Hidden Likes

Your soul left your body.

“Simon?” you gasped, throwing your hands up in horror as adrenaline shot through you so fast your fingers trembled.

He staggered inside, a duffel bag slipping from one shoulder and thudding to the floor. One hand braced against the wall, the other pressed to the side of his head.

“Are you okay?!” you gasped.

“I got smashed with a plate. What ya think?” he muttered, eyes shut tight.

“You were supposed to be back in a week!”

“Mission ended early,” he said with a pained groan.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Wanted t’ surprise ya.”

You stared at him.

Then gestured wildly at the ceramic graveyard on the floor.

"That is objectively the worst possible strategy for someone who constantly tells me to be careful because of all the enemies you've made."

He gave you a flat look. “Nice. Blame the victim.”

"The victim broke into the house like a raccoon with military training."

He huffed "rude."

“Just go sit down,” you said, already ushering him toward the sofa. “I’ll get the first aid kit.”

He kicked off his boots with a grunt and dropped onto the couch like all the bones in his body had collectively decided to quit. By the time you returned, kit in hand, he looked tired in that deeply worn-out way that made your chest ache, guilt gnawed at you like a tiny feral creature.

"Si, I'm so sorry," you blurted the second you sat beside him. "I genuinely thought someone was breaking in and then the door opened and I panicked and my body moved before my brain did and I hit you and—"

"It's alright, swee’heart," his voice came soft, steady.

You worked carefully, cleaning the scratches on his forehead and the small cuts along his shoulder. He didn’t even flinch much, though he did keep staring at you with that quiet, warm look that always made you feel like you were the only light in the room.

“Been through a dangerous mission,” he said, “an’ get home to get clocked by me wife.”

“It wasn’t on purpose,” you said, glaring at the cotton pad like it had personally offended you.

“Never said it was.”

“You are being very smug for a man who got ambushed by dinnerware.”

He huffed a laugh. “Usually wives greet their husbands with kisses and hugs. Not ceramic warfare.”

“I was trying out a new greeting method.”

He raised one brow. “Next time, how about a pan to the face?”

You let out a helpless laugh. “Shut up.”

“You hit me.”

“I thought you were breaking in!”

“Still counts as domestic violence, luv.”

You snorted despite yourself, and he looked absurdly pleased with that.

Once you finished, he leaned back into the couch with a long sigh, still horrified and still trying not to laugh at the stupidity of this entire situation. He tilted his head toward you.

“Um. May I get… a strawberry turnover, please?” You ask, too edgy to read the menu.

“Of course. Anything else?” The cashier asks. You know her. She works at the grocery too. Or did.

“No thanks. I appreciate it.” You take out your change purse.

“Don’t charge her,” the owner calls through as he brings out a tray of pastries and slides it into the display. “Comped.”

“Thank you,” you eke out. You put a tip in the jar instead.

“If you want to find a table, we can bring it to you.” He offers.

“Oh, it’s…” you swallow. “Okay.”

You don’t want to draw any more attention. You look around and find a table by the window. You stare at the chair. The wooden seat won’t be good for your tailbone.

You let go of your walker and grab the chair. It’s heavier than you expect. You drag it and it scrapes on the floor loudly. You keep your head down, straining to lift the feet off the wood.

“I got you,” a voice grits and someone approaches. It’s him. Steve. The owner.

“Sorry I… don’t want my walker to be in the way.” You let go as he takes the chair and moves it to another table.

“All good,” he assures you.

You roll your walker around and grip the handles as you sit, locking the brakes. You nod and thank him under your breath. You can’t look at him. You’re too embarrassed. You should’ve got the pastry to go.

“If you need anything else, let them know at the counter.” He says.

“You’re too nice,” you stare at the table.

He leaves and you fidget restlessly. You’re used to the sideways glances and kids pointing, asking loudly what’s wrong with you. You’re too young to be like this. You know that, they really don’t need to remind you.

You move your purse onto the table and take out your little notebook. You go over the grocery list you made before you left your place. Shoot, you didn’t write down oats. You used the last ones this morning.

Steps approach and the scent of freshly warmed pastry kisses your nose. You look up as Steve sets down a scalloped saucer with a gooey turnover drizzled in lacy icing. You smile and close your notebook.

“Oh, thanks. That’s sweet.” You murmur. “It smells… looks delicious.”

“Not a problem. You’ll let me know if it’s too sweet.” He says.

“Um, I’m sure it’s good.” You frame the dish with your fingers. “Thank you.”

“Enjoy.” He claps his hands together and backs up.

You shrink down and examine the dessert. You peel apart the warm pastry and nibble on it. You get some of the filling on the next bite and your cheeks pinch. It’s better than the danishes you get on clearance at the shop.

You eat slowly as you dare to look around. You always liked baking but it was hard for you to stand too long in the kitchen. You always kept to quick and easy meals. Anything you could leave in the rice cooker or just boil water to add. Sandwiches and soup were the best.

You hold up your sticky finger and lick your lips. You sit up as you sense someone coming close. It’s Steve. Again. He puts down some napkins.

“Thank you,” you say.

"How did you like it?" He asks.

"It was good."

He sets down something else. The paper bag crinkles as a peak of crust shows through the little plastic window in the bag.

“Saw it on your list,” he says. “Sourdough. But if you prefer rye…”

“That’s… too much. I couldn’t.” You wipe your fingers, your hand shaking a moment. “Really, I’m on my way to the grocery shop.”

“One less thing on your list.” He insists. “Really, I don’t mind.”

You crumple up the napkin and sit back on the walker. You zip up your purse and hang it on the handle. You push yourself to your feet and release the brakes.

“I do. I appreciate the turnover but that’s already too much. I’m okay.” You assure him. “It was nice of you to step in earlier but… thank you. Just thank you.”

You slide your walker out from behind the table and reach for the plate and napkin. He swipes it up first. “I’ll take care of it.” He says.

You thank him one last time. You angle around and make your way across the bakery. As you near the door, he brushes by you and gets there first. He holds the door open.

You brace yourself as you let the wheels off the ledge. As you pass, he reaches to put the loaf on the seat of your walker. You gasp as you step down and pause. You look at him.

“I said no.” You insist.

“Take it.” He insists. “My treat.”

You stare at him. Even if he wasn’t standing on the ledge, he’d be huge. You wilt and purse your lips.

“Thank you.” Once again.

Ivy greets you as you pass by her pulling weeds from her garden. You wave, one hand still on your walker, and say good morning.  You continue on, leaning into the metal frame as you roll the wheels over the cracks.

You turn onto the main street and focus on the wooden sign jutting out from the center. You noticed a few weeks ago when it went up. The banner announcing the grand opening has since been disposed of. You avoided the furour of the exciting premier, knowing you would only get jostled, even lost, in the chaos.

Now you feel good enough to make it down. Not without real purpose. You desperately need to do a shop after procrastinating for far too long. 

You pause and wait for Len to pass in his dusty white truck. He gives a beep and a wave. Sometimes, he’ll drive you back home if he catches you on the way. He’s one of the nice ones; one of those who see you. Then there are those who pretend they don’t.

You cross and push your wheels over the curb. You can feel the inflammation in your hips already. You make slow progress along the crooked sidewalk. It dips at points and in places the grass along the edge is higher than the pavement.

You slow as you get close to the bakery and admire the handpainted calligraphy on the sign; Brooklyn’s Best Bakery. You stop in front of the windows and look at the baskets of buns and rolls on display. You can smell it all as the door opens after a customer.

You press on as a couple approaches. The man holds the door for the woman and follows her through. You try to catch the door after them and it hits your walker and knocks you back. The bell jangles above.

You wrench your walker away and let the door close. It’s not the first time it’s happened. You thought they would’ve seen you hurrying to get in after them. Of course, you can’t expect everyone to hold the door but you weren’t that far behind.

You angle and open the door, using your back to keep it open. You push on it and pull your walker close, turning it through the door. You grunt as you lift the wheels over the high step that leads inside.

As you roll through, the door swings shut and spurs you forward. You hit a shelf with the wheel and steady yourself. You check to make sure you didn’t knock anything over.

To your surprise and disappointment, there’s a line. Oh well, you have to wait. Other people exist too.

You join the line and turn your walker to sit on the seat, your bag dangling from the handle. You rub your hips and lean to the side. The last x-ray showed degeneration at the base of your spine and in your tailbone, a little in your hips.

“Excuse me,” a deep voice comes through.

You sit up but can’t see past the couple in front of you. The woman points to the croissants in the display as the man’s hand rests on her lower back. He doesn’t seem to be listening as he reads the chalkboard sign above the counter.

“‘Scuse me,” the same voice grits and several bodies shuffle apart in the queue. “Hey, you.”

You blink and look over, startled. You peek back, thinking maybe you didn’t see the mess you made after all.

 You twist back as a man approaches in an apron. The red fabric is dusted with flour and other ingredients. He’s tall, his shoulders broad, and a dark beard trims his jaw. He wears a short sleeve shirt over a tank top, exposing tattoos on his chest and arms.

“You,” he points at the man ahead of you. “That wasn’t very polite.”

“Huh?” The man ahead of you snorts. You think his name is Donny or… Dustin?

“You dropped the door on another customer.” The man crosses his arms.

“Who?” Wait, his name is Devin, replies hotly.

“This lady right here,” the man in the apron points at you. “I’m sure you saw her.”

“Dude, I didn’t see her–.”

“How do you know you didn’t drop it on her if you didn’t see her?” The man’s forearms bulge.

“It was an accident.”

“So now you did see her?”

“No. I… look, uh,” Devin turns. “I’m sorry, really.” As he looks down at you, you stand, feeling smaller than ever. “I didn’t see you and if the door hit you–”

“It did.” The aproned man insists.

“I didn’t see you and I’m sorry I hit you with the door.” Devin scoffs and looks at the man. “Happy?”

“Not really,” the man retorts. “Get your food and get out.”

Devin huffs again and shakes his head. He mumbles as the woman beside him shifts away.

“Excuse me?” The man in the apron drops his arms. “You wanna say something, make sure I can hear you.”

“I said you’re a fucking tight ass.” Devin retorts.

“Common decency is being a tight ass? Well then, you can just go.” The man grabs Devin by his hoodie and drags him between a set of shelves.

There isn’t much of a struggle as the cafe employee is much stronger, even if he’s not as heavy as Devin’s rounder build. He shoves the door open and hurls Devin through. He claps his hands then turns back.

“You’re more than welcome to stay and order,” he says to the woman as he approaches. “And whatever you’re getting,” the man stops by you. “It’s on the house.”

“What? No. It’s… okay.” You babble dumbly, surprised at being addressed.

“Not okay. Not in my joint.” He sneers.

“Um, okay, uh, thank you, sir. You really didn’t have to–”

“I did,” he says and offers his hand. “Steve Rogers. It’s my place, my rules.”

You lean back on your walker, keeping your hand on one side and shake his hand. He squeezes and you nearly dissemble in his grip. You stare up at him, wide-eyed, and utter your name out of courtesy.

His cheek dimples as he nods. “Pretty. I’m almost finished a batch of strawberry turnovers. That’s my recommendation.” He lets go.

“Bucky, that’s not funny!” You slapped the back of his head. He was a man obsessed and wouldn’t stop telling everyone, you know how he got you pregnant. “I still don’t know how you got me pregnant on my period. This is impossible.”

“Perks of the serum.” Bucky looked up at you, a cocky smirk on his face. “I told you that there’s no chance for your womb to stop my seed from growing inside of you. We made it.” He said to your vagina, not you. “My pretty girl only belongs to me now.”

“You’re unbelievable,” you groaned loudly, fingers tangling in his hair. “Bucky, we didn’t talk about having a baby yet. Now I’m pregnant only because you didn’t want me to use tampons.”

“Don’t mention them ever again,” Bucky growled before pressing his ear to your belly. “You can’t talk about these monsters in front of our baby.”

“You know that the baby will pop out of my vagina too,” you replied. Bucky’s head shot upward, but he didn’t look concerned. He was grinning again. “What’s so funny?”

“It’s my baby, doll. I don’t mind sharing my pretty girls with my baby.” Bucky chuckled at your angry expression. He was a little too excited about accidentally getting you pregnant.

“I know you got me pregnant on purpose, mister!” You accused, earning a stunning smile from Bucky.

“I know we never talked about children, but I want to have it all,” Bucky said, his voice cracking. “You know, when I was brainwashed and nothing but an empty shell, I never dared dream of having a wife, a baby, or at least a normal life.”

“You just ruined the stern speech I prepared,” you sniffled. “You can have it all, Bucky. We are in this together, you know. Me and you.”

“Me, you, and my pretty girl.” He grinned and knelt to nuzzle your crotch. “She allowed me to fill her up, and now, we are going to have a beautiful baby girl.”

Andy presented it to you about a week after you moved upstairs. It was your favorite color (your real actual favorite, not something he’d decided you liked) and had a pretty vine pattern etched into it. It was your mug. You drank your tea out of it every day. And you tried to tell yourself that it was bad because everything that came from him was bad. But it was yours. No one else drank out of it. Only you. It felt like the only thing in the world that you actually owned. 

And so, as you looked at the shattered pieces on the floor, as you told yourself that this was fine, that it was just another thing in this house full of things, all you felt was immense, gut-wrenching loss. You sank down next to the pile of shards on the ground. Maybe you could piece it back together, or, or– You didn’t know what to do. And you knew you were being ridiculous but you started crying. Sobbing. You’d already lost so much. And now the last thing on earth that belonged to you was gone too, and you were the one who destroyed it.

You heard Andy’s footsteps come into the kitchen, but you couldn’t see him from where you were crouched behind the island. “What was that crash?” he asked, harshly. The sob you let out brought him around to where you were. He looked down at you, his hands on his hips. “What happened here?”

You looked up at him through your teary eyes. He was going to be so upset with you. “I’m sorry,” you gasped. “I’m so sorry! I don’t know what happened. It fell, and, and– it’s gone now.” You tried to wipe your face clean, but you couldn’t stem the stream of tears.

“You didn’t throw it?” Andy asked.

“No! No, I would never!” You hoped he could see how sincere you were. 

He sighed and crouched down in front of you. “Explain to me why you’re so upset.”

You struggled for a moment, no idea how to put everything you were feeling into words. And you were so scared of saying the wrong thing. Finally, all you could come up with was, “You gave it to me.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he cooed as his face completely softened, no hint of anger or a coming reprimand remaining on it. He gently grasped your elbows, “Here, let’s get you up. I don’t want you to hurt yourself on any of the shards.” 

He raised you up slowly, then guided you into one of the stools at the counter. Then he went to the little kitchen closet and grabbed the broom and dustpan. As he started to clean up, you rushed to stand. Andy hardly ever cleaned anything. That was your job. “Oh no,” you tried to stop him. “That’s ok, I can do it!”

He just hushed you, as he quickly made a pile of the shards and scooped them into the pan, and then into the trash. “See?” he said, “all done. It’s fine.” He ushered you into the living room and pulled you down into his lap on the couch, wrapping you tight in his arms. “I’ll get you a new one,” he said softly. “Even prettier than the last one.”

Without even thinking about it, you laid your head on his shoulder, as he ran his hand up and down your back. “You’re such a good girl,” he whispered. “I’m so glad you’re here. You make me so happy.” You knew you should hate that. You knew that it should make you angry. But you were just so relieved that he wasn’t upset with you, you couldn’t help but sink into him. 

After a few moments of just cuddling, he spoke again, his low voice right next to your ear. “I think you need a break, huh? How about we just spend the day together? Your chores can wait til tomorrow. We’ll even order dinner in tonight. How’s that sound?”

You were so worn out, from your sobbing, yes, but also, from everything, so all you could do was nod into his shoulder.

“Ok, then that’s what we’ll do. Just me and my good girl,” he said, his voice maybe the gentlest you’d ever heard.

“Thank you, Andy,” you sighed.

Tag list is open

The two of you managed to find some time to talk, even if it's just in whispers between photoshoots. There are things you know you need to tell him before the wedding night. Things that, you pray, won't be a scandal.

"I probably should have said something sooner, but I think I was still dazed from that kiss," you start. Nick's smile turns cocky even as your face heats up. "Though I've never actually slept with anyone, I have...Once I was 'too old' to marry...it's custom for spinsters..."

Nick's smile drops as he takes your hand and looks deeply into your eyes. "You can tell me."

"I've used toys on myself," you quietly confess. "I'm not...physically a virgin."

Instead of being aghast or even patiently understanding, Nick's eyes darken and he grins wide, showing off his pearly white teeth.

Leaning in, almost inappropriately close, Nick whispers, "if you're able, please make sure those toys are brought along for the honeymoon."

Main Story

"I understand," Loki nods. Thor might have some more objections but if Loki is saying he understands, then he can pester his brother and not the other mage. "May we see her?"

"She is asleep, but you are allowed to sit next to her," Mage Beck confirms with a small bow.

The man hasn't finished speaking before Thor is rushing past. Loki makes sure to thank the fellow mage before heading in.

Tess gives you a look when you enter the kitchen well after most of the other staff. She's been gently urging you to eat more but you content yourself with the leftovers the other servants leave after the dinner rush. It's not as if you can eat much anyways. Besides, this way you don't have to deal with an overly crowded kitchen and the crush of other bodies against yours.

"I made sure to save you a slice of the crumble," Tess informs you. "Wasn't easy, but I know the blackberry are your favorite ones and the sugar'll do you some good."

"Thank you, Tess," you say with a hug.

"And after dinner you'll be practicing your letters?"

"Yes, Tess," you promise, your cheeks heating with embarrassment.

You know it isn't your fault your reading and writing are so poor. Your parents had never pushed your or your siblings to learn more than the basics. There were no books, no writing utensils. When Tess and Mage Beck learned of your low literacy they insisted on upgrading your education. Thankfully Lady Sarah, King Wilson's sister, was willing to teach you alongside her young sons.

"And if I spot any bit of berry on Max's face, you're gettin' a lecture," Tess warns.

That makes you smile. "I can promise I'll be eating the blackberry crumble by myself."

"Glad to hear it."

"My brother and I are needed back in Asgard, but Mother is not yet ready to travel," Thor informs King Wilson.

"She can stay here as long as she needs," the King promises. "I'm happy to honor the longstanding alliance between our kingdoms."

"You are a good man Samuel," Thor says with teary eyes. "We would have lost her without you and yours."

"And don't you forget it," King Wilson says with a smirk. "And we'll make sure whatever people you leave behind with her are taken care of as well."

"Hopefully she will be well enough by the next summit and we can take her home with us then."

As the two kings discuss the logistics of the upcoming departure Loki's mind keeps going to the servant girl and her dog. Maybe he should meet up with them again so Max can see Loki is no longer so distressed. He can still hear the dog's pitiful whines. Almost as clearly as he can picture your beautiful face.

The thought has to be squelched. He's an Asgardian Mage, you are a servant girl in another kingdom. It isn't proper.

But maybe a correspondence? A friendship? To keep up with your and Max's continued health.

The gardens are especially quiet today. All hands that are able are helping to prepare King Thor's caravan back to Asgard. In a rare moment of not being needed, Loki snuck his way out to the gardens in the hopes of seeing you. Though, if anyone asks, he's looking for that sweet dog he met to help him calm his nerves. Sure there were other dogs in and around the castle, but he can easily say Max is the most attentive to strangers.

His shoulders relax a little when he sees the little dog running towards him. He smiles when he sees you chasing after the dog.

"Oh, Your Majesty," you say between breaths as you curtsy.

"Loki, please," he insists, hiding the hurt in his eyes by bending down to pet Max.

"Loki," you repeat. "I wasn't expecting you to come back. Your people have been busy with preparations."

"They have," he nods. "But I wanted to make sure to thank you, and Max, before I leave. The two of you were quite the...comforting presence when I needed it."

"It's the least we can do. We know what it is to need that kind of peace and comfort."

"I was wondering, if...if it's not too forward, if I might...write to you, from time to time. To ask after Max. The pup has quite grown on me rather quickly."

If Loki hadn't had his eyes down, purposefully focusing on Max, he'd have seen your eyes round with shock as your jaw dropped.

"I...I must warn you, I'm not...my reading and writing skills are...lacking."

"Lacking?"

"I've got the basics but my handwriting is that of a child. Reading is a slow process for me."

Shame burns your cheeks. This handsome, kind, royal man must be highly intelligent to be a mage. And you're just a rescue who can barely read and write. The differences between you makes you feel so small, so unimportant.

"Then, with your permission, may I help you practice by writing from time to time?"

"I...I think I would like that, Loki."

Previous--Next

Series Masterlist