Omg Are You Making A Part 2 For Both Of Your Coryo One Shots Cuz Ive Fallen In Love With Both Stories

omg are you making a part 2 for both of your coryo one shots cuz i’ve fallen in love with both stories they’re so GOOD😭

omg i was originally only going to write a part 2 for the first one (the one that i gave a title to called "of angels") bc i had an idea for it right away and was considering making it a mini-series

but!! people have been asking about the second coryo one-shot and talking about wanting to see the arena thing, so i think i will bc if i have the ideas why not lol

yes drop them i beg

the ones that are finished/near finished are about to give everyone whiplash bc they're all mainly from different hyperfixations/personal eras 😭

omg i’m so happy ur taking young coriolanus requests!! i’d love a oneshot of him falling for reader (whos from the districts) and him trying to deal with it

Summary: Coriolanus has no interest in his assigned tribute beyond her potential assistance in helping him win the Plinth prize...or at the very least, that's what he tells himself.

Warnings: Coriolanus being kind of delusional (in deep denial) and possessive, jealousy, a crush being treated like a terminal illness, Coriolanus trying really hard to talk himself out of said crush by comparing the reader to an animal/pet in his internal thoughts

----

His nails dig into the soft skin of his palm with enough force to leave stinging crescents in their wake. He's too far gone to feel the marks, to know when to relieve pressure to avoid breaking skin.

When the idea of having the best and brightest of the Academy's senior class was initially presented, the concerns about having such prominent members of the Capitol interacting so closely with representatives of the districts was highly contested. Most of the outcry had been from concerned parents--wealthy fathers and overly doting mothers desperately attempting to convince their leaders to not subject their poor, innocent children to that kind of proximity with something considered so other.

After all, those from the districts are closer to animal than man. If an outburst of hatred doesn't result in a Capitol heir's life and potential being cut short, perhaps some sort of disease would take them instead.

Coriolanus had found that part ridiculous. Not the way the tributes were seen, but the level of coddling the Capitol elite were willing to openly mark their children with. There are ways to mentor from a safe distance and there hasn't been public knowledge of a strange and fatal virus running through the districts in some time.

Now that he's here, standing at the zoo's entrance under the cover of night, food that he can't truly afford to waste tucked into the pocket of his coat, he realizes how naive he had been to not head their warnings. He's come down with something, that's the only explanation for the sweat coating his palms and the nervous turning of his stomach.

This infliction is something that you've done to him. Unintentionally, of course--your lack of cut throat nature and maliciousness had been a disappointing discovery at the time--but still true. Why else would he come here to feed you when his family can barely feed themselves?

Coriolanus walks further and further into the zoo until the familiar cage is in view. There are a no peacekeepers inside of the space and less than a hand full patrolling the perimeter. It's late and the games are tomorrow morning, any of the tributes that wanted to cause problems would have done so by now.

It shouldn't matter to him, none of them would turn him away. The mentors weren't explicitly told to stay away which means that the peacekeepers wouldn't bother him. He could always say that he's here to discuss last minute strategy, that the earlier bombing had cut his time short and that Dr. Gaul had given Academy students permission to make up that time if they so wished. But the thought of having less of an audience soothes him slightly.

He stands where he had stood beneath the daylight, near the corner, as far from the other tributes as physically possible. Regret begins to knot his stomach. Everyone's asleep. This will be the most alone together the two of you have ever been. It's also so dark, and you're likely asleep as well. How will he find you? Is it wrong to disturb the last peaceful rest you might ever experience?

The more he thinks, the more an urgency he can't wraps itself tight beneath his bones. The sensation, a likely byproduct of his ailment, makes him wish that there was some way to scratch beneath his skin. Right no longer matters, and neither does his growling stomach that begs him to just eat the food he had taken from the Academy's lunch and disappear back into the night. He needs to see you, to see that--

"You're going to be okay." Your voice, a soft whisper that brings him back to the present.

You're awake, the vague shape of your crouched form resting against one of the artificial rocks. You're also comforting someone with a much larger frame. Something in his chest turns to stone.

Here he is, wandering the Capitol streets in the dead of night, a pocket full of food that he had hidden from his own family for your sake and you're--you're not thinking of him at all.

Maybe his infliction had been more intentional than he thought possible. Your kindness could be a ruse and Coriolanus has heard rumors of your people. Some say that your ancestors practiced spirtual arts in order to enchant others. Perhaps you've bewitched him.

His own naivety burns through his chest. You're supposed to be his. If that's how it is, then he's freeing himself of you and your kind eyes and honey-laced voice. He'll--

"Coriolanus," a surprised, careful sound that's much warmer than your attempts at soothing someone had sounded.

His name forces the pinching feeling in his chest to be replaced by an uneasy warmth that crawls its way up his neck. He's suddenly glad for the darkness.

He follows your silhouette as you quickly push yourself to your feet with no regard for the boy next to you. Your movements are swift yet quiet, and the care behind them keeps him steady. You don't want to wake anyone; you want this to be just you and him.

"You're--" You stand so close to the bars that it'd take nothing at all to reach for you. "You're here." You place a hand on the bars that divide you, fingers curling around the cool metal. "Are you okay?"

The question is laughable. He's at the tribute zoo only a few hours before the games begin because some instinct had made seeing you again feel as important and necessary as breathing.

But you're not asking about that. You're asking about him, about his injuries from the bombing. "I'm fine," he assures you, "A little scraped up from the debris and I did lose consciousness, but I was treated for all injuries."

You're finally close enough for the moonlight to make a difference. He can make out the unruliness of your hair from the way that life has treated you since your reaping, the form of your tattered dress, your facial features and...the long gash that now marks your forehead.

"And I was told that you were as well." Someone in passing had mentioned that the tributes were cleaned up after the bombing. They weren't prioritized or given valuable resources, but they were cleaned up. Injuries were cleaned and dressed to prevent infection from getting in the way of the games.

You frown, tilting your head slightly as if to hide the length of the mark. Something in his chest tightens again, the sensation much more aggressive than before. Your smooth, gentle skin now marred...

His own defensiveness hits him like a physical blow. Coriolanus blames the feeling on familiarity. The desire to keep you in the best condition possible is no different than what someone would feel for a prized pet. You're his tribute, after all.

"It sort of happened after."

Panic seizes at his chest. After. One of the peacekeepers or another tribute had hurt you. "Who?" The coolness of his own voice shocks him.

You angle your head downwards, the motion distinctly dismissive. Coriolanus won't accept that. Who are you to hide something like this from him? After everything he's done for you, don't you trust him? His arm moves forward without his permission, pulling at your arm so that your body shifts closer to the bars. His other hand then slips between the poles and grasps your chin firmly between two fingers.

He tilts your head, giving himself the space needed to examine the entirety of the cut. It stretches down the start of your hairline and stops just short of your eyebrow. Not too long or wide, but the dried blood still smeared on you implies that it's deep.

"Who did this to you?"

His hold on you is steady, but not so tight that you couldn't step away if you wanted to. You hold still as he takes the time to examine the rest of your face for injuries. Your acceptance leaves a metallic taste in his mouth. Coriolanus releases you like you might burn him.

"I don't--" Of course you don't want to tell. Your nobility runs so deep, you don't care what it costs you.

An odd wave of distress washes over him. The night air feels wrong against his skin, too cold for the thin clothing he put on in his hurry to get to you. "You shouldn't alienate your mentor the night before the games."

Your lips pull down into what feels like a pout. You stare at him with wide eyes. "I'm not trying to alienate you." The genuineness of your words knots his stomach. "I--I'm glad that you're here, that you're okay." Usually, sugar coated words from you are enough to crack at his exterior. He's feeling a lot less amicable tonight. "The girl from district 4 was aggravated tonight. I think she wanted to intimidate the other careers into listening to her so she targeted Wovey and I was kind of--around."

Translation: your too-good-for-the-arena heart took over and you inserted yourself in a conflict that had nothing to do with you. "I told you to be careful."

You nod solemnly at the reprimand. Your lips part, but before you can say anything, the sound of your name steals your attention. You turn away from him, keeping one hand on the metal bars. "Yeah?"

"Are you coming back soon?"

The question jabs at him like a thumb finding a bruise. The tribute you were comforting may come from the same district as you, but that means nothing in the grand scheme of things. By morning, your destiny to be rivals in the arena will be sealed. He won't risk anything for you the way Coriolanus is. He'd snap your neck in an instant if it meant going back home. Surely, even you're not kind hearted enough to not see that.

You crane your neck to look back at him, but your body stays angled towards the other tribute. The urge to hold you in place, to bring your attention back to him physically aches. Is your final meeting before the games really going to be cut short because of some other tribute? The look you give him is apologetic enough to make his chest constrict. After all he's done for you.

"I'm talking to my mentor." Your response dislodges something from his chest. "Why don't you check on Wovey? I think that'll help."

The sound of shuffling fills the space, and then that's that. The two of you are as alone as two people like you can be.

"It was nice of you to come here," the admission leaves you carefully, "I-I tried to see what happened to you after, but they brought us back here so quickly, and I--"

"It's alright."

He never expected for you to be at the hospital. The mental image is strange enough as a concept in itself. You, sitting in one of those stiff hospital seats, waiting desperately at his bedside. You, in the same room as his cousin and grandmother, all three of you concerned and co-existing. It doesn't fit, you're not like them. You're district. That's inherently lesser, inherently replaceable no matter the level of your charm or--or appeal.

But if that's reality, than why was your name the first thing that stumbled past his lips when he woke up? Why was his first thought after being discharged about getting back to you? Why does the fact that you were sitting with the male tribute from your district turn his stomach? Why does he now have a personal vendetta against the girl from 4? These can't possibly all be things that someone would feel for a favorite pet, can they?

This train of thought is nauseating, and the last thing he wanted for the final night before the games. "I was worried." You force these words out in a jumble of colliding syllables, like if you didn't pry them out fast enough, they'd never manage to find their way out.

Coriolanus watches you carefully, imprinting the details of the small crease between your eyebrows and your nervous eyes to memory. The look tugs at something dangerously close to fondness. "Then you know how I'lll feel tomorrow." That, in itself, is a confession pulled from him the same way a rotten tooth would be extracted. "How I'll feel until you come back."

You stare at him, eyes wide. "If this is about the prize money the peacekeepers talk about, you're doing a good job."

There's a stiffness to the way you say this, a guarded quality that soothes him more than it should. The thought of him only being invested in you only because of what he can get out of your success displeases you.

It's instinct to want to ease you. It'd be easy, too. All it would take is a comment that implies that he can be here for more than one reason. The response sits at the back of his throat. Is that why he's here?

The natural answer is of course. Why else would he lose sleep? What other reason could he have for risking taking Academy food and exposing his poverty? Something he's rarely willing to do for himself and his own family.

"A person can want more than one thing at the same time."

You can't hold his gaze, eyes cautiously darting downwards. The display of shyness makes things feel a little warmer. It makes him bolder. Coriolanus moves his hand again, letting his fingers cover yours. You don't move away.

"I almost forgot." His free hand makes its way into the pocket of his coat, finding the carefully folded napkin. He's going out of his way to emphasize the casualness of food. The only thing caring about this gesture is that he had thought to come, not the food itself. There's no such thing as scarcity in the Capitol. "Here."

He offers the neatly tied fabric in the gaps between the bars. You don't attempt to take back the hand pressed between the pole and his own palm. You take the gift in your free hand and don't attempt to let go of him until you realize that you won't be able to untie the makeshift parcel with one hand.

You open it slowly, examining the contents of his offering carefully. Two biscuits, a few crackers, a small wedge of cheese, and another baked good that reminds him of a denser, more durable version of cake.

"Thank you," The truth to your gratitude forces something uncomfortable to wedge itself between his ribs.

You don't start eating right away, your head instinctually turning back. He realizes what you're doing almost instantly. "If you're going to share everything I give you, there's not much point in bringing it."

A little harsher than he meant to be out loud. It's not your fault. Your family is large and of a taking care of each other mentality. If there's food for one, there's food for all.

You nod, accepting the criticism the way you usually do. It's a good thing that you're so pliable, that you're eager to keep the usual comfortable atmosphere between the two of you. Sometimes, though, it feels a bit like kicking a puppy.

Carefully, you bring a cracker to your lips, chewing cautiously. Taking anything makes you guilty, another byproduct of your upbringing. Sometimes Coriolanus wonders if all of this would be easier if you were brought up like the majority of district children, more ravenous and unapologetic.

You'd told him about your mother before, a free spirit who works in a textile factory that produces lavish fabrics instead of standard peacekeeper uniforms. Even though the work isn't much different, you spoke about it like it made all the difference. My mother loves beautiful things so much she doesn't even care about who they're for.

That had been the first time he had found himself thinking about your appearance. If your mother's love is reliant on beauty, he realized, then you must have grown up with consistent affection.

You speak of her, of your entire family, in a way that confirms his hypothesis. You've told him stories of the way she hangs up the prettiest fabric she can find to hang up and turn one room into two--a necessity with so many of you living in a set of conjoined apartments.

"You're..."

You trail off, pressing your lips together nervously in a way that he's gotten used to. It usually signifies that you're concerned about being impolite. That's another thing that doesn't fit the district mold, even here you hold onto manners and social cues. Even when you first met him, you had fallen back on habit. He had introduced himself as your mentor and you absentmindedly asked how he was in that way that people do when they run into an acquaintance.

Normally, if he presses or even just prompts you once or twice you'll reveal your initial thoughts. They're rarely what he expects them to be. Instead of responding to the light raise of his eyebrows, you pick up a biscuit before stretching your arm towards him.

"Oh, no I'm--"

"You're hungry." That's what you almost blurted out.

You don't mean anything by it, or, at the very least, not anything beyond the realm of worry. Heat rises up Coriolanus's neck slowly but surely. You know nothing of his world and yet you knew that to have his hunger exposed would be embarrassing. You know that it's not the kind of hunger that comes from missing a meal or two on a particularly busy or chaotic day.

"Don't worry," you tack on, "It's not noticeable unless you know what to look for."

The comment is a little too reassuring, too on the nose. Can you read him that easily? Coriolanus takes the biscuit before he can pick apart your comment any further. The corner of your mouth shifts into an almost smile. You then break apart the wedge of cheese and try to hand him that along with most of your crackers and a piece of the pastry.

"No, I can't take all of that."

You stare at him oddly. "You've been injured," you stretch your hand out again, "You need your strength."

There are several reasons why you need your strength more than he does, but he can't figure out how to insist on that without making it seem like this is a final meal. He doesn't want to give you a chance to see it that way, so he takes the a little less than half of what you're offering. "Compromise."

You nod, accepting his terms. He's unsure who starts it, but the two of you end up sitting in front of each other. You smooth the napkin out in front of you, setting up what's left of your food like a makeshift picnic. "My mother used to take me for picnics."

"Yeah?" There's something about your stories about your life back home that are attention drawing. It's not so much mundane content of life in district 8 and the fact that it still managed to produce someone like you, it's the way you speak. You're expressive and bright.

"Mhm," you finish off your first cracker, "Eight isn't exactly full of nature, but there's this wooded area past the factories and if you know where to go, you'll find this clearing that's practically untouched. She'd go there sometimes on days off when she needed to collect wildflowers to turn into paints and she'd bring who she could...me, my siblings, cousins..."

You pick up a piece of cheese, setting it on a cracker. "Neighbors, sometimes." Your voice wavers in a way that sticks out. Despite an initial tearing up on your first night, you haven't cried or behaved in anyway that indicates that this could be your end. He doesn't want you losing hope now. "Tanner used to go with us."

It's whispered with the intensity of a confession. The boy you came with, the boy you were speaking with--you grew up with him. That's a bond that's not as easily dismissed. That's something strong enough to challenge his connection with you.

Why does it matter? He's earned enough of your trust, you spoke in a way that earned more donations than anyone else. You trust him enough to actually fight in the arena. It--it doesn't matter if you...

"Do you care for him?" The question surprises both of you equally. His own bluntness, the slight edge to his tone...it's too much for a mentor.

"Uh," you sniffle once, "He was a good friend when we were little, our families know each other." An knot so tight it's difficult to stay sitting there twists his stomach. "We're a little less close these days."

If you comforting him during the dead of night, losing sleep during your last chance to rest is your version of less close, Coriolanus doesn't even want to imagine your normal. "You shouldn't expect any loyalty during the games, the second the count down begins, there's no such thing as friendship."

You wipe at your face with the back of your palm. "What makes you so sure?"

Your question isn't a challenge or an attempt to convince him that the boy would never hurt you. You're asking because you're curious, because you want to know his thoughts. "Human nature."

It's more nihilistic than he usually is in front of you, but his patience is wearing thin. The soreness of his body is starting to catch up with him and wasting the little time you have less discussing someone so insignificant is draining.

His annoyance has to stem from how little the other tributes matter to him. That's the only reason he can piece together, especially when his brashness is likely pushing you away.

"Then why can I trust you?"

Another question that you mean. It's not a slight or an attempt to indicate that you're not there yet with him. He didn't come here to cast doubt on the bond he so carefully helped build.

He can't look at you as he speaks, "Because I'm going to do anything I can to get you back."

You nod, your eyes retreating to focus on your lap. "For the prize money, for your school."

He picks at the edge of his biscuit, a few crumbs falling to the ground. "I already told you, I want more than one thing."

That's not exactly what he said...this reiteration of it is more blatant. Heat burns his face. You peak up at him through your lashes.

If you had been born in the Capitol, you would have done well. You're found of civility and social norms despite a lifetime in the Districts and despite only knowing you stained in various levels of grime, he can tell that our features are pleasing. Polished, dressed, and brought up differently, you would have been a regular Capitol darling.

Coriolanus shakes his head once, an attempt to dismiss his thoughts. Why care about what you could have been? Why imagine what you'd be like if you were part of his word?

"You're not going to--to rely on him in the arena." It's framed as a question, but in reality, it's more of a hopeful statement.

You pause, genuinely thinking about your response. "No." You rest a hand on your bent knee, gently scratching at the skin. "Not rely."

The answer isn't concrete enough, but he has no right or reason to say much else. "Don't let your guard down. Not for anyone."

You nod, reaching for what's left of your biscuit, "I won't, I promise."

"Good, I'll be watching and I'll remember when you get back."

Get back. You wipe at your cheek with the back of your palm. "Yeah, when I get back."

The dryness of your voice cracks at him. If you consider yourself defeated before even stepping into the arena, you won't come back to him. For him. For the Plinth prize.

He shoves the thoughts down as deep as they'll go. They don't manage to get very far, crowding his throat in a way that makes it hard to breathe. Coriolanus doesn't trust himself to speak, so instead he slips his hand between the cage's bars. He lets his hand sit there, palm facing upwards in a silent offering.

Coriolanus stares at his arm as a way to prevent himself from taking in your reaction. A beat passes, and then the tips of your fingers are brushing against his before settling against his palm. He squeezes your hand tightly, so tightly he's aware that it's probably uncomfortable, but the prospect of holding you so tightly that you can't vanish is too assuring.

"Do you have to--to go soon?"

He adjusts his hold on you, bending his fingers so that they can rest between yours. The rest of his household is asleep by now, but they'd be able to tell if he spent the night here and that would worry them. It would also make the morning much more complicated...he'd have to shower and change before the games begin in order to hide where he spent the night.

"No," it leaves him before he realizes what he's saying, "I can stay as long as you'd like."

A hint of a smile tugs at your lips, "Good."

That makes something in his chest feels like it's going to burst. He shouldn't care. He should see this open display of clinginess as an inconvenience. And why would he risk getting caught as someone that spent the night on the floor of the zoo when there's nothing left to convince you of?

The answer strikes him so harshly he nearly lets go of you. He didn't just want you to ask him to stay to prove something, he wanted the excuse to stay. He--he wants to be near you...and not in the way that someone wants to spend time with a puppy.

The truth to it is simple. Straightforward. He cares about you.

He can hear that you're speaking, but your words are too distant to mean anything.

"Coriolanus?"

No. No. He--he isn't meant to care about you of all people, to feel these kinds of--No. No, he can't. He's not biologically wired to. And yet, he can't let go of your hand.

"Coriolanus?"

He squeezes your hand even tighter. "You didn't ask me."

"What?"

"The other thing I want, you didn't ask me about it." The words leave him in a rush, an uneasy mess that he needs out.

Confessing turns these kinds of thoughts into reality, an undeniable force that he wishes he could vanish. But maybe if he gets it out, the ache of it will be expelled from him. Maybe he'll finally be able to think about something else that doesn't involve analyzing your every expression like your life depends on it.

"No," your eyes are wide, a deer realizing they're not the only ones at the watering hole, "I-I didn't."

A small part of him is disappointed that you don't take the opportunity to press. You usually do, chatting like you're a regular friend and not his tribute. "I'll tell you anyways." He swallows, gripping your hand like a lifeline. You squeeze back, a silent display of support. "It's you."

Your hand goes slack in his. Coriolanus warns himself that it's best to keep his eyes away from you, to not read any--he breaks, gaze snapping upwards to watch you.

"Me?" Your voice is fragile and impossible to read. You lift your intertwined hands as best you can between the poles that make up the cage. You lean forward, pressing your lips against the back of his palm. Your eyes briefly fall shut.

"I--" You set your intertwined hands back in place. "I think the practical thing to do would be to forget about me." The rejection cuts through him. All he can do is stare. "You know what's going to happen tomorrow."

Your twist your hand in an attempt to steal it back as you push yourself upwards, adjusting so that your weight is on your knees. Coriolanus instinctively shifts forward, grabbing your arm to keep you close. He moves to sit up on his knees. "You're going to come back." You stop trying to push him away. "Do you care about me?"

"You're being unfair," your whisper is harsh, "Even--even if I win, where would that leave us?" He's silent. "I'll be back in a cage and you'll stay on the outside, only this time they won't be in proximity to each other."

You're logical. You're right. And he can't bring himself to care. "Do you care about me?"

"Of course I do," the response is frustrated, exhausted, "I think I might even--" Your mouth clamps shut, eyes briefly leaving him. "I think I love you." You drop head, giving Coriolanus only the slightest glimpse of your now glassy eyes. "But what does that matter?"

The word loosens something in his chest. He gets as close to the bars as physically possible, pulling on your arm in a way that almost makes you fall forward. The new proximity seems to drain any remaining fight from you.

He leans forward, his lips finding yours in the space between metal. It takes you a second to catch up with what's happening, but once you do, you return the display of affection. He pulls your bottom lip between his own before releasing you enough to let you breathe.

"Is this real?" The question takes its time coming out, slow and through pants. If he thought thinking about you before was a type of sickness, then this is something terminal. You nod instinctually, urgingly. "Then we'll find a way." You're both resting your head against the bars. If it wasn't for the invasive metal in the way, you'd be resting against each other. "Just come back to me, and everything else--we'll figure it out."

He can write to you. He can find an excuse to bring you back to him. Maybe another aspect of the games--something that requires victors to visit the Capitol.

You nod, acceptance finally coloring your features as you squeeze his hand. "We'll figure it out."

----

a/n i've gotten so many Coriolanus/thg requests,, pls feel free to keep them coming <3

i’d love a part two of your coriolanus x reader story!! it’s so interesting i can’t wait to see more

starting to write part 2 now!! the feedback i've gotten for it has been so great and i'm so invested i think i might make it a mini series that mainly follows the general plot of the movie while still straying from time to time when i'm feeling ✨creative✨

Is there gonna be another chapter to Final Girl, if so when would it most likely be out?

there for sure will be! as far as timeline i have literally no idea bc im so bad at mentally quantifying/guessing timelines

, i started writing it but then got really bad writer’s block and got into my head about it (it happens from time to time with longer form fics)

i’m about to be on break for school so that’ll for sure help (so probably soon after finals week) but honestly i’m a mood writer and i write sm more when i don’t fight that, but she’s fs coming

Unlikely

A/n this is one of the fics i wrote that i then let sit in my drafts 😭,, also originally set this up to have a part 2 bc who can commit to a full one shot, that's part of the reason i left it in the drafts but with finals i thought i'd just post

Pairing: (first avengers) Loki x reader

Summary: Your enhanced abilities (that you can't quite control) make you the ideal candidate to keep an eye on Loki as he adjusts to staying at Avengers Tower. Unfortunately for you, he manages to see right through you almost immediately. It's also oddly life ruining that he's not exactly what you expected him to be.

----

You're not the first person that's ever considered killing Tony Stark in order to make their own lives easier, but you're probably the first person to consider it and have access to his usual morning coffee.

Not that you'd poison him. No, for this he deserves something slow and painful. Maybe you'd hit up Nat first to get some ideas.

"I'm not asking you to do this indefinitely." His sentence snaps you out of your fantasies of learning strange and untraceable Russian torture methods. You have to stop yourself from scoffing at the way Tony says asking. "Just...until things--"

"Settle?" You cross your arms in front of your chest, hating the way that this entire thing is starting to make you feel like a teenager arguing with a parent over chores or an unfair curfew. "He's a sociopath that you're letting live in the tower. The only settling is placing him literally anywhere else."

You're not one for black and white thinking. You understand that when it comes to anything involving the Avengers, there's room for morally grey and accidental loss. But that wasn't the Battle of New York.

Maybe if there was a way to wait, to keep Loki away until those that were most effected get a chance to lick their wounds and regroup. But letting him in so close to the aftermath Is insensitive and a major security risk.

"I--I won't help you do this." Your voice is decisive, your chin shifting forward less than inch as if to prove that your choice is set. "It's not fair to the people of New York, it--it's not fair to Barton."

"I'm not making you do anything." You raise an eyebrow at that. "I'm just asking you to keep an eye on Reindeer Games because of your--" Tony lifts a hand, exposing his palm and bending his fingers in an almost teasing imitation of the gestures you use to control your abilities, "Reindeer taming situation."

It's not meant to be mean. The powers you still haven't fully grasped have managed to restrain people like Loki before. Briefly, just long enough to call for backup or buy yourself a second to plan what to do next. You don't have the control you need to make it a fair fight, but it's something.

The reminder of what you can and can't do forces heat to crawl up your neck. You drop your arms, keeping your hands pressed firmly to your side.

"Having him here isn't my idea, Glow Stick." The familiar nickname makes your nose wrinkle. You're not fond of it, but it's easy going enough to distract you from your annoyance. "It's a favor for Thor."

The explanation eases you more than it should. Thor's surprisingly easy to get along with, and if Thor can see some redeeming quality in Loki, then there's at least some chance that he's not a completely lost cause. "Think of it like that--you like Thor, right?"

You sigh. Thor teaches you cool fighting moves and shares breakfast pastries with you and you're finally getting him to understand friendly gossip. You like Thor. He's a friend. "Not right now."

"I'll make sure to break his heart with that one the next time you two are giggling over breakfast."

You roll your eyes, fighting to hold down a smile. The laughter Tony's referencing had likely been at his expense.

----

You're not sure what the protocol is for when you're supposed to show a norse god around the superhero tower you call home, so you fall back on regular company rules. Not that you'd admit that to anyone that'd think to ask.

This is ridiculous. You're ridiculous. A few days ago he was trying to kill all of your relatively newly appointed team mates and friends and now you're making sure to straighten your comforter and hiding a basket of completed laundry that you made the mistake of not putting away immediately on the off chance that you'll have to awkwardly let him glance at your bedroom.

You're not sure how the first night's supposed to work. You don't know when he's getting here or how much surveillance is expected from you on Loki's first night. It would've been smart to get some details from Tony, but you had spent the bulk of your day avoiding him and keeping to your room.

At least you did think to put a hold on your kind of childish but mainly warranted sulking to have a short conversation with Thor about his brother. The main thing you gathered was that even though their bond is strange, you're certain it's more solid than either of them is aware of and that Loki read a lot as a child. It's not a lot to work with in terms of small talk meant to mask the fact that you're meant to be watching him, but at least it's something.

Besides, if the book shelf in your room is anything to go by, you can work with likes reading.

A soft knock snaps you out of your overthinking. "Come in."

Tony pushes open the door. A small part of you is surprised that he's the one at the door. It's not his presence that's strange, maybe he wants to give you some kind of run down before Loki gets here. The way he knocked, however, is weird. It was way too patient and professional.

You look at him oddly before your attention manages to shift to the person standing behind him. Loki.

Yeah, killing off Tony is back on the table.

It's one thing to have to play tour guide with the guy that just attacked New York and most of the people you care about...it's another to have Tony bring him to your room without any kind of warning.

"Y/n, Loki," Tony summarizes flatly, "Loki, Y/n." He sort of nods, a brief dip of his chin that seems to say that he's done all he's supposed to. "She'll show you around."

Even though this is being presented as factual, the whole thing feels painfully transparent. You're not sure what about it feels like a give away, but something about this feels way too artificial. Tony offers you a final look before turning to leave.

You adjust your posture. His silence and the way he carries himself makes it feel like you're intruding on his space instead of the other way around. It also doesn't help that he's objectively nice to look at. Which makes sense because he is a god, but it still feels unfortunate for you. It adds to the subtle intimidation of all of this.

"Hi," you finally say, voice even and as normal as you can manage. No one can say you handled this wrong if you just stick to the bare-bones of casual politeness. "I'm Y/n, like Tony said, and--"

His piercing eyes finally focus on you, overwhelming enough to pin you in time. The look only lasts a second, his eyes flitting downwards before focusing on something else in your room.

He passes the threshold of the doorway, entering your room, your space, with even, confident steps. You know that Thor and Loki are both royals, but Loki carries that authority differently than his brother. There's a sharpness to the way he wields it.

Loki passes you like your presence means very little in the grand scheme of things. Which, to him, it definitely does. He doesn't stop until he's close enough to your bookshelf to scan the titles comfortably.

"Now I know why I didn't see you on the battle field."

"Oh, I like reading, but I wasn't--" It takes a second longer than you'd like to admit to realize that the comment is somewhat a joke. A jab that's at least somewhat at your expense.

The real reason Loki didn't see you is because your abilities were proving unstable. Your focus was on protecting civilians and evacuating largely populated areas until the threat was cleared. It was similar to things that you had done in the past, similar enough that you knew you'd have total control.

"There was a lot going on," you mumble, "As one would expect when someone attempts to take over one of biggest cities in the world with an alien army."

Oh my god. You regret the sentence immediately. His actions definitely entitle you to some level of snark, but you're definitely not trying to start or trigger anything.

He turns his head enough to face you. His expression shifts, a slight raise of an eyebrows and an even slighter turn of his lips. You can't read enough to decide if that's a good or bad sign.

You hold his gaze for as long as you can. It feels like longer, but in reality, it's probably only two seconds. "That was--rude." It's as close to an apology as you can bring yourself to get.

Loki's attention shifts back to your bookshelf. With no warning, he extends a hand, carefully plucking one of your most well worn books from its usual place. He studies the cover, eyebrows pulling together as if the action requires that much deliberation.

His focus is another thing you can't figure out. You wonder if his cryptic behavior is natural to him or some form of dramaticism meant to make him even more intimidating.

"You can borrow that if you want." The comment leaves you before you realize that you've made the decision to speak. You blame it on the nerves caused by the extended silence. The urge to defend the comment is just as unavoidable, "Thor mentioned that he remembers you reading a lot."

He stiffens, the shift subtle yet sharp. Loki sets the book down quickly, like touching it in the first place had been some grave mistake. "That was a long time ago."

The way he says that almost does pull an actual apology from you.

----

Maybe if Tony had told you exactly what he meant by showing Loki around, you'd know where to go.

He's staying here, which means he should know the basics. The kitchen that bleeds into the living room, the training room, and the locker room. You don't think he'll be over utilizing any of these shared spaces more than necessary, but there's not much else to go over. He had told you that Tony already showed him his room...one coincidently on the same floor as yours.

You don't know what else there is to show him. The labs seem like a bad idea, but pretending that the Avengers don't exist at all feels awkward and naive. The lower clearance lab might be alright, there's nothing there except for things in the most preliminary stages of development. You're not even allowed to bring certain cauterizing lasers down there.

After some internal debate, you rule it out in favor of an office like space meant for strategizing. It's kind of lame and feels like a sort of 'baby proofed' version of actually showing him around, but it looks official enough that you think you can get away with it.

He follows you without question down the hall, the way he has this entire time. Loki doesn't even ask when you both wander away from what's clearly the residential area.

"Why are you showing me this?" The question almost makes you jump. He's spent the entire tour as silent as possible, only ever occasionally nodding in acknowledgement.

It's a fair question. This is a pretty random stop. "Uh--the office? I don't know, it's part--"

"No," he says, "Why are you showing me around?" Still not fully getting the question, you just blink. "Tony Stark is, unfortunately, not an idiot. He didn't pick one of the others, he picked you." Loki takes a partial step forward, a clear attempt to remind you of his height. "Why?"

Yeah, there's no way you're telling him the real reason it's you. My powers knocked out Wanda once for a few seconds and I messed with Thor's abilities for an even shorter amount of time...so Tony thinks it could work the same way for you if I really needed it to.

A small part of you is offended by the assumption that you couldn't possibly do anything to him. Though, you guess that's also part of the reason Tony wanted it to be you. "That's an overly presumptuous question." A flat, obvious response. "How do you know I'm not scarier than I look?"

He takes another step forward. He's just close enough to be too close. The realization makes an odd warmth crawl up your neck and the too familiar hiss of energy burn down your veins and into your palm. This is the oddest version of fight or flight that you've ever felt.

"Are you?" He punctuates the question with another small step forward.

You're not sure if you're capable of enough thought to answer. "Only when provoked."

Loki tilts his head slightly, a smug grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. The look twists your stomach. It makes you feel like he's won something. "What?"

His uncertain smile settles into a knowing smirk. "You can't control it."

It's as if all of the blood in your body freezes over. You didn't say anything. No one's said anything. There's no way he knows about what you can do, let alone the weaknesses that come from what you can't.

"What?" This time the question comes out as a scoff. You have to sound confused. You have to believe that you're confused.

The only indication that Loki heard you is the slight draw of his eyebrows that feels distinctly disappointed, like the mundaneness of your reaction's killing the fun for him. "I can help with that."

Even if you were comfortable announcing your powers to strangers, you would know better than to give any indication that you'd be willing to do that. But something about outright denial or brushing him off under the guise of pretend confusion doesn't feel like it'll settle this.

"I'm fine," you whisper, more to yourself than him, "I have it under control." Admitting that much is enough to make your skin crawl. "I was supposed to meet Natasha." A cheap, yet true enough excuse. You were planning on seeing her eventually, she's been working on teaching you different fighting moves. "I'll--I'll see you, I guess."

With that you walk past him without making eye contact. There's a lot you could think about, but the only thing your mind wants to focus on is why Loki being vaguely aware of your abilities makes you feel like you're precariously walking around shards of glass.