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buckyodinson · 3 years

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Relief (Mobius x f!Reader)

Summary: You and Mobius encounter a flower with an interesting side effect.

Word count: 2.6k

Warnings: 18+, smut, sex pollen

A/N: I’m still not quite sure whether I can actually do smut justice lmao (and I never thought I’d ever write a sex pollen fic), but I saw a post by @send-me-to-valhalla and I’m very much in my Mobius feels right now, and this just kinda happened?

When you stepped through a timedoor to a new time and place, all you could do was admire what you saw, never touching anything where possible. Even something as seemingly innocent as picking a flower could potentially cause the Sacred Timeline to collapse. On this occasion, even just being near a particular flower would prove to have significant consequences. Unbeknownst to the pair of you, this particular flower had given off a fine mist that surrounded you, seeping into your pores while you were none the wiser.

You’d pointed the flower out to Mobius, claiming the shimmering silver hue of it’s petals matched his hair. He leaned closer to the flower and turned to you with a smirk, “I’m prettier though, right?”

You tilted your head and hummed in mock thought, looking between him and the flower and raising your eyebrows, “If you say so.”

“Oof, right in the heart.” He held a hand against his chest dramatically as he stood back to full height and carried on walking.

You follow him in silence, looking for any signs of the variant you were hunting. Your TemPads were scanning for any remnants of the variant, but had yet to pick anything up.

After a few more minutes of wandering around, your TemPad beeped, and you looked down at it, sighing.

“There’s no variant energy anywhere. This one’s another dead end.” you shut your TemPad and put it in your pocket while Mobius fiddled with his until a timedoor opened in front of you. He gave you a quick nod before walking through.

You took one last look around you, admiring the beauty of nature before stepping into the timedoor and going back to the normalcy of the TVA headquarters.

The odd feeling crept upon you slowly. The first thing you noticed was little pinpricks of heat dancing across your skin. You ignored it, figuring it was your body acclimating from the difference in temperature between the humid rainforest and the brisk air of the TVA.

As you and Mobius got back to your desks, he shucked off his blazer and put it on the back of his chair before sitting down and rolling up his sleeves. Unusual, you thought. In all your time knowing Mobius, you don’t think you’ve ever seen him without his blazer. You certainly weren’t complaining though. You’d always harboured a little bit of a crush on your silver-haired (and silver-tongued) partner.

You also find yourself taking your blazer off and draping it over your chair soon after. There must be a problem with the air conditioning, you tell yourself as you try to focus on the paperwork on your desk, and not the man in front of you.

At some point, he’d abandoned his tie and undone the first few buttons on his shirt. You couldn’t bring yourself to look away from him, and the little bit of his chest that was now exposed. You were getting increasingly hot, and before long you’d removed your own tie, unbuttoning your shirt a little and rolling your sleeves up, matching the look Mobius was sporting.

Were you really getting this hot and bothered over a glimpse of Mobius’ chest? It’s been a while, you think, trying to convince yourself that’s the reason you’re acting like this. You force yourself to look back down at your work, trying desperately to focus, shifting in your seat every now and then and clenching your thighs together as thoughts of Mobius flew through your mind. You thought you were doing an okay job at managing it, but with all your fidgeting, you’d roused your partner’s attention.

“You good?” he drawled, and you looked up at him, immediately regretting it. Mobius looked disheveled, but in that super attractive way that shouldn’t be legal. He had a glow about him, and his hair was a bit messed up, likely from him raking his hands through it. He also had a particularly adorable blush painting his cheeks, and you felt your own cheeks heat up at the sight.

“I don’t know, I just feel strange...” you sighed, wiping your forehead and noting how hot it felt.

He thought for a second before standing up, “I’m gonna go grab a Josta, you want one?”

“Yeah, sure. I might take a stroll down to medbay, check if I’ve got a fever or something?”

“Meet ya back here?” he smiled and you nodded, both going your separate ways.

You find yourself speed-walking to the medbay, and thankfully there’s nobody else waiting so you scan your card and wait for someone to come get you.

A doctor appeared in one of the doorways, motioning you into his small examination room.

“What seems to be the problem?” he asked monotonously.

“I... uh, I’ve been feeling off since coming back from a timedoor trip.”

“When and where did you go?” he asks, fingers at the ready of his computer.

“Uhhh, 2044, the Ionesc rainforest on Jaxyx 5.”

The sound of the computer keys tapping is almost deafening as you wait for him to say something.

“Did you touch any wildlife while you were there?”

“No.”

“Did you let any wildlife touch you?”

“No.”

“Do you recognise this plant?” He turns the screen and shows you the silver flower from earlier.

“Yes, we came across it.”

He hums and looks back at the screen before questioning you, “We?”

“Myself and Agent Mobius.”

“Please walk through the scanner.” He speaks abruptly and gestures to the machine over to your right.

You get up and walk through it before returning to your seat.

“It’s as I thought. The flower secreted a pollen that can have some... stimulating effects on those it comes into contact with.”

“Stimulating?”

“An increase in libido.” he says plainly.

“...okay. And how do I stop it? Is there like, a pill or a shot you can give me?”

“Unfortunately, there is no stopping it once it is in your system. It is only a matter of alleviation before it runs it’s course.”

You’re almost scared to ask, “Okay, and how do I do that?”

“Self-gratification will aid slightly, though the presence of another will work better to alleviate the discomfort you’ll soon start to feel.” You feel your face heat up at the doctor’s suggestion.

He doesn’t give you time to question him, “Will you fetch Agent Mobius and send him to me, please? Once you’ve done that, head home and find a way to work through it that suits you best.”

“O-okay.” you leave and head back to your desk.

You find Mobius sat at his desk, looking extremely uncomfortable, but he puts on a smile once he notices you approaching, “You doing alright?” he grimaces.

“I’ve.. uh... I’ve been sent home to rest, get over this thing. The doctor told me to get you to go get checked too, just in case you picked it up.”

“What is it?”

“Uhh, I think it’s better if the doc explains it to you.” you feel yourself blushing at the thought of what’s happening to the pair of you.

“Well, uh, okay then. I’ll catch you around?” he offers as he starts to walk away.

“Yep!” you struggle to get out once you notice the bulge in his trousers.

You scramble to sort your desk out before you go home, looking at Mobius’ desk while you consider a thought. The doctor all but said that getting fucked was gonna make you feel better than getting yourself off. And since the both of you were afflicted, it made sense to ask Mobius. Right? You told yourself yes, it made sense. But you didn’t want to embarrass yourself by asking him straight up, in case he rejected the idea. So you grabbed his notepad he’d left on his desk and scribbled a note on it before rushing off to your apartment.

Mobius was beet red as he made his way back to his desk after his visit with the doctor, deep in thought about what to do now. He noticed you’d tidied your desk, but he also clocked something was amiss with his own desk as he approached it. His notepad. You’d written in it. He’d recognise your handwriting a mile away. Why had you written in his notepad? His eyes widened as he read your note. After a brief pause to consider, he found himself grabbing his things and heading in the direction of your apartment.

Mo,

I’m sure the doc told you the best way to get through this is together.

Swing by if you’re comfortable (you know the code to my place). Ignore if not.

Y/N

You got home and immediately took a cold shower in the hopes it would do something to alleviate the pain that was starting to kick in, but it did nothing. You took some painkillers too, but still nothing. Arriving at the conclusion that Mobius wasn’t coming, you had undressed and were getting ready to get in bed and get yourself off when you heard your front door beep and open.

You heard the familiar drawl of your name echo through your apartment, and you almost moaned in relief at the thought of Mobius being here to help, “Here!” you strangled out.

You’d barely covered yourself in your sheets when Mobius appeared in the doorway of your bedroom. He looked even more discheveled than earlier, and his trousers looked even more strained than they had been earlier. You clenched your thighs together at the sight of him. You knew it was wrong, he was likely in just as much pain as you, but fuck if the sight of him wasn’t glorious. He looked like a deer in headlights, just staring at you, breathing heavily.

“I... I-uh, wh-” he stuttered.

“Just get over here Mo.” you sighed, and he didn’t have to be told twice.

He dropped his blazer and toed off his shoes before almost lunging onto the bed and crowding you.

“Are you sure you want this, sweetheart?” he drawls as he looks down at you, using all the restraint he has not to just kiss you immediately.

“Yes,” you moan in reply and pull his face down so you can kiss him. He groans and kisses you back ferociously, fumbling with a hand to undo his shirt.

He pulls back from you and sits up to unbutton it the rest of the way, and you sit up to help him with his trousers. The sheet falls away from you, exposing your chest to Mobius, and it takes everything in him not to jump right back on you. But he muscles through the need and stands up to shuck off the rest of his clothes before crawling back over you. The sight of his hardened cock has you sighing and clenching around nothing.

He slants his lips against yours again as his hands make their way to your breasts. He swallows your moans and reciprocates with equally wanton groans and grunts. He can’t help but bite down on your lip when he feels your hand wrap around his cock, and it only makes your grip around him tighten as you stroke him.

He pulls away and mumbles against your lips, “Fuck, darlin’. So good.”

Soon enough, he grabs your hand and moves it away, lining himself up with your entrance and pushing into you after one more glance up at you. He slides in easily and he almost collapses on top of you once he bottoms out. The feeling is overwhelming for the both of you. Him simply being inside you already brings a huge relief to the both of you, and you spend a minute just laying there and catching your breaths.

The pain slowly starts to creep back though, and you grasp at Mobius, pulling his face back to yours, “Please, Mo. Move.” you all but sob and he pulls almost all the way out of you before slamming back in. You grab a fistful of his hair and tug on it as you capture his lips once more. He groans into the kiss and you can’t help but smile.

He sets a relentless pace, and you can feel the pain slowly start to slip away as he pounds into you mercilessly. You’re almost delirious, and he’s mumbling incoherently against the skin of your neck, but you manage to make out an ‘sorry’ among the nonsense. You remind yourself to question that when he’s not fucking you anymore.

Mobius snakes a hand down your body, bringing his thumb to your clit and pressing it harshly, pulling a lewd moan from the back of your throat, “Oh God, Mo... please.”

“Please what, sugar?” you can feel his grin against your cheek as he presses a soft kiss there.

“Don’t stop. You feel so good.”

“Don’t plan on it, sweetheart.” Somehow he picks up his pace, and his thumb presses more insistently against your clit and it tips you over the edge. Your mouth opens in a silent scream as relief washes over you, and you clench around Mobius.

He grunts at the feeling and his pace falters as he spills inside you, capturing your lips again and kissing you with all the strength he has. He lazily pushes into you a couple more times, riding out your highs before coming to a stop and rolling you both over so he was laying on his back and you were on top of him.

The ache wasn’t completely gone, and you could feel Mobius was still hard inside you, and you wondered if you’d have to go for another round to alleviate the effects of the pollen even more. But for now, you were content to just lay there with Mobius and bask in the afterglow.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart.” he murmured, and you pushed yourself weakly up onto your elbows so you could look down at him.

“What for?”

“I feel like I’ve used you.” he rubs at his temple, avoiding eye contact with you.

“Mo, don’t be stupid. We both needed to do this. I don’t feel used at all. I feel great, frankly.” you chuckle and move to sit up, careful to keep him inside you.

His tone remains defeated, despite the little groan at your movement, “It’s just... I feel like I’ve ruined things. This isn’t how I wanted this to go.”

“What do you mean?” you rub his stomach softly, admiring the little bit of a belly he had.

“I love you, Y/N. And now, because I couldn’t recognise a stupid sex flower, I’ve ruined my chance to show you that properly, and I feel so stu-”

You grab his face and kiss him with all your might, only pulling away when you needed to breathe, “I love you too, Mo. Since my first day as your partner.”

“Really?” the small smile that pulled on his lips was adorable and you couldn’t help but steal another kiss from him.

“Yes, really. You haven’t ruined anything. As uncomfortable as that flower has made me, at least it finally got us together. Otherwise we’d have probably both danced around our feelings for the rest of time.” you smirk, and he chuckles.

“Yeah, you’re probably right.”

“Once we’re over this, how about you take me out for dinner?” you raise an eyebrow cheekily.

“Sounds like a date.” he replies.

“I love you, Mobius M. Mobius.” you smile down at him as you press a chaste kiss to his lips.

“For all time?” he counters, pulling you even closer.

“Always.” you beam.

You and Mobius ended up going for another few rounds that night, though you’re pretty sure the second round cleared up the effects of the pollen. But where would the fun be in stopping, right?

#mobius x reader #mobius my beloved #mobius loki #mobius marvel #agent mobius x reader #mobius #agent mobius #mobius m mobius #mobius mobius mobius #mobius mobius mobius x reader #mobius m mobius x reader #owen wilson x reader #marvel x reader #loki series fanfic

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valkyrieandstrangeridingaragorn · 2 years

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In the Avengers 2012 film after he gets smacked around by the Hulk Loki is momentarily shaken for a bit but after that he just kinda humbly accepts defeat. Not good enough for the Loki series staff. No, he needs to be beaten over and over until he's on his knees begging it to stop admitting he's a terrible person and then he gets beat up even more after that until he's repeating the words said to him. Because, just because

The problem is that even if they wanted to make a nod to that scene by showing him being beaten again they got it all wrong from the get-go.

When Hulk is fighting him Loki is still very much under some form of influence and control from the sceptre and in order to give us more proof that Loki is not doing this out of his own volition we have that scene of the beating from the Hulk that serves as some form of recalibration (like what Nat did to Clint) and it is there to show to the audience that the Mind Stone is fucking with Loki's mind like it did with the Avengers in the helicarrier.

Hell, Bruce is the one who grabs the sceptre in the helicarrier, then it's Hulk the one who beats Loki, it's pretty straightforward! After the Hulk has attacked him, Loki goes back to being himself and the changes are pretty obvious: in his demeanour, in his face...

But in the series the beating only happens because Mobius feels betrayed after his captive had escaped his control and ran away from him. Loki hadn't done anything wrong, he hadn't hurt anybody, all he had done is run away from an organization that had kidnapped him, lied to him and threatened with killing him several times. It doesn't matter that they try to show us how sad and betrayed Sif felt... because 1) it's an illusion, 2) the punishment doesn't fit the crime at all and 3) we know the only reason Loki is being physically assaulted is because he dared escape his captors.

And the begging... that's the part that makes me nauseous. I hate seeing him take the punches without fighting back (because he doesn't fight back at all, he's perfectly capable of defending himself and yet he doesn't raise a hand on Sif. Why? A woman beating a man is fine but that man defending himself and attacking a woman is bad? wtf) but the fact that at one point he's kneeling on the floor and says "Sif, please, no more, please I beg you"... what the hell is that? Do these people really think this is what we want to see? Why would anyone laugh at that?

It's nothing like Hulk's attack. It's vile and sadistic with the only purpose of humiliating and hurting him for no reason other than him escaping after he had been kidnapped, and they should be ashamed of writing a scene like that.

#loki critical #loki series criticism

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thatnerdyfangirlcat · 2 years

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Imma talk about Sylki *Loki Spoilers* *No Way Home Spoilers* *TW: selfcest and mention of incest*

It seems the Sylki discourse has returned due to a certain recently released movie, and uh...I'm kinda mad.

So, first things first, we live in a world where having any kind of relationship with an alternate version of yourself is most likely impossible. Meaning "selfcest"...isn't a real thing. Why are people getting so angry about it when it has no basis in reality? My argument here makes me a bit of a hypocrite, I suppose, cause I still have a big problem with Steve's time travel thing in Endgame, which also has no basis in reality, but I'm gonna keep going.

Firstly, I would like to point out that I have yet to see or hear of someone that makes the "selfcest" claim without also being a Lokius shipper, which...is kind of a problem for me? I get it, I shipped Loki and Mobius at first, up until Sylvie was introduced and I saw the romantic tension and the possibility for huge character growth for both parties, especially Loki. And it's fine to not agree with ships, and even discuss why you think certain ships don't work as well as others. But do you really have to villainize the shippers that are just trying to enjoy a piece of media? Just because your ship didn't become canon? Not to mention hating on the creators and even the actors that are working very hard to bring you a long-awaited and requested story, only for you to turn around and say "This doesn't live up to my very specific standards, therefore it is Bad." Shipping inspires discourse. I get it. But come on, at some point you gotta grow up a little and just move on when something doesn't go your way.

Next, I'd like to address something a little more sensitive. Something that bothers me quite a bit. In villainizing this (fictional) idea of selfcest, and using specifically that word, it kind of...compares selfcest to actual incest? This may not be the intention, but that's what it seems like to me. Which is kind of an issue for me, because people are taking this entirely fictional concept and equating it to a very real concept that is...not good. In doing so, though, it actually takes away from the seriousness of the actual real concept, which is probably not really a good thing. I may be the only person that feels this way, but...yeah.

Now for the No Way Home spoilers.

So, the three Peter Parkers are now considered brothers. But wait, I thought we established that Variants could have romantic feelings for each other? And now the feelings are familial? This doesn't make sense! Well guess what, different types of relationships exist. Not everyone will have the same feelings in the same situation. I mean, we saw it in Loki. Kid Loki and Gator Loki have a found family/best friend/pet relationship (and are, btw, of entirely different species), Boastful Loki has a purely self-serving relationship with all the other Loki Variants, President Loki has an authoratative relationship with some of the other Variants. It should also be noted that in declaring brotherhood, the Peters recognize that they are not, in fact, the same person. You wouldn't say that identical twins are the same person, would you? So if Loki and Sylvie are not, in fact, the same person in any way, shape, or form, genetically, physiologically, mentally or emotionally, except for their alleged place in the universe, why shouldn't they be allowed to have romantic feelings for each other?

I am personally quite fond of the whole self-love thing they've going on here, and the direct metaphor is kinda hilarious. Through Sylvie, Loki can finally understand how he actually affects those that care about him. In accepting Sylvie and all the other Loki Variants, he can finally accept himself and grow into the best version of himself.

Just be kind to each other about shipping. We're all just here to find pieces of ourselves in fiction, right? Maybe to escape this hell of a reality we live in? Might as well make it a comforting place to escape to.

#pro sylki #sylki #sylvie #sylvie laufeydottir #loki spoilers #loki #loki laufeyson #kid loki #boastful loki #gator loki #no way home spoilers #nwh spoilers #no way home #nwh #spiderbros #andrew garfield #tobey maguire #sylki discourse #spider-man

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iamanartichoke · 3 years

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I wasn't sure if I was going to post this, but I may as well.

I keep starting to reply to things and then stopping bc the words just aren't there, and I suppose I figured out the core of what bothers me so much (and is making me have such a rollercoaster of a fan experience) about the show.

(cut for length)

It's not well-written. My opinion is my opinion, so I'm saying this subjectively, take it or leave it, but ... I feel that it's not well-written. The overall story is fine, and the plot is fine, but I don't know if it's because of the limited number of episodes not being enough to house the story, or because of the relative inexperience of the writer/showrunner+director, or both, or something else, but -

In an earlier reaction post to episode 4, I mentioned really wanting to sink my teeth into all of the subtext I picked up on. That was what made me initially enjoy the episode so much - there were a lot of little moments that I initially felt revealed so much about the characters and about Loki, and I wanted to analyze them. But at some point, as I gathered more information, my perspective changed and now I no longer want to analyze the subtext bc ... subtext = good. Subtext w/out payoff = not as good.

I'll go into more detail in a moment, but I think the tl;dr of it is that I feel like the narrative requires the audience to work way too hard to put together all of the moving pieces here and, like, I kinda just don't want to do that work? Not so much of it, and not in vain. A lot of the enjoyment of Loki's characterization is coming from fans who are rationalizing why he's behaving as he is, but the narrative never actually confirms those rationalizations. It's asking us to figure it out and maybe our conclusions will be correct but maybe they won't, though. At some point, subtext isn't enough without explicit follow-through.

I thought my issue was with the lack of character development - that is, not having enough narrative space to really earn the big things that are happening now, like Loki/Sylvie or Mobius turning against the TVA. And that's still true, to an extent; I still feel like the pacing is all very off and it seems like most of these things kinda came out of nowhere (but are not unbelievable - just undeveloped).

But, yknow, it is what it is, it's a limited series, and I can excuse some things. Ultimately, my issue isn't a problem with what the narrative isn't doing, it's a problem with what the narrative already failed to do and probably cannot recover from at this point.

The narrative has left out significant details that should at least help us do some of the work here. If a person turned on Loki and started episode 1 and had no background knowledge of the character besides that he tried to take over New York - how would that person interpret Loki? Would that person say, oh, well, he's been through X, Y, and Z, and plus A happened, not to mention B, C, and D, so really, it makes sense that he seems off-the-rails, or that he'd want to get ridiculously drunk at the worst time ever.

Maybe we'd like to believe they would, but how would they be getting to that conclusion? The narrative hasn't led them in that direction so, no, they would not say well we have to consider this, this, and that. It would be impossible to really understand Loki as a character from just what we've gotten in the series. The general audience would probably interpret Loki as being out of his element and so it becomes, I wonder how this character is going to get the upper hand here. And, while that's not wrong, it's just so limited.

The narrative at face value does not address Loki's identity crisis from Thor 2011. It does not address his hurt and devastation at being lied to, nor does it address how complicated his self-image is (bc it sucked to begin with and that was before he found out he was part of a race of "monsters," as he'd been taught his entire life). It does not reference Loki being so broken at the end of Thor 2011 that he deliberately let himself fall into the void of space (aka tried to kill himself). It does not reference that he was tortured by Thanos or even that he went through a seriously dark time in between Thor and Avengers, and it absolutely does not reference or address any influence or control of the mind stone.

These are all things that we, the fan audience, know because we've already invested our time into this character's story. But tons of people, the general audience, wouldn't know these things. Or if they did, bc they saw Thor and Avengers, they wouldn't be thinking about them as deeply as we would, nor contextualizing them with how Loki is behaving now, or why it would make sense that he needed to get drunk, or why it's understandable that he needs to keep going-going-going in order to not have a spare second to think or feel.

They'd probably look at Loki, again, as a character who was a villain and is now getting his comeuppance in a place where he has no power or control, and no literal powers, and even when he manages to escape and catch up to the variant, he proceeds to fuck up their plan for seemingly no real reason except that he wanted to get drunk bc he's hedonistic. Which Sylvie even berates him for! I mean. This is not exactly a complex character breakdown, nor a very flattering one, but that's what the narrative has given us.

(If the narrative has addressed Loki's mind control, his torture, his mental breakdown, his suicide attempt, and his general shitty self-esteem as a result of his upbringing, please point it out to me. If the narrative has explicitly acknowledged and referenced these things anywhere and I am missing it, please show me where. Please explain to me how the casual viewer would know any of these things that they need to know in order to actually understand what's happening in this story.)

So I mean, okay, we have a narrative that doesn't paint a full, accurate picture of Loki. Fine, sure. But because the general audience starts out on the wrong footing, they're not going to get out of the overall story what the writers probably intended them to. For example, in episode 3, a lot of us theorized that Loki had some kind of plan - that he broke the timepad on purpose, for some reason, bc otherwise it wasn't believable that he'd be such a failure. But episode 4 revealed that no, there was no bigger plan, Loki just plain old messed up. Which is fine if, again, one is only considering the surface-level portrayal here, but it's not true to Loki's actual characterization.

I mean. Loki is not perfect and Loki actually fails a lot, this is true. He fails for a lot of reasons, but incompetence has never been one of them. Usually it's that either things grew beyond his control, or there ended up being too many moving parts, or he had to change his plan at the last minute due to some roadblock or another being thrown his way, or even that he got in his own way - whatever the case may be for his plans' failures, he was always at least shown to know what he was doing.

That wasn't the case here. The "plan" to fix the Timepad failed as a direct result of Loki's actions, which were careless and made him seem incompetent, like he couldn't even handle this mission. "You had one job," etc. And there were pretty big consequences for this; they were not able to get off-world in time and would have been killed had the TVA not shown up at the last second.

And maybe none of these things matter bc the writers never intended any of this to be a reflection on Loki's character, positive or negative. The situation exists solely because the writers needed to put Loki and Sylvie together in some kind of hopeless scenario so that they could get closer, and thus the narrative could set up their romance. I get that - but, there were other ways to do it that didn't require Loki to look foolish.

Furthermore, the whole reason they needed to set up the romance is to show Loki eventually learning to love himself (like, figuratively but also literally). The audience is supposed to gather that Loki and Sylvie fell for one another, possibly due to the high emotional aspect of, yknow, being about to die (in addition to the variant-bond). The intent is clear: Loki and Sylvie almost die but get rescued at the last minute, having now created an emotional bond --> Loki and Sylvie team up and the narrative further establishes that Loki, at least, has caught feelings --> Loki might confess them but is pruned before he gets the chance --> he somehow survives, he and Sylvie are reunited and don't want to lose one another again, and the combined power of their love is enough to break the sacred timeline and spawn the multiverse, and the reason that the power of their love is so, well, powerful is because it's about self-love and self-acceptance as much as it is about having the capacity to love someone else. The end.

I get all that. The writers more or less said all that. And, I mean, it's certainly not the way I would have chosen to go about it, but it's a fair enough arc to explore. I don't really have an issue with the intent - but my question, however, is this: if the narrative has so far not addressed Loki's background issues (as outlined above), and has furthermore kinda gone out of its way to portray Loki as hedonistic and narcissistic, among other things (like kinda incompetent), and the context the audience starts with is that Loki's this villain who deserves what he gets -

- my question is 1, why should the audience care whether or not Loki gets to a point of loving and accepting himself (thus to make the theme of self-love, via the romance, hold weight) if they don't know that he hates himself to begin with and 2, why should the audience root for Loki to reach that point when so far the perception of him is that he's "kind of an asshole"? if he's a hedonistic narcissist, he probably already has a pretty inflated sense of himself, right? A misplaced inflated sense of himself, at that, because, again, the narrative has made him out to be not that capable of much of anything. (And it didn't start out that way! It seemed to start out with Loki being capable and intelligent but it's like episode 3, in trying to set up the romance, just jumbled it all up somewhere. I think this is why I'm harping on the Loki/Sylvie aspect so much - it's frustrating bc it kinda messes up the whole story and can't even accomplish what it's supposed to anyway.)

Anyway, that's beside the point. What I'm ultimately getting at is, at what point is the audience supposed to get invested in Loki's personal growth journey?

They can't, not really. Without understanding and having the context of everything Loki has been through up until now, and why he hates himself, and why it's so important that he learn to love himself, then the "payoff" becomes kinda pointless bc the significance of it is lost in translation. So suddenly we're left with this romance that comes off as either "Loki loves Sylvie bc of Reasons" (best-case scenario) or "Loki loves Sylvie bc he's vain, narcissistic, and kinda twisted" (worst-case scenario). Neither of these conclusions are what the writers intended or were going for, I'm positive, but there we are, regardless.

In order for the writers' intent in these storylines to land, they need to address the context of what makes these particular stakes high for Loki. So far, they haven't done that. They're asking the audience to pick up on all of these things, and they're showing things that subtextually make sense and are relatively in-character - but only if you realize there's subtext in the first place.

But you can't expect the audience to do all of the work for you. If you don't want the audience to think that Loki is a narcissistic asshole and instead you are trying to convey that, worst-case scenario, he thinks he's a narcissist but is an unreliable narrator, then you have to address that. If you need the audience to understand why you're going the selfcest route and why it's important to explore Loki's capacity to love himself and others, you have to address where that exploration is starting from and why it matters. Etc etc etc.

The narrative isn't doing any of that. And it isn't like it'd be that hard to do it. They don't need to reinvent the wheel here; a lot of the pieces are already there. A few lines of dialogue for context, a brief scene here or there addressing the issues, a little more care and consistency in how Loki handles things - these are all little things that could go a long fucking way in making the narrative stronger.

I'm rambling. My basic point is that my rollercoaster of emotions with this show is because

- as a part of the fan audience, not the general one, I can contextualize and analyze the subtext and come to the conclusions the show wants me to, and thus find the story and the characters more or less enjoyable,

- but I am also going to be using the subtext to come to conclusions that aren't there but probably should be (I think it would be a better story, for example, for Loki to confuse platonic love with romantic love bc it would pave the way to explore just how fucked up Loki's understanding of love - whether of other people or of himself, and the different forms it can take - actually is)

- and when they're ultimately not there, then I think, okay why am I bothering doing all this work just to ultimately feel very unfulfilled? They don't even have to write it the way I would, I'm not saying that, but they do have to do something to make the story feel rewarding.

If we don't get some confirmation of what Loki's been through, and where his headspace is, and why it matters for him to love himself, then the story remains pretty shallow and, for me, it's not fulfilling enough. It's not engaging enough. There isn't actually anything to sink my teeth into, so it becomes kind of boring. Maybe it's rewarding to other people, and that's great for them, but like - I need more than whatever this is.

So I'm just like - well, I had a lot of worries about this show, but my being bored wasn't one of them and now there's only two episodes left and am I really not going to get anything out of this, in the long run? No new canons, no new depths or layers, no new information on Loki's experiences? This is it?

I don't dislike it. I didn't start out disliking it, and I probably wont end up disliking it. I mean, there are a lot of good moments, and good things, and fan service-y things that I appreciate. As far as inspiration for fic goes, it's a goldmine, both plot-wise as well as aesthetic-wise. All of that is great. I don't dislike this show.

But I am disappointed in it, and I feel like I'll be watching the next two episodes lacking the sense of anticipation that would make it exciting. I'll still enjoy them, probably, if for nothing else just the sheer Loki content, but whatever it was I felt watching episodes 1 and 2 is gone and I'm sad about that, too. Because I really wanted to feel fulfilled by this series; I wanted it to fill up the void that Loki's death in IW created three years ago. And I just ... don't feel it. Maybe, maybe that'll change over the course of episodes 5 and 6. I don't know.

Everything that I end up enjoying long-term, I think, will come about as a result of my own interpretations and analysis and while theoretically there's nothing wrong with that, if I had known all I'd get out of this series was more headcanons or support for my current headcanons then, well - that's fine, I suppose, but I'll definitely a little bit robbed.

#loki spoilers #loki series negativity #loki tv series spoilers #loki series spoilers #long post

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thekingslover · 3 years

Text

Jetski For Sale (Lokius fic)

He stops riding the jetski.

He keeps it on the small trailer at the end of his driveway beside his modest split-level home and covers it with a blue tarp.

Every morning, in his brown button-up pajamas and a bathrobe, he walks to the end of the driveway and collects the morning paper. He’s careful to hold his coffee mug steady as he leans down, but he always manages to spill a drop or two. His slippers are covered in tiny coffee spots.

He tucks the newspaper under his arm and turns back toward his house. He left the television on; through the window, the screen flashes with the bright white letters, Breaking News! Two houses down, his neighbor is already out mowing the lawn. Further away, a dog barks.

Though he lives alone, it’s a perfect life. Everything’s simple. His mortgage is affordable. His brown sedan is paid off. And the jetski...

He doesn’t remember buying it. He always wanted one, dreamed of it. He had a savings set aside for someday. Yet... his savings is still there, and he still has this jetski.

He looks at it now, at the way it bulges under the tarp. A shame to leave it like that. He should take it out again. But the last time he did that...

Shaking his head, he walks back to the house. He drinks his coffee and reads his newspaper. He goes to work, comes home, goes to sleep, and does it all again the next day.

“Something’s different about you,” his sister says on the phone, their weekly call. “You sound different.”

“Same old me.” He’s good at keeping back his feelings and pushing forward the cheer.

She knows, though. Older sisters always seem to. “Are you sure you haven’t been seeing anyone lately?”

This sends him laughing. “A secret boyfriend? Come on, you have quite an imagination on you.”

“Laugh all you want,” she says, stern. She’s not backing down, though her voice does soften as she adds, “It’s only that you... Well, you sound... heartbroken.”

“That’s...” He should deny it. He hasn’t dated anyone in a good long while, but, well, now that she mentions it... He’s had his heart broken before, long ago, and it felt a little something like this. Like something crucial is suddenly missing. Like you spent so much time learning someone and adapting to them, shaping whole parts of your life around them, and then they are just... gone.

There’s a person-sized hole in his life now, but he can’t quite remember their shape.

No, that can’t be.

“That’s crazy,” he says, thinking, maybe I’m crazy.

“Why don’t you come visit us for a while?” she says. “The kids would love to see you.”

“Yeah,” he says, shaky. “Yeah, maybe that’s a good idea. Tell them I love them. Love you too.” Then he hangs up.

That night, he lays on his back in bed and stares at the ceiling, afraid to look to his right. He used to sleep sprawled across the entire width of the bed, a true bachelor enjoying his bachelorhood. When did he start picking one side?

He turns over, facing away from the barren expanse of the rest of the mattress, but the bookshelf offers little comfort. Most of his books are about history, biographies on interesting characters from the past. There’s a couple of jetski magazines wedged in, too. But what catches his eye... He remembers buying it, knows he did, the morning after watching a documentary on the perception of time and space. The documentarian had written a book. The Mobius Strip.

Frowning, he doesn’t find any sleep that night, no matter how many long minutes he closes his eyes, or how many sheep he tries to count in his head.

Mobius.

It’s a mathematical theory. Not a name. But it wedges between his ribs and stays buried behind them.

He’s not even a maths guy! But he can’t shake it. It feels heavy, too important.

He tosses and turns. He reaches out to the other side of the bed, realizes its empty, and snaps upright, dread overtaking him for one sharp moment before he remembers that its supposed to be empty.

This is normal. This is his perfect little life.

He flops back into bed and runs a hand down his face. Maybe he should go visit his sister, before he fully loses his mind.

His hands shake the next morning when he walks out to get the newspaper at the end of the driveway. Half his coffee spills when he leans to pick it up, but its fine. Maybe he should give up coffee entirely. Maybe too much caffeine is his problem.

He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him.

Turning towards the house, he spots the jetski, there under the blue tarp. The mysterious jetski that he doesn’t remember buying. The one, when he’s out on it, he sits too far forward, like he’s making space for someone behind him. But there’s no one there. There’s never anyone there.

The jetski, he decides, was the start of his problems. Maybe if he... If he...

Storming back into the house, he leaves what’s left of his coffee in the sink and the newspaper forgotten on the counter, and hurries into the office. He rips off a long sheet of dot matrix printer paper. Biting off the cap of his pen, he scribbles on it in large block letters, all caps, FOR SALE.

Back in the driveway, he removes the chocks from behind the wheels of the trailer, and flips off the tarp. He wheels the trailer and the jetski to the end of the driveway, right up against the road.

He must look like a mad man, out there in his brown button-up pajamas and coffee-stained slippers. The neighbor’s mowing the lawn. The dog’s barking further away. Everything’s perfect in this perfect little neighborhood, this perfect little life. But he feels like he is going insane.

He slaps the for sale sign on the front of the jetski, and starts back for the house. The sooner that thing is out of his life... Maybe... Maybe things would go back to normal.

His heart pangs in a way he doesn’t understand. Heartache. So much heartache. Why?

Does he even want normal?

But if not that, then what? What is he missing?

He’s at his front door, hand on the doorknob, when someone politely coughs behind him. He pauses a moment, there’s no way someone is there... But when he glances over his shoulder - yeah. Someone’s behind him, only a few feet away.

Not just someone. The most gorgeous person he has ever seen, wearing a sleek black suit and a pair of sunglasses. Long dark hair is slicked back and pushed behind their ears.

He should probably feel self-conscious, standing there in his brown pajamas in front of this god of a person - probably a model - but he doesn’t. Strangely, he feels more at ease now than he has in weeks. His whole body relaxes like he finally exhaled a held breath.

But that doesn’t make sense. They’ve never met. He would remember.

He would never forget a face like that.

“Hello,” the person says, and the word tremors slightly.

“Hello.” It tremors when he says it too.

There’s no car on the road. No bicycle on the sidewalk. However this person got here, it’s like they dropped down from the sky.

The person clears their throat. “You’re selling the jetski?”

“You...” He blinks. He knew jetskis were popular - hell, they are the best - but he hadn’t expected an offer before he even got his pants on. “Yeah. You interested?”

“Yes, I...” They drop their head a moment, taking their time to think. When they lift their head again, their shoulders lift too, like they are preparing for a battle.

He supposes negotiations can be seen as a battle, but he can’t bring himself to match the person’s pose. He’s ready to give up the jetski for free at this point. Whatever gets it gone.

The person asks, “What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing’s wrong with it. It runs like a dream.”

“Then why get rid of it?”

His heart hurts, so he laughs through the pain. It’s silly, but he can’t help feel his sister was right. This person wouldn’t know either way, so he finds himself telling them, “I’m heartbroken.”

The person goes very still. Their mouth opens and they take in a shaky, noisy breath. When they say, “What?” the word is bone dry and crumbling.

“It’s something we did together... I think.” He’s making it up, but it feels right. So he keeps talking. “And now. Well. It kinda reminds me of... I’m pretty sure I forgot a lot of things, but I can’t forget that. There’s supposed to be someone else. And I can’t... I can’t...”

He’s not making any sense, but the person is hanging on every single word.

“Anyway,” he says. “I’ll let it go cheap. Too many memories... or... I don’t know, feelings?” He sighs. “Just make me an offer, okay? I have to get ready for work.”

He wants nothing more than to keep this beautiful person on his doorstep, but... well, life isn’t always about getting what you want. This person wants a jetski, he has one. A transaction will occur, and this person will move forward like he never existed.

He’ll be left behind again.

Again?

Now, he’s the one to stand a little straighter. “Do you ever get deja vu?”

“Deja vu?”

“You know, where you feel like you’ve lived an exact moment already, once before. I’ve been reading this book about mobius strips and...” There’s that pang again, in his chest. A subtle ache that is swelling. He wants to ignore it, like he always has, but he’s finding he can’t really anymore. “Don’t you think that’d be a cool name? Mobius. Mobius M. Mobius.” He laughs, and it hurts. It hurts.

The person doesn’t laugh. Instead, they take a small step back. “I shouldn’t have come here.”

His laughter dies quickly. It wasn’t real anyway. “You don’t want the jetski?”

“I do,” the person says with naked longing. “More than anything.”

“Then its yours.” He shrugs. “You know, it kinda feels like it was already yours? Like, maybe its just been waiting around for you to show up and claim it.”

The person shakes their head. “It’s better off without me. It finally has a chance to... to... live the way you - it deserves...”

“I mean, that’s a nice thought. But in practice... wouldn’t it be better for jetskis to decide for themselves the kind of lives they want? Whose to say that their life before was all that great? Because let me tell you, this perfect little normal life I’m living? Kinda sucks.” He doesn’t really understand what he’s saying, but the words still fall out of him, like ripping a scab off an old wound and all the blood starts running again.

The person takes another step back, but this time, he follows, taking a step forward. Somehow, it feels crucial that he not let this person leave him behind again.

There, another again. What is he not remembering?

“There’s something terribly wrong with all this,” he says. “I’m forgetting something important, but whatever it is - whoever - I don’t think I can be happy without them. Not really. Not in any way that matters.”

“Mobius...” the person says, soft, under their breath. Stronger, “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

And the dam breaks.

“I know exactly what I’m saying, Loki.” The name, that name. How could he forget that name?

The person - Loki - exhales again, watery this time.

“Maybe if we never met, this would be enough. Maybe it was once. But not anymore. Never again. Not since you. And not even your little mind hocus pocus could change that.”

Mobius takes another step forward. This time, Loki does not move back. They stay just as they are and let Mobius close the distance. Mobius lifts his hands to Loki’s face and slowly removes those sunglasses. Loki’s eyes have always been the most expressive - the easiest to read. No wonder they would try to hide them. Because now they shine with sorrow and regret and... love. So much love.

And that, Mobius knows, is exactly what he’s been looking for when he reaches out to the empty space beside him on the bed. When he sits in his kitchen and stares at the pulled-out chair across the table. When he rides his jetski and turns, ready to laugh with the missing person behind him.

“I’m not angry,” Mobius says, tossing the sunglasses aside. He takes one of Loki’s hands in his. Loki grips hard onto his fingers. “I understand why you did it. It’s kind of flattering really, to know you’d give up your own happiness to try to give me mine. But there was a very big problem with this latest Loki scheme.”

“What’s that?” Loki asks in a whisper.

Mobius gives them a smile. The first real one since they parted. “You’re unforgettable.”

Loki laughs once, a burst, like they’ve been holding something in and now its escaping. The hard lines of their face smooth out. And they look less like a frightened, broken shadow and more like themselves, god of mischief, with a small but growing smirk. “Of course. I suppose I should have considered that.”

“Big flaw. Ruined the whole thing, to be honest.”

Loki leans closer. “I hate to admit to fault, but I fear there was a second issue that I had not considered.”

“Oh, yeah? What’s that?”

“Your absolute stubbornness.”

“Stubborn? Me? You should look in the mirror, pal.”

Loki closes their eyes a moment. Mobius studies the planes of their perfect face, and wonders how, in all the infinite timelines, he ever forgot it.

“Loki,” Mobius says. “Do me a favor, though, huh? Don’t do this again. I... uh, well. It wasn’t the most fun for me.”

“Me, either.” Loki presses their forehead to Mobius’s. “I regretted every moment, but I... The TVA stole you from your life. I wanted to -”

“I know, I get it. I’m not mad. But communication is key to a relationship, yeah? So maybe next time you want to do a grand gesture of love for me, we should talk about it first?”

Loki leans back. They blink. But it’s not the love that trips them up, it’s, “Relationship?”

Mobius runs his hands along Loki’s arms, up to the shoulders and back down to the elbows. “Yeah. I mean, we’re partners, right?”

“Partners.” Loki doesn’t say the word with disgust, more... intrigue.

“Boyfriends?” Mobius tries.

“Boyfriends.” Loki frowns at that one.

“Lovers?”

Loki’s eyes are bright and full of wonder. How they could look at Mobius, someone so normal, like that... well. Loki makes Mobius feel like a god himself, no wonder he couldn’t go back to his old life.

“Lovers,” Loki says and kisses Mobius. Mobius smiles against their lips. Lovers, it is, then.

Kiss turns to kisses, and they linger. It’s right, so right that it further amplifies how wrong everything else was before. Mobius belongs here. Right here. With Loki. Forever, if possible.

When they break, they both laugh, and it’s light and true this time, for both of them.

“Hey, Loki,” Mobius says. “Want to buy a jetski?”

Loki pulls an annoyed face, but its all an act - Mobius sees right through it, and Loki’s not trying that hard to hide it. “I believe I’m the one who acquired that jetski for you. You have no right to sell it.”

“It was a gift,” Mobius says.

“It remains a gift. One I insist you keep.”

“Alright, alright,” Mobius laughs and Loki kisses him at the corner of his smile. “But only if you promise to keep me.”

“Oh, dear Mobius.” Loki brings their mouth to Mobius’s ear. “I hope you appreciated this display of selflessness, because I will not be repeating it.”

“Good.”

“I am a selfish god.”

“Uh, huh.”

Loki’s arms grip tightly around Mobius’s waist. “And from here to eternity, I will be keeping what’s mine.”

The last remaining knots in Mobius’s chest untangle. “And the jetski.”

“And the jetski,” Loki says and kisses him again.

#lokius #loki x mobius #post-canon #established relationship........ >.>#mobius pov ////#hey its another one of those loki enchants mobius to forget him and sends him back to his old life fics #angst with a happy ending #mcu ts ///////////#i wrote something else

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just-dreaming-marvel · 3 years

Text

Out Of Time ~ 140

MASTERLIST

< previous chapter

Word Count: 2,325ish

Summary: The Starks receive unexpected visitors, that come with a plan.

Warning: Possible gif overload. Gifs aren’t mine. I just love Tony and Morgan.

Before the small Stark family knew it, it was October of 2023. And their house had become a wonderful home for them.

Morgan was four and almost the spitting image of her father. She was smart like him too. She loved working with her father in his workshop or playing outside in the tent Tony bought for her.

Y/N had got into gardening, especially because they were kind of far away from any grocery store. Tony was a willing helping hand and was slowly becoming a small farm boy. It bought a few small goats, an alpaca, a couple of chickens, two cats, and was planning on getting a dog for Morgan for Christmas.

Steve and Natasha only visited when Tony was gone or Y/N and Morgan went to them. Tony was still struggling to forgive after everything, and Y/N wasn’t willing to push Tony more than he had willingly done himself.

Y/N was currently in the kitchen, making lunch, while Tony was “being helpful”.

“Are these our gojis?” Tony wondered, looking at the bowl of berries.

“They are not,” Y/N answered as she cut tomatoes.

“What’s wrong with ours?”

“Your alpaca ate them all.”

“Oh.”

“All of them.”

Tony laughed, moving to the other side of Y/N. “What a glowing endorsement. First of all Gerald is our alpaca.”

Y/N scoffed out a small chuckle. “He’s not my alpaca if he’s eating my goji’s.”

“Okay.” He grabbed a handful of berries. “They’re gonna be nice in the salad right there, right?”

“No.” Y/N quickly reach over to stop Tony. “Don’t, don’t, don’t!” Tony looked at her with big doe eyes. “Could you put it down?” She gently pushed his arm away. “And get out of my kitchen.”

“Okay.” He turned towards the stove and crashed into some pots. “Whoops.” Trying to bite back a smile, Y/N looked up at the ceiling. “We’re good here, right?”

“Yeah, we’re great.” She got back to chopping. “Tell Madam Secretary that lunch is in five.”

“I will collect our alpha female, posthaste,” Tony replied, before exiting the house.

Y/N couldn’t help but grin as she focused back on the food. She was so lucky. So very lucky.

~~~

Tony walked down the porch steps, clapping out a beat.

“Chow time!” He called out to his daughter, heading towards her little play area. “Maguna?” He sat on a small chair outside of her tent. “Morgan H. Stark. Want some lunch?”

Morgan appeared from the fort with a suit helmet on and a fake suit glove. She had her gloved hand pointed at her father.

“Define lunch or be disintegrated,” she demanded in her young voice.

“Okay,” he ran his fingers down the helmet to the edge. “You should not be wearing that, okay? That is part of a special anniversary gift I’m making for mom.” He kissed the side of the helmet before removing the helmet from Morgan’s head and brushing the hair from her face.

“Okay.”

“There you go. Are you thinking about lunch? Wand a handful of crickets?”

“No,” she laughed.

“That’s what you want.” Tony held up the helmet. “How did you find this?”

“Garage.”

“Really? Were you looking for it?”

“No. I found it, though.”

“You like going to the garage, huh?” Morgan nodded as Tony lifted her up and set her on his hip. “So does daddy. It’s fine actually. Mom never wears anything I buy her.”

As they made their way to the house, a black car pulled up and parked in the driveway. Steve, Natasha, and Scott Lang stepped out as Y/N came out of the house to see what was holding Tony and Morgan up. They all were looking at Tony, who was avoiding Steve’s gaze and gave a slight nod to Natasha.

“Uncle Steve!” Morgan exclaimed, trying to wiggle out of her father’s arms. “Auntie Nat!”

Tony failed to keep her there, and let her run to welcome the guests. Y/N and Tony shared a look. They knew that, since Scott was with them, this wasn’t just a friendly visit. Y/N walked down the porch, to where Morgan was chatting Steve’s ear off in his arms.

“Hey, Mo,” Y/N called to her daughter. “Why don’t we go inside and make drinks for everyone? Then you can talk your uncle’s ear off.”

“Okay,” she sighed, turning to reach Y/N. Y/N took her from Steve.

“Please don’t ask anything stupid of him,” Y/N whispered to Steve. “He’s—we’re finally happy.”

Steve didn’t bother to answer, which Y/N huffed about before heading into the house with Morgan. Tony, Steve, Nat, and Scott gathered on the porch as Morgan and Y/N made drinks inside. Scott was explaining something when Y/N brought a tray of drinks out to Tony. She wished she could hear what they were talking about, but she needed to stay in with Morgan. Y/N watched from the window as she fed Morgan.

“Now, we know what it sounds like—“ Scott said, finishing his story.

“Tony, after everything you’ve seen, is anything really impossible?” Steve interrupted.

“Quantum fluctuation messes with the Planck Scale, which then triggers the Deutsch Proposition. Can we agree on that?” Tony asked, handing out drinks.

“Thank you.”

“In Layman's terms, it means you're not coming home.”

“I did,” Scott said.

“No, you accidentally survived. It's a billion to one cosmic fluke. And now you wanna pull off a... What do you call it?”

“A time heist?”

“Yeah, a time heist. Of course, why didn't we think of this before? Oh, because it's laughable? Because it's a pipedream?”

“The Stones are in the past. We can go back and get them.”

“We can snap our own fingers,” Natasha stated. “We can bring everyone back.”

“Or screw it up worse than he already has, right?” Tony responded.

“I don’t believe we would,” Steve said.

“Gotta say, sometimes I miss that giddy optimism. However, high hopes won't help if there's no logical, tangible way for me to safely execute said time heist. I believe the most likely outcome would be our collective demise.” Tony sat down.

“Not if we strictly follow the rules of time travel,” Scott replied. “That means no talking to our past selves, no betting on sporting events—“

Tony held a hand out. “I’m gonna stop you right there, Scott. Are you seriously telling me that your plan to save the universe is based on Back To The Future?”

“No.”

“Good. You had me worried there. 'Cause that'd be horse shit. That's not how quantum physics works.”

“Tony…” Natasha called. “We have to take a stand.”

“We did stand. And yet, here we are.”

“I know you got a lot on the line. You got a wife, a daughter. But I lost someone very important to me. A lot of people did,” Scott was pleading.

Y/N could see that Tony was getting overwhelmed and she quickly told her daughter to go and save him.

“And now, now we have a chance to bring her back,” Scott continued. “To bring everyone back. And you're telling me that won't even—“

“That’s right, Scott, I won’t even. I got a kid.”

Morgan ran up to Tony, who quickly set her in his lap. “Mommy told me to come and save you,” she said.

“Good job. I’m saved.” Tony stood up, facing his friends. "I wish you'd come here to ask me something else. Anything else. Honestly, I... I missed you guys, it was... Oh, and table's set for six.”

“Tony, I get it. And I'm happy for you and Y/N, I really am. But this is a second chance.”

“I got my second chance right here, Cap. I can't roll the dice again. If you don't talk shop, you can stay for lunch.” He headed inside.

“Talk to Y/N about it. Think it over.”

“No need. We can’t risk this.”

Tony entered the house, holding Morgan close. He went straight into the kitchen to get washed up for lunch. Y/N watched as their three visitors walked back to Steve’s car. Steve looked back at the house, making eye contact with Y/N through the window.

~~~

Tony was quieter than usual the rest of the day. This worried Y/N, but she couldn’t let it get to her. She needed to take care of Morgan. They made dinner together and Tony and Morgan chatted loudly over dinner. He even offered to do the dishes while Y/N tucked in Morgan.

As Tony finished the last of the dishes, he lost hold of the hose, causing water to spray everywhere. Including the small shelves beside the sink that held a photo of Howard and a photo of Tony and Peter. Seeing the photo of Peter slightly wet, Tony grabbed it to dry it off. Looking down he say Peter’s face. He missed that kid so much. He looked up, with a determination he hadn’t felt in a while.

When Y/N came down from tucking in Morgan, Tony was at a table. He was talking to FRIDAY and playing around with a hologram. She knew very well to leave him alone when he was like this, so she grabbed her book and curled up on the couch.

Tony was still going strong about an hour and a half later:

"Look at a mod inspiration, let me see what check out,” he told FRIDAY. “So, recommend one last sim before we pack it in for the night. This time, in the shape of a mobius strip, inverted, please.”

“Processing,” FRIDAY responded.

“Give me that eigenvalue. That, particle factoring, and a spectral decomp. That will take a second.” He stuffed some food in his mouth.

“Just a moment.”

“And don’t worry if it doesn’t pan out. I’m just kinda—“

“Model rendered.”

Tony fell back into a chair, in complete shock and amazement. “Shit!”

“Shit,” Morgan giggled.

Tony turned around to see Morgan sitting on the stairs behind him, large smile on her face.

“Sshhh,” Tony shushed, finger over his mouth. “What are you doing up, little miss?” He whispered.

“Shit,” she repeated.

“No, we don't say that. Only Mommy says that word. She coined it, it belongs to her.”

“Why you up?”

“'Cause I got some important shit going on here.” Morgan raised a brow at her father, not impressed. “What do you think? No, I got something on my mind. I got something on my mind.”

“Was it Juice Pops?”

“Sure was. That’s extortion.” He stood up and took his daughter’s hand. “Great minds think alike. Juice Pops, exactly was on…” Tony looked back at the model before heading to the kitchen with Morgan, “…my mind.”

~~~

“You done?” Tony asked with a smile on his face. Morgan was lying in her bed, finishing a Juice Pop. “Yeah, now you are.” He took the popsicle stick before wiping Morgans lips with his sleeve and pushing her head onto her pillow. “That face goes there.”

“Tell me a story,” Morgan said.

“A story… Once upon a time, Maguna went to bed. The end.”

“That’s a horrible story,” Morgan giggled.

“Come on, that's your favorite story. I love you tons.” He kissed Morgan on the forehead as he stood up.

“I love you 3000.”

Tony grinned, “wow,” he mouthed, putting the popsicle stick in his mouth. He turned off her lamp and headed to the door. “3000. That’s crazy. Go to bed. Or I’ll see all your toys. Night, night.”

Tony shut the door and heading to the living room. Y/N was still curled up reading.

“Not that it's a competition, but she loves me 3000,” Tony stated as he came up to the side of the couch.

“Oh does she now?” Y/N questioned.

“You were somewhere on the low 6 to 900 range.” Y/N scoffed as Tony chewed on the stick and looked at the fireplace. “What are you reading?”

“Oh, it's just a book on composting,” she responded.

“What's new with composting?”

“Just—“

“I figured it out, by the way.”

Y/N looked up at Tony. “You know, just so we're talking about the same thing—“

“Time travel.”

“What? Wow… I… That’s amazing, and… terrifying.”

“That’s right.” Tony sat down on the other end of the couch.

Y/N reached over and squeezed Tony’s shoulder. “We got really lucky.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“A lot of people didn’t.”

“No, I can't help everybody.”

“It sort a seems like you can.”

“Not if I stop. I can put a pin in it right now, and stop.”

“Tony… getting each other to stop has been one of the few failures of our lives.”

He smiled lightly at her. “I sometimes feel I should put it in a locked box and drop it at the bottom of a lake... go to bed.”

“But would you be able to rest? Cause I sure as hell won’t be able to… I’ll stand by your side no matter you choose.”

“You already know what I’ll choose though, don’t you? Cause you’ve seen in.”

“I haven’t seen it… but I know that last fight isn’t the last.”

“I just… I can’t lose you and Morgan.”

“You won’t.” Y/N grabbed Tony’s hand. “We’re going to do this. Together…” She leaned in and kissed him softly. “Your lips taste like Juice Pops,” she giggled against his lips.

“Is that a bad thing?”

“Not at all.”

She shook her head before kissing him again, this time more heated. Tony pulled her onto his lap.

“What would you say to grabbing some Juice Pops and taking this upstairs?” Y/N panted slightly.

“I wouldn’t be opposed.” He placed on last kiss on Y/N’s lips before standing them both up. “I’ll grab the pops, meet you up stairs.”

“We have to be quiet though. Last time Morgan almost walked in on us.”

“Oh, don’t worry. FRIDAY won’t let that happen again.”

next chapter >

NOTES: Sorry about the time jump. Please send in requests for one shots or questions you want answered about the missing time. Try to be specific.

If you want to be added to the tag list, please dm me or send in an ask.

#tony stark x reader #tony stark x rogers!reader #tony stark imagine #marvel x reader #the avengers x reader #avengers x reader #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x sister!reader #morgan stark x reader #morgan stark #morgan stark x mom!reader #marvel imagine #marvel imagines #tony stark #iron man x reader #iron man imagine

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teenagepretentiousness · 3 years

Text

loki episode 5

so.

im in pain. emotional. its fine. lets review.

the entire loki squad is iconic. i MEAN THE KID STRAIGHT UP KILLED THOR. its great. dont even get me started on the alligator. i love it. i cant stand ravonna, i just hate her. shes a good villain, didn’t expect it. NOW the entire scene with the alligator attacking boastful loki was one of my favourite parts. i love that everyone thought sylvie was terrifying, i love it. also can we talk about how much screen time the alligator got considering hes AN ALLIGATOR. im very thankful, dont get me wrong. i gotta say, president loki was messing with my head, twas scaring me. now SYLVIE AND MOBIUS TOGETHER WAS AMAZING. that was everything i couldve asked for. they have great chemistry. i really need the scenes if mobius interrogating sylvie about loki. i just I NEED IT. back to the lokis, president loki being confused why theres an alligator, then getting attacked by said alligator. thats it, i love it, i would watch it for days. tHEN IT BITES HIS DAMN HAND OFF AND THE ABSOLUTE CHAOS IS JUST SUPERB. just, amazing. “shes the only one i do trust” UM WHOS MOBIUS THEN BITCH? EXCUSE ME. sorry i just adore mobius with every cell of my body. i also love sylvie. i just, i love her, shes me, shes great, shes- i love her. sylvies definetly the superior loki, gotta say. i also love the faith that mobius has in loki. its just, hes very in love. can we just talk about how an ALLIGATOR IS PRAYING. i love this thing. “is he a coward or is he being brave” is the definition of lokis character lets be real. and THE PURE JOY IN LOKIS “Mobius!” HIS LITTLE SMILE I CANT JGHJDGKJ. #sylvie is fed up with lokis stupidity. also, RELEASE B-15. HELLO? THIS IS KINDA RUDE. TF YOU THINK SHES GONNA TELL U. LIKE MAAM. WHAT? B-15 DIDN’T EVEN REALLY KNOW. i also wanna know how MUCH talking b-15 and sylvie did. because like... i really like the ship ok? its fine. everything is fine. WHATS UP WITH MISS MINUTES. SHES BEING WACK AND IM SCARED. #we’re still confused by the alligator and i love it. so mobius finds the chance to gush about loki any time he can get. i respect it. i loved the heart to heart loki and sylvie had. they start talking about mobius, which is fair, i would also start gushing about mobius m mobius in the face of imminent death. LETS TALK ABOUT SYLVIES LITTLE “he cares about you”. SHE KNOWS. AFTER SPENDING TIME WITH BOTH OF THEM, SHE 100% K N O W S. and i love it. her knowing smile when loki doesnt respond is just gsgfkasgfkhs. the entire conversation following that about their ‘relationship’ looks like its out of a grade 5 playground, its great. but thats the thing. i dont think their romantic, given the following line is “i dont have friends” by sylvie. meaning their just friends. and let me tell ya, an mcu project has never focused and has been this self aware of a relationship, especially like this. especially because this relationship hasn’t even started. so, me and my lokius heart will be in the corner, thank you very much. i love how they immediately start banter, they’re a great duo, its fantastic. you know who loki also betrayed? MOBIUS. they keep making it clear, first with the dagger, the “he cares about you”, now this, that mobius loves loki. no but wtf are those birds. whatever, not the point. sylvies so powerful i love her. (im sorry im very gay). the moment loki says “im staying” who turns around BUT MOBIUS. C’MON. kid loki giving loki a dagger is just so. IT CAN ALSO SYMBOLIZE SELF LOVE BECAUSE LOVE IS A DAGGER. lokius’ goodbye. im not ok. first we got hit in the stomach with “burn it to the ground. thanks for the spark” then WE GOT THE GODDAMN HUG. the look on lokis face as he went to hug him. this was a bond. he cares about mobius. a handshake wont do. they were farther than that. and the dagger in the shot WAS NOT A MF COINCIDENCE. I’LL TELL YOU THAT MUCH. THEY LOVE EACH OTHER OF STORY. #sylvie just out her like: imma need that dagger to cut this romantic and sexual tension sweet jesus. now, did i cry during the goodbye? y e s, yes i did. loki being able to enchant it was so powerful. it shows his full potential and just how power he is. LOKIS are just powerful. classic loki built ASGARD FOR GODS SAKE. SYLVIE DID THAT ENCHANTING ON HER OWN FOR A LARGE AMOUNT OF TIME. so iconic, i love them all. “because we’re the same” then why did you fall in love mf? whats that about? the fact this episode ends on a cliff hanger is kinda very rude but whatever. if mobius doesnt come back im gonna- its not gonna be pretty.

so yeah, that was my review, this is by far my favourite episode, i adore it. aNyWaYs.

#loki #loki show #loki series #loki tv series #loki tv show #loki tv #lokius #i wont recover confirmed #loki spoilers #loki episode 5 #loki episode 5 review

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loversandantiheroes · 4 years

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Hotel Hobbies - Part 2

Jack “Whiskey” Daniels x f!Reader Author’s Note: This was not going to be a multi-chapter thing, but then people liked it and Whiskey wouldn’t shut the hell up so here we are, folks. I no longer know where this is going so strap the fuck in I guess. This is so long and I am so sorry. Edited for a cleanup 10/5/2020 Summary: A co-worker gives the Reader a little nudge, which backfires just a bit when Whiskey runs unexpectedly late. Warnings: Public sex, exhibitionism, angry sex, mild choking/breath play, oral sex (f! receiving), fingering, dirty talk, rough sex, spitting, spanking, multiple orgasms, unprotected sex (do as I say not as I fictionalize), creampies, come eating, vague allusions to Whiskey’s job and all the dangers contained therein, Whiskey is a service top and I do not take criticism, very brief mention of Whiskey’s past, exactly one (1) use of Spanish that I hope I didn’t fuck up too badly. Rating: Explicit / NSFW / 18+ / How much clearer can I make this? Word Count: 12k+ (oh GOD do not look at me I have no idea what happened) Previous: Prelude / Part 1 / Interlude Taglist: @ithinkhesgaybutwesavedmufasa @oloreaa @the-feckless-wonder @sarcasmisakindofmagic

The conference drags on into its fourth day in a parade of excessively bored people in suits and pencil skirts toting stale danishes and overpriced coffee; the only comforts provided to distract you from the mobius circle-jerk of tedious corporate bullshit. Most of the assembly hall does little more than nod blandly as yet another guest speaker goes through their presentation, the topic of which you forget at least six times throughout the course of it. Half of the attendees aren't even bothering to take notes anymore. The company could've filled the room with potted plants in cheap suits and gotten a better result. At least the plants would provide a little oxygen to the atmosphere.

It certainly doesn't help your case that half of your brain is circling endlessly around Whiskey. You scribble down a set of shorthand bullet points in your notes and try to blink away the image of his arms straining against taut ropes. You sip your coffee and remember the heat of his tongue chasing the taste of his namesake in your mouth. When you cross your legs and feel the deep, pleasant twinge between them, for a split second all you can think about is the way he felt sinking down into you with his teeth against your neck.

The time absolutely crawls by. There's moments when you half expect to look up at the old analog clock on the wall and see the hands start running backward. Of course this would be the day the presentations run long, wouldn't it? Restless and fidgety, you eventually give up on your notes completely and just resign your attention to the clock and whatever obscenity your brain wants to conjure up from the night before.

Claudia, one of your only work friends that actually opted to attend this fiasco, gives you increasingly amused looks throughout the morning, glancing up at you over her phone (on which, you can't help but notice, she has been playing Bejeweled for the past hour with the brightness turned down). After you check the clock for the fifth time in twenty minutes, unable to really keep yourself from sighing angrily through your nose, she shakes her head at you, laughing quietly.

"So what's his name?" she whispers, leaning over conspiratorially.

You give her a glare, but she only raises her eyebrows expectantly. Goddamn it, why does the entire universe find it so funny when you're irritated?

"Whiskey," you mutter back, glowering.

She has to clamp a hand over her mouth to stop a snorting giggle from being loud enough to cause a disruption. "Oh my god," she sputters. "Are you fucking a biker?"

And okay, maybe that is a little funny. You shake your head, mutter back, "Cowboy."

Claudia grins so wide her shoulders pull up with it. "Save a horse," she whispers, trying to dodge out of the way when you elbow her to cut off the rest of the joke. Three people behind you simultaneously shush the two of you, and you toss a dirty look over your shoulder, settling back into your seat.

A few seconds go by before Claudia's leaning back over to quietly add, "The dick must be good to get you this distracted."

"Shut up," you shoot back, but you're already smiling.

When the presentation ends, the entire auditorium raising up on creaking knees to shuffle out to break for lunch, Claudia's hand clamps down on your arm.

"I'm buying lunch and you're going to tell me everything."

So you do. Parked in her conservative little hybrid over styrofoam boxes of take out, you tell her. Damn near everything, too. She listens with rapt attention, this not being the first time she's poked you for details of your love life, such as it is, but judging by the look on her face it's possibly taken the top spot as the most memorable.

"So you're gonna see him again," she says finally as you tell her about Whiskey's invitation before slipping out the door this morning.

You settle back, trying to make yourself look suitably apathetic before answering in the hopes of not being completely transparent. "I dunno. Maybe."

She rolls her eyes. "Oh please. You're gonna see him again. You've been spaced out with dickbrain all day, there's no way you're turning down that invitation."

You wave the end of your plastic fork threateningly. "I will stab you, I swear."

"Not with this many witnesses," she says with a wave at the horde of pedestrians outside on the sidewalk, blatantly ignoring the shanking motions you make in warning.

When she doesn't drop that annoying, knowing look, you start jabbing at your food, rolling a piece of cucumber around the styrofoam. "I mean...ok yeah I thought about it."

"All morning," Claudia provides.

"Fuck you," you counter lightly, and resist the urge to fling the chunk of cucumber at her. "I just...I don't know. I don't think it's a good idea."

"Oh my god, why not?" she cries, head thrown back in exasperation.

"Well it's not exactly fucking sensible, is it?"

"Honey if you were worried about being sensible you wouldn't have fucked a cowboy you picked up at a hotel bar," she says with a shake of her head.

"Did you miss the part where he tried to convince me he was James fucking Bond? I mean c'mon Claudia. That's gotta be...I dunno, some kinda red flag."

She scoffs, flapping a dismissive hand. "Oh please, when the bullshit's that obvious I don't even think it counts. It’s not like you bought it anyway. Besides, honesty is the backbone of a solid relationship, if you're just poking fun it's more like a bonus. As long as he's not married and not a serial killer, who gives a shit? You’re overthinking the shit outta this, hon.”

That’s...well that’s not wrong. It’s honestly irritating how not wrong that is.

When you don’t give a response save for the idle sounds of plastic scratching on your takeout box, Claudia groans. “God are you really gonna make me talk you into getting yourself laid? Okay, if you wanna be rational about it, fine, here's some rational thought for you." She pops out her thumb, ticking off digits as she lists. "He's hot. He likes to eat pussy. He's a fuckin' sub, which - holy shit, girl. Holy actual fucking shit. Plus he's packing and he actually knows what to do with it. Oh, and he bought you fuckin' breakfast!" She wiggles her fingers as she thrusts her hands out towards you. "Seven outta ten, babe! My god, if you don't fuck him I'll do it for you just so I don't have to eat another shitty continental breakfast."

You laugh, but there's a hot flush creeping up your face, and you have to stare out the window for a minute until it starts to wind back. It's almost successful, until you think of Whiskey again. This time, though, all you think of is him outlined in the door, looking back at you with his face too shaded to see. And then your cheeks flare hot again, not with that lingering sense of want, but with a flighty kind of panic.

And just like that you pin it down, your stomach twisting on itself as you finally put words to that moment of apprehension. Whiskey doesn't scare you. His lines don't scare you. The way he fucks you doesn't even scare you. But that moment that he lingered does. It scares you because you think maybe what was going through his head is the same thing that's been going through yours, a fine little thread looped around every remembered pleasure: the worry that you're about to develop a taste for something that you'll never have the chance to get again.

Maybe it's better to leave it. To chalk it up as a fluke and not risk finding out that he'd feel just as good the second time as he did the first. Cut it off now before that lingering taste turns into a full-blown craving.

Claudia sighs, closing her takeaway box. "Look, hon. I'm not trying to tell you what to do. It just sounds to me like you're overthinking this. You don't need to be fucking sensible all the goddamn time. So what if you're thinking with your pussy right now? You had fun. He was fun. You have the option to have more fun. You are entitled to have some fun. So, hey: fuck sensibility and have some fucking fun."

You nod. It's reflex at first, but slowly becomes more deliberate. More sure. "Okay. Yeah. You're probably right."

"I am always right, thank-you-very-much," she corrects, and then promptly shrieks as you launch a slice of cucumber into her hair.

⁂

The trick of it all, you remind yourself that evening as you cross the hotel lobby for the elevator, is not to think about it. Because if you think about it, really think about it, you will find a way to talk yourself out it. Sensibility is as much of a hindrance as a help at times. But you've decided now: the absolute last thing you want to be tonight is sensible. You've been bored out of your mind all week, and as much as you're loathe to admit it, Whiskey has been the only bright spot in the whole affair. At least he's given you something to look forward to, even if it is just the prospect of getting railed until you forget your own name.

You take the time to change when you make it to your room. Grab yourself a short, but blisteringly hot shower, and conveniently forget your panties when you redress. Eventually you make your way down to the bar with your heart almost strangling you with the way it's seemingly lodged itself in your throat. Whiskey's nowhere to be seen, which isn't a complete surprise. He always seemed to turn up a little late in the evening before. Not wanting to deviate too far from your own habits, if only to make yourself a little easier to spot, you take your familiar place at the far end where you've been set up for so many nights in a row. You order your drink, make friends with the closest basket of pretzels, and you wait.

And wait...and wait.

Your eyes are half on the clock and half on the door, flicking back to that last at every sign of movement. Despite the fact that you're practically nursing your drink, the bartender refills your glass twice over the course of the night. When he offers a third, you shake your head. Your face feels like it's burning. The bartender nods and wanders away, either oblivious to the growing anger on your face or determined not to end up the recipient of it.

It's nearly midnight when you finally push yourself off the bar stool, throwing down enough bills to cover your tab and storming off. He stood you up. You cannot fucking believe it. What's worse is you feel like you should believe it. Should've expected it. As if a man that strutted around like a preening rooster and fed you a bullshit James Bond story would have a streak of honesty.

You punch the elevator button hard enough to make your hand tingle, pushing your way through the doors as they open and hitting the button for your floor. The walls of the elevator are mirrored, and you duck your head, not wanting to know what your face looks like just now, twisted up in anger and more than a little shame. The doors hang for a moment before sliding closed. At the last possible second a hand darts in, stopping them. Broad. Tanned. Tattooed. The man of the hour leans through the doors as they retreat, and gives you a grin.

"Room for one more?"

Your stomach does a back flip, blood rushing in so many directions you're not sure if you've got enough left to power a response. If this little scenario had played out even half an hour earlier, you might've laughed. Might've fallen back into that easy bitchy banter the two of you seemed so good at. Might've even kissed him. But not now. Now you've built up too much steam, and every little ounce of anger – earned or not – that you'd had percolating for this man since you first laid eyes on him bursts out of your mouth in two words, laced with as much venom as you can muster.

"Fuck you."

You can practically hear the record scratch in his head. The smile falls, eyebrows ratchet up so high you can't see them for the brim of his hat. It's satisfying in an awful sort of way. Like scratching an itch hard enough to draw blood. Too late to take it back now, though. You lash out at the elevator panel, punching the button marked CLOSE DOORS, and Whiskey side-steps neatly inside.

"All right," he says slowly. "That is not exactly the reaction I was hoping for."

"Yeah, well tough shit, cowboy," you all but spit, raking a hand through your hair. You keep your eyes down. Forward. Anywhere but on him. It's hard, too many reflections. Even the distorted shape of his silhouette in the door makes your blood boil.

"I know I'm late," he starts, hands raised, and the low and placating tone of his voice hits you like lighter fluid on a match.

"You don't fucking say?"

His hands drop. "Can I at least explain myself?"

Laughing too loud and too sharp, you shrug, shoulders pulling up hard. "Yeah, sure, why not? Let me guess, rough day at Spy HQ? Assassination appointment run over? Or were you just hiding behind the fucking dieffenbachia to see how long I'd stick around before I came to my fucking senses?"

The shrill sound of your own voice almost makes you wince. You're overreacting. It's not like you're unaware of it. But you're pissed off, and worse now, you've committed to being pissed off. Backing down now is damn near impossible, never mind actually apologizing.

Whiskey takes a step forward, his eyes gone all puppy dog again; wide and imploring under twisted brows. "Look, I don't blame you for thinkin' the worst. I know I left you waitin', and I apologize for that -"

You roll your eyes, mouth twisting into a smile that shows too much teeth to be kind. "Christ, y'know what, don't flatter yourself. I like that bar. The pretzels are nice and they don't water down the liquor. I didn't show up for you."

"Oh horseshit," he snaps. He doesn't raise his voice, but there is a whip crack of impatience in it. "If you didn't want to see me tonight you wouldn't have turned up at all. You and I both know that."

Fuming, you jam your hand into your purse, fishing out his flask and tossing it at him hard enough that it hits him square in the chest. He catches it on the rebound.

"Here. You forgot this."

Whiskey turns it over in his hands, thumping the metal against his palm. "Right. I see," he says slowly, slipping the flask into his pocket. Under that thick drawl, there's a twinge of something that might be disappointment. "Just came to do the decent thing and return a man's property."

"Yes." Part of you sinks, screaming in frustration. But it's like you're a spectator now, just watching yourself sabotage the only thing that'd brought you a shred of joy all week just because your pride and temper won't allow any other option.

One hand falls to his hip, the other rubs idly across his mouth. He's scowling now, quite spectacularly at that, and for a second you think you've finally dealt enough of a blow to his pride to piss him off. Then he steps in close, jaw set. The way his eyes travel up and down you sends a flush through your body, and you're not sure if you want to slap him hard enough to knock the mustache off his face or kiss him until his lips bleed. His gaze lingers at your hip, your curves quite plainly displayed under the tight skirt. He reaches out. The back of his fingernails barely brush the fabric.

"Do you always make returns without any panties on?"

You try to swallow, but find your mouth has gone suddenly bone dry, your throat sticking with a sharp and painful click. "Fuck off," you try to tell him, but it comes out a croak.

"You know what I think?" Whiskey continues, and the tone would nearly be conversational if it weren't for the way he's looking at you, eyes perfectly black and hungry under the shade of his hat. "I don't think you're just mad because I'm late. I think you're mad because I can get a rise outta you. Part of you kinda likes it. Enough to wanna come back for a little more of it. And you don't know what to do about that. Bet you can't even decide if you wanna throttle me or ride me 'til you can't come anymore. Bit of both, maybe, huh?"

Oh fuck you very much, Mister Perceptive. "Christ, you and your fucking ego-"

"Oh to hell with my fucking ego, and yours too." He leans in close enough that you can smell aftershave and a fainter, acrid smell that, if you weren't so fucking preoccupied, you might recognize as spent gunpowder. "If you want me to go, just fuckin' say it. But don't bullshit a bullshitter. If you wanted rid of me that bad you would've tossed me out on my ass last night before I'd even finished coming."

Your jaw works, and you push yourself a little harder against the handrail just to keep from slapping him. How dare he-

How dare he what, exactly? Be right? Again?

You clench your jaw, gripping the handrail on the wall tight enough that the corners dig into your fingers. Glare at him like you're trying to light him on fire. He doesn't flinch.

"What you did last night...that made for a hell of a first impression," he says slowly, and the low rasp of his voice almost curls your toes. "One I don't expect I'm liable to forget this side of fuckin' doomsday. Shit, I don't even know your fucking name and I ain't been able to shake the thought of you all damn day. Now you can believe that or not, and I wouldn't blame you if you didn't. But the only thing I'm asking from you right now is to be fucking straight with me. If you want me to go, you fucking tell me, and I'm gone. But if you want me to stay, honeybee I swear I will make up for every second you had to wait."

"Fuck you, Whiskey," you breathe. It's all you've got left, all you can even think to say, but it's too soft. It's too hard not to believe him when he's looking at you like that. Even if he's still got your teeth on edge, ready to bite, the fire in your belly is sinking lower every second. And there's no way to mistake the low rasp of your voice for anger.

He leans in, hovering barely an inch away from you, and tips your chin up with his knuckle. "That ain't an answer, honeybee."

His lip curls into a smirk and for a second all you can think about is running your tongue out to follow the curve of it.

"You can punish me if you like," he offers in a low, darkly sweet voice. The fingers on your chin trace a path along your jaw, up to your ear, and down the side of your neck as he talks; a three-point constellation drawn in goosebumps. "Lord knows I deserve it. Tie me up again. Ride my tongue until you've had your fill and never lay a finger on me. I don't mind a bit. I'll probably come in my fucking jeans like a goddamn high school virgin while you do it, too."

Oh god. It's too hot. It's too hot and he's too close and it feels like there's no air left. Those words took the last of it and left you with nothing. And then your lungs finally unlock, hitching in air so pitifully loud that for a second his eyes drop first to your mouth and then lower to watch the buttons strain on your blouse.

His tongue brushes up against the back of his bottom lip, a strange gesture, but one you can't drag your eyes away from. And the bastard just keeps talking.

"Then again, maybe the way you've been acting up you'd be more inclined for a little punishment yourself. I could take you upstairs. Turn you over my knee and put my hand to that pretty little ass until it blushes like a ripe summer peach. I'd bet you'd drip just as much and twice as sweet, too. I'd kill for a taste of you right now. Fuck, if you really want I could just hike that skirt up and fuck you right here and now. I am a flexible man and I am willing to take you any way you'd see fit to let me. But only if you let me. I ain't here to play bullshit games, and I will not take anything you don't want to give. So I need you to tell me, honeybee. Do you want this? Yes or no?"

Everything inside you burns and twists. Fuck, you want that. All of that. And all you have to do to get it is unstick your stubborn, too-sharp tongue and admit that you want it. That even without the excuse of three shots of tequila on top of a few too many cocktails, you still want it.

You're burning up. There's sweat on your palms. It squeaks as you twist your hands over the railing. He hasn't just turned the tables on you, he's flipped the whole fucking room and cornered you with it. And God help you, it's infuriating how much you like it.

"Hate you. So much."

"Hm." His hand falls away, and you miss the touch instantly. "So you keep sayin'. Decision time, honeybee. You pick or I'm picking for you and we're both gonna be disappointed in that result."

There is a long long beat where that threat hangs between you. Any hope that he might just push forward and take you anyway – push you into the wall and fuck you ragged right here and now without another word – bleeds away as you stare him down, your wordless challenge going unanswered. His gaze is iron; hard and unyielding, and you know if you wait even one more second, this...whatever the hell this is, will be over. Permanently.

Swallowing the last of your pride like so much cheap liquor, you seize the front of his shirt, dragging him forward even as he starts to back away.

"Yes. Fucking goddamn it. Yes, I want this."

"Yeah?" He leans in, nose brushing your cheek. Somehow it's that little gesture that sets off a bomb's worth of butterflies in your stomach.

"Yes."

The heat of his hand is almost shocking as it glides up your thigh and underneath your skirt, his thumb stroking up and finding only bare skin. Whiskey grins. "Knew it."

You choke back a sigh. "Smug bastard."

"Yes ma'am." His thumb brushes up and down your slit idly, slow and considering. He glances around, quirks an eyebrow, and offers: "Here?"

Following his glance, you spot the hunk of plastic mounted in the top corner of the elevator. "Camera. Fuck."

"Sure enough," he drawls, still grinning. "You want to give the boys 'n' girls in the security booth a show, or d'you want to go someplace a little more sensible?"

Sensible. God, If he'd chosen any other word, you might've agreed. Private. Safe. Anything but fucking sensible.

"Fuck sensibility. Fuck security, too. Just shut up and fuck me."

He laughs through your kiss, the touch of his lips too gentle by miles. The last thing you want right now is gentle. You don't fucking deserve gentleness after all that. And so you rake your teeth across his bottom lip, roll your tongue against his. When you nip at his tongue, Whiskey breaks off, cupping your sex with a warm, calloused hand.

"You're gonna eat me alive, honeybee," he growls. He parts you with a thick finger, drawing the pad of it from your entrance to your clit and back again. "Mm, I have been thinkin' about this all day," he murmurs before his finger sinks into you.

Sighing, you curl your arms around his neck, knocking his hat off to run your fingers through his hair and muss up that razor-clean side part. His hand works unhurried between your legs. You rock against it, listening to the obscene smacking sound as he works you open.

"All that fuss and you're wet for me already, darlin'," Whiskey says wonderingly.

All you can do is groan, chasing the sensation of the heel of his hand pressing against your clit. "Shut up and kiss me."

You tug at his hair, try to urge him forward, but he doesn't budge. He sinks down to his knees instead, right hand never leaving the wet heat of your cunt.

"I'll kiss you, baby," he says, pushing up your skirt and lifting your right leg over his shoulder. "Don't you worry."

And he kisses you: a warm, wet slide of lips and tongue where he's got you spread. Gasping, you grab the back of his head. He looks up at you, only the crinkles at the corner of his eyes proof of his smile, and his eyes slip closed like a man savoring his favorite meal.

"Jesus." The word comes out in a squeak as his mouth works on you, your throat tightening in an effort to keep quiet. A second finger joins the first and you whimper, tightening reflexively against the stretch. Christ those fingers are thick. Shuddering, you work your fingers in his hair and pull him closer, your eyes wandering up to the reflection in the far wall. The view is mesmerizing: your back arched, skirt hiked up to your waist, with Whiskey's head buried in between your legs like a man trying to slake an ungodly thirst. The view on the left is even better. From there you can watch his mouth work against you, catching a glimpse of his tongue, wet and shining as it slips between your folds. He sways forward on his knees like a charmed snake, a growing bulge straining against the dark blue denim of his jeans.

There's a gentle ding, and for a moment you're so scrambled you think maybe your phone's going off. And then the elevator doors slide open. An older looking gent with a battered briefcase stands frozen on the other side, eyes wide as dinner plates as he takes in the same view you've been admiring in the mirrored walls of the elevator.

For a single spaced-out second the only thing you can think is, Going down?, which makes you erupt into a fit of breathless, senseless giggles.

The newcomer's mouth hangs, flapping uselessly over words he can't quite formulate. He might be trying to apologize for the intrusion or insist you repent and turn to Jesus. You don't know and you don't care.

Whiskey looks up at him over the line of your thigh, lips glistening. "Get the next one," he snarls, and punches the CLOSE DOORS button.

He plants a rough, sucking kiss at the top of your cleft as the doors close again, utterly unperturbed. "Penthouse, darlin', if you please."

Oh he would be in the fucking penthouse, wouldn't he? Panting, you fumble a hand out trying to find the button just as Whiskey slides in a third finger and you cry out, almost swiping every button in the center row by accident.

The elevator hums to life and begins to move. The red light on the security camera flashes benignly and you stare at it for a long beat while Whiskey gets right back to work, moaning hungrily between your legs. Someone's watching this. The thought excites you more than it should, adding fuel to the already roaring fire Whiskey is so eagerly stoking with his tongue. You roll your hips, swearing roundly. It's not enough. It's fucking glorious, but it's not enough. You know what you need.

"Fuck me," you gasp. "Goddamn it, Whiskey, gimme your cock."

He glances up at you through thick lashes, eyebrows raised. "Is that what you want, honeybee?" he asks.

You bear down on his fingers hard as if to answer and he clenches right back, thumb and pinky giving him leverage against your pubic bone as he grips you tight, fingers stroking along your walls. It's only by virtue of the handrail and the support of his shoulder that you don't sink straight to the floor. Christ that backfired.

You nod fervently, head spinning.

A roll of his shoulder unseats your leg, and he stands. His left hand wraps around your throat, thumb against your jawline, and that's so fucking perfect you can't stop yourself from whimpering. In a flare of desperation you grasp his wrist, urging him to grip your neck just a little tighter. Chuckling, he brushes his lips against yours – soft and strangely tender – while he fucks you steadily with his fingers.

"Shoulda known you'd like that. Well? Cat got your tongue? Come on, darlin', lemme hear it."

"Yes."

"Louder. Tell me you want me to fuck you."

"Oh god-d-d-damn it!"

He chuckles darkly, fingers coaxing inside you. "You can do it, honeybee. I know you want it. I just need hear you say it."

You bare your teeth. "I want you to fuck me."

"Good girl." He grins down at you, wide and wolfish. "Now: ask me nicely."

Oh he would, wouldn't he?

"B-bastard," you snarl, then begin to laugh.

"Oh come on now," he croons, eyes darting between your lips and your own heavy-lidded stare. "I'm sure you can get along without your pride for an hour or two. It ain't so bad. And I promise I'll make it worth your while. C'mon."

You groan, grit your teeth, and hiss out: "Please."

He crooks his fingers and you gasp like you've been burned. "'Please' what?"

"Please fuck me. Please fuck me."

He slots your trembling thigh between his legs, pressing the clothed, solid length of his cock against you. "With this? Hm?"

"Fuck, yes." You writhe, feel it twitch, and he rolls against you in response.

"Come for me first, honeybee. Then I'll fill you up good and proper. Cross my heart."

His fingers press into you harder, spreading gently as he draws them back. Your legs begin to shake so badly that he has to pin you to the wall to hold you up. The rail digs into your back. You'll bruise tomorrow, but you're not sure you've ever cared less in your life.

"You gonna come, for me?" he asks, rutting a little more enthusiastically against you when he feels you begin to tense and flutter around his fingers.

Squeezing your eyes shut tight, you nod, feeling the drag of his lips on your cheek.

"Uh-uh. Talk to me, darlin', I wanna hear it. I want you to tell me every single time you're gonna come, you understand me? Count them out. Let's see just how many you got in you tonight."

"Oh you ass!" You moan and laugh all in the same breath.

"You like it," he says simply.

He kisses you, warm and deep, and you bite his lip for the audacity. "Don't stop. Fuck, I'm close."

He turns your head, slides his hand around to cup the back of your neck. "Open your eyes, honeybee. Watch yourself."

You try. Everything's a blur; inside and out. Fuzzy and disconnected and hot. Blinking to clear the fog, you can see your reflection caught between the wall and Whiskey's body. Your eyes are dazed, unfocused. His cheek is against yours, a look of utterly indecent hunger on his face, lips red and swollen where you've bitten him. He's pressed up against you too tightly to get a good view, but you can see his arm pinned between your bodies, and the flex of muscles working underneath his jacket.

There is, you note with a fuzzy sort of disconnect, a small, ragged hole in the arm of his jacket.

But before you can put any more thought to this discovery he presses his thumb down against your clit – no friction, only a firm, rolling pressure – and that's all you need. If it wasn't for the his body against yours, you'd buckle. As it is, trapped between him and the wall, all you can do is quake and cry out, arms tightening around his shoulders as you come.

He hums indulgently, kissing your cheek. "Count it out."

Panting, you pull hard on his hair until he groans. "One."

"Good girl," he murmurs. Slowly his hand withdraws, giving one last slow swirl over your folds before he sucks you greedily off his fingers.

There's the muffled sound of a zipper and you could almost laugh – finally! But then the elevator slows and stops, doors sliding open with a soft ding. Whiskey glances sidelong at the open door, corner of his mouth pulling up in a half-cocked grin. The disappointed whine you give as you hear him zip himself right back up is wholly involuntary.

"Well wouldn't you know it," he says, pulling away from you and stooping for his hat. It's all you can do not to whack him on the back of the head – or on the ass – as he turns away, wiggling your skirt back down over your hips instead.

He gives a ridiculous wink towards the security camera with his hat held to his chest. Your stomach gives a neat little flip as you look up at that blinking red light – god, you'd forgotten it was even there.

"Sorry to blue-ball ya and run, fellas." He gets an arm around your waist, tugging you into the hall at an easy, languid pace, as if nothing had happened. As if your legs weren't still quivering, with the evidence of your orgasm running in sticky trails down the inside of your thighs.

"Betcha money, marbles, or chalk they'll be jerkin' off over that for weeks," he says jovially, pulling you to his hip when he feels you start to wobble. "C'mon. Let me get you in a bed before I say to hell with it all and fuck you out here on the goddamn floor."

Your knees tremble again; at least one part of you has full support of that particular idea. As the door opens you pull him back to your mouth, kissing him hard even as he steers you by the hips through the suite. You barely see any of it. Recessed halogen lights. The sparkle of painstakingly cleaned glass and marble. Little else. A grunt escapes you as you fetch up hard against the wall and Whiskey crashes into you. The sudden pressure against his groin leaves him winded, rocking forward against you with a shuddering groan.

"Tell me how you want it," he says, words mangled against your mouth. The salt-musk taste of you still clings to his tongue, sharp against some faint remnant of sweet mint.

One hand slips down, squeezing your breast through the material of your blouse. The room spins giddily like a tilt-a-whirl, still riding the coattails of your last orgasm. "Hard," you breathe. The skirt you chose is too fucking tight, and you have to reach down to drag it back up your thigh just to hook a leg around him. "Don't you dare be gentle."

He chuckles as you press into him. "How hard is hard? I can be a little rough if you let me off the leash."

Frustrated, you slip your hands under his sports coat, nails biting into his shoulders through his dress shirt. "Fuck, do I have to spell it out for you?"

"Yeah," he says, and his voice has reached that breathy, sonorous pitch that sends a hot-cold shiver rocketing down your spine. "Yeah you do. A little honesty would be appreciated tonight."

One good shove and his jacket slips to the floor. "That's funny coming from Double-O-Cowpoke."

"Not my fault you don't believe me." It's pitched like a joke, light and breezy, but there's something in his eyes. Sharp and peculiar and gone almost before you can be sure it was really there, but makes your stomach clench with a sudden surety that the next words out of his mouth are completely genuine. "I ain't lied to you yet, honeybee."

And that almost brings you to a halt. Your hands splay out on his shoulders, pushing back to look at him more clearly. If that's true. If that's true...oh god, why would he have told you?

The question is halfway to your lips before he surges his way forward again, his mouth crashing into yours and kissing you hard and urgent and bruising. A faint sound of protest rises in your throat and you push back a little, not wanting him to stop but wanting him to wait because...because....

And the rest of that thought flutters away. He doesn't stop kissing you. He just doesn't stop. And he's moaning as his tongue licks into your mouth and his teeth scrape over your lips like it's the most decadent thing in the world. You grasp at his face, wrists caging in his neck, feeling his pulse race along next to your at such a frantic speed it's almost alarming. Your last little shred of rational thought all but begs you to push him back a little harder, to make him look at you and ask him what's wrong...and then it just flutters away because God this is what you want. This. This, this, this.

"You want it hard?" he rasps into your mouth, rutting up against you hard enough to drive you back into the wall.

Breathless, you nod. Work your fingers through the mess you've made of his hair. "Ruined you last night, didn't I?" You tighten your grip, use your knuckles for leverage and pull.

Whiskey groans, slipping his hands under the bunched hem of your skirt to grip your ass and grind you down against him. "Goddamn right you did, honeybee."

"So ruin me back." The thick denim that covers his fly is rough, but you rub against it all the same, shuddering at the coarseness against your tender skin. "Fair is fair. Right?"

His eyes slip closed and he buries his face against your neck for a moment, breathing unsteady. "Jesus, girl, you're gonna soak straight through my jeans," he mutters. "All right, honeybee. All right. I only got one rule. If I do anything you don't want, you tell me. 'Cause I ain't stopping unless you do. Not tonight. Got it?"

"Whiskey-"

He gets a grip on your chin, levels your eyes on his. "You tell me 'no' or you tell me 'stop.' Got it?"

"Yes." Patience exhausted, you wrench his belt open. "Now come on."

Buttons patter to the floor as he tears open your blouse. And that's good. That's fair. And what's even better is the rough way he puts his hands on you, yanking your bra down to knead and squeeze your bare breasts. When you finally free his cock there's only a brief moment to savor the warm, solid length in your grip before his fingers clamp down on your nipples. The sensation is so sharp and bright and sudden that you yelp, arching up on your tip-toes.

"Hands off, honeybee," he warns.

Whimpering, you flatten your hands against the wall.

"Too much?" he asks softly, that funny little furrow deepening between his eyebrows.

A groaning laugh slips out of you, and you arch your back, pushing your breasts against his hands. "Not enough."

"Fuck, ain't you just the sweetest, dirtiest thing." He twists and you cry out, hips bucking forward. His cock drags against your hip and you chase it, trying to pin it between you.

"Oh, c'mon. You promised," you whine.

"Oh I'm gonna keep my promise, baby, don't you fret. I want you just as fucked-out as you had me. Wanna see you so goddamn cock dumb your eyes roll back. Bet you've been thinking about this all day, too, haven't you?"

The wall warms under your hands as you fight not to push back more. And maybe that's what does it. A little mental-short circuit. Because God knows you haven't been able to think of a single fucking thing other than this. But the denial is on your lips so fast it must be involuntary, a reflexive need to find his buttons and push: "You wish."

Whiskey raises an eyebrow, lip curling. For a second he's amused, seeing the game you want to play. And then it's like a switch flips. Suddenly this isn't the man who'd begged for the privilege of fucking you last night. This isn't even the man who'd put his grateful mouth to your cunt in the elevator. This is the man he'd pretended to be right up until you got his hands tied. The cowboy get up wasn't the costume – this is. This smile. This infuriating swagger.

"Oh, really?" he says, and for the first time you realize just how much that drawl had begun to soften around you, because now that dial's ramped right back up to 11. "You turn up tonight without any goddamn panties on, ride my fingers like a coin-op pony, beggin' to get fucked all the while, and then you try and tell me you ain't been thinkin' about me? I felt how hard you came. How fucking wet you were." His hand darts between your legs as quick a snake-strike, fingers carding through your folds. "Are. Ain't no face left to save, darlin'."

He's in your space, radiating heat, his fingers stroking against your swollen sex, stoking your own fire all over again. But the fire those words kindle burns a little quicker and a little hotter. Without a second thought you strike out, palm tingling as it finds its target against his cheek.

For a moment Whiskey doesn't even seem to breathe. He just stands there leaning heavy against you with his eyes closed and his nostrils flaring. Redness blooms against his cheek. When his eyes open again, the way they bore into you, glittering and eager takes your own breath away.

He hums, that low, pleased sound. But now it slips lower and lower into a breathy rumble that lances straight through you. "Do it again."

Swallowing hard, you slap him again. Harder this time. For a moment the only reaction he gives is the way his cock bobs sharply, slapping against your thigh.

Then he growls, seizing the back of your neck and crushing you to him. You crane up, half expecting a kiss, but his thumb snags the corner of your mouth. He drags it open until your jaw hangs, tilting your head back. A choked sound that's a little too plaintive to be a protest slips from your open mouth a second before Whiskey spits into it.

"Swallow."

You do, sucking hard on his thumb for good measure.

"You nasty little thing," Whiskey says, his voice slow and dark as molasses. His eyes glaze over a little as he works the ball of his thumb against your tongue, watching the way your lips purse around it. "Maybe you are the one that needs the punishin'."

He leans against you, breathing hard as he considers this thought. You frown a little, catching his thumb with your teeth, hoping he'll get the hint and give you something better to put in your mouth. But then his grip loosens, one hand disappearing behind you. Hints, it appears, are completely off the table tonight.

"In," he growls, throwing open the bedroom door. "Now."

Whiskey leads you inside, hitting the lights with his elbow. The room is furnished in that same drab but sparkling minimal style, an impressively large bed swallowing up the majority of the space. One wall is nothing but windows behind drawn shades, a sliding door leading out to a small, isolated balcony.

He steers you directly to the bed, sitting on the edge and pulling you across his lap to straddle his knee. You let out an indignant little yelp at the treatment, but then he shifts his leg under you and the indignance crumbles. It presses against your mound just right, urging you open, and you grind down with a gasp, trying to find a little relief.

Whiskey tuts. "Oh now look at that. Try to tell me you ain't been thinkin' about takin' my dick and then rub on me like a goddamn cat in heat."

There's the sound of a zipper – not his this time, but your own – and then a little tickle at your hip as he undoes the skirt and wrestles it down your legs. He pushes your blouse up, bunching the material up around your shoulder blades. For a second you think he means to pull it off, but then he twists the fabric around his hand. The garment draws up tight, leaving your arms, still in the sleeves, pinned to your sides.

You moan a little when you feel his hand slide across your ass. He bends over you, and you feel the wet heat of his mouth against your ass cheek. A sweet, languid swirl of his tongue before he bites down. You jerk hard enough that your clit drags against the rough weave of his jeans and you cry out, the sound muted by the bedspread.

The pressure of his knee aches beautifully against your cunt, your breathing so shallow and quick it makes you lightheaded. You know what's coming, and you know what you asked for. The last thing you wanted was to be sensible. And this – well this might be the least sensible thing you've ever done.

You buck your hips up sharply. Searching for his hand. "Do it."

The first strikes are quick and brisk. They tingle, warming your skin, but don't hurt. Not yet. This is just a tease of the real thing. A warm up. The tips of his fingers trace the first reddening outline of his hand against your skin, a match for the not-yet faded print against his cheek. Crooning, he kneads your buttocks, spreading them apart, making the slick folds of your pussy slide against each other.

"Sweet Jesus will you look at that. Open that up, baby. Lemme see just how fuckin' wet that gorgeous little pussy is."

You gasp, grinding down again, and then first real slap lands across your ass, unexpected and jarring. The sting is enough to make your eyes water, but the impact drives you forward, almost encouraging your hips to grind into him. A second strike lands on the other cheek, then back to the first, alternating each time. You rock with it, caught between the hot stinging slap of skin on skin and the building heat between your legs.

"This what you wanted?" Crack.

"Fuck!"

"Is it?" he demands. His hand descends again. Crack.

"Yes!" You kick out, struggling not because you want to, but because you have to. And it only makes it worse. Or better, or – God, you don't even know now. It's more. It's just more. His knee digs in harder and your poor neglected cunt throbs with a misplaced ache and you swear you have never needed to feel yourself filled up more than you do right now.

"You gonna behave?" Crack. "You gonna stop lyin' to me now?" CRACK.

"Yes!" The word leaves you in a shuddering sob, thighs clamping down around Whiskey's leg. One more, God help you, one more and you'll tip over, you'll come all over his knee, you're so close.

And then he stops, rubbing and kneading the hot flushed skin, and you whine in desperate frustration as your orgasm begins to retreat.

"Goddamn. Prettier than a Georgia peach," Whiskey says thickly. His hand strays, slips down between your cheeks and presses against the splayed lips of your pussy. You writhe under the sudden attention, feeling the tips of his fingers slide around your clit. "And damned if you don't drip twice as sweet."

"Please." Warmth trickles from the corner of your eyes, blooming against the bedspread.

The swirl of his hand is lazy, almost soothing but for the way it keeps you so frighteningly close to the edge. "Truth first, honeybee. C'mon. You know what I wanna hear."

"Ye-yes," you mutter. "Goddamn it yes. I've been thinking about fucking you all day. All goddamned day...God, Jesus, fuck, and then you didn't show. Thought you'd ditched me. Made me want - want it and then ditch me."

You bury your face in the quilt. It's a fucking cop out and you know it. You don't just want it. You want him. Fuck, what is happening?

Again you feel his mouth against your ass cheek, open and wet, but this time his tongue is almost cool by comparison. "There now. I didn't ditch you, baby. Wouldn't fuckin' dream of it." His voice is low now, placating, nearly apologetic. And then his fingers are slipping inside you again, stroking and curling. "I'm right here here, baby. Right here. Just a little late, is all."

You whine, trying to wriggle back to drive him in deeper. Those thick fingers are like fucking magic but you need more than they can provide. Desperate now, you clutch your fingers back towards him, find his shirttail and tug at it. "Jack. Please."

It doesn't even register to you that you've called him by his name – God, you didn't even think you remembered his name – until the fingers inside you still. If it wasn't for the hammering of your heart in your ears you might've heard his breath catch.

Slowly he twists his fingers inside you, pressing down until you shudder. "What is it, honeybee?" he mutters. The hoarseness in his voice is familiar. You wish you could see his face. "Tell me what you want."

"Please fuck me. Please. I waited all fucking night."

He rolls you off his lap, leaving you dangling half off the bed and folds over you, cock nestled against the heat of your reddened ass. There's a sticky slide to it; you're not the only one that's wet.

"Hand to God, baby, I'll make it worth every minute. On my fuckin' life." The pained edge in his voice sets the room spinning, and for one mad moment you find yourself trying to grab onto the bedspread to keep from rolling away. Whiskey leaves a kiss against the back of your neck before he draws back, the hand fisted in your shirt tugging you along just a bit.

There's a long, wavering moment when his touch leaves you entirely and you almost protest before you hear him frantically shedding his clothes behind you. Then his hands return, his left winding back into your shirt, his right warm and strong against your back. The blunt, weeping head of his cock nudges between the swollen lips of your pussy. He stays there for an infuriatingly long moment, enough that you cry out your frustration into the bedclothes.

And then he finally makes good on his promise.

You go up on your toes, legs straining as he breaches you. After all the hours you spent thinking about it, all the hours you waited, it's bliss. But the pure, unadulterated stretch of it laces that bliss with a white-hot line of fire that only serves to make it all the more urgent. Maybe it's the angle, bent in half with your ass up and your legs closed. Maybe it's just how overwrought you are already. Maybe...fuck, you don't know, maybe somehow he's even harder than the night before. All you do know is that he feels so big you can't hardly stand it. It's so much, bridging the gap between pleasure and pain until it's just an overwhelming sense of pressure and fullness that has you clenching and fluttering around him. As if your body can't make up its mind if it wants to expel the intrusion or welcome it deeper.

He has no right to feel this good. None. But goddamn it you're so glad he does.

"Fuck," he mutters shakily, fingers biting into your hip. "This what you wanted, honeybee? Huh? This what you been waiting for?"

You can't find the air to give him an answer. Whiskey's still moving forward, you're not even sure how. Christ how much more of him is there? He leans forward, pushing you into the mattress, pushing down into you until you start to shake, until he hits that buried junction inside you that sends a flare of heat rocketing clear down to your toes and your stalled orgasm rears up again so sudden and so close that it's startling.

Every muscle in your body tenses, straining. The whine that breaks out of your gaping mouth is pitiful. "Shit, oh shit, Jesus fuck, Jesus fuck-fuck-fuck-"

He feels it. He must. There's no way he can't. "Oh fuck, that's it honeybee," he croons, working his free hand under you to circle your clit as he sinks that last broad inch into you. "Come on. Come all fuckin' over me."

For a second everything shorts out, all senses lost in a white-out. The only tenuous connection you have to your body lies in the grounding pressure of his cock inside you and the faint but rapid fluttering of his pulse in it. And then you're slamming back to yourself with a ragged cry, blood roaring in your ears and coming so hard that you nearly buck off of him entirely. Your arms flex, bend, bunched cloth digging deeply into your skin until you feel rather than hear the seams rip. And then the tightness is gone, Whiskey's hand unwinding immediately from your shirt to stroke up and down your back.

There's a lump in your throat when you finally find enough air to speak: "T-t-two."

Whiskey groans. "Beautiful. Fuck, you shake so pretty when you come for me. I could watch you do that all night. Might just, at that." He drags the torn wreck of your blouse off you, popping the clasp on your bra and bending to place an open, humid kiss in the valley along your spine.

He rocks forward and back, one hand clamped into soft flesh at your hip, humming tunelessly. "Been wantin' to bury myself back in this sweet pussy from the minute I woke up. Ain't been able to think of nothin' else. Just this," he says, drawing back slowly before burying himself to the hilt and rolling his hips against you.

You clamp your teeth down on your lip, fighting the haze. It's hard to swallow. Hard to breathe. But he's rolling into you slow, far too fucking slow. And that isn't what you need. You try to push yourself up on your elbows, but he thrusts forward, a little more force in it this time, and your arms give out.

"Ha-harder," you pant, voice thick and muffled by the quilt. You turn your head, claw the hair out of your face. "F-fuck me harder, god-d-d-damn it. Make me fuckin' feel it tomorrow. Big-dicked b-bastard, oh my God, don't you stop."

He breathes out a laugh, folding over your back. The pressure against your tender ass stings like hell, and you hitch in a hissing gasp as Whiskey's mouth finds your cheek. He kisses you, or does his best to. The angle is strange and your face is half-smashed against the bed, but his mouth slants over the side of yours, tongue dragging against your lips until you open for him, letting him lick against the sharp points of your teeth.

"Careful what you wish for, honeybee," he whispers, grinding forward in a maddening circle. "Words like that will get you in a whole mess of trouble."

The air leaves you in a whooping rush as he stands, dragging you up against his chest, your back bowing to try and keep the searing length of him pressed where you need it. And then – ah god – his hand is around your throat and his teeth are sinking into your shoulder, and you're suddenly glad he can't see the way your eyes flutter and roll back.

Not that he even needs to see it, because just then Whiskey groans into your skin as a rush of wetness courses down his cock.

"Fuck, is it that good, baby? Hm?" His voice quavers as his body impacts yours like a sledgehammer. "My dick finding all the sweet spots in that pretty little pussy for you?"

You grapple at him, find where he clings to you and grip his hands, inadvertently encouraging him to press his hand just a little harder against your throat. And there goes the room again, looping and floating as he starts to move, really move, driving forward harder and harder. You stumble, going up on your toes, some choked and desperate noise caught in your throat somewhere under his hand. Sparks pop behind your eyes, faint and wavering like fireworks reflected on choppy waters. And then the pressure eases, air rushing into your lungs once again. The fire in your belly flares up at it like a backdraft.

"M-more," you grate out. "Oh f-fucking God please more. D-don't...d-d-don't-"

"Don't you worry, baby. Ain't gonna stop," he mutters harshly against your ear. "I'll give you all you want. Ain't stopping 'til you tell me to stop."

You shake your head, or at least try to, the movement restricted by his hand. "N-no. Never. Fuck, never-never stop. Right there f-fuck-"

Whiskey growls out something low and broken and unintelligible as you clamp down on him, your body chasing that bright, blazing heat whether you want it to or not.

"Oh fuck, are you comin' again for me already, angel? Shit, you are, aren't you? Got yourself all riled up today and now you just can't stop. C'mon then, baby. Come on my dick. You feel like fuckin' heaven when you come. Pussy's so good it oughtta be fuckin' blasphemy. C'mon, honeybee, do it for me, come like you fuckin' mean it-"

Before you can breathe a word it hits you and it hits you hard, muscles seizing up so tight it's like they're trying to wring the pleasure out of you. You ride through maybe three or four near-blinding shocks of it and then your knees, traitorous things, finally give out underneath you. The only thing that keeps you up is Whiskey's arms wrapped tight around you, clutching you to him, suspending you on his dick as it grinds up brutally against your g-spot.

"Got you, honeybee," he grunts, rhythm never faltering. "I got you. Keep comin' for me, baby, keep comin'."

And god help you, you are. You're still quivering, still coming, and then his hand falls away from your neck to cup against your sex, palm flat against the rigid little knot of your clit. He doesn't even rub, it's just a heat and a pressure and it's like your whole body stutters upward, launching towards a second, higher peak. Whiskey lets out a broken groan against your neck as you bear down on him so hard it nearly hurts and you wail at the unexpected, overwhelming force of it.

Everything spins off and away in the aftermath, senses blown out like a bad circuit. Sounds are swallowed up in a high, persistent ringing. You haven't got the strength to force your eyes back open. There's a shift and a feeling of soft cloth beneath you and when the haze starts to lift you find you're on your knees on the bed, shoulders down and ass up with Whiskey draped over your back. He murmurs things against your cheek, your ear, your neck. You can't hear a word of it over the ringing in your ears.

You turn your head, knocking your forehead against his by accident. "Thr- I- f-four?" Your voice jumps in your throat, but you can't quite make it steadier. "I...I don't-"

"Honeybee," he drawls, his cock giving a hard, desperate twitch inside you. He grins at you indulgently, gathering your hair up in one broad hand and pulling. "Good girl."

A shudder goes through you as you realize he's still fucking you. Deep, swift strokes that send tingles sparking through you. He drags his cock out of you and drives it back in, pulling it over your blazingly sensitive nerve endings like a bow over violin strings. Like it's a privilege to do it. Like it'd be a fucking crime to stop.

He drags two more orgasms out of you like this. Shuddering, slow-building things that overtake you like flood waters, rising up with an aching, consuming crawl unmindful of the pounding pace Whiskey holds to like a clockwork battering ram. It's only when you gasp out a broken cry of "S-sih-s-six!" that Whiskey's hips finally begin to falter, stuttering and slowing at the feeling of your overworked pussy milking his cock again. His grip on you tightens as he tries to steady himself, tries to hold on, groaning his own restrained pleasure through gritted teeth.

"Tight - fuck! Goddamn it girl you get so fucking tight when you come. So fuckin' wet. Sweet Jesus. I don't know how m-much more of that I can fuckin' take."

"God, fuck, do it, just do it," you whine, reaching back for him with hands that can't stop shaking. "C'mon Jack."

He laughs at that, but it's a little frayed and frantic at the edges. He brushes the hair out of your face, working his fingers into it and giving it a tug. "I – ungh! Oh s-shit – I got... your p-permission this time, honeybee?"

You hum, nodding, and hitch in a breath as he grinds in particularly deep. "Please."

His rhythm falters again, hips canting suddenly at a hard angle. "W-where? Fuck, fuck, where do you want me, baby? Hurry."

"In-inside. Inside me. 'S what you wanted last night? Right?"

Whiskey makes a broken sound, lurching against you. "Y-yeah. Oh shit, yes. Jesus fucking Christ, honeybee."

Growling, he flips you over and slides in deep, pushing your knees up almost to your shoulders and staring raptly down at your face even as his own contorts. The length of him inside you stiffens even more, pushing in so deep his hipbones grind painfully against your own.

And then he breaks with a cry, his whole body locking up with the force of his climax. His head drops between your breasts and his back arches high, fists punching deep divots into the mattress on either side of you. He rocks through it, jerking at every pulse and spasm, and you can't help but shiver at the warmth that pools inside you as he comes.

"Fuck, fuck. Nngh, ho-holy shit." He almost says more, but another tremor wracks his body and it chokes off into a broken mess of Spanish - "¿Que chingas me estás haciendo a mi mujer?"

Winded and boneless, you scratch your nails weakly across his scalp, working your fingers down his neck to his shoulders. "Better be a compliment."

"You have no idea," he pants open-mouthed against your skin. Instead of elaborating he just eases himself out of you and crawls his way down, trailing his mouth over your skin until he's settled between your legs, staring at whatever disaster he's made of you and groaning softly in appreciation.

Take a picture, you almost say, it'll last longer. But before you can work up the air and energy to put breath to the quip he's drawing his tongue against you, cleaning up the mess he's made with a desperate, greedy reverence that sets your knees trembling on either side of his head.

Whimpering, you clamp your lower lip in your teeth, shuddering up against the warm heat of Whiskey's mouth. "Careful," you warn. "Oh, G-God, careful."

The only answer you get is a low moan and the feeling of his fingers sinking diligently back into your cunt, coaxing out the trickling remnants of his orgasm.

A high, lazy heat begins to build again, over-sensitivity easing back into something warm and sweet and giddily aching. Your hands cradle the back of Whiskey's head, carding through his sweat-soaked hair as he licks his own come out of you. It's not a thing you've ever really given much thought before – bodily fluids were always more an incidental part of sex for you than anything else – and you're not sure if he's enjoying the act itself or just the strange submissive edge of it. Curiosity gets the better of you and you glance down at him, expecting to see him staring intently up at you over the rise of your mons, gloating over the state he's put you in. Fuck, he's made you come so many times you're sure he'll never let you forget it.

Only he isn't. His eyes are closed, face lax with a blissful intoxication as he tastes himself inside you, holding your thighs up and apart to let him work his tongue and fingers in deeper. The sight of him so clearly lost in the moment, not goading or gloating, just rapturously gone is maybe the single most erotic thing you've seen in your whole life. And that sweet, lazy heat suddenly licks up to a blaze.

The sudden clench you give is impossible to miss from Whiskey's vantage point, and he groans against you. "One more, honeybee," he almost pleads, breaking away from you with a sucking pop just long enough to gasp air. "You can gimme one more, can't you? I know you can. C'mon baby. Lucky seven."

He lowers his head once more with a decadent hum and you throw yours back as he sets to more deliberate work, hooking his arms around your thighs to keep you right where he wants you.

"God, you greedy b-bastard," you rasp out. The stimulation to your worn nerves leaves you quaking, wriggling underneath him. You're not sure you can stand another one, but a deep, hungry part of you is desperate to find out.

He growls at that, more in agreement than in offense, and when your hands scrabble at his he parries them without even glancing up, seizing your wrists and yanking you down even tighter against his mouth.

You nearly kick him in the ribs when you come. It's not your fault. Honestly it's his for working you up to this point. To this high, nervous overload that's barely left you any control over your body. It doesn't seem to faze him, though. Your heel glances off his side as your shaking legs lock around his back and he just keeps going, like he hasn't even noticed, like he isn't even here. Like the world has spun down smaller and smaller and the only thing left is his mouth and your cunt and leaving that would mean the end of everything.

But it's too much. Goddamn it, it's too much.

You sob, wrench your hands out of his grip and push at his head. "S-s-seven. Sev-seven. F-f-fuck, Jack. No more, n-no more, please, stop, I can't, I can't– "

He's pulling away before you even finish, pressing one last biting kiss against your thigh before crawling shakily over you to put his mouth to yours with a surprising gentleness. The taste on his lips is heady, musky and sharp. His arms tremble at the strain of keeping himself from slumping over on top of you, gasping raggedly between each kiss like they’re just as necessary as air.

For the longest time you can’t even move, you’re far too wrung out and exhausted to even try. All you can do is lie underneath him and do your best to remember how to breathe between slow, lazy kisses. Eventually you work up enough breath to speak. "'M sorry," you whisper hoarsely.

Whiskey shakes his head, trying to focus his eyes. "What for?"

"'Two minutes and a cigarette.'" You bring up a hand, patting his cheek with an awkward bonk. "I stand corrected"

A look of comical confusion takes over his face, brows knitting together, until he finally remembers the jab you'd made after you'd tied him up the night before. "Shit," is all he says before he dissolves into giddy laughter. His arms finally give out on him and he rolls to keep from toppling onto you.

You roll with him, tucking your head into his shoulder and giggling. It aches. The muscles in your abdomen so overworked that even laughing hurts, but somehow that just makes it funnier.

You’ve nearly composed yourselves when Whiskey tries to prop himself up on an elbow that immediately slides out from under him and almost smacks you in the head, and that just sets you both off all over again. Giving up entirely, you just lay there, shoulder-to-shoulder, laughing like a couple of punch-drunk loons.

"You hungry, honeybee?” Whiskey asks breathlessly when he’s got himself back under some semblance of control. “I could eat a goddamn horse."

Now that he mentions it you realize just how long ago lunch was, and your appetite, which had so far taken a backseat to both your temper and libido, roars back to life. "God yeah, actually. 'M fuckin' starving."

So for the second time today, you get room service on Whiskey's dime. Or his employer’s dime, he insists. You're not sure if that's better or worse. It's a little ridiculous. Even more so when you think to look for a clock and realize just how late it is, but you're absolutely famished and the second he's on the phone asking in a pleasantly fuck-drunk voice for a couple hamburgers and french fries you're stomach's growling so insistently you're almost certain the staff on the other end of the line heard it.

He's chuckling as he hangs up the phone, draping over you to nuzzle into your neck. For the first time you notice just how much his mustache tickles, and you squirm under him, giggling all over again.

"Love me a woman with an appetite," he mumbles, nipping playfully at you.

"God, what the fuck are we doing?" you stutter out through your giggles. It's not meant to be a real question. You’re practically a space cadet right now, and you can’t remember the last time you were this giddy after sex. But Whiskey shifts a little, pulling back to look down at you, and you can't quite parse the look on his face. "Never had a one-night-stand like this before.”

"Hm." He drops his head a bit, tapping an idle finger against your collarbone. "Think the repeat offense kinda cancels out the one-night-stand idea, honeybee."

"You didn't strike me as the repeating kind."

"Mm. Didn't strike you as the kind who could hold his dick up for longer'n a minute, either. So I'll try not to take offense at your continued misjudgment of my character." His eyes wander away from yours, pulling up his well-worn crooked smile with some degree of effort. "But if you're looking for a polite way to tell this old man you've had your fill, there ain't no need to beat around the bush about it."

You might've appreciated the easy out once. After tonight, though, you're almost offended at it. You're not in the habit of begging for things you only have a mind to dispose of. A little of that flighty panic starts to take hold, and you tamp it down. Fun. This is just for fun. Even if you do want a little more. Fuck, don’t start overthinking it now.

"Is that what you want?" you ask, and it's only the curiosity in your voice that keeps it from sharpening into an accusation.

Whiskey shakes his head, a bit of incredulity in his eyes. "What I want...shit, what I want is to get me somethin' nice an' artery-clogging to eat and then get some fuckin' sleep. Preferably next to the woman who has fucked me ragged two nights running, if she happens to be amenable to that kind of thing. That's as far as my wants go right this second."

The deflection is so clumsy it’s almost funny. “Chickenshit,” you mutter.

Whiskey blinks down at you, shocked for a moment before you give him a teasing smile. “Fuckin’ comedian,” Whiskey says, snorting laughter. “Ain’t no softening that tongue of yours, is there?”

“You never know.” You shift a little, heart hammering as you consider your next words. "How much longer are you going to be here?"

The crooked smile slips, becoming softer. "Well. That sorta depends on you, honeybee. My work's all wrapped up. But if you're gonna be around a bit longer and are lookin' for a bit of company I might be convinced to stay a bit longer."

You feel the smile creep up on your face before you can stop it. "I wouldn’t mind a little continued reprieve from corporate hell. Under one condition," you insist, waving a finger at him.

Schooling his face into a parody of gravitas, he nods expectantly. Proceed.

"I need to know something first. Some things. Plural."

He cocks an eyebrow. "How many is plural?"

You consider for a second, squinting. "Three."

"All right," he says, resting his chin against your shoulder. "Fire away."

You pop out your thumb. "Are you a serial killer?"

He stares at you for a long, silent beat before his eyes slip closed and he shakes his head, his chest hitching with stifled laughter. "No, honeybee, I am not now nor have I ever been a serial killer."

You nod, grinning. "Okay, one down.” You pop out your pointer finger. “Are you married?"

The levity bleeds out of his face with a swiftness that makes you regret the question instantly, sure he's about to drop a bombshell directly on your head that's going to leave you hating him and yourself. But he shakes his head, holds up his ringless left hand as if in proof, as though nobody having an affair would've ever thought to slip a ring off beforehand. But then, very quietly, he adds: "Was. But not for a long time."

You nod dumbly, mutter, "Okay.”

For a second you wonder if you should apologize – you’ve clearly tripped on something raw by accident – but then he's poking you in the ribs and drawing in a sharp breath. "And number three?"

A little grateful, you pop out your middle finger ask your last question: "What do you do? What do you really do?"

The corner of his mouth gives a twitch. "Shit, is that all? Well. Officially, I'm a businessman. I own a sizable amount of shares in the Statesman distillery company. Which, incidentally, is where that fine stock of bourbon whiskey came from," he adds.

You lean back, eyeing him carefully. You don't think he's lying. And yet....

Your fingers find the catch of a scar against his ribs. "You're scarred to shit for a liquor tycoon, cowboy."

The twitch turns into a grin. "I have been known to get a little rough-and-tumble once in a while."

"I don't know if I believe that story any more than I did the James Bond bullshit."

Whiskey huffs a laugh. His jeans are in a puddle at the end of the bed and he drags them up, pulling out a thick leather wallet out of the back pocket. From one of the compartments he pulls a business card embossed in gold and black and hands it to you.

Jack "Whiskey" Daniels, Statesman Distillery, Kentucky.

You blink at it, giggling a little. "Jesus Christ that is actually your name?"

"More or less. Been Anglicized for flavor, among other things."

"What was it before?"

There's an odd sharpness in his eyes when he looks at you, a shrewdness you'd never have expected from the costume cowboy you'd met down in the bar. For a moment you're sure that not only is he not going to answer, but that you've overstepped a line you weren't even aware existed.

"That's four questions," he says, "not three."

"I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours," you add with a tilt of your head.

The corner of his mouth curls slightly, and the sharpness fades. "Well now, how can I resist that a bargain like that?" He pauses a moment, as if reconsidering, then adds: "It was Joaquin."

"Joaquin?"

"Mm." He nods. There's only a moment of quiet before he tilts his hips to the side, jostling you. "C'mon, darlin. A deal's a deal."

You roll your eyes, staring up at the ceiling. And you tell him your name. He repeats it back, and you don't need to see his face to know he's smiling.

"Pleasure to meet you," he says. "Literally."

"Jackass."

#agent whiskey #jack whiskey daniels #agent whiskey x reader #agent whiskey x you #pedro pascal #pedro pascal character fic #citrus variations #spicy spicy content babes #I really didn't mean for this to end up this long but here we are I guess #ao3 version and fic masterlist will be updated shortishly

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lokigodofaces · 3 years

Text

Y’all I had this dream where for some reason at the end of Loki Variant!Loki decided he had to save Main!Loki. It was because Loki was the only one that could save the main universe from something along the road, but it would get messy for some reason if Variant!Loki came to deal with it. So V!Loki decided to save M!Loki from dying at the hands of Thanos, but he had to do it in a way that would work seemlessly and not make too big of a time mess.

So V!Loki studied the events leading up to M!Loki’s death and was trying to figure out what to do when Mobius said that if M!Loki didn’t die it would cause all these problems because then Infinity War and Endgame wouldn’t play out right. Basically, things would go differently if Loki was there with Thor. So now V!Loki has to figure this out because he has to make sure IW and EG go about the same while saving M!Loki.

So V!Loki decides to take M!Loki’s place. Sometime in between the destruction of Asgard and Thanos’ attack on the Statesman, V!Loki swaps M!Loki out for himself. Logically, I think a good place would be right before/after the scene where Thor and Loki see each other for the first time on the Statesman, and Loki shows that he is actually there and it isn’t an illusion. But that wasn’t included in my dream, that’s just me now thinking that would be a good time to make the switcheroo.

So V!Loki kidnaps M!Loki and takes M!Loki’s place, and is killed by Thanos while keeping a stunning act up. No one thought he wasn’t the right Loki. Which is perfect. Obviously, V!Loki had to do something about M!Loki. Otherwise, M!Loki would go to Earth or wherever either during IW or after IW but before EG (depends travel time), which would change events. And V!Loki has a plan to keep M!Loki out of trouble until it is safe for him to come out. He has to take M!Loki off of the Statesman because otherwise M!Loki could die in the Power Stone incited explosion in IW.

So V!Loki uses magic to knock out M!Loki who is not expecting to be attacked magically at all. Plus, V!Loki uses a type of magic that the Lokis are vulnerable to (I’m sorry, my dream did not explain magic lore lol) so M!Loki was basically screwed. V!Loki also put a spell on M!Loki that stopped him from using magic, just in case. So V!Loki is about to drag M!Loki off of the Statesman and to Chronyca. But then Hulk wanted to talk to Loki so V!Loki has to shove M!Loki into a space closet (that for some reason looked like the closet in Tangled? Just more futuristic and different colors.) Hulk was nice and said he didn’t want to smash Loki which was actually pretty sweet and V!Loki was thanking anyone that was listening because he’s from 2012 and had just barely been Hulk smashed.

Hulk leaves, but M!Loki wakes up and is opening the closet door (I’m just realizing now that he was really now out for long). So V!Loki shapeshifts into some other form (he looked like an old man, kind of like Dick van Dyke in Night at the Museum) because it would be a little problematic if M!Loki knew he was being kidnapped by himself. M!Loki knew that he couldn’t use his magic, and he knew that he was kinda screwed, but he wasn’t going down without a fight. He tried to manipulate V!Loki into a position that would give M!Loki an advantage, but he didn’t realize he was literally trying to manipulate himself. Which didn’t work out so well for him. Anyway, after a little knife skirmish and failed attempt to get help, M!Loki is once again knocked out by V!Loki.

V!Loki skedaddles out of there, unconscious M!Loki in tow. V!Loki does more magic every once in a while to keep M!Loki asleep because dude just burns through magic sedation apparently. So V!Loki is stuck looking like Dick van Dyke, just in case M!Loki wakes up and sees him. At this point M!Loki is restrained because you can’t just not restrain him if you are kidnapping him. He isn’t an idiot, he’s ready to fight his kidnapper, and even if he could just mess with a couple buttons he could sabotage the ship. Better safe than sorry. After a while, V!Loki gets tired of constantly magically sedating M!Loki. He’s tied up, can’t do magic, and V!Loki has the advantage because M!Loki doesn’t know it’s another version of himself that is kidnapping himself. So he’s not too worried about M!Loki being awake while tied up (and blindfolded? He might have been though I’m not sure anymore). So M!Loki tries to get information off of his kidnapper but V!Loki just says that he needs M!Loki’s help with something, which isn’t actually a lie, he does need help with, oh, you know, saving the universe. So M!Loki is freaking out because nothing has happened like this since Thanos. He knows that unless something big changes he isn’t going to be able to escape and if this guy needs his help, he could be willing to torture him for it. He’s already kidnapped him and disabled Loki’s magic, who knows what else will happen. M!Loki says something about Thor because M!Loki had already established that he was sticking around, and now he’s gone. So he’s hoping that Thor won’t just think M!Loki ran off or whatever and will actually be concerned and know there’s a problem, but he’s honestly not so sure about that. And then V!Loki says that won’t be a problem, meaning that he can just use time travel to go back to the second after he leaves, so it’ll be like he never left. M!Loki takes this to mean that something happened to the remaining Asgardians and is worried about that. So now he’s freaking out over what he thinks happened to Thor and what he thinks will happen to him.

And M!Loki is pretty good and concealing his emotions and makes it look like he’s just a little fidgety because he’s tied up, but V!Loki sees the signs because he too would do something similar in that situation. So he’s feeling bad because this alternate future version of himself is on the brink of a panic attack and he is 99% this has something to do with Thanos, one of the experiences the two Lokis share, so he knows what M!Loki must be feeling. But V!Loki knows this is necessary so he deals with it.

So they get to Chronyca. Chronyca is home of the chronicons, a race that observes and studies other races but never interferes, unless it is to prevent an extinction level threat (we see them in Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.). So the chronicons are pretty suspicious about this random Dick van Dyke dude that shows up. V!Loki leaves M!Loki tied up in the ship and goes to the chronicons and turns back into V!Loki and has some TVA device that shows them what will happen if M!Loki dies and explains his plan to the chronicons. Seeing as this is preventing an extinction level threat of many peoples, the chronicons agree to help.

V!Loki shapeshifts back to Dick van Dyke lookalike and goes onto the ship where M!Loki is (I’m pretty sure M!Loki was blindfolded now, but V!Loki still is shapeshifted in front of him just in case) and tells M!Loki something along the lines of everything being alright, and that M!Loki doesn’t have to panic. Well, as you can imagine, M!Loki doesn’t take this well. How would you react if you were kidnapped and your kidnapper said that it would be okay and that you don’t need to panic? Thinking that he’s going to go through a Thanos-like experience again, he promises that he’ll fight back and won’t be compliant. V!Loki says that he respects that and that M!Loki better tell anyone else that kidnaps him in the future the same thing. V!Loki knows about Thanos and still isn’t sure how he’d react in a similar situation because it had just barely happened to him whereas M!Loki has had years to sorta recover. V!Loki knocks M!Loki out to get him off the ship, but figures that M!Loki will wake up one more time before the next stage of the plan is put into action.

The chronicons put M!Loki inside a chamber they use to send chronicons to distant planets they observe, which can double as a cryofreeze chamber (like in AoS). V!Loki takes the spell off M!Loki that stops him from using his powers. The chronicons strap M!Loki inside the chamber, tying him down, and V!Loki then enchants the straps to stop M!Loki from using magic. V!Loki waits until M!Loki wakes up, startled by the change of setting, no longer blindfolded. M!Loki is full on panicking now because this is the same position he was in when Thanos first tortured him, and V!Loki knows this and feels so bad that he is putting another version of himself through a panic attack. V!Loki uses magic to calm M!Loki’s mind and gives his final farewells. Tells him good luck, apologizes for this mess, and tells him that everything will be alright, and that the chronicons will keep him safe. Then he closes the chamber and turns the cryofreeze on, and in a few seconds M!Loki is in a coma.

The chronicons promise to keep M!Loki safe until it is safe for him to be awakened. They set a timer on the chamber for six or seven years, and when the timer runs out the chamber will turn off and M!Loki will be awakened. It is possible that M!Loki will be snapped away by Thanos, but as long as they keep the chamber in the same position it was in whenn M!Loki was snapped, he would return there in five years and everything would be fine. The plan was to drop M!Loki off somewhere away from Chronyca with resources (food, water, ship, fuel) to get somewhere else. There would be a few chronicons to make sure everything went well and that he gets out safely. And if M!Loki does spot them, they’d tell him that in order to prevent extinctions they would at times interfere, and that a time travelling friend told them of a threat only Loki could stop, but he couldn’t stop if he was killed by Thanos. So the time traveler took Loki’s place to save him from Thanos and save the universe.

And then he has to learn about IW and EG and he feels bad that he couldn’t do more but it wasn’t his fault and he feels bad that someone died for him but it wasn’t like he was given a choice. So then he has to go find Thor because he doesn’t think anyone else could possibly believe him (even with a message from V!Loki in the van Dyke disguise explaining the plan) and that’s how Loki ends up in Love and Thunder.

Like, absolutely crazy plot going on here, and I doubt it would ever happen in the MCU, but it would be cool.

#loki series #loki #infinity war #endgame #loki variant #chronyca #chronicons #agents of shield #would be absolutely crazy #also best dream EVER #marvel cinematic universe #mcu #marvel

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goddessofmischief · 3 years

Text

Blue Monday, Chapter Thirteen - Loki x Reader

TW: Mention of the word ‘suicide.’ Not discussed in graphic terms.

Author’s Note: It’s been a long journey! There is still so much more story to tell, so please send me questions or feedback if you liked this chapter!

Previous Chapters: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12

...

The last day of Amora Freyadottir’s life had begun like... well, almost any other.

Loki had woken up next to you. His Amora.

The pair had risen in synchronization, methodically buckling up armor after armor, sword after shield.

And when you were both ready, you’d descended down the stairs together, one perfect unit, marched down to the castle courtyard, where Odin and several other highly-trained soldiers were assembled. He’d instructed you on the mission-

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to escape the flood of memories that had suddenly fallen into your mind.

"I’m... I’m what?”

“You,” said Mobius. “You’re Amora. You always have been.”

“Loki, I don’t... I don’t understand,” you stammered. “You lied to me, you swore you knew I wasn't her, you swore it-”

“I didn’t,” Loki promises. “You aren’t. These lies are simply a diversion to distract us from Mobius’ misdeeds.”

“Oh, Loki,” said Mobius. “Poor, poor Loki - if only that were true.”

He gestures, and a T.V.A. guard rushes in, restraining you both.

“Our story begins in Asgard, I think,” Mobius spoke, sipping from a tumbler of whiskey that had magically appeared. “Yes, that’s the one. Asgard. You and Loki had just marched off to the battle of Vanaheim... a terrible, terrible battle. Oh, they found you in pieces, Y/N. You died a warrior’s death.”

“Not me,” you said, stubbornly. “Amora did.”

“Yes, well... Loki got kinda despondent after that... not all that surprising, since he obviously loved ya-”

You glanced at Loki. He paled.

“And, well, Loki usually gets what he wants... and he decides he wants you back. Only problem is, he wasn’t sure how to do it. You were about as dead as it gets, sweetheart. So he studies, right? He studies for months and weeks, until he finds the plan that works best for him... that he’s going to reincarnate you.”

“No,” you argue, stubbornly. “No. No, that’s not true, it’s not true, it can’t be-”

“Crazy, right? I thought so, too. But I saw potential, in his failures, cause, the thing was... I’d started to see where things were going, even then.

The Earth was on the verge of nuclear war. The stars, divided by piracy and battle. In the middle of all of it... the two of you. I’d been trying to leave this universe for a long, long time - only problem is, the Watchers have kept me here. Something truly cataclysmic would have had to happen in order to let me destroy it - and, well... this little Romeo and Juliet story was a pretty good disaster-in-the-making, if I do say so myself. I knew if I stoked the fires of it, Loki would find a way to make the universe burn.

Soon enough, our friend Loki here uses a considerable amount of dark magic to reincarnate your soul into that of a mortal. He’d thought... well, I imagined he thought that once you reached a suitable age, about the age you are now, he’d give you your old memories, and find a way to make you immortal again. But you just couldn’t stay away, could you, Loki?”

“What does he mean?” you asked.

“I don’t know,” Loki stammers, and Mobius snaps his fingers - and suddenly, Loki’s eyes glow bright green, and a single tear rolls down his cheek.

“I visited you,” Loki whispers, slowly. “In your dreams, I -”

He paused, removing his glove and resting his palm on your forehead. You couldn’t see everything, not just yet - so many of your memories were still blocked out.

But you saw him. You saw him... throughout your life. Long walks, chess games, dives into swimming pools. He’d appear in your dreams, even. You were never alone.

Never.

“You didn’t have any friends,” Loki said. “And... I didn’t want you to be alone.”

“But if you were there, for everything... why can’t I remember any of it? Why can’t you?”

“Well, you can’t remember much of anything, can you?” said Mobius. “Only... the moments without him. The moments with your father. And, of course... your would-be death. But you never could remember what drove you to make that choice, could you? Only that you did, that cold Monday morning, and that I saved you, and swept you away to a life with us. You have wondered, haven’t you?”

You had.

“That was my work. I needed you to get to a point of desperation, so that the T.V.A. would seem the perfect option for you, so that you’d feel you had nothing else left. The thing was, when I made Loki forget... I kinda altered his memory two years before yours. So I doomed you, you see. I left you for two years, without him. He abandoned you... or, so you thought. And without your protector, well, you were a mess, weren't you?”

You had been.

“And without him to stop you, you made the rashest decision you could. You made an attempt upon your own life - and thus, my plan fell into place.”

“So it’s my fault,” said Loki. “If I’d never visited you... none of it would have happened. You’d never have thought I left you. Mobius never would’ve been able to manipulate us. It’s my fault you... died. Or, almost did.”

This was almost too much for you to comprehend. You were Amora? Loki had known you all your life? His leaving caused your depression, and set Mobius’ plan into motion?

But something more important stood out, too -

You loved Loki.

And he loved you.

Somehow, that had to mean something.

With a growl, you kicked Mobius across the room.

Loki turned to you, and without wasting a moment -

The two of you ran.

“Loki!” you found yourself shouting, tempted to shake him and make him listen to you.

“We can’t just run!”

“Why ever not? I’ve used this strategy - it’s worked for me, many times.”

“Because your last enemy didn’t have access to every timeline in existence! We can’t hide - he’s just gonna follow us there!”

He considered this.

“Fine,” Loki said. “How about this - we’ll fetch some back-up.”

You had to admit, your heart began to pound a little faster about the idea, just imagining the heroes you and Loki could recruit.

Alternate Iron Man. Alternate Black Widow. Perhaps even Thor himself-

“I’m sure me, being me, would be more than willing to help.”

Just like that, all those hopes came crashing down, all at once.

“Uh... what?”

"Well, in this scenario, I can really only trust myself, darling. You of course can understand. We’ll simply locate a variant of me... and enlist their assistance.”

You shrugged, helplessly.

“I... I guess.”

By this point, you figured you were going to die, anyway. You may as well just give in to his flawed logic and see where it would lead you.

“But I’m not dealing with another Lady Loki,” you insist, as Loki started to focus his energy on programming the tesseract with coordinates. “Not again.”

“No, no, of course not... then again, we would have gotten along, had I not possessed something she wanted. So, it seems to me... all I have to do is find a ‘me’ that hasn’t yet lost his Amora.”

“Okay, how do we do that?”

Loki focused on the tesseract.

“There,” he uttered, after a moment. “It’s... it’s programmed. It’ll take us somewhere, I know not where... to me. A me who has a version of Amora with him. That me will have no need for jealousy, and I’m sure I can reason some way to tempt them to aid us-”

“And... we’ll take her with us, too? The other Amora?”

“Jealous already, darling?”

“No,” you said, raising your gun to blast an approaching T.V.A. soldier. “Never.”

He grinned, and takes your hand.

And together, you both disappear into the icy-blue light of the Tesseract.

...

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nincompoopydoo · 3 years

Text

DEBRIS AND MISERY

THE A-TEAM ; PART 7 / ?

PAIRING: Loki Laufeyson x Female!Reader WORD COUNT: 3.3k SUMMARY: Now stranded on Lamentis with two of the worst variants, you find it difficult to decide whether Loki is potentially empathetic to others around him. A/N: I’m so sorry I haven’t updated in awhile and for posting this slow-moving and kinda uneventful chapter but I promise you, it’s vital for the next chapter as it explains a few things. Please tell me what you think so far and maybe theories? (idk if yall have any lol) gif from this gifset by @kamalaskhans WARNINGS: Swearing. Loki being a jerk. Loki and Sylvie support my writing through ko-fi💖 MASTERPOST ; MASTERLIST

Vertigo strikes you more often than you enjoy. The sensation of everything that encompasses, spinning in tandem with your mind. It’s the work you deal with that constantly sends your brain reeling because the complexity of time travel and time itself sometimes becomes too much to handle. Yet, this isn’t vertigo caused by an existential crisis. It’s nausea from the throbbing gash on your cheek and the numbness of your entire face from the fall through the time door.

For a split second, as your body surges through the door in mid-air, you have a vision, a series of flashing images—crimson eyes blinking before you, the sea, the Sun and fire.

Then, it’s gone and you land with a loud thump.

Your head hurts. Your face hurts. Everything hurts.

A groan escapes your lips, muffled with your face to the ground. You attempt to seize yourself up but immediately halt as your hand seems to come into contact with a shirt-like material. Too soft for it to be the ground unless you are on a mattress. Nothing seems to make sense anyway because a second ago, you had a knife to your throat and another, you are falling.

Deciding that maneuvering in the darkness of your shut eyes isn’t going to give you answers, they flutter open, adjusting to the lightness and hues of your surroundings. Then, every muscle of yours freezes with the realization that it is not the ground you had landed on as you meet another’s eyes with the same stricken gaze, staring back at you. Loki, in a rather unfortunate position, lays beneath you.

Momentarily, time passes like a goddamn laggard.

You can hear and feel every ragged breath he takes. Suddenly, you find yourself swallowing.

What a great time to stab him in the chest if you had a knife right now.

Yet, the moment passes as the tension severely thickens and your anxiety starts to creep onto you with the sudden awareness of your unknown surroundings. Purplish hues can never be good. You continue to seize yourself up in the effort to get back on your feet albeit legs feeling weak when you unceremoniously jab his rib with your elbow and you hear Loki wince from below you.

“Woman! Why are your elbows so sharp?!” Loki shrieks through a series of grunts. In a swift movement, his hands are on either side of your shoulders, shoving you off him. You land hard on your back, head slamming onto something metallic as it clangs with the impact. You groan, hand flying to your head as you eye the God with sharp eyes. “Ow!” you yell but then hear the same exclamation echo from another’s lips—the fugitive variant. You seemed to have kicked her in the knee.

In your peripheral vision, there’s a certain glint that catches your eyes. It’s the tempad, sitting idly amongst the dark gravel. Before you could even begin to pull yourself up from the ground, you are being hauled once more as the blonde climbs over you to reach for the device. But, Loki is quick to grab her by the foot, yanking her away with force.

“Get off my foot!” she growls as Loki attempts to make an expeditious crawl towards the device. He manages to snag it but, the Goddess hoists his head onto a nearby desk with a loud clang.

She already has it within her grasp as you’re struggling to lift yourself.

“Goodbye, variants.” she spits, voice course. If it weren’t for your throbbing migraine and the sting from the open wound along your cheek, you would have properly realized she referred to you as a variant. Well, she’s not wrong to a certain extent.

Yet, she’s still here and no timedoor appears.

“You’re outta juice!” Miss Minutes’ American Southern accent mechanically echoes from the tempad in an almost eerily way followed by repetitive low beeps. You watch her repeatedly stab the screen with slightly wide panicked eyes. “It’s not working,” she says, expression growing anxious with every passing minute.

Loki manages to gracefully stand on his own two feet, even after a brutal hit to his skull, and unexpectedly bends over to you and offers an outstretched hand. You don't say anything, taking it as he hauls you up with a hand to your back as leverage. In an attempt to steady yourself, you instinctively grab his shoulder

Then, you find yourself being yanked by the sleeve and a knife to your throat once again.

She has a scowl imprinted on her face, eyes blazing with frustration and rage.

“Give me your tempad,” she snarls, face close to yours. You can feel the edge of the knife grazing your neck with every inhale. A nervous laugh escapes your lips, eyeing the shine of the blade. “Do you really want to do that?”

For a moment, her face falls, yet it’s gone the next second. She pushes the blade closer. If you breathe, there’s going to be blood. “Give me your tempad or I’ll slice your throat,” she threatens and with your erratic heart pounding in your chest, you manage to cry out.

“I don’t have a tempad!”

“She doesn’t have a tempad!”

You and Loki exclaimed synchronically and shared a look. As far as you were concerned, only Renslayer and Mobius knew about the confiscation of your tempad because it was embarrassing enough to be the only analyst to be called to court. You have so many questions but right now, you should be thinking about how your one slash away from being decapitated.

You feel his grip on your back tighten and within a split second, everything changes around you.

Your surroundings have changed, her knife is no longer on your neck. Magically, you have been transported across the room, facing her back. Loki releases his hold on you and shoves the blonde to the side as she tumbles into a storage shelf.

Your stomach churns unannounced, feeling like the floors are spinning below you as you try to wrap around the fact that you were on the other end of the room a while ago and now you’re here. Transportation or whatever the hell it was, made your insides feel like it's about to spew out of your mouth.

“Never do that again,” you groan, holding your abdomen. Meanwhile, Loki has plucked the tempad from the ground and the other doesn’t seem to want to take the hint that fighting isn’t going to do any good to the situation.

“Just give it back to me. You don’t even know how to recharge it.”

“Well, I do.” you chirp and she eyes you with a scowl. “And so does he. You’re not the only tech-savvy Loki.”

“Don’t call me that!”

You and Loki shoot a bewildered look her way.

“Tech-savvy?”

You swing your head to look at the God who shares an expression equivalent to your own, silently raising the only reasonable question at the moment: What the fuck?

Once again, both of your minds seem to be working in tandem as the two of you echo the same question at the same time like two peas in a fucking pod.

“No. A Loki.” Her gaze shifts between the two of you as she shifts in her stance ready to pounce. Yet, as she does, you see that flicker of green magic appear. In a blink of an eye, the tempad disappears. You suddenly grow worried.

“Loki, where’s tempad?—”

“So, you’re just fully a magician then?” The blonde cuts you off with a mocking tone, snarl directed towards Loki. You watch how his shoulders stiffen at her words.

“Fine. For my next trick,” from his grasp emerges a pair of daggers. “I’ll make you disappear.”

“Woah, Woah. Okay. Now, hang on—” as you were forcing yourself between the two, a shot of flame whizzes just about an inch away from your face, from above. You yelp at the sudden streak of fire right before your eyes as you watch it extinguish to nothing once it hit the ground. The three of you stagger back at the surprise of it.

“Is that one of your powers?”

“Where did you send us?”

Curiosity gets the better of you as you crouch down to inspect the hole in the ground. There are chunks of rock with pieces of dull metallic material amongst the debris. You recognize it in the way it shines under the light that beams through from above—it’s Iridium.

You know exactly where you are.

“You have got to be fucking me.”

Abruptly standing, your hands fly up to hold the sides of your head, face morphing to sheer horror, eyes are wide and breaths deepened. The two Lokis stare at you with slightly anxious looks. You attempt to pull back the wisps of your hair that caress your bloody and bruised cheeks to try and diffuse the growing panic and anger sizzling in your chest.

You feel compressed, stuffy. It doesn’t help when you have two pairs of eyes staring you down while you have a meltdown. So, with the turn of your heel, you trudge out of what you finally figured to be one of the fleets of tents as part of a relief camp. The two variants trail behind you.

A sky filled with light bursts and streaks of asteroids and planetoids. In the foreground, the planet Lamentis grows immensely, its structure severely fractured. The collapse of Lamentis is the ultimate apocalypse and the three of you might as well be dead by now. The ground beneath you rumbles as asteroids shoot towards you from above like flaming arrows. Your head begins to throb all over again at the apocalyptic sight.

“You idiot! This is Lamentis-1!” You hear the woman scream as Loki bickers back. “I don’t know what that means!”

You whip your head to the two of you, teeth-gritting and nose flared—you’re practically seething. “We’re on a moon and that planet is about to crash into and destroy all of us! No one makes it out of here and it’s your fault we’re stranded here!” Your anger is directed towards the two but Loki very well knows it’s specifically him. He swallows, attempting to hide his sudden guilt. “So, fuck you. Fuck both of you—”

“Oh, isn’t that just fantastic—”

“Watch out!”

The woman hollers and suddenly, you are being pushed aside as a meteorite darts, punctuated by a screech that makes your ears ring. Then, you find yourself being guided by firm grips to your arms, dragging you as the three of you sprint across the area. You seek temporary shelter under a tanker, crouching behind its tire. The two variants continue to bicker but to you, their voices are muffled as all you hear is intense ringing.

The fugitive variant abruptly stands, extending her finger to a rundown mining shack. “There!” and once again, much to your feet’s dismay, you’re sprinting through a goddamn warzone. From experience, you know you’re not a fast runner—the whole physicality to it just doesn’t match up to your capabilities. So, you trail behind them, struggling to catch up yet, despite your efforts, the universe tends to play your enemy once again as a meteorite strikes you in the arm.

You collapse to the ground and your right ear starts to ring again, louder than before. You don’t hear your shrill scream, cutting through the noise of the eruptions—it’s just a high-pitched tone drumming in your ears and the excruciating pain burning in your arm.

Loki appears before you, barking words you can’t hear. All you do is grip your arm, pressing into the wound. There’s definitely blood, you feel it surging within your fingers. Indefinitely, you feel his hand sharply tug at the crook of your unhurt arm, hauling you up to stand. His other arm curls around your back, pulling you with him in an attempt to make a run for it towards the shack. Overhead, you see her running, whipping her head around to glance at you. She looks afraid.

The ringing finally halts and through all the wailing like war cries ricocheting across the crater, you hear his voice, ragged and low. It's only for your ears. “Come on, just a little more—”

You’re close to shelter with the blonde a few steps ahead of you. You unconsciously knot your hand against the fabric of his jacket, as if it will conjure any lasting energy left in you push yourself forward, and prevent you from thinking about your bleeding arm.

Eventually, the three of you make it to the shack, slamming the door shut once you’re stepping into the place with the sound of muted metallic thunks. You free yourself from his hold, sliding down the door and to your feet, feeling weak as ever. Your eyes flicker to the wound and it's unexpectedly huge and crimson. You groan, ignoring how the constant arguing of the two variants has become white noise to you but right now, all you need is some goddamn silence.

“Would you two just shut up?” Their pathetic squabble comes to an abrupt stop at your words. You then fish out a handkerchief, from your back pocket, weakly waving it towards your bleeding arm. “—And help me out here?”

The blonde’s snarl returns, “And why would we even help you?”

Loki turns to her with a surprised look. “We? So, we are a team—”

“Shut up—”

“Because let’s face it. The two of you are pathetic liars and you don’t actually know how to charge the tempad. So, help me out here before I start losing more blood than I should and you’ll have no way off this moon.” There’s silence and all you do is concentrate on your breathing as the two of them just stand there, staring, thinking. They share a look. The quiet passes in a moment, Loki surprisingly steps towards you and goes to crouch down to your level. He plucks the handkerchief from your grasp and ties a firm knot.

“Does this mean you’re not planning on killing us?”

You snort, gaze shifting between the two. “Not for now.”

You don't notice the flicker of green emerging from his fingertips as he holds his palm against your wound. You don't notice how the pain nearly subsides at his touch.

—

The golden cocktail glass mocks you with the lack of alcoholic liquid. It shines under the pretty and obscure chandelier above the circular bar where a bartender shuffles her way around. It also manages to reflect the daze of your expression and the flying wisps of your hair that drifts with every passing elite Lamentian adorned with some fancy hat and shiny heels. They seem to move at an obnoxious prissy speed. Though the thought of every being on this moon is about to die and you too might join them in the apocalypse, it somehow comforts you to think that these rich and elite groups, prioritized to enter the evacuation ark, will be joining the others as well.

The trek from the crater to the train had been nothing but eventful. You kept your mouth shut for most of the time, not wanting to lose your energy over two varaints who can’t seem to get along for once. From the woman who blasted the two for harassing her and Loki’s disguise to enter the train, heading for Shuroo, you wonder if this was all worth it.

You also learn that the woman goes by Sylvie. Not Loki.

Strange.

Right now, you aren’t too worried about the major possibility of dying. As much as you hate the two Loki variants that forcefully brought to the current situation you’re in, you know, from working with several variants of the Asgardian prince, Lokis do not die. But, will you? It’s a question better left unanswered.

Loki appears beside you, elbow propped up on the bar, leaning towards it as he faces you with an oddly sickly grin. It’s nearly amusing when you notice how Sylvie and Loki are entirely different from each other, one being much more aloof than the other, yet hold equivalence as well. At the moment, the difference between the two is obvious because you are very sure Loki is as intoxicated as you are while Sylvie has gone off to dream world by the corner of the lounge.

At least you only have to deal with one for the moment.

“You should really stop drinking,” you say, taking a swig from the martini glass. Loki snorts, curiously watching you in a slight daze. “Then, I must call you a hypocrite.” You scoff, not merely paying any mind to his usual antics and clever counters. You spare him a glance before lifting the cocktail glass to rest upon your lips, “Always so perceptive about everyone but yourself.”

Amid his drunken stupor, he nearly hears his mother with every articulation of those words. He is yet to admit of his amazement for your unmatching traits to your personality—so wise yet so outrageously reckless. Your mind is powerful but you don’t tend to use it very well. Loki merely hums, deciding to disregard his surprise, and takes a seat beside you on the barstool. You don’t shift or flinch away when his shoulder brushes against yours.

“Untrue. I know nothing about you,” he says, glancing your way in his periphery, “And that is because you never let me.” Your laugh comes off more like a puff of air, hinted with amusement. “It’s not that. There is nothing to know about me. I’m not very interesting, unlike you and your variants.”

Loki turns to you, lips pursed into a smile that’s knowing and somehow charming. “Don’t be so modest. You are a part of the most powerful bureaucratic organization in the universe. You must have been to many places, seen many things...” he trails off, watching the deepening furrow of your brows. You turn in your seat to properly face him this time, “And why does it matter?” You eye him suspiciously as he briefly raises his palms in defense. “It doesn’t. I was just...curious.”

You shift in your seat, arm now propped up on the bar. “Well, curiosity did kill the cat.”

“But satisfaction brought it back.”

Silvertongue. You narrow your eyes.

“I’m surprised you know that.”

Loki shrugs, gesturing to the bartender for another cup while you carelessly decide he isn’t worth babysitting for now. The alcoholic drink arrives and he takes an unceremonious shot.

“I think you should really go easy—”

He scoffs, “You sound a lot like Thor.”

You’re frowning again.“You’re drunk.”

“And you’re a mewling quim.”

You’re surprisingly calm at his words. He immediately regrets it, thoroughly blaming the alcohol on his once sharp mind. Though your stare is outright intimidating.

“You know, there’s this ancient poem—Hávamál. You might be familiar with it. Hávamál is said to present advice and wisdom from Odin’s very lips. With your current behavior, a particular stanza comes to mind,” you say, voice hinted with cynicism. He knows of Hávamál but with the current scatter of his mind, it’s a lot harder to remember the words of the specific lines of the poem.

“Humour me.” are the words that leave his lips. They are challenging.

You don’t take your eyes off him as you speak lowly, “Er-a svo gott sem gott kveða öl alda sonum, því að færra veit er fleira drekkur síns til geðs gumi”

Less good than they say for the sons of men is the drinking oft of ale: for the more they drink, the less can they think and keep a watch o'er their wits.

You just called him a drunkard idiot in fluent old Norse and it strikes him like a blade to his cheek. Not as bad of an insult than his, but certainly less childish.

His mouth goes dry.

Abruptly standing to your feet, you take a final swig of your drink, slamming it rather vigorously on the bar. “Maybe, you should have listened to your father more often.” With a spin of your heel, you’re walking away from him. Loki swallows, calling after you. “Where are you going?”

You halt in your step, turning to him momentarily with an unknown expression and a lingering gaze. “Away from you.”

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