Are our fates really set in the stars? Sometimes you wish you spoke their language just so you could understand what they had in store for you.

Many nights you find yourself sitting at the foot of your bed and gazing at the night sky, at the stars that twinkle merrily. What is there, in the realm of the heavens? Perhaps there are other people too. Maybe there is a whole other world to explore.

Your head is full of thoughts like these as you drift off to sleep.

In your dream, you're in a stone room — probably part of a castle or fortress of some sort, you think. Bookshelves filled with dusty books line three of the room's four walls. On the fourth hang draperies of royal blue. Underneath these is the room's lone window, out of which a man is staring.

He turns slowly toward you. His face is pale and framed by slicked-back dark hair, which emphasizes the green of his eyes: eyes that now regard you with a curious light.

"And who might you be?" His voice is smooth and velvety, seductive yet gentle.

You tell him your name. A brief moment of hesitation, and you quickly add, "I'm nobody, really," to the back of it.

He repeats your name slowly, and it rolls off his tongue like honey and mead. He smiles at you, a flash of gleaming teeth, and says, "Would you care to watch the stars with me?"

There is a soft rustle of clothing as he moves aside to make space for you at the small window, and as you seat yourself beside him, you can't help but notice his musky tang of earth and leather —an odd but nevertheless pleasant combination.

The stars that hang in this sky are brighter than the ones you normally see, and much clearer. You sit there with him, making amiable small talk and finally just sitting in companionable silence, as you both lose yourselves in the eternity of the night sky.

The nights that you dream of him always lead to the days that are the brightest. Who knows what triggers the dreams — or if they're more than just dreams — but maybe you're touching the tip of a new world in your sleep, and maybe he's the friend you've been looking for all this while.

"You haven't told me your name yet," you casually mention one night, from your regular position next to him at the little window.

"Hmm?" He turns to regard you with one eyebrow arched. "Is it important?" His sea-glass eyes are piercingly clear, staring at you somewhat unnervingly.

"Well, you already know my name," you answer, trying not to quake under his gaze. "It's only fair that you tell me yours."

"Is that so?" He pauses, then continues, "I am known by many names." He's watching you, as if trying to gauge your reaction. "They call me Silvertongue, Snaketongue, God of Mischief—"

These are all names you've heard before. Your breath hitches, your eyes widen with recognition.

"Loki," you breathe, and you know it's the right answer. "You're Loki."

This elicits a smirk from him. "Correct," Loki says, and leans down to crush his ice-cold lips against yours.

The next thing you know you're sitting up, drenched in sweat. Completely, disappointingly awake.

"Have you ever had dreams that felt really real before?" you ask a friend one day.

Your friend pauses to consider your question. "Dreams always feel real while you dream them," she says thoughtfully, toeing at the ground with her shoes, her hands tucked in her pockets. "But you usually realize how weird they are when you wake up."

You remember Loki, and his lips against yours, and the lingering coldness that you could still feel when you touched your fingers to your mouth after waking up, and press on, "But what if you kind of know that they did happen?"

"Then you're crazy and you need psychiatric help." Your friend laughs, then eyes you suspiciously. "Is there something you'd like to talk to me about?"

You think about Loki, and his marble sea-glass eyes, and the stars you watch together out of the window, and somewhere far off you vaguely hear yourself saying, "No, it's nothing."

You're sitting at the window with him again. Tonight there is a shooting star, falling across the heavens, leaving a bright trail of stardust in its wake scattering across the cosmos.

"The stars are particularly stunning today," Loki murmurs to you.

"They're always beautiful," you reply amusedly. "They're - ahh!"

Loki has pressed his mouth to your shoulder, the sudden chill taking you by surprise.

"You are extraordinary," he says flatly, quietly. As if it's an undisputed, unquestionable fact that you and everyone else should know.

Despite the chill of his body, you can feel your face flushing in embarrassment. "No, I'm not," you protest. "I'm just an ordinary girl, I'm really no one special-"

"Do not say such things about yourself," he says sharply, facing you and glaring at you with his turquoise eyes. "I — I have been to Midgard before, and seen other humans, but none of them are...quite like you."

"But-"

Maybe he feels that strongly about the matter, or maybe he just wants you to shut up, but he suddenly leans forward to kiss you, except this isn't chaste like the first one, because his hands are all over your back and you can feel him fighting for entry into your mouth-

You slowly part your lips. He's raking his hands through your hair, tongue hungrily exploring your mouth and you pull his head in, savouring this unnatural coldness.

At last he pulls away. The oceans in his eyes are raging, both of you are panting. His cheeks are slightly flushed.

"My core temperature is much lower than yours," he says. "Your warmth... It burns me."

"I—I'm sorry," you stammer awkwardly. "I didn't mean — I wasn't aware—"

He cuts you off. "It is nothing I cannot endure for you," he says, and dives in to kiss you again.

The next morning, you wake up feeling happier than you have in a long time.

You've thought about telling others before, after that first attempt with your friend, but somehow, you never do — your dreams of and relationship with are, after all, immensely personal and private. It wouldn't feel right if someone else knew. Besides, what would you say?

"So I've been having these pretty rad dreams about this hot guy in tight black leather who's apparently a god from Norse mythology and sometimes we make out."

Definitely not. Your dreams of Loki are yours and yours alone.

A quiet part of you would like to think that of Loki too, but you won't admit that even to yourself.

The next time you see him, you're in a different room of his castle (not that he's told you that it's his castle, but that's all you can think of it as, because the only other word you can think of is prison and it's not something you want to dwell upon). Loki is stretched elegantly across some sort of large bed, causing you to blush slightly. It brings a smirk to his face.

"How is it that we always meet?" Loki muses quietly, as you move closer and perch on the edge of the bed. He pushes himself up into a sitting position, regarding you with a look of curiosity much like the one he had when you two first met.

You don't know how to answer his question, so you choose to remain silent as he studies you as he slowly unfolds his legs. The rustle of his pants seems to echo and magnify in the quiet room.

You swallow nervously. There has never been this much — this much tension between the two of you.

"Destiny?" he wonders aloud. "It's not something I believe in, but it would certainly explain this connection we seem to have."

He leans forward, tracing a cold fingertip over the outline of your lips, and you tremble.

Then he pulls you down on top of him and that night, the world shook.

Sometimes you wonder if you're crazy, of course. Is your real life so boring and deprived that your subconscious has actually constructed this fantasy as a means of escape? Can it be that you're so lonely that you would actually imagine all this happening to you?

But when you ask yourself that, you remember the day after Loki had first kissed you with such passion. Maybe you were only seeing things, but you're pretty sure that when you looked up at the sky that night, you saw the remnants of a stardust trail.

Loki likes dominance. He likes pinning your arms above your head, likes watching you writhe and hearing you moan beneath his cold, pale body. His icy touch is like electric on your skin, sending little shivering impulses throughout your body as you shudder with pleasure.

He likes it when you beg him for more. His body is like an addictive drug for you, and he knows it. Sometimes you're so desperate that you're whimpering, pleading with him, please, please. He stalls sometimes, just to see you squirm, but he always obliges.

On these nights you often awake to find yourself panting heavily, your heart racing, as you disentangle your fingers from the sweat-soaked bedsheets they'd clutched so tightly.

Sometimes you wish you could stay in your bed asleep forever. Life always has its ups and downs, but so far your dreams have been nothing but perfect.

Too bad good things always come to an end.

You can't really believe your ears when he tells you that you'll never meet again.

"Tomorrow, I go to war," he says quietly. "It is unavoidable — already the Chitauri grow restless. I fear I may not see you again."

What are you supposed to say in a situation like this? Don't leave me. Please stay. You can't. I need you. A thousand words you could say, each as meaningless as the last, flit across your mind.

"Do you really have to?" The question slips through numb lips.

A childish sentiment, you think, but one he will surely understand.

He looks at you — had his eyes ever been as blue as this? — and reaches out a hand and combs it through your hair slowly, sadly. A simple yet intimate gesture; you find yourself closing your eyes, enjoying his touch.

His voice is heavy with emotion when he next speaks: "You cannot help me. I'm sorry."

When you wake up, your eyes are filled with tears.

A/N: The plot/course of this story has been bugging me since The Avengers came out last year, but I never got around to writing it until about three days ago :'D This takes place in between the end of Thor and somewhere in The Avengers. It's not really meant to follow continuity, hence the vagueness.

Lots and lots of Loki feels went into the making of this fanfic. This was written mainly for my own enjoyment, so forgive any typos you may found (and do point them out to me :D). I borrowed some elements in this fic from Hella's story Off the Record, which I highly recommend to everyone who ships FrostIron, and also those who don't.

Finally — I'd love to know what you think of the fanfic and talk to fellow Avengers/Loki fans! Feel free to leave a review or drop me a message :D