loki--fics

[loki--fics]

something i’ve kind of noticed with the surfacing of this whole “the best smut is a character study” kind of mindset is the pipeline to a borderline “when i write porn i do it intellectually unlike some of you SICKOS” type of mindset and i just wanted to remind you especially in our current political atmosphere that writing porn doesn’t have to be intellectual to have value. it can be just horny. thanks

[loki--fics]

lost the original ask but thankfully i screenshot it! @mariechristine00

i know it's from forever ago, but a LOT of you asked for another Haymitch x Reader fic, so here it is! i really hope it was worth the wait!! 😭🙏🏻

~

Touch - Oneshot

Haymitch x Fem!Reader

Warnings: graphic smut, alcohol use, intoxication, drunk smut, age gap, strong language, su!c!dal ideation

Word Count: 3,310

District 12 had a stillness at night that could either soothe or haunt, the kind of quiet that almost tricked you into believing everything was alright. But for you, who dwelled now in the Victor's Village, the night was when it got bad. Tonight, you’d been pacing your kitchen for an hour, eyeing the pills given to you, courtesy of the Capitol, to help you sleep.

They didn't help much.

You paused in front of the counter, opening the bottle and pouring its contents onto the smooth marble surface. The air felt too tight, too full of memories you didn’t ask to keep, and the silence made it worse. You held a few of the small white tablets in your palm, feeling hollow, then threw them with a frustrated scream.

You grabbed your jacket, stuffing your arms into the sleeves before snatching a mostly-full bottle off the counter and heading for the door.

As you stepped out into the cool night air, your eyes wandered upwards. The stars hung like faint scars across the sky - distant, cold, and beautiful. You could understand why Haymitch liked to drink under them. You knew he would still be awake - he always was, so you walked along the path towards his house, the one farthest from anything.

The bottle in your hand was an excuse, an offering to avoid being alone. You knocked, and a moment later the door opened. He was shirtless, barefoot, already halfway hammered. His eyes were rimmed in red, his hair a mess, mouth set in his usual exhausted frown. You couldn't help but let your eyes roam over his skin, his scars, the way his pajama bottoms hung low on his hips.

"Well," He said, voice low and gravelly, "Look what the Capitol dragged in." He watched as your eyes moved over his exposed skin before meeting his, and the corner of his mouth turned up in amusement. "You gonna keep undressing me with your eyes or are you gonna come inside?"

You blushed and stepped inside. It smelled of woodsmoke, alcohol, and something faintly metallic, like the echo of blood that never quite left you even months after you had left the arena. His home was more cluttered than yours - books stacked on the floor in leaning towers, blankets thrown over furniture like afterthoughts, and an ashtray dangerously close to tipping off the coffee table - but it felt lived in, honest in a way nothing else in the District was.

You sat on his threadbare couch as he closed the door, then handed you a glass without asking.

"To what?" You asked, raising it halfway.

"Does it matter?"

Fair enough.

The whiskey was Capitol-made, smooth and spiced. The first drink burned, the second didn’t. You let the silence settle in between rounds, both of you drinking like it might rinse the Games from your bones. It didn’t.

"You know what no one tells you?" Haymitch muttered after the second glass. "Surviving doesn’t mean you win anything. It just means you live longer, long enough to lose more."

"I keep waking up thinking I’m still in the arena," You reply. "I can hear the anthem, feel the mud under my nails. Sometimes I check for a knife in my belt before I remember."

His lips twisted into something that wasn’t quite a smile. "You get used to that."

"Do you?"

"Hell no," He said. "But you get better at compartmentalizing."

You both laughed, bitter but real, and it cracked something open. Not a wound, but something softer, a place you hadn’t let anyone near in a long time.

"Have you ever..." You hesitated. "Have you ever tried to-?"

"Die?" Haymitch cut in.

Your breath caught. You hadn’t expected the bluntness, but then again, you should have. That was the thing about talking to Haymitch: he didn’t make space for games. Not anymore.

"Yeah," You replied, your voice soft. "It just... It's hard, thinking about... Them. What I had to do to be here." Your eyes couldn't meet his, couldn't betray how close you'd come to it tonight.

Haymitch didn’t say anything at first, just watched you, the flicker of firelight casting shadows across your face. "I know what you mean," He said finally, quieter now. "It’s not the blood that sticks - it’s the begging. The eyes."

You nodded once, lips pressed tight. "I didn’t think it’d follow me out. I thought once I was safe, once it was over-"

"It’s never over," Haymitch interrupted, not cruel, just true. "You come home with your body, but you leave pieces of your mind behind. The Capitol doesn’t care, as long as they can parade you around."

The ache in your chest swelled. You looked down at your hands, the ghost of old wounds mapped across your skin. He looked you over, saw the way your fingers trembled, faint and rhythmic, like the leftover shiver of a body still deciding if it wants to stay. Saw the faraway look in your eyes, relieving things too horrible to say.

His eyes narrowed, not in suspicion, but in recognition. "You came close tonight, huh?" He said, voice low.

Your heart lurched. You didn’t answer, couldn’t, but something in your expression must’ve flickered - shock, guilt, grief, maybe all of them - because he exhaled and sat forward.

"I’ve had that look," He said. "Hands shaking, mind racing, staring through things instead of at them. You didn’t come here just to drink."

You looked down at your lap, jaw clenched. "I didn’t mean... It's just that... I just-"

"Didn’t know what else to do," He finished for you.

You nodded, avoiding his eyes. "I didn’t know where else to go," You admitted, barely audible.

"You're always welcome to come here," He said. "When it gets bad, when the thoughts and memories and silence are all too loud, too much. You come here, got it? I’ve been there, too many times. I used to think the only thing worse than dying in that arena was surviving it, until I realized the worst part is surviving it alone."

You didn’t realize you were crying until he reached out, thumb brushing beneath your eye. A soft touch, grounding.

"I’ve got enough ghosts," He said, his voice rough but steady. "Don’t you dare go making yourself another one, okay?" Then his hand was on yours - warm, steady, a little rough, and you looked up.

Haymitch was staring at you, and not like you were fragile, not like you were broken. Like you were real, like something he wasn't about to let go of. You nodded, a silent promise, and he refilled your drinks, looking satisfied.

~

Sometime after midnight the bottle ran dry, but your conversation didn’t.

"You ever miss it?" You asked suddenly.

"Miss what?"

"Touch," You said. "Being touched. Being wanted."

He didn’t answer right away. He rubbed a hand down his face, the scruff catching against his palm like sandpaper. "I miss... being someone worth touching," He finally said.

Your heart broke a little at that. "I haven’t been with anyone in years," You confessed. "I don’t even remember the last time someone looked at me like they wanted me, and not just like they needed me around."

"I do," Haymitch said hesitantly.

You swallowed hard, meeting his eyes. "Do you?"

His voice dropped to something rougher, less performative. "All the time. You think I don’t see it?" He asked. "The way you avoid mirrors, the way you sleep with the lights on, the way you touch the edge of your scars like you’re reminding yourself you’re real."

The silence that followed was suffocating. Not empty, but thick with something you were afraid to name.

"I think I’m afraid," You admitted.

"Of what?"

"That if you touched me, I’d fall apart."

He set his glass down with a slow, deliberate clink. Then he leaned forward, elbows on knees, staring at you with a focus that made your breath stutter. "I'll put you back together."

You swallowed, throat dry. "Haymitch..."

"You want to feel wanted?" He asked, moving toward you, slowly but deliberately, like a wild animal that might spook you. "Then let me. Let me remind you that you still exist, that there’s something in you worth being claimed." His voice dropped lower, a gravel whisper now. "You say you haven’t been touched in a long time? Let me be the one who changes that."

You stared at him, breath shallow, every nerve in your body buzzing. "I don’t know if I’d survive that," You admitted.

"I'll make it worth the risk." Haymitch reached out, slow and deliberate, giving you time to pull away. He brushed a piece of hair behind your ear, his hand lingering, resting on your cheek, and your eyes fluttered shut. His thumb skimmed your cheekbone, not in a rehearsed way or like a man trying to seduce. Like a man remembering what tenderness felt like, slowly, carefully. One breath at a time.

"I don’t know if I know how to be gentle anymore," He admitted.

"You don’t have to be," You whispered.

That shattered something.

In the space of a breath, his restraint crumbled. He surged forward, his hand moving from your cheek to the back of your neck, the other wrapping around your waist like a lifeline, like he needed to anchor himself to something real before he disappeared entirely into the bottle, or the memories, or the echoing grief that had hollowed him out year after year.

His mouth met yours not like a question, but a claim, all teeth and heat and aching want. You gasped into him, a sharp sound punched from your lungs by the sheer force of it. Your fingers scrambled for purchase - his shirt, his shoulders, his hair - anything to keep you tethered to the moment. To him.

Then he pulled away, his mouth hovering just over yours. "I don’t want to hurt you," He said, voice raw now, almost trembling. "Not like this."

"You won’t," You breathed. "Please."

Haymitch searched your eyes, sharp and intense, like he was looking for any doubt, any hesitance, anything to stop him from devouring you. When he found none, he kissed you again.

It wasn’t tentative, it wasn’t sweet - it was hungry. Desperate. Like a man starved of warmth and permission, and you had finally given both. His lips slanted hard against yours, and you didn’t flinch - you broke for him. You leaned in, hands fisting in the worn fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer until there was no space left between you. The years of pain, of silence, of keeping each other at arm’s length - it all burned away in the heat of the kiss.

His mouth devoured yours like he’d been waiting for this moment since the second he saw you step off that train. Your tongue met his with a sigh that turned into a moan before you could catch it, and Haymitch groaned, low and dark, like the sound had been torn from somewhere deep. "Fuck," He hissed against your lips, eyes squeezed shut like he was trying to rein it in, and failing.

You didn’t want him to rein it in.

Your hands roamed - jaw, throat, chest - needing to feel that he was real, that this wasn’t another Capitol hallucination, another midnight ghost. He pulled back just long enough to stare at you, eyes blazing. "I shouldn’t," He said hoarsely.

"I want you to," You replied, breathless.

Haymitch growled and pulled you into his lap with a suddenness that made your breath catch. Your knees straddled his thighs now, and his hands, rough and trembling, spanned your back, one slipping beneath your shirt, dragging up your spine in a single, fevered line of touch.

You arched into him, the contact too much and not enough all at once. It was clumsy, breathless, devouring, like you were both trying to compress years of loneliness and missed chances into this single night. You pulled away, pressing your forehead to his, both of you panting. Your lips brushed his with every shallow breath.

“I don’t want soft,” You whispered. “I want real, I want to feel."

Haymitch let out a shaky sound - half laugh, half groan. "Real, huh?" He rasped. "You sure? I’ve got years of not touching anyone, pet. I don’t know if I’ll stop once I start."

"Then don’t."

He kissed you again - deeper, slower now, like he wanted to memorize the shape of your mouth, the sounds you made, the way your body molded to his like it had been waiting for this moment just as long. He pushed your jacket off your shoulders, your arms slipping out of the sleeves, the jacket falling to the floor. Your fingers threaded into his hair, his stubble scratching your skin. You tilted your hips, and he groaned low in his chest like the sound was being torn out of him.

He broke the kiss just long enough to look at you - really look at you - and the heat in his gaze almost undid you.

"You’re sure," He asked again, voice a gravelled whisper.

You nodded, one hand on his chest, feeling the frantic thrum of his heart beneath your palm. "I want you to touch me like we’re not gonna survive tomorrow."

His breath caught. His hands tightened on your thighs. Then, in a single fluid motion, he flipped you underneath him, the force of your back hitting the couch knocking the air out of you in the best way. You gasped as he positioned himself between your legs, his hardened length brushing your sensitive core. His hands found the hem of your shirt, lifting the fabric up and over your head, a strangled sound escaping his throat as he took in the sight of you. His lips descended onto your nipple, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin, and you yelped in pleasure, your hips bucking to meet his.

He greedily assaulted your breasts, his rough hands groping, grasping, squeezing, like he was trying to sear the feeling into his memory. His lips ventured upwards, kissing and biting your clavicle, your shoulder, your neck, before returning to yours. His hands gripped the waistband of your jeans, yanking them down your legs aggressively, taking your panties with them.

He pulled away for just a moment, a dangerous smile on his lips, his eyes dark. "You sure about this, pet? Once I start, I'm not stopping."

You met his eyes, breathless, the blaze in his mirroring your own. "Take me."

His hands gripped your hips and flipped you around, getting you into position, your back arched and ass in the air. His hands ran over your body, cupping your breasts, pinching your nipples. "You look so beautiful like this, so vulnerable, so willing." You heard him adjust his position behind you, heard the rustle of fabric and heat of his manhood as he lined himself up with your entrance.

"Last chance to back out, pet."

"Not happening."

With a sound like a wild animal he thrust himself into you, hard and fast, burying himself balls-deep and earning a feral scream from you, your fists gripping the arm of the couch. "Fuck," He groaned, not giving you time to adjust to his size, his hips starting to move, his member sliding in and out of your tight heat. "You feel so good, pet. So fucking good."

You cried out as he slammed into you, your body arching as he filled you, stretched you. It hurt, it was too much, too fast, but your body was already responding, your core clenching around him. "Fuck, Haymitch-!"

His hand fisted in your hair, yanking your head back. "Take it like a good girl, that's it," He muttered, his hips recklessly thrusting to meet yours. "I'm going to worship every inch of you, pet. I'm going to make you come apart all over my cock." 

You whine as his cock hit spots inside you that made you see stars, your hands scrabbling at the fabric of the sofa, trying to find some purchase. "You're so tight, pet," He groaned, his fingers digging into your hips. "So fucking perfect. I could fuck you forever." You could feel your orgasm building, your body tensing, your breath coming in sharp gasps. One of his hands moved from your hip to between your legs, his fingers stroking circles against your clit, making you cry out in pleasure.

"You want to come, love?" He taunted. "You want me to let you come all over my cock?"

You moaned, your body trembling, your hips rocking back to meet his thrusts. "Fuck, oh, Haymitch-!"

"Beg for it, pet," He commanded, his voice low and dangerous. "Beg me to make you come."

"Please," You whined brokenly. "Please, make me come."

His fingers moved faster on your clit. "Louder, pet. I want to hear you scream it."

"Please!" You cried, your voice echoing off the walls, desperate and needy. "Please, Haymitch, I need to come, I need you to make me come, please!"

"Good girl," He purred, his thrusts becoming more erratic. "Come for me, pet. Come all over my cock."

And you did, your body convulsing, your lips screaming his name, your warmth clamping down around him like a vice, drawing his own orgasm from him. He groaned deeply as he came, his hips slamming into you deeply, spilling his seed deep inside you, filling you up, marking you as his.

He collapsed on top of you, body slick with sweat, breath ragged. "Fuck, pet," He murmured, his lips brushing against your shoulder. "You're incredible."

You laid still for a moment, your body still humming, every inch of your skin feeling raw and newly alive. His weight on you wasn’t heavy, it was grounding. Real. The warmth of him, the scratch of his stubble against your neck, the way one hand still clutched at your hip like he didn’t quite trust you wouldn’t vanish.

You swallowed hard. "Don’t say that unless you mean it," You whispered, voice hoarse.

He shifted slightly, lifting just enough to look at you. His hair was damp with sweat, clinging to his forehead. There was something wrecked in his expression - something stunned and reverent, like he didn’t know how this had happened but he was terrified of it ending.

"I mean it," He said. "I meant all of it."

You reached up and brushed a thumb along his jaw. He leaned into the touch like it was the first he'd known in years, and then he rolled onto his side, pulling you with him, tucking you into the curve of his body like it was instinct. Like your bodies had already memorized each other and didn’t need permission anymore.

For a while, you just lay there in silence. Your fingers traced idle patterns along his arm; his lips brushed the crown of your head, then he pulled away, just enough to look at you. Something flickered in his eyes - pain, gratitude. Maybe even fear.

"You’ll regret this in the morning," He muttered, voice rough.

"Why?"

"Because I’m not good at waking up next to people. I don’t know how to pretend things like this don’t matter."

You studied him. His expression was guarded again, the old armor climbing back up piece by piece. "You don’t have to pretend," You said softly. "Not with me. This?" You gestured between you. "This mattered."

He searched your face like he was looking for a catch, a sign you didn’t mean it, but all he found was truth. Quiet, aching, terrifying truth.

Haymitch exhaled through his nose, leaned in, and pressed a slow kiss to your collarbone. Not hungry, not desperate. Just real. "I’ll make breakfast in the morning then," He said against your skin.

You smiled into his hair. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. But I warn you - I'm a shit cook."

A breathy chuckle escaped your lips. "I’ve survived worse."

[loki--fics]

Harry Potter Fandom Oneshots

Pairing: Severus Snape x Reader

Warnings: strong language, alcohol use, intoxication, smut, semi-public smut

Happy New Year

[loki--fics]

Hunger Games Fandom Oneshots

Pairing: Haymitch x Reader

Warnings: fluff, smut, strong language, violence mentions, alcohol use, intoxication

Firelight

Touch

[loki--fics]

Happy New Year

Severus Snape x Fem!Reader

content warnings: strong language, graphic smut

word count: 5,000+

summary: You hadn't expected to see him at the Malfoy's lavish New Year's party - not after all these years. But one spilled drink would set in motion what you'd fantasized about since he was still your Head of House, a stolen moment in the kitchen blooming into a night you'll never forget. (edited 08/03/25)

~

Lucius Malfoy loved to throw parties.

Severus Snape hated them.

He much preferred the solitude of his home at Spinner’s End, where the company of books, quiet, and a decent bottle of scotch far outweighed the din of clinking glasses and false smiles. Still, he made a point to show face at one or two of Lucius’s gatherings a year, purely out of politeness. He never stayed long, an hour at most, just enough to make the rounds, nurse a drink or two, and vanish without fanfare.

You, on the other hand, were nearly a regular at Malfoy Manor soirées. Old school connections, familiar faces, and the excuse to get dressed up and escape the dull rhythm of daily life kept you coming back. You were especially close with Draco, though "close" was perhaps not the right word. The two of you had a complicated sort of history. Friends, yes. Occasionally more, depending on how drunk you both were. You’d made it clear you weren't looking for anything serious, or so you thought.

You were starting to suspect he hadn’t taken you seriously.

It was New Year’s Eve now, and the manor was brimming with guests dressed to the nines. You stood near the back of the ballroom, trying - and failing - to avoid Draco’s endless chatter. He was monologuing again, gesturing with one hand while the other rested far too familiarly over your shoulder.

You barely heard a word he said. Your eyes drifted across the room, scanning the crowd almost unconsciously for a flash of raven-black hair, dark eyes, a towering presence dressed in black. You hadn’t seen Severus at any of these events in years, but your eyes always searched for him anyway.

Old habits, you supposed.

Back at Hogwarts, he’d been your Head of House. You had the usual Slytherin respect for him - bordering on fear, at times - but by the time fifth year rolled around, that fear had twisted into fascination. You developed a crush. A deep, all-consuming one. Not that you ever acted on it - Merlin, you’d have been tossed from Slytherin and banned from the dungeons forever.

So you admired him from afar. You’d purposely chosen an aisle seat in Potions class, just so you could catch his scent when he stormed past - cloves, parchment, and something darker, like bitter smoke. You still remembered the high you got from seeing "Better than I expected" scribbled at the bottom of your essay on the uses of unicorn horn in blood-replenishing potions. High praise, coming from him. You’d saved the parchment, pressed flat in a book somewhere, long forgotten but never discarded.

You’d sketched him, too, in the margins of your notes, on napkins during meals in the Great Hall, anywhere you could, though you never showed anyone. That kind of adoration had no place in the open air.

Time passed. Life moved on. Your flame for him dimmed over the years, but it never quite extinguished.

Draco suddenly announced he was off to fetch drinks. You nodded tightly, grateful for the brief reprieve. The moment he disappeared into the crowd, you let out a sigh and glanced down at your hands, admiring your nails. You’d gotten them done that morning - elegant almond-shaped tips in a champagne shimmer, glossy and reflective with tiny flecks of gold foil. They were perfect, understated and festive.

You fidgeted while you waited, and just as you began scanning the room again, still hoping, Draco reappeared, carrying a shot in one hand and a neon blue cocktail in the other.

"Here you are, darling," He said brightly, extending the garish drink toward you.

But someone bumped into him from behind.

The blue drink sloshed violently forward - right onto your chest.

You gasped, stumbling back a step as the liquid soaked into the front of your dress. It ran down in sticky, slow drips, disappearing into your bra.

"Bloody hell," You hissed, staring down at yourself in horror. At least you'd worn black.

Draco began apologizing profusely, but you raised a hand, cutting him off with a look that left no room for argument. "Don’t," You snapped, voice low and deadly. "Just don’t. I don’t want to hear it. Leave me alone, Draco. Now."

You turned and stalked off toward the kitchen, cursing under your breath. "Fucking unbelievable... blue drinks, of all bloody things, who even drinks that shit? Who serves it at a Malfoy party? Is this a fucking joke?" You shoved through the door, muttering obscenities and storming toward the sink.

You yanked a wad of paper towels from the roll and began dabbing furiously at your chest, trying to soak up the mess. Your fingers worked quickly, scrubbing at the skin just above the neckline of your dress. The satin clung uncomfortably, and you shoved a few damp towels down the front to try to blot beneath the fabric. Your jaw clenched. The sting of embarrassment burned behind your eyes.

"For Merlin’s fucking sake, what the shit-"

A quiet throat-clear behind you made you freeze.

You turned your head slowly, and then you saw him - leaning casually near the wine rack, glass of something dark and amber in one hand, stood Severus.

You startled. Not fear, exactly, but a jolt of sudden awareness, and your eyes went wide.

"Do you see this shit?" You blurted, gesturing to your chest without thinking. "Proper twat, he is."

The corner of Severus’s mouth tugged upward, the ghost of a smirk growing by the second. He looked far too amused.

"I see you’ve still got a filthy mouth," He murmured, taking a slow sip of his drink.

You rolled your eyes. "Okay, Professor," You said, sarcastic and quick, ducking your head as you resumed blotting your dress. Your cheeks were warm now, not just from embarrassment but from the sharp jolt of thrill that raced down your spine.

You’d finally found him again, after all these years.

Don’t act like a fool, You thought. You’ve got one shot at this.

He watched you for a moment, his gaze thoughtful, sweeping your form with a subtlety that would’ve gone unnoticed if you weren’t so hyperaware of him. He hadn't seen you in years, but time had done you justice. You were no longer the girl stealing glances at him when you thought he wasn't looking. You’d grown into yourself - all lean lines and soft curves, your black dress hugging the gentle slope of your hips and bum. The hem brushed the floor, a slit trailing up the length of your leg, the neckline low but tasteful. Your hair was longer now, darker, falling in soft waves that brushed your shoulder blades.

You caught him looking and said nothing, only continued blotting the mess from your skin, pretending not to notice the slow rake of his eyes.

"So, who spilled on you?" He asked, voice casual, though there was something beneath it. Amusement, yes, but also interest.

You groaned, rolling your eyes skyward. "Draco."

He paused, raising a brow. "Your date?"

Your hand stilled mid-blot. Slowly, your eyes lifted to meet his.

"Definitely not."

He held your gaze for a moment longer than necessary. Whatever he saw in your expression must have satisfied him, because he gave a small nod and took another sip of firewhisky.

A beat passed.

"I haven’t really seen you at any of these in a while," You said, feigning nonchalance, trying to steady the flutter in your chest. You tucked a curl behind your ear, heart pounding. "Figured you’d sworn them off entirely."

He eyed you over the rim of his glass, dark brow lifting. "You’ve been looking?"

You hesitated just a fraction, then met his gaze with renewed confidence. The alcohol helped, so did the years. You weren’t a student anymore - you didn’t owe him obedience.

"What if I have?" You replied, voice low.

He stared at you - hard, assessing, unreadable - but something shifted behind his eyes. Just the barest flicker of an acknowledgment. A heat, slow and coiled, beginning to stir beneath the surface.

He shifted slightly, turning more toward you now, and this time his gaze was anything but subtle. He took his time, eyes moving deliberately - the flush of pink still warming your cheeks, the delicate dusting of freckles across your nose, the way your mauve lipstick made your lips look almost too full for polite company.

"Why have you?" He asked at last, voice low and smooth. A challenge.

Oh, two could play at this game.

You leaned back against the sink, one hand bracing on the edge of the marble as your posture relaxed into something almost lazy. Your hair slipped over one shoulder in loose waves, catching the light. You tilted your head slightly to the side, meeting his gaze with a calm confidence - eyes steady, lips curled in the faintest smirk.

"Maybe I’ve got a thing for men who hate parties and would rather drink alone in the kitchen," You said coolly.

There was a pause, a slow blink. And then his smirk deepened, just a hair. Dangerous. Pleased.

"Is that so?"

You shrugged lightly, eyes not leaving his. "What can I say? I'm a sucker for brooding, emotionally unavailable types. Call it a character flaw."

"You should work on that," He said dryly.

"Maybe," You replied, "But not tonight."

The weight in the air shifted again, heavier now, humming with something unspoken. His gaze dropped to your lips for a fraction of a second, then returned to your eyes.

He said nothing at first, only watching you with that unreadable stare - part intrigue, part warning. Then he wordlessly lifted the glass to his lips and downed the last of his drink in one long, slow swallow. The amber liquid caught the light as it disappeared, and when he set the empty glass down, his movements were smooth. Controlled. Measured.

But you could feel the heat simmering underneath.

"Careful, Miss Y/L/N. You’re playing a dangerous game," He murmured, turning the weight of his stare fully on you.

He refilled his glass, the rich scent of firewhisky curling into the air between you like a challenge. But before he could lift the glass to his lips, your hand slid between his and the rim. You took it from him - slow, intentional - your fingers brushing his just long enough to feel the tension coil tighter beneath his skin.

You didn’t break eye contact.

You raised the glass, the crystal cool against your palm, and tilted it back with a practiced ease. The firewhisky was smoother than you expected - smoky, spiced, expensive. You swallowed without flinching, letting it burn a little as it slid down your throat. Then you lowered the glass, a perfect mauve lip print staining the rim.

And just because you knew he was watching, you dragged your tongue over your upper lip in one slow, deliberate motion, catching every trace of the drink.

His jaw flexed, subtle, but telling.

You stepped closer, close enough to smell the clove and smoke on him, your voice dropping into a purr. "And what if danger... excites me?" You asked, tilting your chin just slightly.

His eyes swept over you - your lips, the curve of your throat, the way your dress clung to your hips and thighs, still slightly damp from Draco’s mess. His gaze was slow, intense, calculating. "Then you’re a bloody fool," He said, his voice quiet, almost reverent.

You hummed in amusement, setting the glass down with a soft clink against the counter. "A fool," You murmured, gaze never leaving his, "Who knows what she wants."

And then, with a daring you didn’t quite realize you possessed, you reached forward and walked two fingers slowly up the lapel of his robes - deliberate, teasing, testing. But the moment your touch reached the edge of his collarbone, his hand shot out, catching your wrist in a firm, unyielding grip.

You gasped - not from fear, not even from surprise, really, but from the pleasure of it. The control in his fingers, the heat radiating off of him. His grip wasn’t painful, but it was commanding, and your breath hitched at the sheer intimacy of it.

He stepped forward, just enough that your back was pressed against the counter. He leaned down, his face stopping just inches from yours, lips barely a breath away from skin.

"And what do you want?" He asked, voice deep and coaxing, the kind that wrapped around your throat like silk. His eyes dropped to your lips for the briefest moment before lifting again, locking with yours.

You tilted your head back slightly, baring your neck, the movement instinctive. Your heart pounded so fiercely it felt like it might bruise your ribs. "I think you know the answer to that," You murmured.

His grip on your wrist tightened - just slightly, but it sent a jolt through you like lightning. You exhaled a soft, breathy moan before you could stop it, quiet enough that it could’ve been missed, but his eyes darkened instantly.

"I want to hear you say it."

The way he said it - low, commanding, edged with that dangerous intensity only he possessed - made your knees feel unsteady. He wasn’t going to let you hide behind clever remarks or flirty innuendo. He wanted it laid bare.

You swallowed hard, but you didn’t look away. "I want you, Severus," You whispered.

The second the words left your mouth, something in him shifted. your wrist was released, only for him to wrap one strong arm around your waist, yanking you flush against his body in one smooth, possessive movement. You barely had time to gasp before his other hand came up to cradle your face, palm firm, thumb grazing just beneath your cheekbone.

His eyes searched your face for a fraction of a second, taking in your parted lips, the breathless anticipation, the sharp glint of hunger barely hidden beneath your bold exterior.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t tentative, or gentle, it was years of repressed hunger poured into the bruising crush of his mouth on yours, demanding and hot, moving with a precision that stole the air from your lungs. You whimpered against him as your body arched into his, mouth opening instinctively under the press of his own. His tongue swept in, confident and commanding, coaxing yours in a rhythm that left your knees weak. He tasted like firewhisky and clove and something dark and utterly him, and you found yourself chasing the taste of him with a desperate sound you couldn’t contain.

His fingers dug into your waist as he pressed your spine into the counter’s edge. His hips slotted against yours in a way that made your breath catch, and his hand slid from your waist to your lower back, holding you to him like he couldn’t bear a single inch of distance.

Your own hands had found their way into his robes, gripping fistfuls of black wool as you melted into the heat of him. One hand traveled up, tangling into the inky strands at the nape of his neck, tugging just enough to make him growl into your mouth.

Merlin, that sound.

You kissed him deeper in response, lips moving with increasing urgency. You were barely thinking, just feeling - the sharp scrape of his stubble against your chin, the scent of him invading your senses, the hard lines of his chest against your softer curves. His mouth was everywhere, lips tracing down the edge of your jaw, across your neck, nipping at your lower lip before claiming it again with a moan low in his throat.

His hand at your back began to slide downward, fingertips grazing the swell of your backside, gripping hard enough to make your pulse stutter. You gasped into his mouth and he swallowed the sound greedily, deepening the kiss again until you were dizzy from lack of air and too much want.

Time disappeared. Gone were the clinking of glasses, the low thrum of music from the ballroom, the distant chatter of Lucius’s guests. Nothing existed but him - the way he kissed you like a man starved, the way his body pinned yours like he’d waited years for this, the way your name might as well have been carved on his tongue for how reverently he devoured you.

And just when your hands began to wander, sliding down his chest, fingertips teasing the open edge of his collar,  a sudden laugh from the corridor beyond the kitchen snapped the moment in two.

You both froze.

He pulled back, only barely, your breaths mingling between you as his lips hovered over yours. His chest heaved, yours rising to match, your mouths still parted as though reluctant to end the kiss.

You blinked up at him, dazed, lips swollen, your mauve lipstick smeared across both your mouths in delicious evidence.

"Fuck," You whispered, dazed.

A low, rumbling chuckle vibrated in his chest. "Yes," He said, voice rough and wrecked. "Exactly."

Severus’s breath was warm against your skin when he lifted a hand, thumb tracing delicately along your chin. He wiped the smudge of mauve lipstick there with more care than you expected - slow, precise, like he couldn’t bear to stop touching you just yet. You could barely breathe, still dizzy from his kiss, your heart pounding hard enough that you could feel it in your throat.

Then you heard voices, and you both froze again.

Draco’s, unmistakably, just beyond the kitchen doorway, a guest with him, a voice you didn't recognize, saying, "Have you checked the kitchen?"

"No," Draco replied quickly. "But I was just about to."

You sagged in disappointment. Of course.

Severus moved fast. His hand left your face as he grabbed a paper towel from the counter, quickly wiping his mouth - then, without hesitation, he turned to you and gently dabbed the soft cloth at your collarbone, just where his lips had transferred your lipstick. It was quick but careful, almost intimate, and then he tossed the towel in the bin just as the door swung open.

You didn’t bother to move away from him.

You simply leaned back against the counter, chest rising and falling as though you hadn’t just been pinned and kissed within an inch of your sanity, and Severus stood beside you, tall, composed, expression set in a mask of polite disdain that couldn’t quite hide the tension still simmering beneath his skin.

Draco stepped inside, eyeing the pair of you. His gaze flicked between you and Severus, then down to the empty glass on the counter. "I’ve been looking for you everywhere," He said, his tone caught somewhere between concerned and suspicious. "You never came back."

"I’m fine," You said coolly. "Just catching up with Professor Snape." You looked up at Severus, and immediately had to bite back a laugh.

There was a faint smear of mauve lipstick right at the base of his neck, just above the collar of his robes. Subtle, but there. And you were absolutely not going to be the one to point it out.

Draco shifted uncomfortably. "Everyone’s heading to the sitting room," He said after a beat. "The countdown’s about to start."

You sighed, pushing off the counter with a glance at the stainless steel refrigerator, catching your reflection. You dragged a finger beneath your lower lip, smoothing out the now half-worn lipstick, then reapplied from the slim tube hidden in your clutch. Once satisfied, you turned back toward the door.

The three of you walked out together, but it wasn’t long before the crowd swallowed up Severus. You glanced just in time to see the black of his robes disappear around a corner, taking a different route through the sea of guests.

The moment he was gone, you cursed softly under your breath.

Draco frowned. "What’s wrong?"

You didn’t answer, you couldn’t. How were you supposed to explain that Draco Malfoy had just unknowingly interrupted what was probably the single hottest makeout session of your life? One you’d been dreaming about since you were sixteen years old? Now, you didn’t even know if you and Severus would get the chance to finish what you’d started.

Draco lingered close beside you, clearly not done talking. "So... What were you two doing in there for so long?"

You sighed dramatically, rolling your eyes. "I told you already we were catching up. Over a drink. Gods, you’re nosey."

He hesitated, and then with more nerve than he should’ve had, asked, "Did anything else... Happen?"

You gave him a flat look. "Draco," You said, tone clipped. "We are not together."

He frowned. "I know, but-"

"No,"You said firmly.

Draco sighed and rubbed the back of his neck, finally dropping the subject, but your thoughts were miles away.

Your lips still tingled, your heart still raced. Somewhere in the manor Severus Snape, kissed breathless, wearing your lipstick on his neck, was moving through the crowd like nothing had happened.

You weren’t about to let that be the end of it.

When you entered the sitting room your eyes scanned the crowd, spotting Severus standing in the far corner half-shadowed next to the entrance to the hall. Your breath hitched. Even across the crowd, his eyes found yours - dark, unwavering - and your cheeks warmed as a faint smirk pulled at the corner of his lips.

You felt that flutter again. Dangerous, thrilling.

As Lucius raised his glass to give yet another drawn-out New Year’s toast, you began to inch away from Draco. He was too busy hanging on his father's every word to notice. Slipping a pen from your clutch, you scribbled two quick words onto a napkin: follow me.

Then, with your heartbeat loud in your ears, you made your move.

You drifted toward the hall slowly, letting your steps feel casual, deliberate. As you passed Severus, you brushed the folded napkin into his hand, never breaking stride, never looking back. But you felt it, the heat of his stare trailing you like a physical touch.

You stepped into a guest bathroom and closed the door behind you. The space was elegant - a large, glass-doored shower, a double vanity in marble, soft towels perfectly folded on racks. You twisted the dimmer switch, easing the lighting down from sterile to soft and dusky.

Then you waited.

Seconds stretched like hours. Your heart thudded. You checked your reflection in the mirror, smoothing your dress, adjusting the curl of your hair - why was it suddenly so warm in here?

Then you heard it - the door handle turned, the lock clicked shut.

He entered like a storm, dark and intense, his robes rustling with purpose. Without a word, he flicked his wand, muttered a spell that sealed you in silence, and tossed the wand onto the counter. Your heart leapt into your throat.

In two strides, he was behind you, his hands sliding around your waist, the scent of his cologne and something darker, something distinctly Severus, pressing into you like a second skin. His lips brushed against the shell of your ear. "You’re a menace."

You tilted your head slightly to give him more access as his mouth trailed from your ear to the column of your neck. "And yet, here you are."

And then he was on you.

He turned you to face him and his mouth crashed against yours with none of the restraint he'd shown earlier. His hands found your waist, dragging you against him, your bodies pressed flush. His lips were fire - insistent, hungry, moving against yours with a dominance that sent a shiver down your spine. You gasped into the kiss and he took full advantage, deepening it, his tongue sweeping into your mouth like he had every right to claim it. Your fingers clutched at the collar of his robes, pulling him impossibly closer, wanting more, needing more.

His kiss was promise and punishment, reward and ruin. You clung to him as your knees threatened to give, the heat of him overwhelming, dizzying. He kissed you like he’d waited centuries for it, bruising and possessive, all heat and teeth, the kind of kiss that stole breath and sense. One hand tangled in your hair, tugging just enough to draw a gasp, while the other gripped your waist, holding you against him so tightly that the gods couldn't tear you apart.

His hands roamed, calloused fingers sliding up your thigh beneath the slit of your dress, nails grazing just enough to make your stomach clench. He pushed the fabric higher, exposing lace and skin and a heat that throbbed for him alone.

You pulled back just slightly, enough to catch your breath. His chest was rising and falling with effort, his pupils dilated, lips parted, and you couldn’t help the mischievous gleam that lit your eyes. "You know," You murmured, your fingers brushing his neck. "You had my lipstick on your neck this whole time. Bold of you, people are bound to talk if they saw it."

His expression didn’t change, but something darker flickered in his gaze. "And what, exactly, would they say?" His voice was low, gravel and silk, frayed with restraint.

"They’d think you were with a woman, of course," You said lightly, a teasing smile dancing on your lips. "They wouldn’t know who, at first, but anyone who saw the shade I’m wearing would probably be able to put two and two together. Jump to conclusions..."

Severus stepped closer again, impossibly close, and your heart fluttered when his hand gripped your thigh a touch tighter. "What sort of conclusions?" He asked, each syllable deliberate and controlled, though his breathing betrayed him, uneven and ragged.

"Oh, all sorts of conclusions," You said, your voice soft, the words gliding from your lips like smoke. "Most obvious being that we kissed, but I doubt their minds would stop there."

You let your fingertips drift through his hair, combing it slowly, reverently, trailing them down along his temple, his jaw, his throat making him shiver under your touch. "A man and woman, alone at the party, drinking, inhibitions lowered... Well, we could’ve been up to anything," You whispered, tracing your finger down to the edge of his collar. "A professor and his former student? How scandalous."

He swallowed hard. You watched the way his jaw flexed, like he was biting back the urge to act - or to lose control entirely. "There would definitely be rumours about us," You continued, leaning into him, your lips just shy of brushing his. His breath was ragged, his hands gripping your hips so tightly you were sure there'd be bruises tomorrow. "Some would say I seduced you with my body... others would say you got me drunk."

His hands on your hips flexed again, firmer now, possessive.

"Mostly," You breathed, tilting your face so that your lips nearly ghosted across his as you spoke. Severus’s restraint was unraveling, thread by thread, his thumb tracing the edge of your thigh as his eyes bore into yours, unreadable and dangerous and hungry. "They’d agree that we fucked, right here in the bathroom... all while poor Draco searched the party for his supposed date."

The word lingered in the air like gunpowder, and the tension snapped taut like a wire between you. "You have no idea what you're doing to me," He growled against your neck, lips dragging down to your collarbone, where he bit just enough to leave a mark.

"Then show me," You whispered, your fingers working at the buttons of his coat, undoing him like a woman starving.

He turned you around, laying you over the counter of the vanity like an offering. Your breath fogged the mirror, shaky and uneven, misting the gilded glass as Severus’s hands roamed your body with a possessiveness that bordered on reverent. The fabric of your black dress was bunched up around your waist now, exposing your thighs to the open air, to his gaze, to his touch.

You could still feel the ghost of his mouth on your neck, where he had kissed you with a hunger that betrayed how long he’d wanted this - how long he had suffered wanting you. His fingers traced your hips, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh there as if to ground himself. Then up, slowly, sliding along your spine, over your shoulders, and down your arms until your hands met his, and your fingers interlocked.

He leaned down, pressing his chest to your back, and your eyes fluttered closed as you felt the press of his lips at your ear. "You are exquisite like this," He whispered, voice deep and low and dripping with restrained hunger. "Utterly, maddeningly divine."

You whimpered softly, the sound half-buried in the rustle of his coat as it brushed your bare thighs. One of his hands slid away from yours, fingers dipping between your thighs in a way that made you shudder against the counter.

"You’re already shaking," He murmured, voice wicked with satisfaction. "And I haven’t even begun."

You turned your head slightly, enough to catch a glimpse of his dark eyes in the mirror -blown wide, fixed entirely on you, like he couldn’t look away if he tried.

And then his fingers slipped inside, coaxing a kind of moan from your lips that you barely recognized as your own. His pace was slow, teasing at first, curling and withdrawing with every stroke until your legs trembled and your hands clenched around his.

When he added his thumb to the rhythm, pressing and circling with devastating precision, your knees nearly gave out. A sharp tug, then a rip of fabric, and the delicate lace of your knickers gave way beneath his hand.

You gasped, half in surprise, half in anticipation, the sound only seeming to fuel him.

"I’ll get you another pair," He muttered roughly against your throat.

"I’d rather you didn’t."

He pressed a kiss to your shoulder blade, his hands releasing you, and you could hear the distinct sound of him undoing his belt - slowly, deliberately - like he wanted you to feel every heartbeat of anticipation.

You let out a shuddering breath, clutching the edge of the vanity for dear life.

"So ready for me," He murmured, voice thick with awe and hunger. "Merlin, look at you."

You dared a glance at your reflection - your body bent forward, hands gripping porcelain. His tall frame behind you, all black robes and restraint barely held in check. His eyes met yours in the mirror - dark, devouring, burning with something too fierce to be fleeting.

You felt his manhood against you then, hard and demanding, pressing into the curve of your backside. His hand slid back down, anchoring your hip, his lips brushing your ear. "Tell me you want this."

"I want you," You breathed. "Please."

He exhaled sharply, as though he’d been holding his breath for a century. He finally entered you, desperate and deep, a perfect stretch that made your head fall back, your reflection a blur of smudged lipstick, flushed skin, and lust-glazed eyes. He braced one hand behind your back, the other gripping your hip so tightly you knew there’d be bruises later - and you wanted them.

And then he moved. Not with tenderness, with purpose. Thrusting deep, dragging himself through you with brutal rhythm, groaning like every tight pulse around him was your soul agreeing to be his. He fucked you with deliberate force, hips slamming into yours, his hand moving from your back to your throat, choking the breath from your lips just enough to make your eyes roll back.

"Severus-" You whimpered, barely coherent.

His response was a hum of satisfaction, lips pressed to your shoulder as he moved with maddening precision. His other hand never left yours, never let you drift too far from the grounding heat of his grasp, each movement building you toward the edge with devastating control.

"Look at yourself," He rasped, voice thick. "I want you to watch me ruin you."

You obeyed, and the image in the mirror made your breath catch. Your flushed cheeks, your parted lips, your body bent and offered like some unholy gift, and behind you, Severus - shirt unbuttoned, eyes ablaze, looking at you like you were salvation wrapped in sin.

You felt the change in him before it happened - the stutter in his rhythm, the hitch in his breathing, the tightening grip of his hand as his thrusts grew harder, faster, his name falling from your lips like a prayer.

And then, ecstasy.

Your knees buckled slightly and he caught you easily, keeping you upright, his arm wrapped tight around your waist, breath hot against your shoulder as he spilled into you, moaning obscenities against your neck as his thrusts slowed to a stop.

You found his eyes in the mirror. Dark, hungry, but softened, too, something reverent flickering behind the heat.

He kissed the back of your shoulder, then the shell of your ear again. "Happy New Year," He whispered.

You smiled, lips still parted as your breath came in soft little gasps. "Best one yet."

[loki--fics]

stardust - part eight

loki x reader

content warnings: grief, death mentions

word count: 1,574

That night in your room had left a mark on both you and Loki. Subtle, invisible, yet impossible to brush off or ignore.

He hadn't meant to stay, hadn't meant to hold you while you broke, but once you were in his arms, once he felt your trembling breath against his chest and the way you clung to him like he was the only thing keeping you from sinking, something inside of him shifted, and suddenly he couldn't seem to keep you off his mind. It wasn't pity, wasn't some fleeting whim or a sense of morbid curiosity, it was deeper than that. It was recognition.

You understood him in ways no one else had before. You had seen the darkness, same as him; you had fallen into the abyss of hurt and rage, lashing out with destruction and chaos, overwhelmed with guilt after the dust had settled but carrying the burden alone.

Now, the two of you were in the kitchen; Loki sat perched on a stool at the island, his sleeves cuffed neatly at his forearms, the rings on his thin fingers glinting softly in the overhead light. He watched as you moved around the kitchen, barefoot and adorned with an apron, using a wooden spoon to stir what you had called your mother's "world famous" bolognese. It had taken a moment for you to explain that no, it wasn't actually famous around the world, but it was delicious enough that it might as well have been.

The scent was unfamiliar to him, rich and savoury and somehow comforting, like something meant to feed not just the body, but the soul.

Loki cleared his throat softly, his voice careful. "So your parents - How did you end up in Stark's care?"

You didn't answer at first and Loki straightened, sensing he may have overstepped. "Forgive me, that was.. Prying. You needn't say anything if it was an unwelcome question."

You gave the sauce another stir, then lowered the heat to simmering. Your expression had changed slightly, your eyes more distant, the corners of your mouth turning up in a sad smile.

"Do you know what my favourite thing about my mom was?" You asked. "My dad worked long hours - he was brilliant, like Tony, just.. Quieter about it. He and mom were so different, she was all colour and chaos and noise, and he was order and logic and calm. But it worked, and I knew they loved each other more than anything."

You turned, leaning your back against the counter. "My mom was a weirdo. Not in a bad way, she just.. Had this kind of oddball, whimsical energy. Like she saw the world through a kaleidescope and wanted me to see it that way, too." Your head leaned to the side. "She was always planning these fun outings for the two of us. Nothing extravagant, just little day trips; like we'd drive an hour to the city just to try some new restaurant she'd read about in a blog. Or we'd go to antique stores and pick out the ugliest thing we could find for each other. One time, she gave me a taxidermied rat dressed like a businessman, with a little briefcase and everything."

You chuckled, turning back to the stove to stir the sauce, tasting a bit of it on the spoon and sprinkling in some more seasoning. "Once, she even took me to this UFO-themed diner that only served blue food. Just.. Weird, wonderful stuff. Like trying to follow Bob Ross tutorials, even though neither of us could paint to save our lives - we'd end up covered in paint, and they always turned out horrible. Our happy little abominations." You laughed gently. "She always let me help her cook, too, even when I made a mess of the flour or forgot the sugar. Taught me how to play piano, and ukulele; she'd play for me whenever I asked and I loved it, even though she was terrible at singing."

Loki could picture it - a warm, sun soaked room, flour on your cheeks, music in the background. He imagined a miniature you, laughing and unburdened by the chaos.

"They were good friends with Tony, he worked with my dad," You continued. "He'd come over on holidays, bringing dumb gag gifts and setting things on fire in the backyard for 'science'. I loved it." Your eyes gazed out the window, at the afternoon sun bathing the city in its warm glow. "When I was sixteen, we were in a car accident. I don't remember much.. Rain, tires screeching, glass shattering, my mom holding my hand. Then I woke up in the hospital with only a few broken ribs and a mild concussion, and they were just... gone."

Your voice cracked on the last word, and you swallowed hard. Loki's chest ached in a way he didn't quite understand.

"Tony stayed with me in the hospital, and came home with me when I was discharged. He even stayed after the funeral, he was adamant that he wasn't leaving without me, that he'd promised my mom he'd take care of me if anything happened."

"And so you went with him?" Loki asked, a brow raised.

You chuckled. "Not at first. I fought him on everything; I told him I didn't need him, that I wasn't leaving my home. He was like a reminder of everything I'd lost. I even locked myself in the bedroom once, and climbed out of a window to avoid a counseling session. But eventually I realised, he'd lost them, too. And after a while, the house became too much, the silence too loud. Everything reminded me of them - mom's flour-covered apron still on the hook, dad's coffee mug on the table next to the newspaper. It was like the grief had soaked into the walls, and I couldn't stand it anymore. So I finally moved here, with Tony."

"He tried his best. He was a lot - loud, noisy, irritating. But eventually we found our rhythm, and he started teaching me things. How to wire boards, basic coding, soldering. We built a little robot together that followed sound like a puppy. Then he taught me programs, and AI protocols. Eventually, he became my anchor. He stopped feeling like a replacement and more like someone who understood. I don't know if I would have survived it without him. I still own their house, I inherited it after they passed, but I haven't been back. Maybe someday."

You dished up two steaming plates of bolognese, the aroma warm and comforting. Loki watches you with quiet interest, his eyes following the graceful efficiency of your movement as you brought the plates over to the island. You set one down in front of him, and he bowed his head slightly in thanks as you sat next to him.

"So," You said, bringing a bite up to your lips. "What about your parents?" Loki's fork paused midair. "Thor's told me a bit about your father, but I haven't heard much of your mom."

For a moment, you think he might deflect. His posture straightened, his jaw tightened, but then, he exhaled.

"My mother," He repeated, almost to himself. His voice was low, measured. "Frigga. She was... Everything Odin was not. Where he ruled with order and discipline, she led with wisdom, patience, and compassion."

You listened intently, fork in hand, stealing glances at him between bites.

"She taught me magic," He continued, his voice distant, as though lost in memory. "Not just simply casting spells, but how to understand them. The rhythm beneath the incantation, the beauty of them." A small smile played on his lips. "I would often feign sleep, then sneak to her study and watch her work. There were always candles burning, pages turning themselves, the scent of lavender and old books. She'd pretend not to notice me, then summon a cushion for me to curl up on, like she'd known I was there all along."

"She.. She always saw me, even when I wasn't sure who I was. She was kind to everyone, but she made me feel special, like I was more than my brother's shadow. Not because I was a prince, not because I was clever, but because I was just... Me."

He grew quiet for a moment, the smile gone, the silence heavy. "She died because of me."

Your heart ached. "Loki..."

He met your gaze, no bitterness in his voice, only sorrow. "I set the events in motion that led to her death. Whether it was my hand that struck her down or not, it was my blade, my arrogance, my foolishness."

You reached out slowly, laying your hand atop his where it rested on the counter. "I know that kind of guilt," You said softly. "I live with it, too. My dad hadn't been home early enough for supper with us in months, so I insisted we all go out together. I threw a fit about it. They were only in that car because of me, and after it crashed... I blamed myself."

His eyes lingered on your face for a long moment, a quiet, shared understanding passing through the two of you. Then without a word, his hand shifted under yours, turning over so your palms were pressed together as his fingers interlaced with yours, and the two of you continued eating in a heavy, yet comfortable silence.

next chapter

author's note: i hope you're all enjoying the story so far! <3

[loki--fics]

stardust - part seven

loki × reader

content warnings: graphic descriptions of violence, strong language, cancer, illness

word count: 2,143

The tower was quieter than usual.

It had been weeks since the confrontation in the lounge, weeks since the flames, the words, the wounds. In that time you had retreated to your room like a ghost retreating from the world, leaving behind only charred carpet and questions that no one dared to ask.

No except Loki.

Now, he stood outside your door, fingers hovering in mid air, poised to knock but hesitating, uncertain. He'd passed through this hall more times than he cared to admit the past few weeks, always intending to knock, but never quite finding the nerve to. Tonight, though, was different. He'd been sitting in his room, a book resting open in his lap, the same page staring up at him for nearly half an hour, but he hadn't processed a single word.

As his eyes scanned the same paragraph for the seventh time, he sighed, running a hand through his hair. No matter how many times he tried to distract himself, his thoughts kept drifting back to you. The way your voice had cracked, the enchanting flames that danced up your arms, the look in your eyes that hadn't come from anger alone, but grief, deep and suffocating.

And the way you'd defended him, of all people, like your life had depended on it.

He'd eventually snapped the book shut and stood, pacing his room as his thoughts raced. Damn it all, He thought.

Minutes later he was standing outside your door, poised to knock but hesitating. "This is absurd," He muttered, but he couldn't escape the nagging tightness of not knowing. He needed to see you, needed to know why. Why did you defend him like that? Why did he care?

It's late, He tried to reason with himself. You're probably sleeping. This should wait.

But for some unknown reason, he couldn't bring himself to walk away. "Damn it all," He repeated as he finally knocked, harder than he meant to.

"Go away." Your voice was muffled, but clear enough to be understood. Too bad Loki was never good at taking orders.

He took a breath and, against all better judgement, pushed the door open, stepping into your room. You were curled up under a blanket in bed, facing away from the door, a half full mug of cold tea and plate of barely-touched food sitting on your bedside table. The room was dimly lit by amber sconces on the walls, and heavy velvet curtains coloured a deep, forest green were pulled closed, blocking out the view of the city from the window.

Loki let his eyes wander the room as the door shut behind him with a soft click. The air had the faint scent of citrus and sandalwood, a tall bookshelf standing like a sentry beside your desk, crammed with worn paperbacks, poetry collections, and old hardcover tomes. A record player sat on a side table, a stack of vinyls on the lower shelf - Bowie, Talking Heads, The Smiths, among others. Above it, a framed antique map of the stars hung slightly askew, the edges curling and yellowed from age.

Your desk was cluttered but curated - fountain pens in a tarnished cup, candles burned halfway down, and a raven figurine perched next to a peeling leather-bound journal with a cracked spine. Dried flowers - lavender, marigolds, hibiscus - hung from twine above your headboard.

It was the kind of room that told stories, like it had secrets in its walls. It hit him suddenly how intimate this all was. Not in the obvious, physical way, but in a deeper, rawer sense. It was late, everyone else in the tower was likely asleep, but here he was, in your chambers. Just the two of you.

"What part of 'go away' did you not understand?" You mumbled, not bothering to look up.

"I'm known for many things, but my ability to follow orders is not among them," Loki replied, feigning nonchalance.

You sat up with a start, as if your ears had deceived you. Your eyes met his and widened slightly. "Loki," You breathed.

The way you looked at him tugged at something inside of him. He wasn't sure what the feeling was, exactly - it wasn't concern, nor pity; not the shared comfort of outcastedness the two of you had shared in the library. It was something deeper, something.. Unexpected.

He awkwardly crossed his arms, standing in the middle of the room like he wasn't sure whether to sit or flee. "I'm.. I'm not good at this," He started. "Talking. Feelings. All of that." He cleared his throat. "But I wanted - needed, to ask... why?"

You gestured to the foot of your bed, and Loki sat, rigid and awkward. "Why, what?" You asked.

"Why did you defend me?" He blurted before he lost the nerve. "To Thor. So fiercely."

You were surprised. "What?"

"You didn't have to," He continued. "You could have agreed with him, or even said nothing. It likely would have been easier, but you didn't. Why?"

"Why wouldn't I?" You asked.

Loki paused, his expression raw and unguarded. "Because, I've done terrible things. Unforgivable things. I've lied, stolen, manipulated, killed innocents. Left trails of destruction across entire realms. I've betrayed those who trusted me, those who loved me. Thor is right to be wary. But yet you still fought for me, spoke kindly of me. Why?"

You stared at him, something unreadable clouding your expression. Your lips parted, but no words came, not right away. You looked stricken, guilt so powerful it closed your throat welling up inside of you. Loki noticed your internal battle and his posture straightened, like he'd stumbled across something not meant to be seen.

You took a breath, then another, the silence stretching between you, thick and heavy. Then, finally, you spoke.

"I defended you, because I know what it's like to be seen as a monster." You sounded choked, your voice small and tight. "Not because someone assumes it, or because of what you look like or who your family is, but because you are. Because you did something monstrous... And can't take it back."

Loki stilled beside you. You fought to continue around the rising tightness in your chest, threatening to take your breath away. "I've never told anyone this," You admitted softly, staring down at your hands like they were a stranger's. "Not Tony. Not Thor. Not Steve, or Nat, or Bruce. Nobody. But, if anyone would understand... I suppose it would be you."

You swallowed past the hard lump in your throat. "When I escaped the HYDRA facility... It was chaos. I didn't come back to the tower right away, I couldn't. I was half-starved, half mad, basically feral with abilities I couldn't control, and filled with rage. So much rage. I didn't know who I was anymore, I was nothing but fire and blood and pain and couldn't think straight. I wandered the Vienna wilds for days, no food, barely any water, covered in blood - some mine, most not. I was like a rabid fucking dog."

You laughed, but it was bitter and hollow. "When I finally stumbled across that village, I looked like something out of a nightmare. I was something out of a nightmare."

Loki said nothing, just sat, silent and still next to you. His stomach turned, and a sinking feeling crept into his chest like ice water through cracked stone. He had a hunch of where this was going, but he desperately hoped to be wrong. Subconsciously, impossibly, he'd come to think of you as something good - someone kind in a way he'd stopped believing existed in this realm. To imagine that weight - that guilt - bearing down on you... He didn't want to think about that.

"They were afraid. I still remember their screams, they sounded like music. Can you imagine that?" Your voice took on a distant quality, the kind that only came with long buried trauma. "When they saw me, this filthy, stumbling thing, skin grey and brambles tangled in my hair... They screamed, the children ran, and someone threw something at me. I don't even remember what, but it was all I needed to snap."

major tw!! this will be graphic, gory and disturbing. feel free to skip ahead. if you continue reading, you do so at your own risk.

You sucked a breath in through your teeth. "A man came at me with a pitchfork - as if that would do anything. I liquefied him. The flesh sloughed off his bones before he even hit the ground. Another tried to pull me back with rope; I burned him, watched his flesh blacken and listen to him beg me to stop while his eyes boiled in his skull." Your hands clenched, knuckles white as ivory. "I ripped a mother in half with a shockwave, and she still refused to let go of her baby. I watched her intestines spill into the dirt while the baby screamed. I roasted a man inside of his own iron chimney because he tried to hide, you could hear his fists pounding the walls before his lungs gave out."

You swallowed thickly as your voice dropped to a monotone, each word more horrifying than the last, but you wouldn't stop, wouldn't spare a single detail. If Loki thought he was a monster, he needed to hear what you had done. This was your penance.

"There was a little girl, maybe six years old. Dark hair, big brown eyes. She didn't scream, didn't even cry - just looked at me, not like I was a monster, but like she could still see a person under all of the filth and fire. I didn't burn her, or blast her - I just hit her. I caved her head in with a piece of debris because I couldn't stand the way she looked at me like I could be saved."

tw over! if you didn't read, y/n brutally massacred a village.

Tears burned your eyes as you stared at your hands, but you didn't let them fall. "When it was over, the village was nothing but a smoking crater. I made sure nothing was left, not even bones. Like erasing them could erase me."

"So you ask why I defended you? Because you're not the only 'monster' in the room."

When you finally forced yourself to meet his eyes, you braced yourself for the worst, expecting to see disgust, horror, etched across his features. Fear, maybe, or revulsion.

What you found was far more devastating.

His eyes held grief, raw and aching, like he was watching a mirror image of himself bleed out before him and he was powerless to stop it. His expression was unbearably soft, painfully open and vulnerable in a way you'd never seen, like your words had carved straight through him. He looked at you the way someone would look at something precious that had been shattered - not repulsed by the cracks, but mourning the violence of how they got there.

"You thought I would hate you," He said softly, not as a question, but as a sad truth. "I know that look in your eyes, Y/N. I've worn it myself." You blinked at him, your breath caught between a sob and silence. "I know what it is to be consumed by rage, to become the thing people whisper about long after the screams have faded. To do something unforgivable and still wake the next day, forced to live with it. But Y/N," He said, awkwardly laying his hand on yours, "I don't look at you and see a monster. I see someone who survived against all odds. Someone HYDRA tried to twist and break, but who fought and escaped. And yes, you lost control. Gods, you lost everything, but that doesn't make you evil."

You stared at him like the ground was ripped out from under you. You swallowed hard, your eyes burning. Your hands twitched in your lap, and Loki gave them a squeeze.

Then the dam broke.

Your body gave out like it couldn't bear the weight anymore and you hunched forward, hiding your face behind shaking hands as sobs you kept locked behind your ribs for far too long rocked your body. Then, surprising both of you, you felt arms wrap around you.

Tentative at first, awkward and uncertain, like they didn't know what they were doing. But they wrapped around you just the same, steady and warm and solid, drawing you into him without another word. You collapsed into his chest, his shirt bunching in your fists as your cries grew louder, your tears soaking through the linen, but still he held you.

Loki, who had always kept everyone at arm's length, who had once recoiled from touch like it burned, cradled the back of your head in one hand while the other curled protectively around your waist. Then, he rested his cheek against the top of your head, the material of your scarf tickling his nose as you fell apart in his arms.

next chapter

author's note: sorry for the graphic lore drop! it just felt right to me for her to have a similar monstrous background, something to connect with loki on a deeper level <3

[loki--fics]

stardust - part six

loki × reader

content warnings: fighting, cancer, illness, strong language

word count: 2,133

The lounge was quiet, the light from the muted television casting soft, flickering shadows across your face. You were seated alone on the couch, knees drawn up and arms wrapped loosely around them as you stared blankly at the screen. Not that you were watching - your mind was somewhere else; somewhere colder, darker. Somewhere with green eyes and a soft, unreadable smirk, with raven hair and a silver tongue that you thought about more often than you cared to admit.

You were so wrapped in thought that you hadn't noticed at first when Thor walked in. Hadn't noticed his white knuckles or rigid posture, the tired bags beneath his eyes or the fury seething within them.

He stood just inside the threshold of the room, watching you, already tense and bitter. That you hadn't even bothered to look up when he'd entered only salted the sting that had been festering in his chest all night, and he cleared his throat aggressively.

You blinked, startled from your thoughts, and finally glanced over at him. But it wasn't the warm, friendly gaze he had once taken for granted. There was no affection, no spark of camaraderie, no teasing glint. It was distant, guarded; the kind of look you'd give an acquaintance, a stranger, not your closest friend and ally.

It pierced Thor like a blade. "How the hell can you look at me like that?" He snapped angrily.

You frowned, confused. "Like what?"

He bristled. "Like.. Like I'm a stranger! Like we haven't been through hell and back together, like we... Like we were never us!"

You leveled your gaze, jaw tight. "There hasn't been an 'us' for a long time, Thor. But I think you know that."

A flicker of confusion and defensiveness crossed his face. "What is that supposed to mean?"

You sighed, your voice brittle. "I didn't step back first, you did. Don't pretend like you didn't. You started pulling away the second my illness started showing, when my hair fell out, when my weight dropped, when I started looking like death warmed over."

"That's not-" Thor started.

"Oh, but it is," You interrupted. "We were fine when I still looked okay, when I could still keep up the act. But once I started looking sick - really sick - you could hardly even look at me anymore. You didn't know what to say, so you said nothing. You didn't know how to act, so you stopped trying. The last time I came back from chemo, you couldn't even look at me. You sat on the other side of the room and stared at the wall like I made your skin crawl."

Thor flinched. Outside the door, Loki stopped mid-step. He had really only meant to pass through, but the sound of raised voices had stopped him. He knew he shouldn't be listening in, but curiosity got the better of him.

Then Thor spoke, his voice defensive and bitter. "There it is again. You always use your illness to justify everything - shutting everyone out, isolating yourself, acting like you're the only one who's hurting. You're just victimizing yourself."

You froze, and the air went still. Even Loki knew his brother had crossed a line, and he didn't hear half the conversation before this. Thor knew as well, and as soon as the words left his lips he wished he could swallow them back down, but it was too late - they hung in the air, sharp and brutal.

Your fingers twitched, your posture shifting suddenly as if a switch had been flipped within you. Your gaze went cold, glassy, and unreadably calm as it fixed on Thor. For the first time in a long time, Thor - God of Thunder - felt afraid.

"Victimizing myself?" You repeated, so softly it sent a chill down his spine. Your voice was flat, hollow, almost curious, like you were asking him to repeat it just to see if he'd really said it. He opened his mouth to speak - to justify it, to take it back, to say he hadn't meant it like that - but it was too late.

You stood slowly, deliberately, your hands clenched into fists at your sides as heat rolled off of you in slow waves. The temperature in the room began to climb, humidity so thick Loki could feel it in the hall.

You've sure done it now, brother, Loki mused as he watched from the doorway, silent and unseen.

"I'm always victimizing myself?" You said again, louder this time, enunciating every syllable with razor-edged clarity.

Thor took a step back. He didn't mean to, but the air was burning, flames licking the tips of your fingers like the first spark of a forest fire, hungry and wild.

Your voice rose with the heat. "You think I want this? That I chose this?" Your lip curled, fury crackling in every word. "You think I'm using cancer like it's a fucking excuse? You think I like what I've become? You have no idea what it's like to be trapped in this... This broken, dying body! To watch it fall apart day by day, piece by piece, while everyone I love stand there and acts like I'm already fucking dead!"

The carpet beneath your feet blackened and curled with heat, and Thor could feel sweat beading at his hairline and plastering his hair to the nape of his neck.

Then your voice drooped, raw and tired, the flames dimming for a moment, more ember than inferno. "Every few weeks I sit there while they pump poison into me, and I don't get a choice. And I smile through it, because no one knows what the hell to do except pat me on the back and tell me how 'strong' I am." Your gaze turned hollow and worn as you stared at Thor. "It's like being trapped all over again, but this time, there's no explosion big enough to get me out."

Thor's breath caught. There it was, the unintentional wound you didn't know you'd delivered. His brother's name didn't leave your lips, but he remembered. Every word from the library, every trembling syllable about the cell, the tests, the power boiling under your skin, you breaking out and burning everything to ash.

Jealousy twisted again, sharp and bitter. "You know, you talk about being trapped and poisoned like none of us could ever possibly understand, but you told him, didn't you?"

You blinked, confused. "What?"

"Loki!" He barked, accusatory. "My brother! You told him everything while you fed the rest of us scraps."

The colour drained from your face. "How do you-"

"The library," He growled. "I heard you. I came to return your book, and found you with him, my brother, the walking disaster. Sitting close enough to touch, spilling every sordid detail of your goddamn soul out like he'd earned it. And the rest of us? We got vague, deflective fragments. Ghost stories without any bones."

You blinked. Not because he knew - because of how he knew. "You spied on me," You hissed.

"I didn't mean to," Thor said. "But you told him everything, details you wouldn't even tell me. And you know what? I almost told the whole team everything you said, but I didn't. Because I wanted to hear it from you. Because I thought, after everything we've been through, maybe you'd think I deserved to."

Your lip curled in a sneer. "And what, you think I should be grateful? That I should be thanking you, grateful you didn't go telling everyone about a private moment of mine that you spied on?" You laughed, but it was hollow, dry. "And you think you deserved to know? You don't get to demand pieces of me. You had absolutely no right-"

"You had no right to shut us out!" Thor cried, his voice raw. "To shut me out! I was your best friend, and you left me out in the cold while you poured your heart out to Loki, the screw-up, the one who's done nothing but prove why he can't be trusted-"

"Shut up!" You bellowed. A heat wave rivaling Arizona summers rippled out from you as you took a step towards Thor, an inferno blazing in your eyes. "You think this is about who's earned what? Loki may be a lot of things, but at least he's never treated me like some fragile thing already halfway in the ground! It's bad enough that I have to sit here and slowly rot to nothing, but you know what's worse? I have to watch all of you, watch me die. I see it in your eyes every time I walk in the room - the pity, the grief, the fear - I hear you whisper about it when you think I'm not around! I know about the conversations planning my funeral!"

Your chest heaved with ragged breaths as you continued. "What the hell else was I supposed to do? You want to talk about me isolating myself? Pushing you all away? I didn't do it because it's easy for me, I did it as a fucking mercy for all of you." Flames danced up your arms now, a physical manifestation of the white-hot anger inside you. "You all look at me like you're already grieving, like I'm a ghost you can't touch. But not Loki. He talks to me like I'm still here, like I'm still me. He's not like you think he is." Your voice softened slightly, still wounded but defiant. "He's not awful at heart. He's been hurt, and he's misunderstood - like me."

Loki's breath caught, his throat tightening. There you were, defending him again, even when it cost you. Something he couldn't name gnawed at his chest.

"But I don't have to explain myself to you," You continued. "I'm not a child, and you're not my warden."

"Oh please," Thor scoffed. "Don't act like you're some kind of fucking martyr for casting aside everyone who cares about you. You've been treating everyone like garbage since the lightbulb incident. Like we're the enemy. We've all been walking on eggshells, and you don't seem to care!"

"You mean the meeting?" You spat.

He faltered. "What?"

You scoffed. "I overheard an interesting conversation of my own. I heard you, all of you. That little secret rendezvous you all had, talking about how I might be dangerous. How you you all need to keep an eye on me - just in case."

Thor opened his mouth, but you cut him off. "Tony said he didn't even know what to do with me anymore. Do you know what that felt like? Hearing that from my own family?" He looked away shamefully. "And Loki - you think he's cruel? That he's cold? Well maybe he is, but don't pretend you don't know why. You told me the stories, remember?"

"Y/N, I-"

"You're the one who sat with me and said how he'd always stood in your shadow. How Odin 'saved' him from Laufey only to tell him he'd never be enough. That he was born to kneel, born to fail. How you'd get the glory, and he got the scraps. And now you're surprised that he's bitter?"

His face twisted with shame, with guilt. "You're twisting that, that's not how I-"

"Am I twisting it?" You snapped, stepping in closer, leaving blackened footprints in the carpet behind you. "Then tell me what you did mean, Thor. Because the way I see it, you just want everyone to see you as the noble one - the hero. And Loki was the screw up that helped you shine brighter."

Thor's mouth hung agape as you continued. "You're just angry that I found comfort in someone who knows what it's like to be treated like a monster."

Out in the hall, Loki was frozen. He hadn't expected this. How selflessly you defended him, without even knowing that he was here, listening, clinging to every word like it was a lifeline. But more startling to him was the reason - because you understood. Understood him, his pain, his past; you embraced it instead of turning away like so many others.

"You say I chose him over you," You sighed, your voice sagging. You turned away, shoulders trembling as you fought to regain control. The flames licking your arms seceded reluctantly, but the scorch marks on the rug beneath your feet remained - dark, charred, permanent. "But you made that choice the minute you started looking at me like I was already dead."

You didn't look back as you walked out, leaving Thor standing there, soaked in sweat, and sweeping past Loki without even realizing he was there. Loki stayed quiet for a long moment, watching you walk away, and then he turned a corner and went the other way.

next chapter

author's note: i tried to keep it from running too long, but i still wanted to include a lot of detail, all the feelings y/n has kept bottled up coming to the surface. i feel like there's been a lot of drama, though, so i think i'll tone it down a bit in the coming chapters. maybe lol.

[loki--fics]

stardust - part five

loki × reader

content warnings: cancer, illness, strong language

word count: 1,148

Thor hadn't meant to eavesdrop. Truly, he hadn't.

He'd come into the library, a book you'd lent him ages ago, The Salmarillion, tucked under his arm. Back when you still had fire in your eyes instead of fatigue. He told himself he was just coming to return it, but that was a farce; the truth was that the book was just an excuse to see you, to talk to you. Maybe even to say something real, something to finally start tearing down the impenetrable wall you'd built around yourself, shutting everyone else out.

Especially since the incident.

He missed you. Missed the way you used to seek him out, the way the two of you had once moved through the tower like twin stars in the same orbit. But as he stepped into the library that evening, he stopped cold.

There you were, curled up on in your usual place on the bench, wrapped in fading sunlight. That wasn't what made him catch, though - seated beside you, of all people, was Loki. His brother. The two of you were sat closely, so closely it could almost be considered intimate, and your posture was open and vulnerable in a way Thor hadn't seen in so long.

The air in his lungs turned sharp. Loki wasn't doing anything particular, but it was the way the two of you were seated quietly together, reading together, like you were old friends. Like it was the most natural thing in the world, like he belonged there with you. As if it was us, Thor thought bitterly.

Then you began to speak, your voice low and heavy, as if weighed down by the pain of the words. He listened. Deep down he knew he shouldn't have, but he wanted to hear, needed to hear. He stayed in the shadows, hidden between shelves and peering through the gaps in the books like a coward.

He heard you talk about HYDRA. The capture, the cell, the darkness, the experiments. The way they'd torn you down, piece by piece, until all that was left of you was something foreign and feral. How you'd snapped and destroyed the facility, leaving nothing but flames and blood and silence in your wake, and the guilt you'd felt in the aftermath. He went rigid, each word sticking to his skin like ash.

No one had heard this story. Not him, not Steve, not Natasha, not even Tony - for the past three years since it happened, you'd offered nothing but evasive half-truths, vague summaries, like it was no big deal. "I was kidnapped, they gave me my abilities, and I used them to escape. End of story." That was all you'd give, and after a time they'd stopped prying, assuming the memories were still too fresh, too painful to put into words, and you'd open up when you were ready.

And here you were, ready and willing to tell the story, sparing no gory, devastating detail - but it was Loki who got to hear it. Loki, who had slithered back into their lives with one thousand second chances and just as many smug smiles. Loki, who was cold and arrogant and cruel.

Every word hit harder than Mjolnir ever could, and you'd told it all to him, who now sat unbearably close to you, closer than Thor had gotten in months and not for lack of trying. He stood there unmoving, listening to every awful word, his fists clenched and his jaw locking so hard it ached.

He felt sick. How could you possibly feel that close to Loki? How could you trust him? He was a liar, a traitor, the cold, unfeeling chaos that Thor had spent his life trying to clean up after. Loki, who was only here now because Thor had begged for the chance to redeem him, to fix his brother's legacy.

And yet you, the one Thor had once been closest to, had drifted into his gravity.

Thor watched from the shadows like a stranger. Watched his brother sit calmly beside you, hanging on your every word, as if he understood you. As if he deserved to.

He wasn't just hurt, it was betrayal, and beneath it all, seething jealousy.

The ache swelled, bitter and raw until he couldn't stand it any longer, his hands curling into tight fists at his sides. The book he had brought dropped into a desk near the door, forgotten as he walked out before he could hear anything else. His footsteps echoed in the hallway, thunderous to his ears, though no one else seemed to notice.

Thor was seething. Your voice replayed in his mind, raw and trembling, as it recounted how broken you'd been, what they had done to you, the way it lived on in your bones even now. You hadn't said any of that to him, no; not when he had stayed up night after night at your bedside in the hospital, not when he had carried your limp body back from the battlefield, not when you'd come back from your first chemo session so pale and shaken he hardly recognized you.

Instead, you had trusted Loki. Confided in him. Told him everything. And me? Thor thought angrily. I get left with silence. With lies of omission. With empty space where our friendship used to be.

He stormed back to his room, but there was no peace to be found there. For hours he paced back and forth, thoughts racing, his hand dragging through his golden hair and the storm behind his chest swelling with every step.

Then he thought - should he tell the others?

The details you'd revealed to Loki, He thought, They mattered, right? They changed things. Steve would want to know, Bruce, Tony - they all deserve to know.

Thor clenched his jaw and argued silently with himself, attempting to justify revealing what you'd said to the others, but a twisted ache in his gut wouldn't allow him. He didn't want to do it to help you -

He wanted to hurt you back, the way he'd been hurt.

Damnit, Thor thought frustratedly. Rubbing his face, he decided instead to confront you first, before telling the others. Give you a chance to come clean, to ask why - why Loki, of all people, and not him? Or Tony? Or anyone but his own brother?

The night dragged on, but sleep never came. He lay on his bed, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling, feeling as though the weight of your words might crush him. His thoughts were a tangled mess of emotions - hurt, betrayal, jealousy... After all he'd given to your friendship, every bit of loyalty and strength and love he could offer, it still wasn't enough. He still wasn't enough.

But Loki? Somehow, he was. And it was so fucking unfair.

By the time dawn broke, Thor hadn't slept a single minute.

next chapter

author's note: are y'all ready for this confrontation? it's definitely going to get a little... heated. 👀

[loki--fics]

stardust - part four

loki × reader

content warnings: cancer, illness, graphic violence, strong language

word count: 1,749

The lights in the library were fixed within the week after the incident, but every time you stepped inside since, you still saw sparks falling and felt the buzz in your fingertips.

You'd felt the weight of their stares in the couple of weeks since it happened, the way Tony had looked at you like you were something dangerous. The way you'd felt - too much, too unstable, a ticking bomb in a frail body.

You hadn't stepped foot in the other common rooms since. When you ate, it was at odd hours when the kitchen was empty, and when you trained, you'd slipped into the training rooms only when the logs said they'd be vacant. You became a shadow in your own home, weaving around the others like a ghost - present but never seen.

But even shadows couldn't help but linger.

It was late, well past midnight about a week after the incident, when you'd passed one of the conference rooms on your way back to your bedroom from the kitchen. You hadn't meant to stop, hadn't meant to listen, but voices drifted through the cracked doors.

One of them was Tony's.

The words hit you like a slap. "You didn't see it. She totally lost control, Bruce - the lights exploded! What if next time, it's not just bulbs?"

You stood frozen, your breath catching in your throat. You saw that flicker in his eyes again, like he was bracing himself for another explosion. Not awe, not sympathy, not love -

Fear.

So that was it. That's what he thought of you now. Not his goddaughter, not the person he taught to solder circuits and program AI, not the person who'd dreamt of building prosthetics to help people.

You were a risk. A liability. A danger.

The silence that followed felt like confirmation, a verdict. But then, another voice spoke.

"She's scared, Tony," Natasha's voice cut through the tension. "She's angry, and sick. You think she wants to be like this?"

"I know she doesn't," Tony replied, quieter now. "But she is. And I'm supposed to protect her, that's what I promised her parents. But how the hell do I do that if she's the one blowing holes in the walls?"

There was a pause, and then you heard Bruce, thoughtful but firm. "She doesn't need a warden, Tony - she needs a friend."

You didn't hear the rest, didn't want to. Because if Tony of all people was thinking of you like that, then maybe you really were something to be afraid of.

You turned and walked away on numb feet, your oxygen tank echoing too loudly in the hallway, as if announcing your shame.

next day

The bench by the window was empty when you entered the library that evening, but not for long. Loki arrived just minutes later, book in hand and a faint arch of his brow at the sight of you, already seated. He didn't say anything, just settled into the corner of the bench he'd claimed after the incident, opening his book. The silence that settled between you was comforting, companionable, like seeing an old friend.

Gradually, it became routine.

Evening after evening, you found yourself drawn back to the library bench like a tether. The scent of old parchment and wood, the soft rustle of turning pages, the warm hush of golden sunset bathing the room - it seemed to steady something inside you.

At first, it was simply habit. A place where no one watched you like glass about to shatter, a place you could be alone and feel normal for a time. A place where Loki, for reasons you didn't entirely understand, didn't treat you like you were fragile the way the rest of them did. But as the days passed, you found yourself looking forward to those quiet hours.

He never pried, never hovered, never flinched when you coughed too hard or had to pause to catch your breath.

Sometimes, he'd ask what you were reading, and would occasionally offer a quiet comment about a passage in his own book. But mostly, you just were. And that was enough.

For the first time in a long time, you didn't feel as though you were drowning in silence. There was a strange, unspoken solace in Loki's presence, as if he understood the weight you carried without asking you to explain it. As if your grief and guilt didn't scare him.

You never thought you'd find comfort in the company of a man who once ripped New York apart with madness in his eyes, but in the quiet hours of the library with him, you didn't feel quite so alone anymore. It had become a sort of sanctuary for the two of you, a place where silence spoke volumes and companionship required no words. A place where you could just... Be.

One evening, as the golden hues of sunset filtered through the tall windows, Loki came in carrying two books. He approached your shared bench, his gaze thoughtful. As he sat, without a word, he extended one of the books towards you.

You looked up, curiosity piqued. "What's this?"

"Any Human Heart, by William Boyd," He replied softly. "It's a favourite of mine. A journey through one man's life, filled with love, loss, and the search for meaning."

You reached for the book, your fingers brushing against his. The cover felt cool and smooth beneath your touch, and for a moment the sleeve of your hoodie shifted, just enough for the fading sunlight to catch your skin.

Loki's eyes, ever sharp and observant, flicked to your forearm. He hadn't meant to stare, but something about the contrast between your pale skin and the faded white marks along your arm rooted him in place.

They were not wounds of battle, not the kind left by stray shrapnel or poorly healed stitches - no, they were clean, clinical; too deliberate, too patterned, too symmetrical to be accidents. Scars that spoke of scalpels and restraints, too raw in their history to be forgotten.

And one, near the delivered curve of your wrist, stood out more than the others. Jagged, uneven, a scar that told a story of a moment far more intimate and desperate than any battlefield could offer.

Loki stilled, his gaze briefly shadowed, you noticed. You quickly retracted your arm, taking the book, as Loki settled in next to you. Silence stretched between you, heavy and fragile as you stared at the book in your lap, finger absently tracing the worn edges of the cover.

"It was HYDRA," You murmured suddenly, breaking the silence. Loki didn't move, but his eyes snapped to you and his attention sharpened like a blade on a whetstone. You hadn't told anyone this before, but you felt strangely compelled to share it with Loki. "They took me after a conference in Vienna. I was eighteen, and it was my first big solo trip - I thought I was doing something important." Your lips curled into a humourless smirk. "I didn't realise I was walking into a trap."

Loki said nothing. His stillness wasn't impatient, just... Waiting. He didn't push, just listened.

"They drugged me in a parking garage," You continued. "I woke up in a cell with restraints bolted to the floor." You swallowed, hard. "They began doing experiments on me. Injecting me with things, thick black substances that made it feel like molten lava was crawling under my skin. Sometimes they'd cut me open just to see how I'd heal, never bothering to sew me up properly."

You didn't look at him, didn't dare - not yet.

"They'd shock me when I disobeyed. Cattle prods, electrodes... Once, they left me strapped down for hours with wires taped to my temples, running currents through my skull until I couldn't see anymore. Said they were activating something in me." You laughed, bitter and humourless as your fingers tightened around the book in your lap. "Guess they did."

You sighed. "My body changed. I started being able to control things - fire, water, lightning, metal, earth... At first, I couldn't stop it. When I got angry, people got hurt, and they loved that. Said I was the 'perfect weapon', bred to bring Stark Industries and the Avengers to their knees."

You finally looked up, and Loki saw it - the ghosts behind her eyes, ones she wore as a second skin. Ghosts Loki himself recognized all too clearly.

"I'd been captive for somewhere around two years when I tried to take my life." You traced the jagged scar on your wrist absently. "I could feel myself slipping away, becoming what they wanted... I didn't want to be used to hurt my family. But I failed." You looked away, out the window at the city ninety stories below. "They found me, and after that kept me sedated and restrained until they wanted to run more tests, more experiments."

Loki's breath caught in his throat. He swallowed tightly, but didn't speak as you lifted your sleeves, baring the scars to him as if they were sacred. To you, they were. He hesitantly reached out his hand, one pale finger gently tracing the raised scars as you continued.

"Then one day," You said brokenly, "I couldn't take it anymore. Something inside me snapped. I stopped fighting the abilities, and turned them on the agents." You stared at your hands like they were strangers. "I engulfed some of them in flames. Boiled others alive. Trapped some men in water until they stopped kicking, electrocuted the rest until they didn't even look human anymore - just smoking husks. Then, I burned the facility to the ground."

You shifted your eyes back to Loki, gaze steady. "I didn't feel like a person anymore when I left that place. I felt like the monster they'd built - one they couldn't control."

Loki's eyes, so often sharp and full of cold fire, had softened into something much heavier. He was silent for a long moment before he spoke. "You weren't the monster, they were. You survived what would have broken gods, there's no shame in any of it."

Your fingers tightened around the book until your knuckles turned white. "Then why does it feel like I never really left that place?"

Loki didn't answer, he just reached out and, for a moment, rested his hand on top of yours. No pressure, no demands, just a silent, unspoken I see you.

What neither of you saw, though, was Thor slipping quietly back out of the library, having witnessed the whole thing.

next chapter

author's note: bit of a long one, but worth it, i think! you tells loki your tragic backstory with HYDRA and how you gained your abilities, and thor overheard - how do you think he'll feel? after all, he used to be your closest confidant, and you'd never shared that with him...

[loki--fics]

stardust - part three

loki × reader

content warnings: cancer, illness, strong language, violence

word count: 1,425

The door to the library opened with a soft hiss of hydraulics and a pair of quick, familiar footsteps clicking across the hardwood floor.

Tony. Of course.

"Hey kid," He called to you casually, too casually. "Figured I'd find you here, you missed lunch."

You didn't answer at first, still looking out the window. Loki, who had since reopened his book, didn't look up, either. The tension that had settled between you still lingered like static in the air, buzzing just beneath the surface.

Tony was still approaching, but he stopped short once he saw who was sitting beside you. His gaze flickered to the pale god and back to you, eyes narrowed. "Right," He said slowly. "Didn't realise we were having a book club."

Loki still didn't look at him, turning a page with the exaggerated elegance of someone deliberately ignoring a nuisance.

"We were just reading," You said, glancing at Loki. His eyes flicked up and met yours for a moment, something unreadable in his gaze. The corner of his mouth raised slightly before he looked away.

Tony's eyes remained trained on Loki. "Uh-huh." He moved toward the bench and sat, positioning himself between you like some kind of half-casual human shield. "Well, I just thought I'd check in. See how you were doing."

"I'm fine," You said flatly.

He dropped his voice, leaning closer to you. "Is he bothering you?"

Loki's head snapped up then, his expression cold - arctic cold. "I beg your pardon?"

Tony turned slightly, one hand still resting on the bench next to you. "Not talking to you, Reindeer Games."

"You are speaking about me," Loki said, his voice sharp enough to cut glass, "While I am seated less than a foot away from you. That's close enough to be included in the conversation, Stark."

"I was asking Y/N" Tony snapped back. "And if you're going to be skulking around corners with that attitude of yours, don't be surprised if I keep an eye on you."

"Tony," You said, warning in your voice.

"I'm just making sure he's not-"

"I said I'm fine," You snapped harshly. "He wasn't doing anything, he's been perfectly well-mannered. I'm not a kid, I don't need you hovering like I'm going to snap in half if someone so much as looks at me wrong."

Loki blinked, something shifting behind his ribs. A peculiar jolt - quick and foreign. He hadn't expected you to speak up, certainly not for him. No one defended him, not really. Not since... Ever.

People tolerated him, reviled him, feared him, condemned him - but they didn't defend him. And yet there you were, pale and shaking, barely held together by anger and spite, and you'd drawn a line in the sand with him on your side.

For a moment, he didn't know what to do with that. It shouldn't have mattered - you were just a mortal girl, brittle and broken and burning yourself out. But still, you'd stood between him and the man who would burn the whole world down to keep you safe.

It was... Unexpected. Deeply, dangerously unexpected.

She's certainly full of surprises, Loki thought silently.

Tony straightened, looking defensive. "I'm just trying to protect you, Y/N."

"I don't need protecting," You insisted.

"Yes, you do," He snapped, louder than he meant to. "You're sick, you can barely breathe most days, and I'm not going to stand here and let him-"

"'Let him what?'" You stood up suddenly, too fast, and your balance teetered for a moment before you caught yourself on the windowsill. "Talk to me? Treat me like a person, and not like I'm made of glass? Like I'm not just waiting to die?"

The lights above them flickered. The air changed, electricity humming in the silence that followed, vibrating in the floorboards, the walls, the tips of your fingers. The oxygen tank at your side gave a faint, metallic pop as static coiled around it.

"Don't say that," Tony hissed, pain flashing across his face as he stood.

"I'm not a child, Tony," You said, feeling numb. You wanted to hurt him, the way you'd been hurting. "I'm not your kid, I'm not your patient, and I refuse to sit here while every one of you acts like I'm going to shatter if you look at me too hard!"

The tension snapped - visibly - when the lightbulbs above the you burst, one after the other, in a storm of light and heat and noise.

Loki stood instantly, instinctively stepping back. Tony threw his arms out in front of him as if you were an enemy - even as you staggered back, drained, your breath coming in short, shallow gasps.

The last of the glass hit the floor with a brittle clatter, sparks hissing and dying in the silence that followed. The air crackled - sharp, hot, and electric - humming with the echo of your outburst. But the energy ebbed almost as quickly as it had come, and with the lights blown, the room was lit only by the dim haze of the bleeding sunset outside the windows.

Your chest rose and fell in jagged, uneven gasps, your cannula tugging uncomfortably with each breath. Your fingertips still tingled, static licking at your skin like a warning.

You didn't dare look at Loki, but when your eyes lifted and met Tony's, everything in you stilled.

He was staring at you - not with the concern and sympathy that you'd grown accustomed to, but with a flicker of something cold and sharp behind his eyes - something like fear. His expression was frozen, jaw slack and brows drawn faintly together in disbelief. For the briefest moment, it was as if he didn't recognize you. As if you were a stranger - something other - a dangerous anomaly he hadn't accounted for.

A threat.

"Don't," You croaked, eyes brimming with tears, exhaustion, and something else - something raw. "Don't look at me like that."

Neither man moved. But you saw it, before Tony could blink it away. Before the mask slipped back into place and his mouth opened, too slow, like he was still processing what just happened. And that moment - that tiny, glass-thin crack in his expression - carved a hollow straight through you.

Because it wasn't the cancer that made him look at you like that - it was you. What you'd done. What you were. And no matter how quickly your godfather had tried to recover, you'd already seen it.

"I... I didn't mean to," You said, barely above a whisper. "It just- I didn't-"

You hadn't meant to look at him. Your heart was still racing, hands still trembling, throat aching from the shouted words you couldn't take back. But something in your chest pulled your gaze to him, as if deep down, you needed to know what he saw looking at you like this.

He was already watching you; not with shock nor fear, but with an old, deep understanding. There was no recoil in his eyes, no edge of judgement, only the quiet stillness of someone who had looked into that same abyss - rage and grief and power wrapped into a shape that didn't quite fit the world around it - and understood the weight of it. A silent I see you, like he knew exactly what it was like to lose control, to feel like a stranger in your own skin, to be too much for those around you.

"I didn't mean to." Just four words - brittle as ash, fragile as breath. A single tear traced a line down your cheek, catching the corner of your trembling lips before falling.

Loki felt it like a blade to the ribs.

He had seen gods break - he had broken himself, shattered and put back together more times than he cared to recount; but he had never cried like that. Never let the grief spill so plainly, so humanly, in front of anyone. It hurt to witness something so bare, so real, because he knew what it felt like to lose control; to be the storm and the ruin, and to still whisper I didn't mean to as the dust settled around him.

You turned away before he could say anything, before the ache in his chest could twist itself into words. Then, before either of them could stop you, you walked out of the library without another word, the soft hiss of your oxygen tank fading down the hall like a ghost.

next chapter

author's note: do you think this is the first time y/n has lost that much control of her abilities? (not-so-subtle foreshadowing) 👀

[loki--fics]

stardust - part two

loki × reader

content warnings: cancer, illness, strong language

word count: 1,196

A week had passed since Loki's arrival at the tower and you'd scarecely seen him, save for fleeting glimpses in the hall; usually with a stack of books cradled in against his chest like they were sacred relics. Always moving, always silent, like a shadow with sharp cheekbones.

You hadn't thought much of him, until today.

The library was quiet, the scent of aged parchment, wood polish, and ink hanging in the hair, warm and comforting. It wrapped around you like a blanket as you stepped inside, the quiet hush of the room welcoming you like an old friend. The shelves towered a few feet taller than you, lined with worn and well-loved spines and fading titles, the stories humming softly from the dark wood as if waiting just for you.

You moved slowly through the paths between shelves, each step deliberate, shoulders heavy with fatigue, the soft hiss of your oxygen tank a quiet counterpoint to the stillness. Your fingers brushed the edge of a nearby shelf in passing, tracing the grooves like braille - a ritual, almost. A reminder that you were still here, still breathing; still capable of something.

After your diagnosis, the battlefield had been stolen from you - no more late-night missions, no more adrenaline-laced victories. The world outside had become a place of risk, a place your fragile lungs and trembling hands couldn't follow, so you turned to stories; imagined worlds where the air was always clean and the heroines were always strong.

You devoured books like lifelines - tales of magic, rebellion, freedom. You lived vicariously through the characters in the pages; climbed mountains with them, faced down dragons, fell in love. The ink became your armour, the words your war cry, and the library... Your last battlefield.

It was supposed to be your place, your quiet sanctuary; which is why, when you rounded the corner to find someone already sitting in the bay window bench seat overlooking the city that you'd claimed as yours, your heart dropped. Because it wasn't just anyone-

It was Loki.

His long frame was folded neatly into the corner of the bench, one leg tucked beneath him, the book you had begun reading yesterday - The Illustrated Man by Ray Bradbury - balanced in one elegant hand. His coat was draped over the side of the bench, the early evening sun slanting through the high windows, gilding the sharp planes of his face in molten amber.

He looked... Peaceful. Not wide-eyed or vicious like in New York, when he'd released the Chitauri hell-bent on ruling in the aftermath of the devastation, not unhinged, or hungry for destruction, just... Calm. Serene, even.

Your first instinct was to leave, but no - that was your spot, had been long before he'd slithered into the tower with his cryptic glances and unreadable silences.

Besides, the seat was plenty big enough for two.

You plucked a different book from the shelf - a slim volume Rilke's poetry, and positioned yourself on the other end of the bench, leaving a gap between the two of you. Loki didn't move, didn't speak; he just kept reading, his eyes scanning the pages at an almost inhuman pace.

You opened the book, eyes skimming the pages but not reading the words, not really; you stole glances at Loki instead. At the severe lines of his nose, the way his lashes cast faint shadows on his cheeks, how absurdly normal he looked.

"How very mortal of you," Loki murmured suddenly, breaking the silence without looking up. "Rilke. Melancholy drenched in metaphor."

You blinked, caught. "I didn't realize poetry was beneath gods."

He glanced at you then, and one corner of his mouth twitched. "I never said that."

Silence settled again. You turned another page, not knowing what it said, pondering about the man next to you. If you hadn't known better - hadn't lived through it, hadn't seen it with your own eyes - you might have thought he was someone else entirely. Sitting beside you now, bathed in the dying golden light of the evening, with a book resting in his nimble hands and a furrow of quiet thought across his brow... He looked almost peaceful. Human, even; like he belonged to this moment - like he wasn't the same man who had once brought cities to their knees with fire in his veins and madness in his eyes.

You remembered that version of him vividly - sharp and wild, his face twisted with something unnameable, shouting down from a balcony like darkness made flesh. He'd looked untouchable then, raging and laughing and desperate for something none of you had understood.

But now? Now he was turning the pages of his book as if he'd never conjured a blade in his life. His fingers - long, elegant, and pale - looked more suited to poetry than destruction. There was no sneer on his lips, no hunger for chaos in his eyes, just... Focus. Thought. A shadow of stillness you hadn't expected from a man like him.

How different he looked without the crown, the armour, the bloodstained ambition.

"You're staring."

You blinked, not flinching, not denying it. "I suppose I was."

He looked up at that, slowly. A brow arched, a flicker of something sharper in his gaze - mockery, maybe, or defense. "Why? Am I sprouting a second head, or are you just cataloguing my flaws for later judgement?"

You exhaled, low and tired. "I was just thinking, about the last time I saw you," You admitted. "Back in New York, then Germany. You looked... Different."

"Let me guess," He drawled, snapping his book shut with a soft snap. "Wide-eyed and bloodthirsty? Evil, dripping in villainy? A monster like that which haunts the dreams of young children?"

Your head shifted slightly to the side. "No," You replied. "You looked miserable. Angry, yes, but more than that. Like you were screaming and no one could hear you."

Loki paused, the corners of his mouth tightening. A brief flicker of discomfort passed his eyes so quickly it could have been imagined. His spine went stiff, like your words had struck something buried deep and raw. He scoffed, but the sound lacked its usual venom. "Please. Spare me your psychoanalysis, 'mortal'. You know nothing of me."

"Maybe not," You said, still gazing at him softly. "But I know what it's like to feel alone in a room full of people. To be angry all the time and not know where to put it. To be afraid and think you have to hide it behind teeth."

That hit something.

He didn't answer, just turned his gaze sharply back to the unopened book in his lap, jaw tense. And though he'd said nothing, you could tell you'd said too much. Touched something too close to the bone.

Loki shifted slightly, positioning himself further away from you on the bench, just enough to make a point. You didn't press, just turned your gaze out the window at the view ninety stories below you.

Silence settled over the two of you once more, but it wasn't the same as before; it was heavier, laden with words unspoken.

next chapter

author's note: i hope everyone is enjoying so far, kept this one a bit short because there's gonna be some drama in the next part!

[loki--fics]

stardust - part one

loki × reader

content warnings: cancer, illness, strong language, blood

word count: 1,699

The lounge was quiet, for once. Afternoon sun filtered though the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting golden slashes across the carpet and warming the cold edges of the modern space. You sat on the couch, dressed in one of Tony's oversized MIT hoodies and covered in a blanket, but the ceramic mug you held still trembled with the tremors from your hands; not cold, no - it was the chemo, still crawling through your veins, like poison dressed as salvation.

Your lungs burned - tight from the chemo, the scarring, the rot that never seemed to loosen its grip. Each breath was arduous, comparable to breathing through a straw, even with the steady trickle of oxygen provided by the tank at your feet.

The door slid open, but you didn't look up right away. You already knew who it was.

"Hey, Y/N," Thor said, a bit too brightly.

You forced your eyes up to meet his. He stood a few feet away, just inside the door; hands clasped behind his back like he wasn't sure what to do with them, concern ever lurking beneath the surface of his gaze.

"Hi," You said, voice hoarse from both disuse and damage.

A beat passed, and Thor rocked awkwardly on his heels as he cleared his throat. "So.. How was the appointment?"

"Same as the last six," You quipped, blinking at him slowly.

His shoulders stiffened, and he glanced away. "Right. Of course."

Silence bloomed, awkward and uncomfortable. You looked away as well, shame prickling the back of your neck and heating your cheeks in a rosy bloom. He used to be your best friend - your partner in chaos, playful banter, and late-night shawarma runs. But that was forever ago, or felt like it at least; now, every word between the two of you felt like walking on broken glass.

You hated yourself for pushing him away, even if you thought it was for the best. But a smaller part of you hated him for letting you.

Then, a flicker of movement behind Thor caught your periphery, and you saw him - tall, lean, pale as winter; tailored black coat, eyes like an icy flame, steady and unreadable.

"Why is he here?" You asked, voice sharp.

Thor looked sheepish. "He's here to-" He cleared his throat. "To give.. Penance. For his crimes."

"Penance," You said flatly, raising a brow.

"And to gain the pardon of the Midguardian people," He added quickly.

You set down your mug, clasping your hands to hide the gentle tremors. "What did Tony have to say about this?"

"Well, it took a fair bit of persuasion on my part, but they eventually agreed-"

"They?" You interrupted.

Thor hesitated, not meeting your eyes. Your heart sank as realization set in. "You already told them." He gave a small nod. "Everyone?" Another nod, smaller. "Everyone but me."

You stared at him, stomach knotted. "I was going to tell you," He started. "I just.. I didn't want to cause you stress."

"Stress?" You repeated, your voice cracking from more than just fatigue. "You thought that letting me find out last would be the least stressful option here? That I'd rather be blindsided in my own home?"

"It wasn't meant to be a slight, Little Stark-"

"Don't you 'Little Stark' me," You snapped, cutting him off. "Not a slight, no; just another reminder that I'm too fragile to handle anything, right? Don't pretend you did it to spare me - you did it to avoid me." You pushed yourself upright, joints aching. Your pride ached more.

Thor flinched, guilt written plainly across his features. "I only meant-"

"You meant well. You always do, all of you. That doesn't mean you get to decide on my behalf what I can or can't handle, Thor." You stared at him, hurt and anger blending into an altogether piercing gaze.

Thor looked stricken. "But you've been through so much-"

"I'm still going through it." Your voice was quieter now, brittle at the edges. "I'm not dead, not yet. But every time you treat me like I'm already gone, it feels a little more like I am."

Silence, thick enough to cut with a knife, settled over the room. Then, a new voice cut through the tension.

"Touching."

You turned your head slowly as Loki stepped in from the shadows behind his brother. Your eyes met his like a second-late realization, but instead of the fear he'd anticipated, your eyes held a tight scrutiny. He'd expected some dramatic reaction - a gasp, maybe a flinch, but no - you eyed him as if he were a nuisance interrupting something important.

He tilted his head. Interesting, He mused silently.

You turned back to Thor, arms crossed, visibly exhausted but unrelenting. It was then that Loki really looked at you, and his first thought was that you looked... Wrong.

Loki had never seen such a thing before - not like this. Not slow, not cruel. On Asgard, death came quickly, with fire, with blades, with purpose. But this... This was a withering.

Thor had mentioned your illness to him privately; "She's ill," He'd said, that heavy, pious grief in his voice which Loki found exhausting. "An affliction of the lungs. A mortal disease - they call it cancer."

Loki hadn't thought much of it at the time, mortals were always dying of something. He'd nodded along, vaguely curious but overall unmoved. Disease was a foreign concept to him - far beneath the notice of gods.

He'd imagined weakness, perhaps a cough; a fading light behind the eyes.

Not you.

Your body was thin in a way that spoke not of natural slightness, but of something carved away over time, the way a river erodes the rocks and sediment it washes over. Your face, a study in contradiction - cheeks puffy and swollen from steroidal treatments, whilst everything else appeared hollow. Your eyes were sunken, bruised with exhaustion, betraying every sleepless night you'd endured.

The tubes resting in your nose hissed softly, rhythmic and grounding; his eyes followed the tube down to the cylindrical green tank at your feet - a strange machine, tethered to you like a chained ghost, meant to keep you alive, one breath at a time. Mechanical, unnatural. Necessary.

Your lips were cracked, pale, parted slightly to take a rattling breath, wet and uneven. Your lungs were betraying you in real time and you wore it plainly, like some mortals wore jewelry. He wondered if you noticed the sounds of your strained breath, or if it had simply faded into white noise over time.

He noted the tremors in your hands, though you tried to hold them still, the hair clinging to your scalp in thin, limp strands under the translucent scarf wrapped around your head like a failed crown; some of it struggling to survive, the rest clearly having lost the battle long ago.

This was cancer? He thought. This slow disintegration? It wasn't the kind of sickness one could war against - it was a quiet siege, interal and insidious, gnawing away from the inside until there was nothing left.

And yet, there was nothing meek about your posture. Even in your ruined state, you held yourself like someone who had something to say, and didn't care if it hurt your feelings. He saw himself in that part of you, though he'd never say such a thing aloud.

Curious, He thought. In Asgard, weakness was masked. Hidden. Crushed beneath arrogance or cast aside entirely. But there you sat - no armour, no illusion, just weakness, exposed like an open wound. A display so raw, it bordered on defiance. You wore it like a mantle; not proudly, but honestly.

He shifted uneasily, finding it difficult to look away.

"Brother," Thor said, breaking Loki's internal monologue. "This is Y/N, Tony Stark's goddaughter."

Loki scoffed, using sharp wit to deflect his discomfort. "Goddaughter? There's hardly anything godly about that fragile little mortal - she resembles a half crushed leaf, and can hardly stay upright without swaying like a dying willow."

"Brother-" Thor said, his voice filled with warning.

"What?" Loki quipped. "She looks barely capable of lifting her own spine, breathes like a dying bird, and yet she carries a divine title. If this is what passes for the divine on Midguard now, then this realm is damned beyond saving. It's a pity, truly; Midguard's warriors used to be so impressive."

Thor's hands balled into fists, and his face went red. "Loki! You will not speak to Y/N that way-"

"It's fine," You snapped, voice sharp and bitter as broken glass. "Let him talk, clearly being a jackass is all he has left."

"You've got fight in you," Loki said. "Pity it's buried under all that... Decay."

"Funny," You replied. "You'd think a God would have better manners. Or at least better insults."

Thor stepped forward again, his voice urgent. "Y/N, he doesn't understand. Illness is foreign to him, he wasn't trying to-"

"I don't need you to defend me, Thor." Your voice cracked like a whip, and for a moment Loki swore he could taste the electricity in the air as the lights flickered. "You lost that right the moment you decided to protect me with silence instead of honesty."

Thor flinched, and for once, Loki said nothing. But his head tilted, just slightly, watching you like you were some fascinating mortal puzzle.

You pulled the hoodie tighter around yourself, the sleeves bunching at your wrists as the silence stretched on. You broke it with a sigh, standing from your seat on the couch. "Well, I'm tired," You said, eyeing the two brothers. "And I don't have the energy to babysit two Gods today. So if you'll excuse me, I'm going to lay down."

You stepped past them, steady until the last few feet. A cough tore up your throat, sudden and vicious. You turned away from them, knuckles white with the force with which you clenched a crumpled tissue from your pocket to your mouth as the coughs heaved from your chest. As it subsided you swept from the room, quickly stuffing the tissue back into your pocket before either of them could see the blood.

next chapter

author's note: hey everyone! i know i was gone for a really long time, a lot of stuff happened in my life that's waaay too long of a story to type out here, but i'm finally back and i've decided to rewrite stardust! please let me know what you think, i hope you enjoy!

[loki--fics]

being in love with a fictional character will make u produce art u didnt know u were capable of

[loki--fics]

my best tip for anyone trying to get back into reading is to remember that you can read books to avoid other responsibilities in ur life and it can become a vice if you play your cards right

[loki--fics]

reading my own fics as a reference for a new wip and squinting at it like "how the hell did I do that"

[loki--fics]

Am I the good boy? Really??