Chapter Text
Loki had been lying on the floor, his cheek pressed in a slick of tepid vomit, dead to the world, when the call came.
The liquor that chased the beers earlier in the night had ensured he wouldn't wake until morning, though missing the call, sleeping while his mother's ribs creaked beneath the paramedic's hands, would become a shade of his failings, one that would forever haunt him.
Because Thor had the things he did not—a career, friends, an unshakable marriage, their father had even appointed him CEO of their export business after he'd gotten out of the service.
There was little chance their father had even considered Loki for the role—Odin only saw Loki's mistakes, rebellion, and failings. So often, he'd chastise Frigga for coddling him through his tantrums rather than teaching him to be a man.
Much to Thor and their mother's dismay, Loki ceased sharing more words than necessary with the cantankerous old coot years ago.
So when Loki woke, a fist banging on his door, forcing him to peel his face from the disgusting, sticky mess, the last thing on his mind was his father—or his family at all—having forgotten his late-night call to his mother.
Shaky hands and a bruised face, a silent scream tearing from his lips, is how Thor found him later, sitting amongst the chaos left in their father's wake.
Their mother was dead—his mother—the one who always saw something inside him when no one else did—including himself.
And her last breath had only been taken so soon because of his selfishness.
Odin had made him see—not quite an eye for an eye—but a closed fist, swinging to land high on his cheek, leaving a blossoming swell of red, followed by a hand to the throat, which contained strength that rivaled those so much younger, before finally shoving Loki to the wall.
A murderer, he'd called him, for taking his wife.
Because Loki had gotten drunk again, another night spent pretending to be what other men wanted, only to get dropped on his doorstep alone by some anonymous hookup.
But before passing out, he'd called his mother—and because kindness and patience adorned her soul like the jewelry Odin draped against her fair skin—Frigga had answered his pathetic, drunken plea for company, for comfort, only for her to die in an accident on the way.
Gnawing teeth of intangible beasts cut into bone as the painful ache of loss spread through him, starting from where his father's fist had connected, then tickling featherlight with far too much grace down to where his heart lay, where the wolves of his grief were mangling what was left of his heart.
Distantly, he registered Thor knelt before him, but the feast of flesh inside him muffled whatever words of comfort he tried to speak.
His wet lashes clumped together as he surrendered, closing his eyes.
His face itched—burned—with the salt of his tears.
Murderer—his title—moved like a wraith through his mind, withering every memory of his mother that it touched.
And how wrong did it make him—how selfish and pathetic—that sitting there now, he craved nothing more than to numb himself with the same foulness that had caused his mother to be stolen from him.
She had always cleaned up his messes—be it vomit, his finances, or even his relationships. And though she'd never outright said the word, she had tried to get him help—offered to pay for a private stay somewhere to get his head on straight, maybe hoping to make him realize he was worth more than the drunken sex he offered men in bathroom stalls for any lick of praise.
The bright badge on his chest that read Daddy Issues could be seen in the dimmest of light.
He panted one shallow breath after another as the wolves' teeth scraped the meat from his ribs, his heart already devoured.
None of this mattered—nothing did. Not now.
His mother wasn't here to take his hand or comfort him—he'd never make her smile again—but he'd also never be able to disappoint her. And he didn't deserve that freedom, but he was selfish enough to take it.
If his family thought he brought disgrace before, nothing existed to restrain him now—and it was terrifying.
The air shifted over his swollen cheek, something brushing past, just as Thor murmured, maybe more to himself than Loki, "Oh, brother, what has he done?"
Teeth gnashing together, Loki drew a sharp breath, then forced his eyes to open, though he could find it in himself to meet his brother's gaze.
So, instead, the overturned table drew his focus, the shattered glass and spilled drink.
"Nothing that wasn't earned." Then his eyes turned to Thor, lips thinning before he spoke, "Why are you even here and not with the rest of them?"
And Loki hated the way Thor's already stricken expression grew more anguished, his bloodshot eyes proof of the tears he'd already wept. He wondered if Odin had said something about their confrontation or if he'd not shared the deserving title Loki had been branded with.
Murderer—the word seared into flesh and bone alike, never to be forgotten.
"You're part of the family, too." Thor seemed to wilt even as he said it. "She wouldn't want you to grieve alone."
A bitter laugh erupted from his throat, acidic in how it burned. "The only connection to the family I once had is dead."
"And what of me, then? Are we not brothers?"
And the anger in him—it wasn't meant for Thor—but that didn't stop him from sneering at his reply. "Our father—Odin—he made sure I knew the answer to that—or did he not tell you? It's why he's always favored you—gifted you the company."
Confusion showed in the lines on Thor's brow. "Loki, what are you talking about?"
He scoffed, followed by a disbelieving shake of his head. "I am not your brother—because we are not brothers." Something ugly twisted his face, a nightmare's smile. "A bastard child—or so I was told. Our mother had an affair, and I've been the living reminder of that to Odin ever since."
"No," Thor drew back, repeating. "Loki, no—why wouldn't he have told me? Or mother—she never said…." He choked on his words as fresh tears wet his cheeks.
With the pain of his grief blossoming, Loki had to avert his eyes again. "Do you recall my eleventh birthday?"
He paused but didn't wait for a proper answer—Thor had seen their father beating him, throwing himself in front of Loki, so he’d unlikely have forgotten.
"Before you'd intervened, he'd said some things—and later, Mother had explained. They'd been separated then—so maybe affair is the wrong word." He cleared his throat. "I don't blame her, though—I think she wanted away from him but didn't know how to leave."
"I don't—" Thor began, only to stop to suck in a breath. "Brother, Loki, will you look at me, just for a moment?"
And he did, though only because the waters were too deep, and he might drown if he didn't find an anchor. "We're not real brothers—"
"Yes, we are—her blood flows through both our veins—and even if it didn't, you would still be my brother," Thor said, his voice cracking. "And as for Odin—I've been complacent far too long, and that's ending now."
Loki stood by the cemetery fence as they lowered his mother's casket into the ground; if Odin or Thor had seen him, they didn't approach.
The crowd of mourners in their elegant fabrics, women in veiled designer hats, and men in bespoke black suits testified to the reach of the Odinson name. Some had traveled from Norway for the funeral—they were practically royalty to many there, after all.
Odin and Frigga had married to join powerful families—not for love—making Odin's reaction to Loki's conception worse.
As flowers were tossed into the grave, he thought of what she'd think of him keeping his distance, of not grieving with Thor front and center. He liked to think she'd understand. Besides, it wasn't like Odin would allow him closer if he tried.
Forgiveness wasn't meant for him, anyway.
Thor shifted, then turned, his eyes locking onto Loki, a familiar expression on his face—one of concern and frustration. Loki wondered if he'd try to part the sea and weave through the stones to reach him.
He wasn't about to wait around and find out.
Loki averted his eyes, ducking his head as he walked, then jogged, away from Thor—away from the crowd of mourners and away from his mother's grave.
And maybe he imagined it, but the wind seemed to carry his name—sounding very much like his brother's voice. He didn't pause, though, finding his car, then speeding away—-refusing to look back.
Though perhaps if he had, he might have seen Thor, panting for breath, hand in his hair, watching him drive away.
When Thor called, Loki dismissed it, tossing his phone on the bed as he stepped in front of the mirror, adjusting his clothes, the rich fabric slithering over his skin. The money spent to buy them stained the threads with regret and guilt—his inheritance from his mother.
Part of him wanted to refuse it—but he hated the idea of Odin receiving it instead. A better person would have considered charity, but he couldn't deny his selfishness at times. And it wasn't like Thor didn't attend to those things—making sure Asgard Exports had the best image, funding the underprivileged, and building hospital wings.
However, he didn't particularly want to think about Thor or charity right then. So with a sharp exhale, he pushed aside those thoughts and left for the club—hoping enough liquor and dick would fill the nothingness inside him.
The first drink he bought himself, but soon after, a few men took interest. One offered a trip to his hotel room, but Loki didn't want that amount of comfort tonight. Instead, he craved something closer to how rope chafed the soft underside of a wrist when bound too tight—something that would rub him raw and burn.
He wanted to hurt—he needed to feel something else, if only for a moment. His daddy issues undoubtedly played a role in his exploits—how he'd seek partners who'd use him, take what they needed, and toss him aside.
Yet, somehow, the symmetry of it—between how he valued himself and how they treated him—felt like reassurance in the worst way.
The shadow of Odin's words would always cast itself over him—because they were his truth.
After another few drinks, a man of average build, unremarkable, approached, the predatory glint in his eye seeming like a promise for a rough ride. Whether a serial killer or a sadist, Loki had no idea and didn't care as long as he made it stop.
They ended up in the bathroom, Loki's cheek against a dirty stall, being fucked ruthlessly from behind. And even though each harsh thrust had him grunting, face contorted, the stretch and burn still wasn't enough.
And then, after a couple more brutal thrusts, the guy came into the condom, stilling as his stale beer breath panted against his sweaty neck. Shame trickled through him.
Then after slipping out, leaving him open and used, the stranger offered his hand to get him off, but Loki hadn't been hard for a while.
He just wanted to go home.
This had always worked in the past—numbing the pain—but not today.
It had just left him feeling wrong instead.
"Whatever, your loss," the guy said, buttoning his pants, then shoving past him, the condom making a squelching noise under his foot.
Loki waited until the door closed, then grabbed some toilet paper and cleaned up the remnants of lube between his cheeks. The tinge of pink came as no surprise.
His phone buzzed in his pocket—Thor calling again.
They had nothing to talk about, so he swiped it away.
Weeks, then months, passed.
Loki continued to avoid his brother, chasing the disconnect that allowing men to use him supplied.
Nothing ever filled the void.
In fact, the last partner who had been able to take away that empty feeling had been someone far out of his league, whom he hadn’t seen in years.
It had happened the night of Thor’s wedding to Bucky, where he’d bumped into Steve, Bucky’s best man, at the reception.
He’d been especially bitter that night, his skin crawling under the expensive fabrics he’d been trussed in. Odin's toast, subtle in how it humiliated and demeaned Loki's role in the family, had set him off.
Then later that night, as the crowd dwindled, Steve, with his mused hair and top buttons undone, high flush to his cheeks, sidled up to Loki. He’d had a confident, self-assured presence as he’d leaned into Loki’s space, an alluring dominance, possibly augmented by the whiskey on his breath, his energy nearly demanding Loki to submit.
And Loki had—willingly and enthusiastically.
Though the night they'd spent together had broken something inside him in the best and worst ways, giving him a taste for something he'd crave forever after and never be able to find.
And the memory of that still caused a dull ache of regret in his chest some nights—especially when a hook-up didn’t pan out—a reminder of things he couldn’t change and others he’d never deserve.
The thudding bass kept rhythm with the slamming of the guy’s cock against his soft palate, his eyes watering at the rawness developing there. His choice tonight shared the same traits as all the others—rough and unkind. Selfish lovers.
They treated him like trash—degrading him—fucking their hole of choice.
And it was precisely what he wanted, or so he told himself.
Drool soaked his chin, his lips barely able to cover his teeth with the force of the thrusts that choked him, making him gag and spill more saliva from the corners of his mouth.
The stranger tightened his grip on Loki's hair, two hands on his head, and rammed deeper, the tip of his cock—no condom tonight—breaching his throat. It blocked his airway, his nostrils flaring as he instinctively struggled, despite wanting this—needing it.
Knees stinging from kneeling on the filthy floor, lungs burning, he started to reach that place he'd come to crave—where he could float away from the pain.
It didn't fill the emptiness inside him—or make him a better man—but it let him forget, even if for only a moment, what a monster he'd become.
Or maybe he'd always been.
And despite his cock throbbing in his leather pants, he didn't reach for himself. Instead, he gasped as the man finally let him draw breath, then face wrecked, lips numb, and jaw protesting, he went for him again.
"Yeah, there you go," the guy said, his slight belly bumping Loki's forehead. "Suck that cock—fuck! Such a slut for it!"
The disconnect Loki felt had his movements sloppy, the noises louder, threatening to give them away—not that they were well hidden. The dark corner of the club offered little cover. The table could only supply so much privacy.
"You want me to come down that pretty throat? Bet you do—whore like you." The man gripped his hair tighter, twisting his head to the side. "You like this? Is this what you want? Speak, bitch."
The drinks he'd had and the line he'd snorted only added to the floaty feeling, and the deep urge to be good, to do something right, meant he was nodding his head as he opened to take him deeply again.
He could taste the pre-come leaking on his tongue, bitter and gritty and precisely what he'd earned. And when the man started panting, gripping his head, keeping him upright, and fucking his throat again, Loki submitted—letting the hard edges soften some more.
Then, loud as thunder, a booming voice rattled the air. And before Loki could even root himself in reality again, barely focusing his eyes, his brother had his hookup for the night by the throat, dragging him, pants still open, toward the exit.
The music vibrated his chest and added to his sudden spell of dizziness—whether it was born from the drugs and drinking or from getting caught on his knees was up for debate.
Maybe it was both.
His limbs moving through cold molasses, he tried to wipe the mess of drool from his face, first with the back of his hand, then his palm.
He tried to track where Thor had gone—tried to think what this meant—how to get out of it—but his mind still hadn't returned from the deep.
Then a heavy hand touched his shoulder, and a familiar face swam into his vision. And despite having known Bucky for years, his eyes still briefly drifted to the man's empty shirtsleeve, a gift for his service that sparked shame inside him for feeling thankful it hadn’t been Thor.
And maybe that made him weak in character—more proof that he’d never be honorable, not in the way Thor, Bucky, or even Steve would always be.
"Hey, hey, look at me, Lokes," Bucky said, taking Loki's chin and tilting his head up, trying to peer into his eyes. Whatever he saw made his jaw jump, and his eyes flick toward the exit. "How're you feeling, bud? You with me?"
Loki blinked, trying to focus, then decided on a nod—or what he hoped passed as one. Then drawing back, his knees burning, he struggled to his feet—the floor trying to buck him immediately, causing him to reach out and twist his fingers in Bucky's shirt.
"I'm fine," he croaked, throat showing every bit of being ruthlessly fucked.
"Jesus, look at you." And Bucky gripped his arm to steady him, then after a quick survey of the area, announced, "Okay, yeah, we need to get you out of here."
He tried to pull back again, but Bucky didn't let him go. Instead, he gave him a sharp cut of his eyes, saying, "Lokes, we aren't doing this—all right? Not here."
"Fuck off."
Bucky just shook his head, walking him over to a chair and sitting him down, though only because he allowed it.
Then raking his fingers through his hair, Bucky dragged his hand down to the side of his neck. "Fuck, Loki—what is this shit? Did you really—is this what you've been doing instead of talking to your brother?"
Loki cast his eyes to a crumpled napkin on the floor—his lips firmly pressed in a line. His earlier buzz fizzled away, replaced by bitterness, anger, and the nightmare that had shackled itself to him—grief.
And even if he had the words to explain himself, he didn't owe Thor or his husband anything.
Bucky let out a heavy breath. "Did you at least—are you okay?"
It was Loki's turn to scoff, the corner of his mouth twisting into a razor's edge. He lifted his gaze to Bucky. "Peachy," he said, then gathered himself enough to stand, though his brother-in-law quickly blocked his way. "Move."
"Not happening—not until we all talk—not until we all know you're okay."
And just as Loki started to shove him back, Thor slipped back from the shadows by the exit, his hair a bit tousled and rubbing his knuckles.
"Loki," and the way Thor said his name—too soft, everything he didn't deserve, too much like their mother—caused him to falter.
He tried to hold onto his anger because it was all he had. "Do you feel better?" he sneered. "Pummeling my date?" He rubbed his forehead, the room spinning. "Never mind, I don't care. I just want to go home, so if you'll excuse me."
Then setting his jaw, he began to walk in whatever direction they weren't—needing to escape—but there were two of them, and he couldn't avoid both.
"Brother, wait." The immovable bar of Thor's arm caught him around the chest, stopping him as he tried to pass.
Time seemed off in how it moved, and he wondered what he'd snorted earlier. It hadn't seemed worth asking at the time.
Ducking his head, Thor gave him no choice but to meet his eye. "Let us take you home. You're not well, Loki—just look at you. You're trembling."
Eyelids heavy, he struggled to peer at Thor, seeing the worry in his brow, the frantic concern in the blue of his eyes.
"Why do you care?" he sneered.
His brother's eyes drifted closed as he exhaled through his nose before meeting his gaze again, a deep sorrow in the wells of blue.
"I've truly failed you as a brother if you need to ask me that," Thor murmured, then hesitantly reached to cup his neck, and he couldn't quite muster the will to pull away.
Warmth radiated from Thor’s calloused hand. "You're unwell right now, but we'll get you better. I won't let you punish yourself anymore."
On the couch, under the dim glow of the lamp, Loki slept off whatever he'd taken and drank; only occasionally did his mouth twist as if attempting to speak or possibly vomit.
This hadn't been how Thor imagined the night ending when he'd taken Bucky to the clubs, though he'd be lying if he didn’t admit hoping to catch a glimpse of his brother amongst the crowds.
And yet, nothing could have prepared him for having that wish come true.
At the sound of another retch from Loki, Thor had to restrain himself from getting in his husband's way. The army had trained him as a medic, and he now worked as a nurse. So having him knelt beside the couch, monitoring Loki, was a blessing.
Bucky rechecked his pupils, testing his awareness, then turned to Thor. "I'll keep an eye on him, but I think he's already burned through whatever he might've used."
He gave a tight nod, mouth trying to twitch and twist. "Good, that's good—a relief. Thank you—for all this—I'm sorry." His jaw muscles bunched and jumped as he ground his teeth, thinking of how they'd found him, trying not to imagine how many other times he'd been in the same state. "You deserved a better evening than this."
Bucky dropped his gaze, then turned back to Loki, brushing a few long inky strands from his brow before he hung his head, saying, "Don't apologize—just don't." Then he twisted to face him again. "Even if he doesn't always like me, you know I see Loki like a brother, and this shit tonight? I've seen people self-destruct, and it ain't pretty. Leaving him there was a non-option."
Dipping his chin, Thor forced his lungs to release. "We can't allow this to continue."
Bucky stood, sighing as he glanced at Loki, then grabbed his discarded coffee—long gone cold. He grimaced as he sipped it. "Do you really think we can help him? Not even your mother could get him to stop."
His eyes snapped to him. "At least she tried, which is more than I have done. For months, I've only called or texted, never pushing for more when he denied me." The air felt sticky and thick in his lungs, making them work too hard. His stomach soured with guilt. "How many nights has he spent like this—alone—having been used and thrown away like some—like something less than human?"
"You sure you really want to know?"
Expression twisting, he turned away to shield himself as tears spilled down his cheeks, burning hot trails and dripping into his scruff. Not even the heels of his hands pressing against his eyes could stem them.
But he didn’t need to suffer alone. A heartbeat, a footstep, then Bucky was there, his arm wrapping around him, hand sliding to his hair and nudging his head to rest against him.
Thor allowed himself to be guided, sinking into the comfort as wet sobs broke from his throat.
And they stayed like that—an eternity of minutes as Bucky murmured promises bound together by shoestrings. "We'll find a way—you won't lose him."
Spine straightening, chin lifting, Loki narrowed his eyes. Then, words made of ice cut the air. “It would do you well to move, brother.”
Staying wasn’t an option, and he’d already been made vulnerable enough, having Thor and Bucky see him on his knees, being degraded and used. And this plan they’d presented—he wanted to hear no more of it.
But Thor showed no sign of moving, having planted himself as firmly as the great oak they had once climbed as children.
His brother’s arms crossed over his chest. “No, I will not. We’ve already told you—I’ve told you—I won’t lose you, too.”
Lip curling, his reply came with such acid it burnt his tongue, “So what? I’m a hostage now—trapped here until I agree with your ridiculous plan?” And he didn’t wait for an answer before turning his rage to Bucky. “And you—don’t get me started.”
Thor’s eyes darkened. “Come at me, but you will not attack my husband—someone, who, I shouldn’t need to remind you, cares about you too.”
A hard scoff scraped his throat. “Fuck off, Thor—fuck all the way off. I’m not some charity case, and I haven’t claimed to be anyone’s problem, so if you’ll get the fuck out of my way, I’m leaving!”
Bucky stepped closer to Thor, who only lowered his arms from their tight cross, his hands flexing at his sides.
They had sparred playfully before, but the current tension had a trickle of ice water spilling into his veins. Thor had always been a better fighter, his brute strength giving him an advantage, especially with Loki weak from months of too little self-care.
Nothing good would come from a physical altercation, though that realization did little to cool his anger.
“Steve is a neutral party,” Thor said, “and maybe if you’d stop bristling like a fucking cat for a second, you’d see it might do you good to leave the city—away from the drinking and drugs and—and whatever you want to call last night.”
The shards of his laugh cut his throat. “Does it burn you so badly to know I enjoy that sort of thing?” His eyes flicked to Bucky. “Vanilla's your favorite flavor, isn’t it?”
And his words were bitter, but the flash of frustration, anger, and hurt on Bucky’s face turned his stomach sour—not that he’d show it.
“Loki, that is enough!” Thor snapped, but Bucky touched his arm, saying, “No, it’s fine. Say what you want, but I can see through your bullshit—you’re not fooling anyone but yourself, kid.”
“You know nothing!”
Bucky huffed. “Sorry, but you’re not as mysterious as you think. I’m older than you and have seen more shit—you can pretend all you like, but I know you’re hurting more than you let on, and I’d bet anything that you let yourself be treated like that—not because you enjoy it—but because you think you don’t deserve better.”
Suddenly finding himself stripped bare, he could only avert his eyes, swallowing against the painful lump forming in his throat.
“Loki, brother, please—Steve is a good man, and I think—I hope—that you might even become something of friends.”
He’d never told his brother of the night he and Steve had spent together—and since Thor never mentioned anything—Steve had likely kept it to himself, or maybe he’d just forgotten. People didn’t remember Loki, at least for good reasons.
The idea that Steve had agreed to this plan still gnawed at him—and no matter how hard he tried to snuff it out, a fool’s hope of another chance with the man wouldn’t die down.
Steve had been a taste of something that left him forever craving more—yet unable to find it—leading to endless encounters trying to find something that filled him the same.
The man had brought him to that soft place he needed—where his worries drifted away—and he’d done it without leaving a residue of shame. Because before Steve, he didn’t know it could be like that. No one had taken their time with him before or treated his submission like a gift and not something to be forced.
But Steve deserved better—more than he could offer—and between sweat-soaked slaps of skin and panting breaths, too many things had been confessed.
For a moment, Loki had let himself dream of something more than lonely hook-ups and had thought of the future. But waking beside Steve, lying in the glow of morning sunlight, looking at the man beside him, he realized he’d never be worthy of someone like him.
So he’d run.
And this made his current situation so much worse.
Meeting his brother’s gaze, knowing how disheveled he appeared in slept-in clothes, he still tried to hold himself with some dignity as he peeled his tongue free to say a bit weaker than intended, “This is a terrible plan—and it won’t work.”
Thor’s eyes softened at the corners. “Only if you don’t try—but you will, won’t you? Please, tell me you’ll try.”
Pursing his lips, he tipped his head. “For now—but I make no promises of staying.”
“Okay, that is—okay. Thank you.” Thor’s words trembled, breathy and broken in the air. Then catching Loki off guard, even though it shouldn’t have, since Thor had always been a hugger, his brother stepped into his space and locked him in an iron hold, pressing his lips to Loki’s hair as he murmured, “You deserve more—you always have.”
The lead weight of the phone pinned Steve’s hand to the table as his tongue ran over his teeth, unbelieving of what he’d just agreed to do, allowing the man who’d played him to recover at his home.
The picture of him on his knees, Steve’s fingers tangled in his inky hair as Loki peered through his lashes, looking utterly wrecked, lived rent-free in his mind—a memory he still used frequently when alone.
And that had just been the start of the evening they’d spent together.
The confidence he’d shown approaching Loki had mostly been whiskey fueled—as one-night stands weren’t something he did. They made the heart on his sleeve an easy target for bruising.
But the well-dressed man, lithe, pale, almost otherworldly, with an invitation in his eye, had him approaching, and the way he’d shown submission so freely at the first brush of Steve’s command had been a rush.
The last person he’d been with at the time had been his ex, Brock, who was at the reception. But, unfortunately, their relationship hadn’t ended on the best terms, and Steve hadn’t been prepared to see him.
He'd broken Steve’s trust too many times—and it wasn’t just his dalliance with his co-worker Jack, even though that had been the final straw.
Brock had issues, like anyone else, but he’d had a proclivity for manipulation, often toying with Steve’s emotions to get what he wanted. And then there had been the issues with trust in the bedroom.
At times, Brock refused to safeword when he should have, forcing Steve to call the scene, only for Brock to lose his shit after the fact.
One thing stacked on another, and they fought more than anything else. So the text from Natasha, the photo of Jack leaning into Brock, cupping his erection through his jeans, in the backroom of the bar she owned, had been where things finally snapped apart.
His night with Loki had been a month after their break-up, which had probably been part of why he believed Loki’s words so willingly, why he let his breathy, panted promises mean more than he should have—like it wasn’t just some one-night stand.
Nothing more than a drunken fuck, Odin had explained in the lobby upon asking if he’d seen Loki anywhere.
They’d had plans to travel to the airport together, exchange numbers, and go on an actual date, but those dreams had splintered into shards of glass at his feet.
Odin explained about his youngest son and apologized to Steve for the inconvenience of having engaged with him, and Thor’s father had always treated Steve well—as he and Thor had been Battle Buddies—so he had no reason to doubt him.
But that didn’t mean it hadn’t hurt to discover he’d meant nothing to Loki, just another notch in the bedpost. The whole thing left a sour taste in his mouth, which had been hard to forget.
Looking at his relationship with Brock, then Loki after, it seemed he had a type. His mother had always told him to guard his heart; carrying it in his hands like he did meant having no way to protect it and making it too easy to give away.
And perhaps he’d stepped away from the city to live out here because he couldn’t protect it well enough.
However, why did he agree to allow Loki to stay in his home if that were the case?
Because Thor would have understood if he’d said no—despite their friendship, his friend had saved his ass many times over the years.
No, his agreement ran deeper, perhaps having something to do with the loneliness he’d felt since moving to the cabin in the middle of nowhere. Damn his heart.
Dwelling on it would achieve nothing, and it wasn’t like they had dated. It had been one night, years ago. They didn’t owe each other a thing.
And it wasn’t like Steve couldn’t be civil—friendly even.
Besides, all the blame didn’t fall on Loki. He could admit that. Drunken hookups never started love stories for a reason.
At least now, the playing field had been leveled. Odin's words had been enlightening, and he wouldn’t be made a fool again.
No matter how tempting, the memory of that hurt gave just enough ache to remind him to keep his distance. And from how Thor made it sound, the last thing Loki needed was revisiting the past.
Loki had probably forgotten about him, anyway.
Loki had gotten up early to visit the clinic, taking Bucky’s advice and getting tested, as he couldn’t deny that his string of questionable partners had put him at risk for so many things.
The nurse had said they’d call soon with the results. Hopefully, dealing with Steve would be enough to keep him distracted.
The ride to the airport was only made bearable by the comical sight of Thor squeezed into the tiny electric car. The gas-guzzling SUV he usually drove was in the shop, getting a new set of tires, reminding him that winter would be here before long, a thought that lingered in Loki's mind.
Would his sentence be served before the snow fell—or would he be finding out firsthand how deep the snow of Maine would get?
Arriving at the airport, Thor pulled to the shoulder, got out with him, and pulled his luggage from the backseat.
Forlorn hope colored his brother's tone when he finally stopped worrying his lip enough to speak. "I'll miss you."
"Only because you choose to."
And, of course, the oaf had to smile, so indulgent and patient. "You'll miss me too."
Denial thinned his lips. "I won't," he said, despite how the lie scalded his throat, reminiscent of the first time he stole a bottle of Odin's finest, an act he'd denied just as vehemently at the time.
Today it wasn't the stench of imported spirits revealing him, but more likely, the chinks in his armor, put there by himself and Odin's hand.
A barely there sigh from Thor had him turning back around, throat bobbing at the deep worry lines in his brother's brow, proof that he'd fooled no one. And it couldn't all be blamed on his current state, as even at his best, Thor had always been able to find the whispers of truths that Loki attempted to hide.
"Will you be all right from here—or would you like me to walk with you a bit?"
Too tired to fight—not when so much lay ahead—Loki shook his head, his words too dull to cut. "I'm not a child. With all the travel we've done, I doubt this trip will strain me."
"But you worry the destination will."
Loki worked his jaw, gaze flicking from the cars to the people strewing about, then back to Thor, all in some feral need to escape the conversation. If it weren't for his brother guilt-tripping him, invoking their mother's memory, this wouldn't be happening.
He grabbed his bags. "My only worry is whether this destination will have Wi-Fi and decent delivery. Now, if you're finished, I have a plane waiting."
The tight, downward curl of his brother's mouth and the tension around his eyes said more than Loki wanted to hear.
The silence lay on his shoulders, heavy and sodden with doubts, regrets, and maybe some anticipation.
Then, with another huff that came with a softening around his eyes before a thin smile stitched itself into place, Thor invited himself closer. Then, his large hand gripped Loki's elbow as he searched for something in his eyes.
A taxi blew past, honking, and people scurried down the sidewalk, yet the two were rooted in a bubble.
"You're acting like you won't see me again," he said.
A flash of something on Thor’s face, then he released him, only to yank him into a hug. "Can you slight me for worrying?"
Loki went rigid, ready to protest, but softened instead—because Thor had always been synonymous with safety and comfort no matter how bad things got.
And he hoped that would never change.
"You better take care of yourself, brother," Thor murmured, hand cupping the back of his head. "I know you too well."
Repressing a scoff, he allowed himself the briefest indulgence, closing his eyes and pretending they were small again. "Your lack of faith wounds me."
Thor chuckled, pulling back. "All I ask is that you make the best of this opportunity—let it be a new start. I love you, Loki, but I think it's time you learned to love yourself, too."
He narrowed his eyes, tone a touch playful. "Sometimes I really do hate you, you know."
The corners of Thor's eyes crinkled. "We both know you don't."
He bumped his knuckles to his nose, allergic to admitting the truth. "No, I suppose you're right."
Then, gathering his luggage’s handles, he tipped his head to the doors, the warmth from their hug already gone. "I should be going—but if I call for you, you better come. You can't pretend this doesn't sound like a setup for a horror film."
Thor rolled his eyes, then walked around the car, stopping to address him over the roof of the tiny thing. "You have nothing to worry about, but if it comforts you, you have my word that'll come for you—always."
The plane belonged to Asgard Exports—serving Thor in his travels. A perk of being the chosen one. A bitter pill to swallow.
Glancing around, he tried to see himself conducting meetings and closing deals, entertaining the elite. The flickering projection showed a man that had it all—but Loki doubted his happiness in that dream.
He'd never wanted that life anyway.
Closing his eyes, the soft seat cushioned him, and his mind involuntarily drifted from topic to topic, from one filthy encounter to another. His molars ground together, feeling ill, as he recalled the bite of teeth and twisting of his hair, the choking and degrading comments.
And then there was Steve, the man who had settled all the uncertainties inside him with one look, a single finger under his chin. Each of his firm commands had reached inside him and gave him a mooring in the stormy sea.
Eyes snapping open, he pressed the heels of his hands against them, cursing under his breath. The single flight attendant approached, checking on him, but he waved her off.
Below, the land faded from the structured grays of civilization to the muddled oranges and greens of the wilderness.
Thor had suggested some perspective would help—and peering down at the mountains and hills below, it felt like a challenge.
Odin might have been more tyrant than father to him, but his last words to Loki were inescapable. And no amount of perspective could save Loki from their searing truth.
Murderer—a flinch jerked his shoulders at the memory of Odin attacking him.
His skin felt tacky and chilled, making him wish he'd dressed warmer than he had.
He failed to see the point of this. It would be simpler if Thor had just walked away. Killers didn't need to be saved.
Loki would have abandoned anyone who had done the same.
He didn't deserve special treatment.
The strip of tarmac barely counted as a runway, the private airport so small. From above, it had been a bare spot amongst the trees, which appeared to be a mix of evergreens and colored hardwoods. The seasons were changing fast.
He stepped off the jet, the attendant taking his luggage behind him, and surveyed the area.
The sun had an orange hue, hanging a few fingers above the horizon, so there was an hour of light left.
Thor had taught him the trick long ago as if Loki would ever need survival skills, not likely as the outdoors and Loki were not friends. The comforts of a good book or a movie—even some filthy porn—were much more appealing than being cold and dirty.
Looking around now, he had a sinking feeling that those boundaries might be challenged soon.
Light glinted off the chrome bumper of a black pickup truck idling near a distant gate.
Squinting, he watched as it pulled away from the shoulder and began in his direction.
It became harder to breathe than he liked, his chest too tight. He needed to keep control, though—hold his composure and the upper hand. Showing weakness would do him no good, not if he wanted to make this stay quick.
Distance would be necessary to protect himself and Steve—as Steve deserved better—and Loki didn't deserve the things he offered.
Steve had barely slept. He'd spent the night cleaning and rearranging the guest room, picking up and putting down the package of toothbrushes, and deciding whether to open them or leave them for Loki to deal with instead.
And the closer it got to Loki's arrival, the more he began to regret his agreement to this plan. He'd helped some friends through the years, but never with something like this.
Thor had told him that Loki had been drinking excessively, possibly doing drugs, and apparently, he hadn't stopped sleeping around.
Steve couldn't forget the tremor in Thor's voice as he'd described finding Loki in some club, too intoxicated to consent while some sleazeball used him. It had Steve gritting his teeth.
It made his chest tight with a painful burn, something he'd like to call sadness or regret. And, anything would be better than what he knew it to be because he knew too well that this feeling only came from one place. Jealousy. And fuck, did he hate that he cared.
It had been years and only one night—but as he pulled into the airport, he couldn't deny wishing they'd had a chance. Even if the bitter truth was that Loki never wanted him.
Steve waited for the plane, then drove to where Loki stood, sliding on his sunglasses before exiting the truck.
It took his years of school at Odin's hand not to falter at seeing Steve again.
There were notable changes, the rougher beard, speckled with grays, even though the man hadn't crested forty. His hair hung a bit longer, probably styled with just his fingers from the looks of it.
And dragging his gaze down, Loki noted the similarities to the guy on the paper towel label. The worn, weathered denim and blue flannel weren't typically something that drew Loki's eye, but he could admit that Steve made it look good.
Flicking his eyes back up, he tried to see beneath the amber sunglasses, hoping to read his expression, but he couldn't.
They stared at each other, Loki wishing he'd also worn something to mask his eyes. Because despite his talent for hiding his emotions, being the center of Steve's scrutiny left him vulnerable.
Silence hung between them, the long shadows stretching out from their feet. His luggage rested against his calf, a reminder that tonight he'd lay his head somewhere new and under the same roof as Steve.
What had he been thinking? This would never work.
The line between Steve's brows told him very little, leaving him to wonder if he recalled their night fondly or at all. Though, of course, it would be easier if he'd forgotten Loki completely, even if that thought came with a pang of something unnamable in his chest.
And perhaps he was getting what he deserved, as searching Steve’s face, Loki could see no signs of recognition or that what they’d shared mattered to him if he did.
So harnessing his resentment and anger, his pure displeasure at being subjected to this torture, he reinforced his walls to keep any hurt from showing.
"I'm assuming introductions aren't needed," he said, the sharp edge of his words dulled by the snapping wind.
The minuscule twitch of Steve's lips gave little away as he glanced toward the setting sun. Then turning back to Loki, his reply showed a glint of teeth. "No, I suppose not."
Knowing his voice would betray him, he simply tipped his head, tongue pressed to the backs of his teeth before turning his attention to the man who'd helped with his luggage, giving him a hefty tip.
And when he turned back to face Steve, still unsure how to proceed, his breath hitched just a hair, enough that he had to cover it with a cough, as the man no longer had his sunglasses perched on his face. Instead, they now hung from the collar of his shirt, allowing him to see his eyes.
He remembered how dark they'd turned as Steve had taken him apart that night, bending Loki to his will.
And how they'd warmed and softened as he praised him afterward, giving him the comfort he'd never had before, calling him the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
He hated to imagine how dull they must have looked after waking alone.
Steve moved to get back into the truck, seemingly done with his appraisal, but before shutting the door, he paused, brows lifting.
"You know, it's gonna get a lot colder once that sun drops behind those mountains, so yeah, you can stand here all night if you want, looking like a pissed-off cat and freezing your sack off, or you can throw your shit in the back and get in,” Steve said. “We've got a forty-minute drive to my place, and I'd like to be there before it gets too late."
The cabin was more compact than he’d imagined—an intimate two stories. The steep angle of the roof meant the second floor had to be more of a loft than anything else. Very reminiscent of some of the ski lodges he’d stayed at in his youth.
The outdoor lights turned on as they approached the door, revealing a patchy lawn, some god-awful hunk of equipment, and a pile of wood. And from somewhere in the darkness behind the house, a rooster crowed despite the night. Lovely.
The keys rattled, then Steve pushed the door open. “Wipe your feet.”
Loki did as he asked, following him inside, bags clunking beside him. Once through the doorway, his nose twitched at the smell of something savory, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten today.
A floor lamp in the living room added a warm glow to the space, but Steve switched on another over the sink when he entered the kitchen. Then he removed the lid from the crock pot on the counter, giving Loki no mind as he poked at the contents with a wooden spoon.
Loki took his moment of distraction to sweep his gaze over the rest of the space, confirming his worst fears—that privacy wouldn’t be easily found here.
The downstairs was one open area, the kitchen set more to the left as you entered, a small dining nook to the right, and straight ahead a living room with a TV and wood stove.
Two doors were cut into the same wall as the TV, and both were closed. And clinging to the same side of the house, between there and the dining nook, was a tight staircase that led to what appeared to be a loft—probably serving as a bedroom.
“Probably not what you’re used to, but it’s comfortable.” Steve’s voice had his head snapping around, leaving Loki hating that he hadn’t noticed him watching.
Squaring his shoulders, he steeled himself, then put on the smile he’d hidden behind his whole life. “It’s very… quaint. Well-loved.”
Steve snorted. “You can say you don’t like it. It wasn’t like I’d really expected much else.”
Loki arched his brow, trying for calm, even though his heart stuttered against his ribs. “And why is that?”
“Look,” Steve pinched the bridge of his nose, “just forget it.” He dropped his hand, sighing. “Dinner is ready, so why don’t I show you your room, get you settled, and then we can eat.”
He wanted to press but held his tongue, nodding instead.
After a brief stop at the bathroom, where Steve awkwardly motioned to a package of toothbrushes and other toiletries, apologetic that they’d need to share the space, his host led him to his room.
If first impressions were meant to indicate anything, he had an interesting stay ahead, the evidence showing in the giant moose head mounted to the wall as if about to battle an invisible foe.
Steve moved past him, drawing back a curtain and peering into the darkness. “Not much to see right now, but it’s not a bad view to wake up to, especially on a snowy morning.”
Gaze having drifted to the abomination on the nightstand, a lamp made of moose legs, topped with a god awful, dated shade, he snapped his attention back to Steve, whose expression remained closed off.
“I don’t plan on being here that long—a week is more than enough.”
A skeptical brow arched on Steve’s face. “Well, your brother said at least a month or two.”
“He’s known to be an idiot, as you should know—being his friend and all.”
The man straightened, jaw ticking. “Yes, he is my friend—the kind most wouldn’t understand—and I don’t care what you think of him, but I won’t tolerate you bad-mouthing him while you’re under my roof. Got it?”
He bristled, itching to sneer something sharp enough to wound. But the way Steve protected Thor, even from his trivial words, breathed a whisper of jealousy over his neck. He wanted someone to care enough to protect him like that.
Swallowing the burning coal of longing, he nodded. “Got it.”
Steve nodded, tapping his knuckles against the tall pine dresser on his way out of the room. “It’s empty—feel free to use it.”
Then the door closed, and Loki was alone, his chest tightening again. He dropped onto the patchwork quilt that covered the queen size bed, noticing the soft mattress.
“Fuck,” he breathed, closing his eyes for a moment, only to open them again, feeling like he was being watched. He glanced to the side, looking toward the ceiling, at the mounted moose head. “I don’t appreciate being stared at.”
Then huffing, he threw his arm over his eyes. This was everything and nothing like he’d expected, and it was only the first day.
He wondered if he could call Thor already, as the decor was a crime—attempted murder a reasonable charge.
Once the door clicked shut behind him, the air rushed out of his lungs, and Steve allowed a moment to collect himself, one hand rubbing his eyes until he saw spots, then dragging it over his bearded face.
Loki had appeared conflicted, the twist of his mouth, the downward curl of his lips, and the clench of his jaw hinted at someone itching to fight, but the flicker of widened eyes and the edgy bob of his throat told a different story.
It had almost been enough to fracture his composure, reminding him deeply of someone needing guidance and reassurance.
And wasn’t that what Thor wanted him to provide?
A sigh escaped him, pure frustration with himself. It would be much easier if Steve weren’t a fixer—always the hero, as Bucky would say.
Behind him, through the door, he could hear the drawers of the dresser opening and closing, the yawn of old wood as it awoke again for use. The cabin had come furnished, and he hadn’t had any overnight guests yet, which reminded him of Larry, the moose head he’d moved to the guest room.
Larry and the matching leg lamp had been in the living room when he’d purchased the place, but a few weeks after moving in, he’d gotten out the screw gun and taken him off the wall, mounting him in the guest room instead. His leg lamp found a home there, too.
He could still remember the awkward apology he’d given the damned thing, part of him worried about hurting its feelings. So hoping to appease it, not wanting Larry to haunt him, he’d even left the curtain open so Larry could see outside.
Was he crazy? Possibly, but Larry had a way of following you with his eyes—unnerving didn’t begin to cover it.
As he entered the kitchen, he chuckled dryly, imagining what Loki must think.
Loki was very unimpressed by the stringy, sloppy meat and gravy. He poked at something that could be a potato, though he wasn’t sure. His lip curled, dropping his fork back into the bowl. “I’m not eating this.”
Steve paused, the torn chunk of bread in his hand hovering over his food, ready to dip again. Then, he arched a brow and dunked the roll in his bowl with a scoff.
Disgusting, Loki thought, despite not having tried it.
The dripping mess popped into Steve’s mouth with an exaggerated noise of pleasure before the man leaned back, his assessing stare pinning Loki in place.
And fuck, he hated it just as much as he wanted to let himself be bound by it.
“What?” Loki snapped.
Steve shrugged. “Just thinking you don’t have much weight to lose. You’re a bit thin—shouldn’t be skipping meals.”
The bowl scraped the table when Loki shoved it away; his nose turned up in offense. “I’ve seen dogs given better food.”
A huff, followed by a head shake, then Steve resumed eating. “Suit yourself, but I don’t waste food around here. You’ll get hungry soon enough, and when you do, it’ll be waiting in the fridge.”
“Won’t happen—I’ll just order something, then.”
The sharp bark of laughter from Steve startled him, pissing him off more as he didn’t see what was so funny.
But before he could ask, Steve had settled a bit, fork lifting from the bowl, dripping gravy, to point at him as he said, “You do that—let me know if you find someone who delivers out here. I’d love a pizza.”
Nobody would deliver, leaving Loki sitting in his room beside a lamp made of taxidermied moose legs as his stomach tried to eat itself.
The slop in the fridge suddenly seemed more appealing, but he refused to give Steve the pleasure of seeing him eat it.
No, he’d rather chew on one of the hoofs holding up the lamp than concede defeat, so flicking off the light, he went to bed, hoping tomorrow would bring something a little more edible.