Put “Hey, Lover” in my ask for my reaction after a one-night stand with you

Guilt.

Deep, soul-crushing guilt.

That was what was saturating Steve’s being as he stared up at the ceiling, arm over his forehead. He had awoke a short moment before; sore, bitten and scratched from the previous night’s-Well, what else could he call it but “hate sex”. He wasn’t even sure –how- they ended up in bed together. One moment they were fighting, Steve remembered saying something to the extent of ‘He wasn’t sure what Maria saw in him…” and the next moment there had been rough kisses, bites and Loki teleporting them to Steve’s apartment-and it seemed he needed to ask Doctor Strange to update the charms in his home. Steve remembered thinking at the time ‘What would it hurt. Loki was free as a lark, according to –her-‘

But there it was: He was thoroughly, full, fucked (he wondered if he would even be able to move without a limp.-He shot a glare over at the god), and all he felt mentally was guilt.

He had slept with another person’s lover.

His sort-of boss’s lover.

Steve groaned mentally as he closed his eyes tightly. He hoped the night before had just been a dream to add to the others, a change from the usual where he was the one bending the Trickster over. He opened his eyes and the Captain saw the god still beside him in bed. Not a dream. He sighed a little and getting up; he grabbed his pants from the floor and wandered [Limped]out of the room to the kitchen. Coffee- he needed coffee. He decided that he’d bring a mug back to the bedroom for Loki, though Steve desperately hoped the god was gone by the time he returned.

Tony’s eyes shot open and he turned his head a little, as opposed to jumping forward completely. It’d been a long time, he having spent a long time in space with the Guardians of the Galaxy, helping them with something that needed his attention. He’d almost forgotten that the god of mischief could creep up at any time. 

''No.''

There was a firm assurance there, hidden beneath iron, the rusty metal of a voice that had not been used for years, centuries perhaps. For once in a millennia Baldr worked his dry throat, the sound coming out of it like wood over sandpaper. His lungs moved without need, stirring the dust in the cavities, turning his mouth from an empty cavern to one of the past, regret, lathered with venom.

''Death is too good for you.''

Now doubt the snake believed him some delusional image, a sound and sight borne of madness and deep, all-engulfing agony. The pain was etched clearly on the Trickster's face, not in the closed eyes or the open, agasp lips, but carved with black poison, brooks eroding their way through skin and bone as every poisonous drop rent it's way a little deeper into vulnerable flesh.

For the ghost, the murdered victim that had lost all by Loki's bound, bleeding hands, it was a most glorious sight.

''Suffer,'' Baldr's voice whispered out from the boundary between two worlds, a promise echoing from the depths of Helheim into this physical, torturous world. What did a god have to pray to, in times of need? What could an immortal swear loyalty to if even time did not matter?

For the dead, it was only the living they could pray to. For Loki, there was no-one. For Loki, there was nothing.

Trickster just went, ‘oh no’ in my head xD