— IN CASE WE DON’T LIVE FOREVER (Loki x Reader)
Chapter One: the Model
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Paris, France - 1995...
You snapped-to, attention quickly focusing on the hairdresser in front of you.
“You’re on in two minutes. Here, let me-”
You pushed her hand away, absent-mindedly, and she scowled at you.
“Y/N, they’re expecting you on the runway straightaway, I can’t make any more excuses-”
“I’m done,” you said, suddenly, and it felt like the most right thing in the world. “I... I quit.”
The entire dressing room gasped, including your group of closest friends.
“I’m sorry,” you stammered. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry-”
You slammed past the hairdresser, running through the back door without another word.
You burst into the cold night air, wind rushing past your face.
“I’ve gotta... I’ve gotta get out...”
“Perimeter secure... branch looks stable...”
You whirled around, clinging to the black, satin robe you wore, shivering, your enormous angel wings swaying in the wind.
Behind you, a woman in armor was clutching a glowing, flickering lantern.
“Who are you?” you choked out, trying to stay calm.
You’d been a model since you were twelve years old.
You’d been a supermodel since age eighteen.
But even the runway couldn’t have prepared you for this.
You’ve been afraid before. You’d been brave before, too.
But this? This was a thing of its own, unlike anything you’d experienced before.
Your mind couldn’t quite comprehend it, even as you were pulled from the dark parking lot and into a cramped hallway, one that seemingly hadn’t been remodeled since the 1970s.
“My name’s Y/N L/N,” you stammered, trying to get free of the woman who held you. “Y/N L/N, I’m-”
The woman snorted.
“We know who you are, princess.”
“Then you know I have somewhere to be in thirty minutes.”
She tilted her head to the side, looking you and up and down.
“Oh, really? I thought you quit? Trust me, if you hadn’t... you wouldn’t be here in the first place. You’d be back in that dressing room, being fitted for whatever your next flouncy dress is.”
Something buzzed on the woman’s belt, cutting you off. She glanced at it.
“Unfortunately, I have something a lot more important than you to deal with right now,” she muttered. “Casey, watch her for me, will you?”
A man at a desk, who you hadn’t noticed before, peered at you over a seemingly never-ending stack of paperwork.
“Sure, I will,” he agreed, brightly. “No problem.”
The woman nodded, disappearing again.
“I’m sorry,” Casey said, bringing you back to reality. “You look a little freaked out.”
“I... am. Still in shock, actually.”
He nodded, understandingly, and you suddenly realized how exposed you were.
You’d barely had a robe on when you’d stormed from the dressing room, and it was dangerously close to coming off now. You reached to adjust the satin belt, but soon realized that you were shackled.
“Casey,” you stammered. “Uh... could you do me a favor?”
You gestured at the robe.
“Could you re-tie this belt for me?”
He nodded, and you felt safe. As strange and uncertain as your future was, you couldn’t help but trust him. There was something blank and childish about his spirit, so unlike the men you'd known in your life.
Casey scrambled around the desk, eyeing the sash like it posed a confusing challenge.
“Like... this?” He looped an end around, experimentally.
“Yeah, like that. You’ve tied a bow before, right?”
Casey shook his head, and you felt guilty. You’ve had people try to make you feel stupid more than enough times - you didn’t need to make him feel that way, too.
“Okay, you’ve almost got it...”
Just then, the woman who had arrested you reemerged - with a man, this time.
But you weren’t looking at him.
No, you were staring blankly ahead-
Because the woman’s return had startled Casey, and the sash that had once hung around your hips fell to the floor, along with the rest of the satin robe, now puddled at your feet.
You cleared your throat, daring to make eye contact with the man in front fo you.
He was much more like the men you’d known.
You stared at him, desperately, biting your lip and trying very hard not to cry, but certain your mascara had smeared anyway.
You expected any number of responses - a catcall, perhaps, or a rude comment. Or staring, which would have been just as bad.
And you were surprised, therefore, when he looked as petrified as you were, despite the fact that he wore clothes. (Admittedly, they looked more like a costume for a Renaissance Fair than anything.)
He cleared his throat, then pointedly looked away.
“Will you help her, please?”
Grumbling, the woman who’d arrested you slid the robe back onto your shoulders, knotting the belt properly, this time.
“You,” you said, pointing at him. “You, I like you.”
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