100 Marvel One Shots✔️

A Gem in a Rare Trove of Treasure >> Loki Laufeyson X Reader

Title: A Gem in a Rare Trove of Treasure

Paring: Loki Laufeyson X Reader

Warnings: abandoned relationships, fluff, angst, contains stuff (is psychological betrayal taggable?), Director Fury is a BAMF.

 Spoilers: no! Based on Avengers (2012). 

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When most people say they have taken a lover, it sounds almost Bond-ish; like they had a day job, and a classy uptown life and had to splash out one day and find a person to warm their sheets by night and heart by day. But for you, the waitress who worked downtown by the train station in your little old town, when your friends suggested that's the label to put with you and the handsome stranger who won you over, they laughed.

You'd laughed too; the idea that you, the waitress who had only finished community college because a generous check to pay the lot, taking a lover? You, who wore sneakers with more holes and wear and tear than the second-hand apron you wore to work, who belted out pop music in the car when nobody was listening, taking a fancy-schmancy lover? But that moment passed quickly, because it was true. You had a ... bedfellow, as you'd heard an elderly couple call it once. He was tall, with raven locks that grew longer with every time he came. He was pale, quite porcelain, and spoke with a clear voice, a practised lilt.

He said his name was Loki, which you decided was a fake name. It was the most exotic of fake names you'd come across in your line of work, where cheques came under Hermione Niehaus or John Smith. Whoever he was, whatever he did for a living, he somehow thought to name himself after a Nordic God, and yet, he dressed like a biker, all leather.

He was kind, and warmed your heart and bed, yes, but he got you, really got you - he understood your need to understand what was honestly out there in the world, and talked of his home like it wasn't from here. He brought a book, once, which was older than you were, and leant it to you. He said it was literature translated from his language to yours, and said he hoped you would like it. In fact, that time was the last time you heard at all from Loki, the one man who wasn't after your body and time like all the others you had come across. He had lusted for your mind. Spoke poetry in everyday ways to woo, but he - he never came back.

Months passed, jobs came and went, and you spent the months slowly working your way through temporary gigs closer to the city of Washington, closer to where your roots were, to try to make something come of your silly, blink-and-miss, short human life. In your new work, an after-hours joint where people wore pretty shoes and drank toxic shots, the TV blared, the news waking them from their pretty party facades.

There was smoke, on the screen, heavy, thick, the type that chokes you once it enters your lungs. Through it, were the echos of screams, the pulse of police sirens, the hum of German voices, panicked, shrill. The words 'hostage situation contained' darted onscreen, the figures of several people on screen. The Iron Man, the star-spangled Captain America, and -

You screamed.

The tray you were holding fell, toppling down, down until it smashed upon the ground. Your boss gave a shout, but you didn't hear his words, not over what was happening in Stuttgart. Because behind the two men, the American hero, and the billionaire superhero, was the dark-haired man you had become one with on more than one occasion, sitting there, bound, eyes wild, mad like a madman.

"__________!" Your boss boomed, "Clean up the mess, and take five out back to breathe."