Spider-Man//Avengers//Marvel One shots

The Arc Reactor

This, and the following chapters are my old drafts, and will be the final chapters of this story.

-Something NOT IronDad! Yay!
-FrostIron
-Prompt based

Centuries. A measure of time that is slow, lagging and long, even to that of Asgard.

To a human, even more so.

To a human invention? Even more so.

Loki bowed his head over his desk, this was the final straw in his tiny barrel of hay.

The once bright, shining representation of his love, was now dull and lifeless.

It had died so slowly, yet so suddenly, Loki simply stared it down, unmoving.

Rust had creeped over the side and scratches had torn up the outer casing, yet up until just moments ago, it's light had shone, the power ever moving around and around and around.

Mesmerising.

So much so, that Loki often found himself starring at it, unmoving, much like he was now.

He didn't mean to drop a book on the desk.

He didn't mean to hit the arc reactor.

He didn't mean for his love to be dead.

It wasn't fair, Loki thought bitterly. His last memory useless under his thin, nimble fingers, yet his oaf of a brother had his love and their memories.

He'd say it again, it wasn't fair. He had changed! He had tried so hard!

He clenched his fists angrily, and suddenly his hands came across the room like a scythe, slashing and reaping at all his belongings.

He couldn't stop himself, his anger and sadness and grief had been so meticulously hidden, that he hadn't truly let himself experience his emotions.

This was his was of coping. Destruction.

The tips of his fingers were sparking, his magic sliding between his fingers dangerously, threatening to get out of control; further his rage.

He swung his body around, a rag doll under his command, his arms swinging into a shelf, littered with Knickknacks and this and that, all reaching their bitter end with full thuds to the floor.

He was seething now, air coming in long, laboured breaths.

He stretched his fingers, eyes flitting to the desk- it was gone.

Now his only thought was on the gradually fading thought of what the rector looked like dead.

As dead as Tony Stark, ten feet under.

His knees buckled, pain shooting up his legs as his hands found the ground, scattering papers and clothes and broken shards of glass to find the reactor.

"Loki!" Thor. Thor was ready for him.

His movements became more urgent, his hands clamping down on the object, tearing it roughly from the chaos, holding it to his heart.

"Loki!" Thor called again, and he stood, letting the reactor drop into his pocket, his numb hands finding the doorknob, throwing it open without a moments notice, Thor stumbling ever so slightly, as if he had been leaning against it,

"Loki, What-" He tried to ask about the damage to his room, but Loki simply slammed the door behind him, no silver-tongue comment to make.

Ragnarök was about to begin.