A Simple Hatred|| Loki x Reader Book

Chapter Two

When you had awakened again, you wanted to believe in the possibility that it was nothing but a bad dream, and you'd be able to wake up, everything was fine.

But the minute your ears caught on to the television, still on the news channel, the sight of debris and fire that caught sleep filled eyes from the window, even the smell of smoke...

No wait, that wasn't from outside.

"Crap!" you yelp, though it comes out hoarse, throat feeling irritated and dry to the scream you'd let out prior. Nonetheless, you jump to your feet, scrambling over to the kitchen, heart racing as you watch smoke slowly seep from the inside of the oven.

You grab the oven mitts from off the counter, yanking open the appliance door, nose curling up once the smell invades your senses even more. The pan holding the (f/f) is now a black, charred, sticky mess, and you toss it onto the stovetop, slamming the oven shut, tearing off the mitts and looking at the time.

No wonder you had burned the food. It was already 11 in the morning. You'd slept through the rest of yesterday.

You clutch your head with a groan, mentally appreciating the fact that the food was in a disposable pan.

A banging of the door snaps you out of your racing thoughts, pushing yourself up to answer it. You slowly trudge to the front, unlocking the door before coming face to face with the proprietor of the building, Mr. Jones. You'd never seen him up close until now, but from the description your mother and other neighbors in the building gave him; black hair that was white from the tips and not the roots, a jagged scar from the corner of his left eye up to his forehead, going into his hairline, and a frown etched onto his features, you know you had the right guy.

"You're Collins' kid, aren't you?" he says, not even giving the chance for a proper greeting. God, even his tone sounded grumpy.

"Yes," you respond, voice crackling a bit. "Can I help you?"

"How old are you, kid?"

"I'm 19, sir. Why exactly are you asking me that?"

"You know you've gotta move out, right?" Your eyes widen in shock, a pit forming in your stomach.

"What?!" you panic. "Why?"

"Because the rule here is you have to be 21 or older to rent out this place. Your mom isn't here anymore, she's dead," he explains flatly.

"I know, but-" you pause, starting to process his last sentence. "How do you know about my mom?"

He doesn't say anything at first but gives you an answer after a beat of silence. "I have a television, you dull little girl."

Ignoring his rather offensive comment, you focus on the other matter at hand. "But I don't have anywhere else to go! Please, I'll do anything!"

"There's nothing you can do," he rolls his eyes. "You got family around here?"

"No..."

"Well, then, it's not my problem. You have until Saturday, else I'll move you out myself."

Your face pales immediately. "No wait, you can't do that!" In the midst of your sudden surge of emotion, a magazine begins to rise off the floor, nothing but the thin air holding it up. Mr. Jones—although unbeknownst to you—takes a peek at the scene behind you, before switching his eyes back to yours.

"Listen here, missy," he snaps, disregarding the glazing of your eyes. "My building, my rules. Now that's final. You're out by Saturday, along with your stuff, or I'll get rid of both."