#jewish reader

Emery prefers working nights. Not because she’s especially nocturnal, but because there’s a much lower likelihood of bright-eyed and bushy-tailed specialists from outside of her department intruding on her patients, her procedures, and most importantly, her rare moments of peace between cases. And while night shift doesn’t necessarily keep you out of her hair, at least you’re easier to deal with when tired.

Unfortunately for her, it’s ten o’clock in the morning, and you’re freshly caffeinated and standing on the other side of the attending desk wearing a Bluey scrub top. 

“There’s an eight-year-old waiting for an OR downstairs,” You begin, arms crossed in a way that conveys more than a little annoyance.

“I read Garcia’s memo,” She replies, sparing a brief glance from her desktop, where she was poised in the middle of a heated email chain with the PTMC bed control manager. “You didn’t have to come all this way to tell me that.”

“No,” you concede, “I’m here to tell you ED’s admitting him with pediatrics consulting.”

She pauses in her typing. “Why? That’s not necessary. I can manage an open humeral fracture without your supervision. They’re hardly rare,” She aims to keep her tone neutral and disinterested, but there’s an edge of defensiveness in her voice despite that. Since you arrived at the Pitt six months ago, you have found every opportunity to weasel your way into her operating room under the pretext of the procedure needing pediatric support. And while she can concede there were situations where that was helpful (however much she loathes to say so out loud), she fails to see how this is one of them. “It’s an ortho procedure. I don’t need you fussing about the intubation methods on this one.”

You raise your eyebrows at that comment. “The standard of care for children under twelve years is different from that of adults. If that bothers you, feel free to take it up with the American Academy of Pediatrics, not me.”

“Oh, sure. I’ll get on that email right after this one,” She volleys back, returning her attention to the screen in front of her, mostly just to annoy you. 

You’re quiet for a moment, and then huff, hands on your hips. “You’re only making this situation more difficult for both of us by being antagonistic, Walsh.”

She holds your gaze for a long moment. “Fine,” she sighs, leaning back in her office chair. “OR-2 is booked in an hour for the procedure. You can observe, but you’re hands-off.”

You throw the aforementioned hands up in mock surrender. “As long as he doesn’t crash, that’s fine by me. It’s your show, superstar.”

She cocks her head to the side in a way you know by now is her preparing for a targeted remark. “Glad to hear it, sunshine. Now go glare at someone else.”

You raise your eyebrows at that comment, tucking your tablet under your arm. “Really?”

“What?” She replies, grinning a little at the indignant blush on your cheeks. “It suits you. You don’t think you’re…” she gestures in your general direction, encompassing your cartoon character scrubs, your “Doctor Silly Goose” stethoscope charm, and overall general demeanour that made no secret of your specialty. “Sunny?”

You roll your eyes and turn on your heel. “I’ll see you in an hour.”

“Byeeee,” she calls after you, returning to typing her strongly-worded email. “Sunshine,” she adds under her breath as the office door closes. 

She has about ninety seconds of quiet before the door opens again and Yolanda enters, dropping onto the stool beside her. Emery looks at her sideways and surmises she ran into you in the hall from her expression.

“Don’t,” Emery mutters. Yolanda doesn’t listen.

“Looks like you ruffled the feathers of our friend in the PICU,” she announces, shit-eating grin barely suppressed on her face. Emery loves Yolanda as a friend, residency partner, and colleague, but she had known her too long to believe that suggesting you as the pediatrics consultant was unintentional.

“What did you do this time?” she probes, and Emery sighs.

“Nothing. I called her sunshine. She took offence.” 

“Did she take offence, or were you being intentionally offensive?” Her friend counters. 

Emery pauses typing. “Both?”

Yolanda laughs into her palm. “What is it about her that’s so hard for you to deal with?”

Emery sighs, presses send on the rebuke to bed control, and swivels in her seat to face the other woman.

“She’s some sort of ingenue who seems to eat rainbows and shit unicorns, and she’s foistered into my OR at least twice a week, since the powers that be decided that all pediatric surgeries needed direct PICU oversight even though we managed just fine before.” She explains with an exasperated sweep of her hands.

“That’s the rule for all of the university hospitals,” Yolanda points out, “Not just you, hot-shot.” 

“And I’m sure they just love the intrusion at the other hospitals, too. Look, we just grate on each other, I don’t know.” 

Emery gets up from her seat and makes for the office door, deciding to review the file for the upcoming procedure elsewhere. Yolanda clears her throat.

“Well, maybe you two need to work this out in a broom closet somewhere.”

Emery turns back. “What the fuck does that mean?”

Yolanda spins absently on her stool, shrugging. “I don’t know, what do you think it means? Maybe you need to work out some frustration together.”

Emery raises an eyebrow. “Right. You know most of us don’t fuck our junior co-workers, right? It’s kind of an HR violation?”

“One, Trinity and I are in different department payrolls. She’s not technically my junior. Two, neither are the two of you. Plus, if it makes you two easier to work with, I think the ethical piece evens out,” Yolanda smirks, enjoying the way Emery’s cheeks have gone red with an ill-concealed blush.

Emery mutters something under her breath and leaves to prep for the case.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

After scrubbing in for the procedure, Emery has to give you the tiniest amount of credit for changing into standard surgical scrubs before showing up to the OR. When she shoulders her way into the room, last of all the present staff, sterilized and prepared to proceed, she decides to seize on it.

“What, no cartoon dogs for your little excursion?” She asks, cocking her head.

Even with the scrub cap, mask, protective glasses and surgical apron, the effect of your glare isn’t lost in translation. “You know, bloody versions of kids’ favourite characters don’t really play well in PICU.”

Emery huffs a short laugh and then forgoes speaking to you entirely for a while. These sorts of procedures - stable patient, no massive blood loss, just bones in the wrong places - are like a zen exercise for her at this point in her career. Her operating room music of choice for today is the Brat album on loop, which she hums along to under her breath as she works.

For all intents and purposes, you stand there and watch - which is how she prefers it. 

The whole show is over in less than ninety minutes, and your greatest contribution is to give the outgoing hospital porter verbal directions for where to take the patient, while she dictates notes on the procedure to finalize in charting later. 

By the time the two of you filter into the surgical locker room to change out of your contaminated procedure scrubs, you’re the only ones there. As Emery watches you enter the combination of the locker in her peripheral view, she opens her mouth. She can’t help it; it’s like pressing on a bruise.

“Was it everything you dreamed of?” 

You bristle and look at her, reaching into your locker. “Excuse me?”

“Watching the procedure. Observing. Ensuring I didn’t slip up on some minute, semantic piece of pediatric-surgical overlap. Was it fun?” She elaborates in a deadpan tone.

You scoff and busy yourself pulling out your original scrubs and setting them on the bench beside you.

“Is it fun for you to be so unpleasant? That’s my question.” You return.

Emery rolls her eyes, untying her scrub cap and discarding it in the dirty linens box beside the bench. “My job doesn’t require me to be Miss Congeniality.”

“Well, thank God you’re a surgeon,” you laugh harshly, “Or your bedside manner would have gotten you fired by now.”

She turns on her heel, prepared to reply with ‘Remind me, which one of us is tenured?’ when she realizes that you are entirely topless.

She feels her face grow hot, and she looks away, silently thankful you were facing away while removing your sports bra. But something on your shoulderblade draws her attention back, and she tentatively peers sidelong at it.

There, inscribed on your shoulderblade, just below the indent from the elastic of your sports bra, is a phrase in a very familiar language. 

תיקון עולם.

Tikkun olam. 

She averts her gaze again, hastily undressing and redressing as she catalogues this information for later. 

When you’re re-outfitted in your Bluey scrubs, call over your shoulder on the way out, “I’ll see you on the next one.”

“Yeah,” Emery mutters to the now-empty room. “Sure.”

“Watch it,” you say as you scoop a latke out of the pan and transfer it to the tray on the breakfast bar behind you.

You had desperately wanted to use the schmaltz, but Steven was going to be having some tomorrow, so avocado oil was going to have to do.

You were so glad Marc, Steven and Jake were celebrating with you this year. When you’d started dating, you had been so excited to learn he was not just Jewish, but religiously Jewish, that you had someone to share the culture and learn more traditions from. 

But then Marc had said he didn’t really celebrate any holidays. Steven did, but only really by himself. And Jake sort of observed the day but didn’t really engage much. Only Steven had been excited about spending Passover and Sukkot and Purim and Hannukah and any of the other days with you, Jake had been neutral, just if you wanted to, and Marc had needed some convincing. 

“Back the truck up out of the kitchen, Spector.” You say as you return to the stove, patting his shoulder blade. 

Marc murmurs a couple somethings as he sucks his finger and you just make out the word mom among it. 

Before you can ask, the lights flicker, you both look up, and as you plop two more spoonfuls of potato mixture into the pan, they go out completely.  

“The hell?” Marc walks over and digs around in the large desk drawer by the entrance and sets a bulky flashlight handle-down on the counter, flipping it on. It isn’t too dark yet, the apartment has several large windows, just enough to illuminate the space, but that’s fading fast towards sunset. 

So is the heat of the stove. The fizzling of the pan dies down. 

“Power must’ve gone out.” You murmur as you pull back the kitchen window curtain, letting just the last of the day’s overcast light in. 

“Can you still finish the latkes?” Marc asks. 

“No, it’s an electric stove.”

“Shit that’s right.”

“Let’s just light the candles.” You say, switching off the unpowered stove and moving the pan to the back eye. 

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.” 

You both head to the prayer table before Marc pauses behind you. 

“Wait, I don’t have my uh…” Marc gestures, then turns on his heels, strides over and disappears behind the curtained area beside the bed. 

You pull out the candles and lighter and wait. The deep tones of sun deepen, lengthening across the hardwood floor. 

You lean against the wall and sigh heavily out of your nose before pushing off and joining Marc in the makeshift bedroom. 

Marc fiddles with his kippah in front of the mirror, eyes unfocused. He looks like he’s trying to solve for X in an algebra problem he only knows a third of the variables for. 

Like if he could just find one it would all make sense. But it’s not just one thing. 

You offer your hand and he sighs and lets you adjust it, smooth back his curls and clip it in place. 

“It looks really good on you.” You say. 

“You think so?” 

“Yeah.” 

He nods, eyes fixed down. “I haven’t worn it since…” the corner of his lip pulls out. It’s a tick you’ve noticed he gets when Steven is close to the front, when what Marc’s feeling gets into the realm of overwhelming. “It’s just been a long time.” 

You nod and trace your fingers along the chain of his Star of David necklace down to his chest. You don’t need him to explain for you to get why this may all feel a little uncomfortable. 

“Thank you for doing it.” 

He pushes a smile and lets his forehead brush yours. 

“For sure.” He murmurs. 

You sit at the table as Marc brings the menorah over, lights the shamas and blows out the match, then lights the first candle. 

The candlelight dances beautifully across his fair brown skin as the flame flickers and finds its hold down the wick, starting to melt the sparkly gray-blue wax. He adjusts it so it’s in view of the window, then sits beside you. 

“Happy Hannukah baby.” You say. 

“Happy Hannukah sweetie.” He takes your hand. 

“Sorry the frickin’ lights went out for some reason.” He shakes his head, rubbing his thumb over your knuckles. 

“It’s alright. I’m not gonna let this,” you flick your eyes up to the darkened lights. “Ruin it.”

“I’m sure it’ll be back on by tomorrow. I’ll call the landlord.”

Marc called the landlord. The power was not back on tomorrow.

“I’m sorry, this is too ironic it actually isn’t funny.” Marc sighs as he unscrews the last lightbulb in the apartment and replaces it with a fresh one. 

The power had been back on, for about two hours, you had finished all the latkes and gotten all the stuff from the fridge into a cooler. 

And then something in the utility room had blown up. 

Not a fiery movie explosion, no, but there had been a bang and a big black burn in the wall and fire department and utility services in and out of the complex the entire day. 

Oh, and half the lights in the building and some of the appliances too had burned out. From possibly the only kind bone in your landlord’s body, he had paid for and supplied replacement bulbs. Though not Steven’s TV, Jake’s record player, or the dishwasher. 

“Maybe give it a few years.” You try to lighten a little. 

“What, till the power’s back?” Marc replies dryly but you catch a hint of a smile on his face. 

“Yeah, that.” You chuckle, and it’s quiet for a moment. 

“Hey Marc?” You say carefully, knowing that your stepping somewhere very delicate and heavily guarded, and expecting resistance. 

“Yeah, what?” 

“What’s that you said last night? About your… mom?” 

Marc freezes in place, like a rabbit in the middle of a field. He glances at you and then looks back at what he’s doing. Shaking his head, he shrugs and resumes with forced casualness. 

“Nothin’.” He drawls. “You mis’eard me.” 

You frown. That was Marc’s complete textbook dismissal. His accent even got thicker. He’s seriously not going to tell you. 

Marc climbs down off the stepladder, brushing off his hands. 

“Right, that’s the last one.” He says, tossing the useless bulb into a paper bag with the others and into the trash. 

“Sweet.” You say, doing your best to put aside whatever it is he’s got going on for later. It’s already well past noon. “Whenever you’re ready to tap out.” Marc chuckles and a moment later Steven joins you by the couch. 

You had decided to alternate the days, so you could cover all the activities you wanted to do with the three of them. Steven had done the shopping with you a little before, so he was fine only getting two, especially since they were for sure going to mix it up anyway and you all really wanted to be there for the last day with all the candles lit. 

Although only Marc would be lighting the shamas, because he was the oldest. That had been a long fight mostly between Steven and Jake who by the end actually figured out they were in complete agreement (“So wait you do think he’s the oldest?” “Sí compañero. All I said was I was older than you.” “…oh.”). 

“What’s on the list hon?” You ask, sitting back, tucking your legs up. 

He fixes his reading glasses onto his nose and hums. 

“Well, we’ve got the latkes, Jake’s gonna be doing the readin’ with you… Oh shit!” He exclaims. 

“What! What is it?” 

“I was going to bake challah!” He laments, groaning and flopping sadly into the couch, tossing his list to the side table and tugging his glasses off. 

“Oh… We could get some.” You offer, pulling his leg into your lap and rubbing his calf, trying not to feel too disappointed on his behalf. Steven had really been looking forward to it, and you hadn’t had any since you were a kid. 

“I’m sure there’s someplace that’s still got some.” You say. 

“‘S not the same…!” He groans. 

“Hey, maybe we’ll get power back soon and we’ll still have time.” 

“Yeah, and maybe we’ll magically get a new working TV. Those guys wouldn’t even give us an estimate…” Steven sluggishly slides down the armrest like a deflated air balloon down a hill, bending his legs out of your lap, and you hear something crack. He quickly sits up. 

“Oh, Steven, I’m sorry.” You say when you see it. 

Steven picks up his reading glasses from the couch cushions. He looks as crushed as they are. 

”You wanna play dreidel?” You say, trying to turn around what has been becoming ome of the worst weeks ever, just one thing after another. 

A beat. Steven sighs and rubs his nose. “Yeah. Yeah I’d really like that.” 

Twenty minutes later and you’ve lost so much. 

“I win!” Steven shouts, counting out half the pot and sliding it to the pile on front of him. 

“Cheating!” You cry. “It’s three against one, when any of you win you get gelt.” Your frustration is only slightly exaggerated. This was not a skill based game and yet Steven had the benefit of higher chance, and being super cute, which was distracting you. 

Steven unwraps his thirtieth chocolate coin of the evening and pops it in his mouth, shaking his head. “No, s’not how it works.”

”Oh yeah it is.” You say, picking your dreidel back up and crossing your fingers, taking a deep breath and giving it your best spin. 

“No see, there’s three piles, that one Jake’s, and that one’s Marc’s, I’m not eating any of theirs.” 

You knew for a fact that was a lie,  he was sneaking a coin or two from when he thought you weren’t looking, and from that little Steven smile in his eyes he was not completely switched when Marc or Jake had any. Was it silly? Yeah. It was also a kids’ game. You could be a little silly about it.  

Shin. You toss a coin back into the pot and rest your chin on your palm, puffing. 

“I’ll tell you what, I’ll make it fair, Marc and Jake aren’t that into it, we’ll just take the one turn for all of us from now on, I’ll go on ahead an’ add their piles to mine—” 

“You. Little. Chocolate fiend!” You sit up and swat at his hand with the empty gelt bag. 

Steven giggles as you settle back into your seat, picking your dreidel up off the floor and respinning. As it does he rears up and sneezes harshly into his elbow.

“You alright?” You ask, looking up from where your dreidel stubbornly clatters to Nun yet again. 

“Yeah-yeah, I’m aces.” He assures, sniffling. He spins his and tosses one of his coins back into the pot. 

“Your go.” He says. 

“Oh wait, you were serious?” You say. 

“Yeah, only you and I really want to play.” 

He sneezes again, much higher and harder this time. It distracts from your upset at learning Marc and Jake don’t really care about the game. You had thought you were all having a good time. 

“Steven, you look pale.” You frown. 

“Love, I’m really—” 

You reach across the table and press the back of your hand to his forehead, confirming exactly what you were thinking from his flush to his slouch.

“Steven, you’ve got a fever!” 

“Do I? I mean, maybe a little one, feels a little warm…”

“Steven!” 

“Look, I’ll take an ibuprofen, it’ll probably go away, I’m fine, I want to keep playing.” 

“You're joking, right?” You stand and round the table to Steven’s side, pulling him up. 

“Aw, love…” he protests but you can already tell it’s worse than he’s letting on by how halfheartedly he pushes back. 

“A metric ton of chocolate was not a good idea right now.” You chide as you plop him at the tiny dining table and go to grab a washcloth and thermometer from the bathroom. 

You set the cool cloth to the back of his neck and stick the thermometer under his tongue. It beeps after a few moments and you pull it out. 101°. 

“Oh my God…” 

“What? What is it?” 

“I’m surprised you can stand. Come on, let’s get some takeout and you under some blankets.” 

You do just that and get him into some snug pajamas.

“‘M really sorry.” He says. “Everything about this has been really ruined.” 

“It’s not ruined, we just started, it’s okay.” 

“Yeah… we’ve still got seven days.” 

“Steven, the day before yesterday was the first day, yesterday was the second, and after today, it’s just five days left.” 

“Oh. Right. I’m sorry, all my brain cells ‘ave stopped working.” 

“You mean all one of them?” 

“Oh, very funny. That’s funny, that. I’m laughin’.” He coughs and gags a little. 

“You need to throw up?” You ask, picking the empty bucket up off the floor. He shakes his head. 

“No I think I got all the chocolate up.” 

“Good.” You say, setting the bucket back down. “You sleep well, aight?” 

“I’m gonna try.” 

You give him a kiss on the temple and shut out the battery powered lamp. 

The next day isn’t any better. There’s a draft in the apartment from where the utility company replaced some fuses in the wall, having cut sections out of the wood leaving exposed fiberglass (anywhere else in the building there wouldn’t have been, but the attic was wired like absolute shit from the start), and Steven, Marc, and Jake are completely sick. 

You spend the day convincing them they are. 

“Steven if you aren’t below a hundred within the next few hours, or you throw up again, we’re taking you to the hospital.” You wipe off the thermometer and dump it into the little sick day toddy you’ve put together. 

“I do not want to spend our first Hannukah together in the hospital…” Steven groans. 

“I know, but this is not good, okay? Just try and rest, damnit.” He gives the poutiest tear shiny brown eyes but you tuck him in and curl up into his side. 

”You won’t, okay? But you have to rest.” 

“Rest, yeah; I can do that.” 

You trust that he can, just that he really doesn’t want to, and that will undoubtedly make it hard.

“I really wanted to be able to for you. With you. I’m really sorry we had to get sick right at the start of it.” 

You smile. “Not you’re fault. They’ll be other times if this doesn’t work out.”

Before you know it it’s day four, and you aren’t anymore on track. 

“Mierda, querida, what the hell is this?” 

You’re shyest and most extroverted boyfriend stumbles into the kitchen well after noon the next morning. 

“Oh, hey handsome, you guys are sick. I think you picked up more than just potatoes at the grocery store last week.” 

“Dios.” Jake rubs his head. “That doesn’t seem fair.” He murmurs. 

“You want some coffee?” You ask. “It’s instant, but…” 

“Sí,” his eyelids look heavy. “That sounds really good.” 

You fill it mostly with milk, how Jake likes it anyway, but doubly because it probably isn’t going to feel too good on his stomach otherwise. 

He takes a long sip and hums, then coughs. As he attempts to speak only sets him into a round of harsh coughs that ends with him bent over the sink spitting long whitish strings of mucus into the drain. 

He stands up straight and you take your hand off his back. 

“My throat…” he rasps, clearing it with little change to his voice. “I was going to read to you.” 

Jake was the best at Hebrew. Marc stumbled over most of it and Steven read super slow. You also hadn’t gotten a chance to replace his reading glasses. 

“I know, don’t worry about it. We still can, just not out loud, maybe?” 

“That sorta defeats tha whole point.” 

“Or I could read to you.” You offer but he blows an unenthusiastic breath out and lets his head fall back, then to the side, shifting around the packed sensation in his nose and ears, trying to find where it goes away. 

“I don’t think I’ve been sick before.” 

You make some instant oatmeal while you try to grapple with the idea Jake fronts so little he’s literally never been sick, and you join him at the low table past the fish tank. 

Jake tries the coffee again, and is set into a fit of coughs again. 

“Maybe skip the coffee…” you suggest. 

Jake sighs but accepts when you hand him the tea you made with the kettleful borrowed from the neighbor below you across the hall who has a rechargeable battery. It has enough lemon in it to disinfect. Hopefully. 

Jake finishes breakfast with you and tries to stand to join clearing up, and quickly grab his arm to stabilize him. He sneezes hard and sways a little, his ears ringing, rubbing his forehead with watery eyes. 

“Siento,” he murmurs. “But this blows. I’m out.” 

“Hey wait—” but it’s already Marc looking back at you. 

“‘Wait’ what?” He asks, coughing and leaning to pick a napkin from the box at the foot of the bed, blowing his nose into it. 

“Nevermind.” You sigh, grabbing the towel to ring out and desaturate with the coolest water you can get from the tap. 

You share some cold latkes for dinner, and Steven uses you as a hot water bottle most of the night. 

Their symptoms get better, but Marc seems to get worse. He keeps apologizing and acting very distraught at the idea they may be sick through the entire rest of the holiday, tiring them out trying to insist he’s all better and can walk around. 

It’s maddening. If he would rest up they might get well enough for the last day or two, but it’s like he’s subconsciously sabotaging that. 

Of course, he doesn’t want to get into anything about anything. If he doesn’t talk about it, maybe to him it isn’t happening. You don’t know. 

It’s the last day. Time has just been disappearing. You haven’t been lighting the candles at all. 

You spread some butter and honey on some store bought challah you picked up the day before and bring it on a plate on a tray over to where Marc is curled up in a bean bag beside the bed, wrapped in a half dozen blankets. 

You sit in front of him, crossing your legs and taking a big bite of your piece. 

It’s not bad, just kind of stale with an odd aftertaste. The butter definitely helps. 

Marc chews slowly, looking a little delirious. 

“Did I seriously tell you it was nothing the other day?” He says. 

You nod, not fully trusting yourself to not sound snarky. 

Marc groans and shakes his head. 

“I’m sorry, that was shitty.” he sighs. 

“When I was maybe fourteen,” he starts slow, like he has to dig hard for every word. “My mom was really drunk, but she said it was Hannukah, so she was making latkes. And she did. And they were really good. And I dunno. She had this thing about no one being around her in the kitchen, like you do, and though she did she never had to tell me. I steered clear even if she wasn’t cooking. Especially if my dad wasn’t home. It was just safer that way. But… she actually celebrated with my dad and I that year. She sang with us, everything.” He inhales harshly. “It was so nice.” 

His face pinches and his hands grip the mug between them even harder. You gently put your hand over his wrist. 

“It just makes me mad now, knowing that she could have been like that all the time.” His voice breaks and he inhales with some difficulty still so congested. 

“I needed my mom.” He says softly. “I needed this, to feel good, to be okay. I needed this and I never got it and I sort of just accepted I wasn’t ever going to get it. I thought I didn’t deserve it.” 

Tears are streaming down his face. There’s so much anger and hurt and just plain pain in his features, he looks like you imagine that child did for so long. 

He closes his eyes. “And now it’s all frickin’ messed up.” 

“Hey,“ you say, adjusting to your knees. “It’s not messed up. It’s…” You glance around at the dark room, the discarded tissues and towels and cups. “Okay, it is messed up, but you didn’t mess it up. Stuff just happened, and we didn’t have a good backup plan, but you know I…” you pause, you know what you want to say, you aren’t sure if you should say it. 

“Your mom messed it up. We had to work so hard to even celebrate because she failed you. I adore Hannukah. Almost as much as I adore you.” 

Marc wiped his eyes with the bottom of his palm and sat up a little, looking up at you. “You know I didn’t thinking dating a Jewish woman would mean so much to me, but it does. You mean so much to me.” 

You hadn’t grown up kosher, your family didn’t go to temple, you couldn't read a word of Hebrew, only knew chag semeach, Shabbat shalom, mazel tov. Even with your one mom being raised Jewish herself, for whatever reason, she didn’t pass much of that on to you. 

Hearing from Marc, someone undeniably Jewish from his curls to the menzuzah at his door that you had helped him reconnect with not only his Jewishness, but his faith as a whole? It was a lot. And you had just wanted to light some candles and play dreidel. 

You don’t think anyone’s ever called you a Jewish woman. 

You wipe your face with your arm, steadying your breathing. “Thank you, Marc. You mean a lot to me too.” 

“Okay,” Marc sniffs with a grunt of finality. “I’m good now.” 

“You’re good?” 

“Yeah. Wow. I feel a lot better.”

You only just manage not to laugh.

“Let’s light the last candle already.” 

Their hand is a little clammy. You let them rest their head on your shoulder and watch the full menorah burn out under the still darkened lights. 

As the last few wick embers are giving their last, the fresh bulbs fizz on and brighten the whole room. 

Marc laughs a little shrilly and grips you in a tight hug. He pulls back when you sneeze harshly over his shoulder, rubbing between your eyes. 

“…shit.” You say together. 

Challatta nonsense, but worth it.

-Twenty Years Ago-

“And remember never take it off.” I looked at my mother as she tied the thin red string around my left wrist. “It will fall off when you have found the one.”  

I looked at the string. It was red, my mother had said as much but it just looked dark grey to me. “But won’t I see color.” I looked at her. It was a rare way of finding your soulmate, not seeing colors. From what I had overheard, no one in my family had ever been born this way.

She smiled and stroked my curls back. “Then wear it for protection from evil.” She kissed my forehead before getting up and going back to her craft room.

I looked at the string again and played with the small charms on it. One a Hamsa and the other a crescent moon. I looked at the knot and noticed it was made to grow with me but not slip off.

-Fifteen Years Ago-

It’s for protection from evil.  

I sat in the hospital playing with the charms. The doctors said I was fine. A few bruises from the seatbelt and a few scraps but nothing major. But no one wanted to tell me that my mom was gone, having suffered the blunt of the pick-up ramming into the side of our car.  

Drunk Driver

Dead before EMS

I sniffled and curled up hoping my dad would get here soon.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

-Present Day-

I twisted the charms on my bracelet as I waved down a taxi. I quickly climbed in before a familiar scent caught my attention.

“Now how is it you always find your way into my taxi, carino?”  Jake’s accent was a mix of the Spanish language he cursed in and the side-effect of growing up in New York.

“I wouldn’t know Jake, maybe just luck.” I smiled sitting back. “Home please.”  

He nodded his head, and I caught a glimpse of the green in his shirt. I chewed on my lower lip. Since meeting Jake, I could make out things people had told me were green and blue. Like the trees, the grass, my favorite dress apparently was a  mix between the two called teal.  

After first meeting Jake, I stood in front of my apartment and just stared at the sky. It was a clear light blue. I found myself grabbing anything I could tell the color of and putting it at the top of my drawers; in the side of the closest I opened the most.

I called my father in tears because it was the first time, I could see the true color of my own eyes. The colors everyone complimented.

But then it came crashing down when I realized Jake had to be my soulmate. But something was wrong. I could only see blue/green colors. I couldn’t see the other 80% of the rainbow. And the thin red bracelet my mother had placed on my wrist all those years ago was still snuggly set against my skin.

“What has you thinking so hard back there?” I shook my head and looked over to see him looking at me in the rearview mirror.

I chewed on my lower lip. “Have you ever heard of someone with the color blindness, only getting part of it back when they meet their soulmate?”  

Jake blinked at me before turning his sight back on the road. “Guess that explains why you don’t have marks on you.”  

I nodded. Jake didn’t talk about what marked him for his soulmate from what I had seen of his skin, I couldn’t see a name or symbol or even a phrase for first meetings.  

Having your soulmate’s name on you was the most common. Color blindness was the rarest, so rare there was little anyone who could teach me to help me find mine.

“You know you never told me what your mark is.” I said watching as his jaw ticked.

“You’ve never asked before.” His fingers twitched and I could tell he wanted to reach for a cigarette you usually smoke.  

“Well, I’m asking now.”  

Jake shook his head and sighed, “Color blindness.”  

“So, you couldn’t tell what color the dress was the day we meet?”  

He shook his head, “And to answer your first question; no, I don’t know what it means if you only get some color back.”  

I looked back out the window. “Maybe I have more than one soulmate.” Or maybe I’m messed up from the car crash. I squeezed my eyes shut at that thought.  

“It’s a possibility.” I felt the car slow as Jake stopped in front of my building.  

“Maybe.” I went to pull out the money to pay him before he put his hand over mine.

“Don’t worry about it Carino.” The corner of his mouth ticked up.

I smiled and kissed his cheek. “You are such a mensch.” I felt his eyes on me as I got out of the car and walked up the steps.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“No Jake, there’s no possible way.” Marc said in the mindscape as Jake parked the taxi.

“Hey, how else do you want to explain us seeing green and blue shades, Spector?” Jake got out and walked towards the apartment building.  

After a few strings between contacts, Steven was able to get a research job which meant Marc and Jake got to pick home base.

Jake’s choice of New York had won.  And within the first month, he had met her.  

Curly hair and smooth skin. A smile that brought the stars for a day. And she brought him latkes over the holiday season, clocking him much easier than he clocked her.  

Steven wanted to meet her, but Jake’s protectiveness prevented it. He just didn’t know if it was to protect the system or her.  

“I think it would be quite nice to have a soulmate.” Steven mused.

Jake had to hand it to Steven, he made it seem like a dream come true. And even though Jake wasn’t as terrified or reserved as Marc, he was worried about putting her in danger.  

“No, it’s not nice. It’s a danger.” Even Jake could hear the self-doubt in Marc’s tone.  

“Doesn’t matter.” Jake said as he walked into the apartment. “No one but me, sees her.”  

Jake sighed as he took in all the green around the apartment. He truly never realized how many plants Steven had.  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I walked down the street. Photo day was always interesting. It always amazed me how many people would pay for historical photos from New York. As I looked over the last few photos I had taken, I bumped shoulders with someone.  

“Oh, I’m so...” I looked at the person. “Sorry. Jake?”  

He looked like Jake, but he didn’t wear a flat cap or facial hair. His shoulders also seemed to curve a little.  

“oh uh...” He began to stumble over his words before looking around and pulling me away from the crowd.

“Jake, what is it?” I blinked a few times and realized the brink wall behind him was now something other than grey. When I placed my hand on his chest, I could see the red string exactly as it should be seen. “Jake?” I looked at him but found his attention had moved to the space around us.

“Bloody hell.” I stepped back from the man who looked like Jake.

“W-who are you?”  

He looked back at me and quickly took my hand. “It’s okay, I’m not gonna hurt you.” The British accent threw me but his thumb rubbed against my hand in soothing circles.

I took a deep breath and looked at him. “Please explain.”

He nodded and gulped. “My name is Steven Grant. Jake Lockley, the man you’ve been meeting is an alter.”

I blinked at him, “You have DID.”

He tilted his head, “How..?”

“I took psychology in college, stuck with it for a while. Didn’t understand why it interested me so much.” My voice got quiet as I took in the deep red of his shirt before setting my hand against his chest. “Guess I know why now.”  

Steven set his hands over mine. “Jake is very protective, he wouldn’t let... me meet you when I first asked.”  

I could tell the ‘me’ was supposed to be plural but for now I would let it go. I smiled lightly and nodded my head. “Yea I get that vibe from him.” I giggled a little as his thumb brushed against my red thread.  

“Could I buy you tea,” Steven smiled. “Or coffee. I know American’s prefer coffee; Jake certainly makes sure I remember.”  

I couldn’t help laughing. “I would like that very much.”  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Steven was completely different from Jake. He had thrown himself into being around me. He even took me on dates. Though Jake had started to loosen up, having me sit up front when he drove me places. Keeping his hand on my knee as he drove.  

Though I felt they were both still keeping something from me. Or someone. There were still colors I couldn’t make out, some were dull.  

It was when Jake finally invited me to their apartment that I realized there was someone else.

“So it’s not just you and Steven?” I asked looking over a notebook that had writing in it that didn’t match Steven’s clean script or Jake’s messy quick writing.  

“How long have you known?” I felt Jake behind me before his arms encircled my waist.

“Since I met Steven. He was hesitant on the ‘me’ part when he explained you didn’t want them to meet me.” I ran my finger over the writing. “He must be military. The way he writes.”

“He was, didn’t last long.” Jake’s grip tightened around me holding me against him.

“I can imagine.” I closed the journal and turned in Jake’s arms. “I would really like to meet him.”

“That last little bit of color bothering you as well?”  

I nodded my head and buried my face into his chest. “It’s so annoying.”

Jake chuckled and kissed my head. “Steven and I will talk with him later and see if we can convince him.”

“Okay.” I looked up at him, “Can I know his name?”

Deborah invited you both to dinner with her and the boys before you were due to return to school, a proper send off and a reason to get together under happier circumstances. She asked Frank if he could give Jacob and his younger brother Adam a ride back to her place, and he happily agreed before realizing that your private drive would not be so private anymore. 

Frank was a simple man, and the moment he allowed himself to look at you the way he wanted to, he was unable to stop. The cleavage of your dress underneath your coat, and the deep berry of your lips drew his attention instantly. 

His breath hitched for a second when you climbed into his truck, trying your best to act 'normal' as you sat next to Adam in the back. Frank wished you could sit next to him. Your scent was fresh and sweet, hair still damp from the shower, bringing back memories that caused his cock to twitch with interest.

The drive was mostly silent, He made a point to keep his eyes strictly on the road, only glancing in the back mirror once…or twice. 

You pulled your phone out of your purse and that’s when you saw it.

You understood why he would not look at you, why he barely returned your quick "hey" as you entered the car and hasn't said a word to you since. You both knew you'd have to be careful around your family, and there was no need to talk about it as the silent agreement seemed obvious. You wondered if anyone would see something nonetheless. 

18:06 Frank

Deb asked me to pick up Jacob and Adam too.

Straight to the point. Not even a sad little emoji.

This thing between the two of you was still fragile and undefined, so just for that night you'd have to put it aside and let it be. You were surprised that the dull ache that was always present when you were around him was still there. There was still something intangible about him, not for you to discover. 

He sat across the table from you but his eyes avoided you, as if looking at you would turn him into stone.

Was he afraid that what you shared would be written all over his face as soon as he did?

You were afraid of it too, but found it harder to control yourself, sneaking cautious looks, only to find his eyes pointing elsewhere.

The air of uncertainty hovered heavily above you, raising question mark after question mark. Your thoughts raced, worrying that his doubts were far from doused. Whatever stopped him all those times must've still haunted him. Everything changed since then, but the basic facts remained the same. You still needed to hide this from everyone else.

You wished you could talk to him, although you weren’t sure what you’d say. He didn’t owe you anything, no explanations, no excuses. You couldn’t help but ask yourself which version of him will you encounter the next time you're alone.

Frank did his best to keep his face neutral and disinterested, but he was amazed again, at how sharp and motivated you are. You spoke with confidence, poise, like you had everything figured out. When he tried to remember himself at that age, he had no idea what he was doing, not even a clue. 

Most of dinner was spent in pleasant conversation. Deborah was somehow able to lighten everyone's mood, set aside the passing of your father to talk about future plans and hopes. 

You spoke about college and your plans for after. You were hoping that your GPA would allow you to continue to a masters in psychology, which would eventually allow you to practice. 

You've recited this 'speech' many times during the shiva, repeating it to every nosy relative and family friend, but this time Frank was listening. You secretly hoped he'd be impressed, that you sounded mature and goal driven and responsible.

She's so young He was reminded again.

*********

He was constantly acutely aware of you, willing his eyes to focus on anything else, training his features, controlling his movements. It felt like a never-ending game of poker he was bound to lose. 

You were making it impossible. Licking that spoon, tossing your hair to the side, exposing your neck, taunting him with each move you made. It would have been considered cruel if you were doing it on purpose. 

Closing the bathroom door behind yourself, you let out a breathy sigh of relief, finally not having to school your expression and be hyper aware of your every word. Is this what family dinners are going to look like from now on, always having to navigate the minefield that is Frank Castle? 

You missed his smile, his genuine softness that peeked through his exterior when he was playful and relaxed, the creases around his eyes and the warmth he radiated when he knew you were the only one able to see him.

"You got a little bit of 'shmutz' there" you remarked playfully as you were eating french toast in your dad's kitchen, still not fully clothed after fucking on the table.

You gingerly wiped the maple syrup with your finger and put it in your mouth. 

"That's some Jewish flirtin' " he said and chuckled warmly.

Was that just a small glimpse you got before he was inevitably going to take it all away?

You wondered if that memory will turn sour, like many others before it, like a word you keep repeating in your head until it loses its meaning.

You took a deep breath before heading back outside, back to his avoidant eyes and blank expression. 

You stepped out into the corridor, about to head back into the living room, when you almost collided with his broad frame. Startled, you gasped, laying a hand on his chest. He was warm and solid.

“Sorry” you muttered.

********

Frank's features softened, as his gaze lingered from your eyes to your lips.

“S’ok” he replied, with the faintest little smirk, before going into the bathroom and closing the door behind himself. 

Dinner was finally over, pleasantries all exchanged, and the evening was drawing to a much anticipated end.

Relief and doubt mixed in your belly as you climbed into Frank’s truck at the end of the night. He began the silent drive back and you opted to look out of the window, your vision blurred, mesmerized by the fleeting light of each lamp post you passed. You allowed the rhythm to hypnotize you, to deflect your consciousness away from his gravitational pull. 

“You ok?” the grave voice asked, drawing you right back.

“Mhm” you smiled back faintly, fighting the need to turn your head towards him.

The both of you remained quiet, and you wondered if fucking him will always be easier than talking to him. Somehow being naked in front of him seemed less vulnerable than asking him the questions you wanted to. You dreaded his reply, it was scarier than not knowing.

You wished your brain would stop, for one fucking moment. But the volume of your insistent internal dialogue only seemed to increase.

Will he touch me?

Will he invite me back to his place?

Will he say it was all a mistake and never speak to me about it again?

SHUT UP.

And then his heavy palm rested on your thigh. It’s warmth soothing and quieting the noise.

“Thanks for the ride, have a good night” you said sheepishly as you stood next to him in his driveway. 

The quick realization of just how much trouble you're in with this man came soon after.

Yes you’ve fucked, but you were still just as desperate for him.

Fuck, I wish he would sto..

“And where do you think you’re goin'?” He asked, tilting his head in curiosity

“I…um…Did you want me to come in?” Your voice was even quieter than before.

“Only if you wanna.." He sounded almost surprised that it wasn’t obvious.

“I do” you bit back a smile of relief.

You sat on the couch next to him, keeping your hands in your lap, your mouth open as if you wanted to speak, but no words were coming out, mouth dry and pulse thumping. 

"You nervous Han?"

The question took you by surprise, was it really that obvious? 

"Yeah" you nodded, heat rising to your cheeks.

"I'm makin' you nervous?" he tilted his head. Raising his brows in surprise.

"All the time" you chuckled, taken aback by your own honesty.

His hand came to rest on your cheek, thumb gently grazing your mouth. You averted your gaze to the floor, unable to meet his eyes.

“Don’t be nervous, s’ok baby” 

He leaned closer now, so close you could feel his breath on your face, and warmth spread like wildfire from your chest to your abdomen and settled between your thighs.

“Can I kiss you?” He asked, almost whispering.

You nodded, fluttering your eyes shut.

He was almost as gentle as the first time you kissed, careful strokes, deepening slowly. You whimpered with relief, allowing his tongue access into your mouth.

Your arms wrapped around the nape of his neck as he grabbed your waist and pulled you closer, flush against his big solid frame.

It overwhelmed you, the immediate effect of his proximity, his kiss.

Your body responded instantaneously, effortlessly, arousal gathering between your thighs, heat crawling under your skin. 

This time you didn’t fight the urge to straddle his hips. You settled in his lap and you both let out a soft moan when you rubbed against his clothed cock, the seam of his jeans pressing exquisitely onto your core. You deepened the kiss, moaning into his mouth, as his palms caressed your legs, skimming past the edge of your dress and sliding towards your center.

His thumbs grazed the crease of your belly, gently stroking the sensitive flesh of your inner thighs through the sheer fabric of your tights. 

“waited all fucking night for this baby” he rasped, cascading open mouthed kisses down your neck.

The contrast between your adorable shyness and the ease with which you melted against him the moment he’d touch you never failed to make him hard.

I’ve waited for fuckign years.

You pulled your dress over your head, anxious to feel his skin on yours. He did not resist when you bunched his sweater in your hands and began pulling it off as well, taking the t-shirt off with it. 

Your fingers skimmed the broadness of his shoulders and chest as he pulled back to look at you. Sliding his palms from your neck down the soft slope of your shoulders, gently pulling down the straps of your bra. He unclasped it with one motion, letting your breast spill out before tossing it into the pile on the floor with the rest of your clothes.

Messy hair, hooded eyes and parted lips. Beautiful and soft and pliant in his arms, Frank's eyes raked you, a gaze so intense it felt as if he was making up for all the moments he couldn’t look at you. 

“You’re fuckin’ gorgeous” He rasped, running hungry palms from your neck down to your breasts, before latching on with his mouth. 

A desperate want began building in your core, a need to taste him, to please him. You took his left hand and drew it closer to your lips. He watched through hooded lids as you slid his index and middle fingers into your mouth, sucking and swirling your slippery tongue around them. You bobbed your head, locking eyes with him and pumping the fingers in and out. He understood your silent request but wanted to hear you say it.

“Tell me what you need baby” 

You squirmed, drawing his fingers deeper. He smirked and released them from your lips with a pop.

“I…I..want you in my mouth” you mumbled quickly, averting your eyes down.

“Use your words” He commanded, albeit gently.

He could see you hesitating, shyness coloring your cheeks red. 

You were precious, so fucking sweet, and it made him impossibly harder.

“Come on now baby, whatta you need?”

There was a pause of silence, and you couldn't decipher the look in his eyes before he spoke.

”Get on your knees honey”

“Hands”. He commanded

You gulped and settled on the floor in front of him, knees on the throw pillow, heart pounding faster as you noticed a shift in Frank. A dominance flashed across his features, asking you to submit.

He stood tall above you and began slowly unclasping the buckle of his belt, pulling it out of the loops in one smooth motion that made your mouth water and your pussy throb.

It was barely tight enough, but you nodded.

You lifted your hands towards him and he carefully held both in one palm, wrapping the belt around them with the other. He gave you a reassuring look, pulling through the loop and tightening the brown leather around your wrists.

“You tell me if it’s too tight”

“If you say stop, we stop right away. Ok baby?” 

Watching him take control put you at ease, you trusted him to take you apart and put you back together again, gently and meticulously.

“OK” you replied eagerly.

You have decided, long before he ever touched you, that you will let him do anything to you, that you’d surrender fully and completely. 

"You done this before, baby?" He asked, eyes glazed with hunger.

Frank moved slowly, hiding the urgency that pulsed under his skin with the thought of your sweet mouth wrapped around his cock. He wanted to see you squirm with anticipation, maybe he wanted to hear you beg for it.

He opened the zipper of his jeans, leisurely pulling them down his legs. You gulped at the sight of his muscular thighs flexing. The outline of his hard cock pressed tightly against the thin fabric his boxer briefs, making your core clench. 

His palm came up to gently stroke your hair, as if giving you permission, and you instinctively nuzzled your cheek onto the thick length of him, testing Frank’s patience. You pressed your lips against him, through the thin fabric, following the outline of his perfect curve, drunk on him before even having a taste. He was warm and solid, pulsating with heat and want, and it made your mouth water.

You have, but it seemed that none of the other times even mattered, or counted. You bit your bottom lip and shook your head in mock innocence. 

"Fuck" he muttred, voice breathy and low, and you knew that's what he wanted to hear. As he pulled down his boxers, allowing his heavy length to spring free.

Quiet moans and gasps escaped his lips, and you listened intently to every strangled breath.

Frank carefully cupped the back of your head, letting his fingers entangle in your hair before gently pulling it back, exposing your delicate neck. He met no resistance and relished in your compliance, so eager to please him. He held the base of his cock with his other hand, slowly sliding the fat tip into your mouth, as the salty taste of precum hit your tongue. You let him in until he hit the back of your throat before wrapping your lips around him and gently sucking the heavy shaft.

Frank shuddered above you, exhaling sharply. 

He began to move slowly, eyes rolling back in pleasure, pushing his length deeper with each thrust. You bobbed your head to meet his movements, letting him set the pace.

״Eyes on me” he ordered, and you obeyed, looking at him through your lashes. His nostrils flared and jaw clenched as he watched his cock slide between your plush lips. 

“Atta girl, just like that..” he praised you in a soft voice, making you clench over nothing.

You could feel your arousal drip and pool in your center, soaking the fabric of your panties and tights, making you squeeze your thighs together. It was almost embarrassing, the way your body was set ablaze by the words of adoration spilling from his lips.

“Sweet girl" He caressed your face, rubbing his thumb on your aching jaw in soothing motions, while slowly fucking his cock into your mouth.

It was tender, and filthy, and you welcomed the pain of it all. The throb in your core that was getting unbearable, the ache in your legs folded beneath you, the strain on your jaw, the gag reflex that made tears sting the corners of your eyes, every bit of you that hurt with the effort. 

"Such a good girl..fuck..m’gonna cum in your pretty mouth" His voice was strained as his tempo intensified, eyes never leaving you. 

Frank's gaze was trained on your mouth, how his cock glistened with your spit, the wet streaks on your cheeks. Your little moans and gagging noises that he thought would make him slow down or stop, they were spurring him on, turning him almost cruel. 

You hollowed out your cheeks, making him stifle a loud moan. "Just like that..fuck just like that baby..fuh..shit..." he sensed the pressure build rapidly, each thrust bringing him closer to his release. Your mouth was sweet and warm and soft and the mere thought of being the first one to fuck it sent him over the edge. 

You could feel him twitch before he growled, spilling onto your tongue. The salty bitterness made you gag around him as his thrusts slowed down. 

He pulled out slowly, still half hard, dripping a mixture of cum and spit onto your bare tits. 

“You ok baby?” he asked, furrowing his brows in genuine concern. He reached out his hand, helping you stand back up on shaky legs.

"Swallow honey" he ordered again, his voice hoarse and wrecked.

He hummed in approval when you obeyed, still on your knees for him. 

“Yeah” you returned a dazed smile, pulling him back into your game.

“You did so good” His voice was lower now.

He swiped his pointer finger through a drop of cum on your chest, and you opened eagerly, sucking it dry.

“Now,” he continued, kissing your cheek tenderly and trailing his lips down your jaw

“You wanna stop or go on? Hm?” his voice dropped lower still, as he continued peppering kisses on your neck.

Frank knew how he wanted to play with you, what he wanted to pull out of you.

“Go on…I wanna go on” You replied ,as if you had any choice, as if you could ignore the painful throbbing of your cunt, the mess in your panties.

“C’mere” He took your tied hands, leading you to the side of the couch, carefully bending you over the armrest.

“That feel ok?” 

You managed only to reply with a breathless “mhm” 

He chuckled at your desperate wiggles, continuing his unhurried strokes.

He took a moment to admire you, your bare top bent over on the sofa where he laid a cushion for you, sheer black tights stretching over your ass, revealing a pair of lace panties.

He stood behind you, finger gently tracing the lace beneath the nylon, leaving fire in its trail. Your breaths were heavier now, and a small whine escaped you as it torturously dragged between your asscheeks towards your pussy.

“Please, Frank” your voice shook. 

“Please what baby?” He taunted

“Touch me, please” You begged now, desperate to ease the ache between your thighs.

He cupped you through the fabric, running his thumb on your clothed core, you were soaked.

“Like that? hm?”

Your breath was ragged, small whines escaped your mouth as you tried to rock your hips against his hand.

A string of little moans were your only response. 

“More..” you finally added. His touch was deliberate, slow circles that did nothing more than drive you mad.

Gliding both palms towards your waist, he hooked his fingers into the waistband of your tights, wiggling and dragging them down with your panties. 

When the fabric slid past the curve of your ass he stopped, admiring the exposed skin, smooth and supple, the way that the elastic dug into the meat of your upper thighs, accentuating the plumpness.

Two thick digits slid between your thighs, you were dripping, and Frank relished at the squelching sound when he gently parted your folds and spread your juices. His touch was precise, feather light, and painfully slow. 

His cock began to stir again.

His fingers glided over the expanse of the soft flesh, before repeating the slow, agonizing trail from your tailbone to your core, making you tremble. 

“You hear that honey, how wet you are for me?” 

You whimpered, as he moved at a snail’s pace, sliding from your entrance to your clit and back. The pressure increased slightly but the pace was just as slow.

“Fuhhh..fuck…me.” your attempt to speak nearly failed.

“You need to be fucked?” his voice was almost sympathetic.

“Ye..hh” you quivered.

“Like this honey?” He pumped one finger in and out, slowly, with an obscene squelch.  

“Fuck..Please!” You sobbed softly

“Shhh..I know baby, I know…just a lil' more” He replied.

You mewled as he drew his fingers back and parted your cheeks, sliding his heavy length in between your thighs, rubbing against the slick puffy folds, making you drip and bringing you both to the brink. 

You shook, tip-toes barely gripping the carpet, holding on for dear life. 

You shuddered as he dipped his cock into your core,carefully stretching and filling you to the brim. 

Fuckmefuckmefuckmefuckme…

Tears stung your eyes as the throbbing in your cunt became unbearable. Every nerve ending screaming and begging for the emptiness to be filled. Your quiet little sobs filled the room and Frank finally decided to show you mercy.

The sting of it made you battle between the need to adjust to him and need to be fucked within the edge of your life. 

He tutted “Don’t you move, you hear me?” 

"Fuckin' tight" he cursed under his breath.

He set an unhurried pace and you moved your hips to meet his deep thrusts, once, twice, before a sharp swat landed on your right buttcheek.

“Uhu..” You would obey any instructions just to keep him going 

He was tainting you, ruining you. He did not find it in himself to regret that. So he thrust deeper, fingers digging into the plush expanse of your ass, fucking himself into your dripping cunt. 

“You gonna be good now. Take it like a good girl.”

He felt you clench at the words and he smirked to himself, thrusting deeper, addicted to the flutter of your pussy around him.

Shame trickled into his bloodstream again, it always did when it came to you. He let it flow, let it mix with his desire and need, let himself get drunk on it. 

"You like it when I call you that? Hm? Like it when I fuck your little pussy and tell you what a good girl youre bein'?" 

Your response was only a little whimper, but you clenched even harder, squeezing him tightly 

"Answer me baby" 

"I..fucking..love it"

Your climax built rapidly, the familiar coil in your belly growing tighter and tighter. Waves of pleasure coursed through your abdomen, shattering against your core, pushing you off the edge of the cliff. You wailed, walls fluttering around his girth, gripping him like a vice.

"There y'go baby..just like that.." Frank praised you through your high, pulling the remnants of your orgasm out of you as the waves gently subsided.

Your head was heavy and limbs numb, body melting until you couldn’t tell which part of you was solid and which was liquid.

“Shh…shhh s’ok babygirl” He stroked you, laying a gentle kiss on your back as the sound of your heavy breaths filled the room. He slowed down, barely moving his hips, before pulling out his length, still dripping with your arousal. 

“Frank, I've never…umm” your voice is hoarse and breathy

Knowing you’d still be too sensitive, he dipped a cautious finger in, gathering your slick and smearing it up towards the cleft of your ass, massaging it into the tight rim. The sensation was foreign but pleasurable, as he spread your wetness, applying a little more pressure with every slick slide of his digit.

Entranced, still pulsating with your release, you began bucking your hips against his hand.

“S'ok baby, I’ll be nice n’ slow, just my finger” 

Ever so slowly he began pushing the tip of his index past the tight ring, and the slight sting of it made you hiss.

“You wanna stop honey?”

“Uh-uh..no” you muttered. Slowly getting accustomed to the intrusion, rutting against him as he sank his digit down to it’s base. 

When he was fully sheathed in, he lined his cock against your entrance, and pushed in with one smooth motion.

“uhh..fuuuuccckk” you moaned, impossibly full. 

Frank was quiet now, entranced by the way your bodies were connected, the sounds of skin slapping on skin, the little whines and whimpers that came with every thrust into your tight heat.

He moved his cock and his finger in tandem, pacing himself as much as he could, cursing under his breath.

“Good girl… baby… lettin’ me fuck both your pretty holes” He slurred

The overstimulation subsided in moments, and you could feel the shot of arousal, sharp and unforgiving, travel from your ears to your core.

It burned, but only made you want more, willing to be fully used, consumed by him. You were reduced into a quivering mess, crying for him to go harder. He didn't stop you from moving this time, as you instinctively matched his pace, encouraging him deeper.

You were slumped on the pillow, breathless and boneless. He pulled out carefully, watching his release spill onto the bunched up fabric of your panties and tights, etching the depraved sight into his mind. It made him wish he could fuck you all over again.

His impeccable control was rapidly wavering and he began to speed up, his movements becoming rougher and sloppier, crashing his hips into your ass at a brutal pace. Your second orgasm came abruptly and tore an animalistic sound from your chest, pushing Frank over the edge. He spilled inside of you with a guttural moan, long and lowd. The waves of pleasure washing over him again and again as he pulsed inside of you, flooding you with warmth.

**********************

The moans and pleas were replaced by silence, it was a soft, almost pleasant one. Endorphins still buzzed in your bloodstream, and you tried to focus on them instead of the demons that lurked around the peripherals of your mind, awaiting their turn.

Frank’s chest rose and fell beneath you, his breaths deep and steady as sleep was claiming him. You tried closing your eyes, tried matching your breaths with his, but the weight of everything unsaid felt heavy on your chest, threatening to burst. 

More questions, always more fucking questions, ones you felt would be so hard to answer even if you could ask them. You knew you’d be gone by morning, for months, and they’d be left unanswered.

When you finally decided to speak you hoped he’d already be asleep, as if whispering your confessions to yourself would help…

"I don't know what this is, what we are, but I'm gonna miss you" you mumbled, as quietly as possible, hoping to god he didn’t actually hear you.

"Gon' miss you too, baby” He replied in a hushed tone. 

Shit.

Hours later, your eyes stung with lack of sleep. You kept drifting in and out of slumber throughout the night, unable to let yourself relax fully in his presence. You finally gave up as the dim light of dawn crept through the windows and carefully peeled back the comforter, climbing out of the warm bed.

Frank was snoring softly, laying on his belly, face smushed into the pillow he was grabbing. You laid a cautious hand on his back, running your fingers on the smooth expanse of his shoulder blades, the exposed skin cool to the touch.

FIN. 

The chip in the polish of the long wooden meeting table you sat at was fascinating. 

Truly.

There were so many things to wonder about: who did it, why did they do it, when did they do it?

Fascinating.

You picked at the damaged spot with the nail of your index finger.

“Seriously, you won’t even consider it?”

Or maybe the chipped polish just provided a convenient momentary distraction from the conversation you were trying very hard not to have just then.

Tony Stark sat across from you. He slouched in his cushy office chair, one arm propped up on the table, his face propped up on the hand attached to that arm. The beginnings of a frown graced his lips and his eyes were narrowed, though you couldn’t tell if he was glaring at you or just squinting. He didn’t look angry; just frustrated. Still, you weren’t an expert on reading people’s expressions. It’s not like you were a spy or anything. 

You were a chef; a damn good one, if you had anything to say about it, but still just a chef.

“Hello?” Tony drummed the fingers of his other hand on the table.

Whoops. There you went, distracting yourself again. You kept picking at the chipped polish, although this time you kept your eyes up.

“Look, I’ll pay you five times what you make working around here if you agree to do this,” he said.

“It isn’t about the money,” you huffed. “Aren’t there, like, ten Avengers now? Why can’t any of you do this? You’re all more qualified than I am. Hell, Natasha is actually a spy isn’t she? Why not send her?”

“Because Loki won’t go with her,” Steve chimed in. He leaned over the table a bit, both palms resting flat on its surface. He’d been so quiet until now, you’d almost forgotten he was in the room. “He refuses to go with anyone except you.”

“Loki?” You asked. Your next blinks came faster in your confusion. “You’re sending Loki on a mission?”

“He wants to atone for New York, he’s gotta work for it,” Steve shrugged.

For his part, Tony looked a bit more irritated. Clearly, not everyone was happy about this.

“Yeah, and so far he hasn’t put much work in at all,” he grumbled. “Jerk probably doesn’t want to atone for a damn thing.”

“You haven’t given him a chance, Tony. He’s under guard at all hours, he’s never allowed to leave the building, and you constantly remind him that you don’t trust him. Is he supposed to be willing to work with us like that?” Steve fumed. You wondered if he was even talking about Loki at all, or if there was a certain ex-Hydra assassin on his mind. As true as those things were for Loki, they were equally as true for Bucky. Steve turned his attention back to you. “I’m sorry we have to put this on you. Natasha was our first choice, but at this point her face is too well known. We decided to send Loki with her so he can use his illusions to hide their appearances, but he refused to go with anyone else.”

Pride bubbled up in your chest alongside the trepidation. The fact that you were the sole person to break through Loki’s shell so far made you feel special. You liked - loved, your heart whispered - Loki now that he wasn’t trying to take over the world. He was funny, interesting, and not too hard on the eyes. Still, as much as you liked Loki, that didn’t change the fact that Avengers missions tended to be… unsafe.

“What are the chances I’ll die if I do this?” You asked.

“If Reindeer Games wants to atone for New York, he’ll keep you safe.” Tony said, unconcerned with your very real concern.

“Tony!” Steve glared at him. You sort of wished Steve would punch him. “As long as you guys keep your covers intact, you’ll be fine. This is just an information gathering mission.”

You were silent for a few moments. If Tony had anything more to add, the glaring match he was having with Steve kept him from saying it.

“I’ll do it,” You said. “But I’m taking the money, Tony.”

“Fine by me; I might even give you extra for taking that little weasel off my hands for a while.”

Steve set a manila envelope on the table in front of you. “The mission details are in here. You and Loki will be going to a private party hosted by a man suspected of funding upstart Hydra factions: Christoph Rohr. Everyone else in attendance will be people he’s trying to recruit or people he’s already recruited. We want you two to get as much information about his operation as you can.”

“So we’ll be posing as wannabe Nazis?”

“You’ll be posing as a married couple Rohr has pegged as wannabe Nazis,” Steve said. “There’s a difference.”

“If we’re not wannabe Nazis, why did he peg us as wannabe Nazis?” You asked. Some act of divine mercy kept your attention off of the idea of pretending to be married to Loki. You could sort your feelings about that out when you were alone; the wannabe Nazi thing was the more important issue here.

“You are wannabe Nazis, you’re not wannabe Nazis, who cares,” Tony said, deciding that he’d been silent for long enough. “But everyone there is either a full blown Nazi or a wannabe Nazi and anyone who doesn’t like Nazis wasn’t invited so just keep that in mind when you decide on your cover story.”

“Look," Steve chimed in, "You don’t like Nazis, I don’t like Nazis. No one in this building likes Nazis. Sometimes, to get anything done, you have to pretend to be a Nazi. This is one of those times. Can you do it?”

“You never have to pose as a Nazi. You just punch Nazis,” you pointed out.

“The next time we bring a Hydra Nazi in for questioning, I’ll let you punch the Nazi. Sound good?” Steve sighed.

“Brilliant,” you grinned.

The mission started a week later. It would last a day and a half assuming everything went as planned. You prayed everything went as planned. Maybe even better than planned if it got you out of there sooner. 

You jumped when a heavy knock landed on your door. Your jewelry clattered to the floor.

"Shit," you muttered, scrambling to pick up your ring. You shoved it on and shakily made your way to answer the knock.

On the other side of the door was a man you didn’t recognize. Not at first, anyway. In place of long, curly, black hair was short, blond hair that just started to curl at the tips where the product he put in couldn’t quite hold it back. The angles of his face were softer than you were used to, and there was a look to him that said that he was happier; less worn out by the stresses of his life. The suit was new, too, although you suspected that was less part of the disguise and more because Loki was the sort of person who never wore the same suit twice. His eyes were the same blue they always were.

And that smile. The one that always seemed to hold a thousand secrets in its curve. The one that both laughed at and with you whenever it appeared. You knew that smile anywhere; only one person in your life had one like it.

“Well, how do I look?” Loki asked, spreading his arms wide. He turned to give you the full view of his disguise. 

“I miss the long hair, but Laing doesn't look half bad,” you joked.

Robert Laing was Loki’s new identity for the next thirty six hours—a physiologist who had previously worked at a medical school in London. You were his wife, a chef for the catering company employed by his school. The two of you met while you were working the school's staff Christmas party and you'd been in love ever since. The desire for a change of pace led to the two of you packing up and moving to New York. A few weeks ago one of Laing's coworkers from London happened to mention one of Rohr’s events; one thing led to another, now you were about to attend one of Rohr's parties. Because you were a wannabe Nazi. Or at least that was the story you were going with. The true story of the invitation’s acquisition was a mystery to you. 

Why did you agree to do this?

Loki's smile grew predatory as he looked you over. You wore a forest green evening gown that shimmered with tiny gold flecks across the whole thing. The front of your hair was braided together to form a sort of crown while the rest fell down your back in tight curls. A thin gold chain with a single pearl hung around your neck and a simple gold band sat on your ring finger to match the one Loki wore.

"Mrs. Laing looks rather ravishing herself. I may have to keep you when we're through with this,” Loki said.

"If I knew all it took to catch your attention was putting on a fancy dress, I might have done it earlier," you step out of your apartment, bold flirtation pushing away some of the sour fear that threatened to settle in your stomach.

"I assure you, my attention was caught long before now. The dress assures me that I was right to allow you to catch it," he held an arm out for you. "Shall we?"

Your anxiety held itself at bay for the first fifteen minutes of the drive to your destination.

You reread the file Steve gave you; you’d read it a thousand times before by that point and still, it didn’t feel like enough. But in the moment between finishing one page and beginning the next your mind wandered to a fragile little star hanging on an equally fragile chain in a bedside drawer.

After that the dam breaks.

Maybe it just cracked. Or maybe it didn't matter what the damage to that metaphorical dam was. Maybe all that mattered was that it was damaged and that you couldn't stop yourself from dropping the file. You couldn't stop your breathing from going harsh or your hands from shaking or a tear from rolling down your cheek.

You felt sick.

Loki looked up from his own book just in time to see the tear before it soaked into the fabric of your dress.

"Are you crying?" He asked, shocked and perhaps a bit incredulous at your sudden onslaught of emotions.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” you said, wiping away the tears. You had to muster all of your willpower to keep more from falling. By some miracle, it was enough. The tears dried up, leaving a lump in your throat that you struggled to swallow around. “This is just a lot more than I signed up for when Tony hired my little catering company to feed the compound, y’know? I guess I’m just overwhelmed,” you prayed he wouldn't push for more. 

Then you prayed that maybe he'd just read your mind—he could do that, right?—so that he knew what was going on with you without you having to say anything. Because you wanted him to know. If you were to be partners on this mission, if you were to be friends outside of this mission… Well, he deserved to know, didn't he? He did. But the place your emotions came from was too deep to summon the words. 

You met Loki's gaze. He looked at you with an intense curiosity that made you uncomfortable. You looked away again, this time setting your sights out the window beside you. It felt like minutes passed in silence. Minutes of staring out the windshield counting every tree, reading every license plate; minutes of doing anything to avoid thinking about your fears. In reality it had been seconds.

"I would never have mentioned you if I believed those sorry excuses for heroes would allow a civilian to come on this mission," Loki said. His voice had a hard edge to it. He picked at the skin of his palm.

"I'm not blaming you," you said. You still refused to look at him. "I could've said no. I just… I guess I didn't think about what I was saying yes to."

"What did you think you were saying yes to?"

"Well, Steve offered to let me punch the next Hydra Nazi taken into Avengers custody. Tony offered me money. Enough to pay all my bills for like… three months? So I was thinking of those things.” 

In a moment of boldness you added: “Pretending to be your wife sounded pretty fun, too.”

Oh, there was that predatory grin of Loki’s again; just as menacing on Laing's face as it was on Loki's. He scooted closer so that your thighs were pressed together. He wrapped his arm around your shoulders. Heat crept up your cheeks to dry the remainder of your tears.

"You were faced with something that terrified you, and chose to go along with it because being my wife sounded fun? Oh, I will be keeping you when this is over."

His arm tightened around you, like he was already keeping you even though the mission hadn’t even begun. In a way, you supposed that at least tonight, whether anything changed between the two of you later on, you were his for the keeping. Well, really, you were Laing’s, but Laing was just a cover for Loki so it was the same as being Loki’s, right? 

You jabbed a finger into his ribs and huffed, “It wasn’t just that. And, anyway, I said pretending might be fun.”

And then you leaned into him, face buried in his chest. This was the closest you’d ever come to outright telling Loki you were in love with him. As embarrassed as you were, you didn’t regret it. The comfort you got out of this man was strange; he’d almost destroyed New York for the purpose of taking over the world, his very existence threatened to invalidate large parts of your belief system. Yet, the thought of not having him around terrified you more than any of that. 

Loki’s fingers skimmed across the bare skin of your shoulder. His breath ruffled the top of your hair as he leaned in. 

“I will not allow any harm to come to you," he murmured.

You looked up at him with wide eyes and, in your most serious voice, you said, "Loki, I don't think anyone is going to ask your permission before hurting me."

"What a cheeky little wife I have," Loki pinched your side. You squealed, squirming away from his prodding fingers. "Whatever will I do with you?"

"Pretend wife," you reminded him, settling back into his side once his pinching fingers settled down once more.

"For now," he said.

The tops of your ears went hot, "You can't just say things like that. You're the God of Lies, remember? How am I supposed to know if you're being serious or if you're just messing with me?"

"You don't believe that I am a god, do you?" 

"Even if I don't believe you're a god, there's got to be a reason people call you that," you shrugged. Some of the good mood you'd started to feel died down again. Joking around with Loki had done wonders to take your mind off of your fears, but this particular topic brought the negativity simmering to the surface again. 

What if Loki was just messing with you? Were you about to enter a party full of Nazis for someone who didn't care as much as he led on?

Your vision went blurry. Dread clawed at your stomach. Shame welled up in your chest. Shame at what, though? At getting so worked up over your own fears? Or was it the fears themselves? The thought that maybe Loki was living up to his title; that going on this mission would be more dangerous than you had been told, was that what shamed you? There was an awareness somewhere in the back of your mind that allowing your thoughts to spiral like this was a very bad idea. The problem was, you didn’t know how to make them stop. You were never very good at handling anxiety at the best of times, and half an hour away from stepping foot into a group of Nazis was not one of the best of times. What were you supposed to—

“Stop,” Loki grabbed your chin between his thumb and index finger, forcing you to look into his eyes. His grip was firm enough that moving away was impossible. The tips of his fingers glowed on your skin. His magic was warm and traveled through your body, calming the physical symptoms of your anxiety down before you worked yourself up any further. “Stop,” he said again, softer this time. “Whatever lies I may have told in the past, whatever reputation for lies I may have, I am not lying to you now.”

You took a shaky breath. Muttered, "You might be lying about that."

"I am not," he moved his hand to stroke your cheek with his thumb. "Consider that the man who named me God of Lies was the same man who lied to me for millennia about my true parentage. Consider, then, the weight you bestow upon that title."

Loki grinned. It wasn't the predatory one this time. It was softer, more sincere. On Laing's face it didn't provide the intended comfort. It was nonsensical, you knew that; Laing's face was almost no different from Loki's usual face. A few minor differences, but to anyone who knew him, it was undeniable that this was Loki. You tugged at a lock of his short hair, displeased that you couldn't play with it at this length. You wanted your real friend, not your fake husband.

"Can you turn back into yourself until we get there?" You asked.

Green light washed over him. When it faded, Laing had been replaced by Loki. “Better?”

You nodded. You stared at him, using his familiar features to center yourself. You buried one hand in his hair, tugging and twisting the curls around your fingers. Loki held your gaze. He continued to lazily stroke his thumb across your cheek until you closed your eyes. You took a deep, steadying breath.

“Better,” you sighed on the exhale.

The rest of the drive was calmer after that. Loki kept you talking, which kept you from focusing on any triggering topics. He told you about the current goings on of New Asgard (some sort of land dispute between New Asgard and the Norwegian government was the big news right now). You told him about your idea to start a vlog to make a little extra cash (you wanted to do a series where you would teach the Avengers your favorite recipes and they would teach you theirs). By the time the car pulled up to your destination, you felt confident enough that you could, at least, walk into the building without bursting into tears. 

You moved to open the door, but Loki grabbed your hand before you reached the handle. When you looked back at him, Laing had returned. He was no longer smiling. Dread threatened to bubble up to ruin all the progress Loki helped you make in moving past your fear.

"Once we are in there, do not speak to anyone unless I am at your side. Do not leave my side unless it is necessary and do not go digging for information," he said. His tone left no room for argument.

"How am I supposed to help you with the mission if I can't dig for information? That's the point of us being here," you argued anyway.

Loki lifted his other hand. The tips of his fingers were glowing with magic again.

"I need only touch them to look inside their minds. I will not have you risk yourself more than you already have by being here when I can accomplish our mission so easily."

"What, you think these guys are just going to let you walk around randomly touching them?" You narrowed your eyes. "Plus, don't you think it'll be suspicious when your fingers start glowing?" 

Loki mimicked your suspicious expression. A smirk pulled at one corner of his mouth, giving his mimicry a distinctly condescending feel.

“Mortals do change customs at an alarmingly quick pace, but handshakes are still in fashion, yes?” He lifted your hand to his lips. Featherlight kisses ghosted across your knuckles made you shiver and broke down the little bit of resistance you’d managed to muster up.

“Yes,” you sighed. It wasn't as though you wanted to spend much time socializing with the Nazis, anyway. If Loki was giving you a way out of it, you weren't going to put up too much of an argument.

The party was in an upscale hotel, one much too expensive for you to ever stay in under normal circumstances. Everything looked too fragile and pristine. It set your teeth on edge. Hundreds of people seemed to be in attendance, and more still filed in behind you. A private affair, but not an intimate one. Your heart rate picked up. Loki's hand went to the small of your back to rub light, calming circles into your skin through the fabric of your dress. 

"Enjoy your evening," the doorman said, drawing your attention away from the throngs of people. He handed the invitation back to Loki, who led you further into the ballroom with his arm still around your waist. 

A string quartet playing covers of modern pop songs was seated towards the back of the room. A few people had taken to the dancefloor; most were seated at tables placed along the edges. There were no signs that this was a party filled with Nazis. If you tried hard enough, you thought you might be able to forget about that. Buffet tables lined the side walls and a sizable bar was set in the corner at the end of one of the tables. There was a stage with a podium at the front of the dancefloor, although it was unoccupied at that moment.

Loki steered you in the direction of the bar.

“I’m not a huge fan of alcohol,” you protested.

“Tonight you will be,” Loki said. “You need to loosen up.”

You feared loosening up might do more harm than good. Loose lips were the last thing either of you needed. Not that tense fear was going to do you any favors, either.  “Where should we sit?”

“You can sit with us,” a voice said from behind you. 

Loki’s arm kept you from jumping ten feet in the air. You both turned. An older man who looked to be in his late 70s with thin gray hair and large jowls smiled at you. There was nothing outright sinister about his smile, but something about it made your skin crawl. Perhaps it was just the knowledge that this person was a Nazi. 

Yeah, that was it.

“Peter Woodard,” the man held his hand out for a shake. “I haven’t seen you two here before. Are you some of Chris’ new friends?”

“Robert Laing,” Loki—no, Robert; you needed to start thinking of him with that name to avoid a slip up—shook Peter’s hand with a dazzling grin that showed off his pearly whites. “And this is my wife, Charlotte." Apparently you were getting a fake name, too. Would you even remember that after a few drinks? "We’re certainly hoping to be his new friends by the end of the night.”

“Ah, well, I’m afraid Chris tends not to mingle on the first night. He feels its best not to waste energy on those who can’t even commit a full twenty four hours to the cause. You’ll get the chance to speak to him at tomorrow morning’s events, though. From the sounds of it, you’re not from around here. What brings you to the area?”

“You’re quite right that I’m not from around here. Charlotte grew up nearby. After a few years together in London, we decided to move here to be closer to her family.”

Until that moment you had been standing about half a step behind Loki—no, Robert; dammit you needed to get that right—to keep the attention off of you. But Robert nudged you forward so that you were nestled at his side while he talked about you. Alcohol was starting to sound nice right then.

“Well, you made a good choice. It’s a nice neighborhood we’ve got here; there’s not too many liberals in this neck of the woods,” Peter said. He gestured to a table on the opposite side of the room. “My own wife is waiting for me over there, so I’ll let you get your drinks. Do feel free to sit with us; I’d love to get to know the both of you better.”

As he walked away, you turned back to the bar. Loki's arm slid from your waist. He twined his fingers through yours, careful to always be touching you; to be right there to pull you back if you got lost in your own head. He leaned into you, nose pressed into your hair, his lips brushing the tip of your ear. To anyone who looked at the two of you, it was a husband giving a bit of affection to his wife.

"He is a close friend of Rohr's, but his involvement with Hydra is minimal. I suspect we won't learn more than we already know from him, however... " he whispered, trailing off at the end. Still, you knew what he was getting at.

"Sticking with him might lead us right to the man who knows everything," you turned your head so your noses brushed together.

"Exactly," he took your free hand, too. "If interacting with them is more than you can handle, I will not force you. I will make your excuses; you can go to our room. You will be safe there."

"You said you would protect me here. I trust you" you said. 

"Earlier you were convinced I would only lie to you."

The bartender cleared her throat before you answered. You looked at her to find her looking down at the counter. She shifted from one foot to the other, uncomfortable with the display of affection the two of you put on. Loki ordered for you; something fruity and sweet. Layers of pink and yellow alternated in the glass, topped with an orange umbrella, and a slice of pineapple on the rim. It looked like it held the promise of better things.

How nice would it be if this could truly wipe away your fears? How nice would it be, if a few glasses of this could turn you into someone new, someone rich and comfortable and careless; how nice it would be, you thought, if a few drinks could change everyone else, too. 

Before going to the table, you raided the buffet. Like the hotel itself, some of the foods were far too expensive to ever be available to you.  Even the dishes you were familiar with used higher quality ingredients than you could ever hope to match in your own cooking, both personal and professional.

Such lavish choices helped you to buy into the story the drink was meant to sell.

By the time you finished raiding the buffet, you had two over full plates just for yourself, and your glass was empty. The alcohol left a bitter feeling in the back of your throat. It felt less like the promise of an easier night and more like a portend of things to come. Still, Loki insisted on another glass.

“Smile and drink,” he whispered. So you did.

"Glad you decided to join us!" Peter said as you approached the table. He put his arm around the woman sitting next to him. "This is my wife, Ilene."

"Nice to meet you," you said. Even getting that out felt like a win. 

Ilene gave you an odd look. She was squinting at you, like her vision had chosen that exact moment to fail her. After a moment, her eyes went wide. That made the tight lipped smile she gave you all the more awkward. She said nothing, even when she nodded to acknowledge that you had spoken. 

You shoved a forkful of food into your mouth. That small interaction took what little wind you had right out of your sails. Under the table, Loki threaded his fingers through yours and squeezed. The weight of his hand did little to comfort you, but you supposed in a situation like this small comforts were the only thing you could hope for. You wished you could ask him what he thought of the exchange with Ilene. Had you done something wrong? Did you somehow blow your cover already? She could have been taken aback by the amount of food you had in front of you, but—no, she was looking at your face. You squeezed Loki's hand a bit tighter. 

Ilene continued to stare at you with that same tight lipped smile.

"How did the two of you hear about Chris’ little venture?” Peter asked, either oblivious to or ignoring his wife’s discomfort.

“A colleague of mine in London was invited to one of these parties a while back. When he heard we’d moved to the area, he arranged for our invitation. He thought it would be a good way to meet some… like-minded people,” Loki winked. It was unfair how attractive he was even while implying that the two of you were Nazis looking for other Nazi friends. 

Unease flipped painfully in your stomach.

"Your colleague wasn’t wrong. Everyone here is of the same mindset—anyone with different opinions, well… let’s just say they’d find themselves quickly overwhelmed, if they somehow managed to find themselves with an invitation in the first place. Even if you don’t leave here as a formal member of the organization, you’re certain to have made quite a few like-minded friends. That’s why I come to these little shindigs,” Peter said jovially, like what he was saying was the most normal thing in the world.

You took a sip of your drink to cover your laugh. Chris needed to reevaluate his invitee screening system if the Avengers were considered “like-minded friends” to Hydra. Loki let go of your hand to pinch your thigh. If it weren’t for the fact that you had an audience, you would have stuck your tongue out at him. Instead, you peered up over your cup to make sure no one thought your behavior was strange.

Ilene was still staring at you.

You took a bigger gulp of your drink.

The conversation was normal after that. No talk about Nazi subjects or anything that made you feel too awkward. For the most part, it was just your average everyday small talk. Loki talked about being a physiologist and teacher, you added a comment or two about your catering business, and Peter talked about the construction company he owned. Ilene said very little; she nodded or faked a laugh at something her husband said. Most of the time she kept her eyes glued to her plate, except when she gave you more wide eyed stares.

Part of you felt like this was somehow cheating. You weren’t doing much in furtherance of the mission you’d been sent on by not talking about Hydra at all. But Loki was the real Avenger; if he thought talking to Peter with the hope he would lead the two of you straight to Rohr satisfied the mission goal, well, who were you to argue?

You allowed yourself to become distracted by the activity around you after a while of utterly normal conversation. Each table was doing the same as your table. A few seemed to be having more serious discussions than the majority. You assumed those were the people getting down to Nazi business and making all of their Nazi plans. Some people were making rounds across the room; introducing themselves to everyone they thought was important, ensuring their name was known by all the important Hydra people in the room. More people were on the dance floor by then. You wondered if Loki would want to dance.

By the stage, some people were shuffling around with sound equipment. A tall, blond man stood up on the platform. He watched the people setting up with a frown. There was a microphone in his hand.

“That’s Chris,” Peter said, drawing your attention back to the table. “Looks like it’s just about time for his speech. You’ll love it; he’s one of the best speakers I’ve ever known.”

You nodded. Loki rubbed a hand along your back. A surge of warmth flowed through you as his hand moved; the same magic he’d used to keep you calm in the car, you thought. It was a good thing, too. There was no way Rohr himself would minimize Nazi talk in his speech to his fellow Nazis. Better that Loki helped to keep your anxiety to a minimum before it had the chance to get started.

Even without the physical symptoms of your anxiety, though, Loki couldn’t stop your brain from moving a mile a minute. How would you react to the speech? What if he said something you couldn’t just ignore? Were you going to blow your cover because you couldn’t act? If you did blow your cover, what would the Avengers think of you? Would you be able to face them at work again? More than what the Avengers in general thought, what would Loki think if you blew the mission because you couldn’t keep your emotions in check?

If you blew your cover, would you even make it out alive?

You were so caught up in your own thoughts that you forgot to pay attention to the world around you. So when Loki pulled your chair closer to his own to hold you against his chest, you jumped.

“Relax,” he whispered into your hair.

He wrapped his arms around your waist, letting them sit against your stomach. You did your best to relax against him. He gave a small hum of approval.

Was this normal Asgardian behavior? You knew for a fact that for human married couples, it wasn’t normal to get this affectionate in public. Or maybe it was just a Loki-specific behavior. Or maybe this was normal married couple behavior and you just didn’t know any normal marr—No. You needed to stay focused. You forced yourself to ignore the other people at the table; a futile effort. Heat crawled up your chest to the tips of your ears. Your awareness of everyone seeing this display wouldn’t back down; maybe that was a good thing. Maybe this wasn’t normal behavior, but the attention—even if it was just imagined attention—gave you something to focus on that wasn’t the impending Nazi speech.

"Thank you all for being here tonight. It means so much to me and all of the fine people who helped me organize this event to see you," Rohr said, cutting through the low murmur that had been ever present throughout the room. All eyes went to him.

There went your distraction from the Nazi speech.

Rohr pressed on, "You were all invited here for a purpose: to bring the world back to where it should be. You all understand what the world needs to prosper!"

You swallowed hard around a lump in your throat; fought the urge to close your eyes and block out the rest of the speech. That speech was the main event of the night. You couldn’t risk prying your attention away in such an obvious way. Loki tightened his arms around you. The sensation of his touch gave you something else to focus on. You squeezed his hands, still resting on your stomach.

Overall, the speech was uninformative as far as your mission went; it seemed to be aimed at inflaming emotions rather than calling the audience to a specific action. He likely saved the real calls to action for tomorrow, when the heavy duty recruitment began. Still, by the end you felt like crawling out of your skin. The whole speech was filled with Nazi dogwhistles; talk of needing to embrace tradition and turn away from modernity, claims that a certain group of people were secretly controlling the world through the banks, and funding the spread of communism.

Peter Woodard was wrong. 

You did not love hearing Rohr speak. 

It was a miracle that you didn't vomit halfway through the speech. You felt shaky. You hoped you weren’t outwardly shaking. Something felt like it was crawling around in your stomach. You wanted to beg Loki to get you out of there, to not make you go back even if it meant the mission was a failure. Before you had the chance, the music started up again. Loki shot out of his seat. 

"I'd like to dance with my wife at least once before we leave," Loki said.

"O-okay," you stuttered. 

He half-dragged you across the room, his grip so firm you had no choice but to let him. The sudden desire to dance baffled you. Sure, you had wondered if he might want to, but until that moment he hadn't given any indication that he did. 

You turned your head to see if the Woodards had any reaction to Loki’s strange behavior. What had you expected of them? You weren't quite sure; a look of confusion, an aborted attempt to speak to the two of you as you walked away, maybe;  just something that indicated they were caught off guard by your sudden departure. Yet when you looked back their attention was still directed towards the stage. Even Ilene, who had made such a point of staring at you all night, was no longer watching you. Stranger still, they seemed… cheerful. 

A hand shot out to grab your chin, yanking your face forward. On instinct, you tensed up to resist, but Loki was stronger. All you got for your effort was a jolt of pain up your neck.

“Keep your eyes on me,” he demanded. A smarter person might have heard the imperiousness in his tone and ceded to his directions. You were not that person. You stood a little straighter, and shoved at his hands.

“You know, a gentleman would ask his wife to dance instead of— Ugh!” You huffed. The problem with Loki, you came to realize, was that he tended to say things in a way that triggered a person’s fight or flight response, even when the substance of his words had merit. 

His command, of course, was no exception.

And so, you fought against the grip he had on your chin and turned your head to look back at the table. You didn't think looking would accomplish anything; you just did it because Loki told you not to. 

Regret was not an adequate word for the feelings looking inspired in you.

“Would my wife care to dance, or shall we break bread with Christoph Rohr himself?” Loki kept his voice remarkably neutral. 

You’d expected more of a mocking tone.

You turned away from the sight of the night’s host Nazi standng at the table you just vacated. Loki took your hands in his again, pulling you the rest of the way onto the dancefloor. Your brain felt numb. Your heart felt numb. The rest of your body was sore from the constant tension it had been holding all night.

How close had you come to having to speak to someone who just gave a speech about how the world would be better off without the very group of people you belonged to? From somewhere outside of your own body, you felt Loki adjusting your position to one appropriate for dancing.

Dancing.

How could you dance among these people; these people who believed in the ideals and words espoused here tonight? 

“Stay with me,” Loki murmured. 

His touch was soft and helped to reground you in the moment. He kept his thumb and index finger on your chin and this time, you did not fight his hold.

You nodded, swallowing around the dryness that had overtaken your mouth. Following that instruction would be easier said than done, but you tried. 

Loki looked at you. Then, he dropped his hand from your chin to rearrange your position once more. When he was done, you stood diagonal to him, so that your left shoulder was parallel to his. The corresponding arms were held at ninety degree angles with your hands pressed together, palm to palm.

"I might step on your toes," you said.

"Have you forgotten that your husband is a god, darling?" he asked. He nudged your hand to indicate the direction he wanted you to step. "You may step on me; it will not hurt. This will be a simple dance, one to keep your mind off of more unpleasant things."

The dance was slow. Throughout it, Loki kept you pressed close even when you were certain the dance would be easier with more space between you. The warmth of his hands made you feel secure so you said nothing about your suspicions. 

"When did you learn to dance?" You asked. 

He twirled you under his arm. 

"I was a prince of Asgard," he sighed, a laugh forming on the end of his exhale. When you were facing him once again, he dipped you low, and brought you back up slowly. His arms remained firm around you the whole time.

"I almost forget about that sometimes," you said, feeling ridiculous as the words left your mouth. “You manage to fit in so well with regular people…”

“I suspect most of Asgard tended to forget about that, as well,” he said with a levity at odds with the substance of his words.

“Loki, that’s terrible.”

Loki shrugged, and grinned, “Oh, but how else could I have so meticulously honed my craft? A prince of Asgard always has the realm’s eyes upon him. To be unthought of, even for a moment, no matter how that moment came to be, is an opportunity one should not let pass.”

"I wish an opportunity like that would come around right now."

"It has, my darling. There are no eyes on you, save mine. So dance with me, and think no more on these miserable wretches around us.”

That was easier said than done; true or not, you felt eyes watching your back—judging, knowing eyes. Eyes that would tear you to shreds in an instant if they had the chance.

You fell silent for the rest of the dance. When Loki noticed your mind or eyes wandering back to the table, or to the circumstances of the night, he whispered "stay with me." And when his eyes shone with such brilliant intensity, you couldn’t fathom doing anything else. 

The song ended and he pressed a kiss to your forehead. His hands fell to your hips, where his thumbs rubbed small circles.

"Our companions for the evening have left," he whispered. "Shall we make our own exit now—see what expensive accommodations Stark so generously arranged for us tonight?"

"That sounds wonderful."

What. The. Hell, you thought.

The hotel room was ridiculous. In fact, calling it a room was a complete lie. With two bathrooms, a kitchen, a combined dining-living room, and two bedrooms there were more rooms in this suite than there were in your apartment.

Loki watched you from the position he'd taken up on the couch. His feet were up on the coffee table and his arms were draped over the back of the couch. He was comfortable in the space you'd been given for the night; maybe even a little bored. He still wore the face of Robert Laing. You paid him little attention. From one room to another, you paced. You paused to open a door tucked away in the corner of the room ‐ oh, look! A half-bath was hidden behind that door! 

"We're only staying here for one night!" You yelled. You stormed back into the living room to jab your finger in Loki's direction. "Why aren't you more concerned about Tony renting us a whole apartment for one night?"

"If the size of these accommodations concern you, it is for the best that Asgard was destroyed before I could whisk you away to my chambers for our wedding night."

The wicked grin on his face brought your pacing to a grinding halt. For a moment you'd forgotten about the whole fake-marriage-that-Loki-claimed-he-was-going-to-make-real thing. Your hand fell back to your side and your face went hot.

"The Laings' wedding night was like… three years ago," you muttered.

When you looked up again, Loki was standing mere inches away. "Hmm… I'm afraid I don't recall. Perhaps Mrs. Laing would refresh my memory?"

You slapped your hands over your face so you wouldn't have to see that glint in Loki's eyes. What were you even supposed to say to something like that? He tugged on a lock of your hair to get you to look back up at him. His smug, toothy grin was still in place. The butterflies in your stomach went wild at the sight of it.

"Is my little wife embarrassed?" He asked, although taunted was, perhaps, a better word for it.

"Y'know, if you're really set on making the whole wife thing real, I'd prefer if you took me on a date first," you said, adding "one without Nazis, preferably" for good measure.

He laughed. Green light shimmered across his body, wiping away the Laing facade so the real Loki stood before you. "Just as well; I, too, would prefer to give you a proper courtship, as a prince of Asgard, and the rightful king of Jotunheim should."

You groaned. Sometimes he was just so… so Loki it was overwhelming. 

“Whatever you say, Your Majesty,” you bowed, with a great flourish of your hands. “I feel dirty from rubbing elbows with those guys tonight. I think I’m going to take advantage of the giant bathtub before bed. What are you gonna do with the rest of your night?”

“I could keep you company in the bath,” he teased.

Fucking hell, you thought. He’s going to be the death of me.

Except… when you took a moment to think about it, the idea wasn’t terrible. You knew he expected you to say no; knew that he was making a flirtatious joke rather than a genuine offer. Yet, the anxiety from the night still lingered in the back of your mind. The thought of being alone left you feeling ill at ease. You knew he wouldn’t retract the offer if you did say yes.

So, squaring your shoulders and doing your best to make eye contact, you said, “I wouldn’t mind the company if you really wanted to join me.”

Loki’s eyebrows shot up. His eyes widened; just a bit, just enough to be noticeable. For a moment, he said nothing. Waiting for you to retract, you supposed. But when you didn't, his expression relaxed. His God of Mischief grin returned and he motioned with one hand in the direction of the bathroom that held the tub. 

“After you, my dear.”

The bathroom, despite its absurd size for being a hotel suite bathroom, was normal. By which you meant there were no unrecognizable gadgets only rich people would recognize because they were the only ones who could afford to have them in their bathrooms. In fact, despite the fact that this bathroom was twice the size of the one you had at home, there was very little in it beyond the tub (which took up half the room), the toilet, and the sink. The whole room was made of expensive looking marble, probably so you wouldn’t forget that this was a space meant for the super rich people of the world.

“Do you need help with your dress?” Loki asked.

You stared at him. Did you need help with your dress? You looked down at yourself. Was there something on your dress? You looked back up at him. 

He gestured to his back.

“The zipper,” he said by way of explanation.

You narrowed your eyes. Not another word left your mouth before he raised his hands in surrender.

“Peace. I will only do what is asked of me tonight.”

"Alright…" you nodded, turning your back to him so he could unzip you.

His hands were gentle. The dress dropped from your shoulders to pool around your ankles. For a moment, Loki's hands lingered on the bare skin of your back; he trailed his fingers up to the clasp of your bra. He lingered there; a silent question at the tips of his fingers. 

You nodded.

He unhooked the clasp.

The undergarment went to the floor with your dress.

A rustling from behind you drew your attention. When you turned around, you found Loki undressing himself. His suit jacket and tie were already on the floor next to your dress, and he was making quick work of the buttons on his shirt.

Oh no.

What was he doing? What happened to not doing anything you didn't ask him to do? You supposed he had offered to keep you company in the bath, not just the bathroom, but somehow it never occurred to you that he actually would plan on bathing with you. You opened your mouth to say something to him; to stop him, maybe. Except, inconveniently, you found that your vocal cords had stopped working. Your eyes followed his hands as they opened his shirt. 

“You’re drooling,” Loki said, forcing your attention back up to his face.

You slammed your mouth shut; with less discretion than you would have liked, you wiped at your mouth to get rid of any drool you may have actually let slip while you were staring. 

“I didn’t think you were going to get naked, too,” you muttered. 

“Did you think I was going to get into the tub fully clothed?” 

A small smile adorned his face and he arched one one eyebrow. You supposed the expression was meant to show you that although you confused him, he bore you no ill will for it. It should have comforted you, you thought. Instead, a niggling sense of dread gnawed at your stomach. It must have shown on your face, too, because Loki's expression soon became more serious.

"I can read your thoughts, if I must," he said. "But I have learned that open communication makes things much easier."

You shrugged, he sighed. There was silence. Then, Loki spoke up again: 

“What do you want from tonight?”

That was the question, wasn’t it? 

What did you want from the night?

You forced yourself to voice your thoughts as they came to you, “I wanted to feel useful to the Avengers for more than just my cooking. I wanted the money Tony offered me. I wanted to impress you and be more than just the girl you sometimes spend time with because I cook for you and I'm the only non-Avenger in your life.”

Loki held his hand up, a signal for you to stop talking. You did.

“I do not spend time with you because you cook for me. All my life I’ve had others cook for me; never did I say more than a passing word or two to them. I speak to you because you interest me. I will admit your lack of membership on the team that formed for the specific purpose of defeating me is a remarkable boon to our relationship; however, I would not associate with just any mortal simply because they are not an Avenger. And while I appreciate hearing what you intended from the whole night, I meant: what do you want from the night going forward—while we are standing here, in the bathroom, in particular.”

“I don’t want to be alone,” you shrugged. It occurred to you that this still wasn’t really an answer to his question so you amended, “I want to be with you.”

“In the bath?” 

“In general,” you shrugged again. “I’ve never done something like this; taken a bath with someone else, I mean.”

Loki stared at you for a long moment. His expression lacked any modicum of amusement now. A spark of panic flickered in your chest. Was your indecisiveness annoying him? 

“I would like to see you naked,” you blurted out. It was… not your finest moment. Standing there in nothing but a pair of pink polka dotted cotton panties and all of your jewelry, having just admitted to wanting to see Loki naked in an impulsive attempt to dispel the annoyance you weren't even certain he was feeling—yeah, definitely not your finest moment.

Loki slow-blinked at you once, twice. If he were a cat, it might have been comforting. Just when you were feeling certain you would die of embarrassment, he laughed. And laughed. And then he laughed some more. Something tense and painful broke inside of you as you watched him laugh. It seeped out of you until there was nothing left of it inside of you, replaced by the infectiousness of Loki’s laughter and your own relief that he wasn’t annoyed after all. So you laughed, too, and even your embarrassment stood no chance against the force of it. The whiplash of your emotions changing so quickly throughout the night was certain to leave you sore later on, but you cared nothing about it at that moment. There was only you, Loki, and your laughter.

When he tucked his thumbs beneath the waistband of his pants, he paused.

“Together?” He asked between huffs of laughter. 

You mirrored his pose, thumbs tucked into the waistband of your underwear.

“On the count of three?” You asked.

“One,” he said, by way of an answer.

“Two,” you continued.

“Three,” the two of you said together.

In one fell swoop, Loki’s pants and briefs were discarded in a pile on the floor along with your underwear. You grinned at each other and drank in the sight of the other completely nude. You expected to feel awkward in this situation. You were relieved to find, in reality, you felt nothing more than happiness; happiness that wasn’t even entirely related to the fact that Loki looked just equally good out of a suit as he did in it. It was happiness that there was someone in the world who managed to distract you from your fears and anxieties and made you feel strong enough to say what you were thinking without letting your embarrassment hold you back.

You removed your earrings and necklace, throwing them onto the sink counter, uncaring of where they landed. Loki took your hand and removed the wedding band himself; you did the same to him. He took them both, spiriting them away to one of his pocket dimensions for purposes only he was privy to. Perhaps he intended to use them for the real wedding he was planning; an incorporation of some of the false marriage into the real.

You turned to the tub, but found that while the two of you had been lost in the whirlwind of your emotions, you completely forgot to run the water for your bath.

"Oops," you giggled.

Loki, however, was unconcerned with this development. He waved his arms about theatrically. Green smoke and lights came into existence in the tub and underneath them, the sound of rushing water filled the air. When the theatrics faded, the tub was bath ready—bubbles included. Loki wasted no time in getting in and as he did, you continued to admire every beautiful inch of him from his head to his toes. 

Specifically, you focused on admiring his cock.

Staring would have also been an appropriate word.

Loki cleared his throat. You looked back up at his face with heated cheeks.

"I wasn't staring," you insisted.

"Of course not," his disbelief was clear in his tone. Rather than take offense, he took the chance to openly ogle you right back. He held his arms out. "Are you coming in?"

"How do you want to do this? Do you want me to sit on the other side?"

He spread his legs, gesturing at the space between them. "I want you right here."

Of course he did.

"You may sit on the other side, if that is what you wish."

You clambered into the tub, planting your naked bottom between his naked legs and tried to ignore the feeling of other naked parts of him underneath you. He lifted his hands from the water, letting them rest on your shoulders for a moment, then dragged them lazily down once again, rivulets dripping down your arms in his fingers’ wake.

“May I?” He asked.

You nodded, a fleeting thought going through your mind that you didn’t know what he was asking to do, that he was bending his own rule by asking you for something rather than waiting for you to ask. Another thought overtook it: it didn’t matter what he was asking for—you would let him do whatever he wanted tonight.

He didn’t leave you in suspense for long. Loki grabbed the hotel soap from the side of the tub and sniffed. To you, it smelled of nothing but soap. Inoffensive and clean, and apparently unsatisfactory to Loki’s godly senses because he threw the bottle across the room into the trash, and summoned another bottle from his interdimensional space pocket. When he opened this one, it smelled floral and light. It reminded you of sunshine and spring time, and for just a moment you imagined yourself lying in a field of flowers with the Asgardian sun on your face and Loki at your side, regaling you with the most exciting tales of what went on that day in his father’s court.

The roughness of a washcloth brought you down from the daydream. Loki started with your back, then he curled himself more firmly around you and raised one of your arms so you were reaching out across the expanse of the tub. He wrapped the washcloth around the width of your arm, and slowly, slowly stretched until he had brought the cloth down the whole length of your arm. His nose was pressed into your hair, mouth against your ear; his teeth grazed your skin. 

You shivered, despite the warmth of the water. 

One of his hands rested atop yours, lacing your fingers together, engulfing your hand in his. His other hand set to work washing your other arm, taking up the same final position as their siblings on the opposite side. He slipped the cloth into your hand, and kept his hands on top of your own so that he could move you as he wished.

He curled your arms in, running the washcloth over your stomach.

"Where shall we wash next?" He asked, breath warm against your ear. He moved your hands so that they came just under the curve of your breast, then dipped back down again.

"Loki…" You groaned, a plea and warning in one breath.

He moved your hands lower, to your legs; made a joint effort out of washing your upper thighs, teasing at touching you more intimately, but never making a true move to do so. He meant only to tease you as he had been doing throughout the night—never taking more liberties than he was explicitly allowed, but making his interest known, but it all felt a little bit like a test to you.

So you decided to make your answer a bold one.

You brought your tangled hands up your body, stopping only when you reached your breast. With your hand underneath his, Loki barely touched you. Still, you felt his chest stutter against your back when his breath caught in his throat. He nipped at your ear.

"Just what do you think you're doing, little wife?" He asked.

"Making myself feel good," you responded, snaking the hands at your legs between your thighs.

"As I recall," he squeezed your hand, at once trying to feel more of you and keep himself under control. "You requested a first date before we did this."

"I said I wanted a first date before you married me," you corrected. "I didn't say anything about a date before you fucked me."

“And is that what you want me to do?"

Your fingers and his brushed through the curls between your legs. The washcloth floated away to the other side of the bath, forgotten. He kissed the space behind your ear, then under, and lower still, only stopping his descent when he'd kissed his way down your neck to your shoulder. Your nerves tingled under his lips and you knew you could find yourself addicted to the feeling if you were not careful. Once more, his fingers brushed against what skin they could immediately reach with your hand obstructing his access. You felt certain that if he wanted to, his fingers were long enough that he could stretch them and feel far more. The restraint was frustrating.

But you found that between soft sighs of his name and pleasured moans you could not vocalize that frustration or even an answer to his question.

Your head fell back against his shoulder. 

He took the opportunity this afforded him to catch your lips with his. It was barely a brush of his lips against yours; so gentle you would have thought it was an accident were it not for the fact that the way he had to lean over to reach your mouth could only be achieved with purposeful maneuvering. 

It rankled at your anxiety. Gentle was not what you needed just then. Gentle would not keep your thoughts from straying to the rest of the night and what still awaited you in the morning. You sank your teeth into his lower lip, pulled at it until he snarled and pushed his mouth harder against yours, his tongue darting out to slide against your own.

"When I ask you a question, I expect an answer," he said, yet did not wait for you to respond before kissing you again.

You gripped his hair, bringing him close—close enough that you felt you could become one. It was not lost on either of you that with your hand now in Loki's hair, his own was free to touch where it liked. 

And yet…

“You still haven’t answered me, little wife,” he said against your lips. He lifted his hand so that it no longer touched you at all. “Do you want me to fuck you?” 

“I thought I made myself pretty clear,” you groaned, lifting your hips in an unsuccessful attempt to get him to put his hand back between your thighs.

“But I want to hear you say it.” 

"You’re so frustrating," you said.

"I am only ensuring I keep my promise," he said.

"Your promise… so if I ask you to fuck me, you will?"

Loki brushed his nose against your chin and hummed as a response. His free hand wiggled its way underneath you to give your backside a firm squeeze; you laughed into his mouth, which in turn allowed him to slide his tongue against yours, once again distracting you from asking the desired question.

You were still laughing when he pulled away. 

"Loki, would you please fuck me?" You grinned up at him. 

He squeezed your butt again, and said, "It would be my honor, little wife."

His hand took its place between your thighs once more; this time, he wasted no time sinking his fingers into you, slow and deep. Your breath caught in your throat as he moved, overwhelmed by the feeling of him inside of you both for the unfamiliarity of it and for the pleasure you were already feeling. His thumb rubbed circles over your clit and you rocked your hips in time with the movement. Your hand still at your breast fell away to join your other hand in tugging at Loki's hair. He used this new access to your body to enhance your pleasure, too; he kneaded your breast, messaging and rolling the nipple between his fingers. His teeth and lips busied themselves at your throat, biting and sucking and doing all they could to ensure there would be a sizable mark later on.

Each breath brought a wave of heat coursing through your body; I could burn up here, you thought, burn right up and never even feel it through the pleasure Loki was giving you. With all of the sensation overtaking your body, you didn’t last very long. You came with Loki’s name on your lips, white light bursting behind your eyes.

Your mind just… floated for a bit after that. You found yourself stuck in a state of dazed pleasure that your body was in no hurry to leave, so you leaned against Loki and let yourself come slowly down from the high of your climax. Dimly, you were aware of Loki moving behind you. Washing himself, maybe, as the two of you had never gotten around to that before you’d distracted him.

"You know, you're just gonna get dirty again," you mumbled. You could feel his erection pressed against your back, a firm reminder that the night was not over yet. You grinned up at him, wiggling against him to illustrate your point.

"I'm counting on it," he said, returning your grin. "I wanted to give you a bit of time to recover."

He stood; if you were recovered enough to speak, you were recovered enough to continue the night’s activities. He lifted you as he rose, like you weighed nothing at all, and you wrapped your arms around his neck with a grin.

"My strong, handsome husband," you teased, kissing him on the cheek.

Those words stoked the fire inside of him, and a low growl rumbled in his chest. He kissed your mouth with such force, you knew if you had been standing, your knees would have gone weak and you would have been knocked over. He sucked your lower lip into his mouth, bit and licked until you were breathless and panting; your noses pushed into each other as your desire grew more frantic. You squirmed in his grasp, anticipation coursing through your veins as surely as your blood. Minutes had passed since he brought you to completion the first time—already too long; you needed him inside of you again, needed all of him this time, and you needed him now.

You shivered when he dropped you onto the bed. The sheets were too cool against your heated skin and you pulled Loki's body against yours to absorb his heat into you. He buried his face in your neck and breathed you in. His erection brushed against you, slipped through your arousal, teasing at entering you fully, but denying that which you so dearly craved.

"Fuck me," you whispered.

He groaned. He wrapped his arms around you, but still did not give in to your desires.

"Are you real?" He asked.

You kissed him, soft and sweet and he went so weak against you that you were able to flip your position; so that you straddled his hips and he laid squirming underneath you.

"I am real," you said. "And I'll prove it to you."

He grinned. You grinned back. Without hesitating a moment more, you sank yourself down onto his cock. 

You moved slowly at first, needing to get used to the size and feel of him inside of you, and he respected that. 

His fingers gripped your hips hard enough to bruise, but he did not rush you or pressure you into moving at any pace other than the one you dictated. He propped himself up on the headboard and pulled you closer; any space between your bodies felt like a chasm that needed to be filled. He rested his forehead at the crook of your neck and you buried your nose in his hair. 

"I will protect you," he said into your skin. "No matter what happens, I will protect what's mine."

Those words encouraged you to quicken your pace, to take him deeper and rougher. You wanted to bring him so far into your body that it would be impossible to tell where he began and you ended; you wanted to absorb him, all of him, into your soul. You cursed and praised his name in the same breath, dug your nails into the skin of his back until he bled. When you came, you came together, with tears forming at the corners of your eyes, and Loki stealing your breath with another kiss.

Neither of you moved for a long while. You needed this; needed him close enough that his body felt like a natural extension of your own. When you began to shiver, Loki carefully guided you off of him and helped to lay you down in a position more conducive to rest. You sprawled out on top of him once he was down, too. 

He wrapped an arm around you, tracing patterns into your skin. Neither of you said anything more for the night. You basked in the warmth of each other's presence, in the post-coital contentment that seeped through your bodies. You fell asleep to the sound of Loki's breathing and the feeling of his skin against yours and as your mind quieted, you felt truly happy for the first time that night.

You felt like your body had suddenly taken up martial arts while your mind slept. Morning light had stolen what vestiges of happiness remained and left you tense, anxious—ready to bolt at the slightest surprise. You were sore, more than even your actual nighttime physical activity could account for.

Loki’s arm pinned you to his chest. Craning your neck back to look at him revealed a bruise creeping across his sternum.

You groaned. Flashes of memory skirted the edges of your mind. Nightmares of Rohr and his associates catching you had you thrashing around throughout the night. In your dreams, your elbows and fists had landed on your captors; in reality, Loki had borne the brunt of your flailing limbs. You willed the mattress to swallow you up, to prevent you from having to face whatever the day would entail, but no such luck came to you.

You turned around and buried yourself in Loki instead.

It pleased you, at least, that he did not seem to be having nightmares of his own. He told you once, months ago, that his sleep was almost always plagued with terrifying memories—of the Mad Titan Thanos, or images of all the different ways he could have saved his mother, or worse, reenactments of his murder of Laufey, tinged with a guilt so potent, yet hidden so deep within his psyche that he could not recognize or fight against it until he finally woke so sick with it that he spent the better part of the morning losing what little bit there was in his stomach. 

You kissed his neck, and tried to re-relax in his arms, but soon found that your anxiety over the coming day was growing too strong to stay idle.

“Your thoughts are deafening, little wife,” came the low rumble of his voice, pulling you from your own head.

“Sorry,” you whispered.

Loki said nothing more. He ran his knuckles up and down the length of your spine. Occasionally, his breathing grew steady enough that you thought he might have fallen back asleep. You’d attempt to get out of bed, to leave him in peace while you worked off some of your nervous energy, but each time his arm would tighten his grip and keep you right where you were.

“We have to get up.”

“Let me enjoy this time with my wife a bit longer,” he said.

His hand warmed on your back, magic seeping into your skin as it had throughout dinner last night. He kept you in bed for nearly an hour longer that way. But even his magic wasn’t enough to keep you from squirming forever.

Nearly an hour later, you were just about ready for the day. Loki wasn’t a morning person, you learned. He said little as he showered and dressed and the last dredges of exhaustion still weighed his body down as he put the finishing touches on his Laing disguise. He came up behind you as you put your earrings on. Hands went to your shoulders, then rubbed down your arms. His head came down so he could bury his face in your hair.

"Robert Laing is truly a fortunate man to wake up to a sight like this every morning," Loki said. His voice was raspy with sleep. 

The sound of it sent your mind reeling with thoughts you knew there was no time to act on just then.

"Yeah, well, don't feel too jealous of Laing. Once today is done there's no way I'll ever have the money to dress like this again." 

"Once today is done, my dear, you will no longer be the wife of a mortal doctor, but the lover of a God, king, and prince. There will be nothing outside of your reach," he kissed your neck, just above one of the concealed marks he left last night.

"Technically, you're not a king right now. You just have a claim to an unoccupied throne," you rolled your eyes. 

He just grinned that devilish grin of his.

"You're imagining trying to take over a planet again, aren't you? I swear, Loki, you're incorrigible. You're supposed to be making up for the last time you tried to take over a planet, remember? Not planning to do it again somewhere else."

"Are you saying you don't—"

“Whatever you’re about to ask, the answer is no.”

Loki tsked, “Fear not, my shrewd little wife. I’ve no plans to go conquering again any time soon. I have managed to learn from some of my mistakes, you know.”

"Mhmm, how about you learn where to get some coffee around here. I haven't seen a room service menu and I just know I'm going to need caffeine to help me get through the day.”

“Your wish is my command,” Loki took his leave with a bow.

You putzed around the hotel room for the next few minutes, looking through all of the little cabinets and tucked away spaces it contained. Nothing interesting was hidden away—some extra linens, an ugly painting someone must have gotten sick of looking at that no one else cared to put back on the wall, typical hotel things—but looking kept your mind occupied enough that it didn’t wander anywhere unpleasant.

Until a heavy 

bang 

bang 

bang 

shook the door.

Loki’s name sped to the tip of your tongue; fear stopped you from giving voice to it. 

There was no way that was Loki. He wouldn’t have to knock, let alone bang on the door like that. But no one else was supposed to come to your room; not as far as you were aware, at least.

Bang.

Bang.

Bang.

Could you just wait it out? Would whoever it was leave if you didn’t answer?

Your racing heart made breathing difficult. You wanted to tell yourself that this was no big deal—room service, maybe. Just someone coming to give you a schedule of the day's events, perhaps.

The door was in front of you before you’d even fully processed the decision to go to it. You stood on your toes to look through the peephole.

Peter and Ilene Woodard stood on the other side of the door, awaiting the answer to their knock. You took a breath, then another. Then, you opened the door.

"Peter, Ilene, what a surprise," you said, forcing as much cheerfulness into your voice as you could manage. "What brings you here?"

And how the hell can I get you to leave? you thought.

Neither of them smiled. One of Ilene’s eyes was twitching. In her hands, she clutched a folded piece of paper. 

Peter looked around at the room behind you.

"Is Robert here?" He asked, as though you hadn't said a word.

Briefly, it occurred to you to say he isn’t here; maybe they were here for him and his absence would lead to their departure.

"Yes, he’s just in the other room getting ready," you lied anyway. Beyond that initial instinct to tell the truth was knowledge—knowledge you could not substantiate with anything more than an overwhelming dread that told you they were here for you. You prayed, not to Hashem, but to Loki himself. You prayed that they would believe the lie; that they would leave.

"I see," Peter sighed. He looked at someone outside of the room, just beyond your line of vision. He tilted his head in the direction of the floor’s lobby. "Find him."

That was definitely the last time you’d ever pray to Loki.

He and Ilene, along with two armed men, stepped into the room. They left the doorway open behind them, an open invitation for any of their friends to come in and join them.

Where was the nearest coffee shop? You couldn’t recall seeing one in the hotel last night. Did Loki have to leave the building entirely? Were you completely alone in a hotel filled to the brim with Hydra agents and flat out Nazis? Was there any hope that any of your friends would come to your aid—that Loki would come for you? There was no doubt in your mind that he would come for you if he could, if he knew that you needed him. And maybe he should have known not to leave you; all of your fear and anxiety—maybe he should have been more cautious about leaving you in light of how you’d been feeling. But you were the one that sent him out. You’d felt there was relative safety in this room. If not from your own racing thoughts, then at least from the people. 

What if the person Peter sent after Loki caught him? Illogical as it was, you feared for his safety, too. Did they know Robert Laing was Loki? Did they have someone who could go toe to toe with him?

Tears burned your eyes. Sheer stubbornness kept them from falling, though you knew it wouldn’t take much for that resolve to fail.

"What's going on?" Your voice shook.

"We were hoping you could answer that for us, Mrs. Laing. You see, my wife recognized you last night—said that she had seen an ad for your catering company a few years back. But you were supposedly living in London at that time, weren't you?" Peter said, taking another step closer.

Ilene held out the ad.

You didn’t take it. What good would looking do? Maybe it really was an old ad of yours; maybe it wasn’t. Either way, they’d said enough for you to know there was no weaseling your way out of this.

You took another step back. Realistically, there was nowhere for you to go. They had the doorway blocked and had you outnumbered. Putting space between you and them wouldn’t do much when they finally got to the point of this.

"There must be some misunderstanding,” you tried. “What reason would Robert and I have for lying about something like that?"

"That's what I thought at first, but my Ilene was convinced. So we did some research. Do you know what we found, Mrs. Laing?" The emphasis he put on the name told you that they'd found your real name, for one thing. And if they found your real name, then they were probably able to find…

"You work for the Avengers," a voice said from behind the group. Christoph Rohr walked into the room. Two more armed men followed him. "Now, that in and of itself isn't so bad. Hydra can always use people on the inside."

You took another step back; you were certain your heart was no longer beating.

Rohr waved his hand at you, “Grab our friend, won’t you, boys?”

You ran for the bedroom—

a gunshot—

a hole in the floor where there wasn’t one before—

you’re jaw hit the floor before you even realized that in your fright you’d tripped over your own two feet—

then one rough hand on each of your arms pulling, pulling, pulling—

Rohr, stood above you. 

The tears broke loose. Snot and spit ran down your face and when you moved to wipe them away the men held your arms at your sides. Bruises would form if you lived long enough. You sobbed, openly and unrestrained. You were pathetic. You couldn’t bring yourself to care.

You were no Avenger; there was nothing special about you. You were a chef, a damn good one if you had anything to say about it—and what did chefs know about infiltration or spying or doing a superhero’s work for them?

Loki, you thought. Loki, Loki, Loki, his name spun circles in your mind. 

"As I was saying, Hydra can always use a double agent. But a Jew? We have no need for your kind in our organization. We do, however, have a need to get rid of any potential threats. So, since you are interested in Hydra, you'll be taking a trip with us to one of our facilities while Peter and Ilene wait for your lovely husband to return. We wouldn't want to leave him out of the fun, would we?" 

The guards dragged you out of the room. You struggled against them, trying to rip your arms out of their hold, and digging your heels into the carpet, to no avail.

"Let go, you shits!" You yelled, fear giving way just long enough for a burst of anger to bubble up.

"Don't make too much of a fuss, please. It would be a hassle if we had to knock you out, but we will do it if necessary."

"I'm not going to make it easy for you to kidnap and kill me!" Your voice cracked on a fresh sob. 

Pain exploded through your body as barrels of each of the guard’s guns slam into the back of your head and your stomach respectively. Your tears burned on their way down. Rohr and Peter were talking, but the words were indistinct. Your head was swimming—drowning, while everyone around you looked on.

Then there was mass hysteria.

Screams—not from anyone in the room, but from somewhere else, somewhere far away, though it was hard to tell if it only seemed that way because of the concussion you surely had.

Something shattered, the screams got closer.

Rohr glared at you, as though any of this was your fault.

“Everyone out the back way,” he barked.  

The two men holding you hauled you up out of the room. Your legs dragged uselessly under you, which was fine. You still had no inclination towards making things easy and you had just enough presence of mind left to hope that they’d just decide you weren’t worth the extra trouble. Maybe they’d just drop you there in the middle of the hallway; leave you for dead instead of allowing you to slow down their escape.

And then they did.

The men dropped you, uncaring of the way you slump down onto the floor or the pained cry you couldn’t contain when your knees hit the floor.

But they didn’t leave, didn’t abandon you. Something stopped them.

“Get the fuck out of our way,” the man on your left growled at the figure standing in front of the group.

“No, I don’t think I will,” came Loki’s response. Though his words lacked any threat, his tone left the implication of it all too clear.

Loki, you thought, tears falling anew. You’re here.

It took all of your remaining energy to look up at him, but there—he was standing right there. You almost couldn’t believe it. If you had been alone, you probably wouldn’t have believed it. You’d have chalked it up to a trick your distressed mind was playing on you. But Rohr, the Woodards, the guards—they all saw him, too. 

And they truly did see him. All traces of Robert Laing were erased, though Loki had left wearing the disguise. Even his clothes were undeniably Loki’s. Gone were the suit and blonde hair. Instead, Loki’s dark curls fell in an unruly mess just above his shoulders. The metal of his armor gleamed under the hotel’s harsh lighting and the dark leather almost managed to hide the blood splattered across his chest.

In each arm, he held a body.

The guards Peter had sent after him.

Loki tossed them haphazardly at Rohr’s feet.

“I could forgive hunting me down,” Loki began conversationally, “That is considered something of a sport among the Aesir, you know. But hurting my wife? I’m afraid I can’t let that go unpunished.”

Metal pressed against both sides of your head. The guns, you assumed; you didn’t look to confirm. You couldn’t look away from Loki; you knew if you did, panic would overcome you. Panic wouldn’t help anyone in this situation.

 “I’m afraid you really don’t have a choice in the matter,” Rohr bit out.

“Do you suppose there is anything you can do to stop me?” Loki’s voice came from behind you.

Squelch. 

The guards had no time to react before they fell to the floor beside you, dead. Two Lokis promptly shoved them away from you. The Loki standing before you stepped closer to Rohr. He flipped a blade, his face a mask of contemplation.

“What do you imagine you could do to me, you old fool?” One of the Lokis behind you stepped forward, too, closing in on the Woodards. The third Loki stayed close to you. One of his hands rested on the top of your head, lightly playing with the strands of hair. Just feeling him there made you feel worlds better. Or maybe he was using some kind of magic to heal you. You still felt shitty enough that it was hard to tell. “Honestly—” Loki scoffed, “Six Avengers could not kill me at my worst; what hope could three old mortals searching for their glory days have against me?"

Six new Lokis sprung into existence, wrenching a soul piercing scream from Ilene, only made worse when one of them grabbed her hair. They all laughed in time with one another. It was a humorless laugh, deranged; dangerous.

“Let her g—” Peter’s vocal chords were no match for the blade Loki ran through them. 

A blade through her chest cut Ilene’s next scream short.

You knew, logically, that this all should have inspired some sort of fear in you. Violence was never something you’d had to witness; not like this, at least. Before this, your experience with blood came from paper cuts and meat. Now, blood spilled and pooled under unnaturally still bodies, stained white carpet to permanently commemorate the deaths of those who had wronged one worshiped as a god.

You did not feel fear. 

You felt good.

With Loki’s gentle hand on your hair and his blade wreaking vengeance on your behalf, you felt powerful.

You raised your head to look at Christopher Rohr. Every part of him trembled—hands, legs, even his eyes trembled. You thought about how powerful he seemed last night. All of those people cheering for him, supporting him. Where were they all now? Running, screaming in terror because they caught sight of true power—power that came to your aid.

“Kill him, please,” you whispered.

The Loki standing in front of Rohr turned his gaze on you. For an instant, it was softer than it had any right to be in a blood soaked corridor surrounded by dead bodies. Then he turned his gaze back onto Rohr. He grinned, his mouth a knife’s blade itching for carnage. 

“As my lady commands,” he said.

Rohr’s death was almost anticlimactic. He tried to flee, oh he tried. But with a circle of Lokis surrounding him, there was little chance of escape. They closed in on him slowly; let him search for openings to slip through, but Rohr truly was nothing more than an old man. He had no power without his followers around him.

The Loki at your back knelt down. His hand moved from your hair to your chin, gently pulling you to look at him.

“Before I end this cretin’s life, I believe you expressed a desire to punch one of his ilk. Would you care to fulfill it now?”

You licked your lips.

The Lokis circling Rohr shifted just enough for you to see inside of their circle. He was kneeling now, begging for mercy.

You nodded.

Loki helped you stand on shaky legs. A tingling sensation moved through your body, healing some of the pain that still lingered. You didn’t feel one hundred percent better, but it was enough to give you the strength needed for your task.

Rohr’s begging came to a stop when you joined the circle. His face hardened. It was almost amusing—even moments away from death, he thought to treat you as someone beneath him. As though it wasn’t your request that would end his life once you got your satisfaction.

Your fingers curled into a fist at your side. You thought about saying something; maybe some sort of biting comment that would torment him beyond the grave. But, really, there was nothing to say. Nothing that would erase the followers he’d amassed throughout his life, nothing that would erase what he’d done, what planned to do.

And so you punched him. Again. And again. And again. You punched him until you were breathless, screamed until your throat was sore.

Loki watched, a silent support, until you were done. And when you were done, he lifted you into his arms and let one of his duplicates sink his blade into Rohr’s wretched heart. Rohr, too, was nothing more than a lifeless heap on a bloody floor.

It was done.

The extra Lokis dissipated.

Your perception of space and time went foggy from there. You were aware, on some vague level, that Loki was carrying you from the hotel, but you had no idea where he was taking you or how long it took to get there. Hushed whispers from a crowd both beguiled and panicked by the sight of Loki were nothing more than white noise in your ears. Mostly, you were aware of the sticky wet feeling of the blood on Loki’s leathers seeping through your dress—

—staining

staining

staining—  

“Are you with me?” Loki spoke against your ear, kissing just behind it when you startled back to reality.

The room you were in was unfamiliar. Layers of fabrics in varying shades of green flecked with gold formed a canopy around the bed you were in. A wardrobe, table, and two chairs carved from sturdy dark wood were the only pieces of furniture you could see. Across from the bed was a door, left ajar just enough that you could begin to make out the bathroom behind it. Carved into the wall nearest the table, was a fireplace and in the fireplace a fire crackled as it warmed a kettle hanging just above it.

You breathed in.

You breathed out.

In.

Out.

And with every breath you took, Loki kissed your face; a trail from one cheekbone to the next.

In time, you became aware that you were no longer wearing the bloody gown. You felt clean. Fresh. You did not ask after the dress, Loki did not offer any information. 

He moved away from you slowly, going to the fireplace to remove the kettle. The liquid inside smelled of the earth and something a bit sweet. Loki helped you to sit up against the headboard and handed you a small cupful.

You sipped at it.

“The specialty of mothers across the Nine Realms—just the trick for bumps and bruises,” Loki offered, by way of explanation.

You were only mildly surprised to find your pain all but gone after only a few sips of the concoction. If it could heal the ailments of Asgardian children, your human pain surely didn’t stand a chance against it.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

Silence fell over the room. Loki flitted about, finding this task or that chore to do. You watched him; your mind felt somehow too busy and too empty. A cacophony of static mixed with deafening silence.

When Loki ran out of menial tasks he returned to the bed, tucking you into his side. He let the silence reign for a few moments more before he broke it. Stories of growing up on Asgard filled the air—of wild hunts for legendary creatures, of boots that let him walk on air, and of battles fought with rhymes and wit instead of swords and magic. He spoke until the cup was empty, then took the cup to wash.

"I don't think I'm cut out for Avenger-ing," you confessed. The corners of your mouth turned down. “Avenging? Seems like that shouldn’t be the right word—they don’t actually avenge very much, do they?” 

Loki’s next breath came out as a laugh. He bent to kiss away the crease of your furrowed brow, and settled back down next to you in the bed.

“They do not,” He took one of your hands in his, kissed your knuckles. “Do not sell yourself short. You did well tonight—we may make a warrior queen of you yet, little wife.”

“Yeah, right,” you snorted. “All I did was punch an old man; besides, you didn’t see me cry when they came to the room. Definitely not hero behavior.”

“All warriors must start somewhere,” he offered.

“Mhmm, I guess,” you went quiet for a moment, just letting your mind drift. You’d probably have nightmares for a while. You’d never seen anyone get murdered before; that probably had some lasting psychological effects, you imagined. “What should we tell Steve and Tony?”

“The truth.”

You leaned away from Loki, brows raised, but eyes narrowed in suspicion. 

“It is a useful enough tool, on occasion,” he said through another breathy laugh. He wrapped his arm around your shoulders, pulling you back into his body. 

You nuzzled his neck, pressed a kiss over his pulse. This was nice. This was good. There would be fallout from all of this, no doubt about that. But it could wait. For now, there were no nightmares, no angry Avengers with angry opinions, and no violent bigots to deal with. That felt like a win. For now, you had Loki.

“Don’t forget, Mischief, you owe me at least one date before I’ll marry you for real,” you whispered into his skin.

Slowly the door opens revealing your boyfriend to you in all his glory. For some reason, he has wiggled his way into a very skimpy pair of lavender panties, with matching bralette, and garters. Not forgetting the half rolled down stockings. You take your time drinking him in. Your eyes rove down his body leaving not a single patch of his skin untouched by your gaze as he shuffles uncomfortably. 

When you don't immediately say anything, he moves to close the door again. You kick your leg out just in time to stop him from shutting himself away. The bruise that was sure to arise was definitely worth it. 

"Ahavah, if you don't stop staring at me I'll cry." Jin whines.

You continue to look on anyway. Some how, in your many years together, you had never thought to put Jin in women's  underwear, but you were definitely regretting it now. 

The lavender lace complimented his smooth tan skin in the most perfect way. The delicate straps of the bralet accentuated his already broad shoulders, making him look both strong a delicate. And the garters created a little line of chub beneath them from being so tight that you were just aching to bite.

"Would it be wrong if I wanted you to cry? just a little?" You ask coyly "Although not about the way you look... never about the way you look my beautiful little idol." 

You stand and move to him. Reaching for the waistband of his panties and twisting it in your fingers. You allow the elastic to flick back against his skin and kiss him on the nose.

"What if I wanted you to cry from me giving you the same amount of pleasure seeing you in this lingerie has given me?"

You reach up to remove unclasp the bralet, only to find one of the hooks trapped in the lace, twisted in to the fabric with little hope of release. You realise then why no one had seen Jin all day.

"How long have you been trapped in this bra?" You ask, turning off the horny to spin him around and help him out.

"Since this morning." He admits, clearly ashamed. "I would've ripped it but I really like this one.

You decide to let that statement sit while you helped him. You could revisit his apparent lingerie collection once he was free. Although the thought wouldn't escape your brain completely. 

Taking great care, you the exact parts of the pattern that are entangled with the hook and follow each one with as much focus as a brain surgeon. It doesn't take long for you to wrestle the metal free. You kiss along his shoulders as you finish and he turns around to face you.

"Thank you." He kisses your forehead and then moves to remove the entire set so he could get dressed properly. It's only as he is rolling down the garters, the real question springs to mind.

"Jin?"

"Hmm?"

"If only the bralet was stuck, why are you still in the panties?"