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morally-grey-variant · 5 months

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love is a dagger [loki x oc] [part three]

loki x oc

part three

[master post]

Setting: Agent Grey Forrest can’t quite reconcile her alliance with Loki. After six months of regular hand-to-hand combat and close-weapons training, they’re not quite friends but can’t exactly stay away from each other. Everything changes the day Loki accidentally stabs Grey during a training exercise.

Summary(3): Loki bares his teeth. Grey bears the weight of his guilt. Wolves are not born cruel; they lash out when danger is thrust upon them. All monsters deserve love – even if all they have known is fear. (wc 3.1k)

Warnings: Later episodes feature dark & explicit themes -- Minors DNI. Freshly stitched-up wounds, pain, implied self-harm themes (no descriptions or direct references), general angst, swearing, inferences of past trauma, non-explicit nudity (if I've missed something please let me know!)

Showering is a kind of bliss and torture in and of itself. The stitches pull as I lift my hands above my head to release my ponytail. Scrubbing shampoo into my long, dark hair means I'm forced to curl into myself and tuck my elbows into my sides. This won’t heal quickly, and I'm going to have to learn to work around it. Might as well start now.

Soap slides down my torso and over the puckered seam; I tip my head back in a silent scream, the sharp sting paralyzing my entire body.

Some tough agent I am.

But the scalding hot water on my scalp, scrubbing dried blood off my face and hands and everywhere, is enough to make it worth it. When I finally step out of the bathroom, a trail of lilac-scented steam in my wake, Loki is still there. Waiting for me.

I wish I'd picked cuter pajamas. Comfort eclipsed cuteness, though, and my old gray t-shirt and loose flannel pajama pants are as much as I could manage after the painful effort of shimmying into a loose green bralette. My hair clings to the back of my tee, leaving a big wet patch.

Leaning back in my desk chair, Loki stares deeply into the middle distance. He's somewhere far away, deep in thought as he clenches the arms of the chair so tightly that his knuckles are white.

“That's my only chair,” I say. “If you break it, I don't think they'll give me another.”

He eases his grip. His gaze loosens, and those green eyes drift to me, considering each piece of my pajamas. “Did you re-dress your … wound?”

I shake my head. “And I don't suppose you'd know how to wrap hair in a towel.” I sigh, sinking onto the edge of my mattress. Leaning forward, I dab my white bath towel against my dark, wavy locks in dismay.

Towel bunched up in my lap, I close my eyes and let my head fall into my lap with a small groan. The pain is absolutely killing me now. I shouldn't have gotten the stitches wet in the shower, soap drips notwithstanding, but there's no way I could've gotten into bed without washing up first. Wiping myself down with a wet washcloth wouldn't have worked, either – too much reaching and straining.

I focus on taking deep, calming breaths, the counselor’s words echoing in my head. Square breathing, just like music class in grade school – breathe in, hold, breathe out, hold.

Deep breaths stretch out my ribcage. Another involuntary groan slips out. Fuck.

“Grey.”

Loki sounds closer, and I’d like to think I’d forgotten his presence in my self-indulgent suffering, but there’s no way I could ignore the way his presence fills up my tiny bedroom. I hum a noncommittal response. I want to lift my head to look at him, but my head might as well weigh a hundred pounds.

There's a tug against the towel, and Loki pulls it out of my lap. Gingerly, he drapes it over the back of my neck, letting it fall forward over my hair. He gathers it up in front, and with a subtle twist, wraps the towel around my hair and tucks it back behind my head.

“Woah,” I laugh softly, finally letting my head lift. “How–”

One side of Loki's mouth turns up in a thin-lipped grin of acquiescence. “Thor,” he explains simply, his smirk deepening as some memory floats to the surface. “If you tell anyone, he'll have my head for it.”

I can't help but laugh. Loki is warm and familiar when he wants to be, like a reluctant housecat. I'm overcome with an urge to wrap my arms around him and drink in all that dark warmth.

The laugh rubs my shirt against the wound, and I flinch.

Loki's face drops. It cracks me open from the inside.

“I'm fine, Loki,” I say, forcing myself not to curl an arm around my torso. “Really. It'll probably scar, but it's not that bad. I'm fine.”

He shoves the chair back with a flick of his wrists, suddenly towering over me. “It’s not fine.” Loki's eyes darken, his brow creasing. The chair rattles backwards on an unsteady wheel and bangs against the side of the desk. A chill sweeps over me. “Stop saying you're fine, Grey. I think you've forgotten that I stabbed you today. You're not fucking fine.”

“Don't break my fucking chair if you're having a tantrum,” I frown, though I don't bother standing. I won’t fight with him. “You didn't stab me, idiot. It was a training exercise. I didn't get out of the way fast enough. If you'd stabbed me, I'd be in a drawer underneath the hospital by now.”

His eyes flash knowingly before he whips around, practically stomping away from me. He can't go far in the tiny room, and his march to the window would almost be comical if it didn't fucking kill me to see him this upset. I wouldn't treat the god with kid gloves, though. He could handle my anger.

One arm braces above his head as he leans against the full-length window, staring out at the darkening landscape below. The half-moon reflects onto his pale, brooding face. His hood bunches up around his shoulders, pushing his dark curls forward from where he's tucked them behind his ears. He's trying to calm down, too.

“You're exactly right, you know.”

Something in his tone sends a shard of ice through my chest. He doesn't break his stare, watching the world spread below us, though I know he's not really seeing anything.

“I'm ending your training.” He continues coldly, his voice flat and businesslike. As if he's ordering coffee. “This has gone far enough.”

“Loki–” I protest, pinching the skin on the back of my arm. “That's not fair. I have a say in this, too. I'm not going off to war. We're sparring in a padded room. No one else will train with me–”

He whips around, face contorted in horrifyingly inhuman fury. His hands ball up into fists at his sides. “Do you know the last agent I fucking stabbed, Grey?” He seethes through clenched teeth. A muscle in his jaw flexes, twitching up through his temple. “I killed Phil Coulson. Stabbed him in the fucking back.”

His eyes glaze over, the whites now run through with pinkish-red. He spits his admission through his teeth like a snake spitting venom. The things that haunt him in the middle of the night, that he wishes he could bury deep and let them rot in his heart forever. But they forever lurk just beneath the surface. When he looks at me, he sees Coulson.

“I know, Loki. I’m not afraid of you.”

SHIELD agents learn about Loki the moment they ask to work directly with the Avengers. We learn about all the Avengers, sure – Cap's brave sacrifice, Tony's arrogant but self-sacrificing genius, Thor's god-like might – but they’re obsessed with Loki. The training videos have something of a “keep your enemies closer” vibe that would make you think he's some bloodthirsty supervillain. Loki murdered Agent Coulson in cold blood. Loki tried to conquer Earth to spite his brother. Loki lies and cheats and stabs people in the back.

Well, he only stabbed me in the front.

“I'm not afraid of you.” My voice is even and calm. “Sit down, Loki.”

He doesn't move a muscle. If I didn't know better, I'd think he wanted to slap me.

“Coulson's alive,” I continue, shrugging with all the nonchalance I can muster. “And you can't end our training. You don't just get to decide things for me.”

“Coulson is alive by chance,” Loki counters quickly. He's lost some of his fire, though. His muscles relax slightly, even if he's still obviously on edge. “And I do get to decide for you when you're putting yourself in danger.”

Now it's my turn to get angry. His words stoke the little ember that ceaselessly burns in my chest. I get to decide for you.

“Why do you care if I put myself in danger?” I shout, ignoring the way my ragged heart chafes in my chest.

“Because I care about you, you fumbling imbecile!” Loki shouts back, palms spread wide, face contorted in wretched agony. “I had to sit here and listen to your agony while you did something as simple as shower, knowing I am the cause of that pain. For weeks – likely for months – I will be forced to watch you suffer from afar because of my mistake.” The words pour out of him, uncontrolled and unfiltered. “Day after day, I'm subjected to loathsome glares and rightfully placed suspicion. I know quite well who I am, Grey. The God of Mischief; the Prince of Lies. An arbiter of human misery.

“I found the only soul whose face doesn't contort with hatred when they see me, and I sank a dagger into her chest.”

Loki's chest falls. His entire body slumps forward under the weight of his admission. He tugs his hands through his curls again, twisting away from me. “I must go,” he finishes, his words clipped. He hastens past me.

I snag the loose fabric of his sweatshirt as he tries to walk past me towards the door. “Don't you dare.”

He freezes mid-step. He obeys, though his head is still turned away from mine. My hand curls into the fabric with a tight fist; the weight of such a grip that might bring him to his knees.

“Don't you dare, Loki,” I repeat, still looking up at him though he won't meet my gaze. “Running away won't fix this.”

His chest shudders with a ragged breath.

“You want to drown in self-pity just because you made a mistake? Learn the difference between accidents and purposeful attacks, you fumbling imbecile.” I can't help but grin a little as I echo his frustrated insult. “If you leave now, not only am I going to have to deal with this on my own, but it's going to fucking hurt when I re-wrap this stupid thing. I earned this, so I get to deal with it on my own terms.”

I earned this. I deserve this.

He finally looks down at me. Red-rimmed green eyes leak small tracks of tears down his cheeks. That shatters the cracked thing inside my chest. “Stop feeling sorry for yourself and help take care of me,” I continue, clinging to his shirt and forcing my voice not to crack.

I chose to ally myself with the villain. The man – the god – no one else will even go near.

“Stark will be furious if you forgive me.” Loki smirks down at me through his tears.

I earned this, because this is exactly what I deserve. Loki doesn’t get to decide who suffers and who grieves. He isn’t the only kicked dog here.

“Good. Maybe some disobedience will humble him.”

Loki rolls his eyes as he finally shifts, taking a step back and lowering himself to sit beside me on the edge of the mattress. “Humility is not a concept he recognizes, I'm afraid.”

The fallout from this will cause an avalanche. I wince as a mountain of potential consequences piles up in my mind. Faces flash through my mind as I picture just a few people who will need more than a little convincing that this accident was, indeed, an accident. Natasha. Nick Fury. Tony Stark. Thor. Natasha. Agent Coulson. Cap. Natasha. But for now, there are no consequences. As long as I can keep him safe in here with me, tucked away like a secret deep in my heart, we’re a universe of two.

“Are you in a lot of pain?” Loki’s voice is gentler now. He's not crying – I doubt more than a few tears actually fell to begin with – but his demeanor softens considerably, even though he still seems on edge. Loki is more than a mere secret. He’s an earth-shattering whisper passed beneath hastened breaths. Deceptively silent. Taking up far less room than he deserves.

I care about you.

The words echo again. What exactly does that mean, though? A lingering hand on my thigh during training; his head cupping my face while the doctor stitched me up.

Loki isn't a villain.

“I’m imagining everyone I'm going to have to explain this to when I can't report for duty tomorrow,” I concede, shrugging. The small movement draws out another involuntary hiss of pain.

I deserve this.

“You didn't bandage it after your shower?”

I shake my head. “Too much… stretching. Getting dressed was hard enough.” I deserve this.

Loki pushes himself off the mattress, reaching to grab the bandages sent home from the medical wing. “Let me help you.”

My face goes bright red. Fuck. In my proud insistence that Loki stay to atone for his mistake, I forgot that helping me might mean… this again. I tug up the bottom hem of my t-shirt, exposing the wound to the air. Loki furrows his brow, glancing between my face and the stitched-up gash. “You should've let me do this right away.”

Oh, god. It's redder than ever, the skin puckered and inflamed around the black stitches. The shower and friction against my shirt have irritated it like crazy. I can feel my pulse in the bright red, raw edges.

I deserve this.

Loki gingerly lays gauze over the redness. The tips of his fingers brush against the skin just beneath it. My whole body shivers. He glances up, his face only inches from mine, before returning his diligent attention to his work. “Your hand is freezing,” I say quietly, hiding my embarrassment poorly. His hands are cold, but when his fingers brushed my bare skin...

“Sorry,” he mutters. A dark curl falls over his face as he holds one end of the long bandage roll over the gauze. The hem of my shirt slips from my fingertips, falling over the wound. “Hold still, darling.”

I barely fight the shiver that word sends through me. “Sorry,” I echo, barely breathing.

“Grey, are you… will you be… decent?” He stumbles around “are your tits out” as I nod hurriedly, though I instinctively pull my arms around my chest again. “I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to remove your shirt again.” I swear to God that he's smirking just slightly as he says it, avoiding eye contact with me the whole time.

“Of course,” I answer, painting my pinched voice with as much sarcasm as I can muster. Because this is a joke, right? It has to be a joke. “I managed to get a bra on after the shower… just in case, I guess.”

Loki frowns again. “That explains much of your miserable whimpering.”

Oh. I didn't realize I'd been that loud.

“Just hold still,” he continues, brushing a hand against my waist. “Hold your arms up like earlier – yes, that's it,” he murmurs, tugging my shirt up and over my head. I'm sure every inch of my body has to be flushed pink by now. Not because I want him taking my clothes off. Absolutely not. No way.

The little monster in the back of my head grins wickedly. Because you absolutely fucking do.

I tip my head back, unable to keep watching. That only makes it worse. Now I can feel him with alarming clarity, every nerve in my body focused on his tender touches. I'm blindingly aware of my thin, forest-green bralette – some soft cotton thing that I picked because of the color name, and not because I've come to love the color green – as it clings to my skin, delicately cupping my small breasts.

“I'm sorry if I'm hurting you,” Loki continues in a low, clenched voice. “I'll be done in a moment.”

“It doesn't hurt,” I breathe, trying to stay as still as possible. The bandage – and his arm – loop around me, wrapping completely around my torso until he can grip the other side.

He encircles me with his arms. I can’t breathe.

Two long fingers press into my side, holding the cloth in place; I tip my head back, overwhelmed by the intimacy. His hands brush against my skin with every circle his hands make around my torso.

Surely he can hear my heart thundering against the inside of my ribs. It threatens to rip through my stitches and burst out through that fresh opening. Loki’s fumbled slice weakened the dam; if I’m not careful, I’ll pour out through the torn seams. A lifetime of painstaking restraint wells up behind a crumbling levee.

“All right.”

I tilt my head down. He's checking his handiwork, eyes downcast. Dark curls tumble forward as his head leans down, falling loose from their usual careful slicked-back style. I imagine myself brushing those curls back from his forehead, lifting his face to look at me, demanding he tell me exactly what he’s thinking. But nothing about my allyship with Loki has ever been so straightforward.

His impossibly broad left hand lightly rests against my right side, his long fingers stretched wide across my torso.

He lifts his eyes. The slight red remnants of his earlier outburst are fading, and the soulful eyes piercing my heart are so dark and ancient that I’m frozen in place. Some hint of a thought lingers on his slightly parted lips.

His dark eyebrows arch upward slightly; curiously.

My jaw softens, my comment or quip long forgotten. He notices, and his gaze drops to my jaw. No; to my lips. Oh.

Loki tips his head forward, brushing his lips against mine. He’s soft and hesitant, achingly restrained. Cautious.

I catch his lower lip between my own, pushing into him. He hums contentedly. The sound rumbles deep in his chest. Oh.

He slides his hand down to brace against my back, pulling me forward ever so slightly. Cupping my jaw, his long fingers sliding into my hair and beneath my ear and I’m lighting up at every touch. I relax into him, his cool fingers perfect against my flushed skin. I wrap my arms around his neck and wind my fingers into his curls. They're exactly as soft as I imagined they would be.

I've wanted this for longer than I would admit to myself. I've wanted Loki for months, wondered how his hands would feel and his lips would taste and his hair would twist between my fingers. Every aching hour spent sparring with steel and fists and sharp words and barbed grins, my wolf among the woods, the predator sharpening his prey.

My broken boy who burns the world just to spite the ashes.

If Loki is a monster, then let us be monsters together.

#loki #loki laufeyson #loki fanfic #loki god of mischief #tom hiddleston #loki smut #loki odinson #loki fanfiction #love is a dagger / fic #love is a dagger #loki fluff #loki laufesyon x reader #loki x oc #loki x reader #loki laufeyson fanfic #loki series #loki of asgard #mcu loki

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beefromanoff · 6 months

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Project Mockingbird Ch. 15

summary: the tension...is palpable. but maybe a breakthrough?

pairing: Bucky Barnes x OC

author's note: TWO IN ONE WEEK! I love seeing everyone's responses to this story! it's so fun to write, and it's definitely heating up. let me know what you think!

tag list: @bangtanxberm @scott-loki-barnes @kayhi808 @charmedbysarge

(let me know if you want to be added <3)

chapter list

_______________________________________

The sterile air of the training room hummed with a tension that felt almost palpable. Bucky stood, arms crossed, in front of a giant digital screen displaying a complex urban environment. Charlotte, her focus intense, studied the map that sprawled before her. It had only been two days since the attack on the compound, and though she’d been released to sleep in her own bed the first night, she wasn’t cleared for combat training until her broken ribs had healed and the stitches had been removed from her leg. She’d opted to return to lessons with Bucky almost immediately, despite their spat in the medical wing. Her desire to avoid being alone with her thoughts was stronger than her desire to avoid him.

He wore his normal daily attire: tactical pants and combat boots, a snug black shirt hugging his chest. Charlotte wore almost identical garb, with loose cargo pants the most comfortable to wear over the bandaging on her leg.

"Okay," Bucky began, his voice steady, "you have your objective. Hostage situation, downtown area, high civilian presence. Minimal casualties, maximum stealth. Your move."

Charlotte paused for a moment before pointing to a section of the map, tracing a potential entry route. "Rooftop entry here. We can use the neighboring building as a vantage point."

Bucky shook his head. "Too exposed. Snipers could easily pin you down. Next."

She bit her lip, her frustration growing, then suggested, "What about a distraction? Create a diversion on the opposite block to draw them out."

"And risk civilian casualties? Not an option. Think, Charlotte."

She took a deep breath, regrouping, before offering another handful of potential ways to diffuse the situation. With each suggestion shot down, Charlotte's strategies grew more audacious, her patience thinning. As her ideas got sloppier, Bucky’s feedback got more critical.

“You do that and you might as well just surrender now. They’d see you coming a mile away and have all their forces ready to ambush you. Are you prepared to send your whole team into a blatant trap? You’re not even thinking this through.” He shook his head, running a hand through his hair.

Finally, she snapped. "What do you want from me, Bucky? To pull some genius plan out of thin air? You're not giving me anything to work with!"

Bucky, unyielding, leaned forward until his face was inches from hers. "I want you to think. Real situations won't give you 'anything to work with' either. You need to adapt, improvise, and most importantly, keep those hostages and your team safe."

Charlotte's eyes blazed. "You think I don't know that? You're acting like I'm some rookie who's never faced a real threat!"

“Last time I checked, you are a rookie. When was the last mission you came on?” Bucky's tone hardened. "I'm trying to prepare you for situations where there might not be a clear right answer. You think I don't see your potential? I do. But potential's not enough when the lives of people you care about are on the line. You need to be strategic, not just brave. If you run into an escalated situation with nothing but ‘kick ass’ in your arsenal, you’re going to get yourself killed."

The air between them crackled with tension as Charlotte threw her hands in the air. "Oh, so now you're the world’s leading expert on nonviolent negotiations? Last time I checked, only one of us has ‘World’s Deadliest’ on our resume and it isn’t me.” She didn’t shy away, getting even closer to his face. “Tell me how much strategy came into play then, Soldat."

The words hung heavy, a low blow that cut incredibly deep. Bucky's face tightened, a flicker of old pain in his eyes as he set his jaw. If looks could kill, she had a feeling she’d have already taken her last breath. Instead of the verbal lashing she expected, he took a slow breath before stepping back.

"That's not fair, Charlotte, and you know it," he replied, his voice low but sharp enough to slice through the tension.

Charlotte, her chest heaving with a mix of anger and regret, met his gaze. The room felt smaller, the air thicker.

"I—" She began, then stopped. What was she doing? This was Bucky, who'd risked everything, who'd been through hell and back. And here she was, using his past against him. "I'm sorry," she said, the words feeling inadequate. "That was out of line."

But Bucky's demeanor had already shifted. He looked at her, his gaze piercing, and for a moment, Charlotte thought she saw a flicker of something more—anger, betrayal, perhaps even hurt. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared, shuttered behind the steel walls he was so adept at erecting.

"Yeah," Bucky finally said, his voice cold and distant. "It was."

Without another word, he turned on his heel and walked briskly away. The sound of his boots against the floor echoed in the large room, each step thundering through her. Charlotte watched him go, her heart sinking. She wanted to call out, to apologize again, to explain that her words had come from a place of frustration and fear, not malice. But the words stuck in her throat, tangled up with her pride and the lingering sting of their argument.

As the door slid shut behind him, leaving her alone in the silence of the training room, a mix of emotions roiled within her. Guilt for having crossed a line, anger at Bucky for being so impossibly difficult to work with, and beneath it all, a gnawing fear that she had just irreparably damaged whatever fragile connection they had been building.

She sank down onto a nearby bench, her injured leg protesting the sudden movement. The physical pain was nothing compared to the turmoil swirling inside her. She had wanted to prove herself, to show Bucky—and maybe, more importantly, herself—that she was capable, that she wasn't the weak link. Instead, she had let her temper get the best of her, lashing out in the worst possible way. The worst part? She really was trying. All of her suggestions, at least the early ones, were instinctive. Had she been in the heat of a mission, thinking on the spot, she would have acted on them. Acted on them and gotten people killed, as Bucky was so keen on reminding her. Goddamn him, this was difficult for her. She didn’t come from a military background before her capture by HYDRA, and she didn’t have years with Earth’s Mightiest Heroes honing her skills. She knew how to fight, how to survive, as she’d proven time and time again. Yet, all he seemed to be able to see was where she fell short. Brute strength and violence had gotten him through some of the worst horrors known to man, and here he was, telling her that wouldn’t be enough. Well, it would have to be. That was all she had.

The room felt oppressively large now, the echoes of their argument bouncing off the walls, a reminder of how quickly things had spiraled out of control, as they always seemed to do. Charlotte wrapped her arms around herself, a futile attempt to ward off the chill that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room.

______

The night air was crisp, and the lake below was a reflection of the starlit sky as Charlotte stood alone on the balcony, wrapped in her thoughts and an oversized sweatshirt. The events of the day had left her raw, her emotions a tangle of frustration, guilt, and an indefinable ache that seemed to pulse with the night. She’d avoided the common room until she knew Bucky would be in training with the SHIELD agents, then shut herself in her room until after dinner, leaving only to get herself the plate of food she knew Natasha had left in the fridge for her. After another failed attempt to sleep, she’d awoken in a cold sweat and found her way out to the balcony.

Behind her, the sliding door whispered open, and she stiffened, half-expecting another attack. But when she whirled around, already setting her feet in a defensive posture, it was to find Bucky standing there with two steaming cups of coffee in his hands. The panic must have shown on her face because he raised the mugs candidly, showing the peace offering.

"Vanilla, extra cream," he said, extending one of the cups towards her. The gesture was so unexpected, so gentle after their harsh words earlier, that Charlotte found herself momentarily lost for words. She couldn’t remember ever telling him how she took her coffee, and yet here it was, smelling perfectly sweet and familiar.

She took the cup, feeling the warmth seep into her fingers. "Bucky, I—I need to apologize. For earlier. I was so out of line," she started, but Bucky shook his head, cutting her off.

"No," he said firmly, "I pushed you too hard. I haven't been fair to you, haven't given you the credit you deserve." He leaned on the balcony railing, his gaze distant, reflective. "You saved the compound, Charlotte. While we were off chasing ghosts, you...you showed you have what it takes. In the heat of the moment, you did what you had to, and you saved lives." He tilted his head to meet her eyes. “You risked your own. I just…don’t want you to have to do that again.”

Charlotte's facade crumbled, her carefully constructed walls falling away as tears welled in her eyes. "What's wrong?" Bucky asked, brows furrowing in concern.

"I just... I didn't feel prepared," she admitted, her voice trembling with emotion. "I was terrified the whole time, and I had no idea what I was doing. Everyone keeps calling me a hero, and I don’t…I’m not one.”

Bucky's head tilted as he took a step closer, his gaze searching hers. "You did great out there, Charlotte. You saved this whole place, and the lives of everyone in it."

Charlotte shook her head, a bitter laugh escaping her lips as the tears spilled over. "Did I? Or was it just dumb luck?"

Bucky reached out, gently cupping her cheek and wiping away her tears with his thumb. "Hey, don't say that. You were incredible. You held your own against HYDRA."

“I was scared shitless. I kept thinking how it was my fault. My fault they came here in the first place, and it would be my fault that the compound fell while you were gone. The whole time, I was just…making it up as I went.” She laughed coldly again, looking up to blink back tears. “Everyone keeps acting like I did something amazing, when we both know I only survived because of you. You’re the only one who sees through me, sees that I don’t have a fucking clue what I’m doing and I hate it. I wish you weren’t right, but you have been. Every single goddamn time.” She angrily wiped her tears with the sleeve of her sweatshirt.

Watching her, sensing she wasn’t done, Bucky’s hand rested reassuringly on her shoulder.

Charlotte looked down into her mug, seeing her reflection warped on the surface of the liquid. "I felt terrified," she confessed, her voice barely above a whisper. "Confused, lost. It all felt so... unnatural. I was second-guessing every decision, worried I was making the wrong move." She stared blankly ahead, eyes unseeing as her gaze looked somewhere past the lake. "I took it as a sign that I'd never make a good Avenger."

Bucky leaned back down over the railing, frowning at her. "Do you think you're the only one who feels that way? Even after hundreds of missions, there are times I'm still scared, still doubting." He paused, searching her face. "That fear, that uncertainty, it doesn't make you weak. It makes you human. And it's what makes you think, makes you evaluate and choose the best path forward, even when it's hard. It doesn’t mean you’re not cut out for this…it just means you actually give a shit about what you’re doing."

Charlotte met his gaze, and in that moment, a connection forged in the heat of conflict and cooled in the calm of understanding passed between them. The swift forgiveness of her incredibly cruel words. The raw, brutal honesty. The peace offering. The lack of judgment as she broke down in front of him. "I guess we're just trying to do our best, huh?" she said, a tentative, watery smile touching her lips.

"Yeah," Bucky agreed, his voice soft but steady. "We're all just trying to do our best.”

Charlotte stared ahead, taking a slow sip of her coffee. Bucky studied her for a moment, his gaze searching. "Why are you up so late, Char?" he asked quietly.

She hesitated, the words catching in her throat for a moment before she spoke. "Nightmares," she admitted quietly. "I’ve always had them, but they've been worse since... since the attack. I see all the other outcomes, if I’d failed. Tonight I dreamt that they got me, took me back there. That’s the worst one. Sometimes I have to get outside, under the stars and fresh air, just to remind myself that I'm free."

Bucky's expression softened, a flicker of understanding passing through his eyes. "I know what you mean," he said, his voice low. "I still get them too. I imagine that I wake up from cryo, and this was all a dream, that I was never free. That’s my worst one.”

Their eyes met, a rare moment when both of their walls had come down. Their looks mirrored each other, vulnerable and bare, waiting for the other to make one wrong move and get shut back out. Neither of them spoke. Even speaking the contents of her nightmares aloud had made Charlotte’s hands tremble, and she took a deep breath, her fingers tightening around the warm ceramic of her coffee cup. Breaking their gaze, she looked back out into the expansive night sky.

"Are you...scared? Now that they’re back?" she asked hesitantly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Bucky didn't hesitate. "Shitless.”

Charlotte reached out, her hand finding his on the railing. She expected him to pull away, to retreat into himself as he so often did. But to her surprise, he didn't. Instead, he tightened his grip, his thumb tracing small circles on the back of her hand.

They sat in silence as the night stretched on around them, finding solace in each other's presence. They had no answers, no reprieve in sleep, not even peace in their home, but they had a hand to hold onto, anchoring them in their fear. And with it, they found a flicker of hope, a glimmer of light in the darkness that threatened to consume them both.

________

The Avengers' kitchen was a hive of activity, with pots clanging, eggs frying, and the aroma of breakfast filling the air. The team members moved about with practiced ease, each contributing to the morning chaos in their own way.

Sam, wielding a spatula like a pro, called out to Natasha, who was expertly flipping pancakes on the griddle. "Hey, Nat, you sure you didn't miss your calling as a short-order cook?" he teased, earning a laugh from the others.

“Maybe in the next life,” She winked, flipping another perfect pancake.

Steve couldn't resist chiming in from his post by the toaster. "I don't know, Sam. I think I’ve got her beat," he quipped, waving his burnt toast in the air. Charlotte wrinkled her nose as she walked past it, the bitter smell assaulting her.

“Good morning sunshine,” Sam called before resuming his whistling, clearly in a great mood. Charlotte wondered if he’d just gotten back from Calla’s apartment, and when they’d stop splitting their time now that the secret of their relationship was out. She made a note to ask her friend later.

Bucky, already stationed by the coffee pot, flashed a grin as Charlotte waltzed up. "Coffee?" he offered, holding out a mug with a knowing look.

Charlotte raised an eyebrow, smirking. "Second coffee in less than twelve hours?”

Bucky shrugged nonchalantly. "Don’t get used to it," he deadpanned.

“Don’t be such a good barista.” She teased, sipping from her mug before hopping onto the counter beside him.

Their exchange didn't go unnoticed by the rest of the team, who exchanged knowing glances and playful nudges as they observed the interaction.

Sam couldn't resist a quip. "Well, would you look at that? Bucky's finally learned how to share," he teased.

Natasha smirked, shooting Bucky a pointed look. "I guess miracles really do happen.”

Always ready to diffuse a situation, Steve called. "Hey, Charlotte, I meant to tell you," he began, catching her eye. "Tony and Pepper are coming back to the compound later this afternoon. Pepper wants to meet with you.”

Charlotte's eyes widened in surprise. "Really? Why?" she asked.

Steve nodded, his expression reassuring. "Yep. She wants to talk about hosting a press conference. They think it's time to let the world know who you are.” He gave a reassuring smile. “Don’t be nervous, you’ll do great. We’ve all done them. Even Bucky.” He elbowed his friend as he sidled past, plopping down at the head of the table.

Charlotte raised her eyebrows, still looking hesitant. “If you say so.”

“At least you'll look better on TV than Sam," Bucky said dryly, giving her a sidelong look.

Sam bristled at the jab, shooting Bucky a mock glare. "Hey, watch it, Barnes. I'll have you know I've got a face for the big screen," he retorted.

“Is that what they’ve been telling you?” He raised an eyebrow, dodging a swat from Sam’s spatula. Giggling, Charlotte felt slightly more at ease as her friends fell into chaos around her.

_________

Smoothing her shirt, Charlotte approached the sleek conference room with a mixture of anticipation and nervousness. She wasn't sure what to expect from this meeting with Pepper Potts, Tony Stark's famed and formidable right-hand woman. Did she do something wrong? Was she in trouble? The thoughts raced through her mind as she pushed open the door and stepped inside.

"Ms. Rossi, thank you for coming. Please, have a seat," Pepper greeted warmly, gesturing to a chair across from her. She was beautiful, looking equal parts polished and genuine.

Charlotte forced a smile and took a seat, trying to hide her unease. "My friends call me Charlotte, or at least, everyone here does.”

Pepper chuckled. "Alright, Charlotte. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you."

“Likewise.” She raised an eyebrow. “Although I’ll warn you, I’m not overly keen on the idea of a press conference…if that’s what this is about.”

Pepper chuckled again. "It is, but just know there’s no pressure. This is my professional recommendation, if you desire to be a more public part of the team. We’ve had quite a few incidents of public scrutiny over the past several years, and we’ve found that it makes everyone’s lives much easier if we stay ahead of it. And since you’re new here…"

Charlotte leaned back in her chair, adopting a more casual posture. "Then we should get ahead of it before the public can find something to scrutinize."

Pepper smiled. "Exactly."

“Well, let’s hear the game plan, then. You’re the expert.”

Pepper clasped her hands together on the table atop a stack of notes. "Well, with everything that's been happening lately, there's been quite a bit of interest in you."

Charlotte raised an eyebrow. "Me? What’s been happening lately?”

Pepper laughed softly. "Modesty, I see. But yes, your journey has captivated a lot of attention. You were all over the news with your stint in gymnastics, and then you even made a splash as a big fish in Las Vegas, all before disappearing. The internet is very difficult to slip anything past, and it didn’t take long for them to put things together. People love a mystery."

Charlotte tilted her head warily. "That’s one thing to call me."

Pepper smiled. "Indeed. But, we have an opportunity to share your story with the world. On your terms, the way you want it to be told. As much or as little as you’d like to give, anything would help prevent people from writing the narrative for you. Show them who you are before they can tell you."

Charlotte's skepticism showed on her face. "Ah, the old charm offensive, huh?"

Pepper nodded. "Something like that. It's a chance for people to get to know the real Charlotte, not just the headlines they’ll inevitably see if you join the Avengers Initiative."

“Who says I’m joining the Avengers?” She raised an eyebrow.

“I’m very good at my job.” Pepper winked. “And don't worry, you won't be alone. The team and I will be there to support you every step of the way. We’ll prepare you beforehand, be right there to step in if you get uncomfortable or don’t know how to answer something. You have my word.”

Charlotte gave a half smile. "Alright, I'll do it. But if I say something wildly inappropriate or incriminating, I can’t be held responsible.”

Pepper laughed. "Have you met Tony? I don’t think we’ve ever had a press conference without something wildly inappropriate or incriminating. You’ll do just fine.”

#james bucky barnes #avengers #bucky barnes x oc #bucky barnes #bucky fanfic #winter soldier #bucky fluff #sebastian stan #winter soldier fluff

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jmscornerlibrary · 2 months

Text

Set Me Free - Chapter Five - Clarity II

Next part to my Loki x OC fanfiction: you can find the first part here:

Enjoy!

***

When Henrietta had entered the room, she had half expected Laufeyson to have put on a shirt and gone back to sleep; instead, she found the shirt and bed in tatters and him sitting in the middle of this chaos looking fearfully feral and possibly trying to see whether he could set the carpet on fire with his vicious glare.

Her first thought was to call out and sigh about the mess he had made, but she read his eyes well enough and bit her tongue; then she saw his torso and felt something awful and delightful travel up and down her spine and lungs, bringing the blood up into her face. Though he was thin, his muscles had not receded; they were like drawn and like rope, stiff as wire, and she feared the effect beholding them had on her.

Naturally, she knew what this feeling was, as an avid reader and writer, so she shut her eyes and tried to block him out completely, of course to no avail.

This strange game lasted until she threw a shirt at his head, and stopped whatever he had taken into his head to play. Laufeyson was frightfully observant and intelligent, and she knew he would have no trouble in reading her, for he always did it incredibly well when she was young. The last thing she needed now was internal conflict, so when she turned to face him again, she became stern and drew on some more bitter emotions she carried within her soul.

“Put something on, Loki of Asgard, and then rest. I think both of us have had far too much excitement for today,” she said, then took up the box (still not looking at him) and placed it on the freshly-made bed.

He flicked at the box in response, then tossed it back on the floor with some effort which he expertly concealed and threw himself onto the bed instead.

She muttered some nasty words under her breath, then leaned down and pulled a brown shirt out of the box.

“There we go, that should do,” she said, ignoring him, as she examined it. “It’s not moth-eaten, and I don’t think it’s ever been worn. Here.”

She held it out and glanced up - he had folded his arms and was looking at the wall, his brows over his eyes and his face displeased.

“Oh, come on,” she almost pleaded, then stood firm again. “You’d do well to put something on; you’re in the presence of a lady.”

He looked her square in the face and snorted. Henrietta flushed, whipped around, balled her fists, then turned back with an icy expression.

“Some advice, prince of Asgard - polish your manners. As you may have deduced, you are thought of as nothing but a prisoner in your homeland, are in chains, in my house and generally at my mercy.”

Oh, he didn’t like that. Henrietta saw his pupils constrict and his nostrils flare. She matched his fury, drawing herself up tight, refusing to give in.

“There are a lot of people here who would love to have you behind bars, you know, like the Avengers and the police. So, unless you would like me to inform them of who exactly I’m fraternising with, I advise that you put on the shirt and you pack in this madness.”

She waited for her words to take effect and take effect they did: a pillow was energetically projected at her and landed rather pathetically at her feet. She opened her mouth to wittily tell him of his physical capabilities, when she was struck by his expression; his chest was heaving up and down, his knitted lips were twisted in a sneer, his eyes like two spears of ice. She bit on her tongue and regained herself, for she had never seen him so angry, but then again, she had never been so angry with him. If it was not for his attack on New York, things would have been different; uncle Haldanson would still be alive and so would hundreds of people, and her feelings for him wouldn’t have been muffled by hurt and accusation and rage.

Her eyes settled on his crudely stitched mouth, and she bit back another wave of worlds she would have much liked to pelt at him, for he was fighting a losing battle and she was being cruel; he couldn’t defend himself, he was stuck with listening and tolerating her assumptions and things she thought of him. Writing as communication was out of the question in this particular case.

Henrietta took a deep breath and tried to start again.

“I understand the situation you are in-”

Loki shook his head wildly, smashed the bedside lamp against the wall, scattered the cushions and tore the bedsheets off the bed, made some mad motions with his hands which could have been curses, then slumped against the pillow-less headrest of the bed, panting, grinding his teeth and sneering with the veins blue and taut in his forehead and neck.

She let him execute this all in silence, then sighed and massaged her temples. She looked up at him.

“Better?”

It wasn’t said to irk, so he didn’t quite repeat this fit, but he turned his face towards the wall and folded his arms, still sneering. Henrietta picked up the pillows he had scattered, then the bedsheets; she placed them on the bed, took the largest pillow, plumped it, then approached him.

“Come,” she said, tapping his shoulder twice. “Sit up. Let’s not ruin what we have any further.”

He remained stiff and cold.

“I understand,” she said after a moment, though slightly begrudgingly. “And I apologise. It was unfair of me to treat you like this, when you cannot speak.”

Still, he remained adamant. She looked at him, as he pouted like an adolescent girl, then bit her lip… but her attempts to keep her laughter at bay failed, and she covered her mouth and snorted. Loki looked at her, incredulous, as she laughed, then as she turned back to him with no more ice in her eyes.

“We’re a pair of geese, that’s all,” she replied to his look. “So much mess to clean up.”

She thought he’d remain haughty, but he reached out and took the pillow from her instead, rolled his eyes, then nabbed her nose with two fingers as though she was back to being six. In his eyes, she probably was.

“Stop that,” she said, annoyed in turn. “I’m still awfully angry and hurt by you. And I’m no longer a little girl, so you have to ask for permission before affecting my nose like that.”

He huffed through his nose, then his face changed as though he’d experienced a spasm of pain. She watched with worry as he rose, crawled towards the edge of the bed, then got up off it and kneeled with his hands on the frame for support, arching his back.

“What’s the matter?”

He made no answer, but he squeezed his eyes shut and a jet of air left his nostrils as he rested his head against the bedpost. She saw his hand on his back and pursed her lips.

“Hold on a moment.” She put the cushions back and straightened the bedsheets, then kneeled down next to him, the view of his torso shunned from her priority list for the moment. “Where?”

He reached behind him and tapped the small of his back awkwardly, his breathing constricted. She hesitated, then brought two fingers and ran them along the ridges of his spine, where he had shown her.

“Here?”

He rested his head against the mattress in response, and shut his eyes. He looked awfully tired; there were black smudges under his eyes, his face was peaky, and the black, knotted strands of hair made him look half-wild. Henrietta stopped running her fingers over his back and sighed.

“Get up into the bed,” she said, gently. “I’ll put a pillow below your knees… that should straighten your spine out.”

He lifted a hand in response and made a waving motion with it: that won’t help.

“Still. Shirt, then rest. One step at a time. Ah, and when you’re finally up, I’m going to cut your hair, because you look completely and utterly wild.”

He snorted, opening his eyes, and sought her face. She looked at him with her eyebrows raised, though she felt a tickle in her throat at how amused they seemed, despite everything, then stood.

“The blacksmith I told you about will be in town soon. Filip will get the sharp quarts off him, and then we can finally cut your mouth back open.”

Loki sighed, then rose, tottering, and sat on the bed. He picked up the brown shirt with two fingers, glanced at her, then dropped it.

“I haven’t heard your voice in so long,” she realised aloud. “Your words. Although I do remember them…”

She broke off, realising she was about to pay him a compliment, and she saw his eyes; desperate, hoping, waiting, his chest frozen as he held his breath and sensed it coming. She thought of uncle Haldanson, then glanced at the mottled burns on her former guardian’s torso, and resumed.

“I remember them fondly. I am yet to meet someone who matches your intelligent prose and eloquence.”

He beamed, as though to say, that’s my girl, then paused. He looked at her fingers, as though wanting to trap them once again, but his fingers twitched and he drew his hands further away, his eyes sad and corners of his mouth turned down.

Hattie nodded.

“And once your lips are open, we are going to talk long and hard, Loki of Asgard, about your decisions. They brought this onto you in the first place.”

She touched the metal choker still around his neck, then stood and quitted the room before something irreversible happened.

Loki had little idea what to make of this girl. He felt as though his own moods were swinging like balls on the chains of bulldozers, but she seemed to be blowing hot and cold like he couldn’t. Still, it made sense, did it not? He was a villain in her eyes. Perhaps not entirely, but he certainly wasn’t someone of a good, reliable character. Good, reliable character… he had actually quite forgotten what that meant. Who could be a good, reliable character? Odin? Thor? Ha, how droll.

Still, Loki wished to tell Henrietta so many things, both bad and good. His thoughts about her bordered on fury and longing, dancing on the ledge of hatred and love. The former especially, whenever she talked to him with her tongue sharp and cutting, for how dare she talk to Loki Laufeyson like a mistress does to a servant. It made him want to prod her with his words, make her know her place.

Her place? he thought, reluctantly. What is her place? Where is her place?

Then he realised his train of thought was mistaken, for Henrietta’s place was here, in this old house filled with dusty books and memories; it was rather that he didn’t have a place. He didn’t have one in Asgard, he didn’t have one in Midgard, and he didn’t have one with her. And then, a thought came forth: she wasn’t his inferior, at least not to him, and it was not up to him to make her know a place. She was his equal, and not because he had degraded to the level of a pathetic, weak wretch, but because her attributes balanced the lack of his, if they should compare to one another. Loki may have exceeded her in age (an understatement, he thought with a snort, for he was about one thousand years her senior), in wisdom and intelligence, in his strength and his power, but she towered over him in every other regard. Especially when it came to things like rationality and - oh, how Loki loathed the word - honesty. Kindness. Mercy. Thoughtfulness. Small sacrifices which made life more tolerable.

Equal, because their relationship was founded on respect and compassion. Of course, it was Hattie who had initiated both, superior in that aspect even though she barely knew how to walk, back then.

Again, Loki dwelled on that foppish little metaphor, about the eyes being one’s window to the soul. He reflected long and hard, sitting there on the bed with the lamp smashed beside him and his back in pieces, envisioning those two, huge pools of grey blinking in that little oval face. What could he see, except himself, mirrored within? There was sadness, there was hurt, that was certain. There were sparks when she was angry, somehow flashing orange when they were steely grey, then subduing into the warm glow of a fire as she regained her temper. But there was something else. Something glittering and warm and calm and collected, something like rolling, clear waves of the vast, eternal sea, something he lacked and craved so much; balance. And something better, something like…

Loki hesitated, freezing, though he sat still. His mother’s eyes had been like that, at times, when she had spoken with him, been with him. Especially when she smiled. A tenderness. A hope for the better. A sacrifice…

No. It couldn’t be love. Loki was a deformed monster, he knew and accepted this fact. Nobody could love his face but his mother, and he hadn’t seen anything similar to what he saw in her face in anybody else’s faces since.

Perhaps Henrietta hadn’t completely vanquished her regard for him. Perhaps there was still some hope. But was there? Was there hope? Was it salvageable?

But then, to rescue it, Loki would have to grovel on his knees, and that wasn’t something he was willing to do, because he was still Henrietta’s better. He was her guardian from the very beginning, the one who protected and arranged the course of the day. The responsibility of her safety and upbringing was down to him, now that Haldanson was dead, and if anything would happen to her, it would be his fault, and he’d be damned more than he already was.

He sighed, long and hard - it was pathetic, really, how that was all he was capable of recently - then looked at the brown shirt, pulled a face and moved so that he could look into the box for something slightly more tailored to his tastes.

Henrietta was a writer. It was what she did as an occupation, for even though she had everything she could ever want with the house and the amount of money Uncle Haldanson had left behind, she had to do something that would occupy her able mind. Writing was the perfect solution; stories were precious to her; she collected them though there was little shelf space left for them to sit on; she created her own, weaving the worlds that she would have liked to escape into when her own story became too much for her to bear.

Knowledgeability was a trait she had picked up as a result, and it became a habit. Thus, after leaving Loki alone to get dressed and rest, she picked up a particular book that had caught her eye a few days ago and she had left out for herself to see and remember, thinking it would definitely come in useful.

She picked it up now and began to read it, and within those few hours she had learned a remarkable amount from it. Applying it to her situation, she deduced the following: biting and jostling with someone like Loki Odinson, the proud, cunning prince of Asgard was going to get her nowhere; coddling him would only repulse him; pity was definitely not something she ought to be looking at him with, especially not when she was face-to-face with him, for it would injure his pride more than snarling at one another would.

“Men are such strange creatures,” she remarked to herself, frowning, running her finger over a particular passage. Apparently, there was nothing more in the world such men wanted than to be useful, in a relationship; to be needed, to be told that they are heroes, to be appreciated. Admonishments were to be said as suggestions, not as accusation or critique, for that made them defensive; any issues should be discussed gently and alone.

Henrietta supposed it made sense and was all quite sweet, in a sense, however there was one particular problem in her scenario: Loki Odinson was not a normal man in any sense, nor were the circumstances. He was prone to injuring himself in his stubbornness, wouldn’t listen to reason, and was prouder and more difficult than any man she had ever had the pleasure of meeting.

But then, she hadn’t really tried anything this book had said, and the results had been that he had gotten really defensive. Her temper didn’t help; she could be as fiery as he could and her patience wasn’t the best.

“Still,” she muttered to herself, pulling out a notebook. “There’s no harm in trying…”

She chalked up a few outlines and fixed the mindset into her brain; Loki had to be under the impression that he was the one in charge. Whether he was or not, that was another matter entirely - as they say, the man is the head, but the woman is the neck and thus has utter influence over the head - but she needed him to think that what she was suggesting was his own voice of reason. Especially since he had been so broken and pushed down into submission against his will. It would take quite a lot of effort for him to rebuild himself.

And Henrietta had a good reason to put so much effort into helping him, even if Uncle Haldanson had been taken from her by his hand; even if he had killed hundreds; even if he had been rightfully imprisoned; even if the horrors that he had suffered were his own fault. Perhaps not entirely, for she didn’t know his full story, but a huge part of his fault nevertheless. And if he hadn’t suffered to such a degree, if Hattie hadn’t seen the burn scars, witnessed how he sometimes flinched at sudden sounds without realising and seen how wild and despairing and terrified his eyes could be, she wouldn’t have even thought about beginning to forgive him. But Hattie wasn’t vengeful. She could be angry, she could uphold fury, but she didn’t hold grudges for long, and now that she had the prince of Asgard back from wherever he had disappeared to after the New York incident - perhaps not entirely back, but a part of him nevertheless - she wasn’t simply going to let him go.

When the hour of 16:00 clicked, she closed the book, sighed, stored up her patience, then made her way to the spare bedroom, resolute. Loki had led her onto the right path so many times when she was young. Perhaps he didn’t even realise that he did so, being a questionable figure of good influence, yet if he hadn’t taken it upon himself to so actively be part of her life - even if she could count his visits on her fingers - she wouldn’t have been the character she was today. She wouldn’t have been so sure of herself or her worth as a person. She wouldn’t love stories as much as she did, for it was he who had told her the most fantastical ones and directed them with his sparks. She wouldn’t have believed that even the happiest ones can come true, if one worked it into existence hard enough.

So she knocked, waited politely, then slowly creaked the door open and came in.

Loki looked oddly pensive as he lay on top of the covers. He had finally dressed himself in a grey, loose cotton shirt, the collar standing up and its sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The box of shirts stood neatly by the bed.

“Good evening,” she said quietly, observing his full form with a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach. He looked so different when he was calm and collected. A sudden thought flitted through her head about what it would be like to lie with her head in the crook of his neck in that position exactly, to hear his voice in her ear, low and beautiful, spinning silver words which sent her emotions into raptures so easily, then shooed the pesky thought away and straightened, though her heart protested at being shoved to the side.

He turned his gaze from the ceiling to her warily, as though she had come to berate him about something. She shook her head at him, then went to sit in the chair by the window, took a book off the windowsill and settled down to read.

She read for about three minutes before she began to feel the intensity of his gaze on her face and looked up.

“Yes?”

He looked at her pointedly for a few seconds, then at the door, then back at her. She realised what he meant and smiled faintly; it was funny how she could almost always tell what it was he wished to say without him speaking it, even when his lips weren’t so forcefully shut.

“Don’t look so surprised,” she replied, turning back to her book. “I wouldn’t be a very good host if I left a guest alone for such a long time.”

He snorted, absentmindedly rubbing his wrists. Don’t give me that.

She didn’t answer for a moment, but after a few pages, she spoke. “How’s your back?”

He shook his head slowly, then leaned against the pillow and folded his arms tight, like he was cold. Hattie ran her eyes over his face. She looked at his eyes, saw the sadness lining them which was never so firm in staying like it was now, then put down her book and went to sit on his bed by his legs. After a few moments of silence, she turned to him and managed half a smile.

“A lot of things have changed since you were gone,” she began, thinking that it would be good to fill the silence with something useful. “It’s only fair you should know what sort of world you live in. Or at least what sort of house.”

Still, he watched her with his eyebrows furrowed, though his arms unfolded and he clasped them on top of his stomach, looking slightly more relaxed.

“I’m a writer, now,” she began. “I went to university when I was eighteen. I graduated. Now I write books.”

She realised she was messing with her hands and that she felt strangely nervous, which changed into frustration, for she was never nervous. She was only ever relaxed or excited, never nervous - not with him.

She placed her hands on her knees and pursed her lips, wanting to go back to how things were more than ever, but still - the thought of Uncle Haldanson wouldn’t go away, the screams she had heard in the streets that day as explosions tore through the streets wouldn’t go away, his mad laughter which followed wouldn’t flee from her mind entirely.

“I’ve published a few,” she said, ploughing on nevertheless, “they’re not a huge success, but I hope I’ll get better at writing them soon. After all, I have so much time.”

She managed to look up at him and saw his eyes grow sharper, more in focus, as though he was finally here with her and not lost in whatever lived within his mind. But then his face shifted; he wanted to open his mouth to speak and, of course, couldn’t, his wit and freedom trapped behind the morbid bars that the black threads on his face were.

His expression twisted into such frustration that Hattie stopped speaking and simply looked at him, feeling her own sadness brewing up beneath her face and in her chest as his eyes cried out and shot daggers at the floor in their helplessness. The sounds and images keeping her back fled, for the moment - she moved forward and took one of the clenched hands in both of hers.

Loki stiffened. His eyes darted to their hands, looking fearful and disbelieving and wanting all at the same time, but he made no move to claim her fingers.

“It’s not your fault,” she whispered after a pause, unmoving, her thumb tracing the grooves between his hard, pale fingers. “You shouldn’t have gotten your lips sewn together. That was cruel and awful of whoever did it, and they should be ashamed of themselves. I’m very sorry it happened to you.”

She looked up to meet his revulsed gaze and shook her head at his black emotions.

“You mistake my words,” she said, holding his seething gaze firmly. “I do not pity you. I am angry on your behalf and… that’s different...”

She bit her tongue, her voice broke.

“Oh, I wish I could help,” she whispered. “I wish I could hear your voice, Loki of Asgard. That’s all.”

She looked up at him and found his eyes round and filled with so many conflicting emotions that she didn’t know how to read them, then realised she had addressed him as she had only when she was still little and he still had the world at his feet which he could place at her own.

She nodded.

“I do.” She squeezed his hand. “I speak to you as Knottie.”

She meant for him to be reassured, but if he was, she didn’t know. A slow, painful sigh left his nostrils as he deflated, as he leaned his head back on the covers like it weighed a tonne. He closed his eyes. His breathing became heavy, his hands relaxed, resigned, like she’d taken all strength from him by reminding him of what he had lost.

Hattie wished to hear him speak, she didn’t want to be left guessing, and again, came so close to reading his mind to see what it was he thought, but found she was afraid; she was afraid of this mind and what he thought. What he thought about her. How did he look at her? Was she still just a child, to him? Was she trusted? Was she mistaken in thinking he cared about her as much as she did about him? Was she mistaken when reading his eyes?

But then his fingers moved beneath hers - they slid into her hand, took hold of it gently, then grew firm and tight around it. She looked down at their entwined fingers, for his grip was verging on painful, and found his veins standing out in his turmoil; she felt it trembling as another scraping sigh left his chest as he battled with something invisible, then felt her own chest tighten and so did her hand.

“Write to me,” she urged when his eyes flicked back open wearily. “I’ll bring a notebook and pen - write, tell me your thoughts.”

He shook his head.

“Why not?” she said, clutching his hand tight in her resolution. “We can both write, can’t we? Oh…”

She bit her lip as one eyebrow was raised: see?

“You can read it, but… don’t know our alphabet well enough to write it,” she voiced. “And I don’t know yours well enough to try, though I can read it… Uncle tried to teach me when I was young, but… Oh, I didn’t ever think I’d need it. How foolish of me.”

Loki watched her face fall, then something changed on his own; he almost looked at her fondly, then he sat up and swung his legs out of bed, moving so that he was almost sitting beside her.

Hattie watched him as he raised his eyebrows and wagged a finger at her, puzzled.

“I don’t understand,” she whispered, forgetting that she was an adult and almost seeing him as she did when she was five; the towering, safe being who she would have jumped off a cliff after. “What are you telling me off for?”

He shook his head, then brought up one finger before her face. Hattie watched him as he gently placed a finger and thumb aside the corners of her lips and directed them upwards. Whatever it was he intended to do, it worked; she repressed a giggle and smiled.

“You should do more of that, you know?” she said to him sternly as his own eyes tried to mirror what was on her face and his hand went back to his lap, though her voice was light. “You’ve done nothing but glare at me and the furniture since you arrived here.”

He shrugged as if to say: oh, well.

Hattie opened her mouth to say something witty, but then her gaze travelled past him and settled upon something upon the bedside table. It was an envelope and a piece of paper tucked into it, yellow with age and certainly not there before.

She frowned and moved to reach it, but before she could, Loki stuck out his hand and snatched it from her.

“What is it?” she asked him, as he held it out of her reach, his eyes no longer amused in the soft, teasing sort of way, but back to being something prickly and foreign. “Is that mine?”

He shrugged again, waving the envelope airily. She spied one word upon the back of it and frowned.

Hattie.

“So it is mine,” she said, then stood up and reached to take it. “Give it to me, please.” He didn’t. “Loki of Asgard.”

She managed to snatch it off him, though it got slightly creased in the process, then shot a glare at him and moved away to read it.

“I cannot believe you read my letter,” she muttered, extracting the piece of paper from the envelope and looking at him sternly. “But then, I’m not really surprised.”

He returned her displeasure with his eyes glittering and a shadow of a smile around them as he watched her unfold it. Hattie didn’t know what to expect, and as she recognised her uncle’s handwriting she held her breath… and didn’t release it until halfway through the letter.

Hattie,

You may never forgive me for this. This is hard for me to say, hard to write, but… Ah, bother. You might think I am a strong sort of man, but I’m awful when it comes to saying goodbye and anything which comes to feelings in general. I’ll be frank. I always am.

I am departing to seek Valhalla. If you are reading this letter, it means I have finally made the decision and ventured forth to seek it. I just wanted to let you know that you were my greatest treasure, the greatest in all the years I have spent in both Asgard and Midgard. Honestly, Hattie. I often thanked Odin that you were given to me to care for you and raise you, for no amount of achievement or gold could have replaced the happiness and fulfilment I had with you. I love you, my dear little fiery girl. I know you’ll manage just fine by yourself, and you won’t be lonely for long - you have such a gift with people. You’ll be married before you know it and forget all about me.

Meanwhile, I will ask the gods to protect you. If I happen to meet your mother and father, I will tell them everything about you, of that you can be sure. I know they’ll be interested to know everything. Be well, my flower. I’ll love you always.

Yours until the stars burn out,

Your uncle Haldanson.

Hattie’s breath left her lungs strangled and torn. By the end of the letter she was having trouble with finishing it, and when she rubbed her eyes her knuckles grew wet as though she had doused them in a bucket of water.

She looked up at Loki when tears began to run down her cheeks, who watched her face intently.

“Oh,” she managed, her voice almost gone. “Would you look at that? It looks like you didn’t kill my uncle after all. He just…”

She bit her lip and shut her eyes, pulling at the scraps of herself. She swallowed, nodded, then opened her eyes and failed.

“He just… You know…”

Her voice went; her mouth worked silently and she felt her face flushing. She made a motion with her hand as though to cover her mouth, then succumbed to tears and fled the room.

***

Loki had never thought putting on a shirt could make one so incredibly angry. He struggled with it, his arms disobeying and aching, his back in pieces and cracking, feeling altogether useless and horrible. After another few moments of this forsaken battle, he gave a snarl through his nose and started smacking the garment viciously against the wall, cursing it to high heaven.

After he had let off some steam, he fell back onto the cushions, panting and scowling, then picked up the wretched shirt and considered it. It looked as though it had suffered enough. It certainly looked rather mangled; Loki brought it up to his nose and inhaled, then immediately wrinkled it, for it smelt of dust and forgotten use.

He looked at it properly, then decided that brown wasn’t really his colour, so he rolled off the bed, knelt beside the shirt box and perused its contents once more. Most shirts had holes in. Some were ludicrously too big. Some were made of fabric that peasantry wore, and he was no peasant, which rendered them completely out of the question.

But at the bottom of the box he found one which was only a little too big, grey, almost silvery, and when he picked it up not only did he find that it was free of holes, but that it was concealing something, because a letter fluttered out of it, back into the box.

Loki’s brows furrowed and he temporarily abandoned the shirt, his fingers reaching out to take the letter. He read Hattie’s name on the back and grew interested; somewhere in his mind he still thought of himself as her guardian, so nothing stopped him from opening it, then perusing the contents of the parchment folded inside.

As he read, he experienced many things at once. At first, it was puzzlement, then realisation, then glee. He smelled revenge, a very small but very satisfying revenge.

Henrietta blamed him for the death of her uncle, did she? Oh, what a nasty shock she would have when she read this, he thought, chuckling dryly. She wouldn’t speak to him for days out of sheer pettiness. She would have to apologise. And then he would be the bigger person… or perhaps he would make her suffer, as she had done to him by denying him words of comfort he so sought, by telling him of his faults so outrightly, for acting in a manner so high and mighty when just a few years before she had been asking him to help her tie her shoelaces.

She would realise that she had been wrong to look at him with blame and pity in those two, huge pools in her face which did not leave his pitiable mind these forsaken days. She would have to go back to staring at him with admiration and joy as she used to, as she used to when he was still free and sane, as she used to when he still knew better than her, in her eyes!

Oh, yes, this was a beautiful taste. Loki put on the shirt with newfound strength and though he didn’t know it, the glee on his face made him look almost snake-like, for it was a selfish glee, the sort of glee he was more than used to as he saw his enemies quiver before him. He put the letter in a place she was certain to see it when she came in and waited.

But as he waited, other thoughts stirred him and sank through his face and settled in his stomach; uncomfortable ones, ones which sucked all feeling out of him and made him feel as though he was a slab of lead. He stared up at the ceiling, wondering, searching as he always did, losing himself in the dark chasms which cut through his mind, his fingers sometimes twitching and his breathing arrhythmic as he tried to free himself of it. He folded his hands on his chest and tried to remember; tried to seek something which he had been excited for and found nothing but darkness and pain and the sensation of falling, but slowly; descending into something deeper and darker and thicker than ever.

But then Henrietta came in like an angel of saving grace. Loki stared at her as she sat herself on the armchair with a book, the rays of the sun lighting her shape up like a particularly warm, nostalgic painting, her eyes refracting the light like cut jewels, her lips like young roses.

She couldn’t possibly know what priceless pieces of existence she brought with her, with her voice, with her face, with the warmth and balance within her - it was impossible for her to know, for she had not been completely and utterly destroyed as he had. She didn’t know how one of her looks both arrested him and electrified him back into living; how one of her looks could send this heavy unfeeling which overcame him when he was alone for too long snarling and fleeing and leaving him with a lightness of chest; how she reminded him what it was like to feel, let it be fury or softness or even something which made him think he was beginning to remember what warmth felt like. To him she was life, she was memory, she was rays of light; like she was bitterness and regret and recollections about what he had lost. And the latter made him angrier than ever.

So he remembered the letter and waited, and when she finally noticed it, he forgot the small steps he wanted to take to remind her of the man he once was and who she once loved. He was Loki the Liar, the being of broken promises; the being with decay behind his eyes instead of a soul and black hands and a heart darker than the deepest void and he knew it.

Loki watched her as she read the letter. He saw displeasure on her face and felt a thrill of laughter and anticipation, for he was right… ha! He was right, and it was her fault for making assumptions, it was he who was superior - then his spirits and felicity came crashing down like shelves during a hurricane, because he saw grief upon her face and tears marking it like an official stempel upon a death certificate.

His heart stopped, his chest turned cold and painful as though it had been shrouded in ice. He saw little Knottie in her pink, fluffy coat, helpless, lost in the park like when he first met her, calling, never finding, seeking; like him.

Oh, upon all things with worth, like him. Like him, like him! She couldn’t be like him. She shouldn’t even try to understand what it was to be like him, let alone feel the beginnings of the despair he had felt. She was Knottie, unspoiled, innocent, a girl who deserved to be kept that way, keep her fingers unspoiled from the black goo which grew around unattended hearts! Didn’t he swear to himself he would do everything to keep her that way?

Loki felt his intestines yanking and pulling themselves into knots, but he couldn’t move to try and ease them even if he wanted to, because he felt as though he was falling through that black void again without but a star to see.

He stared at her as tears ran down her face and then came to realisation which pierced him more effectively than any real blade could: he was her plague; he was helpless in helping her.

Thus his face turned to stone as she spoke to him, and stayed in stone as she tried to explain the misunderstanding, as she would without being petty or anything else he had presumed. How besotted he was with this wretched darkness and decay. How rotten his emotions and mind was, how scummed and deviated from what ought to be.

When the door slammed behind her as she fled, Loki was brought back from his realisations enough to register the agonising twisting of his guts; he stood shakily, his face contorting, whimpering through his nose as he bent double and tried to draw breath without consequence. But the invisible cobra squeezing his abdomen was relentless; Loki’s eyes began to water and he felt sick, and he couldn’t do anything as his stomach twisted into an hourglass shape and began to dance a slow tango with his small intestines whilst something huge, ugly and blue danced in his vision, with many red eyes and a bloody hands and a laugh that made a smaller, pink shape clap its hands to its ears and cry out.

He came to himself later - he didn’t know how much time had passed, but he assumed it wasn’t long. His vision was blurry and his intestines had apparently dissolved into acid. He wondered why everything looked so strange and then realised he was lying on the floor, helpless like a gutted fish.

Then he remembered. Henrietta was upset.

He heaved himself up. The world spun, his insides sloshed together and made him whimper and clutch at himself again, but he stood, gripping the cabinet standing by the door, unable to unsee how she had looked towards him for help when she finished reading, looking exactly as she had when she was five.

And he had wanted to laugh at her. At his little Knottie. He was her guardian, damn him, the wretch, and he had wanted to laugh at her expense. Damn him, damn him…

He reached the landing and leaned against the bannister, his heart hammering from exhaustion, then heard a quiet scuffle and looked to his right, stopping, feeling his heart deflate and drop down to the bottom of his lungs.

Henrietta had sunk down by the large grandfather clock at the end of the corridor, tucked into the small space between it and the adjacent wall. He felt something incredibly soft and light in his chest as he watched her holding her knees, her face hidden in her lap, looking as small as a kitten despite all the pretences she kept about being grown-up and not needing any help.

He stumbled over to her, ignoring his own pains and shackles, then came to a stop a few feet in front of her. He stood there as long as it took for her to notice him; a minute later, her eyes peeked over the hill of her knees and glanced up at him, red and weary with sadness.

He stared down at her, heartbroken and helpless more than ever.

“Yes,” she muttered, her voice thick with crying. “You’ve come to gloat, have you. You knew I was wrong from the first moment, didn’t you?”

Loki didn’t move, for his mind was working. She clearly wanted comfort, but… Loki had been isolated and beaten down by life and others for such a long time. Comfort. How does one give it? How did Loki want to be comforted, when he used to wish for it, imagine it?

Ah. Touch. That was it. Touch gave comfort.

He kneeled down on one knee slowly, though the motion made his guts swim again, and extended two hands. She looked at him warily, and for a moment Loki was terrified she would leave him hanging and reject his efforts, but she didn’t: she sniffed, wiped her face, then placed her hands into his and let herself be stood up.

They were standing mere inches away from each other. Loki had her so close, so torturously close. He had but to reach out and he’d have an armful of her, of this warmth and humanity and tenderness he so craved, and at that moment there was nothing he wanted more, but something stopped him; perhaps how vile he imagined his touch to be, as spoiled as his thoughts. So he just stood there, dithering, then finally brought up an uneasy hand and laid it hesitantly on her arm.

Henrietta breathed out a shaky sigh and turned her eyes onto his.

“I’m sorry,” she said, looking ashamed, her eyes flickering towards the floor. “It’s just… I’m alone.” She gave an embarrassed laugh. “It hurts.”

The man trapped inside his useless heart gave a cry at her words, hammering on the crystalised goo that would never go away, throwing himself against it, unable to see and breathe through his tears.

No, he screamed, choking, sliding down to his knees and resting his head against the hard and cold. No, it doesn’t HURT. It’s agony… it’s a poison which destroys everything within you!

He didn’t realise how hard he was clutching her arm until she moved slightly, her crimson lips growing small; he relaxed it, then nodded. Fate help him, he used to be able to smile on command, yet now he couldn’t even give a forced one, though his intentions were good - it couldn’t have been taken away from him like his tears were, too!

But he couldn’t smile and so he didn’t. He couldn’t speak either, but he wished, he willed with his whole heart that he could, that he could tell her that he didn’t and couldn’t forget the only moments which had spurred his step onto going forward instead of faltering and stopping.

“You should be in bed,” she muttered, and for a moment Loki thought she would lean against his chest and embrace him, but she didn’t, and he felt a wave of disappointment wash over him. “Filip says you should rest as much as possible and definitely not be up before you eat something…”

She stopped talking because he had brought his finger up to her chin and lifted it, unable to bear her head hanging so low. It was to save himself too, to convince himself he was capable of helping and making her happy just as he was before he was melted and hammered into something despicable and indigestible.

“You’re right,” she whispered, looking straight into him as only she was capable of doing. “No use us snivelling, is it?”

Loki absorbed her, every detail of her face, though he couldn’t stop seeing the small and young and naive as he stared at her. He missed the chub of her cheeks as she grinned and that rich laugh which always accompanied them and their antics. The laughter which followed them like a trusty companion.

“You know,” she began, as he tapped the bottom of her chin gently to tell her to keep her head up, “I wrote a letter to SHIELD the day they took you away to make sure you were…”

She broke off, her lip trembling, then swallowed and looked back up at him.

“To make sure you were alive. I still have their reply,” she whispered, looking at him intently. “They told me… in between all the official language… that you were alive and well and that you had been taken back to Asgard.”

A sigh fluttered out of her, small and sad. “That was the last time I heard anything about you. After that… well… you disappeared.”

Desperation lurched and began to course through Loki’s fingers and limbs, destroying any restraint he had, cleaving his chest into two and messing with his insides so that they felt as though they were jumbled up within his torso. His hands shot out and he grasped her wrists, feeling almost terrified that she would go and leave him drowning in bitterness; Hattie’s lips twitched in discomfort and he realised his grip was of steel, but it took him a while to loosen it and for his heart to stop hammering. In fact, it wouldn’t: it worked itself up until he could feel his pulse in his throat and ears… it was choking him… he couldn’t get his thoughts straight…

His hands shifted - Hattie had brought her hands up with him still clutching hers; he let go of her and his hands hung as she took hold of shoulders, then began to slide her hands up and down them.

“Calm yourself,” she whispered as she looked at him carefully, her grey eyes mirroring his. “I’m not going anywhere and we have time. Take your time, Loki of Asgard. Speak to me. It’s okay.”

He breathed out a shaky sigh, his frame almost collapsing, his eyes stinging, then waited until the roaring in his head and ears subdued into something bearable.

A few torn breaths later, Henrietta bent down to look up at his face, still holding onto his shoulders.

“Better?”

How Loki longed to disappear within her, he realised, as he looked into her face, so soft and understanding despite everything. She was sanity. She was tolerance. She was peace.

And he was chaos and lies and deceit and she was undeserving of his havoc and mess and black goo.

He nodded nevertheless. She waited, then watched as he took her hand formally, pointed it at his forehead.

“I’m sorry,” she said, looking puzzled. “I don’t know what you want me to do.”

He shook his head and rolled his eyes, pretending he was back to being snide and sardonic, then released her hand and pointed at his own temple instead.

“Head,” she tried. “Mind?”

He nodded vigorously, then brought two hands together and mimed opening and closing them.

“Book,” she voiced. He shook his head. “Story? No… Reading? Read?”

Her lips parted as she realised, and for a moment a flicker of relief danced in her eyes.

“Ah! You would like me to read your mind!”

Loki nodded and took up her hand again, guiding her finger to his temple. She looked at him hesitantly, and he sensed her trepidation and didn’t blame her - his demeanour was unnerving in that regard, to say the least - but then she nodded once and her eyes grew distant, as though focusing on something else.

She read his mind.

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randomimaginesideas · 2 months

Text

My King (Loki X Oc) Chapter 1

Summary:

When Astrid doesn't fit in anywhere, and she get sentences to life on Earth she makes the best of it. When one day, a certain prince steps into her life and offers a way out of the dull Midgardian life.

Alternatively

What happens when Loki gets a right hand woman during his time on Earth?

Previous parts: Prologue

Disclaimer; This story can also be found on AO3 or Wattpad, if you prefer reading there.

A/N: How do we all feel about the new pic for the fic? I have discovered Canva, so I've been thinking of making these for the continues fics that I post on here. I'm really happy with the results. Anyway, thanks for the love the prologue has gotten from all of you.

Taglist: @lotrefcp

TW: Mind controlling, murder

It had been three years since Astrid had been banished from Asgard. She had landed in some country called France. Even though she had tried to tell the elderly couple she was fine, they had called a screaming truck. Later Astrid would learn the screaming truck was called an ambulance, and you also had a screaming truck called the police. The police had been called after the elderly couple had explained the strange circumstances they had found Astrid with.

The police had taken Astrid to another dungeon. Great, trade one dungeon for the other. Except this time she wasn’t treated with a beheading. Or at least she thought they hadn’t. It had seemed more like they didn’t know what to do with her. Despite the language barrier the police had shown her some footage from her falling out of the sky, presumably from the elderly couple's farm. Astrid had tried to explain her situation again, and that she was fine, she just needed a place to live so she could live her life here. It was at that moment that Astrid wished she had been a higher born Asgardian, and had the ability to All-speak.

Astrid had remained in the dungeon for two days after that, until one day a man showed up. He seemed different from the men who called themselves the police. She was brought again to the interrogation room, but this time the man put a device on the table. “So, if everything works correctly you should be able to understand me.” The man said, looking at Astrid’s face to see if there was some form of understatement.

“I do.” Astrid confirmed, looking at the device but happy that it was here. “My name is Agent Coulson. Now, let’s start at the beginning. Who are you and why are you here?” Agent Coulson sounded like he was ready to get to business if necessary but Astrid didn’t feel like getting into any trouble. She was supposed to live here the rest of her life, better to work along and get out of here in peace.

“My name is Astrid Arnedottir. I’ve been banished from Asgard to live here for the rest of my remaining days, however long that will be.” Agent Coulson waited for the device to translate what she was saying, and looked her up and down. “People don’t get banished without reason, what is yours? You killed someone?” It was clear that Agent Coulson was here to assess the possible threat she could be. Astrid had to play this right if she wanted to get out of here.

“I’ve been framed,-”

“That is only what someone guilty would say.” Interrupted Agent Coulson who got an irritated look from Astrid in return. “I’ve been framed,” She started again, calmly. “The crown has always wanted a reason to kill me. They claimed I killed a man while I did not do it. The only witnesses were conveniently guards loyal to the very king who wanted to get rid of me. I’m a healer, I help people. I laid low so that the All-father had no reason to condemn me.” Astrid let out a cold laugh. “It seems he will just find a way if he has too.”

Agent Coulson hummed as he studied Astrid. “I’m telling the truth.” Agent Coulson said nothing for a while. “Asgard, the All-father, those sound like the Norse myths to me. You speak Norwegian too. Normally I would have just said you are playing a prank on us, but the camera footage proves otherwise.”

“I will tell you everything I know, all I ask in return is that you get me a house and let me live in peace.” Astrid said, trying to bargain with her new captor. “First let me see what you have to say, and then we’ll negotiate.” Astrid nodded, knowing that was the best she would get. “Deal.”

And that was it. Astrid had spent three more days in the dungeon in France. They hadn’t really believed here until Astrid had shown some light magic. It had taken some days to collect the small amount of Aesir in the air, and afterwards she had felt dizzy. It was clear that her magic would be almost useless to her on Midgard.

Agent Coulson got permission to move Astrid to New York, a city in a country called the United States of America. She got a simple two bedroom apartment, and a language tutor. The first year had cameras in her apartment because they didn’t trust her. When Astrid had gotten to understand the English language she opened up a flower and herbal shop, also with camera’s installed courtesy of S.H.I.E.L.D, the organization Agent Coulson was from.

In year two the camera’s were removed slowly throughout the year, and she learned more and more about the history of Midgard, going to history classes near the university, or other subjects that interested her. When the last camera was removed Agent Coulson came for a personal visit, claiming that they would keep an eye on her but that so far she had looked to be safe. It was up to Astrid to prove that they were correct in removing the camera’s.

In year three Agent Coulson, and a man she didn’t recognize, stood in front of her apartment door when she returned from work. The man introduced himself as Nick Fury, and they had a job for her.

Some time ago they’d come into possession of something called the tesseract. It wasn’t something known to the citizens of Midgard, but they had been studying it for quite some time now. Nick Fury and Agent Coulson assumed that perhaps, being from Asgard, Astrid might know more of it. They only started talking about it now, feeling that they could trust her more. But one mistake and all restrictions would be back in place.

Well, it never hurts to take a look…

***

“Astrid, do you have any idea what it can be?” Dr. Erik Selvig asked her, as he walked up to her station. Astrid looked through her papers, which mostly just consisted of little drawings of flowers, or from Asgard.

Apparently the tesseract was the infamous Cube from Odin’s vault. Astrid didn’t know much about it, only stories but the description and power from the tesseract matched the one from the Cube. It was because of that knowledge that Astrid was still even working on the project. And SHIELD hadn’t told her to leave yet, so she wasn’t going to mention it. Besides, it paid much better than the flower shop.

The Cube held massive power, used to build ancient civilizations, but eventually it was said that it had been stolen or Odin had hidden it away. The stories were never clear on that. But she did know that perhaps the Cube was her chance to sneak back to Asgard, or any of the other nine realms where there was more Aesir magic in the air.

But as of a few hours ago the Cube, or as the midgardians called it, the tesseract had been acting up. Little spikes of energy which they couldn’t contain with their machines. It seemed that Dr. Selvig thought that Astrid might have a possible solution.

“I’m just a florist, Dr. Selvig. I have absolutely no clue.” Astrid admitted honestly as she looked at the energy readings on her screen. Some things were familiar to her, like the energy that flowed through the body. But it wasn’t anywhere near her expertise. But she did try and wasn’t that enough?

Dr. Selvig opened his mouth to reply when the door opened, and in walked Nick Fury. “Talk to me doctor.” He ordered, making his way towards the tesseract. “The tesseract is misbehaving.” Astrid filled in from behind her station. “Remind me Astrid, since when are you a doctor?” Astrid made a zip it motion by her mouth, making it clear she was in fact going to zip it.

Dr. Selvig handed Fury a tablet with the latest information on it. “Astrid is unfortunately correct. Not only is the tesseract suddenly active, she is misbehaving. Her energy is building up.” Dr. Selvig explained as calmly as he could, but it was clear to everybody in the room that he was starting to get worried.

“I assume you pulled the plug.” Fury commented as he handed Dr. Selvig the tablet back. Astrid rolled her eyes. She may be Asgardian, and slowly started to understand Midgardian technology, she knew that just ‘pulling the plug’ wasn’t an option. “She is an energy source. We turn the power off and she turns it back on.” Yes, they had tried. Apparently the go to plan for machines not working was just pulling the plug, waiting for 30 seconds and then putting the plug back on, but they couldn’t even reach the 10 seconds before all machines had turned back on.

“Her energy keeps building up, no matter what we try. If she reaches peak level,” Dr. Selvig said, trying to get Fury’s attention back on him, as the director had been looking at the tesseract who had just given a burst of energy. The whole room felt electric. “We’re prepared for this doctor.” Fury immediately says, turning to look at the other man. “Save all the energy into space.”

Astrid was looking through her notes, trying to make sense of any of it, when she saw movement in the corner of her eye. Agent Barton was coming down from his little nest near the ceiling. She liked Agent Barton. He was dedicated to his work, but he had always been friendly to her. She had given him some flower advice on which flowers to give to a girl he had been seeing, he said.

Agent Barton made his way to Fury and Dr. Selvig, joining in on the conversation all the while Astrid kept observing from afar. The other scientist would be fine without her help, right? “Nobody tried to get through on this end.” Client stated as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “On this end?” Clearly the other two men wanted more explanation than that.

“Aside from just an energy source, this cube is also a doorway to outer space right?” Clint pointed out. Clearly he’d remembered his conversation with Astrid, who had talked about the stories from Asgard, and the other file she had. It was a story from a man called Captain America and his run in with the tesseract. “The doors can open from both sides.”

Just when Fury was about to respond the ground started to shake, all alarms from the machine’s started to go off. The air started to feel more electric than it already had. The room was cast in a blue glow as the tesseract started to grow brighter, and brighter. Astrid went to shield her eyes from the light when she saw that the tesseract started to explode, so she quickly hid behind her desk. The blue energy that came from the tesseract came together on the ceiling before shooting back downwards, blinding everybody once again.

Astrid had expected the place of impact to be in ruin, for the machine to be broken and the tesseract to be gone. Instead, the tesseract was still in its place, and in front of it was a man. The man was sitting on one knee, looking at the ground and catching his breaths. The agents in the room immediately pulled their guns and aimed. The agents carefully crept closer, mindful of any sudden movements the mysterious man would make.

Astrid’s eyes were fully locked onto the man, who was slowly looking up. This way she could see he had emerald green eyes, which stood out in contrast to his raven black hair. He wore armor made of green leather, which Astrid recognized as Asgardian armor. Astrid didn’t recognize the scepter the man was holding in his hand. It didn’t look like any weapon or ceremonial scepter they had on Asgard. The scepter was golden, a blue crystal on the top of it, resembling the light from the tesseract.

“Sir, please put down the spear.” Fury said, surprising Astrid with the fact he was so polite. But perhaps it was better to be polite first before we start making demands of the strange man coming from the portal. The man in turn looked at the spear in his hands, having slowly risen from his knees, and smiled. Now that she was seeing the man fully, she realized she knew the man from somewhere, but it was too dark to fully see him. She needed to have a closer look.

Then everything happened fast. Loki had released his first shot with the scepter in the direction of Agent Barton and Fury. Astrid hid behind her desk as bullets and magic flew over her head. In under a minute the man had killed almost every agent in the room. Only Astrid, Agent Barton, Fury, Dr. Selvig and an agent she knew was Agent Smith remained.

The man was making his way towards Agent Barton who reached for his gun but the raven haired man blocked it. “You have a heart.” The man said before placing the tip of his scepter on Clint’s chest. From the blue crystal energy flowed into Barton’s body. From where she was standing Astrid couldn’t see Barton’s eyes turning blue, but she did see the way his body relaxed, and he placed his gun back into his holster. But that wasn’t what shocked her.

Astrid let out a small gasp when the realization hit her. Now that the man was standing closer, and after she had heard his voice she knew for certain. The raven haired man was none other than Prince Loki. His hair was longer than the last time she had seen him that fateful day in the throne room. His skin was paler too, and his eyes had lost their shine. But it was him.

Her little gasp had been enough to get Prince Loki’s attention to her. Astrid hesitated on what to do. She hated the royal family for what they had done to her, but her quarrel had always been more with the All-Father than with the princes. And she had been innocent, even if the All-father didn’t believe it. Astrid didn’t know why but for some reason Prince Loki deemed it necessary to attack the Midgardians. Astrid held no loyalty to them either, she only did what she needed to survive. And perhaps, Prince Loki could be the way for her to return home. And so with the prince’s eyes still on her, she slowly lowered herself onto her knees, bowing before him

Apparently it had been enough for Prince Loki, who looked past her at Fury, who seemed to be knocked out. He walked to Agent Smith who was about to attack the prince as well, but with the expertise of an Asgardian warrior Prince Loki blocked the attack, and repeated what he had done to Agent Barton.

While Prince Loki had been busy with Agent Smith, Fury had made his way towards the tesseract, and placed it inside a suitcase. It was clear that Fury had tried to walk away but Prince Loki had noticed him. “Please don’t. I still need that.” Fury halted, as he looked at the intruder. “This doesn’t have to get any messier.”

From where Astrid was kneeling she couldn’t see Loki smile, his back turned to her. But she could still see the slightly worried look on Fury’s face. The director’s eyes looked over Prince Loki’s shoulder to look at her, if only for a second. Had he hoped Astrid would aid him? SHIELD knew of Astrid's history with the Asgaridians, but it was still her home. More than Midgard would ever be.

“Of course it does. I’ve come from too far for anything else.” The prince answered in return. “I am Loki of Asgard, and I am burned with glorious purpose.” While the Prince was speaking Dr. Selvig was slowly rising from behind the desk he had been hiding behind. “Loki, brother of Thor.” Astrid remembered Dr. Selvig told her he had met the Asgardian crown prince around a year earlier. Astrid had brushed it off, not wanting to be bothered with the crown family. Thor was just the All-father’s minion, everybody on Asgard knew it. A brute unfit to rule, preferring to spend his time on the battlefield or between the bedsheets. Since it had been of no use to her back then, Astrid hadn’t cared about it. Now she regretted not listening more.

Even the prince himself looked annoyed at the mention of his older brother. “We have no quarrel with your people.” Director Fury tried to reason, his gaze landing on Astrid. It was clear that she was supposed to be an example. See how generous we are, we even have one of you working for us. Prince Loki followed the director’s gaze briefly, before chuckling. “An ant has no quarrel with a boot.”

“Are you planning to step on us?” Director was beginning to look more defensive, and agitated. Fury was beginning to see that they’re was no negotiating with the man in front of him. “I come with glad news, of a world made free.” Loki said, spreading his arms as he slowly walked towards Dr. Selvig. “Freed from what?” Loki laughed, an evil tone to it. “Freedom.”

“Freedom is life's greatest lie. Once you accept that in your heart,” Loki suddenly turned, his scepter pressed against Dr. Selvig chest just as it had with both Agents. “you will know peace.” Dr. Selvig’s body relaxed, his eyes now a hazy blue. The prince turned back around, his eyes taking in Astrid. She could feel him asses her if she was a threat. If she needed to be controlled as well. With his emerald eyes on her, Astrid looked back at the floor, trying to make herself seem compliant.

“You say peace, I think you mean quite the opposite.” Director Fury pointed out, when Agent Barton step closer to the prince. “Sir, Director Fury is stalling. This place is about to blow and drop 100 feet of rock on us.” Agent Barton pointed out, his blue eyes going towards the ceiling where the remaining energy from the tesseract was gathering, growing restless. “He means to bury us.” It was the first thing Astrid had said since the prince appeared. Her thoughts out of her mouth before she had noticed it. “Like the pharaohs of Egypt. ” Director Fury said, looking pleased. As if the prospect of dying didn’t worry him. That he’d rather go down with them all than let the prince loose on Midgard.

Dr. Selvig added his own input about how they had only around two minutes left before the situation became critical. The prince nodded, turning his attention towards Agent Barton. “Well then,” Those two words were enough for Agent Barton who immediately shot Director Fury in the chest. Astrid suspected it wasn’t enough to kill the director, as she could still see him move slightly, but it was enough to get him to release the suitcase.

While Agent Barton was moving towards the suitcase, the prince turned towards Astrid. She looked up at him, but her eyes were fixed on his chest so she wasn’t looking directly at him. “You, come with me.” An order. One that Astrid wasn’t going to refuse. She rose up, and started walking.

_______

Little facts about this chapter;

- Phil basically uses the SHIELD's version of G translate. Astrid speaks a mix of the scandinavian languages. - I had already written the whole translation conversation when I remembered All-speak, and I didn't want to re-write it since it makes Astrid struggeles all the more real, so that why I gave the ability to All-speak only to the royal family.

#imagine #loki x oc #loki fanfic #loki laufeyson #loki odinson #loki #fanfic #marvel #the avengers #canon divergent au

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ipadloser · 1 month

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write-and-wander · 2 months

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TGLI | Two: To Fill Days with Blessed Eternity

Loki (MCU/Norse Lore) x Female Reader (OC) Description: The rescue, and the aftermath. Forgiveness comes quickly from the heart of the timid; but it does not change the course of the stubborn. Warnings: N/A | Word count: 3.8k

Read on Ao3 | Prologue | One | Two | ... | (/13)

You’ve lost count of the number of days that have passed since you arrived in Jotunheim.

Once you had seen the snow-capped mountaintops of the frozen realm, you realized the talons that held you were that of a transformed jotun; and likely one that decided it was time you shared your gift with them. When you landed in an unfamiliar home, Thjazi made himself known by returning to his true frost giant form, confirming your theory:

You were here to serve the jotnar now.

Where were the promised valkyrie protectors, meant to keep greedy others at bay? Where were the gods who had claimed to love you, and had sung your praises upon the deliverance of their eternity? Where was the god of mischief who had robbed you of your heart and home, leaving you at the hands of a cold giant?

You don’t know. You tried to count the days in which you had been left without answers, but time has continued to revel in its cruelty as it crawls by at a pace you cannot keep up with, blurring the world around you into a cold, muddled, snowy gray.

You tried pleading with Thjazi, in the beginning, to let you go. No matter what you would say, it seemed all for naught. He knew who you were; he knew the gods would age and die should you be shut out from them forever. He would not budge. To him, to the jotnar, and seemingly to all the nine realms, you and your gift are made nothing more than a commodity to be hoarded; And hoard you, he did.

Your once-pristine white robes have tattered and dulled and grayed from their continuous wear, despite usually being covered in furs to maintain warmth amidst the frigid climate. Your hair has grown rather long, usually maintained now by braids. Though you’re limited by the situation, you’ve still managed a small wintery garden near the house Thjazi kept you in. You’re thankful for the bit of color it provides in the gray wasteland.

As you sit on your thin mattress, staring out through the window of the second floor of Thjazi’s home, your frail body still aches from the night before- from Thjazi dragging you to yet another feast, wherein you were put on display like prized livestock. You stood all night at the front of the hall, your ankles and wrists sore from the chilled metal that attached you to the ground, keeping you in place. Boars were often caged beside you, slaughtered just before the feast began in the name of providing the freshest meat. You wondered if the animals understood their place in this cruel event, too. You almost hoped they do, despite the part of you that wishes they maintain blissful ignorance for as long as they can to reduce their suffering. If they knew they were here to be used at the jotnar’s whims, then maybe you wouldn’t be so alone. You usually tried to offer them comfort within their cold cages- through small food offerings, or soft words, or a calming hand brushing down their back. It was the least you could do for your fellow livestock.

In line with the new routine, the animal was slaughtered by cheering drunkards in the center of the hall. Numb, you silently blessed their meal, placing a trembling hand on the raw, bloody meat. Then, you spent the rest of the evening waiting to return to a home that was not yours, where you collapsed into a dreamless slumber.

Each morning that you woke was its own sort of prison. Your dreams were blinks of black, bearing you no sense of escape as even the goddess Nott’s gift of dreams would not reach you in this frigid place. Loneliness saturated your existence. The house you were held in was lonely, even if Thjazi was there. The grand banquets in great halls were lonely, even when filled with jubilant crowds. Your small garden was lonely, even with the few plants you maintained. You were constantly utterly alone. You’d cry over it more often if tears meant anything anymore.

Thjazi was generous enough to give you some leftover food from the bacchanalian feast before he went out to sea for the day. The bread and cooled meat sit on a cloth in your lap. You wonder how long he will be gone; if he will return tonight, or grant you a couple days of peace through his absence. Only time will tell.

For now, you sit, leaning against the frame of the window, staring out into the white abyss and wondering what will become of your Asgardian garden and your gods. You tie the cloth in your lap closed and set it beside you, hoping you’ll be in the mood to eat later. A fine golden chain delicately drapes around your neck, the green stone resting between your fingers as you mindlessly fidget with the prize that acted as the final nail in your coffin.

You replay the memory in your head again in a torturous ritual you’ve made for yourself, searching for answers you can never seem to find. The arm of Loki beneath your hand. The sound of running water over the small cave. The moonflower. The books. The promise of return. The gold shimmer. The empty forest. The unanswered cries. The cold wind. The sharp talons. There is nothing. No answers, no closer to home, and no god of mischief.

You force your thoughts to focus on your garden instead, and wonder if you might see it again. You mentally begin your walk through your home, knowing every plant in it by heart. The thought of walking in that soft grass grants you a touch of much-needed comfort.

You watch the clouds slowly drift by in their various shades of gray, thinking of those you’ve been forced to leave behind, when there’s a heavy knock at the door.

You freeze. Thjazi only left a couple of hours ago… and he explicitly instructed me not to answer the door. Grabbing your pouch of food, you quickly stand and move across the room on the pads of your feet, minimizing any noise your footsteps could make.

While you climb down the large steps to the main floor, the stranger knocks at the door again- and this time, it’s faster. Heavier. Growing upset.

With a quick glance around the room, you decide to dive under Thjazi’s massive bed, using the disheveled quilt that drapes halfway off the side as cover for your dwarfed body.

“I know you’re in there,” the voice booms from the other side of the door.

You lay your cheek against the near-frozen wood floor and stare out from under the edge of the blanket-shield with wide eyes, focusing on your breath, that it might steady in spite of your racing heart.

With a great crack, the door is forced open, slamming against the parallel wall.

Your hand flies to your mouth, stifling a yelp and muffling your ragged breath. Your heart pounds in your chest.

Heavy footsteps slowly come closer, pausing for a moment while the broken door is forced closed, and continuing again until the intruder reaches the center of the room.

Blue skin peeks out above giant boots. A jotunn. The boots begin to pace, turning as they scan the room.

“Idunn?” A whisper breaks the silence- one that seems familiar to you, somehow. “Please tell me that oaf had the confidence to leave you here,” he says low, his tone strained by panic. The boots turn towards the bed before pausing.

Your heart stops. You hold your breath.

In a flash of scintillating bright green magic, the giant’s boots are suddenly replaced by much smaller ones- that of someone about your size. What kind of trick-

“I’ve come to take you home, Idunn,” he says, his whisper rising to soft speech.

There’s a moment of hesitation within you until it finally clicks: you know that voice. You’re certain of it. Is that… Loki?

With a sharp exhale, you lift the quilt.

Your eyes trail up fine emerald and gold robes until they meet the heartbroken jade eyes of the God of Mischief.

You crawl out from under the bed. Straightening yourself, you drop your eyes to the floor and keep them low, struggling to maintain his stare. You know you look worn- but you're not sure you want to know just how worn.

A raging sea of thoughts passes through your mind. Is this a trick? Are you one of them? How can I be certain you will take me home? Why are you the one who came? Has my absence at last been noticed? As always, only one manages to make its way from racing mind to quiet mouth. “How long?”

He pauses, his troubled expression stripping him of his usual nonchalant mask. He was prepared for your anger- most everyone has grown angry with him. However, he was not prepared for your resigned grief. “Idunn-”

“How long,” you interrupt emphatically, finally looking up, into his eyes, “have I been gone?”

His stare darts between your eyes as his mind grasps for words.

You take a step closer to him. “Loki-”

“Three years.”

You are immediately locked in an emotional stun.

Three years.

Three years since you've seen the gods you had come to love. Three years since you were stripped of your own volition. Three years since you've tended to your garden. Three years since you've been home.

And based on the way he looks at you now- as if you are something fragile, something that could break if he moved too fast or spoke too harshly- these three long years have come at a great cost, taking a heavy toll on the Goddess of Eternal Youth.

Tear ducts that had long remained dormant spring to life with full vigor, creating twin cascades of tears that run down your cheeks, flushed from the cold.

The dense fog of a silent “why?” settles in the room.

“I can explain,” Loki blurts.

You remain silent, watching him.

“But we must leave. Now.”

Though despondent, you nod, stepping closer.

He nods, taking a deep breath, reminding himself: It’s okay to touch you; you won’t break beneath his fingertips. With a flourish, the god ghosts a hand over your shoulder and transforms you into something small- you're not entirely sure what, to be honest. In a second green swirl of magic, he turns into a large black bird, similar to the one that had stolen you away from your home all that time ago. Gently, he picks you up off the ground with his talons, carrying you close to his feathered body to keep you warm. He pokes his head out of the now-broken door- the one you long stared at as you dreamt of walking through it for good- and after determining the surroundings were vacant, takes off. The heavy beating of his great wings lifts you into the frigid air, over the giant wooden houses and tall snow capped mountains, and into the grey clouds you had grown so acquainted with from your frosted window.

You watch Jotunheim fade from view as a bittersweet grief settles in the pit of your stomach. You're glad to be going home, yes; but three years is a long time to be gone, and a long time to endure so much. There were still countless questions weighing on your numbed consciousness.

You hope Loki has one hel of an explanation.

Landing on Asgard is surprisingly reminiscent of your first arrival; at least, on the outside. There is still no crowd awaiting your return home, nor is there any sort of welcome decorum. Instead, there is an angry All Father standing beside Frigga and a row of Valkyries, blurred by your thick tears that haven’t stopped since you finally left Jotunheim.

When Loki lands, he transforms back into his usual form, carefully cradling you in his palm. When you are transformed back, you're laying across his outstretched arms and quickly set down on your feet.

“Welcome home, Idunn,” Frigga greets warmly with a mothers’ embrace. As you sob into her shoulder, she steals a glance at Odin and gently pries you off of her. “Come, we'll clean you up.” She places a soft hand on your arm and ushers you away.

As you walk away, tears still trickling down your cheeks, you hear the distressed tone of Loki's voice quickly smothered by the booming rage of your All Father.

Frigga is quick to lovingly tend to you when you arrive at her palace.

After a warm rosewater bath, you are given new white clothes to replace your tattered robes. A meal is prepared for you right away- the first warm meal you’ve had in a long while- and a goblet of water is kept full before you. You cry until you can’t anymore, drink deep and eat your fill, and cry again.

Frigga, ever your closest ally, sits beside you, drying your tears with soft cloths.

You don’t say much of anything. What is there to say? She knows the jotun, and what they’re like. She knows what happened- likely more than you do. You’re finally home, and you’re safe. Your gift is yours again. You are yours again. That’s all that matters, now.

When you finish eating, Frigga instructs you to rest. She promises to bring food and check in throughout the day, but she will wait to break the news to the rest of the gods until you feel ready. You’re well overdue for a trip through the realms, and the gods will be restless until they are rejuvenated again- so it’s for the best that they don’t hear of your return until you begin your travels.

Frigga walks you to your home under the silver glow of Mani.

Arriving at your garden, you see that it has been carefully maintained for you- not as well as you would maintain it, but well enough to keep everything healthy. It’s a meaningful gesture. A few extra Valkyries stand guard faithfully at the garden gates. A couple follow you inside your tower, where Frigga gives you another long embrace before bidding you goodnight.

You are left to rest that night. The Valkyries remain closer than usual to grant you the company you’ve so deeply craved these three long years. Exhausted, and in your own bed at last, you drift into a deep sleep.

It isn’t until you rise at last, late into the following afternoon, that Loki makes his appearance at the door of your tower.

“May I?” he asks, anxiously pressing his left thumb into his right palm. The expression he wears is soft, free of all pretense. There’s a light crease between his brows as he awaits an answer. Vulnerability is something the God of Mischief has comfortably slipped away from; yet, here he is, willing himself to expose his emotions to you.

You nod, stepping to the side and closing the door behind him as he enters.

He takes a moment to look around, his eyes briefly pausing on various details in the room.

Green plants hang from pots chained to the ceiling, cushioned chairs sit around an ornately carved wooden table, and sunlight fills the room, highlighting the golden calligraphy hand-painted on the wall-space that remains between giant windows from which white curtains are pulled back. The smell of chamomile and rosemary dances on the back of the cool breeze drifting in through the open window. There’s a touch of life delicately interlaced with every aspect of your home; as if you can’t help but bring gentle vibrancy to everything you encounter. It suits you.

So much so that Loki feels completely engulfed by you. Normally, that would almost feel comforting- but in this circumstance, he feels nearly smothered.

You remain standing by the door, watching him. Your arm crosses over your front as a hand grasps its opposite bicep, a self-soothing gesture to quell the fire of anxiety that has sparked in your chest.

He stands for a while, mouth slightly agape as he tries to decide what to say first. When he at last speaks, his voice is soft and uneven: “How are you?”

You shrug, softly shaking your head. “I am… alright. As much as I can be, I suppose.”

“Did they hurt you?” His eyes drop, and you realize he’s staring at the reddened raw skin on your exposed wrists.

“No,” you blurt, shaking your head, “well… Not directly.”

He nods, a touch of relief washing over him. His shoulders relax, but his thumb still idly presses into his palm, giving way to his lingering anxiety over the conversation that looms over the two of you.

You take a few steps closer, pulling out a chair and sitting on one side of your table. You fold your hands together in your lap, staring down at them.

Loki follows suit, taking his place in the adjacent chair and turning it to face you. He learns forward, collapsing his hands together and resting his elbows on his knees. He breathes out a long, heavy sigh. “It began years ago, after word of your arrival and travels had at least reached every corner of the nine realms. I discovered,” he lifts his hand, and the ivory skin shifts to an icy blue, “my true lineage.”

“You’re… jotunn?”

He nods. “Taken as a babe and brought here by Odin. As soon as I learned the truth, I went to Jotunheim to demand answers. My mother and father knew. They saw it happen, and… simply watched.”

Your brows knit together, your heart sinking for him.

“They justified their inaction with a hope: if I were to learn of my true heritage, perhaps I would align with the jotnar and help them gain the immortality Odin has long claimed he would find. They believe they could come to rule the nine realms so long as they lived long enough to build an adequate army.”

You hesitate, fearful to ask, but eventually manage: “And?”

“I denied them, of course! I wouldn’t relinquish you into their hands so easily.” He looks at you with an expression of pleading; one that begs that you believe him. That you don’t turn your back on him so quickly. That you forgive him for this horrid thing he’s done to you, even before he’s fully confessed.

You nod, encouraging him to continue.

“They nearly killed me on the spot, promising that Asgard’s blood would pool with mine; and then they made an offer. If I delivered your gift to them, they would refrain from attacking Asgard. It wasn’t until you granted me the first apple that I realized you and your gift are one and the same.”

“And it was too late to go back on that bargain,” you finish for him.

He nods. “I tried to grant you what little comfort I could, before you would be taken from us,” he adds half-heartedly- knowing there was nothing he could say that could make any of what he had done better. He concedes to the guilt. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers.

Your eyes drift downward as the realization settles as a grief in your chest. The choice laid before him was simple: you, or countless others and a war without an end in sight. Of course he gave you up- what other reasonable option was there?

Yet, your last memories were… sweet, by his design.

His eyes flicker to your chest, catching the shimmer of the paradox necklace that still faithfully rests against your skin; a bitter symbol of his betrayal, but now, too, a touching memento of his devotion. Despite the conflict in your heart, it ultimately encapsulated the god you cherish so deeply- a paradox in his own right. Your downfall and your savior; the god who both doomed his kind and sought recompense by saving them. You wouldn’t part from his gift in your captivity; you certainly wouldn’t part from it now.

He returns his gaze to yours, a hopeful peace washing over him.

You’re almost comforted by the thought of Loki’s intention, leaving that necklace behind. Now, staring into his eyes, you wonder if there’s more to be found within them. Beyond the regret, past the hope, buried beneath the hesitation. Perhaps there is more; perhaps you are merely projecting that which you refuse to come to terms with yourself. You resign yourself only to wonder.

“I would have gone willingly, if you had only asked,” you finally profess, breaking the silence. Because I would do anything for you, if you asked.

“I could not have asked such a thing of you, Idunn,” he responds softly. A few words flood his mind and weigh heavy on his tongue.

He will not utter them.

“I promise you,” he insists, taking one of your trembling hands in his, “I will make them pay for what they forced upon me. For what they’ve done to you.”

Quiet tears fall. You nod.

“I understand if-”

“I forgive you, Loki.”

His expression instantly softens from one of grief and regret to relief. His shoulders relax, but his grip on your hand tightens. The corners of his mouth pull into a brief, soft smile.

Tucking your free hand beneath his, you lift his hands- still gingerly wrapped around yours- and press your lips to his knuckles.

“Thank you,” you whisper with a soft smile.

The warmth that sets his heart aflame is enough to strip him of the bitterness garnered by the newly-discovered jotun form that sits beneath the Asgardian illusion.

You stand, guiding him by the hand to the gates of your garden. The two of you walk in silence. With a gentle squeeze of the hand, you at last let go, turning around and heading back to your tower.

He stands for a few seconds, watching you leave, and swallows his words before he, too, walks away. He cannot tell you now. He will not tell you now; not after what he has done.

Not when there is yet more he must do.

Not until revenge is wrought from the jotun who set their greedy sights on you.

After that, he will tell you at last. Once revenge and victory are proclaimed from the mountainous bodies felled by his lying hands, he will offer them as a sacrifice at the altar of your heart and confess the sins committed in his devotion to his ever-worshiped goddess.

And there will be no choice but to adorn him with a husband’s ring and a king’s crown upon the great golden throne.

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gcthvile · 5 months

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The Dance of Mischief

Couple: Gavin Hyde (OC) x Loki Laufeyson

Warnings: Suggestive content.

Fandom: Marvel

Summary: Gavin finds himself drawn under the spell of the God of Mischief, Loki. Despite vowing vengeance, he cannot resist the chaos and darkened passions only the trickster can provide.

The chaos of battle raged around them, but Loki's gaze was fixed solely on the lone figure amidst the fray. Gavin moved with a lethal grace, his every strike calculated and efficient as he dispatched one adversary after another. The former Hydra assassin's steely composure intrigued the god of mischief.

Loki materialized in a flash of green, suddenly blocking Gavin's path. "Well, well, what do we have here?" he purred, eyes gleaming with unveiled interest. "A most impressive display of skill."

Gavin's jaw tightened, his grip tightening on the combat knife in his hand. "Get out of my way, you crazy bastard," he growled, the words laced with disdain.

Loki tsked, seemingly unperturbed by the mortal's hostility. "Now, now, is that any way to speak to a god?" He leaned in, a devious smirk playing on his lips. "I couldn't help but notice your...talents. Perhaps we could come to some sort of arrangement."

"Go fuck yourself." Gavin made to sidestep the Asgardian, but Loki's hand shot out, grabbing his arm in a vice-like grip.

"Ah, ah, ah. I think you'll find I have a most...compelling proposition." Loki's gaze swept over Gavin, lingering a beat too long. "One that could benefit us both."

Gavin's brow furrowed, his free hand itching to put a knife through the bastard's eye. "I'm not interested in anything you have to say," he spat.

"Is that so?" Loki purred, his grip tightening. "Well, I'm quite persuasive when I want to be." He pulled Gavin closer, their faces mere inches apart. "And I have a feeling you're precisely the sort of...ally I've been searching for."

Loki's emerald eyes bore into Gavin's with an intensity that set his nerves ablaze. Against his better judgement, the assassin found himself listening. "You have one minute to explain why I shouldn't put a knife through your heart," he growled through clenched teeth.

A slow, wicked smirk spread across Loki's face, as if he had anticipated this reaction. "So fiery," he purred, his thumb brushing along Gavin's wrist in a way that made his grip falter ever so slightly. "I've been watching you, mortal. Your skills are wasted on this meaningless fracas. Join me, and I can offer you so much more - power, glory, vengeance upon those who wronged you."

His fingers traced idle patterns against Gavin's skin, daringly intimate. "Think of what we could achieve together. You provide your...talents. I offer magic, resources, whatever dark desires fuel that passionate soul of yours. No more taking orders or following the rules of petty men." Leaning in until his lips brushed Gavin's ear, he breathed: "You'd be free."

Gavin shuddered, cursing the traitorous reaction his body betrayed. As much as he longed to refuse, a far darker part of him was captivated by the God of Mischief's silken promises. Freedom was a drug, and this man - this creature - dangled it before him like a siren luring him to wreck upon the rocks.

"One chance," he rasped finally, pulling back to search Loki's mossy eyes for deceit. "But if you cross me even once, I'll finish the job."

Loki threw his head back and laughed, a melody as rich as intoxicating wine. "Oh, this is the start of a most glorious partnership, my mortal." His grin turned wicked once more. "I look forward to seeing all that fire and rage you keep bottled up indeed..."

An indignant scowl crossed Gavin's face at Loki's laughter, though inwardly the god's joyous mirth threatened to shake something loose within his hardened soul. "Don't get cocky just yet, princess," he growled, wrenching himself from Loki's grip.

Yet for all his bluster, Gavin found himself following as Loki turned on his heel, melting back into the shadows of Central Park with nary a whisper. The trickster moved with a predatory grace, glancing back over his shoulder with an amused quirk of his brow - a silent challenge.

Gavin swallowed thickly, pulse quickening as unwelcome thoughts crept into his mind. What was he doing, trailing after this madman like a beaten dog responding to its master's call? Loki was dangerous, volatile... everything Gavin had spent years training himself to despise.

As if sensing his hesitation, Loki paused at the treeline, backlit by the amber glow of flames rising in the distance. "Do enlighten me, mortal - do you truly believe any of this rabble cares what becomes of you once their petty war is done?" he purred.

Gavin scowled, ill at ease under that piercing emerald stare. But damn it all, the trickster spoke truth - he was but a tool to be used and cast aside, just as Hydra had done before discarding their broken weapon.

With a weary sigh, Gavin squared his shoulders and strode forward, coming to a stop before the smirking god. "Like I said, one chance," he repeated stiffly. "Now get on with it before I change my mind, reindeer games."

A satisfied smirk curled Loki's lips. "Wise choice, mortal." His hand rising to brush Gavin's cheek in a mockery of gentleness. "You won't regret this, I assure you..."

Gavin stiffened at Loki's touch, every inch of him screaming to pull away from the maddening trickster before him. And yet...there was no denying the spark that ignited low in his stomach at the rasp of calloused fingertips against his skin.

When was the last time anyone had looked at him as Loki did in that moment - with unveiled interest, yes, but something deeper, as if seeing into the fractured soul Gavin himself had long given up hope of mending? It called to the starved creature of want and longing he'd kept caged for so long.

"Enough games, you tricky bastard," he growled, grasping Loki's wrist in an iron grip. But where he meant to shove the god away, his traitorous fingers curled possessively instead.

Loki arched a brow, gaze darkening with intrigue. "And here I thought you enjoyed our...little games, mortal." His free hand rose to trace the rigid line of Gavin's jaw, eyes gleaming. "But have no fear. I'll show you wonders beyond your wildest dreams."

With that, he leaned in to breathe hot against Gavin's ear. "After you, of course, prove yourself worthy." Mystic words in a language long forgotten ghosted across Gavin's skin, followed by a calculated nip to his earlobe that sent fire coursing through his veins.

Before he could react, the world dissolved into emerald smoke. When it cleared, they stood atop a gleaming citadel spires under an alien sky, and Gavin knew in that moment that whether for good or ill, his fate was forever intertwined with that of the enigmatic God of Mischief.

Gavin stumbled as his feet found purchase on the gleaming floor of the golden citadel. He whirled to face Loki, fists clenching as rage and astonishment warred within him.

"What game is this?!" he snarled. "Where in hell have you taken me, you bastard?"

Loki merely watched him with that infuriating half-smile, as calm and collected as when last they spoke in Central Park just moments ago. Though now they stood under an alien sky, in a realm beyond Gavin's imagining.

"Asgard, darling," Loki finally answered, green eyes glittering with amusement. "I thought it only fitting to begin our...partnership somewhere more private than that pathetic Midgardian warzone."

He took a step closer, grin widening as Gavin held his ground, chest heaving. "But fear not. No harm will come to you here while you're by my side." The trickster's fingers came up to trace the line of Gavin's clenched jaw, feather-light. "Relax. You're safe."

Gavin trembled with barely contained rage, every instinct screaming to lash out. And yet...he found himself leaning ever so slightly into Loki's maddening touch despite it all.

"I'll never be safe with you," he ground out through gritted teeth. But something in his eyes betrayed that, dangerous as this game might be, a small, starved part of him craved it nonetheless.

Loki's answering laugh was low, intimate. "No," he breathed, leaning close to steal the word from Gavin's lips in a bittersweet brush that tasted of domination and promise. "You'll never be safe, my mortal... But you'll be free."

And with that vow, Gavin knew he had passed beyond the point of no return. For better or worse, he was ensnared in the God of Mischief's silken web. Now all that remained was to see how deeply the trap had sunk its teeth.

The golden halls of Asgard had become more familiar to Gavin in recent weeks, yet he'd never feel at ease amongst the gilded splendor of gods. Each ornate corridor and towering spire seemed to sneer at the mere mortal in their midst.

All except one.

Loki had proven a capable mentor, teacher, and more - guiding Gavin's unrestrained talents towards goals even a nonbeliever like himself could appreciate. Vengeance against those who wronged them. Chaos sown where order once reigned. Each victorious gesture chipping away at the walls around his heart.

Yet now those walls lay in ruins, betrayed by the one person he'd foolishly let close. Gavin growled, replaying Loki's latest trick - how the duplicitous god had abandoned him as bait, leaving him at Odin's none-too-gentle mercy. Blood still caked his nails from where he'd ripped himself free.

Rage boiled in his veins, each stride echoing like thunder through the citadel. Loki would pay for this treachery, magic be damned. Gavin would plunge a dagger in his smirking face and be done with this maddening dance forever.

The ornate doors swung open before his rage could find fruition. Silver tongue at the ready, Loki purred by way of greeting. "Now, now, is that any way to treat an old friend?"

His lips curled in a calculated smirk, eyes gleaming with unspoken challenge. Daring Gavin to act on his fury, to end this madness once and for all, free himself from the spell that bound them.

They both knew he never would. For beneath the rage and betrayal, a far darker truth remained - Gavin was in too deep, hooked on the thrill and freedom Loki offered more than any magic ever could.

With a growl, Gavin slammed the doors behind him, stalking towards the waiting trickster with dark intent. "You and I? We were never friends," he spat. The rest remained unsaid, looming between them like a promise.

Gavin loomed over Loki, fist clenched so tight his nails bit crescents into his palm. Betrayal burned fiercer than the fires of Muspelheim in his gaze as it bore into the trickster's triumphant smirk.

"You thought this was funny, didn't you?" he hissed. "Leaving me for the Allfather's dogs, like some cheap pawn in one of your games."

Loki merely arched a sly brow, infuriating maddening calm radiating off him in waves. "Come now, you were in no real danger. A bit of theater to rattle Odin's cage, naught else."

"Theater?!" Gavin roared, hands shooting out to grasp Loki by the throat. For once, smug assurance cracked, emerald eyes widening in surprise and something like...fear?

Good. He wanted the bastard afraid.

"I am not your plaything," Gavin spat, fingers curling tighter with each word. Sweet as it would be to feel that slender neck snap, he forced himself to relax his grip just enough to let Loki rasp a response.

"No?" The trickster croaked, recovering some of that silken composure even as bruises bloomed on his skin. "And yet here you are, far from your pathetic Midgard, playing the fool for my amusement."

Gavin saw red. With a wordless snarl he slammed Loki against the wall, forearm braced across his collar. "I am no one's fool. Not Hydra's, and sure as hell not yours. You think this is a game? Well I'm done playing, trickster."

He leaned in until they were nose to nose, letting all his rage and regret pour into that glacial stare. "Consider this your one warning. Cross me again and next time I won't stop until that silver tongue is choking on its own blood. Understand?"

For once, Loki held his tongue. But the hunger in his eyes as they flitted to Gavin's lips and back told another story entirely. One that, despite his fury, the assassin wasn't quite ready to close just yet.

A mirthless smirk curled Loki's bruised lips, though for once that infuriating arrogance dimmed in his emerald gaze. "It would seem I have...overestimated your resilience, darling," he rasped, prolonging each syllable in a futile bid to reclaim some mockery of grandeur.

"Do not take me for a fool. I am well aware you crave far more than violence and retribution." His eyes bored into Gavin's, searching. "There is an emptiness in you, one my tricks and schemes alone can never fill."

Gavin only snorted, grip ratcheting tighter against Loki's throat. "Save your fancy for someone who gives a shit."

But beneath the rage, traitorous threads of doubt and longing took root. As loathe as he was to admit, part of him knew the damnable god spoke truth. Vengeance had lost its savor long ago, leaving only a hollow ache no amount of spilled blood could ever slake.

Loki seemed to sense this weakness, chuckling hoarsely despite his compromised position. "Stay if you must, darling. Wallow in victimhood as your kind is want to do." His free hand rose to rest against Gavin's cheek, thumb tracing the sharp line of his cheekbone in a mockery of tenderness.

"Or choose a grander fate. Lay aside this trifling anger and let me show you the heights to which a partnership with a god could elevate one such as yourself." Emerald eyes gleamed, brimming with dark promises.

"The choice, as always, is yours."

With a snarl, Gavin released Loki and spun on his heel, storming several paces away. Fists clenching and unclenching as he battled an inner turmoil far murkier than any adversary he'd yet faced. Vengeance so long his sole companion now felt stale and empty...

And damn the silver-tongued trickster to Hel for awakening hungers long thought dead and buried.

The silence between them writhed with all the words left unspoken, fraying what little remained of Gavin's tattered resolve. He paced like a caged predators, restless energy begging release through violence.

But violence alone could not sate the maelstrom within.

Loki watched in smug silence, raking talons across Gavin's frayed nerves with his mere presence. As if he knew precisely how to lever chaos from order, crack the most stalwart of souls.

Gavin whirled on him with a snarl. "What more do you want from me, Loki?" he spat. "My allegiance? My soul?"

Loki tilted his head, considering. "All things in time, darling." His fingers danced in an idle gesture, summoning twin goblets that glided through the air to float before them.

Gavin eyed the proffered drink warily. No doubt it hid some insidious poison or spell.

Loki took a long draught from his own cup before answering his unspoken question. "Consider it a gesture of...good faith. I simply wish to indulge in cordial conversation before we continue our arrangement." His lips curled around the rim, tongue darting out to capture wandering droplets in a display far more provocative than necessary.

Gavin's grip tightened around the stemmed chalice until he heard the metal creak in protest. Every part of him screamed this was folly - to lower his guard even an inch in the trickster's presence.

And yet...what more did he have to lose, that Loki had not already claimed?

With a snarl, he brought the wine to his lips and drank deep, dark eyes never leaving the god's triumphant smile. Whatever game Loki played, he would not be taken so easily again.

The wine was headier than Gavin anticipated, each heady sip further stripping away inhibitions. By the time his goblet lay emptied, the room spun in a blur of colors and shadows, all coalescing into the razor-sharp focus of Loki watching with calculating eyes.

"Your Asgardian wines have more kick than I'm used to," Gavin growled, fighting to keep control as the floor tilted treacherously beneath his boots.

Loki chuckled; a soft, slippery sound that wormed its way past Gavin's hazy defenses. "Careful, darling. Wouldn't want you getting...ideas above your station."

A growl rumbled low in Gavin's throat. He staggered towards Loki, snatching the collar of his embroidered coat with drunken ferocity. "Back to the threats so soon? I thought we were having a cordial chat." He spat the words like venom, baring teeth inches from Loki's beguiling smirk.

"Indeed." Amusement danced in those unfathomable emerald eyes, goading and daring all at once. “Pray tell, what else is it you desire of me?”

"I desire..." Gavin fought to form a snarl through liquor-thick lips. But Loki's scent filled his senses; exotic spices and ozone that spoke of power and taboo. His traitorous fingers curled tighter, pulling that svelte form flush against the hard lines of his own.

"You shutting the fuck up," he rasped, and crushed their mouths together in a drunken, bruising kiss meant to inflict pain. Instead only madness answered as Loki melted into it with a moan, tongue delving deep to dominate where lips could not.

Gavin was drowning, senses awash in raw sensation as his inhibitions disintegrated one by one. This creature was devil and angel in one, master of hearts as well as hellfire, and gods damn him for it. For in that moment nothing else mattered - only the maddening dance of tongues and the maddening god in his arms.

Weak morning light pried Gavin's eyes open with sluggish reluctance. His head throbbed in time with each pulse, memories of the previous night scattered in fractured snippets.

Wine-soaked lips and searching hands, tangled limbs clawing for solace if only for a moment. Raw sensation drowning out thought as he took and took from the lithe form in his arms.

Gavin sat up with a groan, gazing around the sumptuous bedchamber with blurry incredulity. Had he truly bedded the God of Mischief in a drunken stupor? And where, by all the realms, was Loki now?

As if summoned, velvet footsteps approached, slipping from shadow with all his namesake's poise. "Awake at last, I see." Loki's eyes danced with private mirth as they raked Gavin's nude form, lingering where paint laced skin with bruising perfection.

Gavin growled, torn between throwing the smug trickster from the balcony or yanking him back to continue their prior activities with dark sincerity once liquor loosened tongue had fled.

"Don't look so dour, darling." Loki purred, settling at the foot of the furs with predatory grace. "It seems our...arrangement bears unforeseen potential, does it not?" His smile curled sharp as knives, yet for once Gavin sensed no deception lurking between each carefully chosen syllable.

Rubbing his temples, Gavin sighed. What tangle of chaos had he been ensnared in now? And why, despite every instinct screaming this was madness, did some dark ember within crave to see how far down this twisted path led..?

Gavin's scowl could curdle milk as he slid from the furs, joints protesting each grudging movement. Gods, who knew what poisons Loki had plied him with to leave him in such a state.

"Whatever foolish notions have taken root in that devious brain of yours, bastard, think again," he growled, casting about for his discarded leathers with unsteady hands.

Loki merely grinned from his lounging perch, infuriatingly untouched by cares. "Oh? And here I'd thought last night's passions made our...understanding abundantly clear."

Heat crawled up Gavin's neck at the memory: fingers digging bruisingly into flesh, dragging pleasured cries from lips parted in ecstasy. His, all his to take and use as he saw fit under cover of darkness.

"There was no understanding," Gavin snapped, snatching up his breeches with more force than strictly necessary. "I was drunk. You talked and I...acted rashly. It changes nothing between us."

For once, a glimmer of frustration shone through Loki's smug veneer. His fingers tapped an arrhythmic pattern against his thigh as he studied Gavin with hooded eyes.

"Deny it all you wish, darling. But we both know the truth." Rising in a singular motion, he advanced until they stood nose to nose, breath mingling in a mockery of intimacy.

"You crave the chaos only I can provide. The power, the pleasures of the flesh..." long fingers drifted to trace the fluttering pulse in Gavin's neck, barely breath away from parting lips.

"All yours for the taking. If only you would cease this petulant charade and embrace what lies between us, as you did so...eagerly last night."

Gavin shuddered, curse his traitor flesh yearning to recapture those bittersweet inflictions. But he'd be no man's plaything a second time.

With a snarl, he shoved Loki away. "In your dreams, trickster. I answer to no one." And swept from the chamber with as much dignity as his unsteady legs could muster.

For days Gavin stalked Asgard's gleaming Citadel like a caged panther, taking meals in his chamber and traversing seldom-used balconies to avoid crossing paths with a certain silver-tongued god.

Each hour wound his nerves tighter, half expecting Loki to materialize from the shadows with that infuriating smirk and honeyed words meant to ensnare. But the Trickster remained conspicuously absent, and Gavin told himself it was for the best.

His traitor heart knew different. That dark night had left an ache not so easily banished, no matter how fiercely he channeled frustration into training. Each move, each ragged breath, Loki's phantom touched blossomed anew - searing, damning, undeniable.

When at last their paths were destined to cross once more, it was in solitude's last refuge. Gavin strode to the high balcony overlooking the glittering city, craving solace amongst uncaring stars. Yet leaning against carved stone, gazing into the endless void...was he.

Loki spared him a sidelong glance, swirling wine between elegant fingers. "Have you been avoiding me, darling?" Like silk his words caressed, belied by the glint in his eyes - hunger, impatience, a challenge.

Gavin's fingers curled tight around stone, clinging to crumbling resolve. The past week's tension breathed as a word: "No." But his eyes betrayed all, drinking in that familiar visage like a parched wanderer finding oasis.

Loki chuckled softly, setting aside his goblet to advance with feline grace. A single finger curled beneath Gavin's clenched jaw, tilting defiant chin up to meet his predatory gaze.

"Do not lie to me. It does not suit you." Gavin could barely repress a shudder as that voice slid through him, honeyed venom finding every crack in crumbling defenses.

"What do you want from me, Loki?" he forced through clenched teeth, fighting the pull like drowning man to tossed lifeline. A lethal bargain, any exchange with this creature. And yet...

Loki smiled, slow and dangerous. "I want what was so freely offered before fear and doubt took root in that curious mortal mind of yours." Velvet claws slid to encircle Gavin's nape, drawing their mouths a hairsbreadth apart.

"Surrender to me fully, as you did that night. Let chaos be your master for once..."

Gavin knew then, resistance was futile. With a low growl he closed those final fractions, claiming Loki's smirk in a punishing kiss meant to inflict - and consume them both in wildfire.

Gavin had always kept people at arm's length, walls built tall and thick around his battered heart. But with one maddening god, all those defenses came crumbling down.

He awoke slowly in the pale light of dawn, Loki curled beside him still in sated slumber. For once that sharp visage held no cunning malice, merely utter tranquility. An unlikely sight, and yet...

Reaching out, Gavin brushed an inky strand from Loki's face, marveling how such deceptive beauty could incite chaos with a single word. How this creature had burrowed past every façade to claim a place in his shattered soul, for good or ill.

Loki stirred, cracking one sleepy emerald eye to peer up at him through dark lashes. "Admiring the view?" His voice held none of its usual razor-honed barbs, resembling something almost...fond.

"Thinking," Gavin murmured, tracing the curve of Loki's lips with calloused thumb. Lips that parted to place a whisper-soft kiss to his skin, promising untold delights if he'd only continue surrendering piece by piece.

Though doors long locked now swung open, remnants of long-held caution lingered. Loki was, after all, a creature notorious for twisting meanings to selfish ends. Gavin had tasted too much bitter fruit not to watch for worm-riddled cores.

Yet...he sensed something more writ between them now, fragile as dawn's first light. A connection, however chaotic its nature, that soothed primal hungers in a way no other ever could.

Time would tell if such bonds withstood reality's weight. But for now, Gavin let his walls stand watch while he savored the solace of new-forged intimacy, come what chaos the morrow wrought.

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

Welp, hope you guys like this one!

here's the information about Gavin if you're interested in his backstory and character more:

https://www.tumblr.com/gcthvile/738761880067342336/gavin-hyde?source=share

@missstrawbs2001 @jackiequick @blueboirick @cherrys @meiramel @purpleprincessonfyre @ask-missparker @askstevella @therealdaydreamstark @rickb-chaos @luna-d-marsh @gaminggirlsstuff @eddysocs

#oc post #oc rp #oc rpg #oc introduction #marvel #marvel roleplay #marvel oc #marvel x oc

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