Smutty angst. Angst induced smut. Smut induced angst. I'm a slut for emotional pain
Prompt: “nobody’s seen you in days”
Word count: 891
Warnings: angst, not too graphic lil bit rough smut (nothing too descriptive, y’all know)
A/N: for @whirlybirbs nostalgia writing challenge! Just a short lil somethin for her to read cause she is an angel who deserves Loki’s love and the whole universe. The nostalgia of this in my mind is that angsty “it wasn’t really Loki !1!!” that we all thought of when Avengers came out, but now we can quote Marvel on it soooo :))))
Loki used to always look good.
It’s an effortless kind of beauty, finding that perfect little niche between radiant and caliginous to keep himself planted, always holding a curious obscurity in his bright eyes. He’s never looked bad, or ugly, or in any way unattractive…
Tonight he looks sick.
In fact, he’s been looking sick for a while now. His eyes have sunken, cheeks gone hollow, his pale skin turned grey, and you’ve noticed he’s growing his hair out.
“I want to,” he had told you when you asked of it one night, his head turning on your lap to gaze up at you. “Something needed to change.”
It reaches to his shoulders now, straight and slightly turned up at the end of each uneven layer. A good look, you can’t deny, but just…just not him.
Tonight his eyes are red.
You hardly get a chance to see them, though. He closes them as soon as he lays beside you, turning his back to you—that’s become frequent, you’ve realised, only telling you his thoughts have been particularly troublesome the last few nights.
Right away your arm drapes over his side and you tuck your knees behind his, fingers interlacing somewhere over his chest, and you lean your head against his back.
“I’m here, y’know.”
His voice is barely audible, hoarse and cracked, echoing through his chest. “I know.”
“…for you, I mean.”
“I know.”
He accepts affection so well, doesn’t he?
You sigh and press your lips to his back, planting a light trail of kisses down his spine. It’s protruding from his back a bit more than usual these days, the rippling muscles having diminished and pulling the skin taut against his bones.
Your lips go numb after only a few seconds—his skin is ice.
The god shudders when you stop, and you can feel it. It’s almost a shiver, as if for once he felt the cold just as brutally as you do. A blind hand searches for the blanket, pulling it over the two of you, and red eyes open again.
Loki is cold, awake, exhausted.
Tonight the sheets are empty.
Your arm lays across the bed where he would be, where the indent of his body weight has nearly disappeared after having no occupant for so long. He’s been gone for days now, you’re not sure where, but you know better than to ask.
Last time you asked, he had turned his back on you and left again.
It could be months on end that he’s gone, it could be no more than a day, but every time he comes home, he’s a little further away.
“Where do you go, love?” You ask anyways, clutching his hand tighter to your chest. “Don’t you trust me enough to tell me?”
Surprisingly, a smile tugs at his lips. “To worry is precious, darling, and you do it so well.”
“I am worried about you, Loki, nobody’s seen you in days.”
“All the better for them,” he hums, passing off the question easier than a bothersome bug.
He still looks sick, but this time it seems like he knows it. That smile wasn’t very reassuring, and the kiss he places on your lips doesn’t do much to convince you either, but you have to take what you can get.
Your hands curl into his shirt before he can pull away and you press your chest to his—it’s not as solid as before, it’s sunken now and you caught a glimpse of his ribs last night when he was showering.
But you lift his shirt over his head and kiss down his bruised throat, hands toying with his belts and silently begging him to let you try to make him feel better, since he’s so keen on denying your comfort.
Tonight his love is pain.
Nails dig into your hips and his hair sticks to your cheek, his teeth clamped firmly down on your shoulder as you scramble to brace yourself against the headboard.
The pain is nice, you think when his hand finds your throat, it’s him, he’s home.
You scratch lines of red skin down his back and claw at his hand, squeezing his waist with your thighs and it’s hard to remember any other way to love, hard to remember the last soft kiss that burned your lips. These days, his kisses have gone cold.
It becomes nearly impossible to recall when Loki was careful, concerned about hurting you—or when you were worried about getting hurt.
Now you want to hurt, just so you can take some of his pain.
You tell him to move faster, squeeze harder, do everything harder, you order him to chase his release first and not hold anything back, for god’s sake, just to let this broken man feel something good for once.
He’s sweating when he peels himself away, having collapsed on your chest and held you closer than ever before when he finished, and he pulls himself off of you to lay beside you and gather you into his arms.
“I am not leaving you,” he whispers and presses his lips to your temple, “I am taken from you, you have to believe me.”
His chest heaves as he fails to catch his breath, but he kisses you anyways.
“Trust me, you don’t want to know any more.” He gazes down at you with pleading eyes, his breath wonderfully cold on your burning skin. “Do us both the favour…don’t ask.”
You don’t.
Tomorrow night, green eyes will be blue.
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hope you enjoyed, feel free to send me ideas!
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