Work Text
I don't know where I'm going
But I do know that I'm walking
Where?
I don't know
Just away from this love affair
I
It isn’t easy for Sylvie, living at the TVA, with the constant reminder of the organization that had once hunted her, made her entire existence hell; living with the strange mix of guilt and relief and uncertainty every time she thinks of her role in it all. Having Loki, and even Mobius, by her side has been one tiny benefit of the arrangement, but it’s also the source of… all of this. It’s not that she’s jealous, of course. It’s just that it maybe makes her skin crawl to think about them kissing, or touching, or… anything else. But Mobius has become a friend—a concept she’s had to really work at defining for herself—and really, she can’t bring herself to harbor any ill feelings for him. She likes him, she really does. So no, it’s not like she’s opposed to any of it, but things being the way they are, with everything constantly under the threat of complete destruction, there’s just no time to really hash things out, to explore feelings and arrangements and reactions, and instead, they just… stopped. If only that’s how it’d actually gone. It’s stupid and weak and disgusting, really, that she can’t control herself, can’t get a handle on whatever the hell it is that seems to be pushing them together constantly. That she’d only held out for a week (well, okay, eight days, but who’s counting?) before dragging Loki back into her bed, unable to help herself, despite his weak protests, which were quickly lost in the heat of her mouth over his. They both knew it couldn’t happen again. And they both knew it would. Sylvie had never understood it. She’d had, among her fair share of conquests, plenty of men and women who were ‘spoken for,’ who’d agonized over their self-indicated ‘betrayal’ of their partners afterward, even knowing that they’d never see them again. How ridiculous, she’d always thought, the idea that anyone would begrudge their lover simply enjoying the company of another. And yet here she is.
She’s positive they fucked last night; Loki’s doing That Thing that he does when he’s trying to avoid a conversation topic, and he looks… well. She knows that look, anyway. She wants to know for sure. She wants to just ask. She knows what happened the last time she did.
“Do you really want the answer? Do you want me to tell you the truth?”
His eyes had been dark with concern, and with openness. He knew that she knew what she needed to know, but he’d tell her, if she wanted; he’d say the words. So Sylvie knows that knowing is enough. She won’t ask again.
II
Seeing Sylvie is often one of the better parts of Mobius’s day. She’s an early riser—earlier than he is, even—while Loki sleeps in, so it’s just the two of them for a couple of quiet hours, usually. They chat about the work, of course. They tease each other about their respective coffee preferences—Sylvie only drinks cold brew, black, even when they’re someplace freezing, and is very particular about her straws, and Mobius’s mug is usually filled about halfway with milk and sugar before the coffee even touches it—and he’s not picky about the roast. (“How could you be?” Sylvie had said once. “You don’t taste it, anyway.”) And sometimes, they talk about Loki. It’s innocent, mostly. They both like to playfully poke fun at his more obnoxious habits, and Mobius has come to not only expect, but to appreciate, the look of fondness on Sylvie’s face while she harmlessly mocks him. He finds himself wearing it, too. Now, though, there’s a certain kind of strain behind it—almost pained, maybe nostalgic. It’s hard to tell, exactly, but it sobers their mood immediately. And, like that fondness, Mobius notices it creeping into him, as well, sometimes. So they go back to coffee.
III
Loki had promised himself, back in the Void, that if somehow it all were to work out, he wouldn’t hesitate to tell them both, or either, how he felt. He’d thought at the least he’d have Sylvie by his side, when it was all over. He had never imagined that he’d lose them both, that he’d spend each and every lonely night after that repeating that promise to himself. After that, he’d never imagined—never dared to imagine—reuniting with them both, and certainly never entertained the idea that they’d both have him. And even then? He’d never thought it would feel so awful. He’s been the center of contests before, and he’s always found the circumstance of being fought over amusing, at the least, and often satisfying, a boost to his ego, a confirmation that he is something to be coveted. This is so far from any of that that it’s almost unrecognizable, maybe because he’s not being fought over so much as he is simply drowning in the swirling center of a torrent of feelings, being tossed this way and that, sometimes violently enough that he fears he might be torn apart—and that would be a fate he’d accept, because the alternative is to make a choice and fight through it, and he refuses. Or maybe it’s because of all the times that he looks at the people he cares for more deeply than he’d ever imagined possible, and sees such pain. Which admittedly is maybe how the mess got started in the first place.
IV
“What’s it like when he fucks you?” The words come hurtling out, the full force of her burning curiosity behind them, the one she can usually keep to herself, but not tonight. Loki doesn’t stop, just slows, holding her fiercely instead of gripping her tightly, like he was just a moment ago. “Sylvie…” he warns. Sylvie grits her teeth, sighing through them in exasperation and moving his hands back to her shoulders—no, to her tits, this time, squeezing them with her hands around his until he gets it. She wriggles her hips, coaxing him back up to their previous rhythm, and moans for effect. I’m not getting emotional about this. Come on, just tell me. She feels the moment when Loki settles into it; he grips her breasts more firmly, himself, snaps his hips against hers and fucks her properly, groaning with that first real stroke.
That’s more like it.
“It’s— mmfffuck, Sylvie—” Sylvie arches her back and presses upward, gently but insistently pushing Loki off balance until he gets the message and yields, letting her take the lead and flip their positions, straddling his hips and sinking back down onto him. She grinds down against him, tears stinging her eyes from the sheer feeling of it, and grips his sides tightly, fingertips digging into the spaces between his ribs as she uses him as leverage to fuck herself on his cock. It’s a struggle to keep herself from raking her nails down his chest, his sides; it’s maddening at times, in fact, the fight against the primal, desperate need to claim him. She’s spent so long needing to be invisible, though, leaving no trace wherever she goes, and she supposes this is just par for the course. She flicks at his nipples instead, and Loki whimpers. “Do you make those sounds for him, too? Does he get you all desperate before he lets you have it?” Sylvie trails her fingertips over Loki’s face, flushed and needy. “I’ll bet he can get you on your knees, can’t he?” she whispers. “You’re just so eager to please.” He whines, and it’s the most delicious sound; it fills her. “Go on.” She gasps slightly, pressing down into him as she continues to ride him. “Tell me about it. Being put on your knees. It’s happened, hasn’t it?” Loki twists and writhes beneath her, and that conflicted look returns to his face again. She reaches behind her back to press a finger to his perineum, and he groans. “Mm?” She goads him. “O—once,” he says, his voice shaking, whether from hesitance or arousal it’s difficult to say. “Where?” she presses, not willing to give up the momentum of his forthcoming. “That— haah— that abandoned office off the archives—” “Mmm, I knew things happened in there,” she says—because she really did. And Sylvie’s not sure why she would expect it to be different this time—conjuring up that image in her mind to find it equal parts nauseating and arousing. It makes her want to throw up, and fuck him into the fucking ground, all at once. But it works. “And I’ll bet you sucked him off like the good little slut that you are, didn’t you?” “Sylvie, fuck, Sylvie—” She grips fiercely at his hair, tugging it sharply away from his scalp. Loki gasps. “Didn’t you?” she repeats, the strange mix of need and hurt swirling around like a fire inside and pressing her on. “Mmmh— yes, fuck, I—yeah, I did, fuck, Sylvie, nnnnf—” This time the sounds that leave his mouth just fuel the sinking, twisting feeling. (I’m getting off on this, not you, she wants to say.) Sylvie pushes that aside and forges forward, the awful twisting in her gut somehow exactly what she needs to push her closer—since when was she such a fucking masochist? She grits her teeth, readying herself. And then she slaps him. Once, across the face. Loki cries out, first in surprise, and then in that twisted pleasure they’re both familiar with.
“Slut.”
She sees it, she sees them, Loki drooling around his cock with his hand shoved down the front of his own pants, and she wonders— “Fucking insatiable,” she growls, striking him again, and then again, and he howls, fucking up into her in desperation, and she comes, swirling, aching jealousy colliding with anger and betrayal colliding with lust and greed and possessiveness, fists pummeling him endlessly but weakly, even now aware that she has to be invisible, untraceable, undetectable.
Like I was never here.
“Sorry,” she murmurs, in the silence that follows moments later. She feels foolish, childish, and more than a little guilty. She hadn’t the right, and she knows that. (She also knows that Loki gets off on the degradation, but that does nothing to assuage the gnawing guilt that sits sour in the pit of her stomach. They both know what happened.) “Sylvie… we need to—” “No, no we don’t.” Sylvie holds up a hand. “I got carried away,” she says quietly. “It won’t happen again.” She slips off and into the shower, standing numbly in the spray, steeping in her shame, until the water runs ice cold.
V
“You’ll like it,” Sylvie says before she switches the blender back on. Loki watches the fruit and alcohol and coconut cream and ice swirl together into a frothy mixture which Sylvie then pours into his glass. “The sweetness is a little much at first, but this recipe’s a little better for that.” “Actually, Loki’s pretty well acquainted with the piña colada, if I recall correctly,” Mobius mentions casually, adding the little umbrella and straw to Loki’s drink. “Thor got you into those after a trip to some beach on Earth- right?” he asks Loki, and Loki nods, cautiously taking a sip. “Wow, Sylvie, this is—” Loki starts to say, but he stops short when he sees the disappointment written across Sylvie’s face. He glances over at Mobius, who looks a bit sheepish–they both know how much Sylvie enjoys sharing new things with them. “Well,” says Sylvie quietly, “I’m glad you like it, anyway. I guess there’s just some things I don’t know about you yet.” She shrugs. “Sylvie,” Mobius begins, and Loki can already feel a little pinprick of guilt prodding around in his chest. “It’s just that I’ve… ‘known’ Loki, almost, for like, a thousand years, with his files and everything.” It’s clear he means for it to make her feel better, but Loki puts his drink down in apprehension; he knows where this is going. “Yeah. You know what? You did. You’ve known everything about Loki since forever—his whole life, really. And you know what’s funny? That could have been my life, if the TVA hadn’t fucking tried to erase me from existence. So yeah, sorry, I guess that’s one more thing I missed out on, drinking with my brother. Isn’t it?” She slams the pitcher of the blender down on the counter, then the door, behind her. Mobius plops his head into his hands and sighs, and Loki wants to just give up on existing for a while, because this is entirely his fault. Sylvie has some trauma, sure, and it comes up often enough. But she and Mobius have long since worked through any kind of personal resentment that lingered in regards to it, and even then, this didn’t start that way. It could have all been avoided if there wasn’t that existing tension, and that tension only exists because of him. They finish their drinks in silence; Loki doesn’t taste it. Later that night, Sylvie will slip quietly into the office where they’re sitting going through the endless stacks of paperwork, and she’ll stand behind Mobius to wrap her arms around him and lay her head on his shoulder, and Mobius will just lean against her, and place his hand on hers, and no one will say a single word. Sylvie, as a general rule, doesn’t apologize so much as lets her remorse hang in the atmosphere until it’s obvious. And it’s obvious.
VI
It’s months after The Agreement when they find themselves on a mission that’s much more dangerous than anticipated. Sylvie’s never been good at waiting, so really, it doesn’t surprise either of them when she’s sprinting toward the chaos as soon as it comes into focus, Loki and Mobius crouching low behind the shell of what used to be a building and hissing to her to just stay put. It’s too late. Sylvie is charging into the heart of the battle that’s already raging around them, and there’s no choice but for them to follow her before she’s swallowed up by it and they lose sight of her. Of course, Loki knows that Sylvie can hold her own, would come back to them all in one piece even if they were to lose sight of her, but— His thoughts are disrupted by a large blast just ahead of them, and he knows she’s fine, but still, his only thought is— “Sylvie!!” Mobius shouts, and that’s when Loki sees it. She’s down, she’s unconscious, she’s being trampled and no, fuck, no— Loki hastily casts a protection around her, the attention it attracts to their presence be damned, and he’s fighting his way to her, his only reassurance the visual confirmation that his magic shielding her is holding, and the feeling of Mobius at his back, fighting to keep up as best he can. Loki’s forging their way forward with a fair amount of stabbing and some magic mixed in here and there, while Mobius is keeping the rest back, off their tail, as best he can—Loki hears him land more than a few good punches, and he can’t help but feel the tiniest bit of pride behind his sickening worry for Sylvie, and once, he even hears the slightest crackle of a pruning stick; he cringes to think how close that one must have been. It feels like an eternity before they reach her, though Loki knows it was probably only a minute or two at most. It’s worse up close; Loki sees the gash that splits the side of her head where she’d fallen against a rock, and he feels the blood drain from his head all at once, an icy hand clutching his heart and squeezing. “Loki!” Mobius’s urgent cry breaks through the ringing in his ears and Loki tears his eyes away from Sylvie for a moment to see him fighting a losing battle to keep the rest of the soldiers away from them, one hand returning continuously to where his Tempad is stashed. “Need you to clear these guys out so we can get her out of here!” Loki makes quick work of it with a burst of magic that sends their foes flying backward and clears a small radius around them, before he drops the shield around Sylvie and Mobius opens a Timedoor beneath them. Sylvie falls first, then Loki beside her, and Mobius jumps through just as it’s closing, landing on his feet, crouched low at Sylvie’s other side. They’re in the infirmary of their TVA, and there’s medical staff whisking her away before Loki can even process what’s happened.
VII
It’s quiet in the infirmary. There’s not many of them here, at the TVA, in general, and the only ones on this level, now, are the small handful of medical staff who come and go, no more than three or four at a time, Loki, Mobius, and Sylvie, who’s been unconscious for the last three days—a fact that Mobius only knows because he was just reminded of it by the patient tech who’d frowned at them both upon seeing that they were still there, in the same clothes, after he’d insisted the previous evening that they leave to clean themselves up and get some rest. “Up, both of you,” a kind but stern voice cuts through the silence. Loki groans, his tired eyes cracking open just a sliver. “They told me you’ve been here since you got back,” the voice continues. Mobius lifts his head and sighs. “Mmh,” he grumbles in response. “B—” “No, nope,” B-15 promptly cuts him off. “They had to send me down here to remove you from this room and I will not hesitate to use any necessary force.” She pauses, letting the words sink in. “Please don’t make me,” she says, softer. “I’ll stay with Sylvie. Just go eat something that isn’t a nutrition bar, take a shower, sleep in a bed.” “Yeah,” concedes Mobius, too tired to argue. He rubs one hand over his face, distantly noting how badly he needs to shave—and a million other things, now that he’s thinking of it. “Alright.”
VIII
The bland cafeteria food the TVA has to offer has never held much appeal to Loki, but this soup may as well be hot water with chunks of paper in it, for all he can taste. It’s too hot, even, scalding his throat as he gulps it down just to be done with it before moving on to the other tasks that B-15 had given them: take a shower, go to sleep. Then back to Sylvie. They’d said she’d be fine, that her body just needs to take the time to repair the internal damage before she’ll wake, and he believes it—he trusts them, but also… he’s too familiar with unexpected turns for the worse, he’s lost too many times, to just relax and wait. “Hey, slow down, go easy, it looks like that stuff is still nuclear,” Mobius warns him, but it’s too little too late; he’s already swallowing down the last of it, suppressing the wince that threatens to creep onto his face. Mobius, for his part, doesn’t seem to have eaten anything at all; he’s spent the last few minutes picking the bits of poultry out of his bowl and making a pile at the side of his tray—the fact that it’s in the broth doesn’t bother him, Loki knows, but he can’t stand the texture of meat for as long as he can remember, for reasons he could never place. “I wasn’t paying attention,” he mutters, when he notices Loki eyeing his work. He sounds positively exhausted. It’s funny, really, that of the three of them, it’s Mobius who has the most trouble sleeping in unusual settings. Even Sylvie, who’s declared so many conditions for her sleep, can eventually get some rest in less than ideal situations when circumstances require it of them, and Loki’s become accustomed to dozing off, if he’s inclined, whenever either or both of them are around, and he’d gotten at least a small amount of rest while sitting at Sylvie’s bedside. He’s almost certain that Mobius had not. He’d seen his eyes closed, once or twice, but only for a few minutes at a time, and he was never still. They finish their meal—was it lunch? Dinner? These designations have no meaning anymore—and walk back to the living complex in silence, close enough that their arms are brushing with almost every step. They stop at the juncture between each of their doors, and Loki swallows hard. “I can’t be alone.” The words come tumbling out with a surprising ease, though ease is the last thing Loki is feeling. He’s so empty, drained, hollow—they both are. And they’ve only one another to fill each other up. They’re barely past the threshold of Mobius’s apartment when Loki backs him against the tiny kitchen counter with his insistent weight, slipping his hands underneath Mobius’s already-untucked shirt and splaying his fingers against the soft of his belly, bending to press a frantic line of kisses along his jaw, taking in the rare scratch and scrape of the coarse hairs there. He tastes like salt and sweat; he smells like the quiet, sterile room where Sylvie— He feels like home. Loki pulls away, his heart pounding wildly in his chest, watching as Mobius no doubt tries to compose some kind of warning or protest—they shouldn’t. They can’t. They really can’t—and Loki knows that. But it never comes. The will to fight it dies somewhere behind Mobius’s tired eyes, and he pulls Loki back toward him, their aching, tired limbs straining to close every tiny gap between them, their breaths unsteady and shaking against each other’s mouths. Loki’s pretty sure he can’t recall either of them having brushed their teeth, even, in recent days, and quite literally he couldn’t care less. They’re filthy and exhausted and afraid and they need this. He tries not to think about Sylvie. Not about how terrifying it is to see her so still for so long, not about the sight of the blood pouring from her as she was rushed away to care, not about the conflicted, broken look in her eyes when they’d all promised each other they would wait. Especially not that. He finds that by the time they’re in bed with his ankles hooked behind the small of Mobius’s back, urging him on, urging him deeper, there’s less and less room in his consciousness for thinking.
More, harder, fuck, please. I need to feel more—
He realizes he’s not speaking out loud, but it doesn’t matter. Either Mobius knows, or he just has that same need, the need to feel and taste and consume and be consumed, until there’s nothing left in either one of them but that blissful exhaustion. And it works. Because then they’re sweaty and sticky and collapsed in a tangled, entwined mess, and it’s only seconds later that they’re sound asleep. Loki doesn’t dream.
IX
He really had been exhausted; Mobius can’t be sure how long they’d slept, but it feels like almost an entire day. He wakes up feeling positively disgusting—first because he realizes he desperately needs a shower, and then, more slowly, because he remembers. He remembers the sinking feeling of realizing that Loki would ask to stay, or ask him to stay, and knowing that he wouldn’t—couldn’t—say no. He remembers the look in Loki’s eyes, like he was going to break if he couldn’t find some outlet for his anxiety and desperation. And he remembers the moment that the chemicals running rampant through his brain made the decision for him, the rush of relief that the feeling of Loki’s bare skin against his own had provided. He can’t help himself, though. Their sin is already committed; there’s surely no harm in pulling Loki closer to him, in kissing his hair and stroking his face and prolonging their comfort, all the while swearing he’ll have to etch this moment into his memory, because it will be the last time.
(Until the next last time.)
Loki’s not eager to drag himself from his bed, either, Mobius notes, though eventually they do, that unspoken understanding that it’s a kind of goodbye following them as they make their way to the bathroom and share the tiny shower stall. Loki’s touch as he washes him, slowly, ever so slowly, running his soapy fingers across his chest and stomach and arms and back, is incredibly, achingly reverent. There’s something about this experience, Mobius realizes, beyond just feeling that it might be, should be, their last time together like this. It’s the painful reminder of their mortality—no matter how relative that may be for any of them—the knowledge that things can change in an instant. He pushes away the sudden, certain realization that Loki will touch Sylvie this same way, just as soon as he can, because he needs to—and Mobius can’t argue with that—because he feels it, too. It could have easily been any of them. It could have easily been worse. He walks his fingers up Loki’s slick spine, counting each vertebra from his tailbone to the base of his skull, sweeping his wet fingertips over the goosebumps that are well formed by the time he reaches the top. He places his other hand over Loki’s heart, and Loki mirrors the action, and they stay like that, eyes shut, water growing cold as they feel together, until reality filters back in through their vulnerable, pebbled skin, and they can’t delay any longer. When Sylvie comes to the next day, it’s all Mobius can do to pray to every god on every timeline he can think of that she can’t see the remorse that mars their expressions of relief. He hadn’t realized until just now how bad a liar Loki’s become, at least where the two of them are concerned. He reads like a book now. (Of course he knows what happened eight days after they came to The Agreement—and undoubtedly several times after that, too. He’s never taken the time to figure out how he feels about it, and things are just less messy this way.) Later, he hugs her, holds her tightly, tries to drown the sharp, twisting pangs of guilt deep in his gut with the breadth of his relief. She doesn’t ask about the tears that are brimming in his eyes when he pulls away, which is just as well, because Mobius has no answer for them.
X
Sylvie is released after one more day and they don’t leave her alone for almost twelve hours. She doesn’t really mind, actually, but she’s also drained and exhausted, and something else she can’t quite put her finger on, and she excuses herself back to her place when it gets to be too much. She takes a proper, scalding hot shower and immediately makes herself horizontal, slipping seamlessly from her towel to the sheets she’s incredibly gratified to recall she’d just washed and replaced the day before everything, luxuriating in the feel of them against her bare skin and closing her eyes, drifting in a wonderfully hazy semi-consciousness. She’s not thinking about much of anything, really, when she sighs at her own soft touch between her legs. She’s still enjoying feeling, being, after… whatever all of that could be called. She swats away thoughts of Loki a few times—his lips on her neck, his hands kneading her ass, her breasts, his fingers buried inside of her as he— After a while it occurs to her to just stop fighting it. She deserves this, at least. She’s been through hell recently (not even considering the hell that’s been more or less her entire life), and she’s here and feeling everything and damn it, she’s going to feel this. In her mind’s eye, Loki moans as he enters her, filling her completely, pressing insistently, so she can feel him where he’s nestled in against her inner walls, and there —aloud, between her gloriously clean bedsheets, she gasps as she feels it—that sharp, brief little pinch deep within her as he nudges at the entrance to her womb.
More of that.
And this Loki, of course, he obeys, thrusting against that spot again, and again, sharp little twinges of pain unfurling and spreading through her—her belly first, then her cunt, vibrating along her pelvic bones and sinking in deep—and then he’s fucking her brutally, mercilessly. Her Loki is always careful with her, even when taking her apart, but this one is hell bent on hurting her, using her, even as she squirms away from him—he digs his fingernails into the sensitive flesh of her hips and thighs as he continues to pound into her, ignoring her discomfort, her protests, and they feel like claws, holding her, piercing her, she can feel a trickle of blood running down her side toward her back, and in her mind, she screams, but in reality, she hears herself let out the smallest of whimpers as she comes, her entire body alive and lit up with it. She lies, panting, for several moments, feeling the echo of her pulse between her legs receding as she wills her breathing to slow. She’s nearly asleep when she hears it—there’s only one person who would ping her Tempad this late at night.
>Are you still up?
XI
>Let yourself in
Loki rushes to do just that, noting the silent stillness when he first walks in the door and heading down the tiny hallway to the bedroom. The lights are still on, even though Sylvie’s tucked herself into bed, and that’s perfect, really, because he just needs to see her. (And feel her and touch her and taste her and—) “Hey.” Her voice is quiet, and a little hoarse. “Hey.” He steps closer and sees her naked shoulders, the curve of the side of one breast; closer, and sees the flush across her cheeks, her swollen, bitten lip, and he smiles. “Oh.” He sits at the edge of the bed, her damp, messy hair on the pillow tickling his arm. She looks up at him with clear, beautiful eyes—eyes full of life. “Sylvie,” he says, feeling each consonant on his tongue, the little hiss of air between his lips. Her name feels sacred, like a prayer as he utters it, and so he prays again. “Sylvie.” It’s solemn, contemplative, and entirely necessary; he strokes his fingers through her hair, twisting around the little ringlets that form when it’s still wet. He traces the shape of her face—over her brow bones, her temples, the line of her jaw, the curve of her nose and lips. “Sylvie.” There’s a tiny part of him, of course, that knows it’s not allowed. (He’d hesitate, even, to say ‘shouldn’t’ at this time—because this is beyond should and shouldn’t. This is compulsory.) But that part is drowned out as he presses their lips together, chaste and reverent and honest, and he could weep for the feel of it. “I missed you,” he whispers, his throat tightening around the words, and then he’s devouring her—feeling, hearing, smelling, tasting, probing, seeking. He worships at the altar of her body, mapping her out with fingertips first, then his mouth following, as he moves from her lips to her neck, her chest—he spends a good while stroking and lapping and sucking there, just to soak in the sounds that it draws from her, the way that she shudders and writhes against him—and then her stomach—he dips his tongue into the little depression of her navel, and plants tiny kisses all around it—and her thighs, kneading and kissing and fondling until he’s ecstatic with the sounds of her breathless gasps, and then at last he presses his face to her sex, drinking deeply the scent of her, drowning in the taste of her, sweeter than he remembers— everything is sweeter, better, more wonderful and intense than he remembers. He moans against her in gratitude when he slides his fingers inside of her and finds her so plush and sleek and enveloping, pulling him in deeper, like he’s meant to be there. He pulls away, still pulsing his fingers inside of her, to watch her face, and she’s radiant, all flushed with pleasure, looking down at him with the same sort of wonder he’s feeling for her. He remembers how afraid he’d been, how desperately relieved he is to be with her, inside her, feeling all of her. He tries not to remember doing the same with Mobius, when he’d felt that same way. She’s so precious, she is so much to him, he wants her to never hurt for any reason and yet he is that reason more often than he can reconcile with. Tears sting at his eyes and he pushes the thoughts away. At least he can do this for her—he presses into her, curling his fingers and reveling in the sound of her sharp gasp—though he also knows this is mostly selfish, too—to enjoy her pleasure, to indulge his need to feel her just one more time. And then he’s pulled under again, losing himself in her when her eyes flutter closed, the soft little sounds of pleasure that are so familiar and so sacred to him fill his ears, and he lowers his face once more to taste her while he continues to move inside of her. I love you; I love you; I love you, his brain is whispering on repeat, with each movement of his hand, each stroke of his tongue, every thrust of her hips, every breathy little half-sob as she climbs closer and closer, then breaks. He won’t say it out loud; it’s forbidden, and unlike this, it’s a promise they’ve kept—all of them. They don’t say it, but it’s there, in the rhythm of their bodies, every time— I love you; I love you; I love you. They’re both crying when it’s over, when they’re wrapped around one another and the lights are off and they’re still and quiet in the dark. He won’t even attempt to leave her tonight; he feels her melt against him as sleep overtakes her, and he doesn’t have it in him to go. He’ll risk it, holding her through the night, burying his face in her hair and drinking in the scent of her each time he stirs, and in the morning, maybe, before they’re due to be anyplace, he’ll touch her one last time, if he can.
XII
Things are different in the weeks after Sylvie comes back from the brink of death. (Or that’s how Loki would describe it, anyway. She was nowhere near, really.) They’re the same, in that they all work together, eat together, laugh and rant and, very occasionally, cry together, except the lines are all blurry, now. There’s clear boundaries, sure- nobody fucks anybody, nobody talks about fucking anybody, and everyone just pretends things are fine. The normal stuff. But somehow, still within those parameters, they’ve gotten closer. Physically. They’ve always eaten together, and mostly hung around in each other’s presence after dinner, until it’s late enough that someone wants to go lie down. So they keep on doing that, except now… no one leaves. Not so soon, anyway. They’re snuggled together on Loki’s tiny sofa right now, in fact, half-watching some dumb movie that she can’t recall who picked out. Loki likes the end, so he can stretch his legs out alongside the coffee table, and this time, that means somehow, Sylvie’s ended up nestled in between him and Mobius, leaning most of her back up against Loki, one leg draped over Mobius’s lap, and the worst part is that it feels normal. Normal. Not fine, not great, but normal. And… comfortable. They fall asleep this way, sometimes. Loki on one end, always, but sometimes it’s Mobius in the middle. And it always feels normal. They don’t sleep together, but they sleep together. Sylvie kind of hates it, but also, her eyes are beginning to close, and it feels… right.
XIII
It wasn’t Mobius’s idea, to fall asleep in a heap on the couch that first night it happened, though he could feel the accusatory energy coming from Sylvie as they woke, stretching, avoiding one another’s eyes. He’ll never know how he feels about it all—especially not with the lines moving around the way they do, particularly now. He does know how lucky he is to have two people who care about him as deeply as Loki and Sylvie do, and he knows he can’t do anything to fuck it up. He knows that the feeling of Loki’s head pillowed on his shoulder as he drifts off all tucked against him is worth whatever confusing boundary-blurring happens when they do this. And he thinks, maybe, it’s the same for the both of them. If they can’t have things the way they all so desperately want them, at least they can have this. And he tries to feel like that’s enough. He really does. He supposes it should be, (he thinks, as he works open the buttons at Loki’s collar, brushing his fingertips over his throat and feeling the reverberation of his quiet groan)—he wishes it were. And he supposes it would be, even, if things weren’t so damn desperate all the time. If they were just normal people living normal lives and could take the time they needed to work things out. Or if he weren’t stretched so thin he feels he might break if he doesn’t have something. Something, like scraping his teeth over Loki’s collarbone as he kisses the skin he’s exposed—gently, gently, so as not to leave a mark— It isn’t fair, he always thinks, though it’s not always clear to whom he wants it to be fair. Right now, though, it isn’t for any of them. And maybe, just maybe, that makes it fair to all of them, in some fucked up way.
XIV
Loki stares, unblinking, at the hideous popcorn ceiling of his bedroom. He’s spent enough time doing it now that he knows just where to look to find the spot that reminds him of a rose; of a horse with a flowing mane; of a hawk and a wine goblet and a sword and a face—that one changes, depending on what’s tormenting him at any given time, of course—it has been his mother, his father, the asshole at the end of time; it has been Thor and Thanos and tonight, he’s not sure. He refuses to look. He doesn’t want to see either of their faces, which is why he’s alone, staring and trying to find something novel in the unintentional patterns of swirls and texture. He sighs and closes his eyes; there’s nothing new left. Nothing is ever new. He’d sworn it, around the time that Sylvie was recovering and everything was terrifying: that would be the last of it. They would do as they’d promised themselves, and each other, and wait. Just wait, until somehow the mess that was time and the multiverse would just right itself, maybe with a little nudge from all of the work they were doing, and they could figure it all out. Of course, it wasn’t the last of it, and they all knew it was foolish to think so. They need it, whatever this is, even though it hurts all of them—like a drink of tainted water when you’re dying of thirst—damn whatever consequences might come of it. He knows he shouldn’t keep these secrets, but what good would honesty do any of them now? He hardly thinks there’s any real secrets, anyway, but as long as they don’t talk about it, as long as they maintain this poisonous sort of status quo, they can all hang on long enough to hope that someday it will make sense. For now, there’s whatever this is.