in—there aren’t really any stakes at this point and you’re pretty sure you’re both going to end up sleeping in his bed tonight anyway. But that glint of mischief in his eyes also promises some intriguing possibilities if you stand firm.
“No,” you say.
“Such a pity,” says Loki, though his expression is one of hungry delight.
His hands slip free of your wrists then, but they stay pinned to the bed by some invisible force.
“Cheater,” you say. 
“I think this is only fair,” he says, his hands sliding to your hips. “I’m clearly the victor, am I not entitled to my prize?”
You shiver. “Your prize?”
“Yes.” He kisses down the column of your throat. “My lovely, lovely prize.”
“How can I be your prize if I’m also your competitor?”
“You think too much,” he mumbles against your neck.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“Generally, it’s not.” He sits back on his heels between your legs, looking you over with satisfaction. “But in this case, it’s distracting you from more pressing matters.” His hands creep under the hem of your shirt, stroking the small of your back, thumbs tracing teasingly along the waistband of your pajama pants. 
“Have I mentioned how much I enjoy seeing you in my clothes?” he asks. There’s a husky depth to his voice and a hunger in his eyes that sends a flood of arousal to your cunt.
“You have not,” you say.
“A casualty of too much thinking,” he says solemnly, his thumbs gently grazing the skin at your hipbones. “You look utterly delectable. I almost want to leave them on.” His eyes glitter with mischief. “Almost.” His hand strays to the bottom button on your pajama top. “May I?”
You nod. “Yes.”
He slips the button free and slowly makes his way up until your shirt is open. He carefully pushes the fabric aside, baring your breasts to his sight and touch.
You’ve never felt more beautiful seeing Loki stare at you, lips slightly parted, eyes wide and hungry. He trails one hand up your stomach and rib cage and slowly brushes a thumb over your nipple. You gasp and the sensitive skin puckers and stiffens as he palms your breast, rolling your nipple between his thumb and forefinger.
“Gorgeous,” he murmurs as he lowers his mouth to your breast, his tongue and lips taking up the role of his hand, while his other hand moves to cup your other breast. You whimper, wishing you could run your hands through his hair. “That’s it,” he purrs, “I want to hear all the sounds you can make, my love.”
You rock your hips forward and arch your back as he lavishes attention on your breasts. It’s the most delicious kind of torture, having him so close, but not being able to touch him.
He’s taking his time, which you both love and hate. He feels so good, but you need him to touch you, you need to touch him, you need him inside of you. You wait until you can’t take it any more and breathe his name like it’s a prayer.
You wonder if this is what he was waiting for because with little more than a brief smirk and a wicked look, he starts kissing his way back up your chest and neck. You whimper when his lips meet yours and you can feel him grin as he kisses you. He fits his hips against yours, angling himself so that his cock rubs up against your clit just right and you moan into his mouth. You can tell that he’s big and part of you wants to savor the anticipation even though you feel like you might go mad if he doesn’t fuck you now. You rock your hips against him, trying to feel that friction.
His large hands frame your face, one hand sliding to cradle the back of your head so he can draw you deeper, the other trailing from your cheek to your throat.
Both hands soon stroke down your sides, lingering teasingly at the waistband of your pajama pants. He hooks his thumbs underneath the waistband and you lift your hips. He slides your pants down maybe an inch and you can feel him smiling as he kisses you. You lift your hips again and your waistband creeps down another inch.
“Loki.” His name falls from your lips with a sigh.
“What is it, my love?”
“Touch me,” you breathe. “Please.”
You lift your hips again and this time, he pulls the fabric fully down and off your legs. He guides your legs apart and stares appreciatively at your bare cunt, his teasing expression replaced by a rapt awe.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs. 
You believe him.
His hands stroke your thighs, seemingly in no hurry, despite your pleading whimpers and the way you arch against the mattress. He draws his thumb gently along your slit, barely grazing your clit.
“Do you know what an utter distraction it’s been sitting behind you?” he asks, tracing your clit in the slowest, lightest circle.
You arch upward, hands still bound by his magic. “Tell me,” you breathe, your hips rising to chase his hand.
“Every time you stood up, I could only think about bending you over the desk.”
You manage a sly smirk. “And here I thought you didn’t like me much at all.”
His thumb presses a little more against your clit and you moan.
“I’ve wanted you from the moment I saw you,” he says, rolling his thumb in a slow circle. “I kept you at arm’s length partly as a matter of protection.”
For who?”
“You,” he says. “I’m not fully redeemed in some eyes and you being involved with a dangerous variant—”
“You’re not,” you say.
“Some would disagree.”
“Well, they’re wrong,” you say. “You’re not a dangerous variant. You’re Loki Laufeyson and I want you just as you are.”
There’s something unreadable in his expression and it makes you wonder how many people have told him that he can just be himself.
“You should be careful saying such lovely things to me, you know,” he says solemnly.
You raise an eyebrow. “Oh really? And why is that?”
“Because it makes me want to do very wicked things to you.”
You’re surprised you’re not shaking, you want him so badly. “What kinds of wicked things?”
“Oh, all manner of wicked things.” He presses a kiss to the inside of your knee, his tongue swiping briefly against your skin. “Things with my mouth...” His thumb rolls over your clit again, his index finger teasing your entrance before retreating. “…my hands…” He drags his gaze over your naked form before locking eyes with you. “My cock.”
A shiver works its way up your spine. “So if I talk about how I think you’re really clever and funny and I find it unbelievably sexy, what sort of wicked thing would that merit?”
The intensity of his gaze makes you shiver again. He crouches down and presses another kiss against the inside of your knee, slowly moving upward. “If you keep talking like that, I’m not going to let you leave my bed for days.”
“You know that’s not a disincentive, right?” you say, sucking in a sharp breath as he nips at the soft skin of your inner thigh. “I’ve wanted you for such a long time, Loki.”
“I’ll make it weeks if you’re not careful.”
“Again, not a disincentive.” You gently tug at your bound wrists and find that they’re still firmly secured. It’s exhilarating, even though you really wish you could run your hands through his hair, especially if he ends up where you think he’s going.
“What else should I tell you?” you muse as he continues his agonizingly slow path along your thigh. “You know, half the reason I kept to myself was that I wanted you so much I was certain that I’d make a fool of myself.”
That earns you a few circles of your clit with his thumb, but his progress up your thigh remains slow. You have a theory about what might move the needle, though.
“I know you like to act like you’re this sort of barely reformed villain, but I think there’s more good in you than you’d like people to believe.”
This time, he moves up to the crease where your thigh joins your hip, close enough that you can feel the heat of his breath ghosting along your labia. His tongue traces a line along your skin and you briefly wonder if you’ll be able to hold it together enough to deliver the last part.
“And,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady, “yesterday and today made me want you even more because I feel like I finally saw who you really are and you’re even more wond—”
Your words abruptly give way to a breathy moan because his perfect, skilled tongue has finally found its way to your clit.
You had a plan from here, but whatever it was has dissolved into nothing under the skilled caress of Loki’s tongue. You suspected he would be good at this from the way that he’d kissed you earlier, but you could not have imagined that it would feel like this.
“Oh my god, Loki.” Your thighs are already quaking. You tug again at the invisible bonds on your wrists, but they hold fast. Something about the way the bonds are keeping you gently stretched along the bed combined with how his large hands have your thighs spread open seems to heighten every sensation. There’s no wiggling away from him or adjusting yourself so that you feel more or less of the onslaught of his tongue on your cunt. You are completely at his mercy and you’re not entirely surprised that you fucking love it.
He slides a finger into your aching channel and your cunt shudders around the thick intrusion. The warm, roiling center of your orgasm starts builds in your hips with every stroke of his tongue, spinning faster and faster, like ocean winds whipping up into a hurricane. Your back arches and his tongue presses flat against your clit, and suddenly you know that this is going to be what takes you over the edge.
Loki seems to know it too, at least from the way that he presses his tongue more firmly against you, one arm slung across your hips to hold you in place. His other hand slides two fingers inside you, rocking and curling against that aching, tender spot.
You whimper, your hips bucking wildly. It’s so good and so much and you are almost there.
You look down at him then, his hair wild, hollowed cheeks flushed pink as his tongue works you over, his eyes closed like he couldn’t imagine anything more blissful than being in between your legs while you come undone.
This is ultimately what tips you over the edge. The storm that has been forming inside you is finally let loose and you arch your back and cry out in a wordless scream as your climax crashes into you.
Only then do the bonds around your wrists release and your hands fly down to grab his hair as your body shakes with pleasure.
It takes a moment for you to get your breath back and reacquaint yourself with the concept of speech, but when you do, you find Loki looking up at you, his expression pure mischief.
“And to think you wanted to sleep on the couch.”
“It wasn’t that I wanted to sleep on the couch, it’s that—” Your voice cuts off as his tongue starts stroking your clit again.
“It’s what?” he asks in between strokes, his smirk obvious in his voice. The lingering ripples of your orgasm are coalescing around the path of his tongue, tightening that coil in your belly again.
“Fuck—you’re not playing fair, you can’t just—” You lose your sentence to a low moan that rises up from your chest. “You can’t just—fuck, yes—you can’t…oh god, yes, just like that.”
His laughter rumbles against you as your hips start rocking against his mouth. How are you already so close?
“You can’t just—fuck—win an argument by—”
You’re trying to say that he can’t expect to win an argument by making you come and you think he might understand this based on how determined he seems to be to prove you wrong. His fingers curl again until he finds that soft, tender spot that is so often the key to your unraveling.
You have stopped trying to complete that sentence—you moan, your hands tangling in his hair, urging him on as the swell of your climax rushes up, inevitable as a tidal wave looming over a seaside village.
You cry out as it crests and breaks, falling down over you in a rush of tingling pleasure that feels like champagne and fireworks all at once.
“Now, what was it you were saying, my love?” he asks as he releases your clit a moment later. “Something about how I can’t just win an argument by making you come? I couldn’t quite hear you over the sound of you coming completely undone on my tongue.”
“Oh, you think you’re so smart,” you say, giving him a stern look as he crawls up your body.
“You know what I think?” he says, settling himself on his side next to you. “I think you liked submitting to me.”
You shiver before you can even think about hiding it and his smile turns decidedly vulpine. 
“You did, didn’t you? You liked having your hands bound and being completely at my mercy while I licked your pretty cunt until you came undone in my mouth.”
“You are enjoying this far too much,” you say.
“I am enjoying it the correct amount.”
You realize your hands are now free to explore his body and you tug at his pajama shirt. “I think you’re wearing too many clothes,” you say.
He gives you a wicked grin as he lets you pull his shirt over his head. “Yes, perhaps it’s time we even things up.”
You pull the shirt away and rake your eyes over him greedily, your hands following the path of your gaze. He is as perfect as you imagined, unfairly beautiful in the dim light of the bedroom.
You hook your thumbs into the waistband of his pajama pants and lower them an inch, a cheeky parallel of how he teased you earlier. His lips curl into a sharp smile when he realizes what you’re doing.
“Interesting strategy.” There’s a bit of a growl in his voice, a rough desperation that makes your cunt clench. “But I think you forgot that I have the upper hand here.”
He raises his hand and with a twist of his wrist, his remaining clothes dissolve in a shimmer of green and he is bare before you.
Your breath catches in your throat. His cock commands your immediate attention, nudging up against your thigh—he’s big, as you suspected, but completely bare and rock hard, he somehow seems longer and thicker than he had when he was grinding against you.
He pulls you into a slow kiss as you reach for his cock. You wrap your hand around him, delighting in the silky hardness of him, the way he throbs in your hand and the low groan he makes as your hand moves from base to tip and back, the way his hips thrust along with you. Your cunt clenches in anticipation.
After a moment, though, he places his hand over yours, slowing your movements.
“I need to be inside you,” he rasps.
“Yes,” you breathe.
He rolls on top of you  and you’re not sure that you’ve ever felt anything quite as wonderful as the heat of his bare skin and yours pressed together. This feeling means intimacy, a closeness that you’d longed for but never expected even in your wildest daydreams.
He pulls you into a kiss, slow, soft, and languid, like you have all the time in the world and he intends to take it. It’s decadent and dreamy and perfect.
But the heavy weight of his bare cock resting against your stomach combined with the ache between your legs—an ache that would be so perfectly soothed by the hard column of flesh currently throbbing against you—proves to be a force too powerful to resist for very long.
You cant your hips against him, snaking one leg around his waist, hoping he’ll get the hint.
He does.
He braces himself on one hand, the other sliding between your bodies to rub his cock along your slick folds. He positions himself at your entrance, waiting for your breathy plea to begin to ease himself slowly into you.
He fills and stretches you in the most wonderful way, but even more than that, he feels like home. The thought strikes you quite suddenly and you’re not entirely sure about everything it means, but you know it’s good and right.
He pauses for just a moment, seeming to savor the feeling.
“You feel better than I ever imagined,” he says.
You quirk an eyebrow at him. “You imagined?”
He gives you a hungry smile as he leans in to kiss you. “Like I said: it has been an utter distraction sitting behind you.”
His rhythm is slow and easy, like he wants to take his time learning every inch of you and memorizing how you react to his touch. His mouth moves over yours in a slow kiss that’s somehow both languid and demanding, his tongue gliding in and out of your mouth in the same rhythm of his hips rocking into you. His cock bumps up against that sweet spot inside of you that his fingers had teased earlier, each stroke inching you closer to bliss.
He shifts the angle of his hips so that his pubic bone grinds against your clit and it feels so good you almost see stars. You can feel your orgasm building, your cunt growing slicker and tensing around his thrusting cock.
He draws back to look at you, eyes hazy with a loose, dreamy kind of pleasure.
“Do you have any idea how good you feel?” he breathes.
You are shaking. “Loki, I’m gonna come.”
“I know you are,” he purrs. “Let go for me, let me feel you, my love.”
With two more thrusts of his hips, you unravel.
He groans as you tremble around him, but mostly, he watches your face, rapt by the way you throw your head back against the bed and gasp his name like it’s the only thing that will save you.
“You’re beautiful when you come,” he breathes. “Absolutely stunning.”
He waits until you catch your breath before he kisses you again, slow and sensual. His hips are still rocking in that beautifully slow rhythm and you don’t know how it can still feel so good.
He keeps moving against you, his touch and his low murmurs of praise invoking a symphony of sensations. He presses deeper and your body sings with every thrust, your muscles tensing and tightening around him like you never want him to leave. Your climax swells again and you come with a whimper, your whole body shaking as he fucks you through it.
You want him to come, want to hear the sounds he makes and feel his sweet, hot release burning inside of you.
“I want you to come for me,” you breathe.
He grins at you. “Oh, I will, but not yet. You’re not done yet.”
You whimper. “Loki—”
“Two more, my love, two more and then I’ll come for you.”
Somehow, you give him three. By the second one, he’s panting and his words have become rough, his voice a growl as he utters some of the filthiest praise you’ve ever heard. The third builds quickly after that and you know instinctively that you’re going to take him over the edge with you this time.
You fight to keep your eyes open against the tidal wave of pleasure blooming again in your hips. You need to see him come undone.
As in everything else he does, he’s unfairly beautiful—he throws his head back, letting out a low groan that you can feel all the way to the tips of your toes. His cheeks are flushed, a few ink dark curls plastered to the light sheen of sweat on his forehead. You can feel him emptying himself inside you, his release hot and hard won.
It seems to last a long time and it’s another minute before his hips slow to a halt. He kisses you, so soft and sweet it would almost seem chaste were it not for the fact that his cock is still throbbing inside of you.
After a moment, he slowly eases out of you, rolling over onto his back, his arm snaking around your waist and pulling you to him like he can’t bear to be parted from you even for a moment.
You curl up against his side, your legs tangling with his. He takes your hand, lacing his fingers with yours before resting your clasped hands on his heart.
You could fall in love like this, you think sleepily to yourself.
You don’t know it then, but you’re right.
*
Time moves differently at the TVA, but a couple years later, there’s a ring in a box on your desk.
Loki likes a spectacle and you’d daydreamed about a traditional wedding, but when you talk it over, you both agree that you want to do something different, something quiet, something just for the two of you.
“I do think we should tell Mobius beforehand,” you say to Loki.
“Isn’t the point of eloping that no one knows until after it’s done?” says Loki.
“Yes, but I feel like we could make one exception,” you say. “If we’d done a full wedding, I would have asked him to give me away.”
Loki’s gaze softens a bit then and he pulls you close. “All right. But we only tell him right before we leave. The man can’t keep a secret.”
But Mobius doesn’t seem terribly surprised when you tell him—in fact, he seems far more concerned about your wedding gift.
“I didn’t have a chance to wrap it yet,” he says. He’s retrieved a large picture frame that had been propped against his desk, though he keeps it turned away from you. “So…this also requires a bit of an overdue confession for context.”
You raise your eyebrows. “A confession?”
“A confession,” says Mobius.
“Will I be angry about this?” asks Loki at the same time you say, “Is this like a go to jail confession or a misdemeanor confession?”
Mobius gives a good natured chuckle, shaking his head slightly. “God, the two of you. Always so dramatic. No wonder you ended up together.” He takes what feels like an unnecessarily long drink from the coffee mug on his desk. “It’s not bad, I promise.” Another sip of coffee. 
Loki sighs. “He always does this,” he says to you. “Have you noticed? Whenever he has something that you want to know, he stalls and drags it out just to torment you.”
“Okay,” you say, “but you jumping in to bicker with him probably doesn’t help.”
“I’m not bickering,” says Loki. “I’m simply pointing out that he’s stalling—”
“What was it you were saying, Mobius?” you say brightly, nudging Loki with your elbow.
Mobius’ eyes twinkle. “See,” he says to Loki, “I always liked her. It’s a good match.”
You don’t have to look at Loki to know he’s rolling his eyes, though he also makes a point of surreptitiously pinching your ass, a detail you hope Mobius doesn’t notice.
“Anyway,” says Mobius, taking a deep breath, “it was pretty clear to me from the start that you liked each other. And you also seemed absolutely determined to get in your own way.” He points to Loki. “Especially you with your whole stilted Asgardian prince thing.”
Loki frowns. “What are you talking about?”
Mobius sighs. “Anytime you like someone, it’s like your brain gets a factory reset and you get all overly polite and courtly.”
Loki scoffs. “I don’t do that at all.”
“You do. It’s deeply weird. You’re like a mannerly robot.”
Loki turns to you. “Darling, tell him he’s being absurd.”
You reach over and squeeze his hand. “You did call me ‘my lady’ a couple of times in the early days.”
Loki sighs and looks back at Mobius. “What was your point in mentioning this?”
“Well,” says Mobius, “you seemed pretty determined to get in your own way, so nothing was happening. And eventually I got sick of all of the pining, so I decided to take matters into my own hands.”
“What do you mean?”
Mobius pauses, a hint of a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “There wasn’t a breakthrough with Berlitz that weekend. What there was was a surplus in the overtime budget and a high priority indexing project for Archives.”
Your lips part as your brain slowly puts the pieces together. Mobius’ eyes twinkle.
“Wait,” you say, “you lied to us?”
“I did not lie,” says Mobius, his demeanor suddenly becoming very serious. “That would have been wrong.” He nods at Loki. “Also, it would’ve tipped him off and that would have ruined the whole thing. I simply failed to mention that the cart of files that I gave you needed to be sorted for indexing for the Archives department and I peppered in a couple of unrelated things about Berlitz.”
“But the office was empty that weekend,” says Loki.
Mobius snaps his fingers. “Right. I did make some adjustments to the schedule that weekend.”
“And the disturbance that prevented her from returning home on Saturday night?”
Mobius spreads his hands wide and grins. “All me, buddy. Paid G-21 five hundred bucks for that one.”
Loki pauses for a moment and then looks at you. “I don’t think I can be mad about this. I’m genuinely impressed.”
“I mean, I can’t argue with the results, but Jesus, Mobius, you could’ve just set us up on a blind date,” you say.
“Ah, but that’s not as fun,” Mobius says. “Plus, it wouldn’t have made for as good a wedding gift.” He turns the frame around and hands it to you both.
It’s both your timecards from that pay period, neatly framed side by side. Your eyes well with tears and Mobius smiles.
“Honestly, I’m just relieved it’s not a jet ski,” says Loki.
“He's deflecting,” you say to Mobius in an exaggerated whisper.
“I know,” he whispers back.
But you can’t help but notice that Loki’s eyes are brighter than normal.
“Okay, now get out of here,” says Mobius. “You’ve got a wedding to get to.”
Twenty minutes later, you’re wearing a simple white dress and standing with Loki in front of a time door, your hand clasped in his.
“Technically, we don’t have a supervisor’s approval for this,” you say with a wry smile.
He looks at you, eyes dancing with mirth. “I had Mobius sign off on the paperwork while you were getting ready.”
Your heart swells and your smile is so wide that you feel like your face might split in two. “Then hurry up and marry me, Laufeyson.”
He grins and tugs you through the time door.
-------
But wait! There's more: I don't have a masterlist for this, but if you enjoy these idiots, check out Daylight, a sort of sequel.
7K notes · View notes
lusmeitli · 8 months ago
Text
This. Is. Perfection. 🫠♥️
Surrender
Summary: Finding your soulmate is supposed to be a romantic, life changing experience.
No one tells you what to do when a). your soulmate is the homicidal maniac who led the successful takeover of your planet and made himself king and b). you kind of still want him anyway.
(Soulmate AU where Loki won)
Pairing: Loki x Female Reader
Warnings: Smut, 18+, Minors DNI, dirty talk, praise kink, oral sex, teasing, orgasm delay, sex, vaginal fingering.
A/N: look, I was intrigued by the idea of a Loki Wins AU and also a soulmate AU and this just sort of happened. I may write more of this concept because it gave me IDEAS. This is also available on AO3.
Tumblr media
The mark on your wrist begins to burn the minute he walks into the room.
At first you think it’s a coincidence or a mistake—there are guards walking with him, perhaps it’s one of them. But then he flinches, his right hand going to his left wrist and your heart sinks to your knees. It could still be a coincidence, you tell yourself halfheartedly.
He scans the room and when his eyes land on you, it’s like the tumblers of a lock clicking into place and you know.
He’s much taller than you thought he was—that’s the only conscious and coherent thought you manage to have as he approaches you. Being the subject of his gaze is overwhelming in a way that you sort of expect, but it still makes you want to sit down and close your eyes. He looks you over, his gaze lingering briefly on your nametag from work.
“Show me your wrist,” he says.
You don’t think he’s using his powers, but you comply automatically, extending your arm toward him, wrist turned up. There’s a frisson of electricity that buzzes along the back of your hand when he touches it—if there were any remaining doubts about who he is and his relationship to you, that feeling surely puts them to rest. You know that he must have felt something too from the way he looks at you sharply, as though he thinks you’ve done something intentional to cause this. You can only hope that your wide eyed bewilderment convincingly conveys your innocence.
His expression betrays nothing as he examines the mark on your wrist, which is now glowing a bright gold that would be pretty if the circumstances were different.
It’s funny, you think. You’ve been waiting for this moment your entire life and all you can think is that you wish it wasn’t happening.
He releases your hand and looks at you in a calculating sort of way. “Come with me,” he says finally.
You do, of course. What other choice do you have?
*
The next several hours are a blur.
You are shuffled from place to place. Usually there is at least one guard—you’re not sure why. The idea of you being able to do any damage to him is laughable and escape doesn’t exactly seem like an option. Where could you go that he could not find you?
It’s a depressing thought; you try not to think much about it.
You know exactly when the news breaks because it coincides with your phone basically becoming unusable due to the flood of notifications, calls, and texts. You put it on airplane mode to compose a short message to your family and friends. Your reassurances feel a little trite given the circumstances: I’m fine, I’ll call when I can.
You can’t exactly type what you’re really thinking, which is more along the lines of I’ve just learned that my soulmate is the homicidal maniac who led the successful takeover of our planet. I’m doing about as well as you’d expect.
You turn airplane mode off long enough to send the email. Once it sends, you power down your phone. It doesn’t seem prudent to leave it on, at least not right now—right now, it only serves as a reminder of a life you know you’re going to have to leave behind and you’re not at all ready to confront that particular loss.
They eventually take you to what you assume are his rooms. You’re surprised by how traditional the decor is—you had expected a cold sort of minimalism, but there’s more wood and warm colors than you would have thought. You are informed that there are clothes for you in the closet; you nod and say nothing, though you wonder how they managed to pull an entire wardrobe together in the span of only a few hours. Magic, perhaps.
You are finally left alone, though you’re fairly certain that you would find guards stationed outside if you were to look.
You take one of the elegant velvet throws from the bed and wrap it tightly around yourself before settling on the couch next to the window. You’re not exactly cold, but it feels like a necessary armor between you and this unfamiliar place.
You stare out the window for a long time. You’re too high up to people watch and you’re not sure that you could handle that anyway—it would be yet another reminder of the fact that your life has changed in a massive, earth shaking way that you can’t even begin to understand. Instead, you stare at the tiny cars on the city streets below, snaking their way to destinations that feel so far out of your grasp that they might as well be on a different planet altogether.
*
It’s late when he finally shows up—so late that you’ve actually gotten ready for bed, donning one of the silk nightgowns that had been left for you. You can tell it’s more expensive than any sleepwear you’ve ever owned in your life. You’re just glad that it’s modest—you had half expected to find that all your pajamas were bustiers, thongs, and thigh highs in some sort of ill considered attempt to seduce you. But this is elegant and understated, with a matching robe that you cinch tightly around your waist.
You sit on the couch, the throw still wrapped snugly around you. He looks at you, the corner of his mouth curled up in a slight smirk.
“I hope you don’t intend to stay there the entire night,” he says.
“I hardly know you,” you say before you can even contemplate whether it’s wise.
He looks…amused isn’t quite the right word, but there’s a subtle tilt to the corner of his lips—not quite a smile, but maybe somewhere in the vicinity.
“Give it time,” he says, and something about that makes you shiver.
*
You intend to sleep on the couch, at least for these first few nights when everything still feels so raw and strange.
Or that was your plan, anyway.
Loki doesn’t say anything else as he prepares for bed and you stare resolutely at the window so as not to invite any more conversation or prompt any invitations to join him in bed. Eventually, the lights go out and you are left alone with your thoughts in the dark.
The room is much colder at night.
You’re not sure if it’s on purpose, though you wouldn’t be surprised if it was. Perhaps he likes it like this. Perhaps it’s to lure you to him, to tempt you into seeking out the warmth of his bed and body.
You pull the blanket more tightly around your shoulders. Eventually, you allow your eyes to drift shut.
You wake some time later in the middle of the night. The room feels even colder, the velvet of the throw and the silk of your nightgown and robe a scanty defense against the chill. You burrow against the couch cushions and it’s sort of bearable.
But you also have to pee.
You hold off for as long as you can, but you eventually summon the will to leave the couch and seek out the bathroom.
The bathroom is even colder—perhaps it’s all that glass and marble that makes the difference. You’re wearing your robe and you’ve still got the blanket wrapped around you, but your teeth are chattering by the time you wash your hands. You run the water as hot as you can stand, but it only does so much. If you were braver—if it wasn’t your first night here, you would run an extra hot shower and stay under the spray until your fingers and toes pruned and the chill was chased from your bones.
Instead, you hustle back to the couch, burrowing against the cushions, throw and robe wrapped tightly around you. But you still can’t seem to shake the cold. You huddle on the couch, shivering, trying to calm your body.
Time passes and you don’t grow any warmer. You wonder if you can steal another throw from the bed—surely he won’t miss one—when a voice speaks from the darkness.
“Come to bed,” Loki says.
You clear your throat. “What?”
“I can hear your teeth chattering from here. Come to bed and stop being absurd.”
You hesitate, staring into the dark. You consider the cold, the slight kink in your neck from the way you’ve been sleeping on the couch, the late hour, the way that sleep pulls at your eyes. A bed is appealing. Maybe more appealing than it should be.
You find yourself getting to your feet and slowly making your way across the room.
You pause on the other side of the bed—your side, you suppose, though calling it that still feels too intimate. You can just make him out in the dark.
“You’ll stay on your side,” you say, like making it a statement will make it so.
“Well, you hardly know me.” His voice is clipped, more bitter than you expect as he echoes your words from earlier.
You can’t help but scowl. “I’ve known you for less than twenty-four hours and it’s the middle of the night. I’m not doing this right now.”
He laughs. It’s sharp and brittle and unexpected, but it’s a laugh all the same, and something about that helps, if only a little.
You don’t say anything else as you climb into bed. You find that the blankets are warm—warmer than you expect—and heavy. There’s a part of you that expects yourself to be too nervous and on edge to fully relax, but the coziness of the blankets piled around you is oddly calming, even with Loki mere inches away. You hunker down underneath the blankets, situating yourself on the pillows.
He doesn’t say anything and it’s not long until his breathing becomes steady and even.
And after a while, yours does, too.
*
Consciousness creeps up on you slowly the next morning, a far cry from the jarring alarm on your phone that usually disrupts your slumber. You are warm and cozy, cocooned in the blankets, safe from all of the bullshit that had happened yesterday.
It’s such a peaceful, easy awakening that it takes you a moment to realize that you aren’t alone.
It takes another moment for you to realize that your cheek is pressed against Loki’s chest. And to make matters worse, not only are your arms wrapped around his him, your right leg is also flung across his waist, like you can’t bear to be parted from him for even a moment.
But before the panic sets in, there is a barely perceptible moment where your body just enjoys the feeling of being pressed against him. It’s quick and you’d deny it if asked, but the rush that you get from giving into the pull of your soulbond for even that brief moment is nothing short of incredible.
But it’s just a moment and your mind quickly turns to the matter of extracting yourself without drawing his notice. Ideally, he’ll just stay asleep and you won’t have to deal with any awkward fallout. If you move very slowly and carefully, perhaps he won’t notice.
You carefully start to move your leg from his waist.
“To be clear, you’re on my side of the bed,” he says.
God fucking dammit.
You abandon all subtlety and quickly peel yourself away from him.
“I must have rolled over in my sleep,” you say, incredibly conscious of how stupid that sounds.
He smirks, which is somehow worse than if he’d said anything.
“It won’t happen again,” you say.
It does.
This is your new routine: you start every evening on the couch, wrapped up in your robe and throw. You wake some time in the night, teeth chattering. Sometimes, Loki will tell you to come to bed. Other times, you quietly give up and slip under the covers on your side of the bed.
But every morning without fail, you wake tangled around him.
Sometimes, he’s spooned up behind you; more often, though, you’re the one clinging to him. It’s as though your body has a homing device that leads you over to his side of the bed in your sleep, dutifully ignoring all of your stern warnings about who stays where.
The worst part of it is that you’re fighting your own instincts. On a very basic, physical level, you yearn to be close to him. There’s a part of you that revels in these unintentional moments of closeness, that wants to allow yourself to enjoy the feeling of him, to allow him to put his hands on your body, for you to put your hands on him.
The fact that he wakes up noticeably hard most mornings does not make this any easier.
This is a problem that you’re not entirely sure how to solve and the second week in, your desire for information finally outweighs your desire to avoid social media and the deluge of emails and texts that you know are waiting for you on your phone.
You turn your phone back on and immediately delete all of your social media apps. You don’t know what they’re saying about you and you don’t care to. You turn off all of your notifications, even the little number icons that show you how many unread emails and texts that you have. You want absolutely no distractions.
You open a private browser window and pull up Google.
Newly connected soulbonds are the hormonal equivalent of pouring out a bunch of gasoline and striking a match. Soulbonds are intended to be consummated. You know this. There are people who wait it out for one reason or another, but that’s very much the exception—it’s a physical and emotional test of endurance. And you’re beginning to understand why.
The internet is not very helpful. You already know what happens when you don’t consummate a soulbond promptly—increased arousal, restlessness, vivid dreams, and so on as time goes on. You’re more interested in mitigation. You find a few blogs that have entirely irrelevant suggestions like cuddling on the couch or holding hands. “While you’re waiting for intercourse, why not try some outercourse?” one post muses with a level of earnestness that causes you to immediately turn off your phone and fling it across the room.
You’re going to have sex with him at some point. That’s inevitable. On a very basic level, you want him—it’s more or less coded into your DNA. But that is at odds with the reality of who he is and what he’s done. It might feel good to wake up tangled around him, but it only takes a minute to remember the battle of New York and it nearly extinguishes the desire burning within you.
But only nearly and only for now.
*
The third week is when things start getting increasingly difficult.
Loki seems content to wait things out. You can feel the burn of his gaze on you, but he doesn’t push, doesn’t prod.
You, on the other hand, find yourself slipping into a heightened state of arousal that is becoming impossible to ignore. Midway through the week, you finally give in and try touching yourself in the shower in the hope of some relief and you come so quickly and so hard that you have to clap a hand over your mouth to keep from crying out and your legs very nearly buckle from the force of it. A few twitches of your fingers has you sprawled on the shower floor and coming again, harder than before. You repeat this trick a few times but even as strong as it is, it doesn’t really help—you’re back to where you started within minutes.
Worse though, is the fact that it’s his face that you see when you come. Every. Single. Time. You imagine him over you, his gaze dark and intent as he watches you come; slack jawed and hissing in pleasure as he pushes into you; growling in approval and impatience as you take his cock into your mouth. The images come entirely unbidden and stick in the forefront of your thoughts like a burr clinging to wool.
When you see him later that afternoon, his gaze lands on you in such a way that it feels like he knows everything you’ve done and everything you’ve seen, from that moment in the shower to the shameful thoughts you had as you came.
The dreams start shortly after, and they are objectively worse.
The dreams are far more vivid than just images. In the dreams, he’s touching you, coaxing you to peaks you could never have imagined, pressing into you, taking you hard and fast and achingly slow and everything in between. The dreams leave you out of breath and shaky, aching for a touch that you know that you should not want, but do with every fiber of your being. By some miracle, they only seem to occur while you are on the couch and not when you’re in bed, but that luck won’t hold forever.
Perhaps more importantly, you know it’s only a matter of time before you give in. Deep down, you’ve known this from the moment the mark on your wrist started to burn. Your resistance is eroding like a sandcastle at high tide and it’s only a matter of time before you crumble.
But not yet. Not yet.
*
Five weeks after your arrival, you wake sweating and out of breath from another dream.
You take a few deep breaths. It was similar to the ones you’d had before. Thinking about the details makes your core ache and your clit throb so you try to keep them out of your mind.
You’re half surprised that you’re not tangled around Loki, given the content and subject of your dream, but that makes sense when you realize he’s not in bed. Instead, he sits on the couch, staring into the middle distance. Perhaps he is struggling with the same kinds of dreams.
The idea of you making Loki too hot and bothered to sleep is more appealing than you’d like to admit. You hastily dismiss the thought before it can bring any more heat to your already too warm skin or add more fuel to the flickering desire that seems to have settled permanently in the cradle of your hips.
You slip out of bed and go to the window, folding your arms across your stomach as you stare out at the sleeping city.
“You were calling out in your sleep.”
More heat prickles at your skin.
“Hm,” you say, trying your best to sound casual.
“What were you dreaming of?” he asks.
He’s only asking because he already knows the answer. You know this. But the lie still slips from your lips: “I don’t remember.”
He laughs, a quiet and dangerous sound that stokes the fire in your belly. “Have you forgotten, darling, that I am the god of lies?”
You can hear him walking toward you, but you keep your back turned. Has the room always been this warm?
He waits until he is directly behind you to speak again. “Will you lie again when I ask if you were dreaming of me?” His voice is so close, full of depth and a little husky. 
“You flatter yourself,” you say.
You can hear the smirk in his voice, feel the whisper of his breath on your neck. “You’d like to think that, wouldn’t you?” He pauses for a moment. “But you were calling out for me.”
Your lips are dry. You want to deny it, but it feels useless. Worst case scenario, he’s still mostly right: you were dreaming of him and you can’t even really deny crying out for him because you were asleep and you don’t know for sure.
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” he continues. His voice drops. “Every time I close my eyes, I see you writhing in pleasure beneath me.” He pauses. “Or I see myself between your legs, worshiping you with my mouth, bringing you to ecstasy over and over before I finally take you.”
Your heart is pounding and every nerve in your body feels as though it’s connected directly to your clit. You are warm—too warm—and you can feel your pulse pounding in your throat.
“What were you dreaming of?” he continues, his voice barely a murmur.
“Nothing,” you say.
He clicks his tongue. “Try again, darling.”
You say nothing and after a moment of silence, he seems to decide that it’s time to switch strategies.
“You must be so wet,” he murmurs, his tone low and soothing.
Your stomach and your cunt clench. If he starts talking dirty to you, it’s over.
“We’re not meant to go this long like this,” he says. “We both know that. It’s been five weeks. Your poor cunt is probably aching for me, just as I ache for you.”
Your breath is coming in shaky gasps. You need him. You can feel your resolve starting to slip.
“Yield to me.” His voice is rough with wanting, like this is just as hard for him as it is for you. “I know you feel it. I feel it, too. You yearn for me, you crave my touch. Let me make you feel good, darling, let me ease that ache. Yield and I will give you everything.”
You draw in a shaking breath and slowly turn to face him. He’s looking at you with an intensity that you expect, but it takes your breath away nonetheless.
The remnants of your resistance are lost to the wave of him and the only thing that’s left in its place is a raw need like you’ve never experienced before.
You don’t know what to say, so in the end, you settle for his name. Just his name, said quietly with all the desperation and longing that has been making your life hell these past few weeks.
You get a glimpse of the fire in his eyes before he’s on you.
There’s nothing gentle about this kiss. It’s the kiss of two people who have been deprived of each other for too long, your teeth bumping against each other, tongues twisting and tangling. You end up pressed against the wall next to the window, your leg wrapped around his waist, his hand supporting your thigh. He presses his hips against you and you moan into his mouth at the feeling of his hard cock dragging against your swollen, sensitive clit. He draws back slightly to look at your face as he slowly grinds his hips against yours, his free hand moving to palm your breast over the silk of your nightgown.
You moan again, your head dropping back against the wall. The soft, slippery friction of the silk of your nightgown against your nipple and the soaked lace of your underwear rubbing against your clit is enough to make you go cross eyed, a slow tease that only fans the burning embers within you. Your body is overheated and too tense, but Loki is blessedly cool in a way that somehow both soothes and inflames.
“You’re drenched. I can already feel that,” he says, his voice thick with desire as he moves against you. “I could make you come like this.”
You whimper, rocking your hips back against him. “Please.”
He shakes his head. “Another time. Tonight I want to feel you when you come.” He drops his hand from your breast, trailing down your stomach and moving in between your legs. His fingers slip beneath your underwear, and you let out a needy whine as he strokes the slick folds of your sex. “Is this all for me?” he asks, his voice slipping into a low growl.
You barely manage a breathy affirmative.
“Sweet thing.” His thumb rolls over your clit as he slides one finger into you, and your back arches automatically, your breasts jutting out. “We’re going to have to do something about this, aren’t we?”
“Please,” you breathe.
“How can I resist such a sweet plea?” he says, sliding another finger into you and curling it just so. “Or such a wet and needy cunt?”
“Don’t stop,” you say.
“I ought to make you beg me for it after everything you put me through.” His eyes darken as his thumb presses against your clit and you moan. “But perhaps I can be generous. I can feel how much you need to come on my fingers.”
You nod, slack jawed and panting.
“You’ve been waiting for this,” he murmurs. “You’ve tried to deny yourself, but you need me, you need my touch.”
You whimper, your hips rocking.
“Say it,” he says, stroking your clit.
“I need to come,” you moan.
“A good start,” he says, his voice a stern purr. “But not quite what I asked, my love. Try again.”
A twinge of irritation manages to work its way to the forefront of your mind. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m not exactly in a state to be playing twenty questions.”
His eyes light up with a predatory gleam that heralds the arrival of something that you know will end enjoyably for you.
“Oh, darling, that attitude won’t do at all.” His fingers are immediately and conspicuously absent and you very nearly cry out in frustration. But before you can, he is sweeping you into his arms and making the journey to the bed in several long strides. He sets you gently on the bed and looms over you, green eyes flashing as his hands stroke up your thighs. You lift your hips and he pulls your underwear off, tossing it to the side.
“Let’s try that again, shall we?” His voice is a growl. “Tell me what you need.”
“I need to come.” You know it’s the wrong answer, but this particular game of cat and mouse and the predatory gleam in Loki’s eyes are making you even wetter and god, you need him.
His eyes flash with a barely concealed delight. “Try again.”
You spread your legs rather conspicuously, hiking your nightgown up to your waist. “I need to come.”
He’s looking at you intently, lips slightly parted. “You’re trying to distract me with that pretty cunt, you wicked thing.”
“Is it working?” you ask.
He lowers his head to kiss the inside of your left knee. “It would work much better if you answered me properly and told me everything you need.”
You think you have an idea of what he wants to hear, but you’re not quite ready to give up the game yet. Instead, you pull your nightgown up and over your head and toss it to the side. His eyes are dark as he looks at you, his gaze lingering on your breasts and trailing down to the apex of your spread legs. You wonder what it would take to make him lose control, to take you in the way that you both need.The thought sends another flood of heat to your aching core. 
You lick your lips. “Will you make me come, Loki?”
Another wolfish grin. “Closer. But not quite. Try again.”
You let your hand slide down your stomach and between your legs and you part your sopping folds so he can see the full extent of what he’s done to you—every dripping inch. The look he’s giving you now only heightens the feeling.
“Should I make myself come?” you ask and you’re immediately rewarded with an almost feral look and a sharp smack to your ass.
“Don’t you dare,” he growls.
You put on your most innocent expression, even as his visible hunger makes you ache. “I thought you’d like seeing me touch myself.”
“Oh, there will be time for that later,” he says, his eyes still dark. “I’m particularly interested in seeing what prompted those intriguing little noises I kept hearing while you were in the shower. But every tremor of pleasure that wracks your body tonight will be from me alone. Now,” his eyes glitter and his hand replaces yours on your cunt, his long fingers spreading you open, but not touching you, his expression rapt with undisguised greed, “tell me what you need.”
Your capacity to tease and resist him was well and truly exceeded when he smacked your ass and was further obliterated by the monologue he just delivered. “I need you to make me come, Loki. I need you so bad.”
His smile is filled with dark promises and a hunger that you have every interest in sating several times over.
“Good girl,” he says.
And his fingers slide back into you as his mouth envelopes your aching clit.
You moan as your hips lift and your hands tangle in his hair. He mumbles something that sounds like “perfect” against your clit, first teasing you with the tip of his tongue and then pressing it flat against you and rubbing in slow circles. Meanwhile, his fingers have found that soft, aching spot inside of you and he presses against it in slow, firm thrusts that make you tremble.
You initially think that you’ll be quite quick to come because you’re already so wound up, but Loki seems determined to find the edge and keep you there for as long as possible—and he’s really, really good at it. He falls into a rhythm where his tongue strokes your clit once, twice, three times and withdraws; his fingers pick up the thread, stroking your walls once, twice, three times and withdrawing, only for his tongue to resume where he left off. In this way, he keeps you balanced on the edge in a perfect kind of torture. It feels so good, but it’s not quite enough to get you there just yet.
You make liberal use of his name—it’s a plea, a curse, a benediction, a moan, a sigh. Instinctively, you know that he likes this, but it’s not enough to distract him into letting you fall even a moment before he wants you to.
The ache that’s been building in your hips for the last couple weeks is growing, burning bright and warm. Your body feels electric in the best way, your nerves humming and buzzing and straining for release.
“Loki,” you moan, partly as encouragement and partly because you want him so badly.
You’re so close. Your entire body is tense and trembling; all you can think about is how badly you need to come, how much you are aching for your release.
So close.
“Loki, please,” you moan, truly desperate now. “Please let me come. Make me yours—”
You’re not sure if it’s what you said, the desperation in your voice, or pure coincidence, but in that moment, he shifts his rhythm so that his mouth and fingers are no longer alternating, but are instead moving in sync. And this is what you need to tip you over, to allow that wave to finally, finally crest and then break.
Your orgasm hits you hard, pulling a loud moan from deep within your chest and making your entire body quake. Sparklers are dancing along your veins, champagne bubbles fizzing along your muscles, stars bursting behind your eyes. You have never felt anything like this before—you are satisfied but also aching for more, falling apart and being remade over and over again.
It’s only when you’re decidedly in the blissful wave of the aftershocks that he dares to lift his head and he looks you over like you’re something wonderful. Before you can raise your hands to reach for him, he’s crawling up to you, claiming your mouth in a kiss that feels deeper than the ocean.
He slides his hand in between your legs and you whimper, shivering at the sensation of his thumb stroking your sensitive clit. But somehow, he finds that particular angle and pressure that’s just enough, but not too much. You moan and he slides a finger back into you, rolling in the same rhythm as his thumb on your clit.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Keep going for me, darling. I want to watch you come this time.” His voice is so firm and authoritative and it strikes sparks up and down your spine.
“Fuck,” you gasp, your hips rocking with his hand.
“You’re doing so well getting ready for me,” he purrs. He lowers his voice to a rough growl. “I can’t wait to fuck you until you’re trembling and coming all over my cock like the wicked, filthy girl that you are.”
It’s the combination of his words and his voice and his perfect hands that does it this time. A rolling, fluttering shudder fizzes through your body, building to a peak that has you letting out a guttural moan as you clench around his thrusting fingers.
“Yes, that’s it,” Loki says as he watches you through hooded eyes. “You are gorgeous when you come undone.”
He kisses you slowly, fingers moving steadily until the final shudder rolls through you.
Somehow, through all of this, he’s remained fully clothed. There’s an aspect to this that’s appealing—it makes everything feel particularly decadent and a little forbidden—but your palms are practically itching with your need to touch him. You need him inside you, but you also need him close, bare skin on bare skin.
Your hands sneak under his shirt and you suck in a sharp breath when you feel the heat of his skin underneath your palms. You tug his shirt off him and make quick work of his pants before drawing back to look at him.
He looks like art. It’s a silly thought, but there’s some truth to it—there’s an almost ethereal quality in the sharp angles of his face and the elegant symmetry of his musculature. 
Your gaze drifts down to his cock. He’s long, thick, and hard, the tip flushed and slick with pre-come. An ache courses through you—something about seeing the full evidence of his arousal makes everything seem more real, makes you want him with renewed ferocity.
You want to touch him and so you do, your fingers curling around his shaft.
“Can you feel how much I need you?” he asks as you stroke him slowly. He is remarkably composed, though you catch the slight hitch in his breath and it sends a thrill through you.
“Will you show me?” you ask.
“Every day,” he says.
It’s an answer you’re not expecting. You were speaking strictly in the immediate, physical sense. This feels deeper, more meaningful. You’re not quite sure what to say, so you kiss him and he kisses you back with an intensity and thoroughness that makes your toes curl.
He rolls over you, his body covering yours. It’s almost overwhelming how good his bare skin feels against yours. You take his cock in your hand again and stroke him, slowly rubbing the tip from your clit to your entrance, coating him in your slick.
You expect him to just push forward when you guide him to your entrance and you’re almost disappointed that he doesn’t—you’ve both waited so long for this and your need for him is burning inside you like an inferno.
But instead he pauses, his eyes locked with yours.
“Will you have me?” he asks. There’s vulnerability in the question, a softness in his green eyes that you don’t expect. It feels like a loaded question, though not necessarily in a bad way.
You don’t hesitate. “Yes,” you breathe.
Something like relief flashes briefly in his eyes before he leans in and kisses you. You tilt your hips up again and this time, you feel the blunt head of his cock slowly press into your waiting warmth.
You’d read people describing first times with their soulmates and it had always sounded so hyperbolic and silly. They’d throw around words like euphoric and transcendent and all you could do was try not to roll your eyes.
But the moment Loki is fully seated inside you, you finally get it. Every overwrought, overused cliché seems to occur to you all at once—puzzle pieces falling into place and locks and keys and halves made whole and all that bullshit—and it all makes sense in a way that it hadn’t before.
Loki’s eyes are stormy above you, to the point that you think you may have angered him, but then he kisses you with a ferocity and possessiveness that steals your breath and makes you tighten around him.
“Mine,” he growls against your lips. “Mine.”
There’s a lot of emotion in that word. There’s history in that word. It’s the sort of thing that the two of you will probably need to unpack later. For now, though, you wrap your legs around him and meet his demanding, hungry kisses with your own.
“I’m yours,” you murmur against his lips. “Take me.”
You expect him to respond to that plea with a frantic pace. But instead, his first thrusts are slow, like he’s savoring it. Your body yields to him instinctively, your muscles drawing him in and then tightening further as he withdraws. You are so slick, so ready for him that it almost feels a little obscene.
“You are exquisite,” he rasps as he sinks into you, his head bowing to kiss and nip at your neck. “I have been aching for you.”
“Yes,” you breathe. “Please.”
You’re not entirely sure what you’re asking for—more of this, more of him—but he seems to know anyway. He kisses you deeply as you wrap your legs around his waist, rolling your hips up to meet his.
In one fluid motion, he rolls you over so that you are on top. He looks up at you, an irrepressible smirk curling at the corners of his lips.
“Go on,” he says, his voice low. “I want to see you take your pleasure from me. Claim your throne, my love.”
A shiver works its way up your spine. This is a man who single-handedly conquered the entire planet and he’s telling you he wants you to ride his cock until you come. It is raw and sexy and undeniably hot and the way he’s looking up at you makes you feel beautiful and powerful.
You lean forward, bracing your hands on the mattress, tilting your pelvis until you find the right angle, the one that makes your stomach tighten and your breath stutter. 
A smile twitches at the corners of his mouth. “Right there?”
You let out a shaky breath and rock your hips. “Yeah.”
It takes a moment for you to find your rhythm, but you find that you want—or perhaps need—to go slow and steady. Loki watches you, his hips rocking with yours as he lets you set the pace, his hands sliding from your hips to your breasts and back again, like he can’t get enough. His gaze is intent and intense and you get the sense that he’s cataloging every movement, every gasp or sigh, furrowed brow or bitten lip.
The coil in your hips is starting to wind tighter and you know it won’t be long. 
As though he knows, Loki slides a hand down your body, palm gently pressing against your lower stomach. A fantastic pressure begins to blossom in your hips and you whimper.
“You’re doing so well,” he purrs. “So tight and wet. You’re perfect.”
“Getting close,” you breathe.
“I know, I can feel you,” he says.
You’re at a point somewhere beyond words, riding that wave, chasing bliss that you can almost feel. A choked whimper falls from your lips.
“That’s it,” rasps Loki. “Be a good girl and come on my cock.” He flicks his thumb against your clit and you completely unravel.
It was good the first two times, but having him inside you as you come sends you to another plane of existence entirely. Your orgasm seems extended, the feeling of his cock against the spasming muscles of your cunt creating more even rippling pleasure. And the noise that he makes, the filthy praise that falls from his lips, the way that his fingertips dig into your hips just makes it all better.
He rolls you over onto your back just as you’re starting to feel boneless, and pulls you into a deep kiss.  He thrusts into you, a little faster than the pace you had set, but still slow and steady.
“I want to feel you come again,” he breathes. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve waited for this, how good you feel?”
You shudder as his cock drags again against that spot inside you. He repeats the motion and you keen, tangling your fingers in his hair.
“That’s it,” he rasps, bringing your leg up over his hip to press even more deeply inside of you. “Come on, darling. Let me feel you.”
You wrap your arms around his neck, meeting his hungry, demanding kiss with your own. You roll your hips with his, chasing the flickers of bliss that he’s steadily stoking to an inferno once more.
“Please,” you mumble against his lips. “Need you. Please.”
He groans and increases his pace just enough to make you whimper. The desire inside of you is catching fire.
“I…fuck, I—” Your hands are gripping his shoulders, your body shaking as you approach your end.
Loki’s eyes are wild, his teeth bared. You can tell that he’s close, that he’s chasing the same incredible feeling that you are.
“I want you to come for me,” he grits out. “And the second I feel your tight cunt start to tremble around me, I’m going to come inside you.
You moan, fingernails digging into his shoulders. You are unbearably close.
“Do you want that, darling?” he says. “Do you want me to come inside you? Do you want your perfect cunt filled with my seed?”
You are almost beyond words, but not quite: “Yes. Please.”
Despite how close he is, he still gives the impression of being entirely in control. He lowers his head so that his lips graze yours and his eyes are all that you can see. “Then come for me,” he says.
Two more deadly smooth rolls of his hips and you do. A guttural, plaintive sound falls from your lips as your whole body trembles with the force of your orgasm, your cunt squeezing around the girth of his cock. He groans, mumbling something in a language you don’t recognize before he, too, starts to unravel.
His face is rapturous when he comes, his head tipping back and his mouth falling open, brow furrowing. If you weren’t so distracted with the rippling shocks of your own pleasure, you would try to commit it to memory. Instead, you simply try to enjoy the feeling of him emptying himself inside of you, the stuttering thrust of his hips, the soft groan that falls from his lips. Finally he stills, resting his head in the crook of your shoulder. You can feel his heart pounding against yours.
You feel…it’s not different, exactly, but there’s a kind of ease and connection that just feels right. The restless ache inside of you is finally quiet and you feel loose and languid and pleasantly sleepy.
Finding your soulmate isn’t necessarily the same as falling in love. Sometimes it all happens in the moment. Sometimes it’s years in between.
For you, though, you can pinpoint the exact moment that seed was planted: Loki raising his head to look at you, his hand curled against your cheek. His gaze is careful, reverent, like you are as warm and golden as the dawn just barely beginning to streak the morning sky.
10K notes · View notes
lusmeitli · 9 months ago
Text
But like of each thing that in season grows
Summary: How a kind gesture can lead to something more. One shot.
Pairings: Loki x Female Reader
Warnings: Christmas fluff, mention of off screen assault, some swearing, lots of snow, books, poetry, smutty smut.
A/N: Okay, look. It just wanted to get out. You’re thrown in without a warning, nor a floatie. Apologies for the liberties taken to interpret and manipulate characters to dance after my will once more. Obviously don't read if you're a minor.
Tumblr media
9~9~9~9~9~9~9~9~9~9~9~9~9~9~9~9
The greatest ideas were conceived in the shower. That was a scientific fact.
You liked facts. You did not like uncertainties or speculation. The feeling of being in limbo was something that didn’t sit right with you.
So as you were in the shower, working the conditioner in your hair, the idea was just there. It was simple, humble, but beautiful. Your hands slowed and stilled. And then your mind rebooted and went at lightning speed, planning things out. You needed to write things down.
You stepped out of the shower hurriedly, towelling down your body, before realising that your hair felt different. Cursing, you stepped back under the water to rinse off the conditioner.
*****
You hated staff meetings. Particularly third Thursdays staff meetings, because they dragged on and on. The weekly mission reports were presented and Fury insisted on inviting some guest speakers. He called it “Horizon Thursday”.
In your opinion it narrowed rather than widened it. Today’s guest speaker was Quinn Harris, cyber security specialist. You suspected self-proclaimed, but you hadn’t bothered doing a deep dive on him.
You were sat on the increasingly uncomfortable chair, rows of employees in front of you, the Avengers at the very front. Rogers had delivered his usual military style mission report, the other members of his team trying to look alive, though you suspected Romanoff and Banner were asleep, as they were both donning sunglasses.
“What you need is a quantum computer and it’ll solve all your problems with encryption.”
“They might as well propose using block ciphers,” you murmured under your breath, turning the page in your book.
Meanwhile, a hand shot in the air at the front. “Excuse me, Mr Harris.”
The man smiled. “Mr Stark, do you have a question?”
“Well, not so much a question for you, but I would very much like the opinion of another expert on what you just said. You know, before anyone here thinks about investing in your product, which, let’s be honest, would be me. I’d like to be sure it’s the right thing.”
Fury rolled his eyes and sunk back in his chair.
There had been talk about getting that dude in? You must have zoned out for that part.
Harris’ face fell for a second, but he honed his features and forced a smile. “Of course.”
“It just so happens that we have an inhouse expert,” Tony got up and scanned the crowd. “Isn’t that right, Y/N?”
Everyone uniformly turned to look at you. Everyone.
You felt the moment one particular pair of eyes set on you. The amount of times you had spoken to one another had been limited to the missions you were needed on, for hacking. You’d had his voice in your ear a few times and it did things to your body that made you feel like a system overheat. You never really saw him during missions though as your job was very much office-bound.
Today, he wore the damn leather suit. Whilst Fury didn’t give a fuck, Rogers very much was all about the professional appearance of the Avengers. What you didn’t understand was why everything looked better on him. The black and green possibly was the best colour combination there ever was. The other day Bucky had worn a Slytherin pullover and even though it very nicely accentuated his physique, it looked nothing like the colours did on Loki.
You swallowed hard when you felt his eyes on you. They seemed to see right through you, even over the distance of the seven rows of chairs.
And then you felt the weight of all the other pairs of eyes on you. That was a lot of people. You gulped and pushed your glasses back up the bridge of your nose - a habit you couldn’t break. 
“Y/N,” Tony called, bringing you back to the matter at hand. “Stand up and look at me.” His voice was gentle. “Start breathing again. Good. Now tell me what Harris is not telling me about the quantum computer.”
You adjusted your glasses again and cleared your throat. “It’s a solid proposition, I suppose,” you started, “however, one I would expect from a college freshman, certainly not from a cyber security expert specialist.”
Murmurs erupted, but you ignored them and rattled off your thoughts.
“Can a quantum computer crack asymmetric encryption algorithms? Yes. And yes, we all know that thanks to Shor’s algo the maths problems are only polynomial. Also, we know this applies to discrete log problems, too, therefore, all we’d need is a large enough quantum computer. Of course, he,” you gestured to Harris, “would have to build one first, which as you can guess is very costly. However, this entire presentation is based on the assumption that quantum computing is the end of asymmetric cryptography. And that is such a blatantly ignorant approach, with complete disregard for the safety of the members of our staff that are entirely reliant on the encryption cracking working on all their devices during operations and missions. And this whole quantum computer only works if you have a network connection.”
“So you’re suggesting there are hard problems that a quantum computer can’t solve?” Harris said, chin jutting out, arms crossed defiantly.
“Don’t be silly, of course there are,” you huffed. “I coded new post-quantum asymmetric encryption algos three years ago and tested them on several sites I am not authorised to disclose that have quantum computers. Not one of them cracked the simplest of those codes, in any of the over 5,400 attempts they ran over the past three years. So this presentation is… rather embarrassing in its sloppiness.”
“Well,” Harris’ lips were a thin line now. “I’m sure you have a ‘much better’ suggestion then?” He actually raised his hands to add the quotation marks.
“Actually, I do. I developed our own version of a quantum computer, at - and I’m only guessing here - a fraction of the price you’d charge Mr Stark, which can crack both symmetric and asymmetric encryption, works on all of our staff’s devices, portable and stationary, works offline and is about the size of, uh, a thumbnail.”
You pointed to your thumb, because in your humble experience men like him struggled to accurately size things.
Tony smiled and turned to Harris.
“Okay that concludes today’s meeting.” Fury got to his feet and patted Harris’ shoulder. “Looks like we’re good, but thanks for coming.”
People around you stood, some nodding at you as they passed. Tony caught up with you in the hallway. Before he could say something you blurted out: “Did I say something wrong? Was I rude again?”
He smirked and pushed the button of the lift. “He needed putting into place. Totally fine by me. You did great.”
“Stark!” bellowed Fury from down the hall and Tony winced.
“Excuse me, mother’s calling.” He turned and left.
You sidled into the lift with several other people. The cabin stopped a few floors up and people got off. That was when you noticed Loki on the other side of the lift. Up you went and after another stop you were alone with the Asgardian god. The cabin seemed to shrink.
You both watched the numbers climb, the lift hummed, Loki’s leather suit creaked softly as he crossed his hands behind his back.
“Could you please enlighten me about Shor’s algorithm?” he suddenly asked, looking at you.
You had a heart palpitation. Surely that was what it was. He was so impossibly tall and sculpted and… here.
“Um,” you pushed your glasses back up, “it’s a quantum algorithm for finding the prime factors of an integer.”
Loki’s face looked blank.
“It, er, essentially it finds the prime factors of large numbers a lot faster than conventional computers do. Which we use in encryption. The large numbers, that is. So it cracks codes faster.”
“Ah,” he said, head turning back to continue staring at the number display. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” you croaked out.
The urge to facepalm burned under your fingers, but you resisted. As soon as the doors slid open on your floor, however, you fled and sought asylum in the ladies’ toilets, banging your head against the wall of the stall.
*****
Operation Great Idea was in full swing.
So you’ve had a little personal setback, but that didn’t deter you from the objective. You had compiled a list, one you were confident was accurate based on your intel and research. That very list was neatly folded in the deep pocket of your coat as you walked through the cold rain on this late November afternoon.
Yes, you did something you’d never done before - take an afternoon off - and were trying to evade puddles on your way to the bookshop. Could you have ordered the books online? Most of them, certainly. But your late mother, an independent business owner, had ingrained in you to support local shops. You liked bookshops, they reminded you of her and of simpler times.
Your timing was excellent - of course you had researched when the shop was least busy - and you practically had the shop to yourself. And so you walked, dragging a pull-along basket behind you as you searched the shelves for the books on the list.
Sometimes, there were different editions there and you stood for a while, feeling the weight of each book in your hand, the feel of the embossed letters on the spine, the scent of the pages. You wanted it to be just right, so you took your time.
Some of the books you would only be able to get in a little second hand bookshop, tucked away in a side street. You had called beforehand and the owner lifted a box from under the counter to show you what she had reserved for you. As soon as your fingers made contact with the books you felt absolutely giddy.
Back at the Tower, you spent two entire evenings wrapping books after work. When you were finished, you leaned back, looking at the neatly organised stack. Yes, you were ready. Now all you needed was an exorbitant amount of luck for the next 24 days.
*****
You watched Loki stare suspiciously at the first parcel. He was sitting in the communal kitchen, Thor next to him. 
“Why would it be hexed?” Thor asked. “Simply because the sender is missing?”
Loki just gave him a pointed look.
“Come, brother, aren’t you curious to find out what is in this gift?”
“Loki got a present?” Steve asked as he pulled a bowl out of a cupboard. “Did I miss his birthday?”
Before Loki could say anything, Thor shook his head. “He’s worried it has been tampered with.”
Roger’s brows furrowed. “How did it get into your possession?”
“It was on the floor outside my door this morning,” Loki complied, sighing.
“FRIDAY would have picked up on any foreign substances or intruders in the tower,” Tony said between gulps of coffee. “He now can detect traces of magic, too. ‘Course, he went apeshit over your magic, but we got it under control, eventually.”
“That’s what all this ‘Alert, alert, magic detected, caution advised’ blaring at five in the morning was?” Scott bustled in.
A slight tinge of red shaded Loki’s complexion. “I have to practise some time.”
“Thought you were born with it?” Scott interjected, helpfully.
This earned him a glare. “I was born with the aptitude for magic and sorcery. It takes a lot more than mere talent to achieve this level of proficiency.”
“Several centuries, in fact,” his brother supplied. “Now then Stark here says it’s safe. So open it, brother!” Thor clapped his hands together. 
Loki indignantly and very reluctantly slid the parcel towards him and pulled on the simple string that held the wrapping together. The paper fell open to reveal one of the books you had picked.
From your vantage point of, well, your computer screen, you zoomed in to get a better look at him.
“Oh, a book,” you heard the onlookers muttering disappointedly, quickly losing interest and going about their business once more.
But Loki just sat, staring at the book. It took him a good few minutes to pick it up. And he did what you had seen him do many times before. He weighed it in his hands, fingertips running over the cover, the spine. Then he opened the lid. To anyone else it might not have been noticeable, but to you it was: he inhaled the scent of the book. And finally, there was the smallest upturn of his lips.
You exhaled, relieved. One down 23 more to go.
*****
Over the next week you were too busy testing the new firewall you had developed to check on Loki’s reaction. Sometimes you felt a little self-conscious, scared even that he might not like the books or think this was from a stalker. Which technically you had indulged in, stalking that was, but only to find the perfect books for him. And then sometimes you would get worried that someone else might have found the presents.
But you knew he had received every single one of them, for every evening, when you passed the common area you saw him sitting on the couch with the latest offering in his hands. Perhaps it was wishful thinking, but it looked as if his tense shoulders had started to relax a bit.
Another couple of days went by and as the decorations started to pop up in the Tower and the first snow fell that didn’t immediately melt or turn to mush you felt happy. Perhaps it also had something to do with the fact that a certain someone walked differently. Maybe it was your imagination. But he seemed even taller these days.
*****
“Did it work?” you heard his voice in your ear a couple days later.
The data set was streaming on the screen in front of your eyes. “It did. Give me a moment to inject the virus, then you can disconnect the USB cable.”
“Can I still talk to you?”
Your fingers on the keyboard stilled for a moment, surprised. “Of course. The program runs through your phone, not through comms.”
There was a little pause, before he said: “I have a question. About a Midgardian tradition.”
You wrinkled your nose, scanning the code rushing over the screen. “I’ll try my best, but I’m rubbish at traditions.”
The audible outbreath sent shivers down your spine. “I’m sure that’s not true.”
“What’s your question then?”
“Tell me about the Yuletide calendar.”
45% done. “You mean the Advent calendar?”
“Precisely.”
This was dangerous territory you were treading on. “Oh, it’s a fun thing for kids, really. To make the wait for Christmas a bit more exciting and I guess more bearable. It’s nice to get a little something like a toy.”
“Is it always toys?”
69% now. “Well, no. My mum used to get me an advent calendar that had these lovely drawings behind each door. I hung it up in the front room and we’d open it together every morning.”
“I suppose it’s a nice custom,” he said, before asking, “What about grown ups, do they have advent calendars?”
83%. “Sometimes. There’s all sorts: beer, wine, beauty products, chocolates - you name it, it probably exists somewhere.”
“Books, too?”
The question threw you, did he know it was you? A light was blinking on your screen.
100%.
“That’s it, Loki, the virus is uploaded, you can unplug the cable now and get out of there.”
“Thank you, Y/N.”
You heard a crackle and the comms was handed over to operations again. As you finished running the decryption programme on the data Loki had extracted, you kept hearing his voice in your head.
“Books, too?” Were you busted?
*****
Security breaches were both an insult as well as an admittedly welcome challenge to you. Someone had tried to flex their fingers - and you had a very good idea who - to break into Stark’s network. They had managed to pierce a little hole into the outer layer of the firewall, but they didn’t know that you had several back up plans in place and you enjoyed watching them work. However, as you scanned over the intruder’s code you devised a new security strategy.
You were in the middle of coding a nice little primer for a new layer - unexpected because of its simplicity, but a tough little nut to crack - when someone cleared their throat next to you. You looked up to find Loki, his eyes fixed on you. You blinked, looked around, but no one else was there, and back up at the god.
“Can I, uh, help you?” Smooth. You facepalmed internally.
“I realised I have never been in here,” he said, looking around the room, then back at your desk. “You have a lot of monitors.”
You waved your hand dismissively. “Just the standard three.”
“What are you doing now? Or is it a secret?”
“It’s not a secret at all. So we’re currently under attack. Relax,” she said when she noticed him tense, “cyberattack. Someone’s knocking at our backdoor, trying to see if they can get in.”
You motioned to one of your screens. “This is the intruder’s code. He’s trying out lots of keys to see if he can get in. And this,” you pointed to the screen next to it, “is our defence mechanism.”
“Extraordinary.” Loki’s low voice murmured. He was close. You turned your head and nearly had a heart attack at just how close. His sharp profile was illuminated by the blue glow of the monitor, his hair falling to his shoulders, one hand splayed on the desk, the other resting on the back of your chair. He looked beautiful. Perfect. He was leaning closer to the screen so he could see what was going on. Your breath hitched.
And then he turned his head.
Something that sounded an awful lot like a squeak escaped your throat.
Loki lifted an eyebrow. “Am I making you nervous, Agent Y/N?”
You pushed your glasses up your nose and leaned back, just an inch. “No?”
Loki’s eyes drifted over your face, before they met your gaze again. “Is that a question or a statement?”
“A… a statement,” you mumbled and, for good measure, added, “sir.”
His eyes darkened, a smirk curling the left side of his lips. “Are you scared of me?”
You tilted your head ever so slightly. “How can I be scared of you?”
“You’ve heard the stories, undoubtedly.”
“I did. And if I believed everything people told me and not looked beyond I would be incredibly shitty at my job.”
He smiled at that. It was small, but there, and it made him so attractive you felt your stupid heart starting to pound in your chest. Could he hear it?
“Do you like to read, Agent Y/N?”
Another adjustment of your glasses. “I do.”
“What would you say is your favourite book?” His voice was low and smooth.
His hand moved from your desk to the side of your face, where he gently pulled on a tendril, before he brushed it behind your ear. The back of his fingers skimmed your cheek for less than a second, but it sent you reeling. It was as if an electromagnetic pulse was slowly wiping clean your hard drive. You couldn’t think.
“Um, err, Jane.. Jane Eyre.”
He hummed. “I wonder why? Is it because she’s abandoned and rejected all her life?”
You shook your head slowly. “No. Because she’s forced to leave home, into a life she didn’t choose. But when she is given the freedom and space to grow she learns to be the master of her happiness.”
His eyes followed the curve of your neck and back up again. It almost felt as if he was touching you. “Interesting.”
You swallowed again, before he stood upright, nodded at you, turned and left. 
Your heart was pounding. And then your computer beeped and your attention was back on the screen.
“Oh pants…” Your fingers started flying over the keyboard. “Not today, Harris. Or any other day.”
Nine more books to go.
*****
He was onto you. Of course he was. After all, he was the God of Mischief and Lies. If anyone would find out who was behind this, it would be him. Personally, the preferred outcome was that he never would find out.
You had asked yourself often over the last 18 days why exactly you wanted to do this for him. But that was just it. You really had no other motive than wanting to do this for him. Maybe because you sympathised with him, being stuck somewhere far from home, feeling lonely and not really integrated. Maybe you had projected your own feelings onto him a tiny little bit. Possibly considerably. However, it was done with the best of intentions. You wanted to make this nice for him. The run up to Christmas. A little bit magical. He must like magic, he was a sorcerer after all, wasn’t he?
So what if you had started dreaming of him at night. He would lean over you as you sat at your desk, in all his tall- and broadness. This time his hands would be touching you. And he’d lean in to whisper into your ear. Admittedly, not words you would necessarily associate with such a situation.
When you would wake up you knew where to place the things he said to you in your dreams. He’d said them to you during missions. And yes, “how much longer till the download is complete, Agent Y/N?” was not remotely as sexy as “I’m going to ravish you now, thoroughly” would have been, for example. But your brain only had so much to work with and it worked for you.
You noticed a few things, however. Loki was around more often, probably just a silly coincidence, or you had started to pay more attention. He looked at you now. You’d look up and find him already looking at you, sometimes a little smile crossed his lips, but mostly it was just something with his eyes, they seemed… warmer, maybe?
However, to your horror you discovered that you had started to blush. Every single time this happened. So you spent a lot of time in the ladies’ toilets, splashing your face with cold water, only to see it even more flushed than before. Apparently, all the books you had read lied about that ‘splashing your face with cold water to calm down and not make people notice’-thing.
But it all boiled down to the fact that he was onto you. Maybe he was humouring you and seeing where this was going. Maybe he had found out already and you made him feel awkward. Or he was waiting for the opportune moment to expose and humiliate you. You weren’t sure which.
Right now it didn’t matter. You were so tired you could hardly see properly anymore. So when you decided to crash on the sofa in the common room, because it was halfway to your room, you didn’t think to check if anyone was there.
That was mistake number one.
You collapsed onto the sofa with a groan, eyes closed, head leaning against the back of the sofa.
“Fuck. My. Fucking. Life,” you complained to the universe. “Can you please make the appendage of that misogynistic wanker fall off already? For fuck’s sake!”
Mistake number two.
Someone chuckled. It came from rather close to you.
Dread filled you. Foul language was not tolerated in the workplace. To be fair you could argue that the common room was not your workplace per se, however, you did not want to start arguing with HR because they were absolute savages in the art of word twisting. Or just savages full stop.
Carefully, you cracked your eyes open. And there, on the sofa right next to you, sat Loki. One leg was stretched out in all its glorious length, the other bent at the knee, his forearm resting over it, the book in his lap now closed, one of his slender fingers acting as bookmark. For a moment you wondered what it would feel like to be the book.
“I hope it’s not my appendage you’re asking to be removed,” he said with a smirk.
You grappled to sit up, horrified. “Of course not! That would be awful… I mean, a terrible thing to wish for… you’d… err… such a loss of such a beautiful… I mean, I can only guess… but… um, err… heavens, please make me stop talking…”
You hid your head in a throw pillow, wishing the floor would open up and swallow you whole.
Mistake number three.
The sound of a low, rumbly laugh made its way to your ears. It entered your system like a virus, leaving your limbs feeling weak and yearning. Was Loki laughing? You lifted your head and watched him, highly bemused at your idiotic display.
It was the most beautiful thing you’d ever heard. You felt a hard tug at your heart. Goodness, if this man wasn’t already a god, you’d have to declare him one. If he were the head of a religion you would throw out your atheist views and follow him to the end of the multiverse. He looked absolutely breathtaking. Then again, when did he not?
“I’m so sorry,” you started to apologise, “I don’t know what-”
With superhuman speed he moved and sat next to you, his finger on your lips. The feel of his digit on your mouth felt more intimate than any sexual intercourse you’d ever had.
And then he leaned in.
He was so close your cells were basically breathing him in. His eyes were locked onto yours and nothing would have been able to make you look away right then.
“Do you want to know what book I’m reading right now?” His quiet words did things to your insides that were not legal.
You just about managed to nod, his finger still in place.
“‘The Remains of the Day’ by Kazuo Ishiguro. Do you know it?” He waited for your affirmation. “It’s about a man who is in love with a woman. But he doesn’t tell her. When they meet again after decades, she tells him her life would have been different if she had married him. And you know what he does? He still won’t admit his feelings to her. He walks away from her. The first time he lets her go, the second time he walks away.”
You remembered the book very well. You had picked it out for him, after all.
“It’s a cruel story, Y/N. A love that is never acknowledged, nor consumed.” Loki’s eyes drifted from yours down to your mouth. His finger slowly traced the outline of your lips. It was too much, your eyes closed.
“Do you think love is this cruel?” Loki asked quietly. You felt his words as he spoke them almost onto your skin. So close.
“It-it can be,” you whispered. “But maybe, maybe that wasn’t the point of the story.”
“No?”
You opened your eyes to find him looking at you. He’d moved away a bit, giving you some space, waiting for you to elaborate.
“Maybe the point was to show that he chose his job over love. Twice. You can call it dignity or pride, but at the end he’s alone. Without love.”
“What about you, Y/N? Do you have love in your life?”
You weren’t able to look into his eyes. Slowly, you got off the sofa. You turned back to him to respond to find he’d stood up, too.
You looked down at your shoes. His shoes were black, of course, polished, perfect, like him. Yours were several seasons old. Worn. A bit of the shoe sole had started to peel off at the top of your toes. The bit you always kicked into the floor when you worked.
Your eyes wandered up his trousers, black, to the belt, his pullover, also black. He looked effortlessly elegant, poised. You, on the other hand, looked a mess, even in your work attire. Your heart grew heavy at the realisation. Your dreams were stupid. Turned out your heart was even more stupid. And suddenly you felt incredibly small in more ways than one next to the tall, powerful god.
Swallowing a lump in your throat, you said: “I have known love, once. A long time ago.”
With that you pivoted on your heels and left, leaving Loki alone in the common room.
*****
Harris was an absolute tosser.
He just couldn’t leave things be. He insisted on trying to show you up, so he tried and tried to hack his way through your firewalls. Of course he had tried to hide his identity and it had made you chuckle, because you seriously had no idea how he could ever dare call himself a cyber security specialist if he covered up his tracks like a novice hacker.
In a way it was cute, but it was getting to the point of obsessive stalking and you frankly were rather tired of this little game by now. Particularly, since it kept you from your nice, warm, comfortable bed well past midnight.
However, Harris seemed to have changed tactics and started to badmouth you in the industry. Even Fury had called Tony and asked whether he should be worried, because Harris had dug up some hacking you’d done when you were much younger and much less ethical. Really it was unhinged, but everyone worked through teenage years in their own way.
You only knew this because you happened to be in Tony’s office and he had Fury on loudspeaker. Tony had pacified Fury without batting an eye, then hung up and asked if you’d be okay with him paying Harris a little visit, preferably as Iron Man. You had both laughed it off. But it bugged you.
So when you were on your way back to the tower from the compulsory (for all employees) counselling session and someone grabbed you, you weren’t surprised to come face to face with Harris. He didn’t lay a finger on you. No, he got two goons to do that for him.
Later, as you stumbled out of the lift and along the corridor, trying to make your way to your room, someone blocked your way.
“Speak of the devil! Y/N! We were just talking about you.” Tony. Other voices around him.
You kept your head down, thinking of how to get out of this unnoticed.
“We were just wondering if– Y/N? What happened?” You saw Tony’s hand reach out for you, but you flinched away.
Silence fell for a long moment.
Then a movement. Shoes appeared in your line of vision. You knew those shoes well. They had been on display on the couch for the past 22 days, attached to an Asgardian god.
He slowly held out his hand, palm up. An assurance, no harm. You gave the slightest nod. He moved the hand up and placed a finger under your chin so carefully you wanted to sob. The faintest of pressure had you lift your head to look up at Loki. His eyes scanned your appearance, stopping at your bruised hands that were trying to hold together your coat, taking in the blood splatters on the fabric, your busted lip, the lopsided glasses, the badly bent temple dangling off its hinge.
You never understood the expression ‘his features darkened’. You did now. Loki’s face transformed and you saw for the first time what a dangerous man he could be. Power radiated off him. You were glad it was not directed at you. His nostrils flared and you almost heard how much he was clenching his teeth.
“Names,” he ground out.
A hot tear rolled down your cheek and now that it started it didn’t want to stop. His eyes softened, something akin to vulnerability flitting across his features.
“H–Har…”
“Harris?” Tony asked softly. You nodded, still looking at Loki.
Loki rolled his lips in his mouth, his thumb swiping ever so lightly over the skin of your chin, before dropping his hand and walking to the lift in long strides.
“Nat?” Tony asked, the spy already by your side.
“Hold up, Reindeer Games!” Tony hollered behind you, as Romanoff led you down the corridor to your room. “I’m coming, too…”
It felt as if you were having an out of body experience as you were peeled out of your bloodied coat, your clothes and body assessed quickly but gently. She pulled out her phone after she ushered you into the shower.
“Tony? No forced intercourse, but lots of bruising…,” was all you heard before the hot spray of the water ran into your ears, blocking all noise out.
*****
Your glasses were fixed and you could see properly again. That was important, otherwise you wouldn’t have been able to see Harris’ face on the news as he was escorted - handcuffed - from a courtroom and shoved into a police van, followed by the two goons who had helped him.
When you turned from the screen above the cashier, you saw Loki next to Tony across the canteen, looking at you. You walked over, clutching your sandwich.
“So, um… thank you,” you said, gesturing to the screen, “for that.”
Tony put a hand on your shoulder, squeezing gently, before his eyes gazed behind you. “Is that a double cheeseburger I see? Excuse me.”
And off he went, leaving you alone with the Asgardian god.
You shuffled your feet, studying the floor.
“Thanks again-”
“Are you okay?” 
You both said at the same time. You laughed quietly, looking up at him. He smiled. You’d never seen Loki smile.
“I’m fine, thank you,” you said.
“I’m glad to hear it.”
You wanted to say so much more, do so much more, like hug him. But he was a god. You weren’t exactly sure what the protocol was for hugging gods. The awkward silence thickened.
“So, I’ll see you around?”
He was still smiling. “Yes. See you around.”
You were fairly sure you were blushing as you scampered off, back to your office.
*****
Bryant Park was one of your favourite places to be in New York. For one, it was right behind the public library - your heaven. For another, it was close to the Tower and you could wander the paths under the lovely trees. The park was very busy as it was Christmas Eve and people wanted to while away the time in the Winter Village until the big day. But as the ice rink closed down and the skaters came off, noses and cheeks red from the cold, the park started to empty.
You sat on a bench under one of the trees, gloved hands deep in your coat pockets, a woolly hat and scarf keeping you warm. Your head was tilted back and you watched the snowflakes dance and twirl in the cold wind.
“Y/N,” someone called.
Loki stood a few metres away from you, a black coat making him look even taller. He was not donning a hat or a scarf, he looked comfortable with the cold. The snow clung to his dark hair, a soft dusting was on his shoulders. You envied the snowflakes.
You got to your feet and he took a few steps closer, looking down at you.
“Were you enjoying the activities?” Loki asked, nodding to the ice rink.
“No, I just… I just like to sit here,” you said, feeling a bit silly. “I like the trees and the snow. It’s… peaceful.”
He nodded.
“How about you? Fancied a turn on the ice?”
He laughed and you watched the cloud mix with your breath. Now you envied your breath.
“Actually, I was looking for you.”
“Me?”
He took another step towards you. “Yes.”
“Why? Did something happen at the Tower?” Worriedly, you fumbled your phone out of the coat pocket and checked it.
A large hand covered it. You looked up. “Nothing happened. I wanted to talk to you.”
Nervously, you glanced down at his hand that still covered your phone. If you hadn’t been wearing gloves your hands would have had actual skin on skin contact. He dropped his hand to his side.
“Am I in trouble?”
He shook his head. “I… I wanted to thank you.”
“What for?”
His hand pulled a book out of his pocket. “For this.” He slid it back in the folds of his coat.
“Oh.” You didn’t really know how to feel or react. You knew he’d been onto you, so it was no surprise he’d sussed it out. He was, after all, the God of Mischief and Lies. But you had to give him kudos for letting it play out.
“Um, you’re welcome.” You bit your lip.
“You don’t know what this meant– what this means to me.”
It was impossible to look at him.
“I was dreading this time of year here on Midgard. But your incredibly generous advent calendar made it feel… like when I first visited here with my mother.” He grasped your gloved hands in his. “I miss her dearly, so thank you. For giving me this.”
You were too choked up to say anything, so you just nodded.
“Can I enquire what your reason was?”
It was so cautious, as if he was worried it might scare you off. And yet, the question threw you, most likely because you had been asking yourself the very same thing from the moment of its conception in your shower. It was just there, a need, an urgency you didn’t know where it came from or why it existed. It was something you had to do. Like breathing.
But over the course of the last few weeks, particularly the last few days, it had become painfully clear why you did it.
“I wanted, no, I needed you to be happy.”
He squeezed your hands gently. The tips of his shoes, his shiny, polished shoes, now touched yours.
“Please look at me.”
So you did. He looked different… vulnerable maybe.
“Why do you need me to be happy?” The question was another cloud and you breathed it in, let it fill your lungs.
“Because…” You were afraid to say it, to admit it. But something in his eyes made you courageous. Either that, or foolish.
“Because I watched you, during missions and in briefings and ops planning. You started to believe what they said about you. And it’s not true. There’s so much you don’t share, don’t tell them and I see it. It’s right there in your eyes. And I didn’t want you to lose yourself. And it’s selfish, I know, but I need you to be happy… because if you are, so am I.”
“If you think that’s selfish, then I am guilty of this notion, too.”
Loki raised his right hand to run the backs of his fingers over your cold cheek. “I knew after three days it was you. I wanted to see where this was going, what your motivation was. And I… when I saw you after Harris… I was filled with so much rage and fear. That I would lose you. Before I had you.”
He leaned his forehead against yours, you closed your eyes, heart beating out of your chest at what you were hearing. Was this a dream?
Loki’s voice was just above a whisper. “Can I? Have you?”
You moved away slightly to look into his eyes. “Yes.”
He leaned in, his hands splaying on your back, as you stood on your toes. The moment his lips touched yours, you felt a current run straight to your heart. It was as if your brain rewired, the missing piece of the primer clicked into place and unlocked everything.
Snow was falling as Loki kissed you under the tree. You didn’t hear the whistles and hollering of passerbys. You didn’t feel the cold wind. You felt elated, buzzing even.
“Your phone is buzzing,” Loki murmured against your lips.
“Hm?” you said dreamily. 
“Your phone is buzzing,” Loki smiled, “someone’s calling you.”
Quickly you pulled out the damned device. Before you could even say your name, you heard Tony say: “So sorry for disrupting, Y/N, but we got a slight issue here that needs your expert skills pronto.”
You hung up, burying your head in Loki’s chest. His laugh rumbled in his chest. “We’ll talk more later.”
Breathing in his scent and holding onto him, you weren’t ready to let go. “Promise?”
*****
“Oh god, yes,” you sighed in absolute bliss. “That’s the spot, right there.”
Your groan sounded through the kitchen. You deserved that after three hours of extra work on Christmas Eve.
“Here?” Nat asked.
“Yes, yes! Please don’t stop,” you begged, putty in her hands, eliciting more noises from you.
“Maybe you should try yoga. Your shoulders and your whole upper body are so tense and full of knots. There’s a class I go to tomorrow at lunchtime, if you want to join me?”
“No time,” you murmured. “Heavens, Nat, what else can you do with those hands?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” she teased.
“Okay, that’s enough,” Banner interrupted, grabbing Nat by the hand and dragging her to the door. “I’m happy to share my girlfriend’s masseuse skills for a severe case of muscle lock, but I’m afraid I have a personal request now.”
You opened your eyes to catch Nat winking at you, a slight blush on her cheeks as she was pulled out of the room. “So I’m your girlfriend now?” you heard before they disappeared down the corridor.
You laughed and turned in your stool. Thor, Scott and Loki stood staring. Thor at the ends of his braids, Scott at his fingernails, Loki at you. Eyes intense and dark. You swallowed.
“Y/N, a word, if you please,” Loki said, before wrapping his fingers around your wrist and marching out of the room, with you trying to keep up with his long strides, your coat and shoulder bag in your other hand. 
He didn’t say a single word until you reached his room - it was closest - and the door shut behind you, locking the outside world out. He pushed you against the door, arm placed against the wood above your head, body leaning into yours, not quite touching.
“That was… a rather interesting display,” he remarked quietly, his breath puffing against your face as he spoke. “In future, I would prefer if your keening was reserved for me.”
Your hands found the buttons of his shirt. “That sounds like an exclusive right to me.”
“It most certainly is.” His lips hovered over yours.
Your index finger slipped in the space between two buttons. “A right that needs to be earned,” you whispered, your finger grazing his skin.
His breath hitched ever so slightly. “Do not challenge me, darling,” he leaned in, his body moving against yours teasingly. “It might be,” his mouth brushed against your earlobe, “too taxing for you.”
You scoffed, but his lips silenced you. His stance shifted as he picked you up and placed you on the nearest surface - a sideboard - and stepped between your legs. He broke the kiss, to cup your face. For a long moment he just gazed at you. The heat in his eyes seemed to intensify, turning you into a needy mess. He made a show of taking off your glasses, folding the temples and carefully putting them on the side board next to you. Your core clenched.
He held out his hand for you to hop off the furniture. You took it and he took to your lips.
It was quite possible that several things fell off on your way to Loki’s bedroom. When you pushed him into the wall to open the damned buttons of his shirt, a picture might have fallen. A vase, perhaps, when he picked you up and spun you around so your back was against the doorframe next to the fragile ornament. Your head hit the heavy frame of a painting, rendering it lopsided, when Loki feasted on your throat, and you tilted your head back to allow him better access.
Kissing, licking, nipping, sucking - he was intent on leaving marks. Your fingers somehow were in his hair, keeping his head in place. Soft, his hair was so soft. A sharp contrast to the teeth you felt pulling on your skin. His ministrations drew a long moan from you.
Loki smiled against your skin. “Yes, my siren, sing.”
Your back hit the mattress and he crawled over you. His hair a curtain, screening you off from the rest of the world in your own sacred space. His shirt hung open, your hands reached out, tracing each line, each dip. His tongue against yours mimicked the motion of his hips that rolled into you. Your legs wrapped around his waist, meeting each movement, as if you had practised this dance many times before. He pulled away to tug off your pullover. His fingers pushed up your bra and then he sucked your nipple into his hot mouth, making you arch your back.
“Loki, please.”
You didn’t really know what you begged for. More, probably. More of this, more of him.
He pulled you up so you both were kneeling on the bed. Shaking hands fumbled with clothes and fastenings and then you were both naked. Your breath hitched at his beauty.
“Can I…,” you started, voice sounding hoarse. You looked up at him. “Please let me worship you.”
Something flickered across his face - surprise? He gave a curt nod and then watched every single one of your movements.
You took his right hand, tracing each finger with yours, the veins on the back of his hands. You brought his hand up to your face, cradling it to your cheek, before kissing the palm of his hand. One finger at a time, you sucked it into your mouth, to the knuckle, your tongue swirling around the digit, before releasing it and pressing a kiss to the tip, before moving on to the next.
Your hands traced the skin of the inside of his arm, his veins, the rise and fall of his muscles, and up over his shoulder, across his chest to his left arm, which you gave the same treatment. Each birthmark, each scar was kissed. Your hands skimmed over his chest, your lips followed the path. Loki’s breath stuttered when you sucked on his left nipple, before you released it, softly blowing on it. It puckered. You bestowed the same treatment upon the other nipple.
“Please, lie down,” you whispered and he complied.
You lay next to him, kissing his forehead, your fingers running through his hair along his scalp, gently tugging. Onwards, to kiss the curve of each eyebrow, the bridge of his nose, his cheekbones, his chin, along his jawline to his ear. You felt his body shiver when you breathed: “You are so beautiful, inside and out.”
Then your teeth closed around his earlobe, gently pulling. A deep moan sounded through the room. Up until now he had let you do whatever you wanted to and not touched you. But his restraint waned and his hands splayed on your back, pulling you flush against his body. You kept going, your lips now worshipping his delectable throat. He tilted his head back to give you better access.
“Herregud,” he rasped as you kissed, licked and sucked on his sensitive skin. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed hard, his hands growing slack on your back.
You kissed the dip between his collar bones and worked your way down his torso, lips kissing, hands caressing. Further and further you went, along his abs, dipping in his belly button, following the trail of hair below. You leaned back a bit, to look at him. He was fully erect, heavy, swaying slightly. The purple mushroom head gleaming with pearls of pre-cum, thick veins running down the shaft to his pubic hair.
You licked your lips, curling one of your hands around his base, the other cupping his testacles. Then you looked up at him. He was up on his elbows, staring down at you hotly, biting his lips as he watched you in anticipation. You made sure to have and maintain eye contact and then you took him into your mouth.
He hissed, his head falling back, a loud moan following when you hollowed your cheeks to apply suction, the salty taste of his precum on your tongue.
You moved your hand up his length, still sucking, giving his testicles a gentle yet confident squeeze. Up your mouth went, your tongue circling his slit, before sucking him back in. The third time you did it, his hands clasped your shoulders.
“Stop.”
You looked up at him. Loki was breathing hard and you let his cock slide from your mouth with a wet ‘plop’.
In an instant your back was on the mattress and he hovered over you.
“Please don’t misunderstand,” he explained, voice rough, “I loved it, but I have plans.”
He settled between your legs, eyes locked on yours, hand on your thigh, pulling your leg around his waist. His hand slid up, splaying over the fullness of your ass, before giving it a firm squeeze, then sliding over the globe and dipping between your legs. When his slender digits made contact with your aching centre, you cried out. Your whole body was throbbing with need.
“All this nectar is for me?” he rasped. 
You nodded.
“Oh, I have to see this.” And in one fluid motion he sat back on his heels, spreading your legs with his hands, looking at your dripping wet centre in amazement.
“Wait a moment,” he said, before he scrambled off the bed and disappeared in the corridor, only to come back a few moments later to resume his place between your legs. He handed you something with a smirk. Your glasses.
“I want you to see me.”
You put them on, your heartbeat accelerating. You bit your lip in anticipation. He looked up at you, his hot breath puffing against your wet core and then his flat tongue licked you all the way from your entrance to your clit. Your fingers fisted in the bedsheets, eyes falling shut in ecstasy, mouth open in a silent cry.
“Look at me.”
You did. He started a rhythm of licking, sucking and lapping that had the coil inside you wind up and tighten impossibly in no time at all. You fell back onto a pillow. Then he slid two fingers inside you and your hands dove into his hair, tugging, scraping.
What a visual. Loki between your legs, eyes burning into yours, humming and moaning against your clit, fingers sliding in and out of you, curling just at the right time, at the exact angle you needed. It was as if you were a book he’d read a thousand times before. Your toes curled and then you fell into the abyss. You moaned out his name over and over as the orgasm washed over you, leaving your legs shaking.
Loki moved up your body, placing kisses on your thighs, your tummy, your breasts, before he brushed some hair out of your face. You took your glasses off, he placed them on the bedside table. His eyes searched yours.
“I need you, Loki,” you managed, pulling him down.
He kissed you deeply, slowly, the taste of you on his tongue. His hips rocked forward and he slid inside you all the way to the hilt. Loki stilled and broke the kiss, resting his damp forehead against yours.
“Are you okay?” he whispered.
Your fingers caressed his back. Unable to form words, you nodded. Then he moved. His hips rocked into yours in slow, deep thrusts. He filled you so well, stimulating places inside you you didn’t know existed. Your hands ran over his back, down his sides, making him shiver. He watched you, eyes dark but warm. One hand found your swollen clit and his fingers circled and rubbed, applying the pressure you needed to fall into oblivion again. Your feet pressed into his ass cheeks to bring him closer, deeper and his name fell from your lips over and over.
He rocked inside you as you rode out your orgasm. You opened your eyes to look at him in wonder. Never had you seen anything as beautiful as Loki. He seemed to glow from the inside. Maybe it was your imagination. You lifted your head, cupping his face to pull him in for a kiss. His tongue moved languidly against yours, savouring the intimacy.
Then he started moving faster, pulling one of your legs up to rest the calf against his shoulder. Deeper, you wanted him deeper. You couldn’t get close enough. His mouth was devouring yours in a needy kiss, all tongues and teeth now as he pistoned faster into you, your hips meeting each of his thrusts. His lips found your nipple, sucking, pulling on it, moving to its sibling. You couldn’t believe you were on the verge again already. Never before had you been able to orgasm more than once during intercourse.
The room was quiet but for the moans, the heavy breathing. You were so wet that your coupling’s noise was wonderfully dirty, edging you both on even more.
“Look at us,” Loki commanded and you did.
Nothing had ever been so erotic as watching him fill you, stretch you, sliding out, covered in your juices. His fingers were on your clit again, rubbing, circling.
“I don’t know if I can…”
“One more, darling, give me one more,” he insisted, breathlessly.
His hips moved faster, as did his fingers and you were there, on the edge. Loki’s eyes met yours and he knew. His movements stuttered, pupils fully blown, jaw slack, a drop of sweat sliding down his temple.
“Cum with me,” you whispered, your fingers dragging down his back, possibly breaking skin, squeezing and pulling his ass into you.
And he did, propelling you into bliss with him. Your name fell from his lips in a string of Norse profanities. His cock pulsated as the hot ropes of his seed marked your insides as his, your pussy eagerly clenching around him, making sure every last drop would be spent inside you. His movements slowed and then he stilled, buried inside you.
Loki’s lips pressed onto yours in a tender kiss. You stayed in the embrace until you both caught your breath. Then he pulled out of you, your mixed juices running out of you. He could have cleaned you up using magic.
But Loki got out of bed, got a wet flannel from the bathroom and gently cleaned you, kissing your tired body, before sliding back into bed. He pulled you into his arms, your hands joined over his heart, legs intertwined and you both lay there, in your bubble of utter and complete happiness under warm covers, watching the snowflakes dance outside the window in the early hours of Christmas Day.
Christmas Day!
“Oh, wait here!”
You scrambled off the bed and ran to the door, forgetting about your nakedness, pulling your shoulder bag from under your coat. You pulled something from it and brought it back to Loki. He was sitting up, forearms resting on his knees, an intrigued look on his face. 
“Merry Christmas,” you said.
He looked at you and then at the present you held out to him. He cocked an eyebrow as he took it and pulled the fabric ribbon off. His hands parted the paper and then he grew completely still.
“Where in the nine realms did you get this?” he asked after a few moments, voice sounding rough.
“A friend of mine got her hands on this a while back. I thought you might like it.”
He stared at the book, transfixed. His slender fingers caressing the embossed letters on the front and then he lifted it to take in the scent of the pages. His eyes closed.
“Do you? Like it, I mean?” You were worried about this book. It had cost an arm and a leg, but you thought it would be worth it.
“Like it?” Loki asked, finally looking at you and pulling you on his lap. “My mother used to read me his poems when I was a child. I rediscovered it later. This is…”
He was searching for words, failed to find them and instead kissed you, hard, hand fisting in your hair. After a long moment, he broke the kiss.
“Thank you, love.”
Your fingers wrapped around his wrist, stroking his pulse point.
“Will you read it to me?” you asked, a bit out of breath.
Nodding, he sat against the headboard, you curled up against him with his arm around you. He made sure you were both tucked under the covers. Then he opened the book and cleared his throat.
“Kormákr Ӧgmundarson ‘Sigurðardrápa ‘Drápa’. This is one of my favourites, he wrote it for the love of his life.”
His fingers wandered up your arm.
“Brunnu beggja kinna
bjǫrt ljós á mik drósar,
oss hlœgir þat eigi,
eldhúss of við felldan.”
His digits absently stroked your ribcage, skirting over the side of your breast. The rhythm and intonation of his deep voice made you clench your thighs.
“Enn til ǫkkla svanna
ítrvaxins gatk líta,
þrǫ́ muna oss of ævi
eldask, hjá þreskeldi.”
He paused, closing the book and brushing his lips against the skin of your neck. Your eyes fluttered shut.
“What-what does he say?” you all but stuttered.
Loki kissed along your collarbone. Humming against your skin.
“The bright lights of both
her cheeks burned onto me
from the fire-hall's felled wood;
no cause of mirth for me in that.”
His hands cupped your breasts as he sucked and teased one of the nipples. Your hands tugged on his hair, desperate for him again already. You felt his need hard and heavy against your thigh.
“By the threshold I gained a glance
at the ankles of this girl
of glorious shape.”
Loki moved to lie between your legs, hands sliding over your breasts, your tummy, your thigh, down to your ankle, lifting it to wrap it around his hips.
“Yet while I live
that longing will never leave me.”
His voice faltered as he rocked his hips forward and your bodies were joined once more.
“That longing will never leave me,” he repeated like a vow, eyes serious and warm.
“Nor me,” you pledged, before you lost yourselves in the physical expression of your feelings once more.
~ fin ~
360 notes · View notes
lusmeitli · 10 months ago
Text
Where light in darkness lies
Summary: How helping with a panic attack can lead to something more.
Pairings: Loki x Female Reader
Warnings: Panic attack, a hint of angst, fluff, a bit of fingering.
A/N: There aren’t a lot of explanations given. I have also taken a great deal of liberties to bend characters at my will.
Tumblr media
9~9~9~9~9~9~9~9~9~9~9~9~9~9~9~9
The kettle seemed to take forever. Wasn’t there a saying… a watched pot never boils? Apparently, it applied to kettles, too. As the appliance imitated sounds of an imminent blast off, you poked the tea bag at the bottom of the mug with the spoon from one side to another, then clockwi–
Suddenly, everything was plunged into darkness.
“Curses.”
You stretched your hand out to hold onto the kitchen counter for something… tactile. Grounding. Darkness was your foe.
The familiar fireball under your skin licked up your back and across your chest. Its heat seemed to suffocate you. Breaths came out faster, shallower, harsher. Fumbling to try and find your phone on the counter your hands knocked something over. It shattered on the floor. The mug.
Not enough air. You just couldn’t get enough air into your lungs. The only sounds you heard was the pounding beat of your heart and the ringing in your ears. The panic rose up like a monster looming in front of you, a cruel smirk on its face, before it would open its horrifying hellmouth and swallow you whole.
And then you felt hands on you, whirling you around. Soft lips firmly pressed onto yours, moving with purpose and absolutely no hesitation. Its spark set a fuse alight, burning through your body until it reached your brain, sending a shockwave through you. It took your body a long moment to snap out of your onsetting panic attack and to respond to the kiss. You nearly sobbed into the lips, at the distraction and relief they provided, your hands fisting in a shirt, warm skin and contracting muscles under your fingers.
The heat you had felt moments before was gone. In its stead grew an all consuming need. A soft moan escaped somewhere from the back of your throat. It broke the spell. You heard the person kissing you take in a shaky breath, before their lips left yours and it was over. Several moments later the lights flickered back on. You stood rooted to the spot, staring at the empty space in front of you and the broken mug on the floor.
Your fingertips ghosted over the spot where lips had touched yours and a blush crept over your cheeks. In the corner the kettle clicked, the water now boiled.
*****
“Loki?”
“Mhm.”
“Are you sure it was him? I mean how can you tell?”
You brought a hand over the receiver, trying to shield the words so only your friend could hear.
“I, um, hacked into the security camera footage from just before the power cut. He had walked into the kitchen literally a second before it happened.”
There was silence on the other end of the line. Then a heavy breath. “Wow. I don’t know what to say. Ain’t that something.”
“You’re right,” you huffed out, “I mean, this is me we’re talking about, right?”
“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”
“But it is though, isn’t it,” you said, rubbing your tired eyes. “It’s just little old me. Even if it really was him, it probably just was some silly prank or a dare.”
*****
The Quinjet in the hangar was your favourite place to work. Even though today you were in the tail of the jet downloading the aircraft log from the Flight Data Recorder, which involved squeezing into a rather tight space. All that to plug in the USB cable and to then balance the laptop on the palm of your right hand, whilst operating it with the left. You had tried to talk to Tony about moving the access point, seeing as it was a weekly task, but Pepper had walked past and diverted his attention. Judging by the way he immediately stalked after her, he hadn’t heard a word you said.
Thirty-seven percent through the download, the power in the jet cut out and you cursed. Setting the laptop down, you fumbled for your phone, turned on the torch and made your way through the jet to inspect the fuse box you knew was located just outside the cockpit. No light came in from the hangar, which seemed odd. Maybe it was another power outage that affected the whole tower. You tripped and the phone slipped from your grasp, landing somewhere face up.
“Not again…”
The panic started to rise in you once more. You felt too hot, the air seemed stuffy and heavy. Your breath came out fast and ragged. Hands outstretched, you bumped into something hard. Something that shouldn’t be there. You gulped as hot dread shot through your veins and took a step back. With lightning speed slender fingers wrapped around your wrists, tugging you forward to bring you flush against the hard body. Instead of consuming you, the panic ebbed off. Your body knew this touch. Though firm, it meant no harm.
You felt their chest rise and fall, a lot slower than yours. Slender fingers trailed up your arm, over your shoulder and neck. His fingertips skirted over the skin of your throat, goosebumps erupted all over your body. Someone released a slow breath - presumably you.
The fingers moved into your hair and curled around the base of your head, tilting it up. And then those wonderful lips were on yours again. This time, he angled your head to deepen the kiss. The taste and feel of his tongue moving against yours robbed you of your bones and you faltered, glad that his hands held you pressed so tightly up against him. He seemed hungry, needy. His lips left yours, trailing a few kisses over your jaw, before he rested his forehead against yours, noses touching for a wonderful moment, your short breaths mixing.
And then he was gone again. Your hands fell to your side and you blinked against the bright light in the jet that hummed over your head. Yet again you were left wondering what had just happened and, more importantly, why.
*****
“It only affected the hangar this time.” You pulled a book off the shelf in the shop.
“More hacking?” your best friend asked, finger searchingly running over the spines.
Shaking your head, you thumbed through the pages. “My coworkers told me.”
“So you’re saying he did it on purpose?”
Shrugging, you put the book back. “He knows magic, that’s what I’m saying.”
“Honey, I love you, but before you go down that obsession-rabbit hole, it’s my duty as your bestie to warn you. Just please be careful. This is Loki after all. Hm, where is it?”
“Whatever is that supposed to mean?”
The pitying look in your friend’s eyes was almost too much. “Oh where to start… He’s a god, immortal and several centuries older than you,” she counted off on her fingers.
“Actually,” you mumbled, “he is mortal. Asgardians just have a longer life span of about 5,000 years.”
Your friend blinked, surprised. “Who told you that? Dr Google?”
“Thor, actually. He had to fill in a form for the Quinjet learner’s licence and we joked about his age.”
“I love you, but you’re weird. Happy rabbit hunting then.” A victory cry fell from your friend’s lips as she pulled out what she was looking for and pushed it into your hands. “You want spicy? Here you go.”
“‘Three Swedish Mountain Men’?” you read.
She wiggled her brows. “They’re hot and they like sharing…”
You rolled your eyes, but put it on the pile of books you were getting anyway.
*****
Late shifts were your favourite, because it allowed you to actually get work done, without the phone going off every other minute. The only thing you didn’t like about them was walking back to your room afterwards.
It was 3am when the lift doors slid open and your shoes softly squeaked on the dimly lit corridor. Nightlighting mode, as Tony called it. You hated it and walked faster. Rubbing your stiff neck and rolling your shoulders, you rounded the corner. Just a few more metres to your door. But someone grabbed your hand and pulled you into the refuse room, which was pitch black.
Cool fingers were placed on your lips signalling you not to make a sound.
You nodded your head and the fingers moved from your lips, slowly, tracing. Then both hands were in your hair. His fingers cupped your head and you felt his breath against your lips. Your hands were on his chest, gripping the front of his t-shirt. Soft cotton. You closed your eyes.
“Please,” you said so quietly you thought he didn’t hear.
But he had and his lips brushed against yours, light as a feather. Your head was swimming, your heart aching. His touch was soft and gentle. He had kissed you before, but it was as if he was now seeing you, in the darkness of the refuse room, for the first time. Taking you in, kissing every inch of skin that was exposed. His lips grazed the knuckles on your hand and a lump formed in your throat.
His hands cupped your head and you felt his fingers fiddle with your hair bobble, before the restraint was gone and your hair hung loose. His hands combed through the strands. You couldn’t remember the last time someone did that.
Your hands ran over his biceps, his shoulders, his pecs, his abs. You wished you could say something, anything, but you feared you’d spoil the moment, that he’d pull away. His lips found yours again and he angled his head, his tongue slowly dancing with yours. It was the most erotic thing you had ever experienced.
He changed his footing to come at you from a different angle, pressing his body flush against yours. He peppered small kisses on the corner of your mouth and down your throat. He seemed to have found a spot he liked, because he sucked on it, his teeth grazing, lips easing the light bite. Before he pulled away, he inhaled deeply at the crown of your head, and placed a gentle kiss on your hair. You felt safe, basking in his warmth. And like the times before, he was gone.
By the time your legs felt stable enough to support you again, you opened the door and walked back to your room.
A smile crossed your lips as you realised that this was the first time you hadn’t panicked in the dark.
*****
“Maybe he’s shy?” your bestie suggested as you sat on her couch, both spooning ice cream out of the same tub.
Loki and shy were not words you would have put in a sentence together. But then, sometimes you were wondering if his aloof stance was just for show.
“Have you tried talking to him?” she asked.
You shook your head. “I could never work up the nerve. He seems… so unapproachable in the light of day. Maybe it all really is an elaborate prank.”
“Or,” your friend leaned forward, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “or he has the hots for you and just can’t find any other way to show it.”
You mulled this over for a while. “But why in the dark? Why isn’t he saying anything ever?”
“When do you see him?”
“At extended team briefings, but the Avengers come in last and sit at the front. Rogers requested it.”
Your friend rolled her eyes. “Any other time?”
“Well, in the hallways, but either he’s with someone or I am.”
“Meh. Where else?”
You leaned back, thinking. “In the canteen?”
“Okay, now we’re talking.”
“But, again, he’s always with someone.”
“Well… looks like you’re screwed.” She made a show of licking her spoon. “Or about to be screwed.”
She laughed as you threw a pillow in her face.
*****
It was just an autumn storm. Nothing out of the ordinary. Except for that it was five in the morning and had been going all night. You were standing by the window, looking out onto the soft glow of the city that never slept. Angry gusts of wind whipped big raindrops against the windowpane. Your breath misted against the cool glass. Normally, you slept through storms, but not this one.
The team had yet to return from a mission and you were worried sick. The mission was particularly perilous. You knew this because Tony had called you into his office, shut the door (something he never had done before) and told you that he couldn’t give you any information, but that ‘some serious shit is going to go down tonight’ and to trust - dramatic pause - him. It all was accompanied by a stare with which Tony seemed to try to convey a secret message. You guessed he didn’t mean himself, but Loki. Hence, you had chewed off all your nails for the last few hours.
When the door to your room opened, closed and footsteps approached, relief flooded through you. Not a moment later his hands were on your waist, pulling you back into his chest, his presence seeping through your pores. His arms curled around you, the slightly damp leather of his suit softly creaking, and your hands flew up to grip his forearms tightly. His head nestled in the crook of your neck, his lips soft against your skin.
“Thank heavens,” you whispered.
You couldn’t remember who moved first, but you found yourself up against the wall, his hands on your ass. Your legs wrapped around his hips that pushed into you; his mouth felt hot on yours. The kiss was all teeth and tongues. Desperation mixed with relief. A moan rang through the room - definitely yours - as you offered yourself up to him. And he took, greedily. His hands were everywhere on your body, pulling you close, pushing more into you, closer still. A disgruntled huff made it clear it wasn’t enough. And then his hands were under your hoodie, bare skin touching bare skin. A tug, a pull and the fabric was up and over your head, landing somewhere on the floor. His lips closed around your lace covered breast until he found your nipple and sucked on it.
Your hands weaved through his damp hair - if you had any fingernails left, they’d be scraping his scalp. Instead you tugged gently on the soft strands, eliciting a strangled moan from him. His hips rolled into yours, his desire evident and yours dampening your knickers. His hand slipped into your leggins, his fingers moving over the globe of your ass, slowly, squeezing, as his mouth was plundering yours.
The moment his fingers found your soaking centre, you both groaned. He slid two digits inside you, making you gasp. His hips rocked into you, the leather seams on his crotch providing friction for your clit. Your hands tried to fist in the leather, to get to feel his skin.
The orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave, taking you by surprise, propelling you into oblivion. Loki grunted, his movements became jerky, before he stilled and rested his damp forehead against the crook of your neck. His hot breath puffed against your skin, and he just stayed like that, letting you run your fingers through his hair in a comforting rhythm. Then he slid his fingers out of you and gently placed your feet back on the ground. His forearm leaned against the wall behind you as he kissed you thoroughly, with a gentleness that made your eyes sting with unshed tears.
Your thoughts were going a mile a minute and you were thinking of what to do or say now. Would he stay the night or would he vanish again, like always? You heard the soft creaking of his boots as he moved through the dark room and then back to you, handing you your hoodie. You took it, fingers brushing his. The moment you pulled it over your head, your bedside light was on and you found yourself alone.
Again.
*****
The APU of the Quinjet was situated - as in most aeroplanes - in the tail. One of the reasons you were in charge of the upgrade of the jet’s internal bleed ducting was that you were small and slim. None of your co-workers could squeeze in there (thank you, Tony, for prioritising sleekness over practicality). Ironically, there was no air conditioning in this part of the jet. Droplets of sweat gathered on your forehead as you lay under the engine with your torch and toolkit, religiously running through the protocols.
“Five more checks, Y/N,” you heard your colleague, peering down at you from the moveable steps he was standing on, holding up the upper engine encasing with another work mate. A whistling noise became louder. “Then we can test– what the hell?!”
You lifted your head just as a massive explosion tore through the hangar. The space where your co-workers had been a second ago was swallowed up by a fireball. It felt as if the jet was airborne, tossed to the side, then came to a sudden stop. Metal screeched and groaned.
Your head hurt. A lot. There was a ringing in your ears and you just couldn’t see anything. It was dark, so dark. You wriggled backwards but to your horror realised that you were stuck, trapped between the engine and the jet wall. It felt like you were burning up and you tried to shout, scream for help, but you couldn’t get air in your lungs, no matter how hard you tried. Then, mercifully, you fainted.
When you came to, you were in the medical bay. It looked like a war zone, people lying or sitting on the floor, waiting to be seen. Some of them with burns and cuts, others in the bays next to you with drips and field surgeons around them. You spotted your two work mates, both with minor burns and a few bruises, but thankfully alive.
A few stitches on your forehead, one arm plaster casted and in a sling, and a packet of painkillers thrust in your good hand by a disgruntled, stressed out medic later, you limped your way out of there. Anything was better than sitting around in the sick bay, where there were people who were much more in need of a bed than you were. It also helped with getting away from the sight of the body bags that were quietly carried past you. Six, you had counted. The biggest attack on the Avengers Tower so far, people murmured. And the deadliest one.
In front of the debriefing room, you were handed a tablet and sat down. It was standard protocol after an incident like this: you filled in your report and then talked it through with your supervisor. End of. So you filled in the boxes and waited outside Tony’s office for your turn. As you walked in and sat down, he looked at you.
“You okay, Y/N?”
You gave a brief nod. He blinked and then tapped a few keys on his phone, before taking the tablet you held out to him.
“Let’s get this over with.”
In the middle of your interview, the door suddenly burst open. A very out of breath Asgardian god almost stumbled over the threshold, a stony expression on his face. He was like a vision from your dreams, donning his leather suit, covered in dust and blood - not his.
His eyes roamed over you as he stood in the doorway, lingering on your arm in the sling and the stitches on your face for a moment. Then his eyes met yours. It wasn’t as if you hadn’t looked into one another’s eyes before, but this felt different. Intimate.
In four strides he was next to your chair. He stretched out his hand and you placed yours in his, as if it was a practised gesture between you two. A gentle tug had you standing up.
“Loki…,” you started.
“I thought you were dead, love,” he murmured, voice rough, lifting your good hand to his lips to ghost a kiss onto your scratched knuckles. Your insides melted at the endearment and his gesture.
“I give you a thousand thanks, Stark,” he addressed the other man, eyes never leaving yours, “for alerting me that my beloved is okay and with you. However, Agent Y/L/N will have to finish the incident debrief at a later point. I require her presence for an extremely urgent personal matter.”
“Get outta here already, Shakespeare,” Tony grumbled, trying to hide a smirk. “Who’s next?”
But Loki didn’t pay him any heed. He gently cradled your face, his thumbs caressing your skin.
And there, right in front of Tony, with the door wide open for everyone in the very busy hallway to see, right there was the very first time that Loki kissed you in the daylight.
~fin~
221 notes · View notes