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A God Can Hold His Liquor: Part 1 - The Cell

Cover image by @lokisgoodgirl

In AGCHHL, our feisty YN journeys into Asgard, mastering the language and culture of the ancient beings, while she deepens her bond with Prince Loki and struggles to understand the changes happening within her.

The vibe: World-building, magic, love, humour and kinky shit. Lots of our lovely readers describe it as their comfort fic.

It starts off with heavy omorashi, but don’t let that discourage you as it’s not the main focus of the story.

MASTERLIST (all fics)

Part 1: The Cell

Pairing: Loki x female reader

Summary: Set during The Battle of New York, Loki takes a human hostage. They are thrown into the SHIELD cell together, and he terrifies her. Over time he becomes desperate to use the bathroom. He denies his need to her until he no longer can. What will she do in the most impossible situation?

Word Count: 5,500 Warnings: Mentions of sexual assault from the outset. References to Loki’s past abuse and bullying. Quite dark, in parts. Contains: Omorashi, wetting, peeing, aftercare. Bisexual Loki. Sassy reader. Some dub-con. Dom!Loki. Sub!Loki. Dark!Loki.

He’s going to rape me. He’s going to fucking rape me. You squeezed your eyes tightly shut, trying to block out the man towering over you, blocking out the light, mere inches from your form. Your senses were overwhelmed with the scent of him. Leather, metal, sweat… and a smoky, masculine scent reminiscent of some sort of ancient cologne. “What?” His tone was breathy, soft and incredulous. If your eyelids weren’t pressed so tightly together, you would have seen him squinting at you, furrowing his brow. She fears I would force myself upon her? Mortals clearly haven’t evolved beyond raping one another. Animals. Your eyes remained closed, and you felt light flicker against your eyelids. Instinctively you knew he was no longer in front of you, his hand no longer against the glass above your head. You let out a sigh. When you opened your eyes, you saw him pacing, his lips pursed tightly. “You think of me as a monster,” he muttered. It wasn’t a question. Was he talking to you, or himself? He continued to pace. You remained frozen where he left you, butt and shoulder blades pressed against the glass. He sat on the white bench at the back of the cell, his legs splayed. He stared at a space on the floor two feet in front of him, using the thumb and index finger of one hand to pick at the fingernail on his opposite thumb. “I’ve never taken any creature by force.”

“I’ve never needed to.” His hands remained spread out for effect. His grin was equal parts smug and manic. You cleared your throat as he walked towards you. He was terrifying. And hot. Obscenely hot. Maybe flattery would save me…? “I, erm…” You coughed, convinced your heart had relocated to your throat. You felt your pulse hammering inside your neck. “That, erm… that makes sense. You’re… you’re very attractive. Any woman would fall at your feet. I imagine you have a line of women wanting to bed you.” You smiled as sweetly as you possibly could. Fawning. You thought. It’s a trauma response. “And men.” He turned and started pacing again. Men? He’s bi? Well, at least you had one thing in common. “You date men and women?” You asked innocently. “I fuck men and women.” He placed a strong emphasis on fuck. You felt your mouth become moist. You gulped. He continued to pace. “Well, erm… me too.” He stopped pacing. His head turned slightly towards you. He smirked. A wicked, devilish smirk. This mortal is a fraction less dull than I assumed. “I mean, I’m… I’m bi, too.” He turned his body towards you. His face screwed up into another incredulous expression. “You’re what?” Your expression mirrored his now. What was he talking about? “Repeat the word, mortal.” “Oh! Right. Erm… bi. Bisexual.” He chuckled, the creases around his eyes causing his face to light up mischievously. His tongue wet his lips. “You still label your sexuality.” It wasn’t a question. More an observation. “I heard you mortals ceased that ridiculous behaviour centuries past.” He laughed to himself as he returned to the bench. “I, erm… I think it helps people to, erm…. Accept themselves. You know?” He shrugged a shoulder, nonchalant. He rested his forearm on his thigh. Then leaned forward. God he’s so dramatic. His voice was breathy. Seductive. “Why not simply love who you love?” “Or fuck who you fuck,” you finished off. Fuck. I shouldn’t have said that. He still wants to kill me. He might not be a rapist, but he could snap me in two and barely break a sweat. In reality, he forced his lips downwards, trying not to laugh at your little quip. Slowly, you slid down the glass to a seated position on the floor. Your leather-clad captor’s conversation had dried up, which you felt grateful for. Now you could attempt to process what was happening, how you had got here, and how in the hell you were going to get yourself out. You had been in a coffee shop in Manhattan, idly leafing through a magazine. You had planned to visit Central Park that afternoon, but heard rumblings of a security issue. Rumour had it, the fugitive from Germany had made his way over to New York. Just my luck, you thought. You thought a trip to the US would be a welcome break for you. London had been intense, and you needed to get away. “Be careful,” your mother had warned you. You had travelled the world for a decade, and she still squawked about safety. Patronising, really. “There are…” she hushed her voice to a whisper, as if anyone in her kitchen would overhear, “Terrorists.” “Mum, I’m pretty sure you can’t say that.” She stirred her tea, matter of fact. “Well it is New York, dear.” Fucking hell. Turns out, your narcissistic mother’s concerns actually held some ground. Turning the pages of the magazine in the coffee shop, you heard sirens outside. More than was usual for the city. After a couple of days here, you felt connected to the pulse of Manhattan and this felt… off. Intuitively, you took a last swig of your Americano and made your way out onto the street. Four blocks later, you took a cut-through to your hotel. And no, it wasn’t an alleyway, you told yourself, your pulse quickening as you walked through it. It was a shortcut. You would be back in the safety of your accommodation in no time. After the shortcut, you walked through Grand Central and out onto 42nd. That’s when you were lifted clean off your feet and up into the air, and within seconds you saw the roof of the station and the tops of the buildings that previously towered above you. The people below you, as the stereotype goes, looked like ants. A strong arm grasped your middle. You felt the cold metal of his gauntlets through your sweater, and heard the creaking of leather. You looked around you. You were on some kind of… scooter… flying through the air above 42nd. Your captor’s free arm steered the vehicle, bringing it to a landing pad on top of a large tower. That’s where agents in dark armoured clothing captured you both. You assumed it was a trap of some kind. He clearly wasn’t expecting it. And as you were both bundled into the back of an armoured van, his hands chained and his mouth muzzled, you were certain… that’s the fugitive from Germany. The one on the news. The reporters made it clear your governments were tight-lipped about his origin, but rumour was he was from another planet. Which was insane. But you don’t have flying scooters on earth. Unless good ol’ Elon secretly has some under development. After rocking from side-to-side in the armoured van for a good hour, you arrived at a large facility. It was cold. Clinical. You heard the hum of air conditioning. They bundled you both into a large glass cell. “She’s compromised,” an agent barked. “Throw her in.” Compromised? What the hell does that mean. The pressurised glass door closed with a slow gust of air. A beep and a red light seemed to signify it was now locked tight. And so here you were. In a rather compromising position with a terrorist. My fucking mother was right. A space terrorist. A weird, oddly attractive, fucking space terrorist. He looked human. Sort of. You narrowed your eyes at him. Asking him, Are you actually an alien, then? crossed your mind but you thought better of it. His hand rested on his abdomen. He crinkled his nose, and looked… odd. “Are you hurt?” you asked. No response. I’m stuck in a cell with an alien who’s bleeding to death. Marvellous. You watched him. For how long, you couldn’t be sure. Every time he removed his hand from his abdomen, you watched his hand closely. There were no traces of blood. You looked at the layers of leather tailored tightly to his torso. No sign of a tear or a rip. He could be bleeding internally. Christ, I need to stop watching hospital dramas. He moved around on the bench, scrunching up his face in a way that seemed entirely uncharacteristic. If you were being honest, you almost missed the cocky smirk. “We have to get out of here.” Yeah no shit, Sherlock. He pinched the bridge of his nose and his head hung forward. He let out a sigh, then leaned his head against the glass behind him. He crossed his legs elegantly. Thirty minutes passed. He kept sighing. Something was definitely, clearly very wrong with him. “If you’re hurt, I can call for someone.” “No.” His tone was flat. No room for argument. He crossed his legs again, this time in the opposite direction. You stood up. He looked up at you. You spoke softly, “If you tell me what it is… maybe I can help you.” Yep, I’m definitely fawning. Trauma response. “You can’t help me.” Without warning, he let out a groan. He leaned forward in his seat. “Guards, guards!” You turned and started banging on the glass. He was behind you in seconds, his hands on your waist spinning you around to face him as one hand clamped down over your mouth and the other resumed its place against the glass above your head. Your eyes were wide and you tried to speak, to ask him to stop. It came out as muffled words against his large right hand. “STOP.” He spoke in a snarl. You became as still and as quiet as possible. Your body trembled, your chest heaving up and down. He looked down at your torso. He knows I’m terrified. “I’m…” he spoke quietly. Softly, almost. “I’m not hurt.” His hand slipped away from your mouth. He stayed within inches of you. You craned your neck to look up at his face and it took every ounce of courage for you to meet his eyes. Maybe if we make eye contact he won’t kill me. You were overwhelmed by his scent once again. It wasn’t… unpleasant. Just… unfamiliar. Otherworldly. You breathed in the sandalwood. It could only be described as something between incense and essential oils. Which was ridiculous, because he didn’t exactly look like the aromatherapy or meditation type. The thought would have made you laugh, if he wasn’t still towering over you. He looked down towards the ground. His eyes darted back and forth. He closed them briefly, then spoke ever so quietly. “My bladder has reached its capacity.” Umm… WHAT? Fuck. I’m trapped in a cell – without a toilet – with a space terrorist who just-so-happens to be bursting. “Oh….” It was the only response you could muster. He lingered in front of you, his eyes remaining fixed on the floor. His cheeks flushed slightly. “We should, erm… we should let them know, shouldn’t we? They would have to let you out.” His eyes went wide. With fear or anger, you couldn’t be sure. “No.” “Okay. Okay, I… I respect that.” I’m fawning again. “We’ll plan our escape.” He said as he walked away from you. Not a great plan. You’re desperate, dude. And I don’t know about you, but I can’t think straight when I need to go. And he clearly, really needed to go. He started walking in circles around the cell. Like a caged animal. Which was accurate. You looked around the glass cage. There’s no way they can put someone in a cell without a toilet. It’s inhumane. But then… he wasn’t human. So did it count? He certainly looked human. You looked at the two large white columns either side of the bench. You walked towards the one on the right. Etched into it, was the tiny emblem of a burger. Ahhh America. You smiled to yourself. It must be a food hatch. You walked to the other column. It was etched with WC. It was large, for a column. But inside it must be very small, for a room. Perhaps it was like the toilets you find on trains or on flights. Tiny. But, it would do the job. “It’s locked.” He stated flatly. Oh. “What if we…” You trailed off, thinking out loud. “What if we asked for a key, and said I needed to use it?” He turned his head towards you in thought. “Are you in need, mortal? Mortals have a weak constitution. Pathetic. “Umm, no, I… I’m okay, actually. Thank you for asking though, that’s erm… that’s kind of you.” Wow. Chalk this up as the most awkward conversation I’ve ever had. He let out a sound, somewhere between a sigh and the word urgh. You sat down beside the locked toilet. Maybe he has a different anatomy to humans, you mused. It was clear he was infinitely stronger than any human being. His physical stamina was probably greater, too. So perhaps his need wasn’t quite so dire after all? “Oh!” You scurried to your feet and rushed over to the opposite side of the cell where you had left your backpack. It was hard to believe the agents had thrown you into a cell with all of your belongings, but perhaps they thought of you as so little a threat that it hardly mattered. You kneeled down, reached into your bag and fished out a bottle of water. You reached it out and gestured towards him. He sneered. “I’m not thirsty.” She’s mocking me. “No, no I meant…” You shrugged. “If it was… you know, empty.” He scoffed. “I know it’s not ideal, but… perhaps in an emergency?” “The bottle isn’t empty, little mortal. And,” he edged closer to you, kneeling down and pointed to the bottle. He whispered, “I’m fairly certain you require that nectar to survive.” He stood up and resumed his pacing of the cell. He thinks I’ll die if I don’t drink enough water. That’s actually kind of cute. You broke the plastic seal, opened the bottle and gulped down the entirety of its contents. Great. Give me an hour and I’ll need to pee. You stood up and walked to the bench, placing the empty bottle down on the left side, close to the locked WC. Shit, he’ll think I’m taunting him. “I’ll erm… I’ll leave it there.” “It’s nowhere near large enough.” His matter-of-fact tone with such intimate topics was giving you whiplash. “Oh…” “I told you not to drink it.” Well, that’s not exactly what you said, alien man. But I admit, you did tell me to keep the water. “You’re welcome, I guess.” You shrugged, and resumed your place on the floor next to the ominous left column. He sat down on the bench. You turned your head towards him, “I’m (y/n), by the way.” There’s that incredulous look again. “It’s just, I… you keep calling me mortal. So, I wanted to give you my name. What’s your name?” God, what are you, five?? He probably doesn’t even have a name. Or if he does, it’s like a WiFi password. X-A12 or whatever, right? “Loki.” He leaned back against the glass and sighed. “It’s Loki.” “It’s nice to meet you, Loki,” you stood in front of him and offered your hand. Does he even know what a hand shake is? He smiled, amused, and gave your hand a firm shake. “A pleasure, y/n.” He grinned, then cast those blue eyes pointedly around the cell. “Present circumstances accepted.” God he’s charming. And why does he sound English? Did some Brits from the past – or the future – colonise another planet? Now’s probably not the time to get into it. Suddenly, he hissed and doubled over, clutching his stomach. Instinctively you grabbed the bottle. He waved a hand in your direction. “No.” He forced three slow blasts of air out through pursed lips. It reminded you of the breathing techniques they give to women in labour. Fuck, it’s bad. He really needs to go. He straightened up, looking surprisingly composed. “No. I’m a God. I’ll hold my liquor.” “A God?” His blue eyes flashed up at you. “That surprises you?” “I, erm… it’s just, I’ve…. I’ve never met a God before.” “What makes you so certain?” “Well…” Hell of a good question, to be fair. “I’m pretty sure you’re the first one.” “And am I living up to your expectations?” He leaned forward, eyes narrowed, his lips pulled up into a sneer. You could have sworn there was something behind his expression. As if he was wearing a mask. Why would he care if he lived up to your expectations? What a strange choice of words. His mask slipped. Just for a moment. You saw a flash of an emotion across his sharp features. It resembled something close to sadness. “You’re living up just fine.” Your smile was warm, despite your clumsy choice of words. The corners of his lips curled up involuntarily. Not quite a smile. But certainly not a sneer. Another twenty minutes passed. You had been in the cell for a while now. Not quite two hours. But certainly more than ninety minutes. He must have needed to go when we were captured, you figured. I guess you have other priorities when you’re trying to take over a planet. “NORNS!” He grimaced and both hands shot to his crotch. He hissed, pulling in air through clenched teeth. “Please use the bottle.” You spoke as softly as you could. “I-I-… GODS.” He resumed his woman-in-labour breathing. “I simply… I simply can’t.” He looked up at you, looking directly into your eyes. For a brief moment, he looked lost. “I can’t. Even if I wanted to.” Your look of confusion was enough to prompt him to continue. “I can’t relieve myself anywhere other than the proper place. I’m a… I’m a prince. Or at least, I was.” He head fell. You didn’t know where he was from, or how it even worked there. But it made sense. There was a regal air about him. A majesty. “You’re royalty,” you thought out loud. He looked up and simply nodded. “Royalty here are quite… proper. So, I understand.” You gave him a sympathetic smile. He let out a loud groan that surprised even him. “But you know… maybe there’s another way.” You looked at the locked WC. “Perhaps you can… go right here.” You pointed to the front of the door. Serves them right for locking it, right?” A revenge piss. Justified. He thought for a moment, then shook his head. “I can’t, I… I won’t allow myself to.” He won’t use the bottle. He won’t use the floor. And he definitely can’t hold on forever. He’s so stubborn, he’ll probably wet himself just to prove a point. He looked down at you sat on the floor. He patted the space on the bench next to him. “Sit.” Mortals cannot be physically uncomfortable. I hardly want this one dying on me. From your new vantage point sat next to him, you noticed he had peeled away that one long layer of leather on his tunic to allow him better access to his crotch, which he was now gripping with both hands. His knuckles were white. “Ohhhhhhhh…..” His groan sounded somewhere between it’s-5am-in-January-and-my-alarm’s-going-off-and-I-don’t-want-to-wake-up and a child having a tantrum in a supermarket because Mum won’t let him have the chocolate bar. Pained. Frustrated. Desperate. “Hmmmpppp.” He took in a sharp gasp of air, surprised at the whimper that escaped his lips. He turned a deep shade of crimson. “Loki.” You spoke very quietly. Carefully. You placed a hand on his arm. The metal was cold from the air conditioning of the cell. You hissed at the sensation. He looked up at you. “Loki, I… I think you might be hurting yourself.” He creased his eyebrows together. “I think you underestimate my constitution, mortal.” Truth is, he’d never had the strongest constitution. Not in this context. Asgardians were known for their ability to hold their mead all night if they had to. But Loki wasn’t Asgardian. He could almost hear their laughter as he rushed off to the amenities outside the palace dining halls, unable to hold it any longer. He swallowed down on the memory. He groaned, fanning his legs in and out, desperate to relieve the pressure. “I’m not sure how your biology works.” You spoke barely above a whisper. “But with humans, we… we can really hurt ourselves if we hold on too long. I have no doubt you have incredible stamina. You have already shown that. It’s… it’s impressive.” You continued to fawn. “But I wouldn’t like to see you hurt yourself.” He gulped and glanced over at you. Those eyes again… little boy lost. “FUCK!” He clamped his legs together, crushing his own hands which were still gripping his crotch. “Fuck, fuck!” The breathing technique resumed. This time, it was faster. He removed one hand and glanced at it. His fingers were trembling. You saw his skin glistening. It was wet. He’s starting leaking. He genuinely can’t hold it any longer. Ten more minutes passed. You had surely reached the two hour-mark in captivity. “Ohhhhhhh….” He groaned and doubled over, twisting and contorting his body, alternating between hand-in-crotch…. legs crossed… thighs clenched together… bum bouncing out of his seat. He couldn’t sit still, even if his pride depended on it. Sweat rolled off his forehead. Your pulse had been elevated for quite some time. Fear and stress, you assumed. Now you noticed something else. You could feel your body responding to his predicament. Were you getting aroused by this? I mean… a dominant sadistic man, a prim-and-proper prince, absolutely desperate and whimpering beside you. It was kind of hot. Stop it, you told yourself. He’s in pain. He stood up. In a split second, the colour drained from his face. He realised his mistake. Gravity was not kind to his bladder. He squatted down on the floor in a last-ditch attempt to regain control. “N-n-no… NO!” He shouted at himself before attempting to clench every muscle in his body. It was no use. The sound of liquid hitting leather was unmistakeable. It lasted around five seconds, then stopped. He was clenching his muscles so hard he trembled. He stumbled backwards. In the place he had hovered over, you noticed a small pool of liquid. He kneeled and squeezed his hands over his crotch, his thighs rubbing against each other. His groaning had become constant now. If he lasted five minutes more, it would be classified as a miracle on both earth and whatever planet he was from. You kneeled beside him and placed a hand on his shoulder. He inhaled shakily, surprised at the contact. He looked up at you with panic-stricken, glassy eyes. “Loki. It’s okay.” “I-I-I’m going… to… disgrace myself.” He gasped out the words, horrified. “Your body can’t hold on any longer. I don’t want to see you… let go in your clothes. I want to help you. Would you let me help you?” He cast his gaze to the floor and gave one nod of his head. “I need you to stand for me. Slowly.” You placed one hand in the nook of his elbow and the other on his lower back. It was more a gesture of reassurance than anything else. You were certain he weighed a tonne. His armour must have weighed 30lbs alone. Slowly, he got to his feet. “You can relieve yourself there, in front of the door.” You pointed to the WC door, which you wanted to burn holes in with your eyes. Why would they lock the fucking thing? “Is that okay, Loki?” “Mmmmmhmmmmmm….” He nodded rapidly, biting his bottom lip. He was shifting from foot to foot, by any definition, it was an obvious desperate-to-pee dance. His breathing was short, sharp and rapid. It seemed as though he was on the verge of a panic attack. You looked down at his outfit. How the hell do I get him out of this? Please tell me it’s not a one-piece. He stood directly in front of the WC door now. His back was facing the main cell entrance. If anyone walked by now, they wouldn’t see… him. You lifted up the long piece of leather that covered his crotch area. His hands were still jammed in, gripping harder than ever. He felt another gush of liquid shoot out of him. “H-help me, p-please.” “Okay – Loki I’m going to be respectful and try not to touch you, okay?” She’s just like my maid in Asgard… A memory flashed up in his mind, of running into his chambers after a palace function, dressed to the nines in his fabric-and-metal ceremonial one-piece, absolutely desperate for relief having held it in all evening. His Asgardian chambermaid had been so concerned about being “respectful,” that she hadn’t been able to get him out of his armour fast enough. He simply couldn’t hold on any longer, and he relieved himself in his clothes in front of her. Horrified didn’t even begin to cover it. And his maid – terror shot through her eyes, concerned for the prince’s wrath. He didn’t hurt her, of course. But he had her reassigned to another area of the palace. He couldn’t bare the mortification of seeing her again. “Q-quickly, please. J-just don’t let me dis-disgrace myself, I’m begging you…” Tears formed at the corner of his eyes. He looked as though he would burst into tears at any moment. But that wasn’t the liquid you were worried about bursting out of him. He had a minute, tops. You took charge. “Hold this.” You gestured to the flap of leather. “I-I can’t.” Both hands clutched himself. “Quickly.” His left hand held the leather aloft. He groaned with only one hand on himself. “I’m going to unbutton these,” you narrated as you unbuttoned his leather trousers. “Move your hand down. Now up. Good.” You had undone all the many buttons of his trousers. Both his hands were occupied. You knew you would have to pull his trousers down. Fuck. This must be so humiliating for him. “GODS!” He bellowed. The sound can only be described as a pressure hose hitting a tire. He was letting go, full force, in his trousers. You stepped to the right side of him and sharply pulled his leather trousers down over his hips. His free hand, the one formerly gripping himself, slammed into the WC door in front of him, steadying himself. He was peeing straight down, onto the lower right leg of his trousers. Without a question you took his member in your hand and angled it upwards, his stream hitting the lower part of the WC door. Your other hand rested on the mid-part of his back. The sounds he made echoed through the room, a melody of relief and release. He moaned and allowed his head to tilt back to the ceiling, closing his eyes and exposing his neck. You looked up at his face, contorted into an expression of pleasure, of pure bliss. You were absolutely captivated by his features. As he emptied himself, his moans subsided and became small contended little sighs. Your left hand still rested on his back. Your thumb moved up and down reassuringly. You glanced around his back, observing the involuntarily movements of your digit. He probably can’t feel it through the leather, anyway. You missed the little smile that tugged at his lips. The sound of his release became quieter. You moved your left hand from his back and hovered it over the bare skin of his lower abdomen. “M-may I?” you whispered. A small hum from him served as confirmation. You pushed down, gently but firmly, helping him to empty himself of any remaining liquid. You kneaded lightly for the last few seconds until he was fully complete. You removed your hand from his lower stomach, and let go of his member. You stood back almost instinctively, wanting to give him space. His right arm was held out straight, his hand firmly pushing against the WC door. The left hand gripped the excess leather of his tunic and held it against his hip. After perhaps five or ten seconds, it was clear he wasn’t about to move anytime soon. You realised his member was hanging out of his trousers. From the entrance to the cell, nobody could see him – they would only see his back. But it was a humiliating state for him to be in. You shook your head, shaking yourself out of your trance and rushed in to help him. You gripped the waist of his trousers and pulled them back up over his hips. Sliding your hands around the waistband, you tucked his clothing in at the back. You worked around the sides and then reached his front. No… you couldn’t… you needed him to… His face was a picture of delirium when you glanced up at him, as though he was high on some kind of galactic drug. You would just have to do it for him. This felt different than before. He seemed more… vulnerable, somehow. Slowly, and as gently as you could, you took his member in your hands and tucked it into his trousers. “Mmmm.” He let out a quiet, satisfied hum. You gulped. Checking his most sensitive area was tucked safely into his trousers and away from any seams or fastenings, you secured the buttons. It was only now that you realised he wasn’t wearing underwear. Perhaps it wasn’t a thing where he was from. You tucked an interior layer of fabric, a shirt he wore underneath all that leather, into the front of his trousers. Gently, your hand made his way to his hip. You placed your hand over his, slowly teasing the leather from his grip. You straightened it out in front of him, smoothing down the long tunic and returning it to its proper place. His right hand still pressed against the door. His head hung down now. His breathing had slowed. “You’re safe now, Loki.” You spoke in a whisper, placing your left hand on his back. “Would you like to sit down?” “Mmm.” It wasn’t like his previous murmurs of pleasure. It was a neutral sort of hum. One that said, Yes. Yes, I think that would be nice. Mercifully, he pushed himself off the door and stood upright. You were thankful, as you didn’t have the physical strength to hold him up. You guided him towards the bench, where he sat down without a word. Once more, his head fell back and leaned against the glass. His eyes closed. You looked at his face languidly. His skin was fair. You noticed the dark circles under his eyes. Beads of sweat nestled in his hairline. His forehead was clammy. Gingerly, you pulled your sleeve over your hand and dabbed at his forehead. He winced, jolting his head upright and turning to look at you. As you moved your hand away from him, he flinched and pulled his left arm over his face, shielding himself. The type of instinct you might expect from someone who was used to being hit. You looked at him sympathetically, and moved your hand down slowly. You placed both hands down on the bench, lifting yourself up, moving about a foot away from him. He grabbed your wrist. You winced in pain. “Stay here.” It came out like a command. But deep down, to Loki, it felt like a request. You shifted yourself back to your position, right next to him. Inches away. He looked down at his hand over your wrist and noticed the whites of his knuckles. He shook his head. Silently, he lifted your wrist. He looked at it curiously. He brought his right hand above your wrist and green light sparked at his fingertips. Very, very slowly, he lowered his hand. You felt warmth as the green light touched your skin. It felt nice. Pleasant. Your eyes were fixed on whatever act he was performing on your arm. He looked up at your face, searching your features for any sign of discomfort. He saw none. After ten seconds, he pulled his right hand away and gently placed your arm back by your side. “It won’t bruise. But you must tell me if it gives you any trouble.” You nodded. “Thank you.” He could feel the warmth radiating from your heart. Thank you, Doctor Loki. You smiled to yourself as you looked away from him. You missed the moment his lips curled up into a genuine smile. You hadn’t said it out loud, of course. He heard your thoughts within his own mind. Several minutes passed, and you heard him yawn. Gods need to sleep too. Note to self. He leaned against the glass and closed his eyes. Right before sleep took him, you heard him murmur. “I will remember this kindness, mortal.”