Debugging Mischeif (lokixfemale!reader)

Chapter 3

(y/n) = Your Name (Duh, but in my first read I blanked. So here it is for anyone who needs it)
Might not apply this chapter but I'll mention it here in case I forget in the future:
(e/c)=Your eye color, I just skipped the y here
(h/c) = Your hair color, also skipped y
(h/l) = hair length, or if you don't have hair I have no idea how that works so it's up to yourself (I have no experience with this concept and don't like to assume for things I know too little about)

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(y/n) sighed as she stared at the door to her best friend's café. For one, she was late. Almost an hour late. She'd gotten swallowed up trying to wrangle her dragon into behaving the way she coded it to, and by the time she looked up, the clock had betrayed her. Again.
Second, and more pressingly: the "Now Hiring" sign was gone. Which meant (y/bff/n) had finally found a new barista. Which also meant (y/n) would have to interact with a new human. She hated interacting with new humans. Their expectations of small talk were a special kind of torture. But if this one belonged to (y/bff/n), she would have to endure it.
The bell over the door chimed as she stepped in, and before she could even set her laptop bag down, (y/bff/n) swooped in with a hug.
"You made it! I was starting to think you'd ditch me for that code of yours again."
(y/n) gave a tired but fond smile. She never meant to cancel on (y/bff/n) as often as she did. If her best friend wasn't the most patient person alive—and if they didn't have years of history binding them—(y/n) was sure the friendship would've snapped ages ago.
"Sorry. Lost track of time. Again."
"Story of your life," (y/bff/n) teased, tugging her toward her usual table. "Don't worry—I saved your spot. And your cookie. You'd starve without me."
(y/n)'s eyes lit up. (y/bff/n)'s cookies were legendary, the perfect balm after hours of wrestling stubborn code.
"Have I ever told you you're the best friend anyone could ask for?"
"Hm. Maybe about a bajillion times."
They traded easy banter until (y/n)'s gaze finally drifted toward the counter—where the new worker stood.
And froze.
The new worker was... striking. Tall and slender, she was wrapped in a simple apron that did nothing to hide an innate, elegant grace. Rich, chestnut hair with auburn undertones cascaded over one shoulder, catching the warm café light. Her features were a perfect, captivating harmony—sharp European cheekbones softened by almond-shaped eyes that held a glint of keen, almost predatory amusement. A subtle smile played on her lips, a blend of charm and secret knowledge.
(y/n) let out a silent, internal whistle. Gorgeous. Devastatingly so. If she were even a fraction more socially brave, she might have done something truly embarrassing right then and there.
"Amazing, right?" (y/bff/n) whispered, setting a plate with the promised cookie beside the laptop.
"I'm amazed you actually hired someone," (y/n) murmured back, her eyes still fixed on the woman. "What'd you promise her—eternal glory and a lifetime supply of espresso?"
A soft, muffled snicker came from behind the counter. (y/n) felt a flush creep up her neck. Damn it. She hadn't meant to say that loud enough to be overheard. And she really wasn't the type to swoon over looks alone. ...Or maybe she just hadn't met the right person to inspire it.
"Don't scare her off," (y/bff/n) mock-glared. "She's already better at this than me."
"Wait—" (y/n) gasped dramatically. "Was that a compliment? Did I just hear you compliment someone?" She turned toward the new worker, grinning. "Seriously, that's rare. Take it as gospel truth."
The woman only smiled—calm, collected, devastatingly beautiful.
(y/n) nearly groaned internally. Great. Her smile too. Fantastic. Don't hit on your best friend's new hire, (y/n). Just don't.
"You act as if I never compliment you," (y/bff/n) said, rolling her eyes.
(y/n) rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth tugged upward. "Not unless I drag it out of you," she muttered, flipping her laptop open. The familiar boot screen felt like relief, like slipping into an old routine.
The ambient noise of the café—the chatter, the clinking cups, (y/bff/n)'s humming—faded into a distant hum the second her game engine loaded. Her dragon's pixelated roar echoed tinnily from the speakers as the test environment sprang to life. For one glorious, fleeting second, everything worked.
And then, as if to personally mock her, the player icon charged headfirst into a stone wall—and stayed there. Half its body clipped through the geometry, limbs spasming in a grotesque jitter as the animation fought against the immovable object.
(y/n) dropped her head onto the table with a definitive thud. "Not again."
(y/bff/n) chuckled, sliding her a coffee. "I'll let you and your... wall problem bond for a bit. Holler if you want sympathy."
"Pretty sure I've used up my sympathy quota this week," (y/n) groaned, tugging the code editor open. Lines of script glared back at her, every bracket and semicolon seeming to taunt her.
Behind the counter, the new worker leaned forward, just slightly. Her gaze, sharp and curious, was fixed on the glowing screen.
"Why is it doing that?" she asked suddenly, her voice smooth and lilting with genuine interest.
(y/n) blinked, dragging her eyes from the digital carnage. "Doing what?"
She gestured gracefully at the laptop. "The poor little figure. It looks... stuck. Half in, half out. Was that intentional?"
(y/n) sighed, rubbing her temple. "No. If it were intentional, it wouldn't be nearly this ugly. That's a bug."
"A bug," the woman repeated, as if tasting the word. "Isn't that a creature?"
(y/n) stared for a beat, then let out a short, tired laugh. "In this context, it's code for 'the game's broken and I hate my life.'"
Loki's eyes glinted with understanding. "Ah. So you call your mistakes insects. How interesting."
"Not my mistakes," (y/n) muttered defensively, her fingers flying across the keyboard to bring up the collision detection scripts. "Just... glitches. Stuff not working the way it's supposed to."
"Ah," she said again, leaning in a little more, her lips curling into a mischievous smile. "So the world you've built has rebellions of its own."
"Sure," (y/n) groaned. "If by rebellion you mean my character model face-planting into a wall and refusing to leave."
A soft, melodic laugh escaped Loki—a sound far too entertained by (y/n)'s suffering. "I find it rather charming."
"Of course you do," (y/n) muttered, dropping her head onto her folded arms in defeat.
There was a beat of silence, then the quiet clink of porcelain. A steaming mug of perfectly frothed coffee slid across the table toward her.
(y/n) looked up, startled.
"On the house," the woman said, her smile gentler now, less teasing. "A peace offering. Even the gods need fuel to keep fighting their dragons... or their bugs."
Something warm and entirely unexpected unfurled in (y/n)'s chest. The gesture was so kind, so perceptive, that before her brain could engage its usual filter, the words tumbled out.
"(y/n)." She froze, heat rushing to her cheeks. "I—I'm (y/n). Um. I've been friends with (y/bff/n) for like... an eternity."
Mortification washed over her in a hot wave. Why had she said it like that? Why did her voice have to sound so squeaky and awkward? Why did she introduce herself like she was registering for a library card?
She ducked her head, gripping the warm mug like a lifeline. Perfect. Just perfect. First proper interaction with the prettiest woman you've ever seen and you sound like you're auditioning for a documentary on social anxiety.
Across from her, Loki only tilted her head, her eyes glinting with faint, unmistakable amusement. That small, knowing smile played on her lips again, as if she were cataloging every flustered nuance for later study.
(y/n) took a long, desperate gulp of coffee, as if the caffeine could scour the embarrassment from her system.
Spoiler: it couldn't.
Then, Loki extended a hand across the counter. Her movements were fluid and elegant, devoid of any awkwardness.
"Loki," she said, her voice smooth as silk. "A pleasure."
(y/n) blinked, momentarily stunned by the beauty of the name. Loki. It suited her perfectly. She shook the offered hand too quickly, then immediately regretted it, certain her palm was unacceptably clammy.
Loki's eyes glinted, holding (y/n)'s gaze for a heartbeat too long. It felt as if she could see every frantic, flustered thought racing through (y/n)'s mind.
And maybe she could.
WC: 1348