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amethystarachnid · 2 days ago

Note

Hey!

Could you maybe do Loki dating a surgeon or sorts (Like general surgeon maybe and the reader is from Earth obv) and he visits to find her very busy with patients constantly piling up?

BURNOUT AND STARLIGHT

⤷ LOKY LAUFEYSON

ᯓ★ Pairing: Loki Laufeyson x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: romance, some angst and some fluff

ᯓ★ Word count: 6.7k

ᯓ★ Summary: You’re a trauma surgeon devoted to saving lives...until the cost nearly becomes your own. Loki, your lover from Asgard, watches your struggle from afar, stepping in to comfort you when the weight becomes unbearable. Between Earth and stars, you begin to realize you can’t heal others if you forget to heal yourself.

ᯓ★ TW(s): nedical trauma and death (including loss of a young patient), Burnout, emotional exhaustion, and grief, Mentions of dissociation and crying

ᯓ★ I really hope I understood your request and I hope that you like it <3

ᯓ★ Love is in the air - Valentine's Day special game

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ MARVEL Holiday Special

ᯓ★ MARVEL Multiverse - choose an AU, pair it with your favorite character and make a request!

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

The hospital never sleeps.

The fluorescent lights hum overhead as you move quickly through the corridors, clipboard in hand, sneakers squeaking faintly against the polished floor. It's late—maybe three, maybe four in the morning—and the Emergency Department is thrumming with a low, relentless energy that feels more like a battlefront than a place of healing. You’ve been here for what, sixteen hours now? Eighteen? It hardly matters. Time blurs when you’re this deep into the work, when every second feels like it belongs to someone else's life and not your own.

Your pager buzzes at your hip, sharp and insistent. Another incoming trauma. You sigh under your breath, shifting the clipboard to your other arm and pushing through the heavy doors back into the main ED. You barely feel the exhaustion anymore. It's been beaten into you, carved into your bones like the steady ache you carry in your back and shoulders.

You love this work. You do. It's what you were meant to do.

But lately, it feels like something's missing.

You don’t let yourself dwell on it. You’re too good at compartmentalizing. It’s a skill you’ve honed out of necessity—the same skill that keeps you from breaking when you're elbow-deep in a gunshot wound or barking orders over the roar of a code blue. You don't let yourself feel too much. Not while you're here.

Still, there’s a hollow ache in your chest that no amount of caffeine or adrenaline can seem to fill.

You shove open the bay doors and step into the chaos.

Paramedics are wheeling in a man, his shirt soaked with blood, his face pale and drawn. You snap into action immediately, rattling off instructions, feeling the familiar click of your mind slipping into gear. It's automatic, clinical. Hands steady, voice firm.

This is who you are. This is what you do.

But somewhere, buried under the sterile smell of antiseptic and the rhythmic beeping of monitors, you feel the frayed edges of something tender and aching inside you.

You think of him.

You think of Loki.

You don’t even realize you’ve whispered his name under your breath until a nurse glances at you, puzzled. You clear your throat and refocus, pushing the thought aside. He’s not here. He’s never here when you need him most.

Because he lives in another world. Literally.

You knew it when you started dating him—that loving him meant accepting that he didn’t belong to this one. He had a throne, a destiny, a home that wasn’t Earth. And you had yours: a hospital badge clipped to your scrub pocket and a life that demanded every scrap of your energy.

Still, you can't help but wonder sometimes what it would be like if things were different.

If he could stay.

If you could leave.

The patient crashes briefly on the table, and you don’t have time to wonder anymore. You lose yourself in the desperate, beautiful work of keeping him alive.

Hours pass. Maybe a day. It's hard to tell.

Eventually, you're leaning against the nurses' station, scribbling notes on a chart, when a strange shimmer in the air makes you pause. You blink, thinking maybe it's just the exhaustion playing tricks on you.

But then the shimmer coalesces into something solid, something real.

Someone.

Your breath catches.

He stands there, just beyond the edge of the nurses' station, clad in dark leathers and emerald-green, his black hair falling messily across his forehead. His presence feels like a crack in the fabric of reality, like the world has bent around him just to make space.

Loki.

Your heart stutters, a painful, startled thing against your ribs. For a moment, you can't move, can't breathe. You just stare at him, taking in the impossible sight of him here, now, in your world.

He smiles, slow and devastating.

"Hello, darling," he says, his voice a low purr that sends shivers down your spine.

You realize suddenly that you're still holding the chart, your pen frozen in midair. You slam it down on the counter and rush around to him, nearly colliding with a passing orderly.

"Loki," you hiss under your breath, grabbing his arm and tugging him into a nearby empty room. You shut the door behind you and spin to face him, heart hammering.

"You can't just—" you start, but the words die in your throat as he steps closer.

"I had to see you," he murmurs, brushing a stray hair from your forehead. His touch is gentle, reverent, as if he's afraid you'll disappear if he looks away too long.

Your anger fizzles out before it even properly ignites. All you can feel is the aching swell of longing that rises up to drown you.

"You shouldn't be here," you say, voice shaking. "I’m working."

"I know." His thumb grazes your cheekbone. "I can see that. You look... exhausted."

You laugh, a short, brittle sound. "Yeah, well. That’s what happens when you don't sleep for two days."

His brow furrows in concern, and for a moment, you think he might actually whisk you away somewhere—somewhere safe, somewhere quiet, where the world can’t touch you. You can almost feel the magic curling around him, an instinctive, protective thing.

You step back, putting distance between you before you can do something stupid, like ask him to take you with him.

"You can't stay," you say, forcing the words out.

He nods, but there’s something stubborn in the set of his jaw. "Then come with me."

You blink at him. "Loki—"

"Just for a little while," he says, stepping closer again. "An hour. A day. Whatever you can spare."

You hesitate. God, you want to. You want to throw your pager in a drawer and vanish into the void with him, if only for a little while. But reality claws at you, sharp and unrelenting.

"I can't," you whisper. "I have patients. I have responsibilities."

He closes his eyes for a moment, as if pained by the words. When he opens them again, they're filled with something raw and desperate.

"I miss you," he says simply.

You swallow hard, fighting back the sudden rush of tears. "I miss you too."

The silence stretches between you, heavy with everything you can't say.

He reaches into the inner pocket of his coat and pulls out a small, gleaming object. It looks almost like a pocket watch, but the surface shimmers with magic. He presses it into your hand.

"If you ever need me," he says, his voice low and serious, "use this. No matter where I am, no matter what I'm doing—I’ll come."

You stare down at it, your fingers closing around the cool, intricate metal.

"Loki..." you breathe, overwhelmed.

He leans down and presses a kiss to your forehead, lingering there for a moment longer than necessary.

Then he steps back, the air around him shimmering again, the edges of his form already starting to blur.

"I'll see you soon, my love," he promises.

And then he's gone.

You stand there for a long time, staring at the empty space where he was, the magical device still clutched tightly in your hand.

Outside the door, the hospital marches on—urgent, noisy, unrelenting.

You take a deep breath, pocket the device, and step back into the chaos.

Because this is your life.

For now.

---

You make it through the next few hours on autopilot.

Consults, stitches, assessments. Paperwork that never ends. Your mind drifts constantly to the weight in your pocket, the small device pressing against the fabric of your scrubs like a secret. You could call him. You could have him here, just for a moment, just long enough to breathe.

But you don't. You wait. You endure.

You tell yourself it’s what you’re supposed to do. You tell yourself you're stronger than this gnawing ache inside you.

And then the trauma pager goes off again.

Code crimson. Incoming pediatric trauma.

Your stomach twists even before you hear the rest.

You’re already waiting at the trauma bay when they wheel her in—tiny, fragile, broken. A car accident, they say. She wasn’t even wearing a seatbelt. A mess of blood and broken bones and too many injuries for one small body to bear.

You move on instinct. Gloves snapped on, orders flying from your mouth before you’ve even thought them through. You hear yourself speaking, hear the team moving around you, but it all feels distant. Like you’re underwater.

They rush her to the OR. You’re right there, scrubbed in, heart pounding.

You fight.

God, you fight.

For hours, you battle for her life, hands slick with blood, eyes burning with the intensity of it. You’re careful, methodical, brilliant. You give everything you have.

And it’s not enough.

The monitors flatline.

You bark orders to start compressions, your voice hoarse with desperation. You shock her. You pump her heart manually with your hands. You do everything you know how to do, and when the attending finally calls it—time of death, 4:12 AM—you stand frozen over her tiny, broken body.

The room is silent except for the whir of machines still running out of habit.

You strip off your gloves and gown mechanically, tossing them into the bin. You wash your hands because you have to, but they don’t feel clean. You stare at your reflection in the mirror above the sink—pale, hollow-eyed, blood smeared along your jawline where you must have wiped your face without thinking.

You don't feel like yourself anymore.

You barely make it out of the hospital. You clock out, numbly. You fumble with your car keys. You drive home with your hands clenching the steering wheel so tightly your knuckles turn white.

The second the front door clicks shut behind you, the weight of it all crashes down.

You lean against the door, sliding down to the floor, burying your face in your hands. The sobs tear out of you without warning, violent and raw. You can't stop them. You can't breathe around them.

You tried. You tried so fucking hard.

And it wasn't enough.

You fumble in your scrub pocket and pull out the device Loki gave you, your fingers trembling. You don’t even think—you just press it, hard, as if willing him to appear.

For a second, nothing happens.

And then the air shimmers.

Loki materializes in the middle of your living room, his cloak swirling around him, his eyes immediately locking onto yours. One look at you, crumpled and broken on the floor, and all the mischief, all the arrogance drains from his face.

"Darling," he breathes, rushing to you.

You don't have the strength to move. You just look up at him, tears streaming down your face, and he drops to his knees beside you without hesitation. His arms wrap around you, pulling you against his chest with a tenderness that shatters whatever's left of your composure.

You clutch at him desperately, fingers twisting in the fabric of his tunic, as if you can anchor yourself to him and stop the world from spinning.

"I lost her," you whisper brokenly into his shoulder. "I tried—I did everything—I couldn’t save her—"

Loki rocks you gently, his hand stroking up and down your back, his voice a soothing murmur in your ear. "I'm here. I'm here, my love. You are not alone."

You don't know how long you stay like that, wrapped in his arms, crying until there’s nothing left but a hollow ache where your heart used to be.

Eventually, he lifts you effortlessly into his arms, cradling you as if you weigh nothing at all. His magic flares softly, flicking the bathroom lights on ahead of him as he carries you through the apartment.

"You need to rest," he says quietly. "You need care."

You don’t argue. You can’t.

You let him strip the bloodstained scrubs from your body, his movements gentle and reverent, never crossing any boundary you don't offer him. You stand there, shivering, dazed, as he runs a bath, the water steaming and fragrant with something calming—something Asgardian, probably.

When he leads you into the water, you sink down gratefully, the heat seeping into your aching muscles, the scent filling your lungs with something other than grief.

Loki kneels beside the tub, rolling up his sleeves. He dips a cloth into the water and begins to wash you with slow, careful strokes, as if you’re made of glass and he’s terrified of breaking you further.

He doesn't speak. He just stays with you, grounding you with the steady rhythm of his hands, the silent comfort of his presence.

When your skin is clean and your tears have dried, he wraps you in a thick, warm towel and lifts you again, carrying you to the bedroom.

He dresses you in one of his soft shirts—it falls to your mid-thigh and smells like him—and then tucks you gently into bed. He slides in beside you, gathering you against him, his body a protective wall of warmth and strength.

You press your face into his chest, breathing in the scent of him—leather, magic, something uniquely Loki—and feel some small, broken part of yourself start to stitch back together.

His hand strokes through your hair in slow, hypnotic patterns.

"You are not a god," he murmurs against your temple. "You are mortal, and you are magnificent. You gave her a fighting chance, and that is more than most could ever hope to do."

You close your eyes, letting the words sink into the hollow spaces inside you.

You don't feel better.

Not yet.

But wrapped in Loki's arms, you feel something else.

Safe.

Loved.

Slowly, finally, exhaustion pulls you under. Your breathing evens out, your body growing heavy and warm.

Loki stays awake long after you've fallen asleep, watching over you with a fierce, unyielding devotion.

Because if he could, he would tear the stars down from the sky to ease your pain.

Because he is yours.

And you are his.

Always.

---

The morning comes slow and golden.

You drift up from sleep wrapped in warmth, cocooned by soft sheets and the steady rise and fall of Loki’s chest against your cheek. His arms are still around you, holding you close like he’s afraid you might slip away if he lets go. You breathe him in—the faintest scent of him lingering on your skin—and for a long, precious moment, you don't move.

You let yourself pretend.

Pretend this is normal. That he’s here, that you belong like this.

Eventually, you stir, your body aching but lighter somehow. Loki’s arms tighten instinctively around you, his nose nuzzling into your hair, a low, contented sound humming in his chest.

"Good morning, darling," he murmurs, his voice thick with sleep.

You tilt your head back to look at him. His hair is tousled, his features soft in the morning light, without any of the usual sharp edges he wears like armor. He's beautiful like this—unguarded, yours.

You reach up and touch his cheek, your thumb brushing lightly over the curve of his jaw. He turns his head and presses a kiss into your palm, slow and deliberate, and something inside you melts.

"Good morning," you whisper back, your throat raw but a little less broken.

He smiles—a real one, rare and radiant—and leans down to kiss you properly. His lips are warm and soft against yours, gentle at first, then deepening as his hand slides into your hair. He kisses you like he’s savoring you, like he has all the time in the world to learn every shape and sigh of your mouth.

When he finally pulls back, you're breathless and dizzy and a little drunk on him.

"Stay here," he says, a mischievous glint sparking to life in his eyes. "Rest. I’ll make you breakfast."

You blink at him. "You know how to cook?"

He sits up, looking insulted. "I am a prince of Asgard. I can perform complex illusions, wield ancient magics, and command armies. I think I can manage scrambled eggs."

You laugh, a soft, cracked sound that still feels foreign after everything, but it’s real. He smiles like he’s won some secret prize and presses one last kiss to your forehead before slipping out of bed.

You watch him go, shamelessly admiring the way his bare back flexes under the soft light, before you burrow deeper into the covers.

You hear cabinets opening, something clattering, a muffled curse in what you assume is Old Norse. You can't help but smile.

You drift in and out of sleep for a little while longer, lulled by the comforting noises of him moving around your kitchen.

Eventually, the scent of something vaguely resembling food wafts into the bedroom. Loki appears in the doorway, looking absurdly proud of himself, holding a plate piled with slightly uneven, slightly burnt eggs and toast.

He sets the plate down on the nightstand and climbs back into bed, positioning himself so he can feed you a bite with a flourish, clearly very pleased with his efforts.

You chew dutifully, trying not to laugh.

"It's... edible," you tease.

He scowls dramatically. "Such ingratitude. I risked life and limb for this culinary masterpiece."

You lean forward and kiss the corner of his mouth, lingering there. "Thank you," you murmur against his skin.

He softens immediately, his hand coming up to cradle the back of your head, pulling you in for another kiss—deeper, sweeter, lingering. His tongue brushes teasingly against yours, coaxing another small laugh from your throat.

You could stay like this forever.

But reality is a cruel thing.

You pull back slowly, resting your forehead against his. "I have to go back to work this afternoon."

You feel him stiffen slightly, his arms tightening around you.

"No," he says, almost petulantly. "You need rest."

"I know," you whisper, your chest aching. "But they’re short-staffed, and I... I can’t just not show up."

He pulls back enough to look at you, his expression torn between anger and helplessness. "You give them everything you have," he says bitterly. "And they would take more if they could."

You don't deny it.

Because he's right.

But it’s the life you chose, the oath you took.

"Loki," you say softly, cupping his face in your hands. "This is who I am."

He closes his eyes, breathing out slowly through his nose, trying to master the storm inside him.

When he opens them again, they’re luminous with something fragile and aching.

"You are stronger than any warrior I have ever known," he says, his voice low and reverent. "But even the strongest need tending, my love."

You kiss him again, slow and lingering, pouring everything you can’t say into the touch of your lips against his. He kisses you back like he’s trying to memorize you, hands framing your face with a tenderness that breaks you all over again.

When you finally pull away, you brush your thumb over his lower lip, feeling the faint tremor in his breath.

"I'll be okay," you promise.

He doesn't believe you.

But he nods anyway.

Because he knows he can't hold you back, no matter how much he wants to.

He will be waiting.

Always.

---

The hospital is a different world during the day—louder, busier, more frantic.

You step through the sliding glass doors with your ID badge clipped to your scrub top, your hair hastily pulled back, your mind already trying to summon the strength you aren't sure you have.

You left Loki curled in your bed, tangled in the sheets that still smell like you, his eyes heavy with something too complicated to name. It had nearly broken you to slip away from him. But you couldn’t stay, no matter how much you wanted to.

Duty calls. It always does.

You push through the hours mechanically, moving from room to room, chart to chart, trying to summon the same clinical focus that usually shields you. But you're tired—bone-deep and soul-deep—and today, it shows.

You don't notice the subtle flicker of magic that trails you like a shadow.

You don't notice the way the air shimmers faintly at the edge of your vision, or the way the lights above your head seem just a little softer, kinder.

You don’t see Loki, concealed from mortal eyes, moving unseen through the crowded corridors.

He stays close—always close—his magic a silent, invisible shield between you and the world. He can't heal your grief, can't take away the ache that gnaws at you, but he can do small things. Things that might lighten your burden, even if just a little.

When your coffee nearly slips from your trembling fingers, an unseen hand steadies it.

When your chart goes missing, it appears again, neatly stacked on your station.

When the overhead lights flicker and threaten to plunge your OR into darkness mid-procedure, the generators kick in faster than they should have—Loki’s magic smoothing the systems before disaster can strike.

He watches you work, the ferocious grace of you, the way you hold yourself together with sheer willpower. Every exhausted smile you offer a patient, every steady, capable order you give a nurse, every little act of stubborn, impossible hope—he sees it all.

And it makes him ache.

He could spirit you away from this place. He could wrap you in magic and silk and shield you from every pain and sorrow.

But he won’t.

Because he knows you would never forgive him.

Because you are stronger than that.

Because this is who you are.

He leans against the far wall of the trauma bay, cloaked in illusion, watching as you tend to a boy with a broken arm, your voice gentle and patient as you explain the cast he'll need. Your hands are sure and steady, even as the exhaustion shadows your face.

He wants to gather you into his arms and never let go.

Instead, he settles for what he can do: weaving tiny spells into your path, softening the air around you, ensuring that everything that might trip you, hurt you, tire you further—fails.

You move through the day unaware of the way you’re being cared for, protected.

You think it’s luck when the supplies you need are always stocked. You think it’s coincidence when your least favorite attending gets called away to another floor right before your evaluation. You think it’s a miracle when the day seems, somehow, a little less heavy than you expected.

You don't know that it's him.

You don’t know that every step you take is watched with a devotion so fierce it could level mountains.

It’s nearly evening when you finally get a moment to breathe.

You sink into the worn leather couch in the on-call room, letting your head fall back against the wall, your eyes fluttering shut.

You don't notice the faint shimmer beside you.

Loki sits at the edge of the room, invisible and silent, watching you with something almost like reverence. You are so strong, so brave, and yet he sees the cracks now, hairline fractures running just beneath the surface.

He wants to heal them all.

He stays until your pager buzzes again, dragging you back to your feet with a weary groan. You don’t see the way his fingers twitch at his sides, fighting the instinct to snatch you away, to steal you back to safety.

He follows you into the next room, and the next.

And when your hands falter just slightly as you stitch a laceration closed, when your vision blurs for half a second too long, he is there. His magic steadies your fingers, clears your head, lends you strength you don't even realize you're drawing from.

He would burn the world for you.

Instead, he gives you this: small, unseen mercies.

By the time your shift ends, you are staggering with exhaustion, your legs barely carrying you back to the locker room.

You slump against the cool metal of your locker, forehead resting against the door, too tired even to cry.

"Just one more day," you whisper to yourself. "Just get through one more."

A ghost of a touch brushes your hair back from your face—no stronger than a whisper of wind—and you straighten up without even knowing why, a tiny bit lighter, a tiny bit less alone.

You pull your jacket on, grab your bag, and head out into the night.

Loki watches you go, his heart twisting.

He knows he cannot stay much longer. He knows he has duties of his own to return to, an entire realm waiting for him.

But tonight, he will follow you home.

Tonight, he will stand unseen by your window while you sleep, guarding you from every nightmare that dares to touch you.

Because he loves you.

And for you, he would be invisible. He would be silent. He would be anything.

As long as you are safe.

As long as you are loved.

---

By the time you make it home, your body feels like it's running on fumes.

You fumble with your keys at the door, your hands clumsy, your mind slow. You expect to find the apartment dark, empty, silent—but the second you step inside, you feel it.

Warmth.

Magic.

Loki.

He’s already there, lounging across your worn sofa, one leg draped casually over the armrest, a book open on his lap. His eyes lift the moment he senses you, and the soft, slow smile that spreads across his face makes your chest ache.

You drop your bag onto the floor with a graceless thud and shut the door behind you. The tension bleeds out of you at the mere sight of him.

"You’re here," you whisper, your voice hoarse from fatigue.

"Of course," he says simply, closing the book and setting it aside. "Where else would I be?"

You don’t ask how he got here before you.

You don’t ask why today, when everything felt just a little less unbearable, you caught glimpses of impossibilities out of the corner of your eye—papers stacked neatly when they shouldn't have been, doors held open by invisible hands, weariness lifting just long enough to get through a critical moment.

You don't ask.

Because some things, you know, are not meant to be spoken aloud.

You cross the room without a second thought and sink into him, into the sanctuary of his arms, the steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek.

He holds you like you’re the most precious thing in the universe.

For a long time, there’s only the hush of your breathing, the soft kiss he presses to your temple, the way his fingers card lazily through your hair.

"You’re exhausted," he murmurs.

You hum in agreement, too drained even for words.

"And you have no obligations tomorrow," he continues, a gleam of mischief curling in his voice. "Correct?"

You nod slowly against him.

"Good." He draws back just enough to see your face, a flicker of excitement sparking in his eyes. "Because we’re leaving."

You blink at him, too tired to process. "Leaving?"

"For Asgard," he says, like it's the most natural thing in the world. "You need rest. You need to be... spoiled."

You shake your head, laughing weakly. "Loki, I can't—"

But you don't even finish the protest. Because he’s already gathering you in his arms, standing smoothly as if you weigh nothing at all.

He whispers a word in a language older than Earth itself, and the room spins.

When the world rights itself again, you’re no longer in your apartment.

You’re standing in a grand, golden hallway, the ceilings soaring high above you, the floors polished to a mirror shine. The air smells different—cleaner, richer somehow—and the low hum of magic buzzes pleasantly under your skin.

You blink in stunned silence.

Loki grins down at you, all roguish pride and boyish delight. "Welcome back to Asgard, my love."

Before you can think of anything to say, a pair of attendants appear, bowing low with practiced grace. One of them holds out a bundle of soft, luxurious clothes in shimmering shades of silver and deep green.

"For you, Lady Y/N," the attendant says reverently.

You look at Loki, wide-eyed.

He shrugs, utterly unrepentant. "You deserve to be treated as you should be. As royalty."

He sets you down gently and nods toward a set of ornately carved doors. "Go, change. Refresh yourself. Then dinner."

You are too stunned to argue.

You disappear into the chamber beyond, where a marble bath steams invitingly, petals floating on the water's surface. You sink into it gratefully, letting the heat and the soft scents of strange flowers unknot the last of the tension in your muscles.

When you emerge, the clothes fit perfectly—soft against your skin, tailored to your shape, the fabrics lighter than anything you’ve ever worn.

You catch a glimpse of yourself in the gilded mirror and barely recognize the woman staring back: not the exhausted surgeon, not the broken girl, but someone softer, more luminous.

Someone loved.

You step back into the hallway, and Loki is waiting for you.

His eyes darken the moment he sees you, something fierce and possessive flashing across his face before he tucks it away behind a smirk.

"Exquisite," he says, offering his arm.

You slip your hand into the crook of his elbow, and he leads you through the palace, past towering columns and glowing crystal sconces, until you reach a grand dining hall.

It’s not a feast for a hundred—it’s a feast for you.

A private table set for two, laden with dishes you don’t recognize but that smell impossibly good. The air is filled with soft music, the melodies strange and hauntingly beautiful.

He pulls out your chair with a flourish and waits until you’re seated before taking his place across from you.

The meal passes in a haze of laughter and stolen glances, Loki’s wit light and effortless, his attention never straying from you for a second. He fills your plate with whatever you want, pours you a goblet of some sweet, golden drink, and teases you gently whenever you try to protest that he’s fussing too much.

But you let him.

Because deep down, you know he needs this too.

He needs to give you what he can, in a world where so often you give everything away.

Afterward, he leads you through a winding garden, the stars above shining larger and closer than they ever do on Earth. The air is cool, the paths lined with soft glowing stones.

You stop at the edge of a fountain, the water sparkling under the moons.

He pulls you into his arms, swaying with you to the music only he can hear.

"You saved lives today," he says quietly, brushing his knuckles along your jaw. "Even when no one saved you."

You swallow hard, your throat tightening.

"You are a wonder," he continues, lowering his forehead to yours. "And I will spend every day I am allowed showing you that."

You tilt your head up, capturing his mouth with yours before the tears can fall. He kisses you back fiercely, hands curling into your hair, his body warm and solid against yours.

You lose yourself in him—in the safety, the devotion, the love that wraps around you more surely than any magic ever could.

When you finally pull away, he cups your face, his thumb brushing the dampness from your cheeks.

"Come," he says, voice thick. "Sleep in a real bed tonight, my queen."

You let him lead you back through the palace, back to a suite larger than your entire apartment, the bed piled with velvet and silk.

He undresses you carefully, reverently, until you are bare before him, and then he slips into the bed beside you, gathering you against him.

You fall asleep with his heart beating steady under your ear, the stars of another world shining outside your window.

And for the first time in a long, long while, you dream of peace.

---

Morning in Asgard doesn’t creep in.

It floods.

Soft gold spills through the sheer curtains, lighting the room in a warm, otherworldly glow. The silk sheets are tangled around your legs, the air still scented faintly with jasmine and something sharper—something distinctly Loki.

You stir slowly, one arm reaching out instinctively—and finding him already watching you.

Loki lies propped on one elbow beside you, bare-chested, the sheet slung low over his hips. His hair is mussed from sleep, his eyes lit with a quiet, adoring hunger.

"Good morning," he murmurs, voice still rough with sleep.

You stretch, sighing softly as you roll toward him, your fingers tracing idle lines across his chest. "You’re staring."

He arches an eyebrow. "How could I not? You're beautiful in all lights, but in this one..." His gaze drops lower, slow and deliberate. "You're divine."

You blush, laughing under your breath, and lean in to kiss him. He meets you halfway, his mouth soft but deepening quickly, his hand sliding down to your waist. He pulls you closer until your leg is hooked over his hip, your bodies flush, heat rising between you like a slow tide.

"You deserve mornings like this," he says against your lips. "No alarms. No rushing off. Just me. Just you."

"I could get used to this," you whisper, breath hitching as his fingers slide up under the thin sheet draped over your back.

"Then do," he murmurs, voice a low promise. "Stay here. With me. For one more day."

You don’t answer—can’t answer—not when his mouth finds the curve of your throat, not when his hand slips lower, coaxing a gasp from your lips. His name escapes you in a broken whisper as his touch turns firmer, more deliberate.

The moment stretches, deep and golden, poised on the edge of something more.

And then—

Ding.

You both freeze.

Your brows knit, confused for half a second—until the sound comes again, distinct and familiar and horribly real.

Your phone.

Loki groans quietly, his forehead dropping to your collarbone.

"I warded your device to connect to Midgard's networks," he mutters, clearly regretting it now. "In case you needed it while here. I did not expect it to turn against me so soon."

You reach blindly for your phone on the nightstand, heart already dropping.

It’s a message from the hospital. Urgent call. Emergency case. Available personnel needed ASAP.

You stare at it for a moment, your body still thrumming with warmth, tangled in satin sheets and Loki’s arms.

Then reality slices through you like ice.

You sit up, dragging the sheet with you, thumb already flying across the screen to respond. Your heartbeat pounds against your ribs—habit, duty, instinct.

Loki watches silently, the lines of his jaw tightening, something dark and unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

You look at him.

"I have to go," you say softly, already slipping out of bed.

He doesn’t answer right away.

He just sits there, watching you gather your clothes, his gaze heavy with something between heartbreak and resignation.

"You just got here," he finally says, quiet.

You nod, throat tight. "I know."

His fingers flex slightly against the sheets. He doesn’t stop you. Of course he doesn’t. He never would.

But you can feel the ache in his silence as clearly as if he shouted it.

You dress quickly, moving through the motions on autopilot, and when you reach for your phone again, you pause.

You turn back to him.

"I wanted to stay," you whisper.

His eyes find yours. "I know."

And then he rises, steps toward you, and pulls you into his arms one last time.

He kisses you like he’s memorizing the taste of you, his hands cradling your face with a reverence that makes your chest burn.

When you finally pull away, breathless and aching, he rests his forehead against yours.

"I’ll bring you back," he says softly. "As soon as I can."

And then, with a twist of his fingers and a shimmer of green light, the golden palace disappears, and you’re standing once more at your apartment door.

Back on Earth.

Back in scrubs.

Back in the storm.

---

You make it through the shift.

Barely.

The emergency turns out to be a multi-car pile-up—three ambulances arriving back-to-back, a dozen patients flooding the trauma unit. It’s chaos. Controlled chaos, but chaos all the same.

You don’t have time to think. Not about Asgard. Not about Loki. Not even about the way your legs feel like they might give out beneath you.

You’re soaked in sweat before the first hour is over, your gloves red and sticky, your voice hoarse from barking out orders. One of the patients codes right there in front of you—a teenager with too much blood in his chest, not enough in his brain—and you don’t even flinch. You crack his ribs open and dig your hands into his chest like it’s just another procedure.

Because it is just another procedure.

Until it’s not.

Until he dies.

And there’s nothing you can do to stop it.

You scrub out in silence, your hands trembling slightly under the hot stream of water. You stare at the blood circling the drain, the pink foam clinging to your skin, and you feel... nothing.

Not horror. Not sadness.

Just empty.

You barely make it to the locker room before you sit down and don’t get up for twenty minutes. You ignore the concerned glance from one of the residents, the gentle pat on the back. You say you're fine.

You’re always fine.

But inside, something has shifted.

And when your shift finally ends and you walk out into the cold night air, something in you breaks open, quiet and irrevocable.

You love your job. You know you do. The helping, the healing, the second chances. It’s all worth it. It has to be.

But you can’t keep living like this.

You’re going to die from it. Not all at once—but by inches.

Every night without sleep. Every trauma you carry home. Every time you walk into your apartment too exhausted to eat, to breathe, to be alive.

This isn’t sustainable.

And maybe for the first time... you admit it.

By the time you reach your door, you’re blinking back tears, your limbs too heavy, your chest too tight.

You unlock it with shaking hands.

And he’s there.

Of course he’s there.

Loki stands in the middle of your living room, dressed in black, his hair pulled back, eyes already on you. He doesn’t say a word—he doesn’t need to.

Because the moment you look at him, really look, the dam breaks.

You don’t even drop your bag. You just cross the space between you and fall into his arms like a collapsing star.

He catches you instantly.

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t ask.

He just holds you.

And gods, it undoes you.

You cry into his chest, silent and shaking, your fists curled into the fabric of his shirt. He rests his chin atop your head and rocks you gently, his arms strong and sure around you.

"I can’t do it anymore," you whisper, barely audible.

He doesn’t stiffen.

He just kisses the top of your head.

"I know."

"I thought I could handle it. I thought I could save everyone. But it’s killing me, Loki. Slowly. Quietly. And no one even sees it."

He pulls back just enough to take your face in his hands, his expression aching with tenderness.

"I see it," he says. "I’ve always seen it."

You close your eyes.

"I don’t want to stop being a doctor," you murmur. "But I don’t want to lose myself doing it."

"You won't," he says, firm. "We’ll find a way. I will find a way."

You look at him, eyes glassy. "You can’t fix this with magic."

"No," he agrees. "But I can carry it with you. As long as you let me."

You exhale shakily, nodding before you even fully process it.

"Okay," you say. "Okay."

He kisses you then, slow and deep, like he’s trying to draw every ounce of pain out of you and replace it with something softer. Something safe.

He helps you out of your coat, your shoes, the bag still slung over your shoulder. He leads you to the couch, wraps you in a blanket, and curls around you like a shield.

You’re asleep before you even realize your eyes are closing.

And in that moment, even with everything still uncertain, you know one thing for sure:

You’re not alone in this anymore.

You never will be.

part 2 where reader leaves the hospital and lives on Asgard? maybe being a doctor there? do asgardians even need one? idk