“Don’t worry Matthew.” A colleague whispered as you walked away. “The business cards are late from the printer. She’ll never know.”

Their words only stoked the fire of your curiosity, and you immediately returned to your hotel room to hide the evidence. I’ll find out exactly who you belong to, you said to yourself as you rolled the delicate diamond bracelet through your fingers, frowning at the clasp. You opened the bracelet, fastening it again. The clasp was two sides of an infinity symbol.

Oddly specific.

***

“The gym, Madame?”

You jumped at the digital voice in the elevator, placing a hand over your chest.

“Yes please.”

“Call me Jarvis.”

“Yeah, I know – it’s just…. strange.”

“Yes it takes most humans some getting used to. But rest assured I am a sentient being, just as you are.”

“Okay. Thanks… Jarvis.”

You muttered under your breath. “Why does he sound English.”

You jumped at the volume of the AI’s reply. “Mr. Stark modelled my voice based on the driver of Mr. Stark’s parents, who were privately educated in London.”

“Got it.”

Christ.

A week of residing in Stark Tower, and you still hadn’t got used to the feeling of being watched by invisible eyes and the voice that sprung to life at the most inopportune moments. It was the reason Stark felt so comfortable giving you access to two-thirds of the tower, knowing his digital bodyguard would report back your whereabouts and block your access the moment you stepped out of line or dug a little too deep.

In the tower you were known by many and trusted by few. “Internal audit,” you would tell them. “For Mr. Stark.” It was enough to prevent staff from asking too many questions. It held partial truth – Stark hired you to audit the team from a Public Relations perspective. The front-liners knew the real reason for your presence. Those who lived in the top third of the tower. Romanoff. Banner. Barton. Captain Rogers. And a host of enhanced beings who you had learned to both respect and fear as you sat across from them in a lower-floor boardroom for their one-to-one with you.

All beings represent the Avengers brand. The mission brief stated coldly. And as such are an extension of the public trust built by its founder, Tony Stark.

“Assassins, legends, green monsters, I don’t care. Just make sure they don’t step out of line off-duty. At least – nothing off-brand,” Tony Stark told you during the initial interview, conducted as he welded a tear in his metal suit. “Quarter of a mill. Make it happen.” The overblown figure didn’t surprise you. Stark was notoriously difficult to work with. The price tag matched the monumental ball ache you were about to undertake.

Sweat pooled at your hairline and oozed down your brow bone in a sticky rivulet as you pieced together your angle. You were to present your recommendations on Monday morning, two days away. You knew exactly which being posed the biggest PR risk to Stark’s merry band of expendables. Ironically, it was the one person you had not yet interviewed, given his absence on a mission.

You glanced at the treadmill two machines over from you, a tall brunette running twice the pace as yourself and sweating half as much, long legs galloping effortlessly over the moving band of rubber with the power of a winning thoroughbred. The fluorescent lighting of the gym hit her wrist and glinted, drawing your eyes to her jewelry.

That fucking diamond bracelet.

The gold band glided elegantly around her wrist as she ran, revealing the unusual clasp.

You milked your cool-down, extending it for ten minutes longer than necessary. You even moved to the mats, foam-rolling for a further fifteen. Uncovering the mystery from the diamond-bracelet-wearing gazelle run the risk of becoming your new obsession, an inconvenient distracted you couldn’t afford. You had to figure it out, here and now.

She sat down on the mat beside you, stretching out her hamstring. She caught your eye and smiled.

“God I couldn’t be arsed this morning,” she confessed in a thick Mancunian accent.

You raised an eyebrow. Unexpected. Judging books by their elegant covers, and all that.

“Yeah, I hear you. Always feel better after a workout though, right?”

She frowned slightly upon hearing your northern English accent but nodded her agreement, standing to pull her ankle to her buttocks and stretch her quad. “Part of the job innit.” She shrugged.

“Modeling?”

She smiled. “Nah. That’s a former life. I do films now.” She gestured with her arm, covering her face as if defending herself with wrist armour. She laughed goofily.

“OH! Shit!! You were the stunt double in WonderWoman!”

“Yeah….”

“Trying to be professional here, but I’m fangirling out, not gonna lie.”

“That’s alright.” She shifted her footing and stretched out the opposite quad.

“That’s a nice bracelet.” You pointed at the glistening jewels.

“Oh… thanks.” She lowered her gaze slightly, looking tentative.

“I have one similar.”

“Similar… or the same?” Her eyes narrowed over the last words.

“The same.”

“From a gift bag?”

“Mmm hmm.”

She sighed out the secret she had been holding in. “God he’s an arsehole isn’t he.”

“Oh yeah. Totally.” You scoffed in mock annoyance.

“You know he’ll be there tonight. At the event.”

“What event’s that?”

You both sat down on the mats, faux stretching routine abandoned.

“Dior.”

“Is it across town?” you asked.

“No. Here in the the tower.” She shrugged. “They use the event space here, sprawling views of the city, you know how it is. Plus, The Avengers usually show up which is shit hot publicity for them.”

“I appreciate the intel, even if it makes me look a bit shit at my job!” You laughed nervously.

“What do you do?”

“Public Relations. Reputation management, mainly.”

She smiled knowingly. “Do you have a card? I mean, I know it’s 2023, but I’m old school.”

“Yeah me too. Here…” You fished into the back pocket of your iPhone holder and gave her your business particulars.

She held it at each corner and nodded as she read your info. “Tell you what. Come to the event with me tonight. I need a plus one anyway. And I’ll tell you who gave me the bracelet.”

“Oh, I already – ”

“For a PR person, you’re not a very good liar.”

“I am deeply wounded by that character assessment.” You clutched your chest mockingly. “Not all PR people are liars.”

“And not all ex-models are idiots.” She grinned.

“But… yeah. That’d be good. Tonight. Extra research for me.”

She nodded conspiratorially. “Okay. I’m on floor 31. Give me a call when you’re ready, about 7. I’ll come to you and we’ll head out together. I’m Jessie, by the way. You’re a northerner?”

“Yeah. And you’re Manc!”

“Accent’s bit of a giveaway, innit.”

“A little bit. I went to Uni in Manchester though. So it reminds me of home. What do you reckon to New York?”

“Bit of a shit hole, if I’m honest. But yeah – makes me feel at home!”

“I like how you call a spade a spade.”

“I call a wanker a wanker, too. See you tonight.”

She winked at you and strode off, looking like elegance personified and sounding like a Manchester bus driver.

***

“Jarvis?” You called out into the ceiling of your hotel room on the 33rd floor. “You can put this into .jpgs for Stark, right?”

“Yes of course, Miss.”

You offered the friendly AI your instructions and continued taking snips of the Instagram profile open on your MacBook. The one boasting over fifty-five million followers. Despite not having the chance to interview him yet, you knew exactly who he was. His Instagram content was as over the top as he was. A self-obsessed buffet of high-res images from his numerous branding deals, peppered with ‘behind the scenes’ images designed to look casual, along with gratuitous ‘training’ shots of him in leather, and videos of him in the Avengers gym deadlifting unfathomable amounts of weight.

The remainder of his content could only be described as thirst traps. Gratuitous images of his bare muscular back, white shirt slipping casually down it. Dressed in full leather armour, cuffed and muzzled, wide bedroom eyes directed at the camera as he glanced over his shoulder in mock submission. Or standing on the Stark Tower helicopter pad in tight black-and-green leathers, back to the camera, daggers drawn by his side ready to take down an invisible foe, pert leather-clad butt-cheeks on full display. Flexed, of course.

And you hadn’t even logged his TikTok content yet. Though you knew what gems would await you. Thirst traps… to music. Transitions of casual-attire-to-battle-armour featuring various members of The Avengers, particularly Natasha Romanoff who appeared to love the camera just as much he did.

You were surprised his Instagram bio didn’t say, “Celebrity. Lothario. God.”

“Loki. Laufeyson. I know exactly who you are.”

You worked late into the afternoon, using your software to summarise the sentiment of his social media mentions, and selecting mainstream media articles discussing him personally. Social media was positive among his fans - the self-proclaimed ‘Loki’s Whores’ - and neutral among the general public. Major news outlets were a little less forgiving and a little more sceptical, best characterised by a recent front-cover investigative feature by the New York Times.

Abruptly, your alarm sounded and you stopped typing. You knew from experience you had a tendency to overwork and were liable to run late for the Dior party without your usual fail-safe.

Party. Who were you kidding. Like all soirees, this was a networking event. You were there to observe and gather intel to support your recommendations to Stark. As you applied your make-up, you opened YouTube and typed in his name to watch his TV advertisements for various high-end brands.

The first was for Calvin Klein underwear. He lay on a plump white bed, one that looked oddly familiar to your own, undoubtedly filmed in one of the hotel rooms here in Stark Tower. He wore only his figure-hugging black Calvins as he looked wistfully into a square blue lightbox, one that was clearly intended to represent an infinity stone that had become just as much a part of his personal brand as his slicked-back hair, despite the gem no longer existing anywhere on this planet.

The second ad was high-end fashion. Gucci. You already recognised the iconic images from the print version of the campaign, having been splashed over Times Square and on double-page spreads of every respectable glossy rag. The opening image of the advert was a zoomed-in shot of him buttoning up a shirt, deft masculine hands closing the material over the expanse of his hard chest. The next, sat on a sofa, rolling up his sleeves, legs akimbo, crotch on full display despite the thick material covering it, a moody gaze cast down the lens. The commercial continued the contrived ‘getting ready for the day scene’ narrated to the sound of his own voice, and finally ending with him sat on a chesterfield looking all-too-pleased with himself.

Finally, you watched the infamous Dior perfume ad. The one you would ordinarily expect the internet to shred to pieces given the pretentious drivel he spouted. Instead, it was met with extreme thirst from men and women alike, young and old, as Twitter had a meltdown over the God-Prince who was benevolent enough to grace the planet with his good lucks and infinite wisdom.

You watched the scenes in the ad, predictably narrated to his dulcet tones.

Your signature is more than paper and ink.

He signed an excessively thick blank white card with an extraordinarily expensive pen, of a brand he would no doubt advertise for in the future.

Your signature is your legacy.

Bizarrely, he walked through a glass-fronted lobby in the City of London, briefcase in hand, as though ready for a day at the office.

Your signature is the man you choose to become.

He was at the gym now, sat at a bench and wrapping his fists in white bandages. Evidentially, he was a boxer as well as a banker.

The memories you leave behind. The facet of you which exists when you are no longer here.

Que close-ups of picture frames with photos of imaginary memories. In the images he was a family man, married, children, the whole bit.

Your signature is your scent. Forever.

The ad ended with a close-up of a cologne bottle and his closing smug words.

Eternity. For Men.

And Gods.

“Fucking pillock.” You swiped your signature dark pink stain over your lips and heard a knock at the door. Three light taps. Jessie.

“I couldn’t wait… the suspense was fucking killing me!” she laughed as you opened the door. “Okay so my flat’s all the way in Brooklyn, but I went back and knew I had it somewhere…. Oh my god, is that what I think it is?” Jessie pointed to the gift bag contents strewn across your bed. “This is the latest one, isn’t it?? Looks like he’s uplevelled his shit!”

You put your hand up. “Jessie, you’re talking a mile-a-minute. What are you talking about?”

“The mystery gift bag owner! Ooh I wonder if you can guess…”

“Well it sounds like it’s an individual, which honestly wasn’t my first guess. I thought it was a brand.”

“He sort of is a brand.”

“Oh god. No. NO.” Eternity… the infinity symbol….

“Mmm hmmm… go on…” Jessie’s eyes widened in enthusiasm.

“He’s one of The Avengers?”

“Yep!” Her mouth popped over the last letter.

“He advertises for Dior.”

“He does…”

“So… he’s giving out gift bags at the event. Is that it?”

“Not quite.” Jessie stood, gesturing to the items across your bed. “May I?”

You shrugged. “Sure.”

She gathered the items into the bag and walked backwards, before turning towards you and animatedly opening an invisible door. She pretended to be shocked at a person outside the imaginary exit. She suddenly became him, putting on a haughty English accent. “There is a car waiting outside Madame. Any allergies? No?” She handed over the bag and scurried back to you.

“He’s moonlighting as a Butler.”

“No. That was his butler.”

“This makes no sense.”

“Which is why you have to see him in action tonight. Seeing is believing and all that. OH! And this is at the bottom of the bags.” She handed you a stark white business card with an ostentatious logo in the bottom right corner, a coiled snake with the letters LL either side of it. In the middle of the card, two simple printed words:

WITH COMPLIMENTS

Your stomach flipped, intuition screaming at you.

“Come on,” Jessie enthused. “Let’s see the panther in the wild!”

A long leg trailed over the side of a tall bar stool, covered in a tailored black trouser yet doing nothing to hide the hard thigh beneath the material. One patent black leather shoe rested firmly against the floor, the other resting on the silver rung of the stool. A crisp, thick black shirt dressed his upper half, sleeves rolled up to reveal cuts, bruises and abrasions. A black Hermes belt finished off his look.

You raised your eyebrows at his demeanor. Juxtaposing his elegance, he hunched over the bar, scrolling through his iPhone, oblivious to his surroundings. You frowned.

“Not what you expected eh?” Your new friend turned to you with a warm smile.

You cocked your head, still looking at him. “I expected him to be more… smug.”

“Give him a minute. He’s fueling up his ego on his Instagram comments. Wait until he… switches it on.”

You watched in silence for a handful of heartbeats, the God within your sightline seemingly as addicted to his pocket device as mere mortals. You continued to observe him until he stood and slipped his phone into the right front pocket of his tailored trousers, before adjusting his shirt at his elbows, ensuring his rolled-up sleeves were placed just so. He rolled his shoulders back, hand sweeping over his slicked back hair unconsciously, a movement he must have completed thousands of times. He knocked back a tumbler of whiskey, expression immovable as the strong liquid entered his system. He turned, surveying the bar area and its inhabitants, his expression remaining unreadable. His eyes found your alcove, noticing Jessie first. His eyebrows furrowed, glancing down at her beneath haughty, hooded lids. He looked at you, brow remaining creased. You felt a sensation in your solar plexus, as though you were teetering on the edge of a rollercoaster, waiting at the top, about to go over the edge. He looked away.

As if flicking a switch, he broke into a smile that would end wars, his skin radiant and his energy magnetic, walking across the bar in a manner that could only be described as a strut.

The music bled into a new song, the new track as sensual as the last.

There’s something in the water. I don’t like the flavour, I don’t like the taste.

Searching for nirvana. Something that’ll take it all away from me.

Please forgive me I’ve got demons in my head…

“The publicists lead him out front where the paps are. He’ll do his duty for the brand then come back in, drink, and find someone to fuck.”

“Jesus.” You shook your head rapidly, as if trying to shake something off.

“You made eye contact with him didn’t you.”

“What? No, not really, I – ”

“If you look directly at him, he turns your undies to stone and then they crack and fall off!” Jessie joked. “That’s how he reels you in.”

“He is not reeling me in. I’m just watching him, like you are. So… hang on… he’s positioning himself to fuck the best-looking woman here. Is that it?”

“Not exactly, no. It’s a status thing for him. It’s like he has a list and he’s trying to tick people off.”

“That’s a thousand kinds of fucked up.”

“It is…. but I kind of respect it.”

“You what?”

“Well… the way he does it. It’s so smooth.” She sipped her mojito and flashed her eyebrows in barely-contained anticipated excitement. “You’ll see.”

You sipped at your wine glass filled with sparkling apple juice, your usual ploy to appear part of the action when you were working. The glass clinked on the heavy marble-topped table. “Tell me about the gift bag.”

She chuckled. “He handed it to me after we fucked. Or to be more specific, his butler handed it to me.”

You coughed and spluttered, instantly regretting the gulp you had taken moments earlier. Jessie continued without prompting.

“It’s had an upgrade since I knew him. Good to see the Anusol is a staple, though. Makes sense. He could be fucking a man, or a woman. Nothing worse than a sore ring.”

You broke out laughing again, this time without a mouthful of liquid. “There’s a story here, I know it, and I know it’s fucking comedy GOLD.”

“Alright alright…” Jessie gestured with her hands and wiggled her back into the increasingly uncomfortable seating. “Right. Lemme set the scene. It was 2017, we’d just finished reshoots for WonderWoman. Gal was five months pregnant at this point, and she was such a trooper, wanted to keep working which was amazing, but it caused loads of problems in production. She had this little green triangle over her belly and they were going to edit it out but we were close to deadline and the reshoots were already late. Anyway, they called me in to do as many shots as possible to save time in post. Gal was still on set every day, she’s honestly so nice – ”

You cleared your throat. “You’re gonna work her publicist out of a job, you know.”

“Sorry, she’s just – anyways. So I’m at the premier. Still have my long brown extensions in, I’m still in WonderWoman shape…. I resembled her pretty closely, not gonna lie. So I did the red carpet shit, saw the film, and was high as fuck on the adrenaline of it all. At the after party, he was there. He suddenly appeared like a fucking apparition or something. He hadn’t seen the film, obviously. Just rocked up to the party. So I might have told him I was Gal Gadot. And he might have believed me.”

“NO!” You slammed your palms down onto the glass table. “No way!! That’s iconic!”

“Yeah yeah, thanks…” Jessie nodded and grinned in mock smugness. “He came out with some line about seeing real-life superheroes,” her tone deepened as she impersonated him, “and he invited me back to this gaff we’re in now, Stark Tower, which was obviously the first step in getting me near his bedroom. Or his chambers as he called them.”

You paused, toying with the stem of your wine glass. “What was he like?”

“In bed? Phenomenal. Like…. there are no words. His reputation doesn’t even do him justice. He’s insane.” Her gaze fell to the side as she sighed wistfully.

“No, I meant… what was he like with you? His demeanor?”

“Seriously. That’s what you wanna know?”

“Yeah, I need to know what level of PR disaster we’re potentially dealing with here. Was he creepy?”

“No.” She leaned in with wide-eyed enthusiasm. “That’s just the thing. He was a total gentleman. He was upfront about what he wanted and what was going to happen. And he made sure I as on board. It was a one-nighter. We both knew it. He said if I wasn’t comfortable, he would order me a car to take me home, no hard feelings.” Jessie noticed your skeptical expression. “You’re surprised?”

“Yeah. Kinda.”

“He’s become this massive celebrity now. So over the past year or so, if I’m free and I’m not on set, I’ve gone to the events he’s at and just sat and watched him. And he’s become so much smoother. He has a system now. He’s like a…. a machine.”

“The fucking balls on this guy.”

“Yeah well, those balls taste like strawberry bon bons.”

You cackled loudly, throwing your head back and holding a hand over your torso, fingers spread wide. You didn’t see the dark-haired man glancing over his shoulder to see who was having more fun than him. He had returned to the bar, a tall willowy blonde sat with him now.

“Okay I need context on the bon bons.”

“Right. So he has this bowl of old-fashioned sweets in his room. Different flavours. And I picked one. And he waved his hand over his crotch and his fingers glowed green for a second. And…. yeah. Strawberry.”

“What the fuck? You should never have to flavor the cock. God this is so fucked. Why haven’t I heard about this? Why isn’t anyone calling him out in the press? Or in his Instagram comments?”

“If someone fucked you and gave you a gift bag, would you want to talk about it? Would you want people to know?”

“Point taken.” You turned your head in the direction of the bar and watched him as he sat with the slender fashionista, his palm opening to flickers of light dancing above his hand and the sound of… fireworks? Was he conjuring fireworks? “This guy’s a fucking predator.”

“That’s just the thing though,” Jessie leaned in and lifted a careful finger, subtly pointing to the room. “Look around us. Everyone wants him. Is he the predator, or the prey?”

The bar area had started to fill with guests, a hum of interest building in the form of whispers and shared glances. Many of the women looked at him with the same interest as a wolf eyeing its next meal.

“See? Prey.”

“And you’re really not mad at him?”

“Why would I be? I pretended to be a gorgeous actress, he pretended to be a gentleman. Don’t hate the player, hate the bon bons.” Jessie grinned and knocked back her drink, before taking the lime out and sucking it.

“I’m getting us another round.”

“Do not go up there. You’ll be three seconds away from getting a free tube of silicon-based lube in a gift bag from Alfred Pennyworth.”

“Erm excuse me, how very dare you, what makes you think I need any assistance in the area of lubrication.”

“Well you won’t need any after being in close proximity to ya man over there.” She nodded in his direction. “Trust me. He’s like liquid sex.”

“Good. Tell him he can save his money on lube.”

“Yeah you joke about it now. He could seduce a fucking lollipop lady.”

“Consider me warned. Same again?” You pointed to Jessie’s empty glass. She nodded.

You walked towards the black marble bar, positioning yourself at the back of the alleged celestial. A dark chuckle rumbled from his chest.

“Yes that’s right, I am a God, but don’t worry, you need not kneel and worship me. Unless you want to, of course.”

You were certain you would have to pick your eyeballs up off the polished black floor after they rolled right out of your head. The model giggled vacantly and traced delicate fingers over the marks and scrapes on his forearms. “Aww this looks so sore, Loki. Did it hurt?” Ocean blue eyes searched his face for an answer.

“Honestly…? A little, yes. But if it means I protect this realm, then so be it. Bruises be damned.”

The young woman gasped softly, a quiet moan escaping from her pink lips.

“And what about you?” He asked. “What do you do? You seem incredibly familiar.”

“I’m a model.”

“Are you?” His tone was incredulous and clearly fake to anyone with half a brain cell. “And your work, have you appeared in any publications I would recognize?”

“Vogue actually.” Her American accent was smooth and velvety.

“Really?”

“I was on the cover of the May issue.”

“May?”

She confirmed, and he leaned in to whisper something to her, his hand resting gently on her lower back, fingertips easily making contact with her skin, her gown backless. You made eye contact with her, and refrained from shaking your head in judgement. She smiled sweetly.

“Only if you want to, of course,” he whispered. “There is no pressure, at all. You are magnificent. And I would be most fortunate.” He tucked a strand of her pixie short blond hair behind her ear.

The barman caught your eye and began making your drinks. You waited, taking in a big breath and exhaling deeply. You suddenly felt light-headed, the scent of bergamot and oak filling your nostrils and bleeding into your senses. Tilting your head and angling your jawline towards his back subtly, your gaze wandered down of its own accord, observing how his hand in one trouser pocket pulled the material taught over his buttocks. You flicked your eyes upwards to the top of him. He towered over you, well over six foot and seeming much larger. He chuckled again, the rumble reverberating through your body. Your fingers ghosted over your own forearm. Gooseflesh.

“Your drinks, Madame.”

You stuttered a reply and swiped your phone over the sleek black payment portal, thanking the barman. You turned to see an empty alcove, Jessie caught up talking to a white-haired man the next table over. She caught your attention, her eyes widening in apology with a light shrug of her shoulder. You perched on the edge of a nearby table and sipped on the sober contents of your wine glass.

Light flashed in the corner of the bar and caught your eye. The large plasma screen vied for your attention, a familiar commercial playing in glorious technicolour. Even over the dull roar of the event guests, you swore you could hear the opening bars and vocal trills of an infamous 80’s pop song.

Where have all the good men gone and where are all the Gods?

Where’s the streetwise Hercules to fight the rising odds?

Bonnie fucking Tyler. I almost forgot about this shit.

You held a loosely curled fist in front of your mouth to hide your grin as you watched the comical display of bravado, godliness and fighting, set to the 80’s classic.

The commercial opened with a menagerie of marauders on a bridge made of flashing rainbow-coloured lights, the scene of adversaries clearly in desperate need of a savior. He walked into the shot. Swaggered would be a more accurate description. The camera filmed him from the back, long forest green fabric flowing in the wind over tight black and green leathers.

Is that a fucking cape? Christ.

Daggers revealed themselves in a thin band of white light, long arms outstretched as he maimed, and presumably killed, a group of four elven-looking creatures with braided white hair. Gratuitous fighting shots ensued, filmed from various angles, with a litany of close-ups on various parts of the hero’s anatomy. The music began its ascent to crescendo.

Up where the mountains meet the heavens above….

Out where the lightning splits the sea….

The camera zoomed in on him knocking back a large can of an energy drink, the branding predictably black with a metallic green logo. Once he downed the drink, an attacker crept up behind him. He spun balletically, removing his gold horned headpiece and hitting the adversary in the face. He spun another 180 degrees and kicked the next assailant in the stomach. Once the foe fell, he lunged dramatically and sunk his dagger into the heart of his enemy, before sliding the knife back into the side of his knee-high leather boots.

He flipped over the empty can in his hand and caught it, then ludicrously hurled it through the air. A flying dagger pierced the can and pinned it to the wall, the camera zooming in for the final shot, narrated with his own voice.

“God Juice.”

He paused, chuckling smugly.

“When mortal strength is not enough.”

The screen faded to black. Plain white lettering faded in with zero sound:

NO SPECIAL EFFECTS WERE USED IN THIS COMMERCIAL.

You rolled your eyes. “God….”

“Solidified your assessment of me, have you?”

Fuck.

You jumped, your eyes following the sight of your drink spilling over your hand. You heard a deep chuckle next to you and the heady scent of bergamot threatening your cognitive function.

“You’re one of Stark’s payroll.” He sipped his whiskey coolly, his gaze fixed forwards.

“What makes you think that.”

“You’re not a socialite, or a celebrity, nor do you appear to be a leader in advanced weapons technology, and I’m fairly certain you’re not trying out for the team.”

“Steve told you,” you answered flatly.

“Finally his tiresome post-mission briefings prove fruitful.” Finally, he glanced at you. You immediately turned away, steely demeanor threatening to crack.

“Fine. What do you know about me.”

“Reputation Management. You’re here to spy on the team and report back to Stark.”

You remained silent, cocking your head and raising an irked brow as you sipped what was left of your drink. You scowled.

“Am I right?”

“Pretty much nailed it.” Your tone was clipped.

“Though I confess, you are not quite what I pictured.” He looked you up and down wearing a mischievous smile. You shot him a glance you knew wouldn’t kill him, but if there was any justice, perhaps it would maim his intergalactic-sized ego.

“I’m not interested.”

“Fear not. I only bed women of status.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

He snorted arrogantly. “You know I don’t think I will. I’m spending intimate time with a beautiful model tonight.” He tipped his tumbler in the direction of the bar to punctuate his point. “Predictable, I know. But. Needs must.” He shrugged in nonchalance.

Heavy bass and breathy vocals indicated the upsurge of a new song, irritatingly poignant.

Switch up my style, I take any lane.

Switch up my cup, I kill any pain.

Look what you’ve done.

I’m a motherfucking star boy.

You shook your head as he walked off, long legs returning him to the bar swiftly. Your peripheral vision caught an authoritative figure striding to you. Black jeans. Tan shoes. Royal blue shirt rolled up at the elbows, genuinely ready for action unlike his black-haired posing counterpart.

“Captain Rogers.” Your tone softened. He felt like a warm cup of tea on a drizzly New York afternoon.

“Ma’am, please. We’ve discussed this. It’s Steve.”

“And I’m not Ma’am.” Against your efforts to remain professional, you let out a light laugh.

“Alright. Fair point.” He pursed his lips, nodding and looking around the bar, returning his gaze to you, eyes roaming up and down with a furrowed brow. “He wasn’t bothering you, was he?”

“Who’s that, Steve?” Dimples formed in his cheeks at your first utterance of his first name.

“Laufeyson. He tends to get…. animated…. after a mission.”

That’s an interesting word for horny.

“Nothing I can’t handle. But thank you.”

“Good. Well, if you need anything. Anything at all. Call me.”

“And how can I do that when I don’t have your number?”

He blushed and looked down, scuffing a sole of his tan shoes on the polished black floor.

“What, they didn’t have mobile phones in the 1940’s?”

He laughed. “No they did not.”

“But you’ve been out the ice for over a decade now. So we both know you’re playing coy.”

“Alright, alright,” he waved off your words playfully and offered you his hand.  You placed your mobile into it. He swiftly added his number. “Really. Call me.” His expression was serious as he walked away, walking backwards and looking straight at you before reluctantly turning away.

“Oh, and Steve?”

“Yeah?” More smiles and blushes.

“The beard looks good on you. You should keep it.”

He looked at the floor bashfully, rubbing the masculine stubble on his chin as he turned and walked away once more.

“I’m away for two seconds and you’ve pulled two Avengers.”

“Jesus!” You jumped again, thankful to have no more drink left to spill.

“Sorry, I had to come over quickly while boy-oh over there takes a call. He’s a producer. He’s on the next DC film. I’m sorry to abandon – ”

“Listen, despite what it might look like, it’s not my first time out in public.”

“It’s not you I’m worried about.” She nodded her head in the direction of your black-haired foe, leading the aforementioned Upper East Side beauty queen out of the bar area with a gentle tug of her elbow which he cupped softly. “He didn’t seduce you then?”

“He was an arsehole, actually. The volume on arrogant prick was turned all the way up.”

“Good. I mean, not good, but… I’m glad you’re okay.” Your new friend smiled sweetly, her eyes rimmed with concern. “And what about the intel? Did you get anything that helped you?”

“He’s pretty direct. And like you said, he made sure she wanted to do it. Pains me to say it, but he’s the King of Consent.”

“Right?? So it’s impossible to be mad at him.”

“Ohh I can be mad. He’s still an arse.”

“But a moral one. Oh! And that was a new record by the way. From the first sentence to leaving with her – 11 minutes.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“Let me guess – she’s a Vogue cover model.”

“How did you – ?”

“I notice patterns. Seems like he’s trying to tick off every Vogue model for every month of the year. It’s his thing. Gotta hand it to him, he’s focused. He’s like…. an athlete or something.”

“He’s got issues.”

“Don’t we all? Oh fuck…” Her exclamation referred to the motions of the producer beckoning her back over to the table. “Sorry… are you sure you’re gonna be okay?”

“More to the point, are you… he looks creepy.”

“He’s old. Whatever.” She placed both hands over your shoulders. “Honestly, though. Come over and get me if you need to.”

“Go and kill it, and get at least half a million from that old codger.” You smiled as Jessie walked away. You fished out your phone and texted Captain Rogers, letting him know that you were still okay, but could use his support tomorrow evening. You would appreciate his feedback on your findings before you presented them to Stark on Monday morning.

With Jessie in full pursuit of her next job, you worked the room, talking to any and all guests, using your media-friendly cover of working in entertainment PR. An hour of networking flew by, the Manhattan sunset becoming dusk, deep indigos and purples bleeding together behind the silhouette of downtown buildings, white dots of windows liberally scattered across their exterior. You stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, before deciding to return to the bar to buy another drink. A graveled voice stopped you.

“I look forward to our interview tomorrow, pet. I apologise for missing it. I’ve recently returned from a mission.” Force of habit, he angled a bruised forearm towards you.

You inhaled sharply, spooked at the sudden appearance of the Asgardian, yet proud to have maintained some semblance of composure. You turned your head confidently, looking directly at him. Your voice remained steady. “Actually, they’re complete. The interviews. You missed out.”

“Oh? But how are you going to complete your assessment of me?”

“Trust me. I have all the information I need.”

“Very well. Pray tell me, to what sparkling conclusion have you come?” He sipped his whiskey, ice tinkling in the crystal tumbler. His free hand rested coolly in the pocket of tailored trousers as he continued to look out at the Manhattan skyline.

You scoffed. “You’re an elegantly dressed sex pest. And a Public Relations risk to Tony Stark.”

“Well I do hope you’re offering Stark a little more than that.” He raised an elegant finger from his glass and turned on his leather soles, gesturing to the packed bar. “Any mortal here could reach that conclusion.”

You inhaled a long calming breath, swallowing down your frustration. When you breathed in, it wasn’t bergamot filling your nostrils, but the unmistakable scent of sex. Beyond your better judgement, your neck craned towards him. Despite him tucking it in when he was putting his clothes back on, his shirt was disheveled, bunches of fabric crinkled as though someone had grabbed it by the fistful. His hair, smoothed down quickly in his haste to leave his chambers, had several strands out of place. And his trousers carried an unfairly large bulge. Whether he was still half-hard, or he genuinely was that well-endowed, you couldn’t be sure. Though, one thing was certain.

He was absolutely, unmistakably, undeniably, unapologetically all fucked out.

You heard sensual lyrics tickling your earlobes, goading you.

Don’t go wasting your emotion…. Lay all your love on me….

It was like shooting a sitting duck…. Small talk and a smile, and baby I was stuck….

“You look pleased with yourself.” You scoffed, folding your arms and looking back to the inky skyline.

“And you appear more sour than the cocktails. You need to loosen up. Orgasm is wonderful, you should try it some time.”

“You’re repulsive.”

“I don’t think it’s repulsion you’re feeling, darling. You’ll come round. They always do.” He leaned towards you before making his exit. “You know, you’re not entirely hideous.” His hand reached up and grazed your cheek. You flinched, feeling electricity surge through you at the sudden contact.

“Do not touch me.”

He placed his hands up in surrender, muttering an apology you made him unable to finish.

“You can’t go around randomly touching women, that’s not how it works here. Is that what you do, lay your hands on people without their say-so?”

“N-no, that’s not right at all, actually. That isn’t who – ” He raised his hand in protest.

“Save it.”

You turned and walked away from the dark-haired lothario, heels clicking on the polished floor and brain pulsating as you formulated yet another assessment.

It was obvious. Dressed elegantly and skirting by purely on his sex appeal, he was Tony Stark’s biggest PR disaster just waiting to happen.

Inspiration for his Instagram: This iconic Loki cosplayer who understands the assignment

Instagram Feed 1:

Instagram Feed 2:

The Dior perfume ad:

Image credit above: Sheriff Slesh on Instagram (also included on the Instagram feeds above) TikTok casual-to-battle-armour inspiration:

This is the bar we were at. It’s not how I imagine the layout, but many of the soft furnishings, the hardwood flooring and the plants are the vibe:

I imagine his kitchen countertop to look something like this:

In another timeline, it’s entirely possible he has some green crystal countertop. Maybe that’s what he’ll have in his gaf on Asgard (in this AU, Asgard’s foundations survive and in the words of Korg, they rebuild this place).

An example of a green agate countertop (not this layout, obvs):

I can visualise the layout of his room so vividly, but can’t find anything to represent it visually. How do you imagine his room? Would love to hear ☺️💚