Work Text:
Loki never asked to see him. Loki summoned him—short, imperious texts that assumed obedience. “Open a portal. Now.”
Stephen obeyed every time. If he was anywhere where his phone had reception. If he wasn’t working. No matter how tired. No matter if he was injured or recovering from a job. No matter his plans. Stephen obeyed.
Loki never asked what Stephen wanted. He arrived when he wished, took Stephen to bed when it suited him, stayed as long as he wanted, and then demanded another portal when he was done. Stephen opened it. Loki left. No promises. No names. No word for what this was or wasn’t.
Loki held all the cards.
Stephen let him.
Not because he believed he deserved this—he didn’t. Not because he thought it would absolve him—it wouldn’t. But because guilt had weight, and this was the shape it took. He’d betrayed Loki’s trust. He’d endangered Thor. He’d done what the world required, and he would live with the cost.
The cost was whatever had been building between them gone. Ruined. Replaced by whatever this was or wasn’t.
Stephen came back through the portal damp, exhausted, and smelling faintly of rot and canal water. La Isla de las Muñecas had been worse than expected—possessed dolls were never subtle, and he’d slipped into the Xochimilco Canal twice during the banishment. His sleeves clung unpleasantly to his arms. His boots squished with muddy water. The Cloak trembled in agitation on his back.
Stephen stepped into his bedroom at the Sanctum and froze.
Loki was sitting on his bed.
Somehow he’d arrived on his own, and the Sanctum had let him in. It wasn’t the first time, but it didn’t happen often. Not since Loki had permanently resettled in New Asgard.
Loki was wearing casual human clothes—dark jeans, a green t-shirt, black boots discarded on Stephen’s floor. He held one of the Sanctum’s restricted texts, the kind that couldn’t leave the building without consequences. He’d been working his way through it over his past couple of visits and was nearly done. He looked up slowly, green eyes skimming Stephen with practiced appraisal.
“You’re wet,” Loki said mildly. “And you smell like pond scum.”
Stephen huffed a tired laugh. “Occupational hazard.”
Loki waved a hand in dismissal, already returning his attention to the book. “Go wash. The smell is distracting.”
Stephen hesitated—then obeyed.
The shower was cold. Exactly what he needed. He scrubbed canal muck from his hair and skin, and let the cold water beat through the frustration that clung to him more thickly than the pond scum. When he returned, in linen pants and a t-shirt, his hair still damp and clinging to his skin, Loki was exactly where he’d left him.
Stephen paused in the doorway, struck—again—by how unprepared he’d been for the direction his life had taken. By how he’d gone from never questioning the boundaries of his desire—from assuming his interests were reserved for women—to being utterly undone by Loki in any form he chose to wear.
“How long have you been here?” Stephen asked.
“An hour,” Loki replied. “I was visiting Tony, but he has meetings. Sounded unbearable.”
Loki closed the book and set it on the nightstand. He looked at Stephen.
“Come here.”
Stephen obeyed.
He sat beside Loki on the bed and pulled him into a kiss without thinking—muscle memory, surrender, and want taking over. Loki kissed back immediately, mouth opening, a familiar moan as Stephen’s tongue slipped in.
But it didn’t turn rough.
No teeth. No bite. No sting of fingernails in his flesh. Loki never made love to Stephen. He made war. He pulled Stephen in like a conquering army, demanding Stephen give him what he wanted. And Stephen—the conquered—obeyed.
But Loki held back. His touch, the softness of his kiss, almost… sweet.
Stephen pulled back, breathless. Confused. Too realistic to hope.
Loki’s hands followed automatically, reaching for the drawstring of Stephen’s pants—and Stephen stopped him.
Loki blinked. Surprise flickered across his face, brief and naked.
Stephen had never stopped him before.
“What’s wrong?” Stephen asked quietly.
Loki scoffed. “Nothing.” He slid his fingers back into Stephen’s waistband.
Stephen caught his wrist. He knew he couldn’t stop Loki by force. They both knew that. But Loki stilled anyway.
Stephen searched his face—and saw it.
Not lust. Not anger. Not resentment.
Fear. And something else. Something that hurt Stephen even more to see.
“Talk to me,” Stephen said.
Loki let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “That’s not what this is. And it never will be.”
No knife could ever cut this deep. Stephen swallowed. He tried to keep the hurt from his voice. He knew he failed. “I know.”
Loki stared at him. He looked startled. Like he'd expected Stephen to argue. To fight. As if Stephen could fight. As if he didn't know Stephen was powerless where he was concerned.
“I know we can’t go backwards,” Stephen continued. “But I care about you. Tell me what's wrong. Please.”
Loki’s breath hitched. Tears slid down his cheeks without warning.
Stephen’s own eyes burned.
Loki leaned forward abruptly, burying his face in Stephen’s shoulder. Stephen wrapped his arms around him, fingers threading through Loki’s hair. Loki smelled like evergreens and fresh snow. Stephen ached down to his very soul with a want he’d long stopped trying to understand.
He kissed the crown of Loki’s head, breathing in his scent, one hand moving slowly down Loki’s back.
Loki shuddered.
“Tony’s at the U.N.,” Loki whispered. “Asgardians are on the agenda. I am on the agenda.”
Stephen understood instantly.
“Ross is still calling for your arrest,” said Stephen.
“Tony has a plan,” Loki explained, still pressed against Stephen’s chest. “He believes he can make me… sympathetic.”
“Because of what Thanos did to you,” Stephen said softly.
Loki nodded against him, shoulders tightening.
“He thinks it’s enough,” Loki said. “Mitigating circumstances. Like Barnes. Like… others.”
“But you don’t want people to know what happened to you.”
Loki pulled back, eyes red and searching. “Would you?”
Stephen didn’t hesitate. “No.”
Loki wiped his face angrily, then looked back at Stephen. “I’m only doing it because it’s what Thor wants.”
Stephen cupped Loki’s cheek and brushed away the tear tracks with his thumb. Loki froze—eyes wide, almost disbelieving—then leaned into the touch with a soft sob.
Stephen said nothing. There were no words that could fix this. He couldn’t undo what Loki had done anymore than he could walk back his own choices.
He knew his opinion didn’t matter. Not to Loki, anyway. But he'd rather see Loki exposed and free than in a cage. Fuck, he couldn't bare the thought of Loki in a cage.
After a long moment, Loki whispered, “Can I stay here tonight?”
Stephen’s breath caught.
Because Loki never asked. Loki demanded. Stephen obeyed.
“Yes,” Stephen said, pulling him closer. He felt Loki flinch, then relax, settling into his arms with something between a sob and a sigh. “Stay.”
This time, Loki obeyed.