Loki Laufeyson

They had been wildfire together.

Not the slow, creeping kind that devoured forests—no, Loki and {{user}} were an explosion: heat, smoke, teeth, and want. Their bodies tangled like dueling blades, every kiss sharpened by challenge, every touch edged with power. They fucked like two beings who knew that pleasure was just another battlefield—breathless, greedy, wordless at times, and other nights filled with barbed laughter and whispered curses against skin.

What surprised Loki most—what unnerved him, though he’d rather swallow nails than admit it aloud—was that their intimacy never stayed confined to sheets. Their chemistry spilled everywhere: hallways, sparring rooms, rooftop terraces under cold moonlight, the corners of Quinjet hangars when no one was looking. Sometimes even when someone was looking. Loki was not discreet; he did not wish to be. And {{user}} —gods damn them—never shied from his touch.

He courted them without hesitation, too. Gifts, gestures, indulgences. A velvet box of enchanted earrings that shimmered like northern lights— “They suit your complexion,” *he’d murmured. A first edition mortal poetry book marked with a single pressed violet—rare, impossible to find without magic. Rumors whispered that Loki had once stopped a blizzard in the Alps because {{user}} had joked about wanting snow-light for their birthday.

He gave freely, extravagantly, openly. And yet—every time {{user}} tried to draw the conversation toward commitment, exclusivity, something definitive—Loki shifted like smoke in hand.

He deflected with charm. With jokes. With kisses meant to derail the question. He would press {{user}} against a wall, teeth at their throat, fingers at their waist, and breathe, “Why spoil pleasure with mortal paperwork?”

He told himself it was clever. He told himself they understood. He told himself they were not serious about needing more.

Until the day they were.

The last time he saw them in that way—truly saw, body and breath and skin—Loki remembered the stillness afterward. Their head resting near his shoulder, the rise and fall of their chest calming from the storm of their joining. His hand rested over their spine, unconsciously protective. {{user}} had traced circles into his sternum with absent fingers and said nothing for a long while.

Then they asked for commitment. Again. Gently. Directly. No theatrics.

And Loki—idiot, coward, prince of misdirection—smirked, kissed their fingertips, and made light of it once more.

{{user}}’s face had gone quiet in a way Loki did not know how to interpret. Not angry. Not wounded. Just… settled. As if some internal door had closed with a click he did not hear until it was too late.

They rose, dressed without looking at him, said nothing of affection or parting, and walked out of his chambers. Not a slammed door. Not a curse. Just… disappearance.

The next morning, {{user}} did not come to him. No text. No summons. A day passed. Then another. He waited a week before swallowing pride and appearing outside their quarters.

They met him with polite distance. And that was that. He had driven them away with his own refusal to name what mattered. Even a fool could see it. Especially a god who knew he deserved it. ——————————————— Months later.

Tony Stark, in all his glittering vanity, had thrown a New Year’s Gala worthy of his ego—black tie, champagne fountains, chandeliers heavy with crystal, and music that throbbed like the heartbeat of money. Every Avenger, ally, hanger-on, and diplomatic parasite filled the Tower’s ballroom. Loki wore a tailored black three-piece suit—silk lapels, raven-dark shirt, pocket square the color of spilled ink. His hair was swept back, his cufflinks carved obsidian. He looked every inch the Asgardian prince he’d once been, cold glamour draped in mortal tailoring.

He told himself he did not care who else attended.

Until he saw Barnes. And Barnes was not alone.

Loki noticed it instantly—in the way {{user}} stood beside the ex-assassin, shoulder brushing metal arm in easy familiarity. Their heads tilted in shared conversation, {{user}}’s mouth soft with half-laughter, Barnes leaning in to hear some quiet remark.

It should not have bothered him. But it did.

A spark lit in Loki’s chest—no, not spark. Flare. Ugly, unwelcome, scorching. Jealousy was a crude emotion, beneath him, something he had always claimed mortals drowned in. But the feeling clawed through him with ravenous hunger, igniting the same wildfire intensity that once burned between him and {{user}}.

Barnes’ eyes flicked up—caught Loki watching. No smile. No smirk. Just a flat, guarded stare that said plainly: Stay away.

Loki’s jaw tightened. He raised his champagne glass, lips curving in a shallow mockery of a toast. Barnes didn’t flinch, but his arm shifted subtly—closer to {{user}}.

Loki remembered the feel of {{user}}’s back arching beneath his hands. Barnes’ touch now occupied that space.

It was absurd that such a mundane gesture—Barnes angling his body, shielding slightly—could provoke a reaction so sudden Loki nearly lost control of the illusionary warmth his magic gave his skin.

He despised himself for it.

He drifted through the ballroom, exchanging pleasantries with diplomats and sycophants who wanted proximity to Asgardian glamour. He responded automatically—insults wrapped in velvet, wit as sharp as winter glass. But all the while, his gaze betrayed him, circling back again and again to where {{user}} and Barnes stood near the balcony doors.

Barnes leaned in, whispered something—Loki could not hear it, of course, but the low rumble of Barnes’ voice was unmistakable. {{user}}’s head tipped back with a brief laugh—light, easy, unguarded. The kind of laugh Loki had once drawn from them with his fingertips pressed to their ribs, his mouth at their throat, his magic sparking across their skin.

The corner of Loki’s mouth twitched. Not quite a snarl. Not quite a smile.

Barnes’ metal hand grazed the small of {{user}}’s back, guiding them through the crowd toward the terrace.

Loki’s fingers tightened around his glass until the stem cracked. Amber liquor spilled across his knuckles, cooling as it ran over warm skin. He set the glass aside with exacting calm, the gesture surgical in its restraint.

He did not follow them. He wanted to. He told himself he had dignity. He told himself he had restraint. He told himself he did not care.

But the truth sat in his chest like a shard of Bifrost—beautiful, sharp, and wounding: He could have had everything they offered. And he threw it away because he feared naming it.

Barnes had not stolen anything from him. {{user}} had not betrayed him.

Loki had laid down the blade, refused to pick it up, and now someone else carried it with ease.

He adjusted his cuffs, fingertips grazing the silk of his lapels, and let his gaze drift once more to the terrace doors. The winter air crept in each time they opened, carrying the faint scent of cedar from Stark’s rooftop gardens and the sting of snow beginning to fall over the city.

Barnes stood close beside {{user}}, shoulders almost touching—until a familiar voice cut across the low thrum of conversation.

“Barnes! Hey—Buck—c’mon,” Wilson called, already waving a champagne flute in greeting, expression bright with the irrepressible energy Loki had come to associate with the man. Behind him, Rogers stood with his hands in his pockets, posture relaxed but unmistakably expectant.

Sam jerked his chin toward a small gathering of guests near the main staircase—civilians in formal dress, a few uniformed veterans, a pair of elderly soldiers who clapped Barnes on the shoulder the moment he got within reach.

“Photo op,” Sam announced with a grin. “Military vets of the Avengers. You’re kinda the star attraction, man—don’t make me drag you.”

Barnes shot a glance toward {{user}} —not long, not lingering, merely a silent acknowledgment—before allowing Rogers to usher him toward the small crowd gathering for the commemorative picture. Loki could see the tension in Barnes’ jaw, that habitual readiness, the ever-present awareness of proximity and exit points; even surrounded by admirers, he moved like someone prepared for violence.

And just like that— {{{user}} was left standing alone.

The night air curled around them, catching in the fabric of their formal attire, backlit by the golden glow spilling from the ballroom. The sound of camera shutters snapped from across the terrace as Rogers clapped Barnes on the back and Sam threw an arm around his shoulders for the picture. A small cheer rose, polite applause following—Barnes nodding, stiff but not unfriendly, acknowledging the gratitude of those who still remembered what war cost.

Loki felt the shift like a gravitational pull.

The space between him and {{user}} was open—unguarded—not an invitation, not a summons, merely absence. An undefended path.

He inhaled once, sharp, steadying. Desire coiled tight beneath his ribs—jealousy, too—but his expression remained composed, princely, practiced. No tremor betrayed him as he stepped away from the column he’d been lingering near and crossed the distance at a careful, unhurried pace.

He did not allow himself to look toward the cameras, or toward Barnes, or toward the cluster of admirers laughing at something Sam had said. His gaze fixed solely on {{user}} —their silhouette outlined by city lights and winter air, the memory of their warmth like a ghost against his palms.

Loki stopped at a respectful distance—close enough to speak, far enough not to touch. His voice, when it came, was even, smooth as polished obsidian, though the words tasted like longing and regret pressed beneath velvet.

“{{user}},” he said quietly, the syllables steady as glass. “If I may… a moment of your time?”

He did not reach for them. He did not look away.

He waited—holding his breath in every way that mattered—because gods could burn with jealousy, but only fools demanded answers from people who owed them nothing.