#does this even fit the prompt casual? i think its fine lol

[villowrose]

day 2 - CASUAL

Entry for @glowweek

Out of curiosity of how Steven would look with straight hair, Connie convinces him into straightening his hair. Unsurprisingly, he ends up looking like Greg from the 80s.

I was also going to draw Steven helping Connie dye parts of her hair a teal color, but I had run out of time. might make it later though :D

[the-last-kenobi]

Most of your fics absolutely destroyed me emotionally so, on my own risk, may I request #13 “You shouldn’t be this easy to carry" with Qui-Gon and padawan Obi-Wan? Thank you!

Ohhh I’m happy to write this one! Thank you! (Always pleased to hear I’ve emotionally wrecked innocent people lol)

From this various prompts list.

_

Qui-Gon descended the ramp of his ship with something less than his usual grace, his expression was rather sour. Other than that, he looked his usual self, untidy but comfortable and serene.

He waved to the attendant heading towards the ship, and bowed to a small mechanic droid that squeaked with excitement, ran in circles around him, and then darted off after the attendant.

Qui-Gon chuckled. He paused to take a deep breath, tasting the metallic scent of Coruscant on the air, but also the warm and familiar notes of the Temple, of home. It was good to be back. Tedious diplomatic assignments that ran well overtime were nothing worth dwelling on, especially when it was done alone.

“Master Jinn!” a warm voice called.

He turned his head and saw Shaak Ti walking towards him, a smile on her lovely face with its striking colors.

“Knight Ti,” he greeted her. “How are you?”

“I’m well,” she answered. “I’m just about to depart to Alderaan; it’s a royal wedding and I’m the token Jedi invitee,” she informed him, but there was no offense in her voice. Alderaan was well known to be genuinely welcoming, and had been more than courteous in their dealings with the Order for centuries on end.

“Enjoy it,” Qui-Gon advised her. “Weddings are rarely something you’d like to miss.”

“I will,” she promised. “Oh, is your Padawan around? I was hoping to catch him when he returned, he forgot to sign off on his departure notice and was scheduled for three shifts in the crèche, which he obviously missed.”

Qui-Gon’s head tilted to one side, and he frowned.

It was obvious that Shaak Ti believed that Obi-Wan had accompanied him on his mission, which had in fact been a solo assignment. The twenty-one-year-old Padawan had remained behind for class rotations.

And Obi-Wan had never missed... well, anything. He was notoriously early for everything, beyond punctual. It was almost annoying.

Perhaps he’d finally slipped into a belated teenage fit of laziness, or he’d fallen so behind on class work that he’d forgotten about the crèche. Both would be extremely out of character, but one instance of this in nearly nine years of training could perhaps be excused.

Shaak Ti was waiting for an answer.

“I’ll talk to him,” he promised, revealing nothing. “Thank you for letting me know. I had no idea.”

She waved it off. “These things happen. You have a good student on your hands; he’s easily forgiven.”

Qui-Gon smiled.

~

The door to their quarters opened for him with a casual wave of the hand. Jedi did not lock their doors often; privacy was an understood thing, something not casually breached. No Jedi would enter another’s rooms without first asking permission.

He wasn’t sure what he expected.

Obi-Wan in the common area, reading.

Or Obi-Wan out and about, somewhere off with some of his more trouble making friends. (Quinlan Vos.)

He was not expecting to find Obi-Wan huddled in the corner of their kitchenette, half-hidden in his cloak, knees drawn up under his chin, crying.

Obi-Wan saw him enter and flinched away, shuddering.

Qui-Gon stared.

The entire scene was so unexpected, so wrong, that for a full five seconds he simply stood there, unable to process it. Obi-Wan had buried his face in his knees and was attempting to stifle his tears, seemingly by holding his breath, which was only making him shake harder.

Qui-Gon jolted out of his paralysis and stepped nearer, dropping onto one knee, sensing that looming over his Padawan was not going to help.

“Padawan?” he asked cautiously.

Obi-Wan looked up reluctantly. His face was a sickly grey; his cheeks were bright red and his blue eyes were feverish. They darted around, seeming to fix on nothing.

“Obi-Wan,” the Master tried again, warily reaching out a hand and resting it on top of one of Obi-Wan’s, clenched around his knee.

Obi-Wan took a rattling breath, more tears spilling down his cheeks. “...What... day is it...?” he gasped.

Qui-Gon’s chest tightened with something close to terror. What in all the galaxy was going on here?

“It’s the 29th,” he said gently. “Taungsday. I returned a day late from my solo mission. Do you remember that?”

Obi-Wan’s tears had increased throughout the brief speech. “Y-yes.”

“All right,” said Qui-Gon, struggling to remain as calm and patient as possible. “All right. Can you tell me what’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

Obi-Wan shook his head, his expression crumbling. Suddenly he very much resembled the boy Qui-Gon had met on Bandomeer, uncertain and frightened, although even then he had not cried. This was different.

“Are you sure?” Qui-Gon pressed.

Obi-Wan nodded, strangling a loud sob by clapping one hand over his mouth. He said something, but of course it was impossible to understand behind his clamped fingers.

“What?” asked his Master.

“...so...stupid,” Obi-Wan burst out angrily through his tears. “I just... don’t feel well.”

“Don’t feel well?” Qui-Gon stared at his apprentice in confusion. “You’re sick? Obi-Wan, why didn’t you just go to the Halls?”

Obi-Wan shuddered. More tears slid down over his flushed cheeks. “I...I...I fell,” he said, sounding deeply uncertain. “I was working, and it was late, and I fell. I think I fell. I can’t walk. I can barely move. I don’t know how long it’s been—”

Qui-Gon was already moving, alarm ringing in his head like sirens. In two seconds he had Obi-Wan in his arms, cradled like a child, his head resting under Qui-Gon’s chin.

“You shouldn’t be this easy to carry,” he said tensely. “You haven’t had anything to eat or drink since you fell?”

“Some... some water,” Obi-Wan murmured. His skin was blazing hot against Qui-Gon’s, a sick and feverish heat. He had stopped crying — his tears seemed to have stemmed from a combination of confusion and shame, not pain — but he seemed on the verge of passing out. “I... I got some water... don’t remember when...”

“Stay awake,” Qui-Gon ordered. He was striding down the hallways, ignoring the few bystanders who watched them pass with bewilderment and concern. He did send a grateful nod to one young woman who raised her comm in her hand at him, asking a silent question, and at his gesture raised it to her lips and murmured ‘Tell the Healers that Master Jinn is bringing in his Padawan. Have someone ready.’

Obi-Wan murmured something vague.

“Stay awake,” insisted Qui-Gon. “Don’t fall asleep.”

Obi-Wan moaned but nodded, forcing his eyes to stay open. “I...I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize.” The words came out harsh and insincere in Qui-Gon’s urgency, and he realized it, because he dropped a swift kiss to the top of the fevered head in apology. Obi-Wan relaxed ever so slightly.

They arrived in the Halls of Healing and were immediately received by a Healer and his apprentice, who had Obi-Wan safely tucked in a bed and monitored in less than two minutes. Obi-Wan had closed his eyes against the bright light and seemed in danger of falling asleep again.

“Stay awake just a little longer, Padawan Kenobi,” the Healer instructed kindly. “I’m fairly sure of your diagnosis but I have to be more certain before I can administer treatment. Then you can sleep.”

“Yes, Healer,” rasped the young man.

Qui-Gon watched from the wall, his hands tucked deep in his sleeves to hide how they trembled. The shock of the last quarter hour was setting in, and he scrambled to keep his wits about him, worried about what this diagnosis might be. He still remembered Obi-Wan’s confusion about the day, his bewildered tears, and that memory was not going to be going away anytime soon.

He had been far too light in his arms.

Just how long had Obi-Wan been trapped in their rooms, unable to call for help and too confused to figure out a way around that? How long had he gone without eating and sleeping?

He found out.

An hour later, Obi-Wan was fast asleep, hooked up to an IV and blissfully pain-free due to a dose of pills he had managed to swallow. The Healer turned to Qui-Gon with a weary smile.

“You’re all right?” he asked.

“I’m fine. I’ve just returned from a mission, but I wasn’t hurt.”

“That’s good to know. I was asking about shock, however,” the Healer said gently. “I know this can’t have been a pleasant homecoming.”

Qui-Gon’s throat tightened, but he said nothing.

The Healer seemed to understand. “Obi-Wan has contracted a strain of the flu,” he explained, moving past the brief surge of emotion. “As you know, most strains of the flu are easily combated these days and many species have evolved or inoculated to the point where it’s hardly a concern. But sometimes the flu is stronger. In this case, it’s clear that it’s job was made easy. I don’t think Padawan Kenobi was eating or sleeping properly before the sickness began to set in. It would explain the severity of his malnutrition, and his confusion.”

Qui-Gon’s eyes flickered to the bed where Obi-Wan was sleeping, the fever still burning in his cheeks.

“...How long?” he asked.

“A few days at most,” the Healer said. “But I suspect it’s a habit that’s related to stress and overwork. Does Obi-Wan struggle with stress or insomnia?”

The Master hesitated a moment, opening his mouth to deny it, and then stopping to think better of it.

“...Maybe,” he admitted. The hesitation stung. Shouldn’t he know? “He’s very private with his habits when we’re in Temple. He prefers to study alone in his room, and we usually only manage to share one meal a day during his busier semesters, if that.”

The Healer nodded. He didn’t look or sound at all accusatory when he said, “That’s understandable. I’m going to suggest keeping a closer eye on that. Don’t force him out of his comfort zone, at least not right away, but make sure he understands that three square meals — or better yet, a light meal or snack every two or three hours — is expected of him. As is sleep.”

Qui-Gon nodded, his throat tightening again to the point of pain.

“Rest easy, Master Jinn,” said the Healer, briefly laying a supportive hand on the taller Jedi’s shoulder. “He’ll pull through this. The illness, and everything else. I believe it’s nothing more than a bad habit formed from good intentions. There are crueler demons out there.”

“Yes, I know,” said Qui-Gon. And he did know. One didn’t reach Jedi Mastery without learning the galaxy for what it was.

But he didn’t think he would ever quite move past the shock of today, of carrying his adult apprentice in his arms, sick to the point of tears and helplessness, and then discovering that he could possibly have prevented this if he had paid a little more attention to Obi-Wan’s work habits.

Well. They would, as the Healer said, overcome this.

Qui-Gon drew up a chair to the side of the bed, resolving to wait until Obi-Wan woke, and slowly reached out and set his hand next to his Padawan’s. After a moment, Obi-Wan stirred, and even in his sleep he gave a contented sigh and shifted his hand, his fingers searching blindly for his Master’s hand. Qui-Gon took it and held it tightly.

They had overcome so many things in nearly a decade together.

They could handle this.

And besides, Qui-Gon told himself, even after Obi-Wan was Knighted, he would always be here to watch his back.

He would never abandon Obi-Wan.

_

[catharrington]

It’s Highnon, not high when she writes to you (ironically). The prompt was doctor-patient porn, but not like a porn video being made within the fic story, but just straight up porn. Doctor A must give a full... physical... examination of Patient B, both inner and outer for a full health check up. Mmm what kind of instruments would Doctor have? Hey! That one’s not medical grade appropriate that one looks like was specially made for a particular use! Oh Doctor, do make me feel... better 🍆🍑💦👅

Highnon you are a dirty dirty dog. That’s why I like you ;) idk why I’m always thinking about hockey player Steve. I think I’m projecting Keanu Reeves on him a little bit lol. But w/e~ enjoy!

Fooled around and fell in love.

Steve skated towards the exit gate with a hiss of pain, clutching his side where one of his teammates sticks had broken over it. He didn’t want to listen to his coach and get it checked out. He actually insisted on continuing practice. That was until a friendly pat on the back had his breath shortening in his chest, his ribs seizing up, and his legs giving out. So it became less of a suggestion, and more of an order.

Stepping off the ice and across to the locker room, Steve changed out of his not thick enough padding and jersey for his street clothes. A skimpy pair of shorts almost pastel in their spearmint green color, and a cut off tshirt that once read a band name and is now too faded from sweat and washing detergent to decipher. Skating got him cold, but hockey practice always left Steve over heated so he didn’t like to wear much after.

Now, however, as he lifts his duffel bag and skates tied together with their laces over his shoulder, and carries his stick in his hand like a wizard on an adventure, his shorts feel a little silly.

He’s got to make the trek across his university campus to the infirmary. Any other day, Steve would dump his stuff in his car and maybe drive his car. But it’s sunny outside so he walked to the closed off air conditioned auditorium. Of course.

The sun comes down on his back as he thinks about the physical therapist he’s walking towards. Hargrove, Doctor Hargrove, if one can even be a doctor of giving massages. He’s just transferred down from being a football teams specialist in California and he shows it. Young and talented. All sun kissed skin and rippling surfer muscles. The type of guy to pull his long blond hair back into a pony tail and roller blade down a boardwalk with cut off jeans on— and only cut of jeans on.

Steve shivers with the image.

But it’s real life that has those shivers crawling as goosebumps up the patch of hair on Steve’s chest and to his neck. It’s the real life Doctor Hargrove that wears sun faded button up shirts left unbuttoned just a smudge unprofessionally. And the real life pair of gold wire frame glasses he keeps on the tip of his button nose. Looks over them with a smile when he’s listening to Steve’s story of his visit. Doesn’t judge, just smiles perfect teeth. Makes Steve feel warm all over no matter how much pain he’s in.

And damn, that’s not great. Having a school boy crush on a Doctor he’s only meet three times. That’s not going to keep his scholarship he so desperately needs.

So Steve tries harder, pushing himself to skate faster and shoot straighter and shove bastards up against the glass. Prove he’s good as hell at hockey. But that leads to more accidents. More injuries. And now he’s here, in front of the quaint little therapy office, for a forth time this season.

“Harrington,” the receptionist calls as soon as he comes through the door.

Steve smiles sheepishly back at her, dumping his equipment off on a coffee table littered with magazines before he goes up to her window. “How’s it going?” he tries to lean casually but ends up wincing in pain.

She’s not impressed, sympathetic, but not impressed. She doesn’t look down as she picks up her phone and presses two buttons before saying his name out loud again. It’s only a short call, just to get Doctor Hargrove out, just to hear those unprofessional boots hitting the linoleum floor.

“Stevie,” Doctor Hargrove opens the door with a salty breeze of ocean air. Catches Steve right on his jaw with how he’s got his hair pulled back in a loose pony tail. His wire frames folded to the pocket of his shirt making it weigh down teasingly showing off more tanned skin. Steve licks his lips and tries to focus on the doctor’s words as he starts speaking.

“Your coach called me and let me know what happened. A whole stick cracked over your back. I gotta say— that’s pretty hardcore to take and keep trying to play... for a pretty boy like you.” He ends the last with a wink.

“Then it’s a good thing I’m here? The best care for the school’s best team players?” Steve tries to casually complement him. Remind him it’s professional.

“The best care, and the best hands... all for you, Stevie,” Doctor Hargrove smirks.

He gets his words thrown right back to him with a flirty force strong as California sun burns. Makes Steve blush up his legs and under his shorts to the softest part of inside his thighs. Steve can only giggle, running a hand over the sweaty back of his neck while keeping his head down.

“Lets get started, I’ve got you all set up,” he steps aside to hold the door open. Steve doesn’t want to go, doesn’t want to let himself get too close. But at the same time he craves it, yerns for it, would beg for it, if it would make a difference.

So he leaves his huge bag of equipment in the safety of the waiting room and scoots past his physical therapist close enough to make his mouth water.

“Last door,” the Doctor whispers directions into the narrow hallway. Steve goes quickly to the open doorway. Settles inside in a not settled way, clutching his arms across his stomach as he watches Doctor Hargrove ready about.

One hand motions Steve over while the other slides across a massage table’s plush leather. A long dark cream colored thing he’s familiar with. Each massage is simple, lets Steve keep a pair of shorts on the whole time, stands him up nicely with a hand to his lower back, and leaves him feeling all together lighter and heavier at the same time.

“Shirt off, lay down, call me Billy,” he starts listing off more orders. They sound so good.

Steve follows easily. Yanking his shirt off, rustling his shoulder length brown hair, and going to the table to lay down right at his doctor’s beck and call. “Billy,” he tests the name on his mouth lastly. He knew Hargrove’s name was William— but Billy tasted so much better.

“Stevie,” Billy says as he hovers his hands over his naked back, “this whole side of your ribs are going to bruise.” He makes a tisk sound with his mouth like he’s scolding him. Makes Steve’s breath hitch.

“I’m going to feel around, make sure nothing is broken or misplaced. Let me know if you feel any shifting or pain.” Then fingers are on Steve’s side, playing with his skin to shift it around and feel the ladder of his bones. Wide fingers that are well used with calloused tips, but somehow soft and warm. Sand underfoot on a beach you know is made of tiny glass shards but you cannot help but to burry your hands up to your wrists in its warmth.

Steve shivers again, doesn’t moan. “Just super sore,” he replies. And yes, there isn’t any sharp pain or poke, just his skin clouding over in purple as his muscles throw a fit from being abused.

“Then that’s good,” Billy hums. His hands leave only for a moment. Steve doesn’t have to look. He can hear a clicking top of a bottle and the tell tale sounds of wet hands rubbing against each other. Warming up. Steve puts his face as flush into the fluffy white pillow of the table as possible to hide his dusty rose cheeks.

“I believe a deep massage right now will do you well. Loosen up the tension and bring healing blood circulating back to the bruise. Get it nice and worked out, hum? That sound good, Stevie?” Billy prattles on but hasn’t touched him yet.

Steve doesn’t reply, he’s thinking about why and when Billy considered it okay to call him Stevie. A part of him realizes he’s been doing it since their first meeting.

Before his mind wanders too far, there’s two warm hands palming his shoulder blades. Wet and sopping in oil that slides across his skin easily. Melts his stiff back good enough to make his eyes flutter closed. Steve wills his arms to come from his sides up to wrap around his head, uses them like a makeshift pillow when he has a perfectly fine one, really uses his flushed skin to bite down on.

“This is a brand new oil I had delivered here from California,” Billy makes small talk as if his hands weren’t working circles into the top of Steve’s tense muscled back hard and deep enough to make him see stars. “It’s organic and world peace, all that stuff. Made with real hemp oil local to there. Really supposed to do the trick.”

“Hemp oil?” Steve purrs out. Doesn’t really registers he’s done it until his mouth is already open and dragging the L noise through the back of his throat. He clamps his mouth shut. Presses his forehead into his pillow.

Billy only laughs over him. His hands working down and down, working right where Steve’s spine dips. Rubbing long lines in and out the dip with his two thick thumbs every inch and sends an electric shockwave of pleasure. Does it unhindered and unbothered and so professionally it’s making Steve’s toes curl in his Nikes.

“Yeah hemp,” Billy keeps talking. “They are really looking into it back home. All the uses. Oil, of course, but then there’s the seeds they can use to make flower, and the plant itself can make fibers for rope or clothes. Imagine that, hum? A shirt made from hemp?”

Billy’s hands are down at Steve’s Venus dimples. Right above the waist band of his pastel mint shorts. The oil is soaking into his skin making him feel drunk. The pressure of the fingers are turning his body numb in the best, the very best, of highs.

Steve isn’t paying attention anymore, he’s got his eyes closed and his tussled hair falling over his face. Only hums back for a second as a reply. Doesn’t care the hum comes out much too deep and long. And then comments without filtering. “I imagine some hemp rolled into a joint would be pretty good right about now.”

That earns him a laugh. And Billy’s pressing his thumbs directly into his Venus dimples as he lets the laughter roll through his fingers.

Steve wasn’t ready, can’t stop the moan that comes out of his mouth. He tries to catch it with a hand slapped to lips but it’s too late. Billy’s fingers are gone. There’s a list of apologies already forming on Steve’s tongue, but then those fingers are back. Not back on his skin, but pushing lightly against the waist band of his shorts.

One hand teasing right where they sit over a hip, the other hand pressing into the bruise on his side. But not his hand, something else. Something long and thin and curved off at the tip.

“Billy?” Steve shivers again. Wishes he had all those fingers back.

“I’d like to try something else new, if you’d permit me?” Billy asks. The object tracing around his ribs. Putting more pointed pressure down on them then fingers could. Making Steve’s breath fully catch with how his body can only mold around the solid object.

“This is a massage stick. It’s wooden, hand carved out of real cherry oak. It’s supposed to calm and relax and also reach where I couldn’t with my fingers.” The round tip traces one rib all the way from Steve’s stomach to his spine. Leaves a trail of oil as it goes. Billy must have gotten it dripping wet with the stuff.

Steve moves his hand off his lips, groans as soon as he does, but recovers with a soft nod. “Oh— Okay,” he permits Billy to continue. Steve moves his hand up to get a fist in his hair in an attempt to shut himself up.

“Good, boy,” Billy growls out over him, his tone changed. Warm sand sweltering under the hot sun. Steve’s skin blistering where his fingers are still playing with his waist band.

“Let me take these down, just a little, don’t want to get oil all over your shorts?” and his voice is gravel rough and sickly sweet all at the same time. And better, he’s bent over whispering right into the back of Steve’s neck. His breath his fire scorching over the long hairs that curl over the nape of Steve’s neck. Making them blow in his wind and also get wet and tacky all at the same time.

Steve yanks the fist of his own hair he has hard, trying to swim back to the surface. It doesn’t work. Instead he only drags out another moan, sluty, needy, and at the end of it begs, “yes, oh, yes,” in a chant.

Billy listens, sliding his shorts down just so they clear the curve of Steve’s ass. The waist band hooking under his curvy shapely cheeks to make them plump up even more. One hand splays over his ass. Palms him easy and whole like a fucking basket ball. Billy’s hand still wet and soft with the oil gives his cheek a testing squeeze that makes Steve whimper and buck into the massage table.

It’s embarrassing, but Steve can’t think. Can only smell Billy’s cologne, his own cock hard and dripping pre cum in his shorts, and good weed.

The massage stick moves from his ribs to the small of his back. Testing their muscles like before, making them give in easy ways fingers couldn’t. Billy rubs before he starts dragging the stick up the dip of Steve’s spine. He’s pushing hard but not painful, not enough to bother the curve of each disk in his spine but enough to pressure each muscle to a romantic numb feeling.

Billy takes the stick up and down twice, letting Steve’s posture completely change under the treatment, arching up into the touch, before he drags it down farther. Over the knot of his spine at the very bottom. Then the slickness of the oil drips down the crack of his ass. Steve’s eyes snap open, screwed shut focusing on his haggard breathing, now he has to stop himself from thinking he’s dreaming.

Doctor Hargrove, Doctor dream boat, shirt left unbuttoned because he’s an asshole who loves to put on a show. Knows exactly how beautiful the rippling waves in his blue eyes are. Knows he promises with each muscle and motion to the domination he could have over those waves if he only had a board.

It’s almost a dream. He’s got those hands on Steve’s body, asking Steve for permission and taking the reigns at the same time. Steve’s good at skating and chasing a puck. He was raised under thick trees in a dark forest and cold winters practicing on his skates with the headlights of his car the only light. He’s not used to the glare of the sun, not used to how his leaves unfurl under the attention. He’s embarrassed, but god he can’t help it.

Billy keeps moving the massage stick down, over the curve of his ass and gets the oil spread all over his hole. Gets the side of the stick rubbing on him long, hard, dominating every inch of him.

“Holy shit,” Steve finally lets out in a breathy coil. His arms fold under the pillow to press it hard to his face. While his thighs press together in a full body shiver, his hips arching up off the table for more friction.

The pillow is stifling his whimpers and moans, Billy seems to notice. He gets the hand not occupied with the massage stick to trail up Steve’s back. Dragging his thick, heavy fingers up to run through the length of Steve’s brown hair at the back of his head.

Billy gets his fingers buried in their damp length and pulls Steve’s head out of the pillow.

“Holy fuck, Billy,” Steve lets out unhindered. His neck pulling taught as he chants out, “fuck, fuck, fuck,” then drops into wordless moans.

“Yeah, I knew you’d love this, pretty boy,” Billy murmurs right into his ear.

His hand is still moving, up and down, before the rounded tip catches lightly on the rim of his hole. Steve whimpers desperately, arching up so the well oiled tip pushes easily right in. Billy keeps his wrist straight as the wood inches inside, positively growls as Steve fucks himself on it. Pulling his hair tighter, yanking his head back makes his back arch even more, Steve moans out as his knees push his ass up higher. He’s letting Billy play him like an instrument.

And honestly, Steve doesn’t care he’s letting Billy play him like an instrument. The only thing he’s thinking about is the thick fingers gripping his hair and the hard shaft of wood working inside him.

It’s been a while for Steve, trying to maintain a good grade point average and be the best at a difficult sport, he hasn’t been fucked in a while. His rim opens slowly, dragging slightly painfully as the massage stick goes deep. But the oil is slick and the wood is smooth. He whimpers out a soft gasping noise as he feels Billy’s knuckles brush against his ass cheek.

Billy keeps his fist around the base of the massage stick, twists it so his hand is flush with Steve’s skin, sinking the wood as far inside as he’ll let it go. He manages to keep an air of professionalism, much to Steve’s disappointment, as he rolls his wrist to push in and out. Dragging until the rounded off head is almost out then pushing right back in knuckle deep.

Steve’s straining, pulled taut between Billy’s fist and his own eagerness to get filled with whatever he can reach. His back straining beautifully in a way that hurts his muscles as much as massages them. If he could stay like this, head yanked back and practically sitting up on his knees to get his ass out, for hours he would. But his cock is still trapped in his skimpy little shorts. His cock is dripping wet pre cum that’s leaving a wet spot almost up to his navel. There’s a smell of it in the scented air. And with each thrust of Billy, those languid and deep thrusts of the massage stick inside his ass, the tip of Steve’s cock presses into the leather of the table.

“Bill— Billy,” Steve struggles to get out, struggles to keep his balance with how he’s wiggling and whimpering around. “Please, I want to cum,” he begs.

Then generously, with his own low groan breathed right into Steve’s ear, Billy picks up the pace. Starts thrusting the massage stick short but fast, tilting the head downward to spear into Steve just correct and earn him a sob.

“Yes, fuck yes, Billy,” Steve’s thighs are shaking, his arms that are trying to hold himself up to Billy’s mercy are quivering. His muscles crafted so skillfully for his sport melting sticky, hot under the California sun. Sugar water dripping down Billy’s arms in the middle of the afternoon while he gives his popsicle one lazy lick root to tip.

Inside his shorts, Steve comes a jagged thrusting mess of white. Pumps himself to the same neck breaking thrusts Billy keeps pushing against his prostate with. It’s embarrassing, to cum first and untouched. But the leather is enough to rut against and milk himself with. Dry humping the bed like he’s a teenager again with his magazine of David Hasselhoff lounged out across the hood of his car.

Billy lets his head drop back to the pillow. A kind allowance, let’s Steve’s cries get muffled into the cotton pillow. The massage stick comes out slowly, careful of his sore rim. Steve isn’t thinking about much other than how fucking good he feels until he feels velvet softness press on his ass.

He pushes himself up on one elbow and strains over his shoulder, hurts like hell. But he gets to see Billy, Doctor Hargrove, taking his own cheery red cock out the front of his unzipped jeans and pumping himself mean over Steve’s ass. His lips are glossy and swollen, parted in a groan, and his chest left open by his shirt is flushed with sweat. His doctors coat is open and disheveled, one side fallen off his shoulder. The side he ain’t using to jack himself off on his patient’s ass.

Light blue eyes swirled with sea foam green look upwards at Steve. Catches his own big brown eyes like a cat catching a bird out the sky. With a smile.

He cums like that, making eye contact, smiling with his mouth open and his white teeth sparkling. His tongue rolling out one side just to lick over his fat bottom lip in a tease. His cum shoots fat across Steve’s exposed ass, making it just as glossy as Billy’s lips.

With one hand he pumps himself dry, Steve watching as he shakes with the effort, then uses the other to tuck himself back into his jeans and zip up. Billy has a smile on his face that’s faded slightly from his leering, made softer. He takes both hands and palms them against Steve’s ass. Kneading the muscles of his cheeks just as skillfully as he worked the oil into them.

“Stevie,” he leans back over. Steve drops himself from his elbow as Billy comes in close. Sinking back down to the pillow to lay across it, desperately falling away from those lips. “Feel better after that treatment?” And Billy knows what he’s doing. He leans as far forward as he can, getting his mouth ghosting across Steve’s jaw. Laying open mouthed kisses long his sharp bone as he waits for a reply.

Steve works on one with his spent throat. Struggling slightly to make any noise other than a mewl. Finally he rasps, “feels much better, Doctor.”

Billy giggles at that, right in his ear again. His breath tickling Steve’s hair. “You’re such a good boy for me, Stevie. Let me fix you up perfectly. Let me ruin that pretty ass just right?”

“Billy,” and it’s more of a plea than a name. More of begging than a declaration of anything.

Steve full body shudders on the table as if he’s cuming again when Billy blows a soft breath of air past his ear to lay more kisses. His thick wet tongue curls around Steve’s ear lobe and licks, one long swipe around to the tip, his glossy lips catching all the messy strands of Steve’s hair going everywhere. His tongue moves past. Then he presses one last kiss to the side of his forehead before moving away.

There’s a second’s tick as Steve realizes he’s supposed to move and get up and the knowledge that he simply doesn’t want to. Suddenly he does, pushing himself up and onto shaky legs. Feeling like a doe on thin wavering legs stepping out to the slippery sands of a beach for the first time. He pushes off the table wearily. Reaching for his shirt he discarded on a nearby chair. And oh, thankfully finding a dispenser of paper towels he grabs a fist of to clean his shorts off.

Billy’s still close. A lingering presence right behind Steve as he works around the Doctor’s office. Watching him from those blue eyes predator hungry. Steve wants to rolls his eyes, the man seems starved, but Steve also wants to try for a swim. See where else they can take that old massage table to.

Instead they stay quiet, stay smiling. The cramped examination room very warm now. Steve pulls on his shirt and starts working on wiping the inside of his shorts clean. He feels Billy come up along side him before he can hear him. Even smells his cologne again. The lingering hemp oil on his hands that now reach up to trail along the sensitive skin between Steve’s elbow and his shoulder.

“Want to schedule a follow up? Let’s say?,” and Billy trails off. Steve turns over his shoulder to look at him. His dark eyebrows high on his pretty face and his eyelashes long.

Steve swallows, “Saturday? At 8?” He blurts.

There’s a moment of hesitation on Billy’s face, his thick brows knitting together on his forehead for a second before that wild wolf grin he was wearing as they walked into the back room earlier. “You asking me on a date, Stevie?”

Throwing the towels into the waste basket to clear up his hands, Steve spins in Billy’s arms. He looks up, meets bright blue eyes, wants to watch as his hands trail over the shirt still spread wide on his chest but doesn’t want to look away. Steve nervously plays with the golden wire framed glasses still tucked into Billy’s pocket.

“Yeah, I am,” he says. “My apartment. Got a nice one just a few blocks from campus. Tiny. But decent kitchen. I make a great red sauce pasta, at least that’s what my nana says.”

Billy nods along. Smile turns a little more kitten than wolf as Steve mentions his old nana. “Pasta, your apartment, Saturday at 8? Sounds like a fairy tale date, pretty boy. I won’t miss it for the world.”

Steve shrugs. Feels powerful with his fingers the ones all over Billy’s body. With his appointments and plans the ones taking up Billy’s schedule for once. He feels like sunshine. So he takes his hands and cups them over Billy’s cheeks, slids his own calloused fingers over the subtle beard there, leans in for a soft press of their lips.

Billy is smiling into the kiss. Steve smiles back just as wide. Their teeth knock together once. Steve’s nose gets squished as they move around.

He parts for a second just long enough to whisper, “bring that hemp oil with you, yeah?” before Steve’s got those dreamy lips back on his.

[succinct-assbutt]

Burn Me Into Smoke

A/N: I watched Ragnarok like a week back and now suddenly I’m caught in yet another obsession lol. Enjoy!

Tagging @whirlybirbs​ (because I’m obsessed with them) and @dobby-is-a-fr33-elf

Fandom: Marvel

Pairing: Loki x Reader

Warnings: Maybe some cuss words? Slow burn.

Summary: Turns out neither of them are good at handling their feelings.​

                                                           ~*~*~

For the most part Y/N can’t stand his arrogance.

Patience has never been a virtue of hers, not in the face of her enemies or an event drawn out through a couple of weeks and it always manages to show when he’s around. Strutting like he owns the place. Shoulders pulled back. Smug. A sickening thought just picturing him here, the image so vivid it’s almost tangible, and she shuts her eyes and lets out a huff of frustration.

In the training room the sound echoes off the walls. Everybody’s gone out for dinner. A mission gone well—courtesy of Rogers—and they’d settled on drinks at a nearby bar, trying to coax Y/N into joining them (maybe she would have if it wasn’t for the soreness in her muscles from a day’s work). She doesn’t mind the quiet, anyway. She’s never been one for crowds and liquor sloshing onto the toes of her boots—and she’s definitely a fan of the company.

Fucking Loki.

A menace. Standing to her feet, she tries not to let her thoughts wander, lifting her arms and stretching out the knots in her back. She pops her shoulder and lolls her neck to the sides. Bitter because she shouldn’t have to stay in, just because of the team’s charity case—after everything he’s done, Y/N can’t help but think, it’s surprising they let him through the front door.

But there he is.

In every corner of the house. Bits of him. Whether the lingering tension from an argument with his brother or his stupid socks or that damn daggers hidden among the cutler. Silence never does you any good and she wonders why she won’t just say it out loud, move past the hate-stares and the snide comments and the passive aggressive vibe she hopes he’ll pick up on. Probably has. He’s a smart boy, as much as it sickens her to admit.

“Need some help?” A voice cuts through the silence, startling her.

Wide-eyed, she whips around. The lights are dimmed. When she squints she can make out a silhouette curled against the door, and that’s when the anger she’s been trying to stifle starts to bubble back up her throat.

“What are you doing here?” She spits, eyes narrowed as he steps out of the shadow.

His eyes are dull and tried and you can tell he’s been drinking. There’s a redness in them and around the rim, and his white shirt is done down two buttons too many, pallid skin almost screaming at Y/N to look.

“Came back early. One can only spend so much time killing their liver, not to mention I had one too many gin n’ tonics.”

“Is there such a thing?”

“Apparently, if this menacing headache means anything.” Loki’s flutter shut, hand rising to his head as he settles himself down on one of the benches. Wincing, he looks up.

“What?” He prompts. “Bad dreams again?”

“None of your business.”

“Not even if I ask nicely?”

“G’night, trickster.” When her bag is packed Y/N slings it over her shoulder and makes for the door, and she can feels his gaze on her as she moves. A little too intense—a little too curious…

But she doesn’t say anything as she flicks the light off and heads to bed.

                                                              ~*~*~

And this wasn’t how it was supposed to be.

Give him a promise of a few months and he’ll wind it down to a couple of days; give him six weeks of New York, of time spent in a house he’s never felt welcome in—give him time, and he’ll somehow make the most of the worst, he’s always thought. But this has gone on long enough now for him to know they’re not going anywhere.

When his brother invited him to stay here it hadn’t sounded so bad.

In hindsight maybe he should have known, he thinks now, drunkenly stumbling up to his room. There were tell-tale signs. A few unspoken words, the occasional death glare from across the table when he asked her to pass him a beer. A little too obvious, but he was too optimistic—for once—to read into.

Looking back he wishes he did.

Maybe then being the same room with her would be easier; maybe then his skin wouldn’t crawl and his blood wouldn’t surge and the evil they’ve convinced him he can shutter wouldn’t rear its ugly head. But it’s been weeks now…Almost a few months…and nothing’s changed.

He still—and always will—despise her.

                                                           ~*~*~*~

It’s no surprise they’re all hung over the next morning.

Y/N feels guilty for laughing. At first. Eventually the sight of the team passed out across the house is a sight too comical for anything less than stifled chuckles from across the breakfast bar, and she lets them overtake her

“It’s not funny.” Tony says, voice muffled by his hands cradling his face.

“Yeah, it’s fucking hilarious.” She smiles and it reaches her eyes. He grumbles. Nat curses under her breath as she sits up. The pitcher of juice is passed around, everybody pouring themselves a mug to ease the migraines and groaning into their cups and suddenly she’s grateful she chose to stay in.

Bucky walks in with Steve, a little less pitiful than the rest of the crew and they settle down with everyone else. Y/N flashes them a brief smile, sliding their breakfast across the table.

“Yeah,” Thor nudges his away with a scowl. “I don’t think I can stomach bacon and eggs right now.”

“You, too, sparky?”

“Apparently being on earth for so long’s made me a bit of a lightweight.”

“Sure.”

“Or you just can’t hold your liquor.”

At the sound of the voice, both of them turn their attention to the stairs.

Loki’s blank-faced when he comes down, dressed in a black button down and some pants and hair curled around his jaw. Summer casual. The colors of mischief but for some reason—as much as she hates to admit it—it suits him (to be honest, almost anything does).

When he joins them at the bar, a strained smile stretches across his face. He nods. “Morning.”

“Morning.” Y/N’s expression is just as stilted as she hands him a glass of juice. “Food’s done so you’re going to have to whip something up for yourself.”

“Oh.”

“Shh..” Tony rest his head on the counter and this time Y/N’s chuckles are anything but discrete.

“That’s fine.” When her focus is back on him, Loki shrugs and fiddles with the glass. He throws back the drink in a single sip. Exhales. “I was heading out, anyway.”

“To?” Thor cuts in. “You barely ever leave the house.”

“Times are changing, brother.”

“Or maybe it’s just you.”

“I don’t feel like explaining myself so I’ll be off now.” He glances between the two of them, gaze lingering on her for what feels eerily longer than usual, and it’s way out of character.

For all his evil, he’s anything but stupid. A while ago she was pretty sure he caught on that she didn’t want anything to do with him; haste exits as soon as he enters the room, death glares and eye contact lasting no longer than a few seconds, and she was sure it spoke volumes.

But the way he looks at her right now is anything but disdain.

It’s not a fondness, really. More like a curiosity she can’t place. He looks at her cheeks then her nose and finally settles on her eyes, and something stirs in Y/N at the bright blue orbs piercing into her.

And suddenly she’s worried that maybe he knows after all…

“What?”

“Nothing.”

A silence settles. Y/N doesn’t like the feeling. The sudden twisting her chest. The lurch of her stomach. He looks away, says something to Thor before heading out and her eyes follow him, caught in the tidal wave of her thoughts.

When he’s finally gone, she

“Did you see that?”

“It was kind of hard to miss.”

She doesn’t want to talk about it, not with Thor—not with the day ahead waiting for her with meetings and errands and a sore hamstring from a week’s work.

Instead she just nods curtly, finishing the last bits of her juice and then hurries up to get dressed.

                                                           ~*~*~

 New York is a lot smaller than he remembers.

 Maybe it’s just the traffic and streets crammed with people like there’s no room for them all in the whole state, or maybe it’s the Asgardian in him, so used to vast woodlands and glory and space (quite literally) that finds moving through Manhattan tedious.

 He finds himself in the center of town, hurrying to the café a few blocks away from the train station through the waves of people crashing against him. God or not, he’s trying his best to adapt to the way of the world. Fitting himself in humanly situations, blending into the canvas of New York by taking a cab or using the train. It started off strange but a few weeks down the road and he likes to think he’s adapting, maneuvering through the masses until he gets to the front of the building.

 “Just coffee?” The Barista asks him at the counter, beaming and a little too eager for someone working behind the counter. The café is ambient and warm compared to the harsh streets. A few buttons popped and he can feel the air tuck itself into his coat, warming what the wind outside chilled.

 Loki smiles softly.“Just coffee, thank you.”

 “Don’t have a sweet tooth? We’ve got muffins, some scones, cupcakes…”

 “I’m fine, really.”

 “You’re sure?”

 A sigh of frustration leaves him, eyes fluttering shut as he tames the anger rising in him. The barista—Becca, her nametag reads—is unyielding. Most people are, he’s learnt. It’s something he’s trying to work his way around, letting out the breath constrained in his chest.

 “I’ll have a muffin.” His voice is thin as he forces a smile. “Just one, alright? Nothing more.”

 Becca’s smile stretches wider. “Coming right up.”

 Loki waits impatiently. The café starts to fill, phantom faces lining up at the counter, people he’s sure are regulars but has never taken the time to memorize. In a city this big it’s easy to forget even the commonest of faces. Grinning, Becca hands him the bag and he avoids her gaze, fishing his money from his pocket and pivoting to leave.

 But the bell on the door goes off.

 And it takes a second for him to realize who’s just walked in, smiling and rosy-cheeked as she makes her way up to the counter. He can feel his muscles still, a nervousness beginning to stir in him. Loki looks to the side, an empty table at the far end of the room beckoning him. He keeps his gaze to the floor as he moves.

 The window overlooks the bustling streets and he perches himself down, keeping his back to Y/N in hopes that she won’t recognize him from where she stands at the cashier, chatting with Becca. An urge to glance over his shoulder sparks in him, but he contains himself, shutting his eyes with a labored breath. Maybe it’s cowardly. At this point he doesn’t care. The blood in his veins grows warmer and angrier as it climbs up to his cheeks and his thoughts tangle. He’d left the house specifically to avoid her, and now here they are: cat and mouse caged together yet again, swollen with too much pride to just put aside the animosity.

 It’s not like he hasn’t tried.

 Careful smiles and gentle words and enough of an effort to make anyone normal see that he wants a truce. But Y/N? Stubborn. And chaotic. And leaving, he realizes, at the sound of her thanking Becca and turning for the exit…

 Loki’s breath catches in his throat and he watches her from the corner of his eye. Natasha tells Y/N something that makes her roll her eyes. The relief begins to surface once they get closer to the door—but it’s extinguished when they make a sharp turn for one of the empty tables by the entrance.

                                                         ~*~

“…maybe he has something on his mind. The weasel’s always scheming, you know that?”

 “Is that supposed to be a comfort?”

 “It’s an answer. Quit overthinking things.”

 Y/N wishes it was that easy. For Natasha, strong-wielded and headstrong and cobalt mixed fire and ash, words are just words; anything can be swept aside without in impact, and sometimes Y/N wishes could see life through her friend’s lens.

 She’s nothing like Nat; for the past hour she’s been stuck on breakfast and the knot sinking itself further into her stomach. They figured that getting something to eat would have eased the whole situation, but Y/N’s too stubborn and obsessive to let this one slide, even over some coffee and freshly baked croissants.

 “He’s killed more people than I’ve saved.” Y/N says, stirring the sugar in her drink. “And that’s just on earth.”

 “You think he’s still wanted on Asgard?”

 She shrugs and the spoon clanks against her dish as she sets it down. “Could have been.  It’s just…it’s weird. I don’t like the vibe he gives off, you know that.” She says. “Why would he even put me in such a place? I mean, I know we don’t get along, but this—“

 “You’re doing this to yourself, sweetie.”

 “The way he looked at me, Nat…It was…like…”The words feel clumsy and blunt falling from her lips, eyes cast down at her cup to keep from making this anymore uncomfortable. Loki has always been a pest. For as long as Y/N can remember. For as long as she’ll know him, she knows this. One look at her that isn’t marred by spite and suddenly, what? He’s her friend? It’s tiring running through this train of thought all over again but it’s the closest thing to closure she’ll get.

 “Just shut up and drink your coffee. It’s getting cold.” Nat tells her, only half-teasing.

 Y/N finally looks up at her, and then sighs. The cup is tepid in her palm as she lifts it to her lips and sips.

 “There you go.” The red-head’s lip curl into a smile as the tension at the table dissolves. They’re on a day off, Y/N reminds herself. They talk of home and Banner and anything and everything that two girls talk about over coffee, and soon enough the thought of Loki is a thing of the past.

 Or at least she thought it was. Until she sees him.

 Across the room, shrouded away from the rest of the world at his own table.  She catches him mid-stare, and the god’s eyebrows both lift in shock. Natasha’s still going on about her and Maria’s trip up state, but Y/N drowns her out.

 “You’re kidding me.”

 “What?” Nat turns her head to look. Y/N doesn’t wait for her.

 The chair scrapes against the wooden floor as she stands, crossing the room in three long strides, jaw set and the knot growing tauter and tauter in her chest. She feels like she might explode.

 Loki’s eyes watch her, unwavering as she settles in the seat across from him. A drained cup of coffee and muffin sit on the table and she wonders how long he’s been here.

 His eyebrows arch and a gentle, proud smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

 “Enjoying your lunch?”

 “Tell me why you’re here, Weasel.”

 Y/N’s voice is clipped and she’s battling to contain her nerves.

 “Am I not allowed to roam New York freely?” Loki asks, tipping his head to the side. He leans back in his seat. “Last I checked I’m no longer in chains in Stark’s dungeon.”

 “Last I checked you don’t have coffee and cupcakes at café’s in queens.”

 “I reiterate from earlier: people change.”

 “Cut the crap, Loki.”

 “Well this is a surprise.” Natasha’s voice draws Y/N out of her thoughts and she casts a brief glance to the side. Arms crossed over her chest and glancing between the two of them, she looks just as confused as Y/N. She can’t blame her. It’s taking all Y/N has not to wring Loki’s neck from across the table and he’s barely even had time to explain himself (not that she’ll buy any of the bullshit he’s selling).

 The café doesn’t feel like a fit place for a brawl, so Y/N takes Loki’s hand in hers, surprisingly warm an calloused and leads him out into the humming streets outside.

 He trails behind her like a child until they’re outside. Her hand leaves his wrist as she turns around, face drawn so tight you’d think it would snap in half. Patience. Never a virtue of hers.

 People don’t stop for them, jostling into their sides as they squeeze through. “Explain.”

 “Why we’re out in the middle of the street?” un-amused, Loki’s brows arch. “I presume it’s because your neuroticism is acting up.”

 “Look, it’s my job to keep you in line since you got here, I’m allowed to be a bit antsy when I find you following us around town or lurking in corners.” Y/N doesn’t want an argument, not here at least. The knot basins deeper into her chest, reminding of the morning and of cerulean eyes and a warmth she shouldn’t feel. A passerby bumps into her before continuing on their way.

 Loki bites his lip in silence. She figures he’s conjuring up some excuse by the way he looks around, distracted, but it’s really the conviction of being honest for once.

 “I came out to see a girl.” He answers, finally meeting her gaze.

 So simply.

 The words fall from his lips easily, not clumsy and jagged—not anything Y/N was expecting. It takes a moment for the thought to register. She gapes at him for a few seconds then swallows.

 . “A…?”

 “Girl. Yes. Pitiful, isn’t it? For so long I’ve prided myself on being resistant to you humans affections and charm—seems it could only last so long, huh?” Loki finishes for her with his usual nonchalance.

 “You…” Her lips part softly as the words settle, then her eyes grow wide. “Oh…Oh, shit, I’m sorry—Loki, this was a mistake, I thought—”

 “That I was scheming? I can’t say I blame you. Anyhow, it doesn’t matter—poor thing didn’t show.”

 A silence drifts over them as they stand there. Y/N fiddles with the spoon in her hand. A former weapon she figured she’d find a use for but now it just feels foolish wielding it, and she tucks it into the pocket of her jacket.

 She folds her hands over her chest and meets Loki’s gaze. The air has turned from fire to a dimmed silence, awkward and stunted and it’s hard to tell where to go from here. She dragged him out with intent of battle and this is what she’s met with? A surrender? An explanation that sounds earnest?

 “I really hope you’re not lying.”

 “Why would I.”

 Y/N nods wordlessly, ignoring the question. “So she stood you up?”

 “It’s been forty minutes now.” He shrugs. “I don’t think a train from Brooklyn to queens takes you that long”

 “Right.” She doesn’t know what more to say. Apologize? Ask about this mystery woman she’s only learning about now? It’s not like Loki would share anything past a snarky comment or a question on what’s for dinner. It’s not unusual that she didn’t know.

 But, for some reason, it feels like a betrayal holding out on sharing.

 Only she can’t say that—not out loud. Not out here. Someone bumps into her, reminding that they’re standing in the middle of the walkway and she casts her eyes back up at the Trickster.

 “Uhm.” She’s disoriented being been pulled from her thoughts like that, but Y/N quickly recovers, straightening out. She clears her throat. “Nat’s waiting.”

 Loki doesn’t give her time to add anything on, as he pivots around and marches inside.

 Natasha stands when they enter and they hurry to collect their things, Loki grabbing a small paper bag from behind his seat.He waits until they’re outside to nudge her arm.

 “I’m assuming you’re going to say no because it’s you, but here.” He hands it to her.

Y/N takes it reluctantly, glancing inside. There’s a cupcake like the one he was eating, bright pink and flecked with sprinkles and she almost laughs at the sight (so uncharacteristic for the devil himself).

 “Are you sure it’s not poisoned?” She looks up at him and there’s a glint in his eyes that’s part mischief and part amusement. They’re definitely not friends, but something sparks and she raises her brows, waiting for an answer.

 Loki’s lips quirk. “Not today, no.” He says. She almost laughs. They find the car at the edge of the street, Nat ripping off the ticket fixed on the windshield like it was never there to begin with.

Rounding the car, Y/N turns to Loki one last time, the weight in her chest lifting long enough for her to offer him an apologetic smile.

“I still don’t like you,” She begins, “But I’m sorry about you and mystery woman. I know how much that can suck.”

 “You’re telling me you’ve been through the same?”

 “I’m telling you that rejection is something everybody hates.” She admits. “Gods inclusive. Find a ride home and don’t get into more trouble than you already have, yeah?”

 “No promises, Agent.”

 She flashes him a brief smirk, before ducking down into the car, the engine roaring to life. She straps herself and glimpses out the window. On the sidewalk Loki peers into the car with a subtle crease between his brows like he’s thinking, holding something back. Curious. She wasn’t lying when she said she felt for him—she knows rejection well enough she’d be able to trace it way before it has the time to detonate.

She knows that much.

                                                          ~*~*~*~

PART II

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